A Finer End

afterwards?’ Duncan asked.
    She frowned. ‘I went — I think I went to the Galatea. Then I rode to Pilton to make a bereavement call — Suzanne told me that. And then’ — the scene flashed before her... the green of shimmering leaves and the sparkle of water — ‘why, I stopped to visit Simon. We had tea in his cottage garden, by the river. But why didn’t he say, when I couldn’t remember?’
    ‘Simon lives by a river, and no one bothered to mention it?’ Aghast, Gemma exchanged a look with Duncan.
    Nick said, ‘But Jack’s gone to see—’
    Duncan quelled him with a glance. ‘Let’s get back in the car, shall we?’
    He stepped away and made a call on his mobile phone. After a moment, he hung up with a mutter of frustration and climbed in with them. ‘There’s no answer at Jack’s. Winnie, give us directions to Simon Fitzstephen’s cottage.’
     
    Kincaid caught a glimpse of the tower of the medieval church as they passed, then Nick instructed him to turn left into a steep lane that dead-ended after a hundred yards. Jack’s blue Volvo was pulled up on the verge just past the cottage Nick and Winnie identified as Simon Fitzstephen’s.
    As Kincaid parked behind Jack’s car, he told himself Jack was in no real danger; it was Winnie who was at risk. He debated whether to insist she stay behind with Nick, or to keep her in his sight, and decided on the latter.
    The damp fronds of a willow brushed his face as he got out of the car, and in the darkness the rushing of the stream was as loud as a roar.
    Kincaid rang the bell, then immediately opened the door and called out, not wanting to give Fitzstephen a chance to do anything rash — although there was no reason for the man to get the wind up. He had, after all, been in and out of Jack’s house the last few days as calmly as you please: he had probably decided that Winnie was not going to recover any inconvenient memories.
    Fitzstephen appeared in the hall and, when he saw them all gathered on his doorstep, made a gesture of surprise. ‘What is this, a delegation? Jack, look who’s here.’ His ascetic face seemed flushed, his hair more unruly than usual. ‘This is delightful. Come in, come in.’
    ‘Winnie! What are you doing here, darling?’ Jack exclaimed.
    ‘Do sit down,’ said Simon. ‘Jack and I were having a celebratory Scotch, if anyone would care to join us.’
    The chant manuscript lay open on the sitting-room table, their glasses beside it.
    ‘We haven’t come to celebrate, Simon. There are some things we need to talk about.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Everyone has been very ready to blame both Winnie’s accident and Garnet Todd’s death on Andrew Catesby,’ continued Kincaid. ‘A convenient solution, at least until he’s able to defend himself.’
    ‘If I know anything, it’s that Andrew would never have tried to hurt me,’ said Winnie.
    ‘No,’ Kincaid agreed. ‘I don’t believe he would have either. In fact, I don’t think your accident, or Garnet’s death, had anything to do with Andrew or Faith. I think it was something else entirely.’
    Simon sat down and reached for his glass. ‘Surely, Winifred’s accident was just that, an accident,’ he said reasonably.
    ‘No. Jack’s suspicions were quite valid. Someone deliberately struck Winnie that night. It was a daring move, and a foolhardy one, but there were tremendous stakes. You see, Winnie had realized that this chant’ — Kincaid gestured towards the manuscript — ‘was quite special indeed. And she had shared that knowledge with only one person.
    ‘Don’t you think it rather odd, Simon, that you neglected to mention to anyone that Winnie had come to see you that afternoon?’
    ‘Why should I have mentioned it?’ Simon sounded bewildered. ‘She’d come to pay a visit in the neighbourhood, and stopped in afterwards for a cup of tea. What was so odd about that?’
    ‘We talked about the chant, Simon.’ Winnie stepped forward. ‘The twelve-part perpetual chant.’
    ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Jack asked. ‘What are you all talking about? Winnie—’
    ‘I told Simon that I thought the chant was one of the rituals that makes up the Grail—’
    ‘But the Grail is a myth,’ protested Jack. ‘And even if it were true, how could a chant be a cup?’
    ‘I don’t think the Grail was a cup. I think it was — is — a state of grace, and that this chant was one of the things used to create that state. When I asked Simon, as a fellow