A Finer End

Wellhouse Lane. It’s the old farmhouse on the right, just past the junction with Stonedown. If you come after work today, I’ll be there. And you’d better look to your soup.’ Finishing her tea, she handed Faith her empty mug and turned away.
    It was only when the door had jingled shut behind her that Faith realized the woman had referred to her baby as ‘she’.
    Minnie had never quite learned to quell the depression en gendered by Jack’s house. Although the detached, orange-brick Victorian villa was massive and respect- a ble in the way of its kind, it seemed dwarfed by the shadow of the Tor looming above it. Adding to that unprepossessing beginning, the shrubbery was overgrown, last winter’s leaves still littered the garden path and covered porch, and even on this sultry July afternoon, the interior was bone-numbingly cold.
    Rubbing at the goosebumps on her bare arms, she followed Jack through a dining room filled with massive and unrepentantly ugly Victorian furniture, i and into the kitchen-sitting area. This was the snuggest room in the house, with a leather armchair drawn up to a television, an oak table bearing evidence of Jack’s hastily cleared tea, and warmth radiating from an Aga.
    Jack switched on the red-shaded lamp over the table. ‘Like a cuppa while we wait?’ he offered as Winnie took a seat. ‘Nick rang; he’s on his way.’
    Refusing Jack’s offer of tea, Winnie asked, ‘However did Nick manage to get an invitation to Simon Fitzstephen’s for drinks?’ The author was reputed to protect his privacy fiercely and did not often lend his presence to social events.
    ‘Fitzstephen came into the bookshop for a signing. Nick took the opportunity to lay on some judicious flattery.’
    Winnie was not looking forward to seeing Simon Fitzstephen, but she had no intention of letting Jack go without her. ‘It would take a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon to refuse Nick. He has such an irresistible air of earnestness,’ she said lightly, while wondering how her former mentor would react to her unexpected appearance.
    And what sort of reception would their story get from Simon? He had made his reputation by documenting the history of the Grail legends, but Winnie had always suspected that for Fitzstephen the Grail study was an exercise of pride rather than heart.
    From Jack’s inability to sit still tonight, she gathered he was nervous about the meeting as well. ‘You don’t have to tell Fitzstephen anything, you know, if you don’t feel it’s right.’
    ‘I know,’ Jack said as he sank restlessly into a chair beside her. ‘But then I’ll feel an ass for having wasted his time.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s a friendly social occasion.’
    ‘Right.’ He acknowledged her effort with a grin, then pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘But I do have something more concrete to go on.’
    ‘This came today?’ Taking the sheet, Winnie added, That makes it sound as if it came in the post.’ In truth, the communications were sporadic, the connection sometimes tenuous. Often the message would stop in mid-sentence, then take up again a week or two later in exactly the same place, as if there had been no interruption.
    It was a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle — a piece here, a piece there, trying to make sense of it a s you went along.
    Aethelnoth was abbot then, and made us the poorer for it. Under as a willow shoot, I was, but sturdy. Sturdier than my father had foreseen. He did not count on the Ministrations of Brother Ambrose, the infirmarian, who kept me in when the wind blew from the north and fed
    with herbs and warming broths. There I grew into my calling, and my heart rejoiced. But all that was before…brought God’s wrath upon us...
    She looked up. ‘That’s all?’
    ‘Yes. But the name of the abbot gives us a date. Aethelnoth was the last Saxon abbot, from 1053 to 1078.
    I hope Fitzstephen can tell us more.’
    There was not going to be any way round telling Jack the truth about Simon; she could see that. And the longer she waited, the worse it would be. Winnie steeled herself for a confession. ‘Jack, there’s something I ought—’
    ‘There’s Nick.’
    Rescued by the sound of a motorbike, Winnie thought as Jack stood, giving no evidence of having heard her faltering words. Breathing a sigh of relief as she followed him to the door, she promised herself she would tell him, at the very first opportunity.
    Leaving Nick’s