A Finer End

head, but I can’t. That’s not my gift.’ Her voice was filled with regret.
    Slowly, Jack said, ‘Did Winnie ever speak to you about what we were doing?’
    ‘The automatic writing? A bit.’
    ‘You didn’t think it odd?’
    Fiona smiled. ‘What’s odd to me? I’ve lived with oddness since I was a child. Is your expression of a voice from the past any more strange than my ability to see things that other people can’t?’
    ‘I suppose not. We’ve guessed all along that Edmund communicated with me for a reason, but now we think it may have something to do with the sacred chant that was banished from the Abbey after the Conquest.’ He gestured at her painting. ‘It seems more than coincidence that you should paint this, and hear singing, on a night that Winnie was coming unexpectedly to see you.’
    ‘If only she’d rung me first...’
    ‘Do you know of anything that might have been worrying her?’
    Frowning, Fiona ran a finger along the edge of her canvas. ‘I know she was quite distressed by Andrew’s behaviour. I suppose a rift was inevitable when Winnie formed a strong attachment to someone else — Andrew had taken her for granted for too many years — but I wouldn’t have expected him to go so far off the rails.’
    ‘Do you think he would hurt her?’
    ‘Hurt Winnie? I shouldn’t think so.’ Fiona sounded less than confident. ‘But after the dinner party, I’d think you should watch your back.’
    ‘Did you see or hear anything — or anyone — unusual last night?’
    ‘I was painting. I didn’t even hear Bram come in. But... I’ve been thinking about it since... There was something, before I found Winnie... The woods seemed unsettled... as if there was violence lingering in the air.’ She shot him a sharp glance, then turned away, gazing down into the Coombe, where the gathering clouds made flying shadows on the grass. ‘If someone did this to Winnie... has it occurred to you that, having failed, they might try again?’
     
    Surely Winnie was safe as long as she was in hospital, Jack told himself, but his foot seemed to press harder on the accelerator of its own accord.
    He was returning from Compton Grenville, where he’d scoured the Vicarage for things he hoped might comfort Winnie. Her favourite nightdress, her hairbrush, a small CD player, and discs of the music she loved most.
    In moments he’d reached Ashwell Lane. A quick wash, a change of clothes, and he would be on his way back to Taunton.
    Leaving the car in his drive, he nudged the accumulated leaves from the front doorstep with his foot and let himself in. The house felt cold, neglected, his only welcome the red light flashing on his answering machine. He switched on the kitchen lights and pressed the play button.
    Faith’s voice filled the room. ‘Jack, I heard about Winnie. Ring me at the café, please. Please .’ She sounded frantic, in tears.
    Concerned, Jack rang the café, but when a harried Buddy answered, he said he’d sent Faith home after lunch, as she wasn’t feeling well.
    As soon as Jack disconnected, the phone rang. He snatched it from its cradle, fearing bad news. ‘Jack, Nick rang me about Winifred,’ Simon Fitzstephen said. ‘I’m so sorry. How is she?’
    ‘No change as far as I know. I’m just on my way to hospital again now. Simon, could you do something for me? I’m worried about Faith. She left a message for me, but I can’t reach her at the farmhouse, and I haven’t time to go up there now.’
    ‘Blast Garnet for not having a telephone,’ said Simon. ‘But I’ll check on the girl. Don’t worry.’
    Jack hesitated, torn between the desire to make a stop at the farmhouse himself and his need to get away to Taunton, then said, ‘Right.’ He would let Simon take care of it.
     
    Having found the café closed, Nick put his motorbike into first gear for the climb up the steep incline of Wellhouse Lane. If Faith wouldn’t look at Garnet’s bumper, he’d do it himself, and then he’d show her what he found. He’d make her see the truth.
    But to his dismay, when he reached the farmhouse the yard was already in deep shadow. Garnet’s van was parked with its nose inside the gloom of her shop; there was no way he could examine the bumper without a torch. Well, then, he would talk to Faith again, convince her to see reason.
    When the sputter of the bike’s engine died away, the yard was hushed except for the squeaking of a flock of black birds passing overhead. A