A Finer End

told them when they’d reached their room, and Gemma’s first thought was that ‘Rose’ would have been more appropriate, for it was done up in soft shades of that colour. A bay window on the front looked over the drive.
    As Kincaid thanked the young man and closed the door, Gemma went to the north window and pulled aside the lace curtain. Below her was a square pool with a fountain, canopied by a tree with the most beautiful bark she had ever seen. Patterned in shades from the palest green to deepest russet, it reminded her of an abstract painting.
    ‘The tree — what is it?’ she asked as Kincaid came to stand beside her.
    ‘An acacia. Lovely, isn’t it?’ He put his hands on her shoulders and she leaned back against him. Her gaze travelled upward, over the garden wall, and she gave an involuntary gasp of surprise. ‘What is that?’ She pointed at the view of rolling, emerald-green grounds and, just visible through the trees, a round stone building.
    ‘It’s the Abbey,’ he replied, sounding amused. ‘You didn’t know?’
    ‘Right in the centre of the town?’
    ‘Mm-hmm. The Abbey came first, and the town grew up around it.’
    ‘And that?’ She gestured at the round structure.
    ‘The Abbot’s Kitchen. It’s the only intact building in the precinct, saved — if I remember correctly — because after the dissolution the Quakers used it as a meeting house. See the four chimneys, large enough that the Abbot could roast whole pigs or oxen for his guests.’
    ‘Doesn’t sound a very religious life, throwing big parties.’
    ‘And they drank a lot of wine. It was a very political life. If an abbot wanted his establishment to prosper, he had to butter the right bread.’
    Gemma laughed. ‘I think you’ve mixed your metaphors. How is it that you know these things?’
    ‘I was an annoyingly curious child. It’s a good thing I found an outlet for it as an adult, or I’d very likely have come to a bad end.’ He wrapped his arms round her for a moment, then released her. ‘I’ve got to make some calls before we go out again, if you want to unpack.’
    ‘Nick’s bookshop is just down the street, isn’t it? Why don’t I see if I can turn up his address, then meet you back here. That way we’ll save a bit of time.’
    She started up Magdalene Street, eager to see more of the Abbey, but after a briefly tantalizing glimpse through an iron railing, her view was blocked by the public toilets, then a hideous public car park. Past that, she glimpsed the tunnel-like entrance to the Abbey and, on the opposite side of the street, Nick’s bookshop.
    She accomplished her errand at the bookshop quickly. The shop’s owner informed her that Nick wasn’t on the telephone, but told her how to find his caravan in Compton Dundon.
    Thanking the woman, Gemma went back out into the street. She crossed to the paved area surrounding the Market Cross, where Magdalene Street met the High Street, and looked up the High, taking stock of the town. It seemed pleasant but unremarkable, except for the high incidence of New Age shops offering candles, artwork, crystals, clothing, and every sort of healing imaginable.
    Turning away, she walked back the way she had come. This time when she reached the Abbey entrance, she turned in. At the end of the flower-lined passage she found a separate gift shop as well as the entrance to the Abbey museum and grounds. Posted signs directed her past the museum’s exhibits and the brass-rubbing station, and at last she stepped through the door that led to the Abbey ruins.
    Directly across the sweeping expanse of lawn lay the Abbot’s Kitchen and, nearer to her, a partial ruin whose shape made her think of a cauliflower. But it was to the left that she was drawn, past the smaller, more complete church and the discreet sign that designated it as the Lady Chapel, towards the twin towers whose silhouette seemed as familiar to her as the shape of her hand. The grass seemed greener, the sky bluer, than any she had seen before, and there was a quality of stillness to the air that she had never experienced.
    She walked slowly, the grass springing beneath her feet, past the single standing wall of the nave, until she reached her destination. The ‘North Transept’, and the ‘South Transept’, the signs read. This had been the great central aisle of the church, not the entrance, as she had initially thought. She gazed up, marvelling at the human ingenuity that had constructed such