A Finer End

things.
    She had no sense of time passing, or of anything other than the immediate moment. It seemed nothing could disturb the peace within the precinct walls, and with a newly comprehended horror, she thought of the story Jack had told them of the monks murdered by their own abbot.
    It was only when she reached down to touch the stone of what had been the High Altar that she chanced to see her watch. An hour had gone since she entered the Abbey gate. To her it had seemed only minutes. Kincaid would think her lost, or kidnapped.
    As she hurried back towards the entrance, it occurred to her that perhaps those alternatives were no stranger than the truth — but how could she tell him that she had been spellbound?
     
    Kincaid had long since finished his phone calls and given up peering out of the front window. Although he was tempted to go looking for Gemma, he stuck by his rule of staying put when separated. Perhaps she’d found Nick Carlisle at the bookshop after all and taken the young man for a coffee.
    Instead, he stretched out on the bed and mulled over the unanticipated events of the hours since their arrival. He had expected to spend a couple of days reassuring his cousin over the matter of his girlfriend’s accident. What he had got instead was a murder; a likely attempted murder; the possibility that Jack’s friend Nick might be the prime suspect in the murder inquiry; and the bizarre phenomenon of Jack writing out messages from a monk dead more than eight hundred years. The complications arising from any of these items were mind-boggling.
    He should have known better. If it turned out that Nick Carlisle was guilty of murder, and he participated in bringing him to book, then his relationship with his cousin might be irreparably damaged. He’d seen similar situations too often. The job didn’t mix with friends and family.
    And there was the matter of Gemma’s apparent rapport with the girl Faith. Already Gemma seemed inclined to defend her, and Kincaid suspected that if Carlisle had indeed murdered Garnet, Faith had been an accessory to some degree. Gemma had been touchy enough lately without adding emotional involvement to what should be a professional matter.
    But he could hardly turn tail and go back to London at this point, especially if there were any chance that Winnie Catesby might still be in danger.
    That left Jack. His cousin had never been given to flights of fancy, and he certainly seemed normal enough now, except for the automatic writing. And as Kincaid had no logical explanation for what he had seen with his own eyes, for the time being he supposed he would have to take communications from Edmund of Glastonbury at face value.
    Glancing restively at his watch, Kincaid thought that unless Gemma had found Carlisle, they would be looking for his caravan in the dark. Just as he swung his legs off the bed and stood, he heard quick footsteps on the stairs.
    ‘What on earth happened to you?’ he demanded as Gemma came in. She looked flushed and dishevelled, as if she’d been hurrying.
    ‘Oh — I was... I stopped at the Abbey, just for a bit.’ She went to the dressing table and, unfastening her hair, brushed it out. ‘I’ve got the directions, such as they are. Just give me a second, then we’ll go.’ She replaited her hair with a speed he always found amazing, then turned to him with a smile. ‘Ready?’
     
    *
     
    ‘That’s Wearyall.’ Kincaid pointed at the long, humped hill on their left as they left Glastonbury. ‘According to the legend, it was the first land sighted by Joseph of Arimathea after his voyage from the Holy Land.’
    ‘This was under water?’ Gemma asked, surprised. They were heading west, towards the larger town of Street, only two miles away, then south to the village of Compton Dundon.
    ‘Almost the entire area. That’s why they call it the Isle of Avalon. At one time, Glastonbury Tor must have been the only thing above water for miles. And that,’ he continued as they crossed a sluggish little stream, ‘is the River Brue. I was devastated as a child when I learned that this was the site of the Pons Perilis, the bridge where King Arthur had his vision of the Virgin Mary.’
    ‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’ Gemma agreed. They were coming into Street. The town seemed both more prosperous and more suburban than Glastonbury, if less charming. As they quickly left it behind, a ridge of hills rose to their left, lit by the western sun.
    ‘It’s