A Finer End

complications.’
    ‘It wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with her parents,’ Kincaid agreed. ‘I’ll run it by Greely, make sure he doesn’t object, and get their name and address. You can be sure he’ll have got that out of Faith today.’
    ‘If Faith was so secretive about her family, how did Nick get her address? Remember, he said he’d even gone looking for her at her parents’ house in Street.’ Then, in disappointment, Gemma added, ‘Oh, the bookshop’s closed.’
    ‘A good thing. You have no room for more books in your flat. You’re right about Nick, though — makes me wonder what else he hasn’t told us.’ He stopped and gave an exaggerated sniff. ‘Is that fish and chips I smell?’
    ‘Don’t tell me you’re hungry again?’
    ‘It was only soup, and that was hours ago.’
    ‘Two, maybe three,’ Gemma corrected, smiling. Faith had done her best with Jack’s meagre resources, but her pot of soup had not made a particularly generous meal for five people.
    They had left Jack contemplating the ramifications of Simon’s hypothesis. If there were even a possibility that a copy of the ancient manuscript might have been passed down through Jack’s family, Jack would be faced with the enormous task of searching through the accumulated clutter in his parents’ house.
    The chippy was a bit further down, where the Market Square became a pedestrian mall. The shop’s door stood open, serving as an enticement. It was a clean, well-lit establishment, with a proper restaurant in the back.
    ‘Do you want to sit down?’ Gemma asked.
    ‘No. Let’s keep walking. Somehow fish and chips never taste the same without the newspaper.’
    Back in the street, with their steaming newspaper parcels in hand, Kincaid turned back the way they’d come. ‘Let’s walk up the High.’
    They peered through the leaded glass windows of the ancient George & Pilgrims inn. The bar was full, the hum of conversation audible even through the glass. The building looked very old indeed, with its authentic black-and-white timbering and worn, blackened beams.
    ‘Would Edmund have known this place?’ Gemma asked.
    ‘A century or so after his time, I think. Not that he’d have been allowed to frequent the inn. It was built to accommodate the pilgrims, and the abbot’s high-ranking overflow.’
    They walked on, past the Café Galatea and New Age shops, until Gemma stopped, transfixed, before a gallery window. A single painting, lit by a soft spotlight, stood against a black velvet backdrop. Luminous, winged creatures hovered over a moonlit city in which tiny humans went about their business, unaware. The vision was stunningly beautiful, the colours glowing like living jewels, but the creatures’ faces were fierce and otherworldly. It made her a little uneasy. Are they protecting the people?’ she asked softly. ‘Or do they have their own agenda?’
    ‘Fiona Finn Allen.’ Kincaid was reading the artist’s signature over her shoulder. ‘That’s Winnie’s friend, the woman who found her after the accident.’ He stepped back so that he could read the awning above the window. ‘Allen Galleries.’ Walking on, he remarked, ‘I suppose it shows our self-absorption that we even think those spirits should be concerned with us. What if there are layers of reality we can’t see that have nothing to do with human needs and desires?’
    Gemma gave him a surprised glance. ‘Now I think Glastonbury’s getting to you too. Oh, look,’ she added, stopping again to gaze through a bakery window at the empty trays, waiting for their early-morning baked goods. She felt a pang of longing for Toby, who was spending the weekend with her parents, ‘helping’, as he called it, in their bakery. Turning to Kincaid, she said, ‘You know I’ll have to go back tomorrow.’
    ‘And I don’t see how I can leave Jack in the lurch at this point. I hope Doug Cullen can manage a bit longer on his own.’
    ‘What will the Guv say?’ asked Gemma, referring to Chief Superintendent Denis Childs.
    ‘I’ll give him a ring at home tomorrow, explain the situation. Then you could drop me in Bath, and I’ll hire a car.’
    ‘No,’ Gemma said, thinking it out. ‘I won’t need the car the next few days. After we’ve paid a visit to Faith’s parents, you can run me to Bath, put me on the train, and keep the car.’
    When he started to protest, she insisted. ‘No, really. I want to take the train. I won’t have to fight the Sunday