Fiona turned back to the canvas. “And there was something else. They sang to me. I can’t describe it. It was”—she shrugged—“it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and yet the saddest. I’d give anything if I could re-create it, even in my 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 behavior. 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 wouldn’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 favorite 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 doorsill 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 fender, 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 fender 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 blackbirds passing overhead. A butter-colored cat lay curled against the doorsill, as if it had given up seeking entrance. As Nick climbed the steps and rapped on the door, the cat gave him a baleful glance and slunk away.
There was no response, but he could see the glow of an oil lamp through the curtained kitchen window. He knocked again.
The door swung open and Garnet Todd stared at him without speaking.
“I want to see Faith,” Nick said.
“She’s not here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you, she’s not here.” Garnet started to close the door.
Nick stepped forward, jamming it with his shoulder. “Where else would she be? The café’s closed, and she never goes anywhere else, does she? You can’t stop me seeing her.”
“You’re trespassing. This is my house,” protested Garnet, but gave way a step.
Nick’s anger surged with his small victory. Why had he let this witch bully him—and Faith—for so long? “What are you going to do, ring the police? You don’t have a telephone.” Another step and he was in the house, shutting the door behind him. He looked round the kitchen for some sign of Faith, then called out her name.
“I’ve told you, she’s not here.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don’t know!” There was an edge of panic in Garnet’s voice. “When I went to fetch her from work she was gone, and she hasn’t come home.”
“You’re sure she’s not in the house?”
“Why don’t you look, then, if you don’t trust my word.”
Nick turned away without replying and left the kitchen, but once in the corridor he realized the folly of his gesture. There was no electricity, and dusk had invaded the house. Well, he bloody well wasn’t going back to ask Garnet for a candle or a lantern—he’d just have to navigate the shadows as best he could.
Downstairs, first. He went through the dark corridor into the parlor at the front of the house, a musty, disused room, filled with tatty furniture. There was no sign that it had been recently disturbed.
Next, the room that served Garnet as an office, with its rolltop desk and ancient wooden file cabinets. A glass-fronted case against the far wall held a collection of dusty bird’s nests and shells … relics of Garnet’s childhood hobbies, perhaps, now long forgotten.
Returning to the corridor, he found the cold and primitive bath beneath the stairs. In the dim light, he made out a bottle of shampoo on the shelf beside the tub—Faith’s. When he opened it, the pear scent evoked her so strongly that she might have been standing beside him.
What if she had come home and confronted Garnet over Winnie’s accident? Would Garnet have silenced her?
But he’d sensed a real fear behind Garnet’s assertion that Faith hadn’t returned to the farmhouse—and if that were true, where could she possibly have gone?
Home to her parents in Street? Not likely. Or—and this was the thorn that Nick never quite managed to dislodge—had she gone to the baby’s mysterious father? For all Faith had given away about him in the past months, the child might as well be the result of immaculate conception. But could Faith have been driven to seek the father out?