“Edmund’s?”
Before Kincaid could explain, a man’s voice called out, “Darling?”
“In here,” Fiona answered. As her husband entered the room, she said, “Bram, this is Duncan Kincaid, Jack Montfort’s cousin, and his friend, Gemma James.”
“And how is Winnie?” Bram Allen asked.
“Jack is bringing her home from hospital today.”
“We’ll pay her a visit then, in a day or two, when she’s had a little time to recuperate.” Allen put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and shepherded her back into the sitting room. “Fiona’s been working too hard,” he told Gemma and Kincaid. “She had strict instructions to stay put in front of the fire this afternoon.”
“I only went out for a walk,” countered Fiona, “and found our guests wandering about in the lane. I promise I haven’t lifted a brush.”
Although Allen was pleasant enough, Kincaid sensed that Fiona’s husband was uneasy, and his interest sharpened. “Mr. Allen, I understand it was you who found Garnet Todd’s body.”
Giving his wife an anxious look, Allen replied, “I’m just glad it wasn’t Fiona. Her experience with Winnie was pretty dreadful—but then you’d know that.”
“Rather an odd coincidence, though, wasn’t it? Mrs. Allen finding Winnie and you discovering Ms. Todd?”
“Winnie was only a few hundred yards from our house, and I walk round the Tor every morning,” Allen said with the air of a man keeping his impatience in check. “Unfortunate, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say odd.”
“Did you recognize Ms. Todd’s van?”
“No. To be honest, I’d had a bit too much coffee.… I thought the van would make a good shield if anyone came along.… I suppose I assumed someone had had a breakdown and left it to be collected later—until I looked inside.”
“Did you recognize Ms. Todd, then?”
Allen paled. “No. I’m afraid I wasn’t … thinking very logically at that point.”
Kincaid remembered that they had found only Garnet Todd’s and Faith’s prints on the exterior of the van. “You didn’t try to get in? To see if she needed help?”
“It was obvious she was past that.” Again, Allen gave his wife a concerned glance. “I came home and rang the police.”
“But you knew Ms. Todd?” pressed Kincaid.
“She was unique … one of Glastonbury’s true eccentrics. The town won’t be the same without her. I—Fiona?”
Fiona Allen stood and moved towards her studio. “I’m sorry.” Feverish spots had appeared on her cheeks, and she seemed to have difficulty focusing on them. “I’m sorry—I have to paint now. It’s—”
“It’s all right, darling,” her husband soothed. “You go ahead. I’ll see Mr. Kincaid and Miss James out.”
With a last apologetic glance, Fiona disappeared into the corridor.
“Does it always happen like that?” asked Gemma as Bram walked them to the door. “It was almost as if she had no choice.”
“She doesn’t,” Bram answered curtly. “She becomes ill if she’s kept from painting. And now I’d better check on her, if you don’t mind.”
They said good-bye, and as they retraced their way through the garden, Gemma shivered. “Has it struck you? Jack can’t help writing; Fiona Allen can’t help painting; and Faith says she had no choice but to climb the Tor. What is it about this place?” She looked up. The Tor seemed to hang above the treetops, a massive presence that dwarfed all other elements in the landscape. “And what else might someone feel compelled to do?”
“You’re sure about this?” Kincaid asked as he took Gemma’s bag from the boot in front of Bath Railway Station.
“Positive.” She kissed him, adding, “You will talk to Faith about seeing her parents, won’t you? I’ll ring you tomorrow.” With a wave, she walked away.
He watched her until she disappeared into the interior of the station, then climbed back into the car and set about maneuvering his way out of the city. As a child, he had loved their summer visits to Bath, but these days it was so chockablock with tourists you could scarcely move.
Eventually, he found his way back to the A37 going south, towards Glastonbury. He took his time, enjoying the drive through the eastern edge of the Mendips. Gemma was right, it was lovely country, and he smiled, remembering how much she had disliked their trips out of London when they had first started working together.
Born and raised in busy North London, Gemma had been more than a bit agoraphobic. But she had changed, had adapted herself to new circumstances and surroundings. Her ability to do so was one of the things that made her a good copper, and would go a long way towards ensuring her success at her new job. Still, it was a hard transition, and he wished there were something he could do to make the process easier for her.
Of course, if he were totally honest, he’d have to admit he’d been more wrapped up in dealing with his own adjustment to working without her than with hers to her new posting. Even without the personal component of their relationship he’d have found replacing her difficult.
But he had been right to entice Gemma away for the weekend. She’d been more relaxed than he’d seen her in months, and he realized how much he missed that easiness between them. He would have to see what he could do to improve things in the future, but just now he had better turn his attention to Jack’s predicament.
They didn’t seem to be making much progress towards solving either Winnie’s accident or the Todd homicide. Not that he would expect such a quick resolution on an ordinary case, but he was frustrated both by his limited time and his lack of control over the investigation. Greely’s tactics were common enough—find the most likely suspect and bully him or her until you got a confession—but they certainly left much fertile ground unturned.
And to complicate matters further, Jack was bringing Winnie home from hospital today. If she were still in danger, how much more vulnerable would she be now?
He kept running aground on the same questions. Why had Andrew Catesby gone to see Garnet Todd? Why would someone other than Garnet have wanted to hurt—or kill—Winifred Catesby? If Garnet had not struck Winnie, where had she gone in the van that evening? And what had Winnie done in the hours she couldn’t remember?
Some of the answers were undoubtedly locked within Winnie’s mind and could not be forced. And some of the questions were undoubtedly connected, if only he had some clue as to which ones they might be.
Kincaid arrived at Jack’s to find Winnie installed on the sitting-room sofa, her lap filled with a jumble of papers.
“That doesn’t look a proper convalescent project,” Kincaid commented.
Winnie smiled up at him. “I convinced Jack to start searching for the manuscript.”
“He told you about Simon’s theory?”
Nodding, she said, “And I think on this point Simon’s judgment should be trusted. Unfortunately, I’m not much help yet.” She gestured at the papers in her lap. “This is the best I could do. But it would be easier if I knew exactly what I was looking for.”
“How about a perfectly illuminated sheet of musical notation on parchment, with The Lost Chant at the top in Latin?”
“And why don’t we have it rolled and tied with a red ribbon while we’re at it? Seriously, though, if we’re not all completely mad, and if Edmund did make a copy of such a thing, it would have been on parchment. And how likely is it that something like that would have survived all those centuries without special care and handling?”
“Simon seemed to think it was possible, and he’s the expert. Where’s Jack, then?”
“Up in the attic, covered with dust and cobwebs. And swearing a blue streak, is my guess.”
Kincaid grinned. “I expect you’re right. Why don’t you have a rest, and I’ll bring you a cuppa in a bit. How’s Faith?”