“I’ll have to go on Antiques Roadshow,” Jack joked, without looking up from the pile he was sorting.
Kincaid moved a stack of framed pictures to one side and started on the boxes. To his delight, they held books. The volumes were dusty and musty, some with water stains or damaged covers, but nonetheless it was a treasure trove. After half an hour, he had come up with a handful of real finds.
“I’m no expert, but I think you’d do well to let my dad have a look at these.” He handed Jack copies of The Moonstone, The War of the Worlds, Mrs. Dalloway, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. All were in good condition and, as far as he could tell, first editions.
Jack accepted the books with a discouraged sigh. “And I’ve found three hideous lamps, a recipe collection from the twenties, some moth-eaten flower arrangements, and a box of ladies’ hats.”
The first dozen of the framed pictures were obviously junk: cardboard reproductions of famous paintings in cheap frames. But there were three small landscape oils that Kincaid suspected might be valuable, as well as a nice watercolor of the Abbey ruins, and a larger oil portrait of a hunting spaniel that he thought Gemma might like, remembering her interest in Andrew Catesby’s dog.
“Take it,” Jack said of the spaniel portrait, when Kincaid presented his latest haul. “Give it to Gemma with my compliments.” He sat back on his heels and groaned. “The light’s going. We’ll have to give it up for the day. I didn’t expect the thing to jump out and bite me, but this really is like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“What about Edmund?” Kincaid asked, rubbing his dusty hands against his jeans.
“No help there. I’ve tried.”
“Then I suggest sherry in the drawing room, when I’ve collected Faith. Maybe among us we’ll come up with something.”
Faith stood watching for him outside the café, hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan. She waited until they had almost reached Jack’s before she asked Kincaid, “Any luck?”
“Some interesting things, but not what we’re looking for.”
“No. I meant Nick. Did you find him?”
“I tried the caravan, and the cafés you suggested. No joy, but the woman at the Assembly Rooms says he’d been in earlier. If he doesn’t show up this evening, I’ll run out to the—” The sight of the car in Jack’s drive instantly derailed his train of thought. A slightly battered white Vauxhall, unmarked. DCI Greely’s.
“Ah … perhaps we’d better see what’s up before we make plans. It looks as though Inspector Greely’s come to call.”
“They won’t put me in jail, will they?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Greely stood in front of the cold fireplace, hands behind his back as if warming them. Nodding, he said, “Superintendent. Miss Wills.”
Winnie was still ensconced on the sofa, with Jack standing protectively by her.
“Inspector Greely,” Kincaid replied pleasantly, but it occurred to him that he was getting a good taste of being on the receiving end of things. “What can we do for you today?”
“I just wanted to clarify a few things with Mr. Montfort here.” Greely’s smile was not reassuring.
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
Greely turned pointedly towards Jack, making it clear that he didn’t intend to let Kincaid serve as intermediary this time. “Mr. Montfort, what time did you say you left the hospital last Thursday night?”
“I think it was about half past ten, but I really wasn’t paying attention. Why?”
“The ICU nursing staff put it closer to ten o’clock. And it seems you told me it was near midnight when you arrived home and found Miss Wills on your doorstep. Is that right?”
“As far as I can remember. Look, what is all this about?”
“Well,” Greely drawled, “it occurred to me that two hours was a very generous amount of time to make the drive from Taunton to Glastonbury, late at night with no traffic. And it also occurred to me that it takes a very short amount of time to drown someone—say three or four minutes.”
Jack gaped at him. “Surely you’re not accusing me of murdering Garnet? Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
Winnie reached up and took Jack’s hand.
“Perhaps Miss Wills communicated her fears about Miss Catesby’s accident to you. At that time, I believe, Miss Catesby was still unconscious, her recovery quite uncertain. In such circumstances, you’d have wanted some answers very badly. Perhaps you merely meant to talk to Miss Todd, and it escalated into something much more serious—murder, in fact. And in that case, Miss Wills’s story of coming back from her ‘walk’ and finding the house empty is so much poppycock, and she either participated in the crime, or she acted as an accessory after the fact.”
Kincaid tried to catch Jack’s eye, to caution him to say nothing, but Jack’s gaze remained riveted on Greely.
“Number one,” his cousin shot back furiously, “the first time I knew anything about Faith’s suspicions was when she showed up on my doorstep around midnight. Second, the reason it took me longer than usual to drive from Taunton was that I was exhausted, and I had to stop several times in order to stay—”
“Give it up, Inspector,” Kincaid broke in. “You’re fishing. You’ve no evidence. And I’ve instructed my cousin to retain a lawyer.”
Greely rocked back and forth on his heels, placidly surveying them. “I thought you might be interested in hearing my ideas, but as it seems you’re not, I’ll let you folks get on with your evening. Oh, by the way, Miss Catesby—I’m glad to see you making such a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, Inspector.” She gave him a forced smile.
Kincaid gestured towards the door. “I’ll see you out, shall I?”
Greely nodded his farewells, then followed Kincaid into the hall.
“Do I take it no new evidence has presented itself, Inspector? Hence the stirring-ants technique?”
For once, Greely’s smile looked genuine. “Well, you know, Superintendent, when you stir an anthill with a stick, you generally get results.”
Kincaid returned the smile as he opened the door. “Yes, Inspector, you do. But sometimes you get stung in the process.”
Andrew had rung the hospital, only to be told by a toffee-voiced receptionist that Winifred Catesby was no longer a patient there. After that he’d rung the Vicarage again and again, hanging up when the answering machine came on. He couldn’t bear to hear her voice, and yet every time he felt he must.
After a while he took out the car, but the house on the Butleigh Road was dark, lifeless.
She was at Montfort’s, then.
He knew Montfort’s house, of course, he’d looked up the address in the telephone directory months ago. Now he could find it in his sleep, so often had he driven slowly by. Well, he would wait, and watch—he was good at waiting, and at watching—until the time was right.
When his own phone rang, he sat and stared at it until the ringing stopped.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Tor is indeed the Hill of Vision for any whose eyes have the least inclination to open upon another world.… There are some who, visiting Glastonbury for the first time, are amazed to see before them a Hill of Dreams which they have already known in sleep.… Many times the tower is reported to have been seen rimmed in light; a warm glow, as of a furnace, beats up from the ground on wild winter nights, and the sound of chanting is heard from the depths of the hill.
—DION FORTUNE,
FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART
ON THE TRAIN from Bath to London, Gemma fell instantly into a heavy sleep, in which she dreamed jumbled, disjointed dreams, threaded throughout with the clicking and clacking of the train. When she woke, groggily, she felt there had been something she must do, but she could not remember what it was.