Suzanne Sanborne was an attractive, intelligent-looking woman, slender, with silver-threaded, curly hair. “So you’re the famous cousin from Scotland Yard,” she said, when she had hugged Winnie.
“Archdeacon.”
“Call me Suzanne, please. And help me with these casseroles.”
They were soon settled round the table for a convivial lunch, aided by the bottle of Bordeaux Kincaid had discovered in Jack’s pantry. Winnie was anxious about her parish obligations, but the Archdeacon was quick to reassure her.
“The last thing you need to do just now is worry. I’ve asked Miles Fleming to fill in when he can, and I’ll take some of your duties myself.”
“But I could at least—”
“Next week we’ll talk about your taking the services,” Suzanne interrupted in a tone that brooked no argument. “But you’re going to have to be patient with yourself.”
“Suzanne,” Winnie said hesitantly. “I know this sounds a stupid question, but have you any idea what I did on Wednesday? I had Jack bring my diary from the Vicarage last night, and I’d written in two sick visits for the morning, and a Deanery Chapter meeting after lunch. This morning I rang everyone up. It seems I kept the morning appointments, but I missed the Chapter meeting altogether.”
“Of course I know what you did!” Suzanne answered with a chuckle. “Why didn’t someone ask me sooner? I asked you to take a bereavement visit.”
“You did?” Winnie said blankly.
“In Pilton. You know the vicar was on holiday last week.” Turning to Kincaid, she explained, “I’d have gone myself but I had a Diocesan meeting, so at Winnie’s party I asked her to take it for me.”
Winnie moaned. “This is dreadful. Why can’t I remember?”
“I’m sure you will,” Suzanne reassured her. “My prescription for you is a rest. It looks to me as if you’ve done far too much today.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “I’ve a meeting, but I can help get you settled, then Duncan can see me out.”
Very smoothly done, Kincaid thought as they escorted Winnie into the sitting room. When she was comfortably situated on the sofa, Suzanne gave her a last admonition. “Now, don’t you worry. Your parish will tick along without you for a few more days.”
“But I’ve a wedding—”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest.”
“But …” Winnie’s protest trailed off as her eyelids started to droop. The wine and pasta had done their work well.
Kincaid and Suzanne stole quietly out and he walked her to her car.
“She really is doing remarkably well,” Suzanne said.
“Yes, but that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“You don’t miss a trick, Superintendent.” She gave him a quick smile, then sighed. “I hate to be alarmist, but I’m quite worried about Andrew, Winnie’s brother. He hasn’t been to see Winnie since she left hospital, has he?”
“Not since she regained consciousness, as far as I know.”
“He refused to go into the ICU—were you aware of that? And every time I saw him in the waiting area, he seemed progressively overwrought. I’m afraid that his silence doesn’t bode well.”
“You may be right. Can you see him? Have you any influence?”
“When I tried to reason with him in hospital, he only became more agitated. But we’ve been friends for a long time. Perhaps David and I should both talk to him.”
“I take it you’re worried about more than Catesby’s mental health. Do you think he would hurt Winnie?”
“Andrew cares for Winnie so much, I can’t imagine … but sometimes love can get twisted.” Suzanne met Kincaid’s eyes. “Until we’ve at least tried to sort things out with Andrew, I’d feel better if you kept a close eye on Winnie and Jack.”
As soon as Fiona finished one canvas, another image coalesced in her mind, giving her no peace until she brought it to life.
She thought she had never worked so well, with such richness of color or delicacy of detail, and for the first time in months the child had not appeared. But she was bone-weary, and when she’d put the final touches on the latest effort, she cleaned her brushes and left her studio.
Bram looked up from the book he was reading, his relief obvious. “Finished, darling?”
Fiona stretched out on the sofa beside him. “I’m knackered.”
“I wish I could help.” He stroked her forehead with his thumb.
“You do, just by understanding.” As a child, she had drawn on walls if no paper was available when the urge came on her—and had not understood when she’d been punished for it. At one point her baffled parents had tried to keep her from drawing altogether, and she had sunk into a state of depression so deep it bordered on catatonia.
“But I feel empty tonight,” she added, yawning and snuggling a little more firmly into his lap. “This may be it for now.”
“Are they good?”
“Brilliant. You’ll like them.” She smiled up at him. “I think I’ll go see Winnie tomorrow, if she feels up to a bit of company.”
“Shall I read to you?”
“What are you reading?”
“William of Malmsbury’s account of his visit to the Abbey in the 1120s. Listen to this. He’s talking about the Old Church. ‘… one can observe all over the floor stones, artfully interlaced in the forms of triangles or squares and sealed with lead; I do no harm to religion if I believe some sacred mystery is contained beneath them.…’ ”
Was that what Garnet had known? Fiona wondered sleepily, meaning to ask Bram, but the words began to stretch out like shining beads on a string, until they shimmered and faded away.
• • •
She woke on the sofa in a darkened room, with a blanket tucked round her and a cushion placed carefully under her head. It was late—or very early—she sensed that by the quality of the light filtering in through the blinds. She sat up, intending to go to bed for what was left of the night, and her dream came back to her in a rush.
The music—she had heard the singing again. Now it dissolved and slipped once more from her grasp.
And she had seen the Abbey, washed in a clear, pale light. But the heavily overgrown ruins had stood in an open, pastoral landscape, rather than their modern-day walled setting. A few thin cows grazed in the foreground, watched over by a man in old-fashioned dress who leaned picturesquely on a shepherd’s staff.
Fiona lay back and pulled the blanket up to her chin, trying to make sense of the disparate elements floating about in her head: the music, Garnet, the beautifully colored tiles in the Old Church, the odd view of the Abbey …
Her last thought, as she drifted off to sleep once more, was that the man with the shepherd’s crook had looked remarkably like Jack Montfort.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
But even St. Michael was helpless against the Powers of Darkness, concentrated by ritual, and in the earthquake of A.D. 1000 the body of the church [on the Tor] fell down, leaving only the tower standing. Thus was the Christian symbol of a cruciform church changed into the pagan symbol of an upstanding tower, and the Old Gods held their own.
—DION FORTUNE,
FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART
FAITH FELT VERY odd from the moment she woke on Tuesday morning. She wondered if any of the others sensed the heaviness, the oppression, in the air. She felt an urgency, as well, a sense that her time to take care of unfinished business was swiftly running out. And the baby, so violently active the past few days, was suddenly quiet, giving her only the occasional gentle nudge.
She felt her abdomen carefully, the way Garnet had taught her, but she couldn’t be sure that the baby had dropped. Why wasn’t Garnet here when she needed her? And how was she going to manage without her?