A Finer End

“Oddly enough, Bond never claimed otherwise. He believed individual consciousness was merely a part of a transcendent whole—a cosmic memory—and that every person has the power to open a door into that reality. There was a spiritual revival going on in Glastonbury at the time, particularly after the First World War. It attracted all sorts of notables—Yeats, Shaw—Dorothy Sayers even attended one of Bond’s sessions. So the general climate was not averse to Bond’s ideas.”

“So he thought he was tapping into this collective memory as well as his own subconscious?”

“It was Bond’s friend, a Captain John Bartlett, who did the actual writing, but Bartlett knew very little about the Abbey or archaeology—”

“But surely Bond prompted him?”

“Bond asked specific questions,” Jack corrected. “Bartlett’s first few episodes had occurred spontaneously, then Bond suggested that this … conduit … might be directed in a specific way. But often enough they got something completely unexpected.”

Jack’s blue eyes were alight with passion, and Winnie had a sudden chilling thought. He’d never talked about his dead wife—she knew only what had been repeated round the town, that his wife had died in childbirth, along with their infant daughter, only a few months after he’d lost his mother to a prolonged illness and his father to a heart attack. “Jack … you’re not thinking that you can … direct this? That you might … contact … Emily?”

He regarded her, unblinking. “I had considered it,” he answered at last. “And I have to admit the idea that the dead are perhaps … not so far away is … comforting. But it’s not that simple, Winnie. I think it’s a case not of what I want from him, but rather what he wants from me.”

“Him?”

“It seems to be a ‘he.’ ‘Edmund.’ A monk of Glastonbury Abbey, although I haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact time frame.”

“That’s why you were interested in Simon Fitzstephen,” Winnie exclaimed.

“I went to hear him speak the other night. If I could arrange to meet Fitzstephen, give him specific details, perhaps he could help me.”

“Jack—” Winnie didn’t want to encourage his association with Simon Fitzstephen, but couldn’t think of a concrete objection that wouldn’t require her to expose her past dealings with the man.

Misinterpreting her hesitation, Jack said, “I can’t blame you for being skeptical. I don’t know what the explanation is—only that it’s not going away. If you feel you can’t go on seeing me—”

Winnie took his hand, holding it tightly in both of hers. “Now you are talking daft. Of course I’m not going to stop seeing you. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you. You know that.”

“Even if I’m crazy?”

“You’re not crazy.” She spoke vehemently. “You will find an explanation for these writings. May I read them?”

“Would you?” The thought seemed to please him. “You might see some clue I’ve missed.”

“Well,” she said slowly, wondering if she had completely taken leave of her senses, “have you tried simply asking Edmund what he wants?”

This, thought Bram Allen as he looked round his gallery, was what a church should be like. The plush carpeting muffled both voice and footfall, the illuminated paintings on the hessian-covered walls glowed as if they were stained-glass windows lit from within, and bells chimed musically with each swing of the door. It seemed an impenetrable sanctuary … and it was the only place he felt truly safe.

There were some, he knew, who were made uncomfortable by the fierceness of the creatures in Fiona’s paintings, but he had always found them strangely reassuring, as if that very quality might hold evil at bay.

What did concern him was the fact that the number of Fiona’s paintings on the gallery walls was steadily decreasing. Although his other artists sold well, it was Fiona’s work that provided the backbone of the business, and it had been months since she’d produced anything she was willing to let him display. Not that he wanted to hang those recent paintings—God forbid! What on earth had possessed her to paint that face?

Fiona’s gift was not something that could be subjected to a rational analysis—or so he’d always assumed. But now he wondered if there was some external factor at work, something that had changed in their lives? Or in Fiona’s life?

As he gazed out the gallery window, the bell began to toll for Evensong at St. John’s, just across the street. That was his signal to close for the day. Automatically, Bram tidied and switched off lights. Then, as he locked the door to the last peal of the bells, it came to him. Something had changed in Fiona’s life this past year. She had become friends with Winnie Catesby, who had begun counseling Fiona to express the grief she felt over her childlessness. Was this what had triggered Fiona’s visions?

But that still didn’t explain why she should paint that particular child. Had Winnie somehow managed to loosen a fragment of memory lodged in Fiona’s subconscious? Or did Fiona know more than he had always believed?