A Finer End

By chance, Simon had run into his old friend Garnet Todd that afternoon, and he had invited her along as well. She was knowledgeable and sharp witted: surely she’d add a bit of spice to the evening’s gathering.

He set glasses, mixers, gin, and whiskey on the round drawing-room table. Inlaid with walnut burl and set round its circumference with two rows of drawers, it had been used by the lords of Pilton Manor for collecting rents. With a vase of full-blown garden roses set in its center, it did justice to the room, his favorite in the house. Three gothic-arched windows stood open to the lawn, and the green silk on the walls brought the garden in. Ornately framed sepia photographs hung everywhere, generations of Fitzstephens. But Simon was the last of his branch of the family, and childless. His name would have to live on through his books, a prospect which did not distress him, except for the fact that lately the well of his creativity seemed to have run dry. What could he say about the Grail that he had not already said, and said well? And yet he had another book under contract to his publisher, and he could not stall much longer.

Returning to the kitchen, he fetched the silver dishes of olives and salted almonds Mrs. Beddons had left ready. Just as he had everything assembled, the bell rang. He swiped a hand through his thick hair and went to greet his visitors.

Nick Carlisle stood on the doorstep with his friend, a large, fair-haired man—and, much to Simon’s shock, Winifred Catesby. What was she doing here?

Nick introduced Jack Montfort first, giving Simon a chance to recover as he shook Montfort’s hand absently. When released, Simon forestalled Nick’s second introduction.

“Winifred.” He bent to kiss her cheek, his lips meeting air when she turned her face away at the last moment.

“Hullo, Simon.”

“You know each other?” Montfort asked.

“Simon taught a few of my classes in theological college,” Winifred replied coolly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, hasn’t it?” Simon responded drily. He ushered them into the drawing room, very much aware of her bare arms and her sleeveless, blue silk dress.

The bell rang again just as he had them seated, this time heralding Garnet Todd and an unfamiliar companion. Garnet wore her usual Romany attire, which amused Simon almost as much as her staunch vegetarianism; once in a moment of indiscretion, she’d revealed to him that she was a butcher’s daughter from Clapham.

“I hope you don’t mind, Simon,” said Garnet. “I brought my boarder. This is Faith.”

The girl was tall and slender, with a long neck and short-cropped hair that set off her delicate features. She was also, Simon realized as she moved past him into the entry hall, quite visibly pregnant, and not much more than a child. “Faith?” he repeated. “Just Faith?”

“Just Faith.” The girl turned serious dark eyes on him, with no hint of a smile. What, Simon wondered, had Garnet got herself into?

And if he had had any doubts about young Nick Carlisle’s sexual preferences, they were resolved the instant Faith walked into the drawing room. Both men rose, but Nick was clearly riveted. The girl seemed unaware of her effect, regarding them all with the same solemn gaze.

As Simon introduced Garnet, Winifred said, “Garnet Todd, the ceramist? I love your work! I’ve been hoping one day to have you restore the tiles in my church.”

“Your church?” Garnet’s worn face creased in a smile.

“I’m vicar of St. Mary’s, Compton Grenville,” Winifred answered, and they were soon deep in discussion of the church’s tile work.

Trust Garnet to monopolize the conversation, Simon thought acidly as he served drinks. When he could get a word in edgewise, he said, “Nick tells me you have a particular interest in the history of the Abbey, Mr. Montfort?”

“You might say that. Call me Jack, please. And I understand that you’re the expert where the Abbey is concerned. I’m especially interested in the eleventh-century period and in Aethelnoth’s abbacy.”

“Aethelnoth? That’s not a name most people know. Not exactly a shining star in the Abbey’s history, that one.”

“I wondered what happened in his time that the monks would have seen as bringing God’s wrath upon their House?”

“Among other things, Aethelnoth removed the gold and silver from the Abbey’s holy books and sold it for his own profit, and he appropriated Church lands. His rather disreputable career ended when he was formally deposed and sent into confinement at Christ Church, Canterbury.

“In fact,” Simon continued, warming to his subject, “neither of the last two Saxon abbots was anything to write home about. Aethelweard, Aethelnoth’s predecessor, hacked up King Edgar’s remains and tried to stuff them in a reliquary, after which he became incurably insane—small wonder—then fell and broke his neck. But I don’t know that any of their misdeeds was worthy of calling down God’s wrath upon the Abbey.”

Montfort and Nick Carlisle exchanged a look of disappointment. “Those sorts of things were fairly common, I take it?” Montfort asked.