A Finer End

Returning to the drawing room after he had helped Winnie clear the table, Jack made an effort to ignore Andrew. He slipped Handel’s Dixit Dominus in the CD player, and as the conversation flowed around him, he thought of what he and Simon had discussed. Was it possible that they were right in thinking it was the Abbey’s lost chant Edmund wanted them to find?

Winnie’s recent warning about Simon crossed his mind, but he dismissed it easily enough. Surely Winnie had been mistaken—perhaps overly zealous in the defense of her dead friend. And if not—if Simon had done such an unscrupulous thing, Jack could not believe it was more than an isolated incident that Simon had later regretted.

Hoping for a moment alone with Winnie, he went back into the kitchen. She stood at the worktop, her back to him, stacking cups and saucers on a tray. He placed his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her exposed shoulder just above the neckline of her dress. She relaxed against him, and he wrapped his arms round her.

But before he could speak he felt a prickling at the back of his neck, and a small current of air. Turning, he saw Andrew Catesby standing in the doorway, watching them.

“Oh, good, Andrew—you can carry the coffee,” said Winnie, as if nothing were amiss, but Jack had seen the venom in her brother’s eyes.

With a forced smile, she handed Jack the cheese tray, and as he left the kitchen he heard Andrew say, “Not very fitting behavior for a priest, fawning all over him like a common tart.”

Winnie snapped something in reply that Jack couldn’t quite make out. He’d turned back, determined to intervene, when Winnie came out of the kitchen, cheeks flaming.

“Winnie—”

“Later. We’d better serve the guests.”

They returned to the drawing room, and when Andrew had joined them, David Sanborne said, “Nice choice, the Handel. I believe that’s what the Somerfield choir is doing at Christmas this year—am I right, dear?” He glanced at his wife.

“Our Nigel’s hanging on to his soprano part by a hair, I’m afraid. We’re all praying his voice will hold another few months.”

“It must be frustrating for boys that age, being neither fish nor fowl,” said Winnie, her color still high. “And then just when they’ve got themselves sorted out, grown a bit of hair on their chests, they have to move up and deal with Andrew.”

“I do what I can,” Andrew said. “Vile, back-stabbing little buggers, most of them. Your son excepted, of course.” He nodded at the Sanbornes.

David Sanborne grinned. “Sixth-formers shaping up this year, are they?”

“As well as they ever do, meaning it would take a miracle to make historians out of them.” He gave Jack a malevolent glance. “Montfort here is an amateur historian of a sort—why don’t you tell them about your interest in the history of the Abbey?”

The bastard, thought Jack, groping for an acceptable answer. “Just a bit of local genealogy, really. It’s odd, but with both my parents gone, I suddenly realized I wanted to know more about my family. I’ve been able to trace Montforts in Glastonbury as far back as the twelve hundreds, but earlier than that it gets fuzzy.”

“Montfort’s a French name, surely,” said Fiona, who had been quiet since her husband’s dig about her painting. “If your ancestors didn’t arrive until after the Conquest, that would explain why the trail disappears.”

“Any relation to Simon de Montfort, the reformer?” asked Bram.

“An interesting idea,” Andrew mused, “but that de Montfort came to a very bad end. His revolutionary zeal got him gutted on the battlefield, I believe.”

“Simon Fitzstephen’s been remarkably helpful,” Jack said as he saw Winnie blanch. “I’m sure if there was a connection, he would have found it.”

“Yes, but would he have told you?” murmured Suzanne. Then, seeing all eyes turned on her expectantly, she shook her head slightly. “Oh, that was out of turn. Too much wine, I expect. It’s just that Simon’s been known to withhold information when it suited him. Church politics can be surprisingly vicious, and Simon was a master player.”

David Sanborne stood. “I think I’d better take you home, my dear, before you become indiscreet. And I’ve got early surgery tomorrow—you know what they say, farmers and doctors never get a lie-in.”

“We’d better be going too,” said Bram Allen. “Fiona needs her rest. It’s been an interesting evening, Winnie. Unparalleled, you might say.”

As they made their farewells, Fiona took Jack’s hand. With a glance at her husband, she said softly, “I am glad to meet you.”

It was a fine, crisp night, with stars hard and bright in a clear sky, and when the two couples had left, Andrew remained on the porch, shifting from one foot to the other. Winnie moved closer to Jack, slipping an arm round his waist.

“Well, I’ll leave you two young lovers to it, shall I?” Andrew spat, then turned on his heel, and strode away. A moment later his car sped out of the drive.