A Finer End

“No. Not at the Vicarage. I thought I had to maintain some sort of propriety. But now … I wouldn’t give a toss.”

“Well, we can ask him. He’ll remember. What about the next morning? Was it rainy or clear?”

“Clear,” Winnie said instantly, then stared at Fiona in surprise. “How did I—”

“What did you do when you got up?”

“Morning prayer. That’s easy.”

“Okay. Then what did you have for breakfast?”

“Toast and tea.”

“Then you got dressed. Why did you take your bike instead of your car?”

“Because I—because it was a beautiful day.”

“So you got on your bike and started off. It was still cool, and the morning sun felt good. Where did you go?”

“Glastonbury.” Winnie laughed. “This is amazing! I knew that without thinking.”

“From the Vicarage, you’d have come into the roundabout at the bottom of Wearyall Hill. Did you turn to the right, towards the Tor? Or did you continue on into town?”

“I went straight on, into Magdalene Street. The Abbey! I went to the Abbey. I—I—I can’t bloody remember! There’s just a blank after that.”

“Shhh. Don’t force it. We’ve made some progress.”

Winnie sank back into the pillow. “Why would I have gone to the Abbey?”

“Maybe we should back up again. What about the dinner party—”

“Andrew! You know how beastly Andrew was to Jack!” Winnie felt a cold weight in the pit of her stomach as the scene came flooding back. “He’s been behaving so oddly. He hasn’t even been to see me since I got out of intensive care. And when he came before, when I was unconscious, he wouldn’t come in. The nurses told me. He’s changed, Fi.”

“Has he? Or could it be that you’re just seeing things you’ve managed to ignore until now?”

“I—I don’t know. I suppose he’s always been a bit too attached to me, and easily hurt.… When our mum and dad died, we went to live with my father’s parents. But they were elderly—my father was a late only child—and they were so overwhelmed by their own grief they had no emotional room for us. I became mother and sister to Andrew. He was so lost.” How he had clung to her, begging for reassurance when he woke from the nightmares that plagued him for years—

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen. Andrew was eleven. After that, he was so terrified of losing anything he cared about—I suppose that’s what sparked his interest in the past. It couldn’t be taken from him.”

“You formed a very special bond,” Fiona mused. “And neither of you married.”

“I never thought—We were such good companions, I never felt the need. I didn’t know—I never expected Jack to come into my life. Oh, Fi! I’ve been so wrapped up in myself these past few months, with what I was feeling. And if I’ve given Andrew any real thought, it’s been in a he’ll-get-over-it way. But it goes much deeper than that, and I should have known it.”

“Winnie, you can’t blame yourself for Andrew’s shortcomings.”

“I thought I knew him, but I’m beginning to doubt even that. He went to Garnet’s house the day after she died. Why would he do such a thing?”

“She was well known for her archaeological work—”

“He said he wanted to commission tile work for his kitchen. Andrew!” Winnie shook her head. “It makes me wonder …”

“Wonder what?” Fiona prompted when her friend didn’t continue.

“I’ve noticed things the past few months, around the Vicarage. Papers moved about, things missing. What if—what if Andrew’s been … spying on me?” Reluctantly, Winnie met Fiona’s gaze. “Oh, Fi. What certainty is there in anything, if you can’t trust those you love best?”

The rain that threatened all day had not materialized, but as night came on the air developed a soft fuzziness, hovering on the verge of fog. By the time Gemma and Kincaid arrived back at the B & B, the streetlamps and car lights were haloed with moisture.

As Gemma got out of the car, she was possessed by a sudden restlessness. “Let’s not go in just yet. It’s such a beautiful night.”

“Shall we walk, then? See the sights of Glastonbury by starlight?” Kincaid suggested. “Unless you’d rather go down the pub for a pint.”

She laughed. “You’re such a romantic. A walk would be fine, and we’ll see what strikes us.”

They let themselves out the gate, and when they reached Magdalene Street, Gemma hooked her arm through his. “I keep trying to imagine what it must have been like, eight hundred years ago. It seems such a long time, and yet people’s emotions haven’t changed that much.”

“Alys and Edmund?”

“Yes. And we don’t even know if they were real.”

“You could get into all sorts of philosophical difficulties with that statement. There’s the subjective approach: ‘Are they real if we believe in them?’ But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are worse dangers lurking. ‘Do we have souls? Is there life after death?’ ”

“How can you be so flippant?” Gemma scolded, pinching his arm.

“A defense mechanism, love. Those are places I’m afraid to go, even with my proper Anglican upbringing.”