A Finer End

She glanced up at him, unsure if he was still teasing. He never talked much about such things, but when she’d asked him once, point-blank, what he believed, he’d said he couldn’t imagine a god that would let happen the things he saw every day on the job.

“What about this murder, then? Have you changed your mind about Nick since Greely seems so positive?”

Kincaid kept walking for a moment, then said, “I just can’t quite see Nick, or Nick and Faith, committing a deliberate murder. And in this case I think it would have been a bit hard to drown Garnet in a moment of fear or passion.” They had reached the Abbey car park. “Is that Nick’s bookshop?” he asked, pointing across the street. “Jack mentioned his office was upstairs on the corner.”

“It overlooks the Market Square, then. Let’s cross over. Earlier I saw a big used-book shop down the way.” Continuing the thread of their conversation, Gemma asked, “What about Andrew Catesby?”

Kincaid frowned. “No motive. What possible reason could he have for killing Todd, a woman he apparently scarcely knew—”

“Unless he somehow got the idea that she was responsible for his sister’s injuries. But he seemed genuinely shocked by the idea that someone might deliberately have hurt Winnie.”

“Maybe he’s a better actor than we think, and he’s the one who struck Winnie, out of some sort of warped jealousy. Then Garnet found out somehow, and he killed her to shut her up.”

“You’re reaching on that one,” said Gemma. Then she went on more thoughtfully, “When you were asking Winnie about Faith’s parents today, there is a possibility you neglected to mention. Has it occurred to you that the reason Faith won’t name the baby’s father is that—”

“She was abused by her own father? That would certainly explain why she refuses to go home.”

“And it might explain why she’s so set against seeing a doctor. Maybe she’s afraid the baby may have genetic complications.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with her parents,” Kincaid agreed. “I’ll run it by Greely, make sure he doesn’t object, and get their name and address. You can be sure he’ll have got that out of Faith today.”

“If Faith was so secretive about her family, how did Nick get her address? Remember, he said he’d even gone looking for her at her parents’ house in Street.” Then, in disappointment, Gemma added, “Oh, the bookshop’s closed.”

“A good thing. You have no room for more books in your flat. You’re right about Nick, though—makes me wonder what else he hasn’t told us.” He stopped and gave an exaggerated sniff. “Is that fish and chips I smell?”

“Don’t tell me you’re hungry again?”

“It was only soup, and that was hours ago.”

“Two, maybe three,” Gemma corrected, smiling. Faith had done her best with Jack’s meager resources, but her pot of soup had not made a particularly generous meal for five people.

They had left Jack contemplating the ramifications of Simon’s hypothesis. If there were even a possibility that a copy of the ancient manuscript might have been passed down through Jack’s family, he would be faced with the enormous task of searching through the accumulated clutter in his parents’ house.

The chippie was a bit further down, where the Market Square became a pedestrian mall. The shop’s door stood open, serving as an enticement. It was a clean, well-lit establishment, with a proper restaurant in the back.

“Do you want to sit down?” Gemma asked.

“No. Let’s keep walking. Somehow fish and chips never taste the same without the newspaper.”

Back in the street, with their steaming newspaper parcels in hand, Kincaid turned back the way they’d come. “Let’s walk up the High.”

They peered through the leaded glass windows of the ancient George & Pilgrims inn. The bar was full, the hum of conversation audible even through the glass. The building looked very old indeed, with its authentic black-and-white timbering and worn, blackened beams.

“Would Edmund have known this place?” Gemma asked.

“A century or so after his time, I think. Not that he’d have been allowed to frequent the inn. It was built to accommodate the pilgrims, and the abbot’s high-ranking overflow.”

They walked on, past the Café Galatea and New Age shops, until Gemma stopped, transfixed, before a gallery window. A single painting, lit by a soft spotlight, stood against a black velvet backdrop. Luminous, winged creatures hovered over a moonlit city in which tiny humans went about their business, unaware. The vision was stunningly beautiful, the colors glowing like living jewels, but the creatures’ faces were fierce and otherworldly. It made her a little uneasy. “Are they protecting the people?” she asked softly. “Or do they have their own agenda?”