A Finer End

There was a moment of surprised silence, then Garnet said, “Your own experience? Do you mean you’ve done automatic writing?”

Montfort hesitated, then with a glance at Winifred, pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his inside jacket pocket. “All these since March. And I knew very little about the history of the Abbey, just the ordinary schoolboy stuff.”

Curiosity battling against disbelief, Simon reached for the papers. He had always been intrigued by the story of Bligh Bond’s experience—what if he’d been wrong in assuming that Bond himself was the source? He read, fascinated, from the first halting script. As he finished each page Garnet reached eagerly for it, then passed it in turn to Faith.

As he read, a strong sense of personality began to emerge. Simon glanced at Jack Montfort, who sat cradling his drink in his hands. Montfort seemed an unlikely candidate for a hoax, nor could Simon imagine that some repressed part of Montfort’s personality sought expression as a medieval monk. And as an architect, the man certainly had nothing to gain by revealing such a thing—it could, without a doubt, seriously damage his career.

Simon felt the beginnings of an excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. Suppose there was the remotest possibility that these communications were genuine, that it was somehow possible to establish a living link with the past. What would that mean for his own studies, to have direct access to history? There could be a book in this that would take his career in an entirely unexpected direction.

He had reached the last page. Seek one goal and ye shall win, began the monk who signed himself as Edmund. Work at that which comes. Take others as ye find, for the task is great, ere ye shall join the Company. We are those who watch, and we are ever with you.

Garnet took the sheet from him almost before he’d finished reading it. She skimmed it, then read it again more slowly, her lips moving. Wide-eyed, she looked up at Montfort and breathed, “The Company of Watchers. They’ve chosen you.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Winifred. “Who—or what—is the Company of Watchers?”

“The Watchers are those who are tied to Glastonbury by a bond not even death could sever. They guard the spiritual heart of Britain—Logres—and some even say they watch over King Arthur, waiting for the day when he will rise again.”

“Britain’s hour of greatest need?” scoffed Simon. “Surely no one believes that old chestnut?”

“Six months ago I wouldn’t have given it the time of day,” Montfort answered slowly. “But now … after all this …”

Garnet fingered the Celtic pendant she wore at her throat. “This is a time of conflict, so near the Millennium —”

“Your paranoia’s showing, my dear,” Simon said sharply. Then he looked at the pages gathered in Faith’s slender hand and wavered.

“And the task?” asked Faith.

“I don’t know,” answered Montfort. “That’s one of the things I hoped to learn when I came here today.”

“Take others as ye find,” Faith read, then she looked at each of them, her gaze intent. “Don’t you see? We are the others. Whatever it is, it can only be accomplished if we work together.”

“All for one and one for all,” said Simon, still half mocking, but finding himself strangely drawn to the idea. “What do you think, Winifred? I doubt the Church would approve of your dabbling in the paranormal.”

“They didn’t much care for Bond’s methods, either, and yet he gave us invaluable information about the Abbey. Can’t we judge the material on the basis of its historical validity, rather than its source?” She looked at Jack Montfort, as if for confirmation; with an unpleasant jolt it dawned on Simon that they were a couple.

Garnet’s face was alight. “That’s why we’re here tonight, Simon. And that’s why Faith came to me. We were all drawn together for this purpose. I’m sure of it! You could interpret the material in historical terms—”

“And you have the resources and the skills to trace any possible connection Jack might have with Edmund,” Nick Carlisle interrupted. “Perhaps we all have something to offer, even if we’re not sure what it is at this point.”

Simon read dismay in Winifred’s expression. It was that, as well as the thought of his own possible gain, that prompted him to say, “Just how exactly would we go about this … investigation?”

Perhaps they had been brought together for a purpose, and if that meant Winnie Catesby would have to put up with seeing him on a regular basis, then it bloody well served her right.

CHAPTER FOUR

The water meadows are of that emerald green only to be seen where the subsoil water is near to the surface. Travelling through parched lands at midsummer, one knows that Avalon is near by the greenness of the earth.

—DION FORTUNE,

FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART

KINCAID COULD NOT imagine a more perfect day. The heat and mugginess that so often characterized late August days in the south of England had been swept away by a westerly wind that cleared the sky and brought a hint of autumn crispness to the air. Strangers passing in the street nodded, smiled, said, “Fine day,” and, for once, the English obsession with talking about the weather seemed justified.

He and Kit had spent the morning battling the machines in the Leicester Square video arcade, and by the time they emerged into daylight the temperature had climbed into the region of shirtsleeve comfort. “Ready for lunch?” Kincaid suggested, knowing the question was rhetorical.

“Um … do you think we could go to the Hard Rock Cafe?” Kit asked with the tentativeness that still marked most of his requests.

“Why not? I think I could manage to eat a tourist or two for lunch. Tube?”

Kit hesitated, watching the crowds surging across the pavement in the bright sunshine. “Could we walk?”

In Kincaid’s opinion, walking through the heart of the West End on a Saturday in August was akin to forcing one’s way through the mob at a football match in riot gear, but he nodded. “Go for it, sport.”

They set off towards Piccadilly Circus, picking their way through the warren of streets. Kit dodged oncoming