A Finer End

When she opened her eyes, Kincaid was watching her. “Gemma? You okay?”

Tentatively, she said, “Just exactly how much did you miss me?”

He brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “Are you angling for a demonstration, Inspector?”

Her pulse leapt. “Yes, sir, guv’ner, sir.” The lights blinked on in the house opposite, as if to signal the coming of night. “You can’t make a case without evidence, you know.”

“Oh, I think that could be obtained easily enough, don’t you?” He stood, and she caught the flash of his grin as he held out his hand to her. She slipped her fingers into his, and willingly gave herself up.

CHAPTER SIX

There are times in the history of races when the things of the inner life come to the surface and find expression, and from these rendings of the veil the light of the sanctuary pours forth.

—DION FORTUNE,

FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART

SHE LAY BESIDE him, listening to his soft breathing, with the slight whistle on the exhalation that might easily become a snore. That she found tolerable, much to her surprise, even though she had slept alone for so many years.

Not that Winnie felt entirely comfortable with the fact that she was sleeping with Jack, and she knew the excuse that the transgressions of a number of Anglican priests far surpassed hers was no justification. But she also knew that it felt right, blessed, and she could not believe that God would find such joy offensive. God had more to worry him than a bit of out-of-wedlock lovemaking … as did she.

Easing out of bed, she fumbled for slippers and dressing gown, then remembered that she had not meant to stay and that her clothes lay in a heap on the floor. That meant borrowing Jack’s dressing gown from the bedpost and slipping on thick socks.

She had learned her way round this room, which had been Jack’s parents’, well enough to navigate in the dark. The first time she had stayed the night, Jack had admitted rather shamefacedly that he had been using the small single bed in his boyhood room, unable to bear the thought of taking over the mahogany four-poster in which his parents had slept for almost fifty years. But the single bed had not been big enough for two, and together they had made the transition to the larger bedroom.

If she had thought the house cold on bright summer days, now that October had arrived it was frigid. Winnie sometimes fancied that it was the shadow of the Tor that kept it so, but that was absurd. It was merely, she told herself, shivering, that the house was old and the central heating inadequate.

As she shuffled down the stairs, hugging the banister, she indulged a moment’s fantasy in which she and Jack were snuggled up cozily in her warm room at the Vicarage. But she knew that no matter how discreet they were, tongues would wag eventually, and she did not need more gossip just now. Her archdeacon, Suzanne Sanborne, already had expressed concern over rumors circulating about Winnie’s “dabbling in the paranormal,” and this Winnie suspected had been instigated by Andrew.

Andrew had apologized to her after their row, and she’d made every effort to smooth things over, but there remained a wedge of discomfort between them that she feared might never be healed. His criticism had hurt her deeply, and she was finding forgiveness difficult. “Practice what you preach, Winnie,” she whispered as she reached the kitchen.

Switching on the light over the table, she opened the fridge and filled a mug with milk, then popped it in the microwave.

Jack could teach her a thing or two about forgiveness, she thought as she retrieved her drink and breathed in the sweet, comforting smell of scalded milk. Once she’d finally worked up her nerve that evening over dinner to tell Jack about her past relationship with Simon Fitzstephen, he had merely said gently, “I never believed you were a saint, Winnie. I hate to think you’ve been worrying over this for months.”

“You don’t mind?”

“The thought of you with another man does give me a twinge,” he admitted. “But it was a long time ago, and I don’t see how it affects us now.”

“I haven’t told you why I broke it off.” Winnie hesitated, piecing together a story that she’d kept to herself for more than a decade. “There was another student, Ray, a protege of Simon’s. He was killed in an auto accident.”

“You were friends?”

“Yes. He’d have made a good priest—a very compassionate man, with a real gift for pastoral care. But he was a scholar as well, and he worshiped Simon. If Ray had lived, I think he’d have outgrown it in time, but he wasn’t given the chance.”

Frowning, Jack said, “Tragic, but I don’t see how this reflects on Simon.”

“Ray was working on a research project under Simon’s tutelage, an exploration of an obscure thirteenth- century Grail legend. When Ray was killed, Simon published the paper as his own.”

“But surely there was some mistake—”

“No mistake. A few months after Ray’s death, his family asked me to sort through his things. I found the original. When I confronted Simon, he said the work was his, that Ray had merely been transcribing it for him.”

“Of course, that would be it,” Jack said with evident relief.

“But Ray left notes, extensive ones. There was absolutely no doubt that he had done the research and written the paper.”

Digesting this, Jack asked, “Did you tell anyone?”

Winnie felt herself flushing. “No. Simon said he’d make a fool of me to the bishop, that he’d say I was acting out of spite because he’d rejected me, and that he’d make sure I never got a good living. He had the influence to do it too. So I convinced myself that it was a minor academic point, nothing that really mattered to anyone—and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”

Jack covered her hand with his. “You were young, inexperienced—”

She shook her head. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I know that. But I also know that you can’t trust Simon Fitzstephen. He would betray you in an instant if it was to his advantage.”

“But there’s nothing to betray,” protested Jack. “What could Simon possibly have to gain by helping me?”