“Jack Montfort, by any chance? I’m his cousin, Duncan Kincaid. And this is Gemma James.”
“Fiona Allen.” Her smile faded as she realized just what they must have been doing. “You’re looking at the scene of Winnie’s accident, aren’t you?”
“You found her, I understand? And you live just up the lane?”
“The far end. Why don’t you two come along for a coffee?”
As they followed her, Kincaid looked down into Bushy Coombe. “I remember this from when I was boy. Jack and I used to climb in the Coombe, pretending to be monks—or cowboys.”
“An interesting juxtaposition,” Fiona commented with a chuckle.
“Both unwashed, and familiar with livestock?” Gemma murmured.
He gave her a quelling glance. “We made believe we were fetching water from the spring, although I suppose the logical route from the Abbey would have been by Chilkwell Street.”
“Jack must have been interested in the Abbey as a child, then,” Fiona said as they reached an unremarkable stone house with a superbly tended garden. The interior of the house was clean and spare, and Kincaid imagined it must make a restful contrast to the garden’s summer profusion. A small fire glowed in the sitting-room grate.
“I love this time of year,” Fiona explained. “Any excuse for a fire.”
She seated them on the sofa and returned shortly with mugs of coffee on a tray. “How is Winnie today, have you heard?”
Gemma accepted a cup. “Jack went to fetch her home this morning—”
“She’s not going back to the Vicarage, alone?”
“No, she’s agreed to stay with Jack for a few days. You sound as if you’re worried about her.”
“I am, a bit,” Fiona admitted. “Although I’m not sure I can tell you why.”
“Something you saw or heard that night, perhaps?” Kincaid asked.
Fiona frowned. “No, nothing that concrete. But I do know Winnie feels more uneasy about her brother than she may admit.”
“Do you know of any connection between Andrew Catesby and Garnet Todd?”
“No. It’s odd, though … that two people so dedicated to preserving the past should be at such opposite ends of the pole. I don’t think they could have liked one another.”
“Gemma found Catesby poking about Todd’s house the day after she died.”
“Winnie mentioned that. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Andrew to have learned of the connection between Garnet and Winnie, although Winnie didn’t share much with him about her involvement with Jack’s …”
“Experiment?” Kincaid supplied helpfully. “But even if that were the case, what could Andrew have thought he’d find at Ms. Todd’s? It might help us if Winnie could remember what she did the day of her accident, or why she was coming to see you.”
“Oh!” Fiona brightened. “When I visited Winnie yesterday, she remembered that she went to the Abbey that morning. But that’s as far as we got, I’m afraid.”
“Jack said you painted the Abbey, the night Winnie was struck,” said Gemma. “Was that unusual? I’d think you’d use Glastonbury scenes as a matter of course.”
“But I don’t choose the things I paint. I suppose I could say they choose me. I just see them, and paint them, and that was the first time I’ve ever painted the Abbey.”
“We saw one of your works in town, last night, beautifully displayed. Allen Galleries—is that your husband’s gallery?”
Nodding, Fiona explained, “Bram’s there today, hanging some new pieces. It’s difficult to change the displays when the gallery’s open.”
“What are they—the creatures you paint?”
“I really don’t know. It’s like the settings—I just paint them. I suppose it’s quite similar to what happens to Jack, with his messages from Edmund.”
“Might we see what you painted the night of Winnie’s accident?” asked Kincaid.
“Of course.”
They followed her down a corridor and into her glasswalled studio. She lifted a canvas from a stack against the wall and set it on an easel. In this painting, the creatures thronged round a human child cupped in a luminous bowl, within the great arch of the Abbey’s ruined transepts. Unlike the work they’d seen in the gallery window, here the child seemed to be the focus of the creatures’ attention, perhaps even their compassion.
“Edmund and Alys’s child?” Kincaid murmured.
“Edmund’s?”
Before Kincaid could explain, a man’s voice called out, “Darling?”
“In here,” Fiona answered. As her husband entered the room, she said, “Bram, this is Duncan Kincaid, Jack Montfort’s cousin, and his friend, Gemma James.”
“And how is Winnie?” Bram Allen asked.
“Jack is bringing her home from hospital today.”
“We’ll pay her a visit then, in a day or two, when she’s had a little time to recuperate.” Allen put his arm round
