A Finer End

the gate latch in the rain, she ducked under the crime-scene tape and ran across the muddy yard. The sight of the kitchen door standing ajar made her blood run cold. She stepped inside and looked round, fearing the worst.

The butter-colored cat sat on the kitchen table, blinking at her, and then, beyond that, in the midst of the chaos left by the police, she saw a huddled form on the floor.

“It’s Catesby!” Kincaid exclaimed, behind her. “Dead?”

Andrew Catesby had fallen on his back, half under the table, but even in shadowed light Gemma could see the ugly swelling on his temple. A heavy frying pan lay on the floor nearby, as if it had been dropped.

She could hear his breathing, raspy and labored, and when she felt his wrist his pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips.

Kincaid was already dialing 999, and once he’d requested medical help he left a message with Control for DCI Greely.

“Faith must have been the connection all along, not Garnet,” he said as he squatted beside her. “Jack said she’d gone to public school—Andrew must have been her teacher. And the father of her baby. That day you found him here, he must have been looking for Faith.”

“She protected him all this time. Was it Andrew who tried to kill Winnie, then, because she’d guessed? And then murdered Garnet in case Faith had told her?”

“We may never know,” Kincaid said grimly. “Unless Faith can tell us. Where the hell is the girl? If Andrew attacked her, she could be hurt. You stay with him. I’ll search the house.”

Gemma glanced at the open door, thinking furiously. She knew with unshakable certainty that Faith was no longer in the house. She knew, too, where she had gone, and that she must go after her.

She also knew that she could never explain her conviction to Kincaid, and that he would forbid her to make that climb alone in the dark. But they couldn’t both leave Catesby. “Right,” she replied. “You have a look.”

It would take Kincaid a very short time to search the small house, and Andrew Catesby’s breathing had not worsened. When Kincaid disappeared down the corridor, she slipped quietly out the back door.

The rain had diminished to a fine mist, a soft touch against her face. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, realizing Kincaid must have the car keys. Looking up at the Tor’s black bulk rising behind the house, she considered going straight up the hill, then dismissed the plan as more foolhardy than the one she was already contemplating. The lane it must be, then.

She jogged until cramp seized her, but pressed on to the Tor’s north entrance. The path was undemanding at first, a fairly straight and gentle incline across a field, leading to a few stone steps and a narrow way through a copse of trees. Gemma breathed a sigh of relief as she came out the other side. Then she saw what lay ahead.

Jack prowled restlessly over the worn Aubusson carpet. “Why would she do such a thing? I just don’t understand it.” He stopped in front of the fire and warmed his hands automatically, not feeling the heat. “If anything happens to that girl … I got her into this whole bloody mess—”

“Jack,” Winnie interrupted from the sofa, “that’s not true. Faith had met Garnet before you came in contact with either of them, and Faith has always made her own decisions, whatever her reasons.”

He knew she was trying to calm him—and perhaps herself—but he could tell from the pallor of her face how worried she was. “I’m sorry, darling. You’re right. She’s managed well enough on her own until now. I’m sure she’ll show up any minute wanting to know what all the fuss was a—”

The doorbell cut him off. He and Winnie stared at one another, but before he could move they heard Nick Carlisle’s voice.

“In here!” Jack called, and Nick appeared in the doorway, disheveled, his dark hair beaded with raindrops.

“Has she come back?”

“No. No word.”

“They’ve got Wellhouse Lane blocked off. They wouldn’t let me through—”

“Who has it blocked off?”

“The bloody police. Something’s happened. I’m going to see if I can get round on foot—”

“Nick. Duncan will ring if there’s news. It might not have anything to do with—”

“That’s bullshit. It’s Faith, and you know it. I’m going up there. They can arrest me if they don’t bloody like it.” The front door slammed a moment later.

Jack started after him, but Winnie put a restraining hand on his arm. “Let him go. He’s got to do something.”

Sinking down on the ottoman, Jack felt as if his bones had dissolved. “Faith—” he began, but he couldn’t go on.

Winnie had paled, but took his hand in a strong grip. “She’s fine, I’m sure of—”

The bell rang again. This time Jack stood and left the room without speaking.

He had feared the police, bearing bad news, but he was wrong. “Jack?” There was a concerned expression on Fiona Allen’s freckled face. “Is everything all right? I just saw a man run away from your house like the hounds of hell were after him.”

Jack ushered her in, explaining what had happened.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Fiona murmured. “Listen, I can come back another—”

“No, don’t go,” Jack and Winnie said in unison.

“There was something I wanted to tell you both,” Fiona said urgently. “Last night, after I stopped painting, I