A Finer End

had a dream.

“I heard the same music I heard the night of Winnie’s accident, and I saw a painting of the Abbey. Seventeenth or eighteenth century, I’d guess, a watercolor. And the oddest thing was that there was a man in the painting who looked remarkably like you, Jack. And then there were Garnet’s tiles—”

“A watercolor, did you say?”

“Yes, of the Abbey ruins, with cows in the foreground. Very nicely done too.”

Jack stood. “I’ll be back.”

But where the hell was the painting Duncan had found, he tried to remember as he took the stairs two at a time. He had only glanced at the thing, and had no recollection of what Duncan had done with it.…

It proved easy enough to find, however, set carefully off to one side with the portrait of the spaniel Duncan had wanted for Gemma. Breathing a sigh of relief, he carried both paintings back down the stairs.

“That’s it! That’s exactly what I saw in my dream!” Fiona exclaimed as he held out the view of the Abbey.

“That is remarkable.” Winnie examined the small figure in the foreground of the watercolor. “It could be you in farmer’s togs.”

“Look—there.” Fiona reached out to touch the bottom corner. “Is that a signature? Have you a magnifying glass?”

Jack fetched the old glass from his mother’s writing desk, and Winnie held it carefully over the small squiggle.

“It is a signature. Matthew—is that Matthew?” Jack heard the quick intake of her breath. “Matthew Montfort. It says Matthew Montfort!”

“But what does it mean?” Jack asked. “We’re looking for a manuscript, not a painting.”

“May I?” Fiona asked, and Winnie handed her the watercolor.

First, Fiona examined the front, and the frame, then she turned the painting over. The heavy paper neatly covering the back was discolored, and had a spattering of water or liquid stains, but otherwise it was intact. Fiona ran her fingertip round the edge, checking the seal, then she smoothed her palm across the paper.

Once more, she repeated the motion, stopping at the same point. “Have you a penknife? I think there might be something under the backing.”

Jack handed her his pocketknife, not trusting himself to speak.

Carefully, Fiona ran the tip of the knife under two of the edges. “Yes, there is something. I can see it.” She loosened the third side and lifted the flap of paper away.

A sheet of paper covered in a graceful, but old-fashioned hand lay beneath the watercolor’s backing.

“Jack, I think this belongs to you,” Fiona said, awe in her voice as she transferred the painting to him.

He lifted the sheet, his heart thudding with excitement. Beneath it lay a flat, paper-wrapped package, tied with a faded silk ribbon. “This appears to be a letter,” he said, struggling to decipher the handwriting. He read aloud haltingly:

“These papers have been passed from father to son in my family for seven hundred years, and we have preserved them to … our ability. But sadly, the original wrappings have disintegrated beyond my power to restore. I have devised a new place of safekeeping, as I have been instructed, in the hopes that this gift from Our Lord may be treasured and kept as it deserves.

“It is said that this is the Holy Chant of Glastonbury, brought by Joseph of Arimathea and his followers from the Holy Land in the First Century after the Crucifixion of Our Lord, perpetuated by twelve anointed choristers, as it had been since the days of the Faithful in Egypt. Thus when the Norman, Abbot Thurstan, sought to impose the form of worship practiced in France upon the monks of our Abbey, they rose in protest against him and he shed their blood upon the Altar of the Great Church. So it is that this most holy of praises to Our Lord vanished from the sight and hearing of mankind, but was not lost.

“This I entrust to the care of”—Jack squinted at the script— “descendants—I think he says descendants, and may the Blessings of Our Lord Jesus Christ be always upon you.

Matthew Montfort, 1759.”

Jack looked up; Winnie’s face was rapt. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “So it was true. I didn’t really believe it.…”

“I can’t bear it,” Winnie breathed. “Go on. Open the package.” When he hesitated still, she said gently, “It’s your right, Jack. This is what Edmund wanted.”

Fingers trembling, he untied the ribbon and folded back the wrapping from the tissue-thin folio beneath.

The path that had begun with such deceptive gentleness now switched back and forth up the steep north side of the Tor. The drop-off was sheer, the clay between the viciously sharp stones was slick as glass, and there was no railing.

Gemma made the mistake at first of trying to use her torch, but she found that while the circle of light lit the terrain immediately beneath her feet, it blinded her to the turns of the path and the nearness of the precipice.

She fell once, hard, cutting her hands and knees. She lay there a long minute, feeling the cold dampness seep through her clothing, letting her heart slow. It didn’t matter that she was afraid of heights, she told herself, as she couldn’t tell how far up she’d climbed.

After that, she used her hands as much as her feet, trying always to feel the rising ground on her right.

Still, she misjudged a turn in the path: her left foot slid over the edge, sending pebbles echoing down the hillside. She stood gasping, gathering her courage, but the prospect of the return journey was so terrifying she knew that even if it weren’t for Faith, she could only continue upwards.