“But it’s closed,” Nick protested.
“Take me to the Silver Street gate, then. Please. I can’t explain—”
Duncan glanced back at her. “It’s all right. Just tell me where to go.”
“Past the Assembly Rooms, on the High Street. There’s a turning to the right.”
The gate at the bottom of Silver Street was kept locked, but as it was made of wrought iron, it was the one place you could see easily into the Abbey grounds. Duncan pulled up next to the rubbish bins and Winnie was out of the car before it had come to a full stop.
She stood at the gate and looked through. The sky had cleared, and in the moonlight the ruined church cast a shadow on the greensward. Why had she come here? What had called to her so powerfully?
Closing her eyes, she saw a different vision. She’d stood there in the sunlight, beneath the great stone transepts, and she had heard the music rising round her. The chant … she had heard the chant, and she had known it for what it was. The elation and the certainty of her experience filled her once again.
Without turning, she said, “Out of all the Grail mythology entwined with Glastonbury over the centuries, there is one legend that says the Grail is not an object—not a cup or a chalice—but a transcendent state of being, brought about by ritual and prayer. This chant that the monks of the Abbey were willing to sacrifice their lives for, that Edmund devoted himself to saving for future generations, is a part of that complex of rituals.
“I was here.” She turned to the others. “On the day of the accident. I remember now. I saw everything, and I felt I would burst with the joy of it.”
“And afterwards?” Duncan asked.
She frowned. “I went—I think I went to the Galatea. Then I rode to Pilton to make a bereavement call— Suzanne told me that. And then”—the scene flashed before her … the green of shimmering leaves and the sparkle of water—“why, I stopped to visit Simon. We had tea in his cottage garden, by the river. But why didn’t he say, when I couldn’t remember?”
“Simon lives by a river, and no one bothered to mention it?” Aghast, Gemma exchanged a look with Duncan.
Nick said, “But Jack’s gone to see—”
Duncan quelled him with a glance. “Let’s get back in the car, shall we?”
He stepped away and made a call on his mobile phone. After a moment, he hung up with a mutter of frustration and climbed in with them. “There’s no answer at Jack’s. Winnie, give us directions to Simon Fitzstephen’s cottage.”
Kincaid caught a glimpse of the tower of the medieval church as they passed, then Nick instructed him to make a left into a steep lane that dead-ended after a hundred yards. Jack’s blue Volvo was pulled up on the verge just past the cottage Nick and Winnie identified as Simon Fitzstephen’s.
As Kincaid parked behind Jack’s car, he told himself Jack was in no real danger; it was Winnie who was at risk. He debated whether to insist she stay behind with Nick, or to keep her in his sight, and decided on the latter.
The damp fronds of a willow brushed his face as he got out of the car, and in the darkness the rushing of the stream was as loud as a roar.
Kincaid rang the bell, then immediately opened the door and called out, not wanting to give Fitzstephen a chance to do anything rash—although there was no reason for the man to get the wind up. He had, after all, been in and out of Jack’s house the last few days as calmly as you please: he had probably decided that Winnie was not going to recover any inconvenient memories.
Fitzstephen appeared in the hall and, when he saw them all gathered on his doorstep, made a gesture of surprise. “What is this, a delegation? Jack, look who’s here.” His ascetic face seemed flushed, his hair more unruly than usual. “This is delightful. Come in, come in.”
“Winnie! What are you doing here, darling?” Jack exclaimed.
“Do sit down,” said Simon. “Jack and I were having a celebratory Scotch, if anyone would care to join us.”
The chant manuscript lay open on the sitting-room table, their glasses beside it.
“We haven’t come to celebrate, Simon. There are some things we need to talk about.”
“Oh?”
“Everyone has been very ready to blame both Winnie’s accident and Garnet Todd’s death on Andrew Catesby,” continued Kincaid. “A convenient solution, at least until he’s able to defend himself.”
“If I know anything, it’s that Andrew would never have tried to hurt me,” said Winnie.
“No,” Kincaid agreed. “I don’t believe he would have either. In fact, I don’t think your accident, or Garnet’s death, had anything to do with Andrew
Simon sat down and reached for his glass. “Surely, Winifred’s accident was just that, an accident,” he said reasonably.
“No. Jack’s suspicions were quite valid. Someone deliberately struck Winnie that night. It was a daring move, and a foolhardy one, but there were tremendous stakes. You see, Winnie had realized that this chant”—Kincaid gestured towards the manuscript—“was quite special indeed. And she had shared that knowledge with only one person.
“Don’t you think it rather odd, Simon, that you neglected to mention to anyone that Winnie had come to see you that afternoon?”
“Why should I have mentioned it?” Simon sounded bewildered. “She’d come to pay a visit in the neighborhood, and stopped in afterwards for a cup of tea. What was so odd about that?”
“We talked about the chant, Simon.” Winnie stepped forward. “The twelve-part perpetual chant.”
