Читаем A Finer End полностью

Faith’s heart raced with panic. “But … how did you—”

“Buddy and I have been friends for a long time. He’s worried about you.”

Flushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity, Faith stammered, “But I thought he didn’t—”

“Don’t let the drawl fool you. He’s a sharp old bird, and more kindhearted than he’d like anyone to know. He thought I might have a spare room. It’s nothing fancy,” Garnet continued. “But it’s warm and dry, and there’s a real bed.”

“But I—”

“You could pay me a little rent, and help out with the groceries. Buddy says you’re turning into a pretty good cook.”

“But why would you do this for me? I don’t understand.”

Garnet gestured at her belly. “You’re going to need care, girl, and I can give it to you. I was a midwife, once, and those things you don’t forget.”

“That’s still not why,” Faith said stubbornly. “Are you in the habit of taking in strays?”

Garnet smiled. “Only cats.” Shrugging, she added, “I’m not sure I can give you a better reason. I hadn’t made up my mind until I saw you again. There’s something … I don’t know. Let’s just say I have some old accounts to settle.”

“I couldn’t pay much,” Faith said slowly.

“You’d better come and see the place before we talk about that,” Garnet said, businesslike again. “Go straight up Wellhouse Lane. It’s the old farmhouse on the right, just past the junction with Stonedown. If you come after work today, I’ll be there. And you’d better look to your soup.” Finishing her tea, she handed Faith her empty mug and turned away.

It was only when the door had jingled shut behind her that Faith realized the woman had referred to her baby as “she.”

Winnie had never quite learned to quell the depression engendered by Jack’s house. Although the detached, orange-brick Victorian was massive and respectable in the way of its kind, it seemed dwarfed by the shadow of the Tor looming above it. Adding to that unprepossessing beginning, the shrubbery was overgrown, last winter’s leaves still littered the walkway and covered porch, and even on this sultry July afternoon, the interior was bone-numbingly cold.

Rubbing at the goose bumps on her bare arms, she followed Jack through a dining room filled with massive and unrepentantly ugly Victorian furniture, and into the kitchen-sitting area. This was the snuggest room in the house, with a leather armchair drawn up to a television, an oak table bearing evidence of Jack’s hastily cleared tea, and warmth radiating from an Aga.

Jack switched on the red-shaded lamp over the table. “Like a cuppa while we wait?” he offered as Winnie took a seat. “Nick rang; he’s on his way.”

Refusing Jack’s offer of tea, Winnie asked, “However did Nick manage to get an invitation to Simon Fitzstephen’s for drinks?” The author was reputed to protect his privacy fiercely and did not often lend his presence to social events.

“Fitzstephen came into the bookshop for a signing. Nick took the opportunity to lay on some judicious flattery.”

Winnie was not looking forward to seeing Simon Fitzstephen, but she had no intention of letting Jack go without her. “It would take a dyed-in-the-wool curmudgeon to refuse Nick. He has such an irresistible air of earnestness,” she said lightly, while wondering how her former mentor would react to her unexpected appearance.

And what sort of reception would their story get from Simon? He had made his reputation by documenting the history of the Grail legends, but Winnie had always suspected that for Fitzstephen the Grail study was an exercise of pride rather than heart.

From Jack’s inability to sit still tonight, she gathered he was nervous about the meeting as well. “You don’t have to tell Fitzstephen anything, you know, if you don’t feel it’s right.”

“I know,” Jack said as he sank restlessly into a chair beside her. “But then I’ll feel an ass for having wasted his time.”

“Nonsense,” she reassured him. “It’s a friendly social occasion.”

“Right.” He acknowledged her effort with a grin, then pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “But I do have something more concrete to go on.”

“This came today?” Taking the sheet, Winnie added, “That makes it sound like it came in the post.” In truth, the communications were sporadic, the connection sometimes tenuous. Often the message would stop in midsentence, then take up again a week or two later in exactly the same place, as if there had been no interruption.

It was a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle—a piece here, a piece there, trying to make sense of it as you went along.