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“Then go by the surgery and have David prescribe you some tablets. I’ll stay here with Winnie until Jack comes. There’s no need for you to—”

“What right does he have to be here?” The rage that had been eating at him for months burned in his throat like acid. “Arranging your schedule, ordering the nursing staff about—”

“Jack’s here because Winnie would want him to be.” Again the light touch of Suzanne’s fingers on his arm, and the direct gaze he couldn’t meet. “Andrew, we’ve been friends for a long time. Jack’s a good man: he cares for your sister very deeply. What more could you want for her?”

“Someone who wasn’t a crank,” he replied bitterly. He had read the papers she left lying about the Vicarage, as if communications from a dead monk were nothing to be ashamed of. Oh, he knew all about their little Arthurian group, and it sickened him.

But that wasn’t the whole truth. He had never wanted to share his life with any woman other than his sister, and Jack Montfort had stolen that from him. The rhythm and pattern of their days together had provided him an anchor, a touchstone, and her absence had left him adrift.

And as if that weren’t enough, he thought as he took his leave of Suzanne, he knew now that Montfort had brought Winnie too close to things she had never been meant to know … things that must be kept from her, no matter the consequences.

After a morning spent at home, lingering over coffee and newspapers, Bram Allen could no longer put off going into the gallery, but he disliked leaving Fiona on her own.

If he’d been at home yesterday afternoon, he might have prevented Jack Montfort from stirring up the horror of Winnie Catesby’s accident all over again. Why did it have to be Fiona, of all people, who’d found Winnie lying in the road? And why had Winnie been coming to see Fiona—if indeed that were the case—without warning or invitation?

Frowning, he buttoned his crisply pressed shirt, chose a tie, and went to find his wife.

She was in her studio, sitting on her stool, but to his relief her easel was empty and her hands idle in her lap.

“All right, darling?” he asked, slipping his arms round her. He had thought, once, that he had the makings of an artist. Then he’d met Fiona, seen canvases come to glowing life beneath her brush, and he’d known that gift would never be his. So he’d nurtured her work as best he could, shielding her from life’s vicissitudes and taking vicarious pride in her achievements—until she’d begun to paint the one thing he couldn’t bear to see.

Fiona sank back against his chest. “It’s just … there’s this tension in things. I thought when I started painting it would dissipate; then when I found Winnie I felt sure it had been in anticipation of that. Precognition of a sort, perhaps. But the feeling’s still there.”

“Maybe it’s just stress, system overload. Try not to fret, darling.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” murmured Fiona, but he was not at all convinced she meant it.

Bram held her more tightly. “I love you, Fi. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. How could you think otherwise?” She patted his hand. “Go on. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

With that he had to be content.

Jack carefully cracked open the door to the spare bedroom and peered in. Faith lay on her side, her hands curled into fists under her chin. The innocence of her face, relaxed in sleep, tugged at his heart. She could be his child, he thought, his little Olivia, if she had lived to grow up.

Turning away, he closed the door quietly and returned to the kitchen. Not knowing who else to call, he had got David Sanborne out of bed the previous night to check on Faith. Exhaustion, stress, a chill from exposure, David had pronounced—nothing that a hot water bottle and plenty of rest wouldn’t cure, but the girl had better stop such silliness if she didn’t want to induce labor prematurely.

But once Jack had got a fairly coherent story from her, Faith had continued to fret about Garnet until he’d agreed to ring the police. The duty officer in Yeovil informed him that they couldn’t report Garnet Todd missing until at least twenty-four hours had passed. Jack had left a message for Detective Greely, and only then had Faith fallen into a fitful sleep.

After a few hours’ sleep himself, Jack had spent the morning fielding phone calls and checking with the hospital. Winnie’s condition remained stable, and Suzanne Sanborne had offered to spend the morning with her.

In the meantime, he waited for his cousin’s promised arrival. Duncan had rung the previous evening to say he would be coming for the weekend. Although relieved, Jack had begun to worry. How was he going to explain the events of the last few months? Would Duncan think him as mad as the police obviously did? It didn’t matter, he told himself. He must convince Duncan that Winnie was in danger; and now he’d begun to fear for Faith too.