A finer end - Deborah Crombie [23]
“Take others as ye find,” Faith read, then she looked at each of them, her gaze intent. “Don’t you see? We are the others. Whatever it is, it can only be accomplished if we work together.”
“All for one and one for all,” said Simon, still half mocking, but finding himself strangely drawn to the idea. “What do you think, Winifred? I doubt the Church would approve of your dabbling in the paranormal.”
“They didn’t much care for Bond’s methods, either, and yet he gave us invaluable information about the Abbey. Can’t we judge the material on the basis of its historical validity, rather than its source?” She looked at Jack Montfort, as if for confirmation; with an unpleasant jolt it dawned on Simon that they were a couple.
Garnet’s face was alight. “That’s why we’re here tonight, Simon. And that’s why Faith came to me. We were all drawn together for this purpose. I’m sure of it! You could interpret the material in historical terms—”
“And you have the resources and the skills to trace any possible connection Jack might have with Edmund,” Nick Carlisle interrupted. “Perhaps we all have something to offer, even if we’re not sure what it is at this point.”
Simon read dismay in Winifred’s expression. It was that, as well as the thought of his own possible gain, that prompted him to say, “Just how exactly would we go about this … investigation?”
Perhaps they had been brought together for a purpose, and if that meant Winnie Catesby would have to put up with seeing him on a regular basis, then it bloody well served her right.
CHAPTER FOUR
The water meadows are of that emerald green only to be seen where the subsoil water is near to the surface. Travelling through parched lands at midsummer, one knows that Avalon is near by the greenness of the earth.
—DION FORTUNE,
FROM GLASTONBURY: AVALON OF THE HEART
KINCAID COULD NOT imagine a more perfect day. The heat and mugginess that so often characterized late August days in the south of England had been swept away by a westerly wind that cleared the sky and brought a hint of autumn crispness to the air. Strangers passing in the street nodded, smiled, said, “Fine day,” and, for once, the English obsession with talking about the weather seemed justified.
He and Kit had spent the morning battling the machines in the Leicester Square video arcade, and by the time they emerged into daylight the temperature had climbed into the region of shirtsleeve comfort. “Ready for lunch?” Kincaid suggested, knowing the question was rhetorical.
“Um … do you think we could go to the Hard Rock Café?” Kit asked with the tentativeness that still marked most of his requests.
“Why not? I think I could manage to eat a tourist or two for lunch. Tube?”
Kit hesitated, watching the crowds surging across the pavement in the bright sunshine. “Could we walk?”
In Kincaid’s opinion, walking through the heart of the West End on a Saturday in August was akin to forcing one’s way through the mob at a football match in riot gear, but he nodded. “Go for it, sport.”
They set off towards Piccadilly Circus, picking their way through the warren of streets. Kit dodged oncoming pedestrians in order to stay beside him, his shoulder brushing Kincaid’s arm in comfortable contact. Kincaid thought of the time just a few short months ago when the precariousness of their relationship had made every word or touch a potential hazard. There was still the occasional minefield, but they’d come a long way.
As he looked down at his son’s fair head, he realized that one day soon he would no longer be able to look down at Kit, full stop. As yet, Kit had not outgrown childish things, and for that Kincaid was eminently grateful. Kit’s friend Nathan Winter had given the boy a microscope for his birthday, and their agenda for the morrow was collecting pond-water samples on Hampstead Heath. Girls and rock music would intervene soon enough; in the meantime, Kincaid had a lot of making up to do.
His marriage to Kit’s mother had ended stormily and abruptly, and it was not until a few months ago that