A finer end - Deborah Crombie [79]
“Doesn’t sound a very religious life, throwing big parties.”
“And they drank a lot of wine. It was a very political life. If an abbot wanted his establishment to prosper, he had to butter the right bread.”
Gemma laughed. “I think you’ve mixed your metaphors. How is it that you know these things?”
“I was an annoyingly curious child. It’s a good thing I found an outlet for it as an adult, or I’d very likely have come to a bad end.” He wrapped his arms round her for a moment, then released her. “I’ve got to make some calls before we go out again, if you want to unpack.”
“Nick’s bookshop is just down the street, isn’t it? Why don’t I see if I can turn up his address, then meet you back here. That way we’ll save a bit of time.”
She started up Magdalene Street, eager to see more of the Abbey, but after a briefly tantalizing glimpse through an iron railing, her view was blocked by the public toilets, then a hideous public car park. Past that, she glimpsed the tunnel-like entrance to the Abbey and, on the opposite side of the street, Nick’s bookshop.
She accomplished her errand at the bookshop quickly. The shop’s owner informed her that Nick wasn’t on the telephone, but told her how to find his caravan in Compton Dundon.
Thanking the woman, Gemma went back out into the street. She crossed to the paved area surrounding the Market Cross, where Magdalene Street met the High Street, and looked up the High, taking stock of the town. It seemed pleasant but unremarkable, except for the high incidence of New Age shops offering candles, artwork, crystals, clothing, and every sort of healing imaginable.
Turning away, she walked back the way she had come. This time when she reached the Abbey entrance, she turned in. At the end of the flower-lined passage she found a separate gift shop as well as the entrance to the Abbey museum and grounds. Posted signs directed her past the museum’s exhibits and the brass-rubbing station, and at last she stepped through the door that led to the Abbey ruins.
Directly across the sweeping expanse of lawn lay the Abbot’s Kitchen and, nearer to her, a partial ruin whose shape made her think of a cauliflower. But it was to the left that she was drawn, past the smaller, more complete church and the discreet sign that designated it as the Lady Chapel, towards the twin towers whose silhouette seemed as familiar to her as the shape of her hand. The grass seemed greener, the sky bluer, than any she had seen before, and there was a quality of stillness to the air that she had never experienced.
She walked slowly, the grass springing beneath her feet, past the single standing wall of the nave, until she reached her destination. The “North Transept,” and the “South Transept,” the signs read. This had been the great central aisle of the church, not the entrance, as she had initially thought. She gazed up, marveling at the human ingenuity that had constructed such things.
She had no sense of time passing, or of anything other than the immediate moment. It seemed nothing could disturb the peace within the precinct walls, and with a newly comprehended horror, she thought of the story Jack had told them of the monks murdered by their own abbot.
It was only when she reached down to touch the stone of what had been the High Altar that she chanced to see her watch. An hour had gone since she entered the Abbey gate. To her it had seemed only minutes. Kincaid would think her lost, or kidnapped.
As she hurried back towards the entrance, it occurred to her that perhaps those alternatives were no stranger than the truth—but how could she tell him that she had been spellbound?
Kincaid had long since finished his phone calls and given up peering out the front window. Although he was tempted to go looking for Gemma, he stuck by his rule of staying put when separated. Perhaps she’d found Nick Carlisle at the bookshop after all and taken the young man for a coffee.
Instead, he stretched out on the bed and mulled over the unanticipated events of the