“What about Simon?” Kincaid asked. “I’m afraid we did him a disservice, regardless of any past indiscretions.”
“Perhaps …” Winnie smiled faintly. “Although I did learn he’d contacted someone about publishing Edmund’s communications, without consulting Jack.”
“So there’s still a wolf under the sheep’s clothing, after all.”
“I’m sure he meant to tell me,” Jack replied stubbornly, making it clear that he and Winnie would have enough differences of opinion to make life interesting.
“London is going to seem extremely dull compared to Glastonbury,” Kincaid said with a grin, “but I suppose we’d better be getting back.”
“Wait.” Jack rose. “I have something for Gemma.” He left the room, returning with a flat, paper-wrapped package.
“For me?” Gemma took it, curious. When she undid the twine and pulled back the paper, she found herself looking at an oil portrait of a hunting spaniel, who gazed back at her with eyes as soulful as Phoebe’s. “Oh …” she breathed. “It’s lovely.”
“See, I didn’t forget,” Jack told his cousin.
“But he’s not half as lovely as you, is he, darling?” whispered Gemma, who had leaned over to stroke Phoebe’s silky ears. She thought of her flat, not big enough to swing a cat in, much less a dog. Owning a dog had seemed an impossible proposition, in spite of Toby’s constant pleading. But now she faced challenges much more daunting than that, and she felt suddenly liberated, as if anything were possible, alight with excitement at the prospect of the inevitable changes to come. What had happened to her?
Could it be, she wondered, that Glastonbury worked its magic in more ways than they had imagined?
They stood beneath the great stone transepts of the Abbey Church. It was a perfect November afternoon, but the sun was sinking and the first hint of evening’s chill had crept into the air. It was near closing and the precinct was deserted; soon they would have to leave as well.
“Here,” Winnie told Jack, moving through the nave into the Choir. “I think it should be sung here, where it was meant to be sung.”
“And where the monks shed their blood to preserve it,” agreed Jack, gazing at the spot where the altar had once stood. “Is that possible? Could it be done?”
“I don’t see why not. There are choirs all over England—all over the world, for that matter—that would jump at the chance. But …”
“What?” he pressed, seeing her frown.
“I think the chant should be sung in Glastonbury, by ordinary Glastonbury folk. It’s not perfection that matters, but intent.”
Jack pulled from his pocket the piece of paper he had brought to show her. “I wrote this today, at the office.”
“Edmund?”
He nodded and started to hand it to her, but she shook her head. “No, read it to me, please. I always imagine that his voice would have sounded like yours.”
Peering at the faint script in the fading light, Jack began to read haltingly. “There is much rejoicing among the Company. The Spirit liveth still, and that which we dreamed we pass on to you, a Symbol of the great Truth which is to come.
But ye must be ever vigilant, for although ye have closed the door, the balance is ever in question, and the fall is perilous. Doubt not your worth, for this task is given you in good faith, and fear not, for we will Watch with you. May you grow in spirit and in joy.”
Jack looked up from the page. The western sky was washed with the rose and gold of the setting sun, and for an instant, he could have sworn he heard an echo of voices raised in song.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEBORAH CROMBIE has received international acclaim for her first six mysteries, as well as nominations for the Edgar and the Agatha Awards. She grew up in Dallas, Texas, and later lived in Edinburgh and in Chester, England. She travels to Great Britain yearly to research her books. She now lives in a small north Texas town with her family, where she is at work on the eighth book in the Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James series, And Justice There is None. Dreaming of the Bones was named one of the 100 Best Mysteries of the Century by The Independent Mystery Booksellers Association, as well as a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and the winner of the Macavity for Best Novel of 1997.
If you enjoyed Deborah Crombie’s A FINER END, you won’t want to miss any of the exciting novels from a writer who “gets better with every book.”*
Turn the page for a tantalizing preview of AND JUSTICE THERE IS NONE, available from Bantam Books.
AND
JUSTICE
THERE IS
NONE
DEBORAH
CROMBIE
*The Plain Dealer, Cleveland
CHAPTER ONE
Portobello took on a different character once the shops closed for the day, Alex Dunn decided as he turned into the road from the mews where he had his small flat. He paused for a moment, debating whether to go up the road to Calzone’s at Notting Hill Gate for a celebratory pizza, but it wasn’t the sort of place one really wanted to go on one’s own. Instead, he turned to the right, down the hill, passing the shop fronts barred for the night and the closed gates of the café run by St. Peter’s Church. Bits of refuse littered the street from the day’s traffic, giving it a desolate air.
But tomorrow it would be different; by daybreak the stallholders would be set up for Saturday Market, and in the arcades, dealers would sell everything from antique silver to Beatles memorabilia. Alex loved the early-morning anticipation, the smell of coffee and cigarettes in the arcade cafés, the sense that this might be the day to make the sale of a lifetime. As he might, he thought with a surge of excitement, because today he’d made the buy of his lifetime.
His step quickened as he turned into Elgin Crescent and saw the familiar façade of Otto’s Café—at least that was how the regulars referred to the place; the faded sign read merely Café. Otto did a bustling daytime business in coffee, sandwiches, and pastries, but in the evening he provided simple meals much favored by the neighborhood residents.
Once inside, Alex brushed the accumulated moisture from his jacket and took a seat in the back at his favorite table—favored because he liked the nearness of the gas fire. Unfortunately, the café’s furniture had not been designed to suit anyone over five feet tall. Surprising, really, when you looked at Otto, a giant of a man. Did he ever sit in his own chairs? Alex couldn’t recall ever seeing him do so; Otto hovered, as he did now, wiping his face with the hem of his apron, his bald head gleaming even in the dim light.
“Sit down, Otto, please,” Alex said, testing his hypothesis. “Take a break.”
Otto glanced towards Wesley, his second-in-command, serving the customers who had just come in, then flipped one of the delicate curve-backed chairs round and straddled it with unexpected grace.
“Nasty out, is it?” Otto’s wide brow furrowed as he took in Alex’s damp state. Even though Otto had lived all of his adult life in London, his voice still carried an inflection of his native Russia.
“Can’t quite make up its mind to pour. What sort of warming things have you on the menu tonight?”
“Beef and barley soup; that and the lamb chops would do the trick, I think.”
“Sold. And I’ll have a bottle of your best burgundy. No plonk for me tonight.”
“Alex, my friend! Are you celebrating something?”
“You should have seen it, Otto. I’d run down to Sussex to see my aunt when I happened across an estate sale in the village. There was nothing worth a second look in the house itself, then on the tables filled with bits of rubbish in the garage, I saw it.” Savoring the memory, Alex closed his eyes. “A blue and white porcelain bowl, dirt-encrusted, filled with garden trowels and bulb planters. It wasn’t even tagged. The woman in charge sold it to me for five pounds.”