Tonight, he told himself he had come here merely to satisfy his curiosity—to ask, for instance, when the Abbey’s east gate had fallen into disuse; or when the Church had discontinued the practice of accepting children into the Order as gifts.
But he knew there was more to it than that. He needed to forge a connection with the past: to see the Abbey as the monk Edmund had seen it, to imagine the universe in Edmund’s terms.
Still, he hesitated. This seemed to him a public declaration of intent, as if he were crossing the line that separated skeptic from fool, and if he took that step he could no longer keep his experience secret from all but Nick.
Then he thought of the last line from his pen that day:
I did not weep.
He climbed the steps and pulled open the Assembly Rooms’ door.
CHAPTER THREE
The one test is the quality of the message, whether it be truthful or otherwise, edifying or lacking in helpful qualities.
—FREDERICK BLIGH BOND,
FROM THE GATE OF REMEMBRANCE
LIFE, THOUGHT WINIFRED Catesby, has a way of delivering the perfect one-two punch when you’re least expecting it. She was thirty-six years old and single—and it had been at least a decade since she’d seriously contemplated any alteration to that condition. Although Anglican priests could marry, not many men were willing to play second fiddle to God, or even second fiddle to the demands of her job, for that matter. And as Winifred was not beautiful, and she had never been blessed with the gift of flirtation, she’d thought herself fairly well reconciled to celibacy and the comfortable routine she had established with her brother, Andrew.
And then she’d found herself sitting beside Jack Montfort in the choir stall of Wells Cathedral, and nothing since had been the same.
On this June evening they were meeting for dinner at the Café Galatea on the High Street, a cheerful restaurant with a decidedly hippie ambience and surprisingly good food. Although Jack teased her good-naturedly about the vegetarian fare, which he referred to as “bird food,” the café seemed to have become their regular spot to meet after work.
Coasting to a stop at the Street Road roundabout, she gave herself a swift inspection in the rearview mirror. Hair okay, lipstick okay, nose could definitely be a bit more patrician.… Oh, well, it would have to do, as would her serviceable skirt and jumper, and the clerical collar.
She’d come straight from a meeting with the archdeacon, and she was running late. It had been an even more taxing day than usual, arranging to cover the obligations of two parish vicars who were away. But she had been fortunate, young as she was, and a woman, to be appointed rural dean, over and above the duties required by her own parish of St. Mary’s, and she reminded herself of that whenever she was tempted to whinge.
She slowed as she passed the Abbey, gazing through the wrought-iron fence at its grounds. As a child she’d felt a secret inclination towards the cloistered life; even now, a breath of the Abbey air made her feel strangely peaceful. Had the pilgrims come by the thousands hoping for a dispensation to save their souls, or because a glimpse of the Abbey itself was as close as they might get to paradise?
Turning into the High, she was lucky enough to spot a parking place on the street a few doors past the Galatea. She swung the Fiat into the space, then walked back to the café, stopping to peer into the window.
The café’s door stood open to the air. Jack sat at their usual table, halfway towards the back, reading something intently. Free to study him for a moment, Winnie tried to consider him dispassionately. A large, solidly built man with a shock of fair hair, and a rugged, hook-nosed face, he had the most piercingly blue eyes she had ever encountered. He might have played rugby—certainly he was not the weedy vicar type she had always found attractive. The thought made her smile, and in that instant, Jack looked up and saw her.
By the time she reached the table he had shuffled his papers out of the way. “Long day?” he asked, giving her a swift kiss. “You look a bit knackered. I’ve ordered some wine.”
“You’re a dear,” she replied, relaxing into her chair with a sigh as he poured her a glass of the Burgundy already open on the table. “We had more than the usual squabbling and backbiting in the Deanery chapter meeting.”
Jack studied her with the intense gaze she still found disconcerting. “I can tell. You’ve that strained look about the eyes.”
She took a sip of the wine already waiting, let it linger on her tongue, then nodded towards his briefcase. “Working?”
“Mmmmm,” he answered noncommittally. “Hungry?”
“Ravenous. All that fresh air.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve come on that dreadful bike?” he asked, grinning.
“No, more’s the pity. It would have been a lovely day for it, but I had to go too far afield.” They had an ongoing disagreement about her bike, which he considered a threat to life and limb. But she loved the old thing, and after her London parish she cherished the freedom she felt as she made her daily rounds on it. There were times, however, when the weather or the distance of her calls forced her to use the serviceable Fiat that had come with the job. She narrowed her eyes, giving him a mock glare. “I’ve no intention of giving it up, you know, no matter how much you nag me.”
“Then we had better build up your strength,” he replied wryly as the waitress arrived at their table.
Over dinner, they chatted companionably about their respective days, but Winnie soon sensed that in spite of his solicitousness, Jack was distracted. As he waited for her to finish eating, he lapsed into silence, and she was seized by a sudden fear that he had tired of her and couldn’t quite bring himself to say so.
Well, if that was the case, there was no point putting it off, she scolded herself. Gripping the stem of her wineglass tightly between her fingers, she asked, “Jack, is something wrong?”
He gave her a startled glance; his gaze strayed to the briefcase he’d left on the table. He frowned. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No. Yes. I don’t know. There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Winnie’s heart sank, and she braced herself for bad news.
Jack, however, seemed unaware of her discomfort. “Something very odd has been happening to me these past few months, Winnie, and I don’t know what to make of it. I haven’t said anything because … well, I was afraid you’d think I was a bit mad. And because it seemed somehow that telling you would give it a credence I wasn’t willing to acknowledge.”
“What are you talking about?” Winnie asked, now utterly baffled.
“I suppose you hear all sorts of odd things.…”
“Mostly ordinary things, really. People worried about their families, illness, debt … Jack, are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Nothing like that. Although that might be easier.” He hesitated a moment longer, then reached for his briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. “Read this.”
She took it curiously. It was an ordinary sheet of foolscap. On it a few Latin phrases had been penned in a small, square hand. Beneath that were parts of sentences scrawled in English, in a hand she recognized instantly as Jack’s.
At night the candles shone forth from the windows of the Great Church as stars from the heavens.… Our voices rang round roof and cloister … the gargoyles shouted praises to Our Lord. This you know.… That which was hidden will … out. Out of a thought will come truth. Fear not.…