On the other hand, he’d always got by on listening to his instincts, and right now his instincts were positively screaming at him to get out whilst the going was good.
He grabbed his passport and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, put on his most expensive watch and reached for his travelling gentlemen’s vanity case, checking that all the brushes, combs and shaving lotions were in place.
Satisfied, he slammed the case shut, then closed and locked both his suitcases.
With a grunt, he hauled them off the bed and headed awkwardly for the stairs. In a few hours he’d be flying out over the channel, and Inspector bloody Jennings and his nosy, flat-footed coppers could whistle for another chance to talk to him.
As he loaded up his car – a rather fine Bentley – he cast a quick glance around. The village of Middle Fenton quietly looked back at him, unimpressed.
As he drove down his drive and out into the lane, he felt an enormous sense of relief wash over him to be leaving the place.
He passed the village green and the permanent maypole, keeping his eyes carefully averted.
Duncan Gillingham sat at the back of the church, wondering if he was wasting his time. Not that he minded following Trudy Loveday around, but he’d never liked churches. They made him feel uncomfortable, as if he was being watched and judged.
Half-hidden behind a stone pillar, he yawned widely and wondered exactly what had brought the lovely Trudy and the old vulture here of all places. One thing was for sure – as soon as the service was ended, he’d have to be quick about it and nip out and hide behind a yew tree or something before Trudy could spot him.
He hoped she’d lead him to something good soon. His editor was beginning to drop very broad hints that the Carmody story was running out of steam and Duncan shouldn’t be wasting any more of his time on it. But if his hunch was right, he’d soon be able to give both the editor and his prospective daddy-in-law one in the eye when he came back with a scoop.
A bee, having bumbled its way through the open church door, droned around a flower arrangement near the entrance. Duncan fought back another yawn. He’d always hated Sundays – they were so boring and dead. Nothing ever seemed to happen on a Sunday …
As the vicar finally finished his sermon and wished them all a fine day, Angela Baines rose with the rest of the dismissed congregation. She kept a stiff, polite smile firmly on her face as she made her way in the procession to the church door, and shook hands with the vicar.
Behind her, she heard Janet murmur something about how uplifting the sermon had been, and then Ronnie Dewberry’s polite acknowledgement of ‘Vicar’. She pretended not to notice that the two were still holding hands as they walked down the stone path towards the black wrought-iron gates. Already she could see Thelma Collier and that awful Claire Innes woman looking at the couple and whispering gleefully.
By tomorrow, she thought furiously, the news would be all over the village.
Angela felt utterly humiliated. It was not that there was anything wrong with Ronnie Dewberry, she supposed. His father did own one of the largest farms around, and he would one day inherit. But Janet could do so much better! And why had they been keeping things a secret from her? That’s what made Angela want to scream and rant with rage and frustration – the fact that her daughter had been sneaking about behind her back, and she hadn’t known about it!
It made her wonder what else might have escaped her notice. Just how long had her daughter been sweet on the wretched boy? And why was Janet making such a public show of it now?
She just knew that something, somewhere, was very wrong. She had the feeling that her life was slipping out of control; not just her own life, but that of her daughter, too, maybe even that of the whole village. It was as if they were all beginning to cartwheel helplessly down some massive, downward slope, where it could all only end in disaster.
She turned, trying to catch Janet’s eye, but her daughter refused to meet her gaze. Instead she smiled vaguely at some point over her mother’s shoulder and said coolly, ‘Mummy, Ronnie and I are going to have a picnic lunch together. I’ll see you at tea-time.’
And before Angela could object, Janet was all but tugging Ronnie away. He, to give him some credit, managed to give her a polite smile and a nod, but Angela felt only a cold sense of rage and dread.
The moment she got home, she went straight to her daughter’s bedroom, and began frantically to search it.
Ronnie let himself be led back to the farmhouse, where Janet set about raiding the kitchen larder to make sandwiches and check for fruit, cheese and cake. All the way, she talked happily, lightly, about their future together, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Ronnie had no idea how she did it. He felt as if the world had turned upside down and back-to-front, all around him.
At least his dad wasn’t around to witness the spectacle, Ronnie mused gratefully. He, no doubt, was out and about in the fields, somewhere, getting on with the usual routine. But sooner or later Ronnie would have to confess that he and Janet were now … what?
Engaged?
He wasn’t quite sure.
He wasn’t quite sure what Janet wanted, exactly.
He didn’t even know what he thought or felt about it all. He’d always thought Janet was one of the loveliest girls he knew, even at school. But he’d never seriously thought she’d look at him
