He refused to elaborate, in spite of her urgent questioning. ‘It’s too vague,’ he told her. ‘I’ll sound Brendan out again. Oh, don’t worry,’ he laughed at her expression, ‘I’m no hero, I’ll keep a low profile.’
Edith was astonished. This was the last development she had anticipated. A cold dash of cynicism suggested that John could be deflecting suspicion onto the other two men, but why should he? Harriet was the only person who had articulated any misgivings about him, and then in the privacy of her own home. Besides, even Harriet seemed more dismayed at the idea of the vicar coming on to Edith, rather than engaging in some – what? – criminal activity.
It was nearly half past nine. ‘I know it’s early, but I really ought to be getting back,’ she told him. ‘I love being at home but the downside is that the grandparents can’t get to sleep until I get safely back. It’s a bit like being a teenager again.’
When he drew up at the front door, she was taken aback as he reached over and pulled her to him. This time, when he kissed her, there was a pent-up passion that shook her, and try as she might she couldn’t help a slight recoil. He let her go at once, with a rueful laugh,
‘Sorry, Edith. Snogging in a parked car is completely naff. It’s been a long time, is the only excuse I have; next time I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.’
Flustered, she scrambled out of the car, murmuring thanks for the evening and as he drove away, she was torn between slight indignation at his assumption that there would be a next time, and the lost opportunity to question him further about his keen interest in her family history.
chapter seven
There was only panic. Harriet held herself completely still, afraid to move, aware of pain and worse than pain: complete and abject terror. Whatever cradled her, some kind of metal framework she concluded, reaching out a tentative finger to touch, rocked and shivered precariously under her, frightening her so much that she could scarcely breathe. There was something else, its weight heavy on her chest and in the moments of consciousness she explored that too. Gradually, thankfully, she recognized her handbag and there, tucked in the bag’s front pocket and blessedly easy to reach, sat her phone.
The darkness came and went, along with fragments of memory. Driving down the track, an impression of danger screaming down on her, then silence and the fearful rocking.
‘My head hurts.’ Harriet struggled to turn away from the bright light shining down on her. What was happening? Where…? ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not going to say it….’ But she did, anyway. ‘Where am I?’ Damn! ‘I was in the car….’
A soothing voice hushed her. ‘Don’t worry, Harriet, you’re in hospital; we’re just taking you down to X-ray,’ it said. ‘You’ve been in an accident but you seem to be all in one piece and it looks as though everything is working. We think you might have had a bit of a bump on your head so we’re just making absolutely sure you’re all right.’
There was a car; she definitely remembered a car coming full-on at her, headlights blazing.
‘Somebody drove into me.’ She was awake again and aware of a uniformed policewoman standing a few feet away. The girl’s face brightened into interest and she bent over Harriet. ‘Did you see who it was, Miss Quigley?’ she asked, pen poised over her notebook.
Harriet tried to shake her head. ‘Ugh, that hurts,’ she muttered. ‘No, his lights dazzled me but I think it was a sports car, long and low, anyway.’
She roused herself and was glad to see a cup of tea wavering into view. ‘Concussion?’ she asked the nurse who turned out to be holding it.
‘Only a mild one. You were incredibly lucky.’ The middle-aged man helped her to sit up to drink. ‘You went through the barricade and over into the quarry. You must have been very brave, managing to get hold of your phone, or you could have been there all night. The crew who brought you in said it was a miracle you survived at all. God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been driving such a light-weight, ancient vehicle. As it was, the trees caught the car and held you up there.’
‘Car?’ She let out a cry of protest. ‘Oh no, not the Mini. My mother loved that car; she had it from new, back in 1960,’ she mourned.
‘’Fraid so,’ he sympathized. ‘It’s a write-off. I’m so sorry, but maybe you should look on it as having saved your life. A guardian angel Mini?’
‘Edith?’ The voice was urgent, slightly familiar, a man she knew but couldn’t bring to mind straight away.