Page 67 of A Perfect Devon Pub
‘And?’ prompted her aunt.
Fiona’s teeth caught on her lower lip, a tremor of frustration threading through her.
‘The real thief has planted more evidence against me,’ she said, her voice tight. Each syllable seemed weighted with the exhaustion of being cornered, of watching the truth slip away like smoke between grasping fingers. ‘You’d better be prepared for a knock on the door. She warned me to expect the police.’
Ivy’s face drained of colour. ‘I don’t believe for a second you’re a thief.’ Ivy squinted at her, then took hold of Fiona’s arm, steering her to the sofa. ‘Sit down and tell me what’s happened.’
Fiona replayed her earlier encounter with Rose, then told Ivy about the courier, explaining the significance. Her aunt started toying with the cross at her neck. ‘Please, Ivy, I need you to help me.’
Ivy spoke in a hushed reverie. ‘I never break a confidence.’
Fiona scowled. ‘Is it right to keep the secret of someone who’s framing your niece for a crime she didn’t commit?’
Ivy blushed, then averted her gaze.Fiona reached for her aunt’s hands.‘Ivy, I’m begging you.’ Slowly Ivy lifted her head. ‘IfI vow to keep a secret, it goes with me to the grave.’
‘I need your help.’ She looked pointedly at Ivy. ‘You know something. Are you going to allow me to be branded a thief?’
Ivy closed her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer. ‘Please don’t ask me.’
Fiona trembled; desperation carved lines around her mouth as she stared at her aunt.
‘Ivy,’ Fiona’s plea was scraped from her throat, ‘tell me something – just give me a hint. I can figure out the rest.’
Ivy’s gaze softened, a fleeting tenderness, but her lips remained pressed together, a sealed vault of secrets. Before a single word could escape, the doorbell sliced through the cottage’s quiet, its metallic chime lingering in the air like a threat.
Fiona’s pulse thundered. Her voice wavered. ‘They’ve come for me, haven’t they?’
Thirty
Ivy rested a hand on her niece’s shoulder, her gaze calm but steely. ‘Wait in the kitchen, where you can’t be seen,’ she instructed, her tone leaving no room for debate.
Fiona scuttled into the kitchen, listening to her aunt’s footsteps recede. She heard the door open. Her chest heaved as she listened to muffled voices. Fiona strained to hear what was being said, every creak of the cottage amplifying her anxiety. She forced herself to stay still, gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. Her mind was racing, totting up the evidence planted against her. If the courier had circled back and delivered the box to the pub, there was probably enough to justify arresting her.
She heard the front door click shut, then the sound of footsteps echoing from the hallway – multiple footsteps, each heavy with purpose. Fiona went numb and a chill prickled down her spine. She stood frozen by the kitchen window, staring blankly at the garden. Outside, leaves skittered against the windows, tapping like a thousand accusing fingers. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. She knew who it was, she could feel it in the air.
The police.
The footsteps stopped. Then came a voice, clear, commanding and tinged with authority. ‘Fiona.’ The female voice was familiar and unmistakable, yet it was subtly different. She hadn’t heard it for years. It was older and faintly accented with something thattook her a moment to place: Melbourne.
She spun around so fast that the world tilted, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her aunt was standing in the doorway ... and behind her were Fiona’s parents.
‘Fiona,’ her mother said again, a hesitant smile playing on her lips, but the friendly face and words didn’t ease the tension.
Fiona’s inner demons raged. After all these years, her parents had reappeared. Why now, of all times? She’d spent that time protecting herself, putting up barriers and becoming self-sufficient so that their absence and their distance couldn’t hurt her anymore. Now, with her life in pieces, when her guard was down, their sudden presence pierced to her core, churning up all the feelings of abandonment and sorrow she thought she had put a lid on long ago.
Was Ivy responsible for her parents’ sudden reappearance? Fiona needed time to recover, work through her emotions. Ivy’s soft voice intruded on her thoughts. ‘I’ll make some tea, then I’m going out for a walk. Let you three catch up – in private.’
Once the tea had been served, Ivy left. Fiona sat across from her parents, feeling the weight of their presence like a heavy fog. Her mother, poised and elegant, cradled a cup of tea in her hands with the same careful precision she applied to every aspect of her life. Her father sat stiffly, adjusting his glasses, his eyes flicking over the room in a way that suggested he was mentally cataloguing the furniture. They were academics – cool, distant, and cerebral – and they always would be.
The tea was too hot. Fiona’s cup radiated heat into her hands. Taking a sip, the liquid seemed to scald her throat. Her mother sat up straighter, then carefully placed her cup down on the saucer, her lips pursed as if unsure what to say.
‘So ... jet lag,’ her mother said, her voice clipped and formal as ever. ‘It’s hard to adjust, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Fiona’s father answered. ‘Not the easiest trip, and theweather here ... quite a change from a Melbourne spring.’
Fiona’s eyes drifted to the garden, tracing the sad shapes of the drooping dahlias and asters, mirroring the load settling in her chest. The rosemary bush sprawled across the path, untamed and unkempt, and she thought of her own life unravelling: the accusations hanging over her, the exam she couldn’t pass, and now the unwelcome, jagged edges of her non-relationship with her parents. The silence hung thickly in the room.
‘But at least it’s dry,’ added her mother. ‘I was always glad of a dry English autumn day.’
