Page 68 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy felt an icy rush of fear. Fraud? Whoever was behind this would go to considerable lengths to hide their crime. ‘Damn it!’she said, her jaw tightening, ‘That’s what Omar uncovered, but he didn’t realize what he’d stumbled across.’
‘He could see the payments weren’t for real supplies, but he didn’t uncover the whole picture,’ said Helen.
‘Why would he ask? It’s bad enough that the charity was paying for things that didn’t exist. No wonder they wanted him out,’ murmured Ivy. ‘But there could be a less sinister explanation surely?’
Helen let out a soft chuckle. ‘Ivy, you are such a good woman. But no. I’ve seen it before.’ She raised her voice, as if rallying the team. ‘What we need to decide is what do we do with this information.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ snapped Fred, flapping his hands at Helen. Helooked around furtively as if checking that no one suspicious was sitting close by, then lowered his voice to a hiss. ‘Do you even know what you’ve done here, Helen? If they find out ...’
Helen cut him off.‘They won’t. How could they know what we’re doing?’
Ivy spoke in a hushed tone.‘We take this to the police.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I think we go to the Charity Commission, when we’ve uncovered enough evidence.’
For a moment, no one spoke, the weight of it settling in. Then Trish let out a breathless laugh. ‘Wow. I can’t believe it. This is huge – exciting but also terrifying.’
A pulse of unease passed between the group. Helen was an investigative journalist, not a detective. Her proof might be enough to convince an editor to print a carefully worded story, but was it enough to convince the authorities to act? Or was it just enough to land everyone in hot water if the culprits discovered what they knew?
‘I agree with Helen. We need to be smart about this,’ Trish muttered. ‘Gather more proof. Make sure it’s watertight.’
Fred sat back, shaking his head. ‘If this is true, we’re not just talking about clearing Omar’s name. This could bring down some serious people.’
Outside, thebell ringers’ practice sessionechoed across the harbour, the melodic peals mixing with the background chatter and laughter of the pub. The contrast was almost surreal. While the world carried on with festive cheer, they were holding on to something dangerous. Helen folded away her laptop and stowed it in her bag. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s Christingle service,’ she said. ‘I’ve not been to one before.’
Trish took a sip of her drink. ‘I love seeing the kids’ faces when they hear the stories – properly hear them – not just words, but the meaning behind them.’
Buoyed by two glasses of wine and the hum of villagers enjoying a night out in their local pub, Ivy let herself sink into the moment, feeling safe, feeling sure. Across from her, Fred’s eyes twitched nervously, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh as he seemed lost in his own thoughts. Ivy weighed up the risk of reaching out a hand and taking one of his. She didn’t. She couldn’t. One wrong move could unravel their fragile truce, sealed by a spontaneous snowball fight that had broken through their awkwardness.
She loved him. The admission was simple, stark. But love wasn’t always something you could act on, especially when the alternative was losing the friendship they’d carefully built.
Everything would fall into place; she could almost see it. Fred beside her, a partner in her life, little Jezreel darting between their feet, and Omar, exonerated at last. The worries that had weighed her down – job hunting, Omar threatening to leave, the gnawing fear of time stretching out for decades – felt distant, inconsequential. Just background noise to the glow of what was coming. It would all work out, she knew it, in the way you sometimes justknow– like the promise of snow in the air or thecertainty that Christmas morning would always feel a little bit magical.
And that was when Ivy took a decision. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became. After the Christingle service tomorrow, she would invite Fred to walk back with her and she would say, ‘I love you’. Everything felt possible now. Everything felt right.
Twenty-three
Dawn stirred. The sky was a deep indigo, blushed with pink as a weak winter sun crept across the horizon. A hush lingered over Brambleton. Overhead, seagulls drifted on the morning air, their cries breaking the coastal silence. Ivy stepped into December’s bite, Jezreel zigzagging ahead like a drunk bumblebee, tangling the extending lead around her legs. The Christmas lights still burned along the street, defiant against the muffled dark like fierce little stars marking their territory. Frost transformed the familiar lamp posts into strange sentinels.
Through the morning air came the faintest trace of incense, drifting from the church where she imagined Victor setting up for tonight’s Christingle service. She wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell wafting from the open door, thinking of James. How different life might have been if he hadn’t felt that calling to Rome, trading their shared future for a collar and cassock. Victor’s ‘high church’ touches hit too close to home. She dipped a hand in her pocket and wrapped it around her keys – somewhere among the bunch was the vestry key, she no longer knew it by touch, but knowing it was there gave her a reassuring jolt of confidence.
Her boots tapped a cheerful rhythm on the pavement. She’d walked this path so often these last few months in a melancholy state of mind, but today the demons that used to stalk her seemed almost laughable. Windows glowed ahead, the village coming to life. Jezreel made a wild lunge for a discardedchocolate wrapper, nearly tripping her up. A door opened, spilling out another dog walker. The woman and her charge waddled down the street like overstuffed sandwiches, layers of fleece and wool peeking out like unruly toppings. It was Margaret and her chocolate Labrador.
‘Morning, Margaret!’ Ivy called.
Jez chose that moment to lunge at a pigeon, wrapping his lead around Ivy’s ankles. The cold plastic bit through her tights.
‘Control that creature,’ Margaret sniffed.
Sensing chaos, the Labrador circled, its tail wagging furiously. The two leads tangled, forcing the four bodies to stumble together, and Ivy felt Margaret’s wool coat rough against her cheek.
‘For goodness’ sake, Reverend!’ Margaret hissed.
‘Not my title anymore,’ Ivy reminded her, laughing despite herself.
Margaret’s face reddened. ‘Well, clearly neither isdog trainer,’ she snapped.
Ivy wrestled Jez into the sit position, enabling the Labrador to lick Ivy’s face as if apologizing for its acerbic owner.
