Page 77 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘It wasn’t ahe,’ corrected Ivy. ‘There were two of them.’ She took a step away from the wall.
Helen gave a short laugh. ‘Yup. I definitely need that drink now.’
Ivy nodded, her pulse still racing. ‘The main door. If we go through the church, it’s just a quick dash to the street. Lights, people ... safety.’
‘But you said it’s locked. What if the key isn’t in the lock?’
‘Well, we make a lot of noise until Victor lets us out.’
‘Alright. I’d rather tackle Victor and the choir than whoever was chasing us.’
Ivy eased open the vestry door. The church stretched ahead, dimly lit by the glow of the altar candles. A scent of cold stone filled her nose. The murmur of Victor’s voice reached her, then the organ sounded the introductory notes for a hymn. Skirting past the altar, instinct took over and Ivy dipped her head in reflexive reverence. Helen nudged her. ‘Now’s not the time for that.’ Ivy recognized the hymn and smiled. They crouched down and were sneaking quickly past the communion railing, when the singing started: ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus’.
Beside Ivy, Helen let out a strangled giggle. She nudged the teacher in the ribs, and they crept on. They had almost reached the nave when ...
‘Good heavens!’ said Margaret.
The choir halted, voices trailing into confusion. The music stopped. Mabel peered over her glasses. ‘Well, this is unorthodox,’ she sniffed.
Victor blinked at his charges before turning to see what they were all staring at.
‘Ladies,’ Ivy panted. ‘Don’t mind us.’
Victor gawked as they strode past, heading for the heavy wooden door. Ivy reached for the lock, her hands shaking, thenclick. Cold air rushed in as they tumbled outside. Helendoubled over, laughing. Ivy followed, breathless, ridiculous relief bubbling up inside her.
Twenty-six
Although she appeared calm, Ivy’s fingers trembled as they traced the rim of her wine glass, the adrenaline still sharp in her veins. She lifted the glass, letting the fragrant steam rise – cinnamon and cloves, forming a barrier between her and the memory of what she’d just endured.
Helen slid into the seat opposite. The tight line of her mouth and the deliberate way she arranged her scarf betraying her usual composure. ‘Interesting start to the evening,’ she said, voice pitched low enough that only Ivy could hear the slight tremor.
At the next table, Mabel and Margaret, bundled in thick coats, were deep in discussion.
‘I swear, Ivy and Helen bring more drama than Netflix,’ Mabel whispered, eyes bright with intrigue.
Margaret sniffed. ‘You’d think they could at leastwaituntil we’d finished before storming in like that.’
‘Well, it certainly livened up practice,’ Mabel said, taking a sip of her sherry.
Margaret pursed her lips. ‘I must say, Ivy’s changed since she retired. Used to be all calm authority. Now look at her, charging in like a hurricane.’
Mabel nodded. ‘Respectfully, of course.’
‘Respectfully,’ Margaret agreed, though her expression suggested otherwise.
Victor swivelled in his chair, peering down and catching Ivy’seye.
‘They actually chased you?’ His dog collar seemed too tight, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. ‘Through the churchyard?’
‘Whistling,’ Helen said grimly. ‘Like it was some sort of game.’ She drained half her whisky in one go.
Trish leaned forward. ‘But don’t you see? They’re scared. Nobody wastes time frightening people unless they’re protecting something big.’
‘Or dangerous,’ Victor countered, his voice cracking. ‘The diocese won’t help if this goes wrong. They’ll distance themselves faster than Peter denied Christ.’
‘Thanks for that biblical reference,’ Ivy muttered, but shot him a soft smile. The young vicar meant well.
‘Last Christmas’ floated across the room, incongruously peaceful. Despite hearing the words every December for over thirty years, tonight the familiar melody transported Ivy instantly back to her cramped flat in Bristol. It was late November, less than three months since James had broken her heart; snow fell past the window and that same song played softly from her old radio, as she stood watching James pace in circles, his dark hair dishevelled from running his hands through it.
