Page 76 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Or a very fat bird,’ joked Helen, but to Ivy, the teacher’s voice sounded strained.
Another crack, closer this time. Then footsteps on frozen grass – deliberate, unhurried. Moving parallel to their path.
Helen’s hand found Ivy’s arm. ‘Keep walking. Normally.’ Her journalist’s composure wavered slightly. ‘But faster.’
They quickened their pace, boots scrunching on the frozen grass with a brittle, nervous rhythm that echoed between the gravestones. The church windows cast fingers of stained glass light – amber, crimson, and midnight-blue – creating writhing shadows that danced and twisted, playing cruel tricks on Ivy’s eyes. Her mouth felt dry, and a coppery taste coated her tongue.
Each breath was a razor’s edge of frost that scraped her lungs, making her acutely aware of her own vulnerability. Her fingers, stiff inside gloves, brushed against Helen’s arm, seeking reassurance. Was that a figure by the yew tree, or just her imagination? The silhouette seemed to dance between substance and shadow.
A sudden wind pressed against her back, like invisible hands urging them forward or perhaps pushing them toward something waiting in the darkness. The grass beneath their feet felt suddenly alive, each crunch potentially masking another set of footsteps.
A whistle cut through the darkness – three notes, cheerful and terrifying in their casualness. Closer now. Much closer.
‘Helen ...’ Ivy’s voice cracked. This wasn’t like the threatening letters safely contained on paper. This was real and frighteningly close. And she’d drawn Helen into it. It was Ivy who’d involved her in this mess. ‘I’m so sorry, I never meant to—’
‘Shut up and run,’ Helen hissed, shoving Ivy toward the lychgate. ‘Now!’
They ran. Ivy’s boots slipped on the icy grass as they pounded past centuries-old headstones etched with weathered names and forgotten dates. Ivy couldn’t think of a more inappropriate place to be heading for safety than where medieval mourners used to meet for shelter before entering the consecrated churchyard for a funeral service. Behind them, the footsteps quickened too. No pretence now – someone was definitely following them.
The lychgate loomed ahead, its ancient timber frame a darker shadow against the night. Beyond it lay the well-lit street, and people, safety. Ivy’s lungs burned in the cold air.
A figure stepped out from behind the gate.
Ivy stifled a scream. Helen’s hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her sideways between the graves. They stumbled through frozen grass, bumping into marble, tripping over the uneven ground. The singing from the church grew louder.
‘The vestry door,’ Ivy gasped. ‘I still have a key.’
They changed direction, feet sliding on the icy grass. The footsteps behind them split – there was more than one person now, trying to circle around the two women. The whistling started again, from a different direction. Playful. Taunting.
Ivy groped for the keys, her fingers numb with cold and fear. She couldn’t see, and navigated through touch, but she hadn’t stroked that vestry key for weeks. Yale lock – must be the cottage; another – too small. She felt one long, smooth ... yes!
‘Hurry,’ Helen breathed, pressing close against the wall. Her composure had cracked completely now, her face pale in the shadowy light.
The key scraped in the lock. Behind them, the footsteps converged.
With a groan of ancient hinges, the door opened. They tumbled inside, slamming it behind them. The lock’s clunkechoed in the silent stone chamber.
They stood in the darkness, breathing hard, listening. Outside, footsteps stomped closer then stopped. That same three note whistle sounding as if the whistler was right outside the door. Then retreating footsteps, gradually fading away.
‘Just another warning,’ Helen whispered, but her voice shook. ‘They could have caught us if they’d wanted to.’
Ivy felt sick. ‘I’m so sorry. This isn’t your fight. I should never have—’
‘Stop it!’
In the darkness, Ivy found Helen’s hand and squeezed it.
‘I chose this. We both did. And now ...’ Helen took a shaky breath. ‘Now we’ve got proof we’re onto something big. Nobody sends thugs to frighten off people asking innocent questions.’
Ivy leaned back against the cold stone wall, still holding Helen’s hand. The vestry smelled of furniture polish and ancient wood, familiar scents made strange by fear and adrenaline. Behind them, through the vestry’s small window, they could see shadows moving between the graves. Waiting. Watching.
Through the inner wall, they heard the choir singing: ‘The Lord is my shepherd ...’
Ivy thought of Omar, somewhere safe, but alone.
Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness, picking out shapes in the gloom. Slowly, the outline of a wooden chest emerged, its lid slightly ajar, revealing the folds of altar linens inside. A glint of metal caught her eye – a chalice resting on a narrow shelf, its polished rim reflecting the hint of moonlight seeping through the leaded window. ‘I signed up to help people,’ she said finally. ‘That’s what matters. But Helen, be careful. Please. You’re not just a useful contact anymore. You’re my friend.’
‘Friends who hide from thugs in vestries.’ Helen’s laugh was shaky, but real. ‘I’m not going back outside that way,’ she whispered. ‘He could still be out there.’
