It was me. Walking along the footpath to the village. A tiny curve of Hope’s downy head poked over my shoulder, from where she rode in the sling on my back.
I staggered the few metres to the hedge and was violently sick all over the pale pink hawthorn blossom.
They were here.
They were here.
Wiping my mouth on a tissue I’d used earlier to clean Hope’s nose, I span around, as best I could given that my nervous system was in chaos. Scouring the horizon, before zooming in on every nook and cranny in this corner of the garden, I willed myself to get a grip and focus.
They might not be here. They might have simplybeenhere. Again.
As well as in my kitchen, to steal the knife.
I tried to remember the last time I’d sat in the arbour. Yesterday morning. Enough time to have been and gone. Recently enough to still be here, hiding in plain sight of the crowd.
With flailing fingers, I managed to summon up enough presence of mind to take photos of the picture. I then clicked through to the Damson Farm Retreat email account, and hastily scrolled through the most recent messages.
I didn’t have to scroll far.
It had been sent at eleven o’clock that morning:
Hello Eleanor. Looking forward to the big day? I am.
Oh, crap.
I stumbled out of there.
‘Daniel?’ I managed to ask Luke, manning the sheep rodeo. He glanced at me, forehead creasing as he took in my distraught appearance.
‘Over by the barbeque last time I saw him.’ He paused. ‘Eleanor, are you all right?’
I didn’t bother answering, instead veering over towards the food stands, my eyes frantically searching the crowds for any sign of an Alami. Once close enough to spot Daniel through the trees, I skidded to a stop. Nora was standing right next to him. She threw back her head, shaking her red mane, and rested a hand on his forearm as if sharing the funniest of jokes. Daniel at least had the decency to look puzzled rather than join in. Even through my distress, I felt a surge of love for that man.
But I wasn’t about to approach while Nora Sharp had her talons on him. Let alone while I was on the brink of hysteria.
Instead, I changed course for the refreshments gazebo, where Becky was sorting the remaining few scones.
‘I’d ask if you’re feeling better, but your face isgreen.’ She looked at me, concerned. ‘Have you had a run-in with her?’
‘I think the bee man is back,’ I managed to blurt. Becky grabbed my arm and manoeuvred me into a folding chair, before grabbing a bottle of water and crouching down next to me, unscrewing the top as she spoke. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I found a photo of me, stuck to my arbour with a kitchen knife.’
Becky went as pale as I felt.
I told her about the email.
‘You’ve called Brenda?’
‘Not yet. I came straight here.’
‘Give me your phone.’
‘Becky, wait.’ I put a hand out. ‘The band is about to start. And then the bonfire. We can wait three hours and not ruin the day.’
‘We can call Brenda, have a discreet chat in the farmhouse and that won’t ruin the day either, but it might save you from being impaled by your own kitchen knife!’
‘And then what – she calls a load of back-up uniformed policemen, who whizz up the drive in their police cars, before stampeding through the orchard, hunting through the crowd and accosting anyone looking suspicious? The whole village would know in seconds. Let alone the Nora Sharp factor. Can you imagine how she’d spin that chain of events? No super-cute posts from Dinky and Tammers could counteract that.’
