He looked me in the eye, and then his eyes traveled down my body, and I felt he was groping me in his mind, lifting my dress, his hands all over me.
Then, quick as a flash, David grabbed the picture and was out into the cold midnight air, slamming the door shut in my face as I raced out after him. I yanked it open and ran into the darkness, but the blackout had him out of sight in seconds.
Alastair came alongside me, and we darted around the village green trying to listen for his escape route, but he’d vanished. I never thought he’d be so extraordinarily daring. Or so incredibly fast.
Our search ended when I tripped over a rock and went tumbling down toward the pond, surprising a few snoozing ducks.
“Are you all right?” Alastair whispered, coming up beside me.
But before he could utter another word, I dragged him toward me, and we began kissing right there on the village green.
What would Mrs. B. say to that, do you think?
So we never found David, who disappeared off to war this morning. I wondered if he’d have had time to run over to show the painting to Daddy, but he evidently didn’t as Daddy hasn’t murdered anyone. In any case, he’d be risking his own life by being the messenger; Daddy can be a lunatic with a shotgun. Remember what happened to that poacher last year?
I don’t know what David would have done with my portrait, as it would have been too big to take with him, and he certainly wouldn’t have left it at home for Mrs. Tilling to stumble across. Perhaps he gave it to someone for safekeeping, and I’m hoping it’s not someone who knows me, like Ralph Gibbs.
Meanwhile, I’ve been begging Alastair to tell me how exactly he has all this defense training, but he always changes the subject. The more I get to know him, Angie, the more I think he’s up to something.
There was a surprising incident after church on Sunday, on the path outside, where everyone always gathers. Alastair was there—he says he loves to come and hear us sing in the choir—and Mrs. B. rushed up to him.
“You must let me introduce you to people,” she insisted, taking him around her flock.
The thing is, when they got to Colonel Mallard, I saw him hold back slightly.
“I really need to be getting on, Mrs. B.,” he said, all politeness, backing away.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. B. boomed. “You need to know everyone here if you mean to make some money, eh what?” She nudged him, chortling.
The odd thing was that Colonel Mallard also seemed uncomfortable. He was in no mood to meet Alastair, so when Mrs. B. inevitably pulled them together, the scene was a little awkward, to say the least.
“How do you do,” they both said together, and then there was nothing for a long moment.
“Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?” Alastair began, but—could I have been correct?—was he amused at something? His lips smiled in their usual polite way, and his upright stance was relaxed as ever, and yet there was a trace of humor in his voice.
It was as if they had met before. And not under these circumstances.
“Probably won’t last.” Colonel Mallard seemed to sneer at him, then turned quickly and found important things to discuss with the Vicar, baffling as that might seem.
Does Alastair know Colonel Mallard? And if so, in what capacity? It was all so terribly perplexing, so I decided to ask Hattie what she thought when I popped in for tea after church.
“What do you know about the Colonel who’s staying with Mrs. Tilling?”
“He’s tremendously rude, according to Mrs. Tilling, and hardly manages a conversation with her,” she said. “But she’s barely civil to him, especially since he had the audacity to offer her a lift home from Litchfield last week. It was pouring with rain and he stopped next to her on her bicycle and practically forced her into his car.” She giggled. “Can you imagine the tension in the air as they drove home?
“But he did give his room up to David when he came back, went to stay in a hotel in Litchfield. Although she tells me that’s only what was expected.” She shrugged. “If you ask me they’re tripping over each other, neither ready to call a truce. Why do you ask?”
“He had a peculiar exchange with Mr. Slater, as if they know each other, and not necessarily in a nice way. It makes me wonder if he’s doing something illegal, like the black market.”
“Oh dear,” she began, looking down. “I meant to tell you earlier, but I wasn’t sure how to put it. I was up with Rose the other night, and I saw him leaving his house at two in the morning. He strode off over the square. Heaven knows what he was doing.”
“Are you sure?” I couldn’t believe it was true. “When did he come back?”