Free Touch Not The Cat by Mary Stewart Page B

want to see you."
    "Maybe. Rob, you said you saw him coming out of the vestry. Did you see when he went in?"
    "No. I was down shutting up the greenhouses, you see, and when I came back I heard the dogs barking, so I took a look around, and I saw the vestry door was standing open. I didn't think it could be the Vicar—for one thing the dogs wouldn't bark for him; then I saw whoever it was was using a flashlight, so I waited to see him. I thought it might be some of the village boys out for a lark. Then I saw you going into the porch." He grinned. "Say this for you, Bryony, you don't make more noise than a bitch fox. Remember when I used to take you poaching? I never heard you till you came right up to the church door."

    "Then?"
    "I'd half a mind to follow you in, in case there was something wrong, but then the flashlight went out and I saw this chap coming out of the vestry, sharpish, and bolting away across the graveyard. I'd have followed him, only I saw it was one of the Ashleys. And he didn't run far; stopped right by the yew trees, and waited. I reckoned he was waiting for you. He was out of sight of me there, but I'd have seen him if he'd moved. I hung around and watched, just in case. . . . Then the Vicar came down, and went into the vestry, but the chap didn't budge. Did he see you, do you suppose?"
    "I think so. If not then, he must have seen me later in the kitchen garden. The moon was quite bright."
    I spoke flatly, with my back to him, but I felt him pause. Then he said: "Well, when he bolted across the wire I came home. It was no business of mine, and he didn't mean you harm, that was obvious. What was he at in the vestry, do you think? It seems funny, bolting away like that when he must have known it was only you."
    "Yes, doesn't it?"
    "There's another queer thing, he had a long coat on or something. Does Emory wear a cloak?
    Someone told me they were all the fashion now in London."
    "I don't think so." I hesitated. "Actually, Rob, he'd taken a cassock from the church. It must have been one of the choir men's—the Vicar's spare one was still there. He must have snatched it up when he heard me. Don't ask me why, I've no idea. He left it under the lych-gate."
    "Funny thing to do."
    "You're telling me. Did you see what he was carrying?"
    "No," he said. "Look, those sausages are done."
    "So they are. Can you eat four? Not too many chips for me, thanks. Oh, before I forget, the Vicar told me to tell you he won't be in the greenhouses tomorrow, he's going down to the old orchard. What are you doing down there?"
    "Spraying the trees, and tidying up a bit. Things that should have got done this winter past, but there wasn't time, with all Mr. Underhill wanted doing about the house. But now, with you coming back . . . are you coming to the cot tage?"
    "I think I might, for a bit anyway."
    "Moving in tomorrow?"
    "Yes. I thought I might see Mrs. Henderson and ask her to get things aired for me."
    "You don't need to bother. It's done." He grinned at my look. "We thought you'd be back soon, and when the Vicar told us you were coming over tomorrow we got the cottage opened up.
    So you can settle straight in anytime you like."
    For some absurd reason I felt the tears sting suddenly behind my eyes. He could not have seen, because I had my back turned to him still, but he said, just behind me: "You've given me too many sausages. Divide them properly. The kettle's boiling; will you have tea or coffee?"

    "Coffee, please. I only want two sausages, honestly. Are they from Roper's? Their sausages were always the best."
    "Aye." He spooned Nescafe from the jar and made two cups. "Remember the sausage rolls we used to get at Goode's stall on a Saturday?"
    "Do I not! Here, then, let's start."
    Over the meal we talked easily, he of the Court and the Underhills, and of his girl who belonged to Ashley and whom he meant to marry before the year was out; I of Madeira and Bavaria and then, irresistibly unloading it all, of the accident, and