Free Closed at Dusk by Monica Dickens Page B

off, as the weather’s made this a slow day. I’m in charge, ha ha.’
    Frank put the teapot, milk, a cup and two cakes on his tray and carried it to a table near the counter. There were only a few tables filled. The woman was not busy. When she brought him hot water, she said, ‘Not your first visit here, then?’
    â€˜Oh, no, I come fairly often.’
    â€˜I don’t blame you. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it, the flowers and trees and the whole … the whole …’ She sketched the beauties of The Sanctuary with generous gestures of her arms and hands.
    â€˜Oh, yes, I agree.’ He liked her wide smile and the high pointy breasts under the immaculate white shirt, about two feet higher than where Faye’s were now.
    â€˜And the birds.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Even though there’s cats about, and I gather there always have been, with a temple raised in their honour, there is birdsong everywhere in the blossoming trees.’
    â€˜Nesting time,’ Frank said. ‘The males warning interlopers off their territory.’
    â€˜I don’t care if it’s a male macho thing.’ She gave him a wag of the head, as if he might be guilty of that himself. ‘It’s sweet to your ears, just as the garden fills your eyes.’
    â€˜Are you a bird person then?’ Frank asked. The RSPB ought to have a secret finger sign, like the Masons.
    â€˜Oh, yes, I am.’
    A lesser man might have been tempted to tell her the great secret. Her warm red mouth would stretch even farthersideways, and her dark eyes would be entranced. But with Frank, it was safe. When he paid she said, ‘See you again, perhaps?’ and he replied glibly, ‘Doubtless. I’m studying deciduous trees at the agricultural college, doing a thesis on some of the more exotic variations that have been able to thrive in this part of the country.’
    He had worked that up to explain his frequent presence here, if necessary. It was useful to be able to try it out.
    Coming to work one day on her bicycle, Jo was passed by a sporty red car with a woman driver, and a small boy in the back seat. The car put on its indicator, slowed, then turned under the wrought iron arch between the stone pillars of The Sanctuary. A small woolly dog was standing on the shelf inside the back window, wagging its tail.
    Too early for garden visitors. Must be someone for the house. As Jo rode slowly down the drive between the cande-labras of the chestnut trees, she saw the car circle the gravel space and stop by the front door.
    At the turn-off to the stableyard Jo dismounted, wheeled her bicycle to the rearing pony statue and leaned it against the base. Then she stepped quickly along the wall that separated the front of the house from the back entrances and outbuildings. A niche at the end of the wall held an urn of dark pink geraniums. If anyone saw her, she was picking out dead flowers, devoted servant of The Sanctuary that she was.
    A young woman with shoulder-length, bright brown hair, wearing a short white skirt and orange top, was reaching into the car for bags. The dog jumped out and ran up the steps and barked. The little boy got out and started after it. The woman called to him, holding out a small bag, but he went on up the steps and put his puny weight against one of the great double doors of the fortress and went inside. The woman threw thesoft bag up to the top of the steps, shut the door of the car and turned to follow him. Round the open front door came the head and shoulders of William Taylor. The bright-haired woman looked up with a radiant smile of greeting.
    Tessa Taylor! The old vile pain of hatred surged up from deep within to flood Jo’s battered heart and pound in her brain so dizzyingly that she had to lean against the flower urn for support.
    Jo had seen Tessa’s picture once in a magazine, with Rex at a party, half naked at the top, silky black trousers clinging