

### About the Book

Abigail (Abi) Button is thirty-one, and in spite of kissing a few frogs she has yet to find her prince. On the lookout for a tall, dark stranger (but not too strange) she realises he has been living nearby all the time. It's just that she has not really noticed Jack Thornley until she meets him in her road late one evening, standing by an emergency ambulance.

Abi's elderly neighbour is Ivy Smith, and she's ninety-one. She gives Abi a small silver key, telling her to keep it secret from her nephew Jack who is helping to care for her. What the key opens, Abi has no idea.

Ivy worries that she hears someone moving around her house at night, when she should be alone. Abi tries to reassure her by saying it's only the old house settling at night, or noisy neighbours, but Ivy Smith is unconvinced. Soon Abi is unconvinced, too.

As Abi's friendship with Jack develops, he invites her to his local church where she meets Danny. Much to her embarrassment she remembers kissing Danny at school. Old memories start to surface, threatening to put the relationship with Jack in jeopardy.

A cozy mystery romance taking place in a small English town, told by Abi Button.

### Tall Men and Strangers

### An Abi Button Cozy Mystery Romance #1

by

Lizzie Lewis ©2020

This eBook ISBN: 978-1-912529-48-3

Also available as a paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-912529-54-4

Published by

White Tree Publishing

Bristol

UNITED KINGDOM

wtpbristol@gmail.com

Full list of books and updates on

www.whitetreepublishing.com

_Tall Men and Strangers is_ a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.

### Table of Contents

Cover

About the Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

More Abi Button Books

About White Tree Publishing

### Chapter 1

I've not kissed many frogs, and it comes as no surprise that not one of them turned into any sort of prince. I've also kissed a couple of toads, and a slimy slug ‒ of which the least said the better. To misquote Jane Austen, "It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that it is the dream of every girl to meet a tall, dark stranger." As long as he's not too strange, of course.

I'm calling myself a girl, because at thirty I think I still belong in that category. Okay, thirty-ish. Thirty-one to be exact. I'm not thirty-two until next month.

I met my tall, dark stranger for the first time six months ago. His name is Jack. Jack Thornley. I'd seen him coming and going at the house of an elderly lady a bit further down my road, but we'd never spoken and he'd not really registered on my mind as being a possibility.

The elderly lady's name? Ivy Smith. She turned out to be Jack Thornley's aunt. The first time I noticed Jack properly was late one evening when I became aware of a flashing blue light blasting through my downstairs curtains at about ten o'clock. Being nosy, purely in the interest of supporting the neighbours, I poked my nose out of my front door and saw an ambulance outside one of the houses. And the tall, dark-haired man was talking to one of the ambulance team.

Being a little bit more nosy I went as far as my small front gate. Then filled with a desire to offer maximum neighbourly assistance, should it be needed, I went closer to the house. And that was when Jack spotted me. He clearly recognised me, because he came forward with an expression that was half concern for whatever the reason there was for the ambulance, coupled with a friendly smile.

"I think I've seen you around here before," he said. "It's my Auntie Ivy." He pointed to the house. "It's her heart."

"Is she...?"

"Dead?"

I nodded, feeling surprised that he was even questioning what I might mean. After all, with an ambulance outside I was hardly going to ask if his aunt was about to go on a cruise.

"I'm Jack," he said, coming closer. "Jack Thornley."

"I'm Abi," I said, wondering whether to shake his hand. "Abi Button."

I shook his hand with a mix of enthusiasm and restraint, if such a thing is possible to achieve. "Abi Thornley," I found myself saying, but surely only to myself. "Mrs Abi Thornley." Yes, it sounded good. I'm a bit of a traditionalist about these things. What was I thinking of? Here was an old lady, possibly dead, and I was contemplating marriage to a man I'd only seen a few times before, and never spoken to even once.

"It's touch and go," he said solemnly.

That was a relief. A double relief. Not only was his aunt still alive, but I obviously hadn't been talking out loud.

"She's ninety-one," he explained. "Too old for more heart surgery. It's only her medicine that's keeping her alive. I'd better go in. You can come as well if you like."

I have to admit to a horror of the dead, or the nearly dead, but keeping close to Jack Thornley was an opportunity I couldn't turn down. I'd already scoped out his left hand, lit by the flashing blue lights, and there was definitely no ring. I've heard that men do the same with women. I'm sure they do, although a wedding band on a woman's hand doesn't always seem to be a deterrent ‒ if what my married friends tell me is anything to go by.

Ivy Smith's house is on the other side of my road, in the middle of a long brick terrace, each house built with a small bay window. The row of houses was constructed in the nineteenth century to house workers at the nearby cotton mill. The mill is long closed, and the houses are now privately owned. They are a mix of the well maintained and the not so well maintained.

Facing them on my side of the road is a small area of wild woodland, with railings to protect the residents from the wild bears that live there. Just joking, but I used to think there was a strong possibility of bears jumping out at me when I was really small ‒ and not so really small.

My house is on the other side, at one end. It has an open space directly opposite, now used as a children's play area, and behind my house is the rest of the woodland that is open to everyone. That's where wildlife comes from that visits my garden. I have an infrared camera that senses movement, and records anything passing, including foxes and the occasional hedgehog. I'm certainly not a natural history expert, but running the video on my computer passes the time when I'm bored. More of that later, because the camera helped solve a major mystery.

My other hobby is cryptic crosswords, which I hardly ever complete. Well, actually I don't think I've _ever_ completed one, and end up finding the answers on the internet. My friend and business partner Melanie Upton calls it cheating. I tell her I do it for research into the thinking behind the mind of the person setting the clues. But I do have to confess leaving the newspaper with the completed puzzle on one of the coffee shop tables, folded to reveal my handiwork.

My house was originally the house of a mill foreman. Although small, it is detached, with a _large_ bay window on the ground floor, as would have befitted a man who held a position that was superior to the manual workers who had the small bay window. At the moment I'm living on my own, but that may change soon.

I was born in the house, and it was only when I reached my teens that I realised there were social distinctions between any of the houses in the road. At the far end of the road, also on my side, set back in its own garden is a much larger house that would have belonged to the mill manager.

That house is built up from the ground, with stone steps leading up to the front door. There's a basement with barred windows that you can see from the road, because the front garden has been cut away to let the light in. When it was new, it must have been an impressive dwelling ‒ but no longer.

The man who lives there now is called Mr Isaac Newton. Yes, for all I know he might be the original Isaac Newton. He's rumoured to be an eccentric millionaire who lived there with his mother. Well, if he's a millionaire, I'm surprised he hasn't spent some of his money on looking after his house which has blocked gutters, and buddleia plants growing in the chimney stacks. I'm assuming he's still alive, but the curtains are never open ‒ they haven't been open for years and years. Perhaps someone ought to go inside and investigate. But not me.

The old man's mother died many years ago. When I was at school we used to tell each other scary stories about the house, and dare each other to go there after dark, knock on the door and run away. I don't think anyone did. Certainly I didn't. We told each other various tales such as the mother was a witch, a vampire or a zombie who was a prisoner in the basement, which is why there were bars on the windows.

One poor kid even believed the woman sometimes snatched unlucky children who happened to be passing and boiled them alive in the back garden. He didn't get many backers for that story ‒ although it was on our minds whenever we hurried past the house after dark.

Today, I still get the shivers walking past. Mr Newton never married, but I heard he has nephews and nieces who are lazy, and only visit their uncle whenever they want money. But that might be nothing more than idle gossip. Certainly I've never seen any visitors.

That's the mill manager's house. The mill _owner_ , of course, had _his_ house well away from the riffraff, on its own estate with numerous trees, and a large entrance gate to a long drive. Judging by the visitors' cars parked in the driveway, it still belongs to someone with a fair bit of money.

I'm the proud owner of my small detached house. Yes, lucky me. My father transferred the deeds to my name when he took early retirement after collecting a massive golden handshake. He and my mother moved to Spain five years ago, permanently, to a house perched on a hillside. It has a breathtaking view over a small village with red terracotta roof tiles, with the blue of the Mediterranean sparkling in the distance. It's a house where we spent many happy holidays as I grew up, and being quite a handyman my father turned it from an undesirable wreck into a smart and desirable villa.

He also did considerable work on the house that is now mine, including completely renovating the bathroom. The tiles had been my mother's choice, and whenever I invited friends over when I was in my teens I was embarrassed by the art deco patterns. But now I love them. Am I turning into my mother already? No, that's not possible.

Sorry, I got diverted. Back to Jack Thornley, with lips that were unquestionably waiting for a kiss he certainly wasn't going to get from me just yet. He had already led me into his aunt's narrow hallway. Trying to look calm, but inwardly feeling sick, I peeped through the open doorway into the back room where the ambulance attendants were talking to an elderly lady with a mop of white hair. Thankfully, she was undeniably alive, and a medic was calling her Ivy. So this was Jack's aunt.

"Mr Thornley," the medic said, turning from a blood pressure monitor that was strapped to the elderly lady's upper arm, "we need to take your aunt to hospital for observation. I don't think her condition is too serious, although I suspect a minor heart attack. I see from the records that she has had several minor attacks recently."

Jack nodded. "Are you sure you want to go, Auntie?" he said, bending down to Ivy. "It would be just for a check-up. I'll make sure they don't keep you. You'll be back here soon." His voice sounded deep and reassuring.

Ivy Smith looked distressed. "I don't want to die in hospital," she said in a shaky voice. "You know that, Jack. No hospital ‒ and not one of those home places, either. I'm dying, and I want to die in my own bed. So I'm staying put." She turned to the medic, and said in a firm voice, "So take that thing off my arm and put me upstairs in my own bed."

The medic, who I assumed was a doctor, was clearly used to obstinate patients, although I had a large amount of sympathy with Ivy Smith. It looked as though her days were numbered, to repeat a phrase I've heard before, and if I ever reach ninety-one I know I'd like to slip away quietly at home ‒ ideally with my children and grandchildren around me, telling me what a wonderful mother and grandmother I've been. And Jack Thornley, purely for the sake of an example, would be there as a handsome old man with flowing silver hair, holding my hand and telling me I've been the best wife anyone could have had. Ever.

"You can't _make_ me go to hospital," Ivy insisted, making sure she had got her point of view across. "I know my rights. It's my house, and I want to die here."

"You're not going to die yet, Auntie," Jack said firmly, in his deep voice. "If you want to stay here, you can. I agree, a hospital is not a pleasant place to die in. Not if you have a lovely home where you feel comfortable."

He turned to the doctor. By this time I'd noticed the name on his jacket. Dr Peter Morgan. "You heard my aunt," Jack said firmly, but in a pleasant way. "I can stay here tonight in the spare bedroom, and I'll get her GP to call early tomorrow morning. I'm sorry I called you out. It was my aunt's carer, Mrs Johnson, who panicked and phoned for you. I wasn't in time to cancel the call, so I take full responsibility."

That's definitely what I like in a man. A man who speaks kindly, and is prepared to take responsibility. The desirability factor nudged up close to high on the scale.

"Miss Smith ... Ivy," the doctor said loudly, although there was no reason to think Ivy Smith had a hearing problem, "if you're certain it's your wish, we will take you up to bed, and your nephew will spend the night in the house. If your own GP is happy for you to stay at home when he calls in the morning, that will be your decision."

It took over a quarter of an hour to get Ivy upstairs and ready for bed. Needless to say I didn't go up with her. I stayed in the back room, hoping Jack would soon be down so I could invite him for a cup of coffee in the morning. Or a light lunch. I'm joint owner of Button Up, a small coffee shop in the town.

### Chapter 2

The night passed with no drama ‒ as far as I knew. Even if there was drama, I slept through it soundly in my own bed. I woke up fully just after six, following a night of disturbing dreams about dying and getting married. I wondered if Ivy Smith was still with us.

I looked at myself in the mirror, not exactly to be recommended this early in the morning. I'm certainly not vain ‒ or I don't think I'm any more vain than the average woman ... girl. So let me tell you a bit more about myself.

I'm five foot four in old measurements. That's about 162 centimetres. Perhaps a bit more, but I'm not really bothered about being exact. I feel right for my height. I have long blonde hair parted slightly off centre to the right, and pushed back over my ears. It curls slightly at the ends. I'm naturally blonde in the summer, and blonde throughout the winter with a little help from a bottle. My aim is to be living proof that blondes can be clever ‒ when it matters.

I'm not so sure about my hips. They're slightly on the wide side, although Melanie Upton, my co-owner of Button Up (hence the inspired name for the coffee shop) says that's a good sign, because guys are on the lookout for a mate with child-bearing hips. In my experience, child bearing is exactly the opposite of what most guys are looking for.

My father helped me buy a half share in Button Up before he and mum departed for sunnier climes. Melanie, who owns the other half, is such a hard worker that I have no intention of buying her out.

I have plenty of interests outside work, and I don't want to give the impression that I'm _constantly_ on the lookout for promising princes disguised as frogs. Or even undisguised princes.

There was no sign of Jack the next morning, in spite of me eating my breakfast on a chair pulled close to the window with an excellent view of Ivy Smith's little house, looking at least half awake. I normally try a cryptic crossword with my breakfast. They seem to get my mind in the right sort of state for starting the day. Today, I kept my eyes firmly on what was happening outside the window.

Although the houses where Ivy lives are joined together in a long terrace of sixteen small brick-built dwellings, there's an archway between every other house, with a room joining its neighbour above. This was obviously part of the original design, to allow easy access to the small back gardens.

I sat up straight and nearly dropped my plate of half eaten toast. Jack was just coming out of his aunt's house. I wiped my mouth quickly, and made sure I just happened to be coming out of my front door ‒ apparently on my way to work ‒ just as he was passing.

"Oh, there's a surprise. Fancy seeing you," I said brightly. Oh, how false it must have sounded. "Any update on your aunt?"

"I was coming to see you," Jack said, looking a little embarrassed. "My aunt survived the night, and I've arranged for the doctor to call as soon as possible. But I have an urgent dental appointment that I really don't want to miss."

I looked at him with an expression of great concern. I only hoped it wasn't too staged. "Is it very painful?"

Jack laughed, an easy laugh. His embarrassment had gone. "Ah, you don't know. Why should you? I have a dental practice in town. The appointment is for a very special patient. The lady has a very difficult condition, and I have to decide whether to carry out the urgent treatment myself, or recommend her to the dental hospital."

A very special patient? A lady? I had to tell myself to stop being jealous. We'd only met once, and last night could hardly be called a date. But if Jack wasn't involved with anyone at the moment, a dentist did sound like a good prospect. And I wasn't really thinking about my teeth. They're in quite good shape. I think I stared at him with my mouth open, unsure what to say.

Having good teeth has always made me ready to smile. Ever since I can remember, my parents and everyone called me Abi, never Abigail. And because I was smiley and jokey at school, my nickname there was Happy. Happy Button. I had another nickname for the Button part, which I probably deserved, and am quite proud of. It will keep for now.

"Her carer calls in twice a day," Jack was saying, breaking into my reminiscences. "I told Auntie Ivy to stay in bed until the doctor calls. The carer won't come until a bit later this morning. And I was wondering...."

I waited to see what Jack was going to say, although I'd really guessed.

Jack looked at the ground, apparently embarrassed to say anything more. So I came to his rescue.

"You're wondering if I could sit in your aunt's house and go to work after the doctor calls," I said.

He nodded. "I know it's a bit of a cheek. The doctor will have been and gone well before ten. I don't know where you work, but do you think your boss would mind in the circumstances?"

"I work at Button Up. Do you know it?"

He smiled. "I know it well, but I don't think I've seen you there. I drop in there most days at eight-thirty on my way to work to pick up a coffee-to-go." He smiled. "It's a refillable cup. Got to save the planet and all that."

"That explains why I've never seen you, either," I said, feeling my cheeks start to go warm. "I'm part owner and I don't start until nine. Co-owner's privilege, and I generally work more days ... No husband yet to hurry home for." No, I didn't say that last bit.

"Lucky you," Jack said. "Now that I know you own the place, I'll make sure I call in lunchtime as well, especially to see you."

As I've said before, Melanie's a hard worker. She gets in at seven on the dot to serve people on the way to work with their coffee-to-go. Pete Wilders, the young lad in his late teens, is there by seven-thirty, and I usually arrive by nine. But when emergencies arise, like me finding Jack Thornley, there's no need for three of us to be on duty. The busy time starts from nine-thirty onwards when people want to sit down for something to eat as well as to drink.

My cheeks were burning, or felt as if they were. How embarrassing. "No problem," I said. "I'll phone Melanie at the shop, and explain what's happened. Pete will be there, and the two of them should be able to cope until the busy time. Well, they'll have to, in the circumstances. I certainly don't want your aunt to miss seeing the doctor."

Jack's face showed great relief. He'd obviously been worrying. I liked that in a man. Caring. Compassionate. Yes, Jack was welcome to call in every lunchtime. I'd even make sure I reserved the little table in the corner.

Jack looked at his watch. "Could you come now? I have to dash in a moment. I'd like to introduce you to my aunt, so she doesn't worry about hearing you in the house. She's got this idea that someone is getting in at night and moving things around. Of course, it's only her age. She's still got all her marbles, but in my experience old people do get some strange ideas." And he laughed awkwardly, perhaps wondering if this was an opinion I shared, or if he'd overstepped the mark.

Being unsure if this sort of behaviour was to be expected or not, having no experience of the elderly ‒ all my grandparents died when I was young ‒ I gave a slight shrug, not wishing to cause any offence. "Sure," I said brightly. "Lead on."

The front door of Ivy Smith's house was old. Probably not original, but not one of the white plastic doors that adorned the majority of the small houses in the brick row. An oval panel of stained glass was set in the top half of the door, and I found it quite attractive. I'd not really thought about the doors before, but clearly keeping the original style, if not the original door, made the house more attractive than its neighbours.

The furniture inside was mostly original, too. I've never been keen on dark Victorian mahogany, and Ivy Smith had probably not changed her parents' furniture when she inherited the house. In the past ‒ and Ivy's interior was still firmly in the past ‒ everyone lived in the back room. The front room, or parlour, was kept for special occasions. Mostly funerals, I believe.

"You will have to come upstairs," Jack said, closing the front door. "I don't want to get my aunt down here until the doctor has seen her." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Yesterday might have been her last time downstairs."

He could have added the word "alive" to that, but I knew what he meant. The stairs were steep and narrow, covered in a faded green carpet with a faded red pattern, lit by a low power bulb in a cream coloured glass shade. And the stairs creaked loudly on every step. No wonder the elderly lady heard noises in the night when she thought she was alone.

I gave a shiver, and mentally thanked my father for all the work he had done in my house, making it attractive to live in, while still keeping some of the original features, such as the ornamental plaster ceiling in my large living room.

The mill workers for whom these houses had been built, probably in a hurry, had not been seen worthy of ornamental ceilings. There were cracks in these ceilings everywhere, like crazy spiders' webs which looked old enough to have come with the house originally.

I was quickly getting the impression Ivy didn't have much money, and over the years the house had slowly deteriorated inside. But her old mahogany furniture clearly made her feel at home, and took her mind off such minor things as cracked ceilings and creaking stairs.

We creaked our way up to the small landing, and Jack tapped on one of the doors. "Auntie, may we come in?"

"Of course, dear," came a clear and confident voice.

So far so good. I wasn't about to witness a death scene.

Ivy Smith was propped up in an old-fashioned metal-framed bed with polished brass bed knobs at the head and foot, covered with a patchwork quilt. I could never have stayed in bed under a heavy quilt like that, but one thing I do know about the elderly is that they feel the cold.

Looking at his watch again, Jack explained who I was, and that I was going to stay until the doctor came. Ivy Smith seemed quite happy with the explanation, and told Jack to go to work and be a good boy. I had no idea what she meant by that, and could only hope there wasn't something going on between Jack and the lady with the urgent dental problem.

I was intrigued to know more about the noises Jack had told me his aunt heard at night, but I wasn't going to broach the subject. There was no point in adding to Ivy Smith's concerns. After all, a failing heart was enough to worry about, without creaking stairs.

"You're a kind girl to stay with me like this," Ivy Smith said, holding out a hand. I didn't know if I was meant to kiss it or merely rest my hand on hers. "Don't stand there like a soldier on parade," she said, laughing. "Pull up that chair and sit by me, and tell me all about yourself. Jack says you're one of my neighbours."

"That chair" had Ivy's clothes on it in a heap. She must have noticed, because she laughed. "Don't worry about them, dear. Just throw everything on the end of the bed. You never know, the doctor might tell me I have to stay in bed from now on. In that case, I won't need my clothes again." Then she laughed such an easy laugh that I felt embarrassed for her. Did she not understand how serious her condition was?

I cleared the chair and sat by the bed, neither of us seeming to know what to say.

"Those stairs certainly creak a lot," I said at last, feeling the need to say something. Certainly nothing about her heart.

Ivy's grey eyes looked brighter. "That's how I know there's someone in the house at night," she said seriously. "But whoever it is, they don't come in here to bother me." She pointed to a phone on the heavy mahogany bedside cabinet. "This is an extension to the phone downstairs. Jack says I have to keep it by my bed for emergencies. But I don't want to waste anyone's time by calling the police, unless someone comes into my bedroom in the night."

I shook my head. "I'm sure there's no one in the house at night, Ivy. May I call you Ivy?" I had a feeling old people were sometimes a stickler for etiquette.

"Of course you may, dear," she said quickly.

"Well, Ivy," I continued, "old houses always creak a lot at night. They warm up in the day and cool down at night. That's all it is. Mine does the same. Or perhaps it's the neighbours on either side moving things around."

Ivy shook her head. "Nonsense. Things get moved around in _this_ house. And don't you be like Jack, and tell me it's all in my mind. Did Jack say your name is Abigail? Nice name that." She looked sad for a moment. "I once knew a tiny girl called Abigail. But that was a long time ago. A long, long time ago. I have no idea where she is now."

"I've always been called Abi," I said. "Abi Button. I've lived in this road all my life. I know I've seen you around sometimes, but I don't think I've spoken to you before. I'm sorry about that. I'm sure you're a good neighbour. You must have known my parents, James and Frances Button."

"Certainly I remember them. And I can remember your father's parents. I'm the oldest resident in this road," she said proudly. "All these houses were built in eighteen fifty-five, and my grandparents worked here at the cotton mill."

"I didn't realise these houses were as old as that," I said. "I really must find out more about the neighbourhood. What about your parents? Is that their picture?"

I pointed to a sepia photograph of a man and a woman standing stiffly upright in a silver frame. It looked to be old.

Ivy nodded. "My mama and papa. The mill was closed by that time, but I heard many stories about the mill from my grandparents. Work was dangerous in the mills."

I'd heard about the dangers of Victorian mill machinery. Health and safety was often non-existent back then. "Have you lived in this house all your life?"

I noticed Ivy hesitate for a moment. "All but a few months," she said, turning away. Then she said, "I've seen neighbours come and go, come and go, and I'm going to be the next one. I'm sure of that."

"Not if you keep taking the medicine," I said lightly, pointing to a flat box of clear plastic. It was divided up into small compartments, with the days of the week printed on each one, in two rows. One row for the morning and one row for the evening. Each compartment contained two large brown and white coloured capsules shaped like torpedoes, and a couple of small white ones.

Ivy shrugged, then shook her head rather sadly. "Those big ones are for my heart. The doctor says they're not working. But who wants to be kept alive by coloured pills? I was born here, and it's in this house I intend to die. I've lived a long life, but not always a good one. I was a wayward girl in my teenage years, and a grief to my parents."

I glanced at Ivy's left hand. No ring. Ivy had seen me looking. She was certainly still sharp in the head – and in the eyes.

"You're looking for a wedding ring," she said, shaking her head. "The _right_ young man never came along."

I wasn't sure what she meant by that emphasis, but I could understand her feelings. The right man had never come along for me, either. Not until now. I said, "Do you think Jack‒‒‒‒"

Fortunately my question was interrupted by the front doorbell. It was much too soon for Jack to have shared his feelings for me with his aunt. If indeed there were any feelings.

I left the doctor alone with Ivy Smith, but waited downstairs in case there was any urgent medicine to be got, or any other errand to run.

Ten minutes later I heard the doctor creaking his way briskly down the stairs. He was a young man who looked as though he genuinely cared for his patients.

"What's the prognosis?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said, sounding apologetic. "I gather from Miss Smith that you're the kind neighbour who's standing in for her nephew. She really appreciates that, but I'm afraid I can't discuss Miss Smith's health matters with you. I hope you understand."

I nodded. "I shouldn't have asked. Sorry. Can you tell me if she'll be going to hospital?"

The doctor shook his head. "Sorry, that is also patient confidentiality. I'm going to phone Jack Thornley with a full update. I'll leave it to him if he wants to share that information with you."

"I imagine you can tell me if it's all right for me to go to work now?" I said, trying not to sound annoyed. After all, patient confidentiality is important. I knew that. And I shouldn't have asked about the prognosis.

"Her daily carer, Mrs Johnson, will be in soon. She sees to Miss Smith's personal needs like washing her and getting her lunch ready, but she doesn't stay long. Until now, Miss Smith has pottered around, seeing to her own meals and keeping the place clean and tidy. I can tell you this. If you call later today, you will find Miss Smith downstairs, sitting in her favourite armchair. I can't say more than that, but I think you can draw your own conclusions."

I could indeed. "She told me last night it was only the medicine that's keeping her going. I'm not expecting you to comment, but are you sure she's really taking it? It must be easy to forget when you're ninety-one." I laughed a little. "Even _I_ forget sometimes, and I'm sixty years younger. Just asking, that's all."

The doctor smiled the reassuring sort of smile that doctors put on when they have slightly bad news for you. "As far as I can tell the patient is taking all her medication every day. I asked her about it, and she pointed to the plastic case with the daily divisions. Her nephew Jack collects the prescriptions from the town pharmacy once a month, and puts the tablets in the box for the right day, morning and evening. Miss Smith is emphatic that she takes the full doses every day." He shrugged. "I have no reason to think she doesn't. Her nephew told me the other day that when he comes to refill the case, all the previous divisions are empty."

That was good news to me. Ivy Smith seemed such a cheerful person, and I wanted to get to know her. She was sure to have many stories to tell about the neighbourhood. I hoped she was far from ready to pop her clogs, as my parents used to say about people who were seriously ill. I'm not sure where the expression comes from, but it conveys everything necessary to describe death in an unambiguous way ‒ without needing to actually mention the word.

I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It said nearly five past six. I wondered when it had last been wound. My phone said nine forty-three. I needed to get to work. Melanie would soon be starting to panic. There were lunches to prepare. Nothing exotic. Panini and other light snacks were all we offered, but Button Up can get busy at lunchtime.

I wondered if Jack would be calling for lunch today, and felt myself blushing. I didn't dare look in the mirror hanging above Ivy's high mantelpiece that was covered in Victorian knickknacks. And if Jack did call in, I wasn't going to introduce him to Melanie, my co-owner. It was too soon for that. Much too soon.

I couldn't resist the briefest of brief peeps in the mirror. At times I totally lack self-control. My worst fears were realised. If my cheeks hadn't returned to their normal colour by the time I got to work, I would have to tell Melanie it was down to the weather.

Chapter 3

I hurried into town, and pushed my way through the door of Button Up, obviously still looking flushed, judging by the quizzical look on Melanie's face. Surely she wasn't suspecting anything connected to romance, but that's women for you.

"It looks like she's going to live," I said, as I went through to the small storeroom behind the kitchen to hang up my coat and put on my uniform. By uniform, I mean a short cream and black striped jacket bearing the Button Up logo. This was Melanie's idea, and I have to say we look smart wearing it. Melanie even sees to the laundry.

I had already given Melanie the main details earlier, when I phoned to say I would be late in. "Lovely old lady. I wish I'd got to know her earlier."

Melanie shook her head. "I never could take to old people," she said. "Especially old ladies. Some of them have a peculiar smell, and they remind me too much of my gran. She's a real piece of work."

I wasn't going to let my co-owner give vent to her dysfunctional family again. From what I've heard from Melanie, her gran and Ivy Smith came from different planets.

"You stay up front and serve the drinks, and I'll prepare the snacks," I said. "Let's get everything shipshape. You never know who might call in."

Melanie raised her eyebrows again, and I wished I could keep my mouth shut. "Might be the health inspector," I added quickly. I'm proud of the five-star health rating on our door, and have no intention of getting it downgraded.

Fortunately at that moment Pete called from the counter, saying he needed help. So I busied myself slicing panini and fancy rolls, and filling them variously with ham, and cheese, and tuna ‒ amongst other stuff. We have a mix of undiscerning customers, as well as vegetarian and vegan. Everyone is welcome.

We prepare the food in full view of our customers. No little kitchen round the back for them to concern themselves with, thinking it might be dirty. As twelve o'clock approached I kept pausing in my work and glancing up at the door every time it opened.

"What time is he coming, girl?" Melanie asked, as she collected a ham and cheese roll from the display case.

"What time is _who_ coming?" I asked, turning my face away. There was no point in letting my face toast the panini until a customer was ready.

"Him," Melanie said. "I don't know who, but I guess it's someone you've got the hots for. So what time is he coming, girl?"

Melanie is nearly ten years older than me. Whereas I'm of medium height, slim and blonde, Melanie is close to five foot, with curly black hair. She is also on the large size of overweight, which is hardly a good advertisement for a coffee shop that is supposed to be offering healthy food. But she's my business partner, and she has a great business sense. I'm sure it's all thanks to Melanie that Button Up survives in a competitive market.

At that moment the door opened, and there he was. Tall, dark haired, and no longer a stranger. Melanie must have detected my expression, for she gave a cheeky grin and said, "I'll leave that one for you to serve," and quickly turned away to hide a fit of the giggles. Am I really that transparent?

"Hi again," Jack said in his deep voice that seemed especially sexy today. I felt Melanie give me a pinch on the arm, before she raced into the back store room. I was determined to ask her how she knew, so I could do my best to avoid being so obvious if the situation ever arose again. To be honest, it was probably down to my glowing face, in which case Jack must have noticed it too. But he was polite enough not to comment.

Jack studied the menu on the blackboard above the counter. "Flat white, one of those cheese and ham paninis, and a large chocolate brownie."

Clearly Jack wasn't too bothered about his diet when it came to eating, which came as a big relief. I can eat almost anything, and am favoured with a genetic makeup that refuses to put on an ounce of superfluous fat. Apart from my hips ‒ but they're all bone, not fat.

Pete is working to help pay his way through evening college, also seemed to be astute when it came to affairs of the heart. "Leave it to me, Abi," he said. "Will you have your usual?"

I like Pete. It was Melanie who took him under her wing and suggested he might like to work for us to pay his way through evening college. He'd been in some sort of trouble a couple of years ago and came with a police record, but I'm convinced he's over that now. He seems to have a decent set of friends, and I trust him absolutely. I wouldn't have him working here at Button Up if I didn't.

My usual was a bowl of soup of the day ‒ ham and pea today ‒ and two white bread rolls. Stunned by Pete's daring presumption, I merely nodded. By this time Melanie had regained her composure and reappeared from the store room. She and Pete were now talking quietly together, their heads almost touching. They didn't go so far as to point to me and Jack, but I knew exactly who they were talking about.

"Let me fill you in on the doctor," Jack said. Actually, I think he said it twice. At least twice. But he had my attention now.

"He seemed a caring young man," I said, focusing my attention on Ivy Smith's handsome nephew. "He wouldn't tell me anything, but I imagine patient confidentiality doesn't count with you. You seem to be almost a full-time carer for your aunt."

Jack shrugged, a confident shrug that said, I'll take that as a compliment. "The prognosis isn't good. A month ago my aunt was taken into hospital. Much against her will. She refused to cooperate and insisted on being taken home. They warned her that she only had a few weeks to live. Well, you heard her last night. She insists on dying in her own bed, and I have to say I support her fully in this. But of course I don't want her to suffer."

I noticed Pete and Melanie were still talking together, and I hoped they weren't going to let Jack's panini burn. Actually, I think the word should be panino, in the singular, but if we wrote that on the board no one would know what we meant. So let's go with the word panini, meaning just one. Or several. Technically, I think it depends on the type of bread, but who cares! I'm fairly certain it shouldn't have a letter s on the end. Panini, panino ‒ I wasn't going to get into an argument with Jack this early in our relationship.

"The doctor is puzzled," Jack explained, turning with interest to see what the attraction was behind the counter. Fortunately, Melanie and Pete saw him turning, and went their separate directions, Pete to the coffee machine, hopefully for Jack's flat white, and Melanie to rescue Jack's ham and cheese panini before it got overcooked.

"Why was he puzzled?" I asked. I wanted Jack to know I was a good listener.

"Well, the hospital increased the dose of Angiotensin receptor blockers to the maximum. You probably know them as ARBs."

I shook my head. "Never heard of them. Are they the large brown and white capsules I saw in your aunt's daily compartments? There seem to be plenty of them for her to take each month."

Jack nodded. "That's them. And I know my aunt takes them every day. She insists on seeing to her own medication, and certainly they've gone every day when I call. I've even been there in the evening and watched her swallow them, without me having to remind her."

So they _were_ for swallowing. They had seemed a bit too big for that, so that information came as a relief. The alternative method of administration made me wince. I'd hate to take over Jack's duties if I had to sit in for him one evening.

Before I could say anything more, Pete carefully placed Jack's coffee in front of him, while Melanie served the panini. I noticed it had a bit more salad garnish than usual, for a special customer. I was going to have to do a lot of explaining.

Melanie stayed while Pete went to get my soup and bread rolls. The rolls were huge. Pete must have selected them specially. I would have words with him later, and wished I'd said I only wanted one. It looked as though I was greedy.

I nodded to Melanie that she could go, but she was slow to take the hint. Even so, I made sure that neither Jack nor I did any more talking. That pair were ganging up on me, but they would have to wait until later to get a single word of explanation. And whatever Melanie and Pete were hoping to hear, it wasn't going to be much. Not today. Some people can be so nosy.

We ate our food more or less in silence. I thought that was a good sign. Lovers, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, could gain a lot from just sitting quietly in each other's company. Whether Jack would be my lover in the modern sense of the word, I hadn't yet made up my mind.

When I was ten, I read in a book that gentlemen never ask, and ladies never tell. Puzzled, I asked my mother what it meant. She was very quick. She said a gentleman never asks a lady her age, and a lady never tells. Of course I believed her at the time. To be honest, even though I now understand the saying, I don't have a lot to tell.

Suddenly Jack leaned forward and put his hand on mine. "I want to thank you, Abs, for standing in for me this morning. I'm a junior partner at the dental practice, and I'm keen to make a good impression and become a full partner soon. I didn't want one of the senior partners to take on my special client. I know she trusts me to care for her teeth."

My heart, which had started galloping when he touched my hand, now slowed right down. "Please don't call me Abs," I said, ever so gently. "Abigail or Abi is fine."

Jack looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I once knew an Abigail. Not very well, of course. She was keen on the gym and I used to tease her about her abs. That's why it became her name."

At least he didn't ask me if I "got it." Well, I knew I wouldn't be the first, but I felt a bit upset to hear he'd once had another Abigail. "No, it's fine," I assured him. "No offence taken."

Jack looked at his watch, a frequent habit of his. "Well, back to the grindstone. Or should that be back to the drill? I'll be at my aunt's this evening about seven. Could you call in? I'd like her to get to know you better, and I'm sure she will want to learn more about you."

I took this to be a date, of sorts, and nodded happily. "Sure thing."

As soon as he had gone, Melanie dived into the seat he had just left. "Looks promising, girl. Go on, spill it."

"He's the nephew of the elderly lady in my road. The one who had a heart attack yesterday." I tried to make it sound as uninteresting as possible. "The ambulance came, and somehow I got involved in the house, and gave a bit of a hand. And Jack‒‒‒‒"

"Jack? Jack who?

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters, girl."

"Jack Thornley." I felt myself going red again as I mentioned his name.

"Mrs Abigail Thornley," I heard Melanie saying to herself. In a way that made me feel better. So I wasn't the only girl who was old fashioned enough to wonder what a man's surname would sound like when added to my first name.

"It's nothing like that," I said. "He said he'd come here and have lunch with me, as a way of saying thank you."

Melanie Upton looked disappointed. "An evening with an old aunt? It's not exactly chocolates and roses, and a night at the opera followed by a meal at the Ritz. Oh well, I had hopes for you there for a moment, Abi. Still, better luck next time." She looked at my soup bowl. "Finish up, girl, there's a queue at the counter."

Of course, Melanie hadn't really dismissed Jack as being a possibility for me. I knew she was going out with Steve Donovan, and had been for five years. Possibly longer. One day I supposed they would get married, but they didn't seem to be in any particular hurry. The excuse was the housing ladder, but I suspected there was more to it than that. Steve seemed reluctant to make a commitment, and hadn't even got round to buying Melanie a ring. I had to hope Jack wouldn't feel the same way.

I have to say, in all fairness to Steve, that he had been in a long-term relationship that had ended badly, and his small boy called Liam had been taken by his partner after telling seriously bad lies to the authorities, and he was banned from seeing him. It must be hard to get over a relationship like that and start all over again.

Things usually get quiet after four o'clock, when the after-school families have gone home in term time. We close at six, and catch enough customers wanting a quick snack on their way home to make it worth while staying open that long. But no way are we going to offer an evening service.

Melanie nodded towards the still-empty table in the corner. "Come on, spill it."

Since I wasn't carrying a cup or glass, I knew she wanted to pump me more about Jack. So we sat down together and I shared with her about Ivy Smith insisting on dying at home, even though she could be more conveniently looked after in a care home.

"Lots of people are the same," Melanie observed, as though it was a profound statement. "My nan is like that, and she's a perfect nuisance. Keeps banging on the floor with a stick when we're eating downstairs, demanding this and that. Is your Ivy like that?"

"She's not _my_ Ivy," I said. "She's just a neighbour I met properly for the first time last night. I've seen her out and about in the road sometimes, but we never spoke. No, I can't see Ivy banging on the floor for anyone, but it wouldn't do much good if she did. She lives on her own."

"So your Jack‒‒‒‒"

"He's not _my_ Jack. Not yet, anyway."

"Aha," Melanie said, giving me a gentle punch on the arm. "He's gorgeous. Make sure you play your cards right. He's a keeper, girl."

I gave what I hoped was a casual shrug. "Early days yet," I said offhandedly.

"You could offer to be the old lady's live-in nurse," Melanie suggested.

I'm sure she didn't mean it seriously. I shook my head. Nursing the sick and the dying isn't me.

"Think about it, Abi. It would impress Jack no end. You could make sure she takes her medicine day and night, change her bedpan, wipe whatever needs wiping, and do everything necessary to keep her happy. She might remember you in her will."

I knew Melanie was winding me up. That was typical of her. "She takes her own medicine," I said. "I don't know if she uses a bedpan or not, and I have no wish to find out." I shuddered. "Thanks for that disgusting thought."

Melanie looked serious for once. "So how long has the old bird got?"

"She's not an old bird," I said, glaring at Melanie, but she knew I wasn't annoyed. I never could make a glare look serious. I sighed. "A few weeks at the most. It seems the medication has stopped working, so it might only be a few days. She's too old for surgery, and the capsules she's got are the best possible ones for her condition. Her GP seems puzzled that they're not as effective as he expected."

"Perhaps the pharmacy has messed up the prescription," Melanie said suddenly. "It happens."

"I was there this morning when the doctor looked. There are two white tablets, but the Angiotensin receptor blockers are brown and white torpedoes. He'd have noticed if they were the wrong colour."

Melanie nodded, looking rather upset that her promising idea had turned out to be a nonstarter. "You could check at the pharmacy."

"Melanie, I can't possibly poke my nose in. Jack is looking after his aunt, and the GP has everything in hand. The local council send a carer twice a day to see to her personal needs and generally check up on her. She could go into a care home, but she wants to stay in her own house. She's stubborn, but she's sharp enough mentally. She feeds herself and keeps the house in good shape. Although...."

"Yes?"

"I feel sorry for her. Her house is old and it creaks. It's in a terrace, with neighbours each side. She thinks she can hear someone getting into the house at night and moving things around. I've assured her that old houses creak as they cool down in the night, or it might be the neighbours being a bit noisy. I'm not sure she believes me."

"I'll tell you what," Melanie said, standing up to get ready to help Pete with a large order for a family with three small children that had just turned up. "You ought to spend the night in the house. Sleep downstairs, and you'll be the first to know if anyone is getting in."

"Great idea," I said sarcastically. "Now go and help Pete earn his keep before those kids run wild and wreck the place."

Chapter 4

On my way home that evening I kept thinking about what Melanie had said. Not about spending the night in the house to see if there really was an intruder, but whether the pharmacy had messed up with the prescription. After all, there had to be a limit to the possible combination of shapes, colours and sizes for tablets, so some were bound to look sufficiently similar to cause confusion. I remembered how the colour and shape my own tablets I'd been prescribed from time to time varied according to the manufacturer, which added to the complication.

There had to be a foolproof way of identifying tablets. I would do some research on my computer as soon as I got in, and see how it worked. Then in the morning I'd check Ivy Smith's tablets ‒ assuming she was still alive.

Jack didn't call round that evening. I hoped he hadn't gone off me, or perhaps he was laid up with food poisoning from his lunch at Button Up. That would certainly bring any hope of romance to an abrupt end. But there was nothing to stop me calling on Ivy before going to work in the morning, purely out of considerate duty.

But who would let me in if Ivy was still in bed? I couldn't keep ringing the doorbell until she hurried her way down the creaking stairs, probably falling headlong and breaking her neck in the hall. Could someone be prosecuted for that?

So the next morning, early, I sat in the chair by the window having a breakfast of cornflakes, toast and marmalade, with orange juice. Healthy, or what! By early, I mean seven o'clock. No way was I going to miss seeing Jack slipping into his aunt's house. By eight o'clock, no sign. By half past I decided Jack had either slipped in during the five seconds it took me to take my dishes to the kitchen, or he wasn't calling.

I phoned Melanie at the café and said I was being delayed by an emergency. Melanie's idea of an emergency involves men. I tried to persuade her that I had to call on Ivy Smith and check she was okay. A hollow laugh from my co-owner told me just how unsuccessful I'd been. And yet it was the truth!

I had already come up with a promising plan. Although I wanted to see Jack again, my first concern was to check the medication that Ivy Smith was taking every day. I had discovered on my computer that it was possible to identify pills and tablets by their colour, their shape, size, and something that would be printed or embossed on them. Even though there must be thousands of combinations, it seemed it was possible to identify absolutely everything. Presumably medics would need to do this when checking on drug overdoses or other emergencies.

So this was my plan. I would go to Ivy's door and raise the letterbox flap, peep through and then listen. Of course, Ivy would be in the back room if she was downstairs, because her generation never used the front room. If I didn't see or hear anything, I would gently lower the flap. And this is where my plan got really clever.

I've already mentioned the covered walkway between every other house in the terrace. Some have high security gates, and some are left open, often with children's bikes and other toys thrown around there in the daytime. I'd not checked, but I imagined these things got locked away at night. Ivy's neighbours could be elderly, judging by their curtains, so of course there would be no toys.

O in the event of my letterbox exercise being unsuccessful, I would go round to Ivy's back garden and very slowly look through the window of her back room, being careful not to scare her. Scaring Ivy was something I had to avoid. I didn't want to get blamed for her sudden death from heart failure.

I made my way down the road, walking casually, trying not to look like a criminal – whatever criminals out to rob houses really look like. Presumably burglars no longer wear striped jumpers and carry a bag marked swag, but they probably look suspicious because they're trying _not_ to look suspicious. In that case, I probably looked like a criminal.

I walked swiftly and confidently through Ivy's front gate that was sadly in need of paint, and walked to the front door where I carried out stage one of my letterbox plan. I didn't dare turn round to see how many eyes were watching me from the doorsteps up and down the road. That would definitely have looked suspicious. I could neither see nor hear a sound.

I walked confidently around to the back, with a smile on my face, as though that would be a sign of a total lack of guilt. It occurred to me that my actions _were_ totally innocent, and even worthy, so why did I feel like this? I get the same problem coming back through customs at the airport. I go through the green channel of course, but should I look straight ahead, or down at the floor? Or should I try and find someone to chat to as I make my way past what could be a hundred TV cameras and scanners using advanced AI to search for the slightest sign of guilt?

Ivy had a long narrow garden at the back. In the old days the residents would have grown vegetables and maybe kept hens and other small animals for food. A single storey kitchen sprouted from the house on one side of the garden. The space to the side of it was taken up with old flagstones, with a couple of large planters containing healthy weeds and struggling flowers. A sagging clothesline ran from the kitchen wall to a slanting pole.

The small bathroom had been added later to the end of the single storey building, and the window to Ivy's back room had its curtains open. There would not have been a bathroom originally with the house. It was built in the days of tin baths by the fire, and a lavatory in a little shed somewhere at the far end of the garden. That was before the days of mains drains.

Slowly and cautiously I peeped round, and spotted Ivy's mop of white hair. She was sitting at a small table, looking down and eating her breakfast. Relieved that there was no need to call the undertaker, I waved my arms very slowly, rather than banging on the glass, and caught her attention. To my great relief she didn't put her hand to her chest and keel over.

With a smile, she returned my wave and got up from the table. She pointed to the side door for her to let me in.

"I remember you," she said, the smile still on her face. "You're Abi. You're a friend of Jack."

I wondered what Jack had been telling her, and judging by her smile it must have been good. "I just called to see how you are," I explained, as she beckoned for me to come in. "And check your heart tablets without you knowing, in case they're slowly killing you." No, I didn't say that.

The tiny kitchen had old metal units in cream enamel, which are quite the retro must-have for some people today, although these were old, and rusty in places. I doubted there was much insulation in the roof of the single story building sticking out at the back.

I could smell food, probably bacon, so Ivy could certainly look after herself. Unless of course Jack had been in to get the breakfast for her. Why had I left my window for those few seconds?

"I feel just fine today," Ivy said. "They'll not be taking me away in a box just yet."

I couldn't avoid a sharp intake of breath. Ivy was hardly in a condition to joke about such things. I knew I wouldn't be taking it all so lightly if I had her health problems.

I hadn't thought about my next move. How was I to get hold of Ivy's tablets for long enough to be able to check them? I could foresee a problem if I tried to identify them on my computer using my notes or memory. Realistically, I would need to take the whole selection from one of the compartments and do the job at home. There were bound to be some insignificant letters or numbers I missed that would turn out to be absolutely vital to the identification.

"I hope you've taken all your pills today," I said casually. "Jack says you're very good at remembering."

"It's my heart," Ivy explained. "The large brown and white ones are for my heart. I think the others are to keep my blood pressure down. The doctor says whatever I do, I have to take the brown and white ones every morning and evening."

Okay, so they were what I was looking for, and I would only need to take one for identification. So how to snaffle one?

Ivy asked me to sit down and have a cup of tea. There was plenty in the pot. I wasn't sure how good her washing-up was, and there was a slightly musty smell about the place, but I couldn't possibly refuse without causing offence.

We sat together while I drank my tea from a delicate blue and white bone china cup with a gold rim, sitting in a matching saucer ‒ no collection of miscellaneous chipped mugs here like _chez moi_ ‒ and chatted about people and places we both knew.

Ivy's knowledge of who was who in the road surprised me. She had known my parents for a long time, and told me things about them that I never knew. Good things. Ivy didn't seem the sort of person who would gossip about anything bad.

I managed to get the conversation back onto her medication, and she assured me she had never missed a single dose. Jack had been kind enough to buy the case for the various tablets, and every month he fetched them from the pharmacy and dropped them carefully into each compartment for the morning and the evening.

"It's over there," Ivy said, pointing to the flat plastic box on the ancient mahogany sideboard.

The small room would originally have been the kitchen. The scullery was now being used as the small kitchen sticking out at the back, leading through to the "modern" bathroom addition.

A scullery, so I was told by my mother when I was doing a school project, was a room at the back of a house used for washing dishes and carrying out dirty household work in the olden days. Nowadays the room is used for washing machines, dishwashers and freezers ‒ if anyone is still lucky enough to have one. And it's called the utility room, which sounds much more upmarket.

The room I was in had a dining table and was far too small for all the Victorian furniture to make it a cosy living room. There were old ornaments on display on every available space, and pictures covering much of the walls, making the room look even smaller.

It was clearly home to Ivy, or she would have got rid of much of it. I know I would, if my parents had left stuff like this behind when they departed for Spain and the sun. Being young ‒ yes, definitely young ‒ Swedish flat pack is more my thing.

Casually I stood up and went across to the medicine box. With my back to Ivy, and hopefully shielding my actions, I opened the lid and took one of the large brown and white torpedo capsules from its place marked for the end of the month. Fortunately, Jack must have restocked recently, because only two sections were empty. And true to her word, the one for this morning was empty. That was proof, if I needed proof, that Ivy knew what she was doing when it came to her medication.

I clutched the capsule in my hand, hoping the cellulose casing wouldn't melt or come apart in my sweaty palm. I smiled and returned to the table, after slipping the brown and white capsule into the front pocket of my skinny dark blue jeans. So far so good.

"You're a kind girl," Ivy said.

I guessed she hadn't seen me pilfering her medication. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked. I rubbed the front of my hand on my jeans. It felt as though the coating had come off the capsule. Or maybe it was just guilt eating into my palm. But why should I feel guilty? I was here to help. Well, to help and be nosy ‒ all with the best possible intentions.

I looked at the clock. It still said nearly five past six. I guessed it hadn't been wound, and I offered to do it.

"Please don't touch it. That clock stopped the moment my dear father died upstairs," Ivy said. "It hasn't been wound since."

I tried to suppress a shudder. I certainly wasn't going to offer to get it going again. It might recall the dead to the land of the living. That could make a good story. I sometimes wonder about trying my hand at writing short stories. It could have legs.

I would have to phone Melanie and tell her I was now on my way, which meant I couldn't do any computer checking of the capsule until I got back from work. Oh well, if there was a problem with the capsule, that would keep. Or, I could slip out when it got quiet after lunch and go to the local pharmacy. They would definitely know what it was. Brilliant.

At that moment Ivy raised a finger as though to silence my thoughts.

"What is it?" I asked, feeling my stomach sink. Nothing had been creaking on the stairs. And no one was knocking or ringing on the door.

"There's someone up in the attic," Ivy said, pointing up at the ceiling.

The room was silent as we listened. Then I heard a slight noise coming from above. Since Ivy's bedroom was directly above, it was probably something rolling off her bed, or maybe blowing off the windowsill if the window was open. It was quite windy outside now.

"I think it's just the wind," I said, doing my best to sound reassuring. "You stay here. I'll pop up and check. There's nothing to worry about."

At the bottom of the stairs I paused. There was the noise again. A rattling sound. I'd lied. There _was_ something to worry about. The noise was coming from up in the roof. The attic, as Ivy called it. Attic, loft, roof space ‒ is there a better name for it? I think it depends on what goes on up there.

What was I to do? I could hardly go back into the small living room and sit huddled together with Ivy, shaking with fear. I made my way slowly up the creaking staircase and noticed a rectangular hatch in the ceiling that would give entry to the roof space.

"There's a small ladder behind the wardrobe in the front bedroom," Ivy called up the stairs. "You'll need it, to get up there."

_What?_ Ivy was seriously expecting me to go up through that hatch and discover who was making the noise? No way.

I heard creaking on the stairs and soon Ivy stood beside me. "The ladder's in there," she said, pointing to the front bedroom. "I've no idea what's up there. My father was the last person to use the ladder."

My mind went crazy. It often does. I had visions of Ivy's father being laid to rest up there, and now he was coming back to life ‒ without me even needing to wind the clock. Perhaps just the thought of winding it up again had been enough to trigger some horrifying manifestation of the dead.

Of course, I didn't really think that was possible, but another rattle from above hardly set my creative imagination at rest.

"If you would be so kind as to check it out, I really do need to know what's happening." Ivy was rubbing her hands together and doing a little bobbing dance.

When I told her I'd come to help, I'd not imagined anything as scary as this. But I had to be brave, and convince Ivy there was nothing to worry about. I'd go up, look around, and come down laughing. There would be some simple explanation that would set her mind at rest for ever. From this moment on, she would be able to sleep peacefully in her bed.

I found the ladder hidden behind the huge mahogany wardrobe in the front bedroom and rested the top of it against the surround to the hatch. Time to lay a ghost to rest.

Another noise from above. I really wished I hadn't thought about ghosts.

Chapter 5

I activated the flashlight on my phone and climbed the rather unsteady ladder. I have a reasonable head for heights, but the hatchway to the loft was above the top of the staircase. If I fell, I would fall all the way to the bottom. It would be interesting to know how loudly each step would creak as I bounced my way down on my head.

I pictured myself opening the hatch, shining the beam from my phone, and finding a trapped pigeon fluttering around in panic. No I didn't. Actually, I pictured opening the hatch and a pair of strong hairy arms grabbing hold of me and hauling me up into the blackness, and Ivy down below shrugging her shoulders and going back downstairs to watch television, completely forgetting I had ever been in the house. It's surprising what a vivid imagination can conjure up in less than five seconds.

Telling myself to calm down, I cautiously raised the edge of the hatch where the ladder was resting on the surround. It lifted easily, and already I got the familiar smell that most unoccupied attics seem to possess. Like mine at home, for instance. But this attic was different. Whereas mine had been lined with felt a few years ago by my father, in one of his more ambitious and daring DIY adventures, this felt was torn in places, letting the light shine through in patches. I turned round and saw the man.

He was tall. And he was wearing a black coat and a flat black cap.

"A man!" I gasped.

That was all I saw. I almost fell in my haste to get down, and the hatch slammed shut above my head.

Ivy could see something scary had happened to me, and in my panic I almost told her what I'd seen. I doubted it would make her feel better to know that there really _was_ someone in her house, rather than it just being her imagination.

"It's all right," I said through clamped teeth, trying to sound calm. "You go on downstairs and I'll help sort this out."

You don't get to be ninety-one without learning a lot in life, and Ivy could clearly see through my false composure.

"I _told_ you there was someone here," she said, sounding a lot calmer than I felt. "You'd better move the ladder away. We don't want him climbing down."

Like a robot, I did as I was told. Not that it made me feel any better. The man could quickly drop onto the landing without the need of a ladder. But I wasn't going to point that out.

The elderly lady pointed to my phone. "Aren't you going to phone the police?"

I can't say she seemed calm, but she wasn't nearly as terrified as I felt. I had to pull myself together. "You'd better come downstairs with me, and then I'll phone the police," I said.

At the top of the stairs I hesitated. If I went first, Ivy would be safe if she tripped and fell against me. But then whoever was hiding in the roof would get to her first. But if Ivy went first, she might fall in her panic, and there would be no one to save her.

While I was mulling this over, Ivy had already reached the hall, taking the stairs quickly but steadily, holding tightly to the banister rail.

I joined her in the hallway and waited for a moment. There was no sound from above. Whoever it was in the roof didn't seem anxious to hurry down after us. Maybe there was another way out. Then it came to me. Basic housing in the past, and probably these houses had been built on the cheap, didn't always have a full height dividing wall between each dwelling. It saved money, and perhaps helped with ventilation.

The practice was okay at a time when everyone knew each other and trusted each other, but now someone from a couple of houses away could creep about and go though whatever things had been stored in the lofts.

I thought about what was in the loft in my own house. A rubbish artificial Christmas tree from years back that I never used, rubbish decorations that I never used, and faulty Christmas lights. Plus a couple of cardboard boxes of bits and pieces I would never need. So if they got taken, I wouldn't miss any of it.

It looked as though for some unknown reason a neighbour was exploring the lofts of the houses in the row. But how could he get down to make the noise on the stairs? It looked as though Ivy's house was being specially targeted.

I realised Ivy was asking for the police on the downstairs phone. Maybe the operator was expressing some doubts, because Ivy handed the phone to me. "You tell them, Abi. I don't think I'm making much sense."

I explained who I was, and had to ask Ivy for the number of her house, although of course I knew the name of the road. I explained about the man I'd just seen in the loft. Ivy had obviously got as far as this in the emergency call, but the female operator seemed to want confirmation that she hadn't been speaking to some lunatic, although she didn't put it quite so bluntly.

Apparently convinced the call was genuine, in a very clear and calm voice the woman suggested we went out into the street and into a neighbour's house, or failing that, to ask someone to wait in the road with us.

That certainly sounded like sensible advice. I told Ivy about it and she said Mrs Bartholomew was sure to be in next door. I hesitated for a moment. The name sounded familiar. I asked if there was a Mr Bartholomew. There was, but he might have gone to work, as he worked part time at the college. I had a horrible suspicion he might have gone to work up in Ivy's loft, and his work involved sorting through all his neighbours' possessions in the row of houses.

So I said it would be better to wait by the gate. If her front door was opened from the inside, we could try and stop a passing car. Not that I told Ivy that. I did my best to assure her that we were perfectly safe.

It took a good ten minutes for the police to arrive, and their car didn't even come with a flashing blue light and a noisy siren. But it did say POLICE in large letters on the side. Perhaps they hadn't wanted to draw attention to their arrival and frighten whoever was hiding in the loft.

I had to run through the story again, backed up all the time by Ivy who kept interrupting with information about noises on the stairs at night, and nobody believing her.

"I see," the driver said, a police officer who was probably in his late fifties and rather on the heavy side. I wondered if he believed Ivy.

His assistant, a young woman police officer just stood listening, and in my opinion looked rather nervous as I explained about the man in the loft.

At that moment Jack Thornley appeared on foot as if by magic. I hadn't realised Ivy had phoned him before phoning the police. She was pretty sharp when it came to taking the initiative.

I told the police and Jack that we had better hurry inside, in case the man escaped. I filled Jack in with the details as the four of us made our way up the stairs, leaving Ivy in her back room, where she was making us all "a nice cup of tea". Under such a combined weight, the treads didn't even creak once. Perhaps the joints were now almost fully apart and the whole staircase was on the point of collapse.

The ladder lay on the floor where I had thrown it in my panic, and the two officers looked at each other as though suggesting the other one went first. Whatever the protocol was in these situations, it was the male officer who bravely climbed, a large police issue flashlight shining brightly in his hand. He lifted the loft panel and slid it to one side.

A loud shout of laughter frightened me. I'd expected a shout of, "Stay where you are. You're under arrest." Perhaps the man had gone. In that case, what was so funny?

The officer came down and told his young partner to go up and have a look. She went up rather reluctantly, carrying the police issue flashlight, and peeped over the edge of the hatchway. She came down smiling.

I just had to see what was so funny. I asked for the large flashlight. Perhaps the police officers were looking in the wrong direction. A large flashlight like this would make a good weapon. I shone it into the blackness.

I was never going to live this down. The police would probably write their report that a batty young woman – I hoped they would include the word young – had panicked at the sight of a dressmaker's dummy dressed in a black overcoat. Perhaps Ivy's father had done it, and put an old black cap on the dummy's head for a laugh. Well, I certainly didn't think it was funny in the slightest! And what was Jack going to think about me now?

I came down slowly. I should have put up some resistance when Jack took the police flashlight from me, but I was too stunned to do anything about it. Maybe ashamed would be more accurate than stunned. Whatever, I wanted to crawl home and hide away for at least a month.

Jack came down, his face showing not the slightest sign of amusement. He handed the flashlight to the older police officer and put his arm round me. "Abi, I want to thank you so much for what you've done. It was very brave of you."

He sounded genuine. And the hug felt fabulous. Then I started shaking.

"I can see why you thought it was a man," Jack said. "It must have been really scary. Thank you for protecting my aunt. So now we know the source of the noises in the night. The roofing felt is falling away and flapping in the breeze. You've really done my aunt a favour."

"We'll be on our way now then," the senior officer said. He was just about managing to keep a straight face. "We'll write up our report." He turned to me. "Don't feel bad about it. It could happen to anyone."

I nodded, picturing everyone in the office at the police station tipping back their heads and roaring with laughter when they heard. I just hoped there was no one there who knew me.

"I'd better get to work," I said quietly. "Melanie and Pete will be really busy now. What about you, Jack? Do you have a patient with their mouth wide open waiting for the injection to kick in?"

Jack shook his head. "Auntie Ivy phoned at a good time. I'd have come anyway, for her. Look, I'd like to walk into town with you, Abi, but I ought to stay here until Mrs Johnson drops in. She should be here soon, and I want to explain what's been going on. Someone may tell her about the police, and she'll worry. I'll see you lunchtime at your coffee shop. That was a good panini yesterday."

I nodded. It wasn't a very enthusiastic nod, because I was still feeling bad about the episode in the roof. But Jack wouldn't know that was the reason. So I nodded again, more enthusiastically this time. "Yes, see you. That will be good."

Jack gave me a reassuring grin. "And don't worry, Abi, you've done nothing to be ashamed of. I admire you for daring to go up to look when you heard the noise. Thanks to you, I can get the roofing felt sorted, and my aunt will never be troubled again by noises in the night."

I shook my head. "That explains the noises in the roof, but it doesn't explain the creaking on the stairs at night. Or why things get moved."

Jack thought for a moment, and put his arm around my shoulder again, in a protective way. It felt good. I didn't dare move, in case he let go. "Let's see what happens," he said.

I wasn't going to tell Jack about it now, but I had a way to investigate who was getting into the house at night. But I needed to get to work. It was nearly ten. Melanie and Pete would be getting frantic.

Chapter 6

It's a fifteen minute walk to town and Button Up. On the way, although I was soon to regret it, I phoned Melanie to assure her I wasn't far away. I also filled in some of the details of the dummy in the roof, and the embarrassment of calling the police ‒ and Jack turning up too. I thought she'd be really sympathetic. How wrong I was.

Melanie and Pete were giggling together as I hurried into Button Up. Pete stood at the far end of the shop wearing a long black coat a customer had left behind several months ago and not reclaimed, with a sheet of black paper on his head folded to look like a flat cap. They both burst into hysterical laughter.

The customers standing at the counter, and those at the tables looked puzzled for a few seconds. Then caught up in the atmosphere of hilarity, they started laughing too. I was the only one in the coffee shop with a stony face. I'd never forgive them.

I shoved my hands into the front pockets of my work jeans in an angry gesture, and felt the capsule I'd taken from Ivy's pill dispenser. A smile came over my face.

"Carry on with the floor show," I told Melanie. "I've got something important to do. See you later."

I grinned to myself as I walked back through the door. That took the laughter down a peg or two. Now to visit the local pharmacy. It was the closest one to Ivy's house, so it was most likely the one Jack used to collect Ivy's medication, and where they would keep her records.

If I wasn't still seething over my own stupidity in not taking time to examine the "man in the roof" for a fraction of a second longer, I might have thought my next move through more carefully.

As it was, I burst into the pharmacy and asked to see the pharmacist on duty. Perhaps I demanded, rather than asked. I was too wound up to remember now.

A young woman came through from the dispensary and introduced herself as the pharmacist. She looked much younger than me, almost in her teens, but her badge, assuming it was authentic, proclaimed that she was indeed the pharmacist.

I pulled Ivy's capsule from my pocket. "I need to know what this is."

I should have asked if she could possibly be so kind as to help me identify a certain capsule. I should have sat in my own coffee shop and had one of my own brew before coming here. Or perhaps gone to a competitor and sat drinking their own recipe without being surrounded by comedians.

The child pharmacist took it from me and examined it closely. "Where did you get this?"

I don't think her voice conveyed a passing interest. It came over more like an accusation, as though I was caught handling illegal drugs.

"That doesn't matter," I snapped. "All I want to know is its pharmaceutical name."

"This is a prescription drug only," the adolescent said, glaring at me. "I need to know where you got it. Is it yours?"

I made an effort to pull myself together and sound reasonable. I can be a bit snappy at times, and I'd like to say I'm working on it. But that wouldn't be strictly truthful.

"I'm doing this for a friend. I just need to make sure this is the correct prescription. She will be a customer of yours. She's Miss Ivy Smith." I gave the full address, just in case the youngster thought I was making it up. That, of course, was a major mistake. If I could have foreseen how it was going to turn out, I would have invented something personal. Such as, "I'm here on holiday and this is my prescription. I just want to check it's right."

The junior pharmacist looked me straight in the eyes, and I must have wilted. "I can't possibly discuss one of my customers with you. Surely you are aware of patient confidentiality."

"I understand that," I said meekly. "All I need to know is what the pharmaceutical name and dosage is for this capsule. Let's forget about Miss Smith."

But she couldn't forget about Miss Smith. Having caught the rat by the tail, or whatever the correct expression is, I was sent packing. But at least I managed to snatch the capsule from the pharmacist's open hand before she could close her tiny fingers round it. Then, trying to retain some dignity, I walked briskly from the pharmacy and returned to the crazy house where everyone seemed to have calmed down.

Melanie gave me a wink, but Pete studiously avoided my eyes. I think he felt guilty. Well, I hoped he did. And when I asked him to make me a large latte, he even told me to take a seat, and brought it to me at the small table in the corner that was vacant.

As I sipped the thick foam on the top of the tall glass, I started to unwind. I noticed Pete was now staring at me from behind the counter, and I gave him a thumbs up. The kid had probably been led astray by my co-owner. As I thought back about it, I couldn't help seeing the funny side. I laughed out loud, causing a few concerned faces to turn from the tables to see the mad woman sitting alone in the corner.

I needed Jack. I looked at the clock shaped like a cup of coffee above the counter. If he came for an early lunch, as he promised, I still had an hour to wait. The exchange of fire with that stupid pharmacist still niggled me. I finished my latte and went to give Melanie and Pete a hand.

I spent the next hour serving the few customers that came in during the latter part of the morning, trying not to be too surly. Melanie gave me a nudge from time to time, saying, "Remember to smile for the customers."

That's part of our official training manual. When I say training manual, it's written on a postcard behind the counter where the customers can't see. Another card says THE CUSTOMER IS KING. There are a couple of others, but I can't remember what they are.

Jack turned up earlier than I was expecting, such is love. I had already placed a reserved sign on the corner table, and I seated Jack and took his order. Pete hadn't managed to poison Jack yesterday, so I let him get on with the panini order and sat with Jack.

I started to tell him about my brilliant idea to check up on the capsule, and how the infantile pharmacist had nearly bitten my head off for daring to question her good name. Then I started to cry. Not tears rolling down my cheeks, but enough wet in my eyes for Jack to notice. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He put his hand across the table and rested it on mine. "I love you already, Abi," he said. "You care about my aunt almost as much as I do. Not only have you sorted out the noise, but you're even checking on her medication. Well done."

I wiped my eyes with a crumpled tissue I kept in the left hand pocket of my jeans, although I still could feel tears welling up. I realised I was already falling in love with Jack. Well, things were certainly moving quickly.

Jack kept his hand resting on mine, and I could feel his fingers curling round it to hold it more firmly. And lovingly. "Do you know the church the other side of the park?" he asked out of the blue.

"Yes. Why?" This was a completely unexpected change in the conversation. Perhaps he was planning to marry me there on Saturday. Ha ha.

"I've started going there most Sundays," he said. "I thought you might like to come. That is, if you don't have a church of your own."

No mention of marriage yet, but his hand now enclosed mine completely. It had a pleasant warmth to it. "You mean this Sunday?"

He nodded. "It's quite a lively service, with a small band, and plenty of singing." He looked at me and gave a slight nod of reassurance. "It's the small church in Wallace Road. The service starts at ten. Shall I pick you up at twenty to?"

It sounded as though the thing was settled. I wasn't totally against going to church. My parents had taken me a few times to the large one on the other side of the park when I was young, mostly to special services, but I knew Jack's church, and would go almost anywhere to sit next to him. "Okay, you're on. Twenty to ten it is, at my house. Do I need to dress up?"

Jack laughed and shook his head. "Come as you are. Jeans and all. No one dresses up in posh clothes. Promise."

I kept the tissue in my left hand, and fished the capsule out from my right hand pocket, and placed it on the table. "Here it is." I'm quite good at saying the obvious.

Jack picked it up and examined it closely. "I can't think there's a problem, but the doctor did say the medication doesn't seem to be working. It might be far too low a dose." He looked at his watch. He obviously hadn't spotted the very expensive coffee cup clock above the counter. I hoped the majority customers appreciated it.

"I have to get back for an appointment," he explained. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer." He tapped the capsule on the table with a well-groomed finger. I like that in a man. "They know me at the pharmacy, and the pharmacist will check it out for me. You hold onto it for now. Can we meet there at three? I'll introduce you to the pharmacist, and she'll know you next time there's another query. Okay?"

Well, I supposed it had to be okay. I'd been hoping Jack would stay longer. But the lunchtime queue was already backing up, and Melanie and Pete were failing to keep pace with the rising tide. Rather reluctantly I went to give them a hand. I had a business to help run. There were more important things in life than worrying about an old lady's medication.

### Chapter 7

The young pharmacist was still on duty at three o'clock. I thought she might have had to go for her afternoon nap, to prevent her getting cranky. Meow.

Jack introduced me to her, and explained the situation. I detected a steely glare in the girl's eyes as she looked me up and down. Perhaps she fancied Jack, and was now jealous. Well, tough luck. He was spoken for.

For Jack, she was all attention, while she studiously avoided giving me so much as another glance Or a glare. Jack explained the doctor was concerned that although his aunt was taking the strongest dose, it seemed to be having little or no effect.

"I'll certainly check it, Mr Thornley. Just give me a moment."

With a sickeningly smarmy smile she produced some sort of magic handbook from the back of the dispensary. Oh how I hated her as she made little noises with her mouth while turning the pages. She gave another reassuring smile ‒ to Jack ‒ as she stopped and compared Ivy Smith's capsule to an illustration and wording in the book.

She looked up with another revoltingly charming smile. For Jack again, of course. I might as well not have been there, which was what the schoolgirl with the fake badge was probably hoping for.

"Yes, this is exactly the correct capsule for Miss Smith's prescription. There should be four for her to take each day."

"Correct," Jack said, leaning closer to her. "Two every morning, and two again at night."

The little girl with the badge smiled her charming smile. Yuck.

Jack returned the charming smile. "I hope you don't mind us checking."

"Not at all, Mr Thornley. I don't mind _you_ checking at all. Any time."

The emphasis on the _you_ wasn't exactly subtle, and Jack must have noticed it. He smiled and said, "And please answer any future queries my friend here has about Miss Smith's medication."

Although there was no emphasis on the word friend, I think the point got through to Little Miss Pharmacy, because she frowned as she nodded, keeping her eyes firmly on Jack. Oh well, I could expect competition with someone as handsome as my Jack.

"If you could put it in a small package," Jack said, referring to the capsule that lay on the counter, "I'll drop it back when I call to see my aunt this evening."

The kid put it into a plastic tub with a screw top, and wrote the pharmaceutical name on the label. I wondered how recently she'd learned to write big words.

Jack looked at the tub and laughed. "You'd better take it, Abi. You've got your bag with you."

"Of course," I said quickly, taking it from the fake pharmacist. "I'll give it to you this evening when I call to see your aunt."

If I could read faces ‒ and that's not something I'm especially good at ‒ I thought Jack showed a sense of relief. This was yet another sign of his caring nature. My heart thumped a little as we left the chemists' shop.

"I'm sorry you got treated so rudely, after showing such concern for my aunt." He gave me a small hug. "Anyway, that's all done now. Don't forget, if you have any concerns, come to me and we can sort it together."

As we went our own ways, Jack to poke around in people's mouths, and me to fill people's mouths with coffee and cake, his parting words kept running through my mind. "We can sort it together." Together. I'd waited thirty-one years to hear words like that. It was certainly worth the wait to land Jack.

I spent the afternoon serving customers, and trying to kill the little green eyed monster of jealousy that seemed to be taking me over. Or perhaps these feelings were natural in circumstances like this. After all, I didn't know anything about Jack's past. I might be just one of a string of girls he flirted with. No, I decided, this wasn't flirting. You don't ask someone to go to church if you're planning a naughty day. Not that I was especially keen on the idea of going, but being with Jack surely helped cement the relationship. Such as it was so far.

Dating someone who went to church wasn't exactly a plus point. I always felt uncomfortable in church. I've not led a wicked life by any means, but I sometimes found myself wondering if I'd earned enough gold stars to deserve a place in heaven. Well, I thought, I'd left it a bit late to put the past right.

It was Friday now. Church was two days away, which left me with Saturday. I doubted dentists worked on a Saturday, especially dentists in a private practice. Even though I got to work at nine because I rarely took a day off, surely Melanie would spare me the morning or an afternoon for a date with Jack. Surely? Definitely! We don't open on Sunday, and she would be waiting on Monday for all the juicy gossip. Once again I felt myself going red.

We would have to meet somewhere out. I wasn't ready to ask Jack to my house, and in my experience any man who asked a young woman to his own pad for a first date only had one thing in mind. However, if there was to be a Saturday date with Jack, he would have to ask me. I wasn't going to suggest it. Was I?

However, Jack did call at my house, while I was still finishing my evening meal. I always eat early, as soon as I get back from work. We close Button Up on the dot of six. Trade goes slack after five, when the restaurants and burger bars start to do good business.

I didn't expect it to be Jack, and I opened the door with a paper towel in my hand, wiping the remains of some baked beans from my mouth. I almost jumped back in alarm.

"Sorry to scare you," Jack said, laughing. "I thought you might like to come and see auntie now. I don't have your phone number."

He didn't add the word "yet", but I supposed he was hinting for it. Well, there would be no harm in that. And I ought to have his.

"Finish your meal," he said in his deep voice, laughing. "Come round when you're ready. You need only stay half an hour, and then we can go into town for a drink. Yes?"

At least he wasn't asking me back to his place. Come to think of it, I didn't even know where Jack lived. I wanted to find out, just out of interest of course. Private dentists are well paid, so I assumed it would be somewhere upmarket.

I quickly ran my tongue around my lips, in case any of the tomato sauce or the beans clung on there. I could tell that Jack would be too nice to point out anything food-like that remained.

It felt strange. A couple of days ago, if someone had asked me where Ivy Smith lived, I would have had no idea. I might have been able to help if they'd explained that she was the little old lady with bushy white hair. Even then, I might not have identified the actual house. So there I was, twenty minutes later, ringing the bell on Ivy's front door to see Jack Thornley.

Ivy seemed none the worse for her experience with the roof episode, although of course she'd not been the one to actually see the tailor's dummy standing there.

"I'd forgotten all about that dummy," she said. "Perhaps I told a neighbour to put it there after my parents died. It was no use to me, taking up space, but it was something that was very precious to my mother. You say there was a black coat and a black cap. They must have been my father's. Oh, Abigail, I am so sorry it gave you such a fright."

"Please call me Abi," I reminded her, putting on a reassuring smile. "It was a bit of a shock, but I'm over it now. Promise." I wasn't. Just coming back into the house had brought back some of the trauma I'd experienced on that ladder.

"Do you want me to get rid of it for you, Auntie?" Jack said.

I smiled inwardly. I had found a very caring man here. Melanie was right. A keeper.

"There's no need to bother now, Jack. I'll be gone soon. Then you'll have to clear everything." Ivy paused for a moment, lost in thought, but she didn't seem at all morbid. Then she brightened up, and turned to me. "Jack's a lucky boy. I'm leaving him all this in my will. Lock, stock and barrel." And she waved a hand in all directions.

Jack looked a bit embarrassed. "It won't be for a long time," he muttered.

Ivy turned to me. "Not just a lucky boy. Jack is such a _good_ boy. I keep telling him he does far too much for me. Far too much. Did you know he's even started going to church since I've been ill? That shows how good he is."

I wasn't sure that the two things were necessarily related. It was unlikely everyone who went to church was good, although I suppose it helped. But with Jack, I was sure there was no ulterior motive. What could there be?

"And Jack knows there's money put aside in the top drawer of my bedroom dresser to pay for my funeral. Three thousand pounds. I don't want Jack to be worried when the time comes."

I looked concerned. I didn't seriously believe someone was getting into the house at night, but if they did, three thousand pounds was a considerable sum to be keeping in a drawer.

Jack noticed my concern. "I think I'd better look after it for you, Auntie," he said. "I'll take it back with me tonight and keep it safe."

Ivy turned to me, laughing. "There, I told you he's always thinking about me. It's safe enough there, Jack. Don't you worry. No one comes into my room at night."

And there the matter was dropped. We chatted for about an hour, but by this time Ivy had turned the television on, and was watching a game show. I don't know if she was following it, but it seemed to put an end to our time of chatting. Jack nodded to me and flicked his head towards the door.

"Auntie will be turning in for the night soon," he said to me, quietly. "There's no need for us to stay. She is well able to put herself to bed."

I frowned. "Aren't you worried about her falling on the stairs if she comes down to the loo in the night?"

Jack looked a little embarrassed at the question, but he shook his head. "No details, but she has a chamber pot under the bed. Mrs Johnson the carer sees to emptying that."

I shared Jack's slight embarrassment, and made things even worse by saying, "Well, I hope she doesn't fall on her way down the stairs with it." Me and my silly mouth.

Jack laughed, probably pretending to appreciate my gruesome sense of humour. "The pub?"

That sounded like a good suggestion. I didn't want to stay and render Ivy Smith any _personal_ attention before she went to bed. So I said okay, and stood up. I'd make sure I only had soft drinks.

Ivy hardly noticed we were leaving, she was so engrossed in the stupid game show in garish colours that seemed to involve a lot of shouting and canned laughter. It seems to me that the poorer the show, the more vivid were the colours and the louder was the laughter.

When we got out into the road, Jack asked me if I had a favourite pub. I didn't know if this was a test. I didn't want to give the impression that I frequented any of the pubs round here. They weren't really my scene. And they still aren't, in spite of Jack leading me to one he said was his favourite.

We sat and talked in a quiet corner, but still managed to attract attention. Jack clearly had a few mates here, who sat at the bar looking at us occasionally and talking amongst themselves. But they refrained from coming across. Maybe some were also Jack's patients at the surgery, and they didn't dare upset him in case he got his own back and pulled out the wrong teeth.

We left about nine thirty. Was I going to get a kiss? Was I going to get invited back to his place? Was he going to say goodbye, and leave it at that?

"I thought we could go for a drive if you're free tomorrow morning ‒ or afternoon," he said suddenly, as though he'd been working himself up to even mention it.

"I didn't know you had a car," I said, immediately feeling foolish. Why would Jack have suggested a drive, unless he had one? He probably knew I didn't own such a luxury. Of course, it might not be a car. He might drive a bus at weekends. Ha ha.

"It's a classic Jaguar. I only take it out of the garage at weekends. I don't need a car in town, and parking is just a nuisance. I'm also worried about it getting scratched."

A Jaguar? A _classic_ Jaguar? Well, I was really falling on my feet. If he was worried about his car getting scratched, it had to be in immaculate condition. "What model is it?" I asked, as if I knew one Jaguar from another.

"It's an E-Type. Dark green. Open top. Nineteen sixty-five. You'll love it."

Of course I would. Now I had two things to love. Jack ‒ and his dark green open top E-Type. How lucky could a girl get!

Chapter 8

The next morning I hurried into Button Up earlier than usual, much to Melanie's surprise. Of course, Pete wiped his brow and pretended to faint. There was only one man and an elderly couple at the tables, and they didn't seem to notice. I would have to speak firmly to Pete at some time. He was here to help, not clown around.

When I told Melanie the details of my forthcoming afternoon date with Jack in his classic Jaguar E-Type – with the open top – she squealed in delight. "You lucky, lucky girl. You're onto a winner there. Ask him if he's got a wealthy brother!"

I wagged my finger at Melanie. "Calm down, girl, you're engaged to Steve Donovan."

"Not officially. I could be tempted," she said, almost looking serious. I detected sadness in her eyes. "But you're right, Abi. Better the bird in the hand than the bird in the bush. But lucky you, being the bird cruising around in an open top Jaguar. Be sure to share every juicy detail on Monday."

" _Every_ juicy detail," Pete said. He had sneakily manoeuvred himself close enough to listen, while pretending to cover the pastries with clear film in the chilled display cabinet.

"Go and tidy the stockroom," Melanie said sharply. "Now!"

If I needed an indication of how keen Melanie Upton was that I should be ready for my date, she had invited one of Pete's friends called Hayley to help out in case there was a rush. Hayley had helped occasionally before. She was paying her way through college and worked part-time in a bar. Although we don't sell alcohol, she had learnt some skills in handling glasses.

I could hardly wait for lunchtime to come, and neither could Melanie, Pete or the newly arrived Hayley somebody. I really must learn her surname.

"Go on, girl, time to go," Melanie said, pushing me to the door. "Go and tart yourself up."

So I did ‒ went, that is. I'm not one for tarting myself up. Her expression, not mine. I much prefer the fairly natural look, even though it can take time to achieve.

Jack hadn't mentioned lunch, so I hedged my bets and grabbed a sausage roll and stuffed it quickly into my mouth as I hurried home. I couldn't wait to see the E-Type.

I quickly changed out of my work jeans which tend to get stained in Button Up by splashes of food and drink. The cream and black striped jackets are purely for wearing in the coffee shop. They also pick up stains, no matter how careful I am.

I pulled on a pair of light blue jeans, and a matching denim jacket which I put over a fresh white T-shirt. If it was chilly in the car I could close the jacket. If it was hot, I could slip it off. And slipping it off was as far as I was prepared to go at this stage.

I certainly wasn't disappointed to hear a deep rumbling noise from what I was soon to learn was a straight six twin-cam engine – whatever that is. I hurried out of my door. The bucket seats were black leather, in the same immaculate condition as the outside of the car. Like a real gentleman, Jack opened the passenger door for me.

I'd forgotten just how primitive cars from this period are. The instruments on the dashboard reminded me of the first car I could remember my parents owning, although the wooden steering wheel and the dials and switches were much more impressive.

We left town going north towards the main highway that had been built as a bypass for the town. Jack turned onto it slowly, then floored the throttle. The car turned itself into a wild beast and hurled itself forward at a breathtaking speed. At least, the wild beast part was my imagination, but it was certainly an impressive car ‒ aptly named.

"I thought we'd go up by the reservoir," Jack shouted above the noise of the wind and the engine. "Okay?"

Fortunately, I'd tied my long blonde hair in a ponytail before coming out, as a protection against the wind in the open car. Clever girl, or what! The wind buffeted around the small interior of the car like crazy, and I just sat there enjoying the whole sensation.

With a squeal from the tyres, Jack swung onto the narrow road that led into the hills and the small reservoir that was a popular spot for picnickers. It was also popular with lovers, but not in broad daylight like this. So I felt fairly relaxed. It was strange to be with a decent man who hadn't invited me to bed, or made any sudden moves like an octopus. Nor did I want Jack to. Not yet. This relationship was too special to rush into.

We parked away from the other cars, and Jack jumped out. He went round to the back and opened the boot. To my amazement he produced a vintage picnic basket.

"You've not eaten, have you?" he said in his deep voice, smiling broadly.

I quickly shook my head. One sausage roll hardly counted as eating. "What a lovely surprise, Jack," I said, swivelling round in the bucket seat to get out.

Jack had made it seem so easy, but the manoeuvre was much more difficult than I anticipated. I'd been sitting more or less at ground level, and my legs couldn't seem to work out where to go and how to stand. Being a modest girl, I was glad I'd worn my jeans and not a short skirt.

Nick, a _very_ short-term boyfriend, would have insisted I wore the shortest skirt possible. Not that he had a high speed car. He didn't have any sort of car, but he did have high speed hands.

Jack's idea of a picnic wasn't exactly mine, but I was sure we'd soon work out each other's likes and dislikes ‒ without any sort of argument that sometimes occurs between couples. That was probably wishful thinking, but I was happy to make compromises for Jack.

He'd brought some sort of smelly smoked fish, caviar (yuck), and an assortment of evil dips. I wished I'd eaten two sausage rolls from Button Up. The only thing I really enjoyed was the crusty French stick and salty butter.

Once I'd sampled the first course, insisting I wasn't very hungry, Jack produced a luxury cream trifle that had been resting on an ice pack in the bottom of the vintage basket. Now that was something I could really enjoy.

Jack said he would have brought champagne, but he had a rule never to drink and drive. Well, he could have brought some for me, but I respected him for not trying to get me tipsy for some nefarious purpose.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the car, exploring various parts of the countryside I'd never seen. I don't have a car of my own, and my parents seemed to have a car that was programmed only to go to the out-of-town shopping mall. So with the E-Type Jaguar, and previously unseen scenery, and Jack sitting next to me surrounded by the luxurious smell of leather, I was in ecstasy.

The afternoon flew by, and so did the countryside. I was surprised to find it was nearly six o'clock when we pulled into a wide tree-lined road not far from where I live, but had never been down. We stopped outside an upmarket apartment block.

"I'll take you home in a moment," Jack said, his voice almost as deep as the throb of the six cylinder engine, "but I want to show you where I live."

So this was it at last. "Just come in for a moment and I'll show you the bedroom. Try the bed. Lie down and tell me if you find it comfy." Of course Jack didn't say that.

"I won't take you in now, but you must see inside soon."

No mention of the bedroom. It was just my mind working overtime.

He looked at his watch. "Would you like to see my aunt? I'll drop you home first so you can freshen up. I know she's longing to see you again. She's really taken to you, Abi."

That was an offer that even the most innocent girl could safely accept, so of course I said yes. After all, we were going to church in the morning, which meant I was likely to remain unsullied all evening.

It didn't take me long to freshen up, to use Jack's expression, and I met him at Ivy Smith's house. After dropping me off he had driven home to lock his precious E-Type away, and also freshen himself up.

"You stay here with Auntie Ivy," Jack said, as soon as we got into the elderly lady's house. "I want to go up into the roof and have a close look at that dummy, and at the same time see what's needed to fix the roofing felt. Okay? Or do you want to come up with me?"

To tell the truth, I had not the slightest wish to go anywhere near that loft. Just the thought of the dummy dressed in the black coat and flat cap made the hairs on my arms stand up. Not that I'm especially hairy. That's one of the advantages of being blonde. I thought of Agnes, a Welsh girl at school. She had looked as though she was starting to turn into a gorilla. But she was a pleasant girl, and I heard later that she married a stockbroker. Perhaps he had a thing about body hair, and enjoyed combing her legs and arms in bed. A curious sort of foreplay.

Once Jack had gone upstairs, and we could hear him rattling the ladder against the edge of the hatch, Ivy signalled to me to come closer. She obviously had something confidential to say. Perhaps she was going to offer me money to marry Jack. Well, she needn't have worried about that. She could definitely save her money.

Looking slightly furtive, she opened her bag and took out a small ornamental silver key. Glancing towards the door, to make sure we were still alone, she put the key in my hand and closed my fingers round it as though to hide it from prying eyes.

Then she bent her head towards me. "Open it when I'm dead, and not a moment before," she whispered in my ear.

I looked on the little table by her side, under it, and then around the room. "It?"

She put a finger to her lips. "Sssh. I don't want Jack to know about it. Not yet."

"Open what?" I whispered.

"It?" Ivy asked, repeating my original question.

I nodded. "The thing for this key. Where is it?"

At that moment we heard Jack calling down the stairs. I went to the hallway to find out what he needed. He was calling down for a stronger flashlight. The one on his phone was failing.

There was nothing wrong with Ivy's hearing. "Time to come down," she called up. "What are you doing up there that's taking you so long, Jack?"

He stuck his head down through the hatchway. It looked weird. "Just checking on the roofing felt and what else is here, Auntie."

I examined the key in my hand. It was strange that Jack wasn't to know about it. The key was too small to fit a door. It was more like a key to a cupboard. Or maybe a box. Well, I couldn't use it, even if I wanted to. Not only was Ivy still alive, I had no idea what it fitted.

Ivy joined me at the top of the stairs. Although she must weigh almost nothing, even her frail body made the stairs creek. "Stop poking around up there and come down, Jack. Time enough to explore the loft when I'm gone. Don't forget, it's all yours."

I wondered if the key fitted a box that contained a surprise for Jack. Maybe a load of diamonds and jewels as a little extra present in the will, for all his loving attention. So by giving me the key, Ivy was making sure Jack wouldn't be able to open it in advance and spoil the surprise, even if he found it up there in the loft.

Jack swung his legs over the hatch, and came down carrying a dusty old coat. _The_ dusty old coat. He had the black cap on his head, and a cheeky grin on his face. At least he wasn't wearing the coat, which came as a relief.

"Just put it back up there," Ivy said, sounding cross. "A lot of it was Gran and Gramps' belongings. I told you, everything there is yours when the time comes. If you keep worrying me like this you won't have long to wait."

No longer did she have a light-hearted voice. Clearly Jack had found things that reminded her unpleasantly of her parents. Gran and Gramps Smith wouldn't have been Jack's grandparents. Would they? I shrugged. I never could work out the complexity of family trees.

Jack dusted himself off. He must have been all over the place up there. As we creaked our way down the old staircase, I clutched the key firmly in my hand. I felt guilty about keeping secrets from Jack. There weren't meant to be secrets in a relationship like I hoped ours was. But Ivy had been insistent, so I slipped it into the pocket of my jeans when Jack wasn't looking.

Maybe Ivy's will contained the instructions for finding the thing this key fitted. Perhaps a box. Did Jack already know about it, and had he been looking for it up in the loft? He said he was going to look at the felt, but he had been up there far too long for that.

### Chapter 9

Sunday morning came with a splash of sunshine, which helped to allay my concerns about going to church. The worst that could happen was that I would have to sit rigidly, and alternatively stand rigidly, for a totally boring hour and a half.

In a way, it turned out I was wrong. I couldn't say afterwards that I really enjoyed the experience, but the people were friendly. We arrived with about ten minutes to go, and instead of everyone sitting po-faced in pews in absolute silence, they were drinking coffee and chatting away as though they knew each other well. And I guessed most of them did. And there were no pews. Just rows of modern chairs

"I'll get you a coffee," Jack offered. "It won't be up to your standards, but it's drinkable. Sugar and milk?"

"Just milk, thanks."

"Wait there."

I had come with a gut feeling that I would be embarrassed mixing with all these church people. If that was some sort of prophecy, it was a false one. I heard a voice behind me say, "Look who it is. The Happy Bookworm!"

I didn't turn, even though the reference was clearly addressed to me. I mentioned my nickname Happy earlier, and the other one I probably deserved at school was Bookworm. The Happy Bookworm. It wasn't a nickname to be ashamed of, although I have to admit that my obsession with books was with popular fiction, especially drippy love stories, rather than academic works.

The speaker came round in front so I could see him clearly. It was Danny Wells, wearing a long sleeved navy twill shirt and light tan chinos. I smiled to myself. He also had a nickname at school. Danny Smells. I don't think he actually deserved it. It was just that the two words rhymed, and we girls thought it hilarious. Looking back now, it was so, so immature of us. And at the age of thirty-one it would be so immature to remind him of it now.

"Oh, hi," I said. "We used to be at school together. It's Danny S..........." I stopped at that point, before my total immaturity took over.

Danny winked at me. He obviously caught on to what I was saying, and he grinned. " _Touché_."

Danny Wells was a few inches taller than me, not as tall as Jack, but a good height all the same. Like me, he hadn't put on any weight since leaving school. His hair was fair and slightly wild on top. And he had a cheeky grin. Oh, and his eyes were a mysteriously dark blue.

I felt myself blushing as I remembered briefly kissing Danny in the park after school one hot summer's day. I was only twelve at the time. Maybe thirteen. Fourteen? Could have been fifteen. Okay, sixteen. And I wasn't kissing a frog. It was more like kissing a tadpole, and it certainly didn't go any further than that. We both pulled away in surprise and embarrassment, and never spoke about it again.

"Welcome to the Fellowship, Abi." Then he grinned. "Great to see you here. You're really welcome."

"Thanks," I said. "I came with Jack Thornley." It was as well to get this straight. I pointed to the queue for coffee where Jack was now being served, while glancing in our direction. I waved to him, but he was too busy to wave back. "It's my first time here."

"What have you been up to since school?" Danny asked. "Something exciting, I expect."

"I'm part owner of Button Up," I said. Danny seemed to be any easy person to talk to. "Do you know it?"

He nodded. "Not been in there ... yet."

I assumed he was hinting he might become a customer soon. "What about you?"

"Much more boring than a coffee shop, I'm afraid. I'm a junior solicitor at Branks, Davis & Waters. A bit of a mouthful."

"Not a good idea to add Wells, then. Waters and Wells would look a bit silly together." No, I didn't say it. A junior solicitor sounded quite a step up for someone from my school.

At that moment Jack appeared. He must have been watching us, and he didn't look exactly thrilled that I had found someone to chat to. But surely that was the reason for having coffee before the service started. Everyone was chatting away.

I took my cup from a rather sulky Jack, and he led me away to look at the children's corner. No, I don't think he was dropping hints.

A few minutes later a young man clapped his hands and told us to take our seats. He wore dark red jeans, and a pale blue shirt with a thin clerical collar poking between the lapels,

Some people took their cups of coffee with them as they took a seat, and a small band consisting of a keyboard, a guitar and a flute player stood up at the front and played some introductory music. It was a tune I didn't know, but that wasn't surprising. For the last few years the only times I had been to any church was for weddings and funerals. And not many of those.

It wasn't all bad. Everyone sang what seemed to be modern songs with great enthusiasm from words that were projected onto the screen at the front.

When the time for prayers came, I tried to shut my eyes like a good girl, but I found my attention wandering. I even watched Danny Wells for a short time. His head was bowed, and I'm sure he was praying intensely. Or maybe thinking about me. I hope not. I had Jack, and he was all I wanted.

We had a sermon, or talk as it was called, the young pastor telling us that everyone needs Jesus. Judging by the enthusiastic nods, most of the people here agreed with him. Well, that was okay for them. I had Jack, and he was enough for me.

At the end we sang a real oldie that I knew from the past, when my parents used to take me to the big church on the other side of the park. It was about God being the _Rock of Ages_. When we sang the verse that said, "Nothing in my hand I bring," I thought of the key Ivy had given me.

Afterwards, I couldn't remember the rest of the words of that hymn, because I kept thinking again and again about the small key that had been literally burning a hole in the front pocket of my jeans. I don't really mean literally. _Guiltily_ might be a better word. Did I really have to keep it hidden from Jack? If so, how could I possibly stop my mouth leaking the secret on its own accord?

Whether it was intentional or accidental, Danny Wells was standing by the door as Jack and I left, nodding goodbye to people as they went out. When I paused to speak to him again, Jack pulled me away sharply. I noticed surprise on Danny's face, and was glad. At least he got the message. I was definitely spoken for.

"Who was that?" Jack asked with forced disinterest as we went out.

I thought he was masking a note of jealousy rather than curiosity. That didn't bother me. I like a man who's protective. "That was Danny Wells," I said, trying to sound as though it was of no interest that I knew his name. "We were at school together, but I've not seen him since. I'd forgotten all about him."

"Well he certainly remembers _you_ ," Jack said, with considerable emphasis on the you. "Did you enjoy the service?"

"It wasn't bad," I said. I didn't want to make it sound as though I was willing to go every week, although I did feel parts of what I heard were interesting. Even challenging. For some reason I kept thinking about gold star rewards.

"It was good of you to come with me. I appreciate that. But there's no need for you to come with me again."

That night in bed I recalled those words. Had Jack invited me because he was anxious to share part of his church life with me, or did he think I'd seen enough by only going once? Or was he worried about Danny? I couldn't settle off to sleep. I kept thinking about that tadpole kiss. Even at sixteen it was possible to enjoy something like that.

I decided I _would_ go to church again. Next Sunday. Not to see Danny. He wasn't even history. He was a never-was.

On Monday morning I almost phoned in sick and stayed home. I simply couldn't face the barrage of questions Melanie would be firing at me non-stop. I'd taken a couple of pictures with my phone of Jack standing proudly by his dark green E-Type, and he'd taken one of me. I had to hope they would be enough to satisfy my co-owner. As if!

Even spotty Pete Wilders got in on the act. He's not really spotty, but that's how I view young men aged eighteen or nineteen. When I come to think of it, Pete must be two or three years older than Danny had been when.... Well, when our lips accidentally banged together.

I had to stop thinking about Danny. What bad luck that he went to the same church as Jack, and even more bad luck that he recognised me after all these years. It was nearly half my lifetime ago, and we never went out together. He never even offered to carry my book bag back from school!

So in between serving customers, and even while serving customers, Melanie managed to get a condensed account of the drive in the country, and the morning service in Jack's church.

"I think I might go again next Sunday," I said.

"Saint Abigail," Melanie said. "The title suits you." She turned to Pete who was standing by. "Don't you start sniggering, my lad. It would do you good to go to church occasionally."

Pete had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Two Sundays running?" Melanie said to me, thoughtfully. "Isn't that overdoing it a bit? And you really liked it?"

"It was okay," I said noncommittally. "Everyone was friendly. I even met an old school friend."

Melanie now looked especially interested. "Girl or guy? You're blushing. Guy. Was this an old flame?"

I shook my head firmly. Too firmly, obviously. Melanie could read me like a book. "Just some guy. He remembered my nickname, and I remembered his. So we were sort of evens. And that was it."

"It?" Melanie turned to Pete who had moved himself much too close to us. "Go and clean the toilet, and make sure you wear gloves and wash your hands thoroughly afterwards. You're far too young and innocent to hear all this sordid news."

Pete slunk away, making me wonder exactly what he suspected I was up to. Maybe I _should_ go to church again.

I called to see Ivy Smith when I left work, soon after six. Looking back, I think I was hoping Jack would be there. I really enjoyed dating him. Not that we had done a lot together so far, but we had been on that drive together, and he had even given me a brief kiss after church. I had deliberately omitted giving Melanie that bit of information.

Jack wasn't there. Ivy said he'd called in earlier, but was unable to stay. I couldn't believe Jack was avoiding me. It wasn't such a terrible thing that Danny had spoken to me. A bit of jealousy often worked wonders in a relationship.

"I was telling Jack the noises on the stairs haven't stopped," Ivy said, interrupting my dream of romance. "And I know my medicine box had been moved. I always put it in an exact position downstairs. Silly of me, but it's become a bit of a habit."

That reminded me. I still had that brown and white capsule in the screw top bottle at home. Ivy wouldn't need it for a couple of weeks, but I had to remember to bring it back.

I smiled, trying to look reassuring. "Ivy, I'm not going to patronise you by saying it's all your imagination," I said gently, "but I'm sure there's a natural explanation. Tonight, I'm going to set your mind at rest. My house backs onto the woods, and some nights I get foxes coming into my back garden. I've set up a camera that works with infrared light which is invisible to the eye, and it records everything that comes in. I've come to recognise the different foxes. Ivy, last week they brought three young cubs with them."

"I don't want foxes coming into my garden," Ivy said, looking worried. "Please don't bring them here."

I held back a smile. "Not the foxes. A special camera that sees in the dark. I _really_ don't think there's anyone coming into the back of your house, and this will prove it to us." I thought it best to add the us.

"I'll leave it to you, dear, but I still think someone is coming in. I can hear them some nights when they think I'm fast asleep. I keep the front door locked and the kitchen door bolted on the inside. I can't bolt the front door, because Jack or my neighbour couldn't get in if there's an emergency. They have their own keys, and so does Mrs Johnson my carer, because I'm sometimes in bed when she comes. Jack says it's a very high security lock, but I know they're getting in somehow. When you get to my age, sleep can be very difficult."

"Ivy, I'm going home to fetch some equipment. I have a small night vision camera that will run off its battery for several hours. Then if you hear the noises tonight, and there's no sign of anyone getting in, you'll know it's just the house making its own noises as it settles down to sleep."

I got the impression from Ivy that she didn't think much of that deduction, but she was more than willing for me to go and fetch the equipment.

My garden camera and the infrared lighting are powered by mains electricity and a transformer in my garden, so it can work day and night without needing attention. And it's on wi-fi to my computer for live viewing. It has never once caught someone snooping around my garden. Hopefully, the same would apply at Ivy's, because I had no idea what to do if it really did catch someone breaking in. That would be really scary.

The spare camera is a small model with built-in infrared lights. On my main camera, there's a movement sensor that detects movement and switches on the infrared lights and the recorder for ten minutes. If the movement continues, the recorder keeps running.

This small camera is different. It runs continuously. Although I'd never tried it, the instruction book says up to eight hours recording is possible with the built-in battery. What _up to_ actually means, it didn't clarify, but if someone was breaking in around midnight, it should be enough time to catch them on the memory card.

I didn't bother to disturb Ivy again that evening. I waited until it was dusk and slipped round through the archway into Ivy's small backyard. I placed the camera beside one of the large flowerpots. A built-in timer logs the date and exact time during recording.

Pleased with my ingenuity, and of course convinced that there would be nothing recorded in the morning ‒ even if Ivy said the stairs had been creaking all through the night ‒ I returned to my own house.

It would soon be time for bed. All on my poor little own. I wondered if Ivy had ever slept with a man, and immediately felt ashamed of myself. What would Jack be like in bed? Whatever was happening to me?

Chapter 10

I immediately felt guilty about what my mother would have told me were unhealthy thoughts, so I sat up quickly. I'd been stupid. There was only one way into the back of Ivy's house. The kitchen door. And Ivy said it was bolted on the inside. Which left only one available entrance, and that was the front door. It didn't matter how secure the lock was. If someone had a key they could get in easily, because for Ivy's personal safety it had to be possible for the key holders to enter the house in an emergency.

I crawled out of bed, conscious of the trials and tribulations one had to go through to help the elderly and those in need. There was no point in putting the camera in Ivy's back garden. It needed to be in the front, where it would find the imaginary person putting the imaginary key in the high security lock, and going inside for no other reasons than to make Ivy's stairs creak loudly in the early hours of the morning.

This ought to be worth a few gold stars when I got to the pearly gates of heaven.

So, feeling like a housebreaker, I walked casually down Ivy's road, checked that there didn't seem to be anyone around, and went through the archway hoping I wouldn't knock into any old cans or other junk that had been left there in the last couple of hours.

There was enough general light from people's windows to help me find my way to my tiny camera. I didn't even bother to switch it off as I retrieved it and made my way successfully back through the archway.

So far so good. I hadn't managed to set every dog in the neighbourhood howling.

The best way to catch the non-existent man was to face the camera sideways onto the front door. That was easily done, and feeling proud of my handiwork I made sure the front door was definitely locked and then crept to the gate, knowing my every movement was being recorded. I checked left and right that the road was clear, and walked back to my house as though I didn't have a care in the world. I'd never been out this late, and had the irrational fear that there was a bogeyman hiding in every gateway, or a bear climbing over the railings on the other side of the road.

I lost so much sleep that night that I ought to have slept on and been late for work. The opposite was true. At five o'clock I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, my mind buzzing. Of course there wouldn't be anything on the memory card in the camera, apart from me moving furtively around Ivy's front garden, but I had an uncontrollable urge to check it.

Last night was the latest I'd ever been out in the road, as far as I could recall, and this morning was the earliest. It was only just getting light, but I'd dressed fully. After all, a neighbour might be walking a dog, and I didn't want to look like a sleepwalker in pyjamas.

In daylight, I realised I could have been more careful in choosing the position for the camera. An overhanging plant a few inches away partially obscured the view, but if there was anything of interest on the memory card ‒ and there wouldn't be ‒ no one could have got in or out of Ivy's house without tripping the sensor.

I walked back to my own house doing an imitation of a zombie. The lack of sleep and the excitement of last night were affecting my sanity. Convinced it would be a waste of time to slip the memory card into the reader on my laptop, I switched off the deep desire for orange juice and a couple of painkillers for a nagging headache, and opened the night's recording.

The first few minutes, predictably, showed a lot of wobbling as I moved the camera from the back to the front garden before placing it on the ground. The infrared light, invisible to the human eye but visible to the camera, flashed around. The pictures were in black and white, and not perfectly sharp. The problem was caused by the overhanging plant which took most of the light. The infrared lighting fell off in the distance to a blurry grey, whereas my hand adjusting the position of the camera flared out white.

I watched myself walk away and stand at the front door to check it was really locked. I presumed it was me, even though the lighting was poor. I guessed no neighbours had witnessed me doing this, or the camera would have caught the flashing lights of a police car as it arrived too late to arrest me.

I watched nearly an hour of recording. Fortunately I could speed it up. Then the hairs on my arms stood up for the second time in two days. Someone approached the front door, waited a couple of seconds, then put the key in the lock and disappeared into the house. This was so scary.

I ran the frames backwards and forwards half a dozen times. It had to be a man. Or if it was a woman, it was a woman wearing trousers and a bomber jacket.

I shook my head. It was crazy. Ivy Smith really did have an intruder!

Chapter 11

I phoned Jack in excitement. We had already exchanged phone numbers, which was great. People don't do that unless they're serious. Do they? I didn't realise it was only half past five, and he didn't sound exactly thrilled to be woken, but grunted that he'd be round as soon as he'd showered and dressed.

It took Jack nearly thirty minutes to arrive, and I thought he looked worried. Maybe he always looked like this first thing in the morning. If so, it was something I'd have to get used to when we were married!

"I moved the camera round to the front last night," I said, as I brought up the relevant section of the video, and froze the first frame on my computer screen.

"What! Why on earth did you do that, Abi? You should have told me."

This was such an unexpected reaction that my mind went into hyperdrive as the identity of the man at the door became obvious. "It's you, isn't it?"

Jack stayed silent for a moment, and I pressed the start icon. The video ran, and I must have been daft not to have realised it was my Jack at the door. "Why?"

Jack took a deep breath. "You know how my aunt told me I was doing so much for her."

I nodded, anxious to hear the excuse.

"Well, she gets embarrassed when I help her. She needs a lot more care than she admits. So some nights I slip in and tidy up and do a few little jobs around the house."

"So the noise on the stairs and the things being moved are you?"

Jack sighed a long sigh. "Are you cross?"

I copied his long sigh. "You could have said. I've been really worried for Ivy." I suddenly felt angry. "You've been making a fool of me, Jack. I don't like that."

Jack came close to put his arm around me, but I pulled away. "Abi, Abi, please try and understand. Not everyone likes to boast about their good deeds. I love my aunt, and I want her to be comfortable in her last days. Please don't tell her what I'm doing."

That made sort of sense, but it would hardly have been boasting if he'd explained from the start that he let himself in some nights when his aunt was asleep.

Jack watched himself on the computer screen going inside the door. I wound on until I saw movement again. Jack had been in the house for over forty minutes. More than enough time to tidy up a few things.

I moved close to Jack and let him put his arm round me this time. I had to assume his heart was all goodness. If he took that much care of his elderly aunt, he would be sure to make a caring husband. So why did I still feel uneasy?

A marriage has to be built on trust, and a nasty worm of suspicion was burrowing through my brain. I needed to check that Ivy was still alive.

"I feel really bad going to check on Ivy on my way here," I told Melanie when I arrived for work, probably with bags hanging under my eyes the size of potatoes. Then I unburdened myself and started to cry.

Pete had the decency to take his place at the serving counter. He was young, and had a lot to learn about women and their ways ‒ but not now.

"You did the right thing, Abi," Melanie said consolingly. "Think about it, girl. I'm sure you didn't really think for one moment Jack might have done something nasty to the old dear. But the thought of her lying dead in her house, or taking her last few breaths, means you only wanted to check up on her. That's it, isn't it?"

I nodded, although I knew it wasn't the reason at all. How could I possibly have had such terrible thoughts about Jack? The man was all heart. He really cared for his aunt. And he cared for me.

Melanie nodded towards Pete who was busy serving a customer. "I think we've got another love affair starting," she said quietly, a wide grin on her face. "He went off arm in arm with Hayley after work yesterday. They couldn't get enough of each other."

I felt pleased for Pete. From what I'd seen of Hayley she was a pleasant, smiley girl. Pete was a hard worker, and deserved someone nice. As far as I could tell, Hayley came in the category of nice.

I felt my mood lighten as the morning passed, and Jack turned up for lunch at the corner table as usual. His mood also seemed to have lightened, and we chatted away, laughing about the incident with my infrared camera.

"You must let me see some of your wildlife videos," he said. "Living in an apartment I don't see anything of what's going on at night. I sometimes see a fox trotting along the road if I get back late, but I've only ever seen hedgehogs in pictures."

Good news, our relationship had survived its first disagreement. From now on everything would be plain sailing. Hopefully. Maybe.

When Jack had departed, going back to the surgery to fill and pull teeth all afternoon, Melanie said, "Good one, girl. See, I said you had nothing to worry about. Your Jack is a good boy. He's _definitely_ a keeper."

"Mel, you're right. Jack's certainly far above any other man I've known and been out with. Most of them have only wanted one thing."

"And?"

"Not yet."

"You don't think he's...."

I shook my head. "He's definitely all man. I think he's just taking it slowly. I've read that's a good sign. It shows he's interested in me as a person, not just as a plaything."

I felt myself going red. That was far too much information. Even worse, I wondered how Danny Wells would have treated me if we'd met a few weeks earlier, before I saw Jack. Naughty thoughts. I had to stop it.

Ivy was still alive that evening. Jack left me sitting and talking with Ivy, while he went up to check the roof space again. He said it was important to get the roofing felt mended, because the rain had come through in a couple of places, causing damp patches.

Since Jack had told me that Ivy was leaving him the house and everything in it, I assumed he was anxious to protect his inheritance. Well, good for him. He not only cared about me, and Ivy, but now the house too – although caring for the house might be down to maintaining the value of the anticipated inheritance.

I watched Ivy swallow her tablets. The large brown and white capsules went down without any problems. I wondered if there would be a better way of taking them if the patient had problems swallowing ‒ apart from insertion, that is. It might be possible to carefully slide them apart and sprinkle the powder onto a piece of bread, or into a cup of tea. Ivy didn't seem to have many teeth, so there was probably nothing to get in the way once the capsules were in her mouth.

"The doctor says I've not long for this life," Ivy said suddenly. "Make sure you keep that key safe."

"I don't know‒‒‒‒"

"You'll know where it fits once I'm dead," Ivy said, reading my thoughts. Old people can be surprisingly astute.

I shrugged inwardly. _How_ would I know?

"I'm not afraid to die," Ivy said, out of the blue. She pointed to a Bible in a green cover on the small table by her side. "I've read God's promises in there. I know there's a welcome for me in heaven."

I was going to ask Ivy how she could be so sure, when I heard Jack closing the hatch to the roof space with a clatter, then coming down the narrow stairs, the treads creaking at every step. So I had to leave it at that.

Jack came into the room brushing dust from the sleeves of his dark blue shirt. The sun had been out all day, and I guessed it was hot in the loft. And dusty. Very dusty, judging by the dirt on the back of his jeans that fitted snugly around his butt. I had to resist the urge to dust them off.

"I'll organise a builder to fix the felt," he told his aunt. "Do you fancy a drink at the pub?"

I assumed the invitation was for me, since he was now looking at me. Also, Ivy was not a likely candidate for a pub ‒ so that was another clue.

"Sounds good," I said.

"You two lovebirds go along," Ivy said. Then she chuckled. "I think I'll give it a miss. I need an early night."

And that's how we ended up having a couple of drinks, laughing about Jack being detected opening Ivy's front door with his key.

Life was good again. I had Jack, Pete had Hayley, and Melanie had a long, on-off relationship with Steve. What could possibly go wrong!

### Chapter 12

On Saturday evening I told Jack I wanted to go with him to church in the morning. He seemed happy enough. Perhaps he'd forgotten about Danny. I'd _almost_ managed to forget Danny. What a liar ‒ and me about to go to church!

I think I would have gone by myself if Jack hadn't agreed to go with me. I felt sure we wouldn't sing it again, but that old-fashioned hymn, _Rock of Ages_ , had been popping up in my head all week.

I'd looked up the words on my computer, and knew them off by heart now. It was about being unable to help ourselves get to heaven, no matter what we did or didn't do. It seemed that gold stars counted for nothing with God. I have to say that came as a huge surprise. Did anybody else know that?

In the morning, as we got close to the small church, Jack suddenly held me back. Well, if he was getting cold feet, I wasn't. I gave him a tug. "Come on. Let's get a good seat." Yes, that was me, the non-churchgoer speaking!

That's when I realised the reason for Jack's reticence. Standing in the doorway, making everyone welcome, was Danny Wells.

"We don't have to talk to him," I told Jack sternly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jack muttered, bending down and adjusting his shoe. He took his shoe off, shook it, then put it back on.

The whole charade took nearly three minutes, but Danny Wells was still firmly entrenched in the doorway. It looked as though he was on official duty as welcomer, because he was wearing a badge hanging on an orange lanyard.

He gave us both a polite nod, but nothing that distinguished us from any of the other people who were arriving. In fact, he shook hands with several, while just nodding to us.

I'd noticed last week that although the words for the songs and hymns were projected onto the large screen, some people were taking sheets of paper with the words on them. They handed them back after the service, presumably to save paper.

I decided to take a copy, and there to my surprise, my pleasant surprise, I saw the words of _Rock of Ages_. Great.

The pastor clapped his hands again, everyone took their seats, some with their cups of coffee, and the service started. I couldn't see where Danny Wells was sitting. I guessed he was somewhere behind me. Was he looking at me? Why was I even wondering this? I snuggled up against Jack, as close as church decorum would be likely to permit.

Again the pastor spoke about not being able to earn a place in heaven. How we needed to come to Jesus for forgiveness. I can't say this was exactly new to me, because I'd heard it in the church with my parents years ago. It's just that it always sounded too good to be true. Then I thought of what Ivy had said about trusting God's promises. It seemed as though she was onto something there.

Finally, we came to the hymn. _Rock of Ages_. Everyone sang heartily, but I doubt if anyone got as much meaning from the words as I did. We started the second verse.

"Not the labour of my hands

Can fulfil Thy law's demands."

So if gold stars counted for nothing, not even the most perfect life ever, so that certainly ruled me out of getting a place in heaven.

Then came the third verse. The words had meant so much to me last Sunday. As I sang them now, I felt a tingle up my spine. And it wasn't Jack's hand.

"Nothing in my hand I bring,

Simply to Thy cross I cling;

Naked, come to Thee for dress;"

At these words, two young teenage girls in front of me nudged each other. Whether or not they collapsed into a giggling heap, I have no idea. I ignored them completely as I sang the rest of the verse.

"Helpless, look to Thee for grace;

Foul, I to the fountain fly;

Wash me, Saviour, or I die."

By the standards of many of my friends I'd led a decent enough life. People often looked up to me ‒ so I thought, anyway. Then I realised how God saw me. That's what counted. I needed washing. I needed a new start.

As the music died away, the pastor invited anyone who wanted to find Jesus to come to the front for prayer. A few weeks ago, if I'd seen what happened next, I would have thought I'd gone bananas. But that morning nothing could have stopped me. Certainly not Jack holding onto my arm. For a moment I thought he wanted to go with me, but it was clear he wanted me to stay put.

I was going to say that I found Jesus, but I think now it was Jesus who found me. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to be completely forgiven. Two other people had come with me, an older man and a woman. After a quiet talk from the minister and a prayer, I gave myself to Jesus, who had died for me on the cross. As we made our way back to our seats, I caught sight of Danny. He was near the back. He gave me a wink and a thumbs up. Jack gave me a scowl.

"You didn't need to do that," Jack whispered angrily as I sat down.

Oh yes I did, but I said nothing. "Wash me, Saviour, or I die." What an amazing prayer.

At the back, at the end of the service, the pastor gave me a small booklet on starting out in the Christian life, and he obviously wanted me to stay and have a chat. But Jack was having none of it. Holding me by the arm we hurried out of the church and into the road outside. The walk back to my house was chilly, to say the least. But my heart was glowing.

Then he said quietly, "You didn't have to do that for me, Abi."

I shook my head. "I didn't do it for you, Jack. I did it for myself."

We walked in silence, then suddenly Jack said, "I'm sorry, Abi. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that people like us don't do that sort of thing. Going to church is enough for us to get a place in heaven. I didn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of everyone."

Okay, he was trying to make peace, but he obviously hadn't been listening to the talk. Going forward for prayer was _exactly_ for people like us.

"Let's call and see Auntie," Jack said, quickly changing the subject. "I took her a chicken ready meal yesterday. We can put it in the microwave for her, if she hasn't done so already. I like to make sure she's okay. The carer doesn't call until the evening on Sundays."

I was in two minds. Part of me wanted to get home and read the booklet on starting out in the Christian life. The other part wanted to stay close to Jack. After all, he'd apologised, although as far as I could see he was clearly in the wrong.

At Ivy's front door Jack tapped lightly before taking out his key. "I just like to let her know I'm in the house," he said.

"Unless it's secretly, the middle of the night." Of course, I didn't actually say it. Maybe our relationship wasn't fully back on course if words like that ran through my head.

Ivy Smith wasn't in the back room. Jack called up the stairs, but got no answer. I had a bad feeling about this.

"You go up, Jack," I said quietly. "I'll wait here." I've already said I have a horror of the dead and the nearly dead.

Judging by how slowly Jack made his way up the creaking staircase, I think he shared my premonition. I heard him open Ivy's bedroom door. There was a long pause, and then Jack appeared at the top of the stairs.

"I'm phoning the doctor," he said. "I think we're too late."

Indeed we were. It wasn't the GP who came, but an ambulance crew with a flashing blue light ‒ just in case. They might as well have saved the fuel. Ivy was stone cold, and had died some time in the night. Jack said she looked very peaceful. Perhaps she did, but being a thoughtful man he would have said that to me anyway.

Ivy's chicken ready meal stayed uneaten. Neither of us felt hungry. We sat and waited for the GP, who turned up mid afternoon and signed the death certificate. Natural causes. He explained that because he had been treating Ivy, and her death was totally to be expected, there would be no inquest.

After signing the death certificate in the downstairs living room, he went across to Ivy's box of tablets where they were neatly laid out for the morning and evening of every day. The Saturday tablets had gone, but the Sunday compartments were still full.

He shook his head. "I have to say I'm puzzled. Miss Smith has been taking the ARBs every day for her heart, and yet they seem to have had no effect lately. I know they eventually cease to be of any benefit. Indeed, they can sometimes have a negative one. It's clear to me her time had come."

I was about to ask what ARBs were, when I remembered the brown and white torpedo capsule I had taken to the pharmacy for confirmation that they were the right ones for Ivy.

Jack picked up the box. "Well, they're no use to my aunt now. Leave them with me. I'll bin them."

The GP gave Jack a look that spoke of deep sympathy. "You mustn't put them with the rubbish, Mr Thornley. If you give them to me, I'll take them to the surgery in the morning. We will dispose of them safely there."

Jack backed away slightly. "You've got enough to do, doctor. I go past the pharmacy on my way to work in the morning. I'll do it."

Jack seemed remarkably keen to refuse the doctor's offer. For a moment I felt jealous. Perhaps he really _was_ chatting up Little Miss Pharmacy. But no, it was almost as though he wanted to keep the capsules away from the doctor.

Back home, I switched on the television to watch the early evening news, I wondered why Jack had been so keen to keep hold of the medicine box. He'd walked back home with me, but left me as he said he would rather deal with the undertaker alone. Ivy's thin little body was being collected at seven in what was called a Private Ambulance.

Her body was being collected, but I was sure her soul was now with Jesus. When I get there, I'll find her and tell her how her words challenged me, and led me to find the peace of forgiveness.

I switched off the news. Nothing dramatic was happening in the world. Ivy's sudden death was far more dramatic to me. I noticed the booklet from church on the table and dipped into it. Wow, did I have a lot to learn! Fortunately, it seemed I didn't have to get everything right from the word go.

Jack would still be at Ivy's house waiting for the undertaker, and he really needed company. I was surprised he'd taken me home, when I could have tried to give some support. I decided to go round.

Chapter 13

I rang the bell on Ivy's door, and waited for what seemed like several minutes before Jack came. At first I thought perhaps he was upstairs with the undertaker, but there was no sign of the Private Ambulance outside.

"Oh, it's you," Jack said. He was covered in dust.

I thought I'd get a better welcome than that. "Just wondered if I could be any help."

"I thought it was Mrs Johnson again. You know, the carer. On Sundays she only comes once. She called a few minutes ago, and I explained that my aunt had passed away. She didn't even come in. She's agreed to come back in the morning just to sort out a few of my aunt's personal things."

Almost reluctantly Jack stood back so I could enter the small hallway, and closed the door quickly. "Either Mrs Johnson again, or the undertaker an hour early. I wasn't expecting you."

"So they've not been yet," I said, stating the obvious. He would hardly be expecting a second call from the undertaker.

At that moment the doorbell rang, making me jump. I stood aside to let Jack open the door. "That will be them now."

It was Mrs Bartholomew, my old maths teacher from school. Whenever I saw her up close, I was always surprised how young she looked. I thought she was at least a hundred years old when I was at school.

We called her _The Bath_ , such is the way with kids at school. We probably thought some genius, way beyond us for intellect, had come up with the name.

Jack stood there looking puzzled. "Oh yes, you live next door. Can I help you?"

I thought Jack sounded a bit annoyed by the interruption. It was probably because of his dusty clothes. I took a quick glance up the stairs and saw the ladder leaning against the loft hatch. Whatever was the man doing up there, with his aunt lying dead in bed in the room below?

"It's Abi Button I've come to see," Mrs Bartholomew said. "I saw you coming up the path. Ivy Smith gave me a small wooden box that I have to give to you."

"So that's where it is," Jack said, pushing me aside. "I wondered what my aunt had done with it. It's for me, not for Abi."

Mrs Bartholomew showed that her hands were empty. "Jack, I'm sorry your aunt has died so suddenly, but two days ago she told me it was her stated wish that I gave the box to no one else but Abi Button. She gave Abi the key."

"The box went missing months ago. It's my property now," Jack said, sounding annoyed. "I'm inheriting every single bit of my aunt's property in her will. I'm her only living relative."

I thought there was going to be a bit of a stand-off, but Mrs Bartholomew said, "Wait here. I'll be straight back."

It was immediately clear to me why Jack had been hunting through the house, and now the loft. I remembered when Ivy had given me the key she said I had to use it after her death, and not before. In that case, the box was mine, not Jack's.

While I was wondering what amazing treasures it could contain, Mrs Bartholomew returned with Mr Bartholomew. And no box.

I remembered Mrs Bartholomew's husband taught in the local college, and he still worked there part time. I wondered how Jack would fare now he was faced with two formidable teachers.

"Mr Thornley," Mr Bartholomew said. He was a large man, and he certainly had a formidable attitude. "Mr Thornley, six months ago your aunt specifically gave the box into our keeping. Two days ago she explained she was giving the key to the young lady here, and she is now the only one with permission to open it."

Jack turned angrily to me. "You mean to say you've been keeping the key a secret from me?"

Like a young girl at primary school, I almost moved to hide behind Mrs Bartholomew's skirt for protection. "Jack, I'm sure your aunt didn't mean you any harm. There might be something in the box she doesn't want you to see. Please don't get so worked up. I've got the key here in my jeans. You can watch me open it."

Mr Bartholomew shook his head. "Ivy specifically said you have to open it on your _own_." I could tell he must still be a very firm tutor at the college.

"That's right," Mrs Bartholomew said, sounding even firmer ‒ if that were possible. Before Jack could throw a tantrum, a large black van drew up outside the house, with the words PRIVATE AMBULANCE in small gold letters discreetly on the side.

The mere arrival of the vehicle caused a few curtains to twitch up and down the road. I didn't want to watch Ivy's body being taken down the stairs and loaded into the back of the van.

Mrs Bartholomew invited me into her house. It was the first time, and I was surprised she could be so kind, bearing in mind all the trouble I'd given her in class. I had suffered from an extreme allergic reaction to school, especially to maths.

While Jack led the two undertakers into Ivy's house, Mrs Bartholomew quickly pulled me indoors and closed the door.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Why can't Jack know about this?"

Mr Bartholomew fetched a dark wooden box, slightly longer than a shoebox, and placed it on the coffee table. It was ornate and probably Victorian, with inlaid mother of pearl and fancy brass hinges and catch. The keyhole looked just the right size for Ivy's silver key.

"Wait a moment," Mrs Bartholomew said. "Ivy's instructions were that you were not to open it with Jack present. I think we'd better leave you alone."

"No, please stay. I'm quite scared about what I'm going to find inside. Ivy didn't say you couldn't be with me, did she?"

The Bartholomews shrugged.

"Perhaps we had better stay," Mrs Bartholomew said, laughing and nudging her husband, much to my surprise. They seemed like a happily married couple. When I was at school I would never have thought of school teachers living normal lives.

I fitted the key into the lock, and hesitated before turning it. I felt guilty not asking Jack to be here, but Ivy's wishes were Ivy's wishes.

I turned the key.

As I opened the lid, I half expected something to jump out at me. I think I must have looked rather pale.

"Take your time," Mrs Bartholomew said gently. Then, as I opened the lid fully, she said, "Yes, that's what we thought would be in there. I recognise the will."

There was indeed a will, and a quick look showed that Mr and Mrs Bartholomew had witnessed it for Ivy. There was no solicitor's name at the top. It looked like a _pro forma_ will that could be bought at a stationery store.

I read the opening lines. Ivy Smith certified that she was of sound mind. Well, no one could have doubted that. She went on to say she was leaving the contents of her house to her nephew Jack Thornley.

I stopped at that point. Surely Jack was getting the _house_. At least, he thought he was. So who was getting the house? The answer was over the page.

To my lovely daughter Abigail I leave my house.

To me? Ivy Smith certainly wasn't of sound mind if she thought I was her daughter!

"What is it, Abi?" Mrs Bartholomew asked, sounding genuinely concerned by my loud gasp.

I looked at the date. The will had been made two years ago. Maybe Ivy Smith had been of sound mind after all.

"Did you know Ivy has a daughter?" I asked.

Both Mr and Mrs Bartholomew shook their heads. "She never said anything to us," Mrs Bartholomew said, "although she did sometimes drop hints about a small child. Ivy didn't let us read the will. All we had to do was witness her signature. What does it say?"

I took a deep breath. "She's leaving the contents of her house to Jack, and her house to her daughter Abigail." I shrugged. "That's all it says. So if you don't know where her daughter is, who's going to find her?"

Mr Bartholomew pointed to a white envelope in the box. "Perhaps the answer is in there."

The envelope had the words, _To the holder of the key to this box_ , written in the shaky hand that was clearly Ivy's.

"I think you ought to open it," Mrs Bartholomew said. "That's you. Ivy gave the key to you."

At that moment there was a loud knock on the front door. Mr Bartholomew went to open it, and I heard him say very firmly, "No, I'm sorry, but you _can't_ come in. No, Abi is occupied at the moment."

There was a momentary exchange of words, and then I heard the door being shut. Firmly. Mr Bartholomew came back into the room and sat by the side of his wife. "That young man is a nuisance," was all he said.

Nervously, probably unnecessarily nervously, I undid the flap of the envelope and pulled out a sheet of lined notepaper typical of the notepaper used by old people. I read it to myself, and looked at the Bartholomews in amazement. "I can't believe this," I said.

"Are you able to share it, Abi?" Mrs Bartholomew asked. I wouldn't describe the question as being nosy, more like being especially interested ‒ in the best possible taste, of course.

So I read it aloud.

"I request the holder of the silver key to the box to appoint a solicitor to administer my will, and do his or her best to locate my daughter Abigail. She was conceived out of wedlock when I was only seventeen years of age. My parents hid me away in shame until the time when the baby was nearly due. I was taken to a home far away for unmarried mothers to await the birth. When the baby was born and the cord was cut, the nurse tried to snatch the baby from me. For a moment I caught hold of her and gave her a kiss. I told her that her name was Abigail, and that I loved her.

And that was the last I saw of my daughter. I have often wondered what became of her, and who adopted her. I have felt too ashamed to find her and meet her face to face. How could I ever explain that I let her be taken from me, her true mother? Has my little Abigail grown up to have children of her own? If she is still alive, is she happy? In the bottom of this box are seven gold sovereigns that my father gave me. Please ask the solicitor to use them for the expense of finding Abigail. When you find her, show her this letter so she will understand how she came into the world, and tell her she was always in my thoughts."

I looked up at Mrs Bartholomew, completely lost for words. I would have been unable to speak anyway, for I was sobbing. Poor, poor Ivy. What sadness she must have suffered. It was no wonder she didn't want to go into any sort of care home again, with a memory like that.

I let Mrs Bartholomew take the letter from my shaking hands. "I can see now why she wanted you to open it, Abi, and not Jack."

"You're not suggesting Jack would have destroyed the will, are you?" I asked, recovering my voice. "That's not fair."

"No, Abi, I don't mean it like that. I expect Ivy wanted someone completely independent to see to the administration of the will. She gave you the key, which was her way of formally appointing you to do it."

Mrs Bartholomew sounded convincing, but I wasn't at all convinced. I think she was suspicious of Jack. Maybe she had reason to be suspicious. It seemed as though Jack was determined to get his hands on the box before anyone else. Oh, how guilty I felt in privately sharing Mrs Bartholomew's carefully camouflaged unease.

"Do you know who her solicitor is?"

Mrs Bartholomew shook her head. "Ivy didn't have one. She asked us to purchase a blank will form from the stationers, and got us to witness it. We had no idea what she had written. Now that I know the reason, I can only guess she was too embarrassed to share about her illegitimate daughter with anyone, not even a solicitor. Oh, dear Ivy, I wish we'd known. We could have helped you track down the daughter you only saw for a few seconds."

I had a bright idea ‒ yet more proof that blondes are smart. "Did Ivy ever do a DNA test? That might help us find a match. Assuming, of course, her daughter has also taken one. Or maybe her daughter's children or grandchildren might have done it."

Mr Bartholomew shook his head. "Not as far as I know. If she had, I'm sure she would have consulted with us about the best way to go about it. She confided in us quite a bit, but the news of her daughter called Abigail is shattering."

I remembered something Ivy said to me when we first met, and I started to cry again. Mrs Bartholomew saved me some embarrassment by passing me a box of Kleenex. Ivy had told me, "I once knew a tiny girl called Abigail. But that was a long time ago. A long, long time ago. I have no idea where she is now."

I wasn't sure how far seven gold sovereigns would go towards tracking down an adopted child. Ivy didn't give any details of where the care home was. Just that it was somewhere far away. It looked like DNA was our only chance. I say our, because I was fully involved now, determined to right the wrong of the baby girl coldheartedly wrenched away from her mother at birth.

Chapter 14

When I rang the bell on Ivy's door half an hour later, there was no answer. I lifted the letterbox flap but was unable to sense if Jack was there or not. Maybe he was deliberately ignoring me. The Private Ambulance had gone, so perhaps he had gone with the undertaker to sort out the arrangements for the funeral. If so, I chided myself for having unkind thoughts.

As far as the Bartholomews knew, Ivy Smith had no solicitor. Well, I would need one to sort out her estate. They asked me if I knew one. Well, I did. Sort of. A junior solicitor called Danny Wells. He had not presumed to give me a card in church. I think he still fancied me a bit, which made contacting him a bit awkward. No, I could contact him in a purely professional capacity ‒ and make sure it stayed like that.

I returned to the Bartholomews and told them I would contact a solicitor in the morning. In the meantime, they promised to keep the will, the letter and the gold sovereigns safely, and not let Jack Thornley have them, however much he insisted.

Mr Bartholomew smiled a wry smile. "The gold sovereigns are safe here. But there's nothing to stop us giving him the empty box."

I almost laughed through my tears. "No, he's welcome to the box. But not the key. I'm officially the holder of the key."

Back at home I found the website for Branks, Davis & Waters. Daniel Wells was listed as a member of staff. His picture was on there, too, smiling out at me. Seeing his name and picture gave me a small thrill. More of what my mother would have called unhealthy thoughts. No, this was strictly business. I still had Jack. We would ride the storm. I was convinced we would.

Okay, so I would phone the solicitors first thing in the morning. I wouldn't ask to speak to Danny. No, I definitely wouldn't. I'd ask to speak to somebody much more senior. Someone who was much too old for me.

The next thing was to research DNA. I knew that the commercial companies offering the service asked for a sample of saliva. There was no chance of getting saliva from Ivy now. I knew that blood could also be used. Again, the same problem arose. Of course, police finding a decomposing body can get a DNA match, but I doubted that the service was available to the general public.

Anyway, wouldn't Jack need to give his permission as the only _known_ living relative for any part of Ivy's body to be taken? As far as the law was concerned at this time, Ivy's baby Abigail might be a figment of her imagination. Or she might have died soon after birth.

Possibly there could be a court order to obtain DNA from Ivy's body, but by the time we got a court order Jack would probably have arranged cremation. I frowned. Why was I thinking such negative thoughts about Jack? He believed he was inheriting everything, but when I thought about it I realised Ivy had just pointed generally around and said it was all going to be Jack's one day. No definite mention of the house. I wondered how he would react when he learned it wasn't his after all.

No way could I even conceive, in my wildest imagination, that Jack would have destroyed the will if he had found it. But he definitely knew there was something unsettling in that wooden box, which was why he'd been searching for it night after night when he entered the house in the dark. It wasn't to do good deeds for Ivy. It was to do a good deed for himself. And when I mentioned there were things up in the roof space and a ladder hidden behind a wardrobe, he must have thought he'd hit the jackpot.

I kept searching for information on DNA. It couldn't be recovered from the ashes of a full cremation. Well, that hardly surprised me. It could be recovered from bones and hair. Could I get hold of some of Ivy's hair? Again, that probably depended on getting permission from Jack. I really wanted to do this without involving him. Somehow, Ivy's wishes overrode Jack's at this moment.

Urine. Urine and faeces. And stomach contents. Yuck. Well, that wouldn't be possible either, without an autopsy. Wait! What about the chamber pot that Mrs Johnson the carer emptied every morning? Every morning except Sunday, that is. Jack said he'd turned her away this evening. Ivy was no longer in need of that sort of care.

My mind was running in the direction I didn't really want it to go. If Mrs Johnson had not been inside the house since yesterday evening, it was likely Ivy would have used the chamber pot either in the night or in the morning before she died. There might be some urine in it. _Just_ urine, I hoped, for the duty of collecting it was now mine.

I wondered how to go about collecting a _small_ sample ‒ definitely small ‒ without Jack finding out. Did the Bartholomews have a key? I recollected Ivy mentioning them when talking about the front door. I would go back to Ivy's house now. More than that, I would take rubber gloves, a facemask, and a storage jar with a lid with an absolutely perfectly watertight seal. I had such items in my own kitchen, but I had never conceived of such use when I purchased them.

There were no lights showing in the front of Ivy's house when I returned at nine o'clock. I went through the archway to the back, and the house was in darkness. A light shone through the downstairs curtains of the Bartholomews' houses next door. Since Mrs Bartholomew wasn't over one hundred years old, as I'd incorrectly thought at school, I guessed they were still up.

As I went to the Bartholomews' door, I could hear their television. So far so good. I'd left the bag containing the grisly recovery equipment by Ivy's front door.

I rang the bell.

I think Mr Bartholomew looked a bit surprised to see me, but I was invited in and explained my mission.

"If you're sure, Abi," Mrs Bartholomew said, pulling a bit of a face. "It just doesn't sound very nice."

Not very nice? That was putting it mildly. "It's what Ivy wants that matters," I said rather piously, feeling completely twisted up in my stomach.

Mrs Bartholomew said she'd go with me. She didn't say how far she'd go. Probably as far as the bottom of the stairs.

Just in case Jack had decided to sleep there and had gone to bed early, I rang the bell several times. Nobody came. Mrs Bartholomew unlocked the front door, and I called out loudly in the hall. In a way I was hoping Jack was still there and I could forego the fun of fishing around in Ivy's chamber pot. No such luck.

To my surprise, Mrs Bartholomew followed me up the stairs, and the creaking brought back memories of the elderly lady I had only known a short time. As I opened the bedroom door I almost expected to see Ivy still lying in the bed.

The quilt had been folded back, but of course the bed was empty. A small depression showed where her frail body had been lying. I looked at it in fascination, and then turned my attention to what was underneath the bed.

I had my rubber gloves on now. Strong kitchen gloves that would reduce the sensitivity to anything I might find in the pot. I pulled the china chamber pot out very slowly and carefully. It was covered with a white muslin square with glass beads on each corner to hold it firmly in place.

I removed the muslin square and immediately wished I hadn't looked inside. For an old lady of ninety-one, Ivy had certainly been productive. I felt my stomach heave, and nearly added my own DNA to the contents. No way was I going to put my hand in there, even wearing the thickest and safest gloves anyone could buy.

Mrs Bartholomew seemed to be completely unmoved by what was floating around. She took pity on me, although I have no idea why a teacher would take such pity on a former disruptive pupil. I gladly surrendered the gloves, and turned away.

"Pass me the hand towel from the end of the bed," Mrs Bartholomew said, as I heard the lid snap firmly onto the storage jar. "There's no point in advertising what we have here."

Definitely no point at all. I even let Mrs Bartholomew take the jar to the bottom of the stairs before she handed it to me. The last thing I wanted to do was fall headlong, with the jar bursting open as I fell.

Fifteen minutes later I was safely home, the jar still wrapped in the hand towel, wedged upright in the bottom of a deep carrier bag. I left it in the hall, had a long hot shower, and tried to get to sleep.

First thing tomorrow morning I would phone Melanie and explain what had happened, without giving any unpleasant details, and then phone Danny Wells. No, stupid girl, not Danny Wells. I would phone Branks, Davis & Waters and ask to speak to somebody elderly. Ideally, somebody in a strong marriage relationship. I would definitely _not_ mention Mr Daniel Wells.

Chapter 15

At seven o'clock next morning I phoned Melanie at work, and promised to be in by nine. There was no point in trying to phone Messrs Whatnot & Whatnot until nine thirty, and I could easily do that from work.

At work, my impatience got the better of me, and instead of waiting until nine thirty, I rang at five past. I explained I wanted to speak to one of the solicitors, completely forgetting to add the word senior. Or perhaps subconsciously I was trying to save Ivy some money in fees. Or perhaps I had somehow mentioned the name of Danny Wells in my confusion.

"Mr Wells is free at the moment. I'm putting you through now."

" _No, no, not him!_ " I screamed. But I must have done it silently, because Danny answered.

I explained who I was, although I think he recognised my voice immediately. Couldn't think why. Anyway, I told him briefly about the will and the letter, and how I'd anticipated a DNA search for the missing child and obtained a suitable sample. He seemed impressed. To my surprise he said the company regularly dealt with a specialist laboratory that carried out DNA testing for legal purposes. He thought the service included urine. I hadn't bothered to mention the solid matter also slopping around in the storage jar.

"Can you drop the papers in to me at the office this morning?" Danny asked. "Or if you're too busy to come round, I could have a coffee with you at Button Up."

And have Melanie checking you up and down? No way! But then I heard myself saying, "At Button Up would be good. Thanks. What time?"

"How about half-an-hour? You have the papers with you?"

"Sure," I said. Hold on, I thought, I'm a Christian now. A real Christian. Christians shouldn't tell lies. "I can have them by the time you call here. And we need to discuss your fees. I doubt Ivy Smith had much in the bank. She's left seven gold sovereigns in the box. I don't think they're worth more than a couple of thousand pounds, unless there are some rare dates or unusual mint marks."

"We'll talk about that," Danny said. "See you in half-an-hour."

"Quick," I said to Melanie. "Lend me your motor. I have to go back to Ivy Smith's neighbours and get some paperwork. I've got a solicitor coming here in thirty minutes to discuss the old lady's will. _Please_ , the keys. I promise to tell you all about it later."

Melanie was the only one of the three of us at Button Up with a car, although I held a current licence. It was a small Fiat that she parked in our space around the back of the shop. Melanie lived with her family some way out of town where the bus service was almost non-existent.

Pete was half listening to the conversation, but he didn't appear to be interested. Fortunately, the Bartholomews were both in. I explained I wanted the sovereigns and the papers.

"Mr Thornley called for everything earlier," Mrs Bartholomew explained. "The fuss he made. He said he was seeing a solicitor to get a court order, because everything in the house belonged to him. I pointed out that the box wasn't in the house, and that Ivy had insisted it was given to you, Abi."

I was standing in the Bartholomews' doorway, and I looked round uneasily in case Jack was watching. I felt really bad about keeping this from him, but I was under an obligation to Ivy to obey her wishes.

Mrs Bartholomew handed me the box, assuring me everything was inside. The key was still in the lock. I turned it to secure the lid, and slipped the key into the pocket of my jeans as I hurried to Melanie Upton's car, locking the doors for security before I even started the engine.

I arrived back at the coffee shop with ten minutes to spare ‒ assuming Mr Daniel Wells from Branks, Davis & Waters was on time. Both Melanie and Pete were busy serving customers, so I made myself comfortable at the corner table, on which I had had the foresight to place a reserved sign before dashing off.

I would have liked to say that the conversation with the smartly dressed Danny Wells was purely business. However, somehow it slipped out that Jack was behaving badly, and was desperate to get his hands on the papers. Danny skimmed through them with the occasional knowledgeable aha and hum. Then he looked up with a smile.

"As far as I can see the will is legally signed and witnessed. The letter is clearly an instruction to you, as the holder of the key, to appoint a solicitor. That can be Branks, Davis & Waters if that's your wish."

"But who's going to pay?" I asked. "I can't see Jack Thornley offering to help in the search for Ivy's daughter, because if the heir to the house can't be found, I imagine he gets the house as well."

Danny nodded, and picked up the sovereigns. "I'm sure the client assumed these would cover the bill. That's unlikely. However, I think we can take this letter as a mandate to deal with the whole affair, meaning the will and finding the daughter. It's tricky. I need to have a word with one of the senior partners. It may be that Miss Ivy Smith has a considerable sum of money in the bank. Leave it with me, Abi, and I'll look into it."

"She's left three thousand pounds in a drawer to pay for her funeral. Or maybe Jack took it home for safekeeping. It will be around somewhere. That's the only money I know of. Can I do anything to help keep the cost down?"

"There won't be any money involved at this stage. Where can I get in touch with you?"

Melanie was taking her time clearing the nearby table. Well, she was going to find out everything soon enough.

I gave Danny my mobile number and my home address. What on earth was making me behave like this? Because this was purely business, I kept telling myself. Purely business.

As soon as Danny had gone, Melanie ignored the two customers waiting at the counter, and pushed me back into the chair I was getting up from. " _Another_ one of your catches?"

"I'll tell you when things go quiet here. In the meantime, we're about to lose two customers to the competition if you don't get back to the counter sharpish."

Somehow, in spite of a busy morning, Melanie managed to get more or less the full story from me.

"Your Jack sounds like a bad lot," she said, sounding serious. And I guessed she was.

"Melanie, I just don't know what to think. Let's face it, Jack was expecting to inherit the house. Not that he needs it. I'm sure he's well off. He has a large apartment and a classic Jaguar."

Melanie gave me a hug. "Take it slowly, girl. Maybe don't dump him just yet. See what your new boyfriend can do."

I didn't reply. Had I already dumped Jack in my mind, if not in actual deed?

At twelve o'clock on the dot Jack Thornley appeared. He looked annoyed that his regular table in the corner was occupied. Well, I'd hardly been expecting him. It turned out he wasn't even staying for lunch. The coffee shop was busy, and with a jerk of the head he told me to go outside with him.

I'm not going into any details. Suffice it to say that Jack said he had already taken legal steps to recover the contents of the box. I told him I had already taken legal steps for Ivy's wishes to be carried out. He wanted to know the name of the solicitors I was using. I refused to tell him.

Ten minutes later he stormed off. I couldn't bring myself to feel especially sorry for Jack, but I did feel sorry for any patients whose teeth he might be working on in the afternoon.

As I was walking home after work, feeling a mixture of guilt and excitement over what had happened in the past twenty-four hours, my phone rang. I didn't recognise the number, and nearly didn't bother to answer it. But my curiosity got the better of me. If it was a nuisance call, I was in a bad enough mood to really let rip.

"Hello?" Sounding wary.

"Abi, it's Danny here. Daniel Wells of Branks, Davis & Waters."

"Oh, hi. I didn't recognise the number." Sounding enthusiastic.

"No problem. I've had a word with Mr Waters. He agrees that the will is valid, and since it seems that Miss Smith has authorised you, as the holder of the key, to act as her executor, he says we can go ahead."

I explained about Jack Thornley calling in, and saying he had taken independent legal advice.

"I don't think we need be concerned about that, Abi. Anyway, there's good news. We do sometimes take on the occasional case for free. _Pro Bono_ work. I've not been with Branks, Davis & Waters very long, and although I've qualified, I'm still formally in training. Mr Waters is happy for me to work on Ivy's will and her request to find her daughter for experience, mostly in my own time."

I wasn't quite sure what Danny meant by that. "So does that mean I have to pay you?"

He laughed. A gentle laugh. "There will be some expenses involved. The DNA test for one thing. The sale of the gold sovereigns will more than cover that. I need to find Miss Smith's bank details, assuming she had an account. But I can write the enquiry letters at home, using our official headed notepaper."

"It's a lot of work for you, Danny. Are you sure you want to take it on?" Oh, how I was hoping he did!

"It will be good experience for me," he said. "Don't worry about it. Can we meet a bit later this evening in town? Or‒‒‒‒"

"Or you can come to mine if you like." What? There, I'd said it!

Perhaps I wanted company in case Jack called round. Jack Thornley was slightly taller than Danny Wells, and his voice was deeper, but I knew Danny wouldn't feel threatened.

Not only did I invite Danny to my house, I even rustled up a quick meal for us from my fridge and freezer. Nothing exotic, but Danny seemed pleased enough. Of course, he might just have been polite.

Danny had already contacted the specialist DNA analysis company, and asked me for the sample. It was still wrapped in the towel in the bottom of the carrier bag. And still standing upright. I told him not to unwrap the towel in my presence. What a shock he was going to get!

The doorbell rang. I knew straight away who it was from the way it rang so persistently, and I think Danny did too. We were sitting side by side on the small sofa, and I got up and answered the door.

Jack stormed in. "I thought you were my friend," he said, pushing his way past me. "You're a snake!"

Then he spotted Danny. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Danny stood up. "Miss Button has invited me here to discuss the administration of Miss Smith's legal affairs."

My, he did sound professional. I took a deep breath. "This is Daniel Wells. He's my solicitor now."

"I know who he _is_. What's he doing _here_?"

"Miss Button was instructed by Miss Ivy Smith as the holder of the key to the box to be in charge of administering the estate."

"That can't be right," Jack shouted. There was no sign of him calming down yet. " _I_ am the only surviving relative."

Danny shook his head. "Maybe you are not aware that your aunt had a baby out of wedlock when she was seventeen years old. The baby was adopted, and Miss Smith wants Miss Button to track down that child to inherit the house, or if she is deceased, her children or grandchildren to inherit it."

This was clearly news to Jack. He shook his head. "That can't be true. She would have told me."

I felt I ought to intervene here. "I think your aunt was ashamed to admit it to anyone, but she often wondered what had happened to her baby. And now it is our duty to do our best to track down the child or the child's descendants."

"Fat chance of that," Jack snapped. "What are you going to use? DNA?"

"That's exactly what we're doing," Danny said, coming back into the heated conversation.

"I refuse to let you go near my Aunt's body. I'll fight you every step of the way. That house is now legally mine."

I noticed Danny glance at me and shake his head. So I kept quiet.

"I need the papers from the box," Jack said. " _Now_ , if you have them here."

Danny was certainly on the ball. Well, I suppose you have to be if you're a solicitor – even a junior one. He had brought a slim black briefcase with him. He opened it. "The letter," he said as he handed them to Jack.

Jack screwed up his face. "This is a copy. I want the original."

"The original and the will are in the office safe," Danny said. "Now, Mr Thornley, I think you ought to leave."

Jack gave me a desperate look, the sort of look a child gives its parent when being left behind on the first day of school.

"Go now, Jack."

As he let himself out, his parting words carried a threat. "You've not heard the last of this, Abi."

Chapter 16

I got to work just after six forty-five, well before Melanie even had a chance to open Button Up for business. I desperately needed a shoulder to lean on. Maybe to cry on. So far, my contact with Danny was purely professional ‒ unfortunately, because his shoulder would have made a great place to lean on.

"I think I've seen the last of Jack Thornley," I said, my feelings mixed up. Did I really want to finish with him?

"That man is best forgotten," Melanie said, as she topped up the water in the coffee machine.

"Don't say a word to Pete," I said.

Then the whole story of the chamber pot came out.

Melanie clutched her stomach and pretended to be sick. That recalled even more unpleasant memories. She looked around. "You've not brought that jar to work, have you? Just our luck that the health inspector calls today."

I think she was joking, but I assured her Danny had taken the jar and its contents with him when he left last night. Without even looking at it. Maybe I should have prepared him for the shock that was surely coming his way.

"Rather him than me," Melanie said, walking to the door and opening the latch and turning the sign to Open.

Indeed yes, I thought. Rather Danny than me.

We had our usual rush of customers and quiet periods that morning. Then to my surprise, horror, Jack Thornley turned up. Someone was already sitting at the table in the far corner. As far as I was concerned it was no longer his table. Danny's perhaps.

He hadn't come to sit down, anyway. He handed me a sealed envelope, said he'd returned all Ivy's medication to the pharmacy, then turned and left.

I had a look inside the envelope. The letter was formal and seemed to contain unpleasant allegations. I wasn't going to read it right through. That was a job for Danny. So I phoned him and explained about the letter. He said he was running a bit late with a client, and would soon have a break for a late lunch. He'd come and collect it from me. Great.

The table in the far corner was reserved when Danny arrived an hour later. Reserved for Danny. I handed him the envelope and took his order for bacon quiche, coleslaw and side salad,

When I returned to his table, the envelope was closed again. "Is it serious?" I asked. Obviously Jack thought it was, or he wouldn't have delivered it in such a dramatic fashion.

"I won't give you the full details," Danny said, his lunch untouched for the moment. "You're right, there are some nasty accusations in there. Jack Thornley claims that you must have found the key and taken it, and that his aunt definitely didn't give it to you."

"That's a lie," I said.

Danny nodded. "I don't doubt it, Abi. He also claims his aunt left three thousand pounds for her funeral expenses in a drawer in her bedroom. It's missing."

I felt the blood draining from my face. "Ivy told me about it, but I didn't actually see it. If I had seen it, I certainly wouldn't have taken it. I told Jack to take it to his apartment for safety. You have to know I'm telling the truth. I've got a lot to learn about Jesus, but you saw me go forward in church yesterday. I really do believe in Him now."

Danny nodded. "I know. That's great. If you want to join our church we have a midweek home group you might like to come along to. Nothing heavy."

I think he added the "nothing heavy" words because I looked a bit put out. I nodded. "Maybe. I'll see."

Danny pointed to the envelope. "Potentially, these accusations are extremely grave."

"But they're all nonsense," I protested. "Jack Thornley can't have any proof. I might as well accuse Jack of poisoning his aunt."

To my surprise, Danny looked interested. "I don't know if you're serious or not."

I shook my head. "Not Jack, but I did wonder if the pharmacy was dispensing the incorrect medication. I even went as far as going to the pharmacist to check up. Jack came with me. Everything was right. Even so, Ivy's GP was puzzled that the medication wasn't having the desired effect. But it was the only drug the hospital said would work, and she was taking the maximum dose possible."

Danny looked interested. "Did you suspect Jack of interfering with the medicine?"

I shook my head, vigorously. "Of course not. Jack was ever so caring. That's why I don't understand his sudden change in attitude. Every month he'd collect the medication from the pharmacy and sort it into a box with trays for each day, morning and evening. Ivy still had her marbles. I have no reason to believe she wasn't taking it regularly."

"Do you know the name of the medication?"

I shrugged. "I think it had the initials ARB. Something receptor blockers. They were supposed to keep Ivy's heart going for a bit longer. She was dying anyway. She was far too frail to have heart surgery."

"Are they brown and white torpedo capsules?"

"Yes. How do you know them?"

"My grandmother took them. Kept her going for nearly six months."

Danny thought for a moment, his food still untouched. Then he looked me in the eyes. I stared back into his gorgeous dark blue eyes. "Abi, where are the tablets now? This could be important."

"Jack and I checked they were correct at the pharmacy. They were definitely right. Anyway, they'll be gone by now. Jack told me he's already taken them to the pharmacy for disposal."

"Do you know the name of the pharmacy?"

I gave him the full details. I just hoped Danny wouldn't get too close to Little Miss Pharmacy."

Danny stood up. "Don't let anyone clear my food away. It's only a couple of roads away. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Melanie came across, her eyes full of questions. "What did you say to upset him like that?" she said.

"Nothing," I protested. "He's just dashed off to the pharmacy. No, don't clear the table. He'll be back in five minutes."

"He's only nibbled a bit," Melanie said. "No one can get food poisoning that quickly."

I laughed. "Strictly business. He'll be back." I hope.

"The ups and downs of love life," Melanie said reflectively. "Life is quite a ride for you now, isn't it, girl?"

I was about to say something about being in complete denial, when I saw Danny coming back, a vague shape seen through the steamy windows. I went to open the door for him ‒ something that we never do for customers, even the most favoured unless they're obviously disabled or struggling in with a buggy on a wet and windy day.

Danny shook his head as he came into Button Up. "Bad timing. The pharmacist confirmed they received a bag containing a mixture of tablets from Mr Thornley, but they've dropped them through the slots of a sealed container, which they put returned tablets in. They always strip off the packaging and the foil, so all the tablets are loose. Everything is mixed up."

"But surely you could recognise Ivy Smith's brown and white capsules."

Danny shook his head. "The main problem is that the container is sealed, and they refused to break the seal and let me inspect the contents without a court order. Not even the police are allowed to look inside. Anyway, how could I prove that any ARB capsules I found were Miss Smith's? They don't keep a record of what goes in there. Still, it was worth a try. Ideally, I'd like to have a look at one of those brown and white capsules."

"I don't see why," I said, hoping I wasn't sounding argumentative. "The pharmacist already checked them out for us."

Danny sat down at the table, looking surprised to see the top was empty. "I thought‒‒‒‒"

I laughed. "It's okay, Danny, Melanie is getting you a fresh meal." I sat down by him. "I don't think there's any more we can do about the death," I said. "Ivy's GP was perfectly happy to sign the death certificate as natural causes. I'm sure he knows what he's doing. The pharmacist assured both me and Jack that the medication was the correct one."

"That's not necessarily the end of it," Danny said, looking over to the counter to see if his replacement meal was ready.

"Okay," I said, "you look as though you've got a bright idea. Share."

Danny nodded. "In my lengthy training I studied the forensic side of legal work. I'm hoping to specialise in that, assessing forensic evidence that could be used for or against our clients. I remembered looking at a case where the husband had taken his wife's capsules apart and filled them with a toxic compound. The stupid man had so obviously poisoned his wife, that the police impounded all the drugs and analysed the contents. He was convicted of murder."

I gasped. "You're not seriously suggesting Jack Thornley poisoned his aunt, I hope."

Danny shook his head. "Of course not. The doctor would have spotted poisoning immediately. But supposing Jack replaced the powder in the ARB capsules with something completely harmless. No toxic poisoning would have been indicated, but the tablets would have been totally ineffective."

"That's just what the GP said," I told him, "but he also said that wasn't to be unexpected."

Danny sighed. "Well, we've lost all the evidence now. And even if we got the capsules analysed, and they contained some sort of placebo, it would be impossible to pin it on Jack. For instance, the pharmacy might have bought them from an unreliable source. You can buy all sorts of fake drugs on the internet."

"But if we could prove that Jack did it," I said, "would that be murder?"

Jack paused for a moment while Melanie served his replacement meal.

"Thanks, Melanie," I said, nodding my head towards the counter. "Things look busy."

With a pretend snarl on her face, Melanie turned away. Then she quickly came back. "I couldn't help overhearing," she said, a grin on her face now, "but didn't you take one of those capsules to the pharmacy with Jack?"

"Oh wow, I did!" I stood up quickly, nearly knocking the table flying. "I told Jack I was taking it back to Ivy's, but I completely forgot. It's in my bag in the stockroom. Stay right there, Danny."

I did indeed still have it. Danny opened the screw top pot containing the capsule. "Leave it with me, Abi. I'll get it checked out this afternoon."

"Not at the local pharmacy where it came from, I hope," I said, as though Danny was a small schoolboy prone to schoolboy errors.

He smiled as he shook his head, but he didn't seem to be offended. "No, definitely not there."

Chapter 17

Life seemed empty without Jack Thornley and Ivy Smith. I'd not known either of them very long, but I had quickly formed an attachment to them. I didn't know what was going on with Ivy's funeral arrangements, and Jack didn't even have the decency to let me know if it was fixed for any particular date.

I felt betrayed. Jack's motives for starting to attend church could have been wrong, to look as though he was beyond any possible involvement in his aunt's death when it came. Anyway, going to church with Jack had been an amazing experience. I went to church with him for two Sundays and came away forgiven by Jesus Christ, washed clean ‒ and no gold stars needed.

I lay back on my sofa that evening. Alone. I didn't even have the energy to turn on the television. What a life. The tall, caring man with a deep voice and the E-Type Jaguar seemed to have turned his back on me. Well, I could hardly blame him. Ivy had chosen me to open the box containing her dark secret. No wonder Jack felt ignored and hurt.

I stared up at the ceiling. A couple of cracks. Only small ones, but they reminded me of the back room in Ivy's house. Was there really a woman somewhere aged seventy-four who had never known her birth mother? Was there now a sprawling family of children and grandchildren that Ivy had never seen?

Danny had left the sealed jar of wee and poo unopened, and despatched it by carrier to the company that was doing the DNA analysis. He requested the results to be in a format that could be entered in the standard domestic DNA companies' profiles, with the hope that there would be a match.

Even if Abigail, Ivy's daughter, had not thought to carry out a DNA test on herself, it was possible that one of her children or grandchildren – assuming she had any – had done their own tests. Some adopted people didn't want to find out about their birth parents. Others simply longed to know their true family tree. We could only hope for the latter. By we, I mean Danny and me. Working purely on a professional basis of course.

I went to bed early. No ring at the doorbell. No phone calls, emails or texts. I was alone in the world again. Nothing changed. And my period was starting.

I got to Button Up at my usual time. Not even a brew of our delicious coffee could revive me. For one thing it was the wrong time of the month, and secondly my whole world seemed to have fallen apart. I looked at the corner table that had been occupied every lunchtime by Jack Thornley. Well, it was no good hoping he'd be here again today. Danny Wells? He'd only call professionally, when he had information to share.

Lunchtime came, and the table was occupied by an overweight businessman in deep conversation with a much older man. I'd not even bothered to put a reserved sign on it.

"You look totally bushed, girl," Melanie said, stating the obvious. "You go on home. It's quiet in here now. Pete and I can cope. To tell the truth, Pete's been asking if we can get Hayley back here regularly to help after college. I think those two have really got something going. Love is definitely in the air." She caught sight of my face. "Oops, sorry."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'll just have a quiet few minutes in the stockroom and take a couple of tablets. Just one of our monthly trials."

I'm sure Melanie knew there was much more going on than a stupid period, but she kept a discreet silence.

I'd only just gulped down a couple of painkillers with a glass of water – no point in overdosing on coffee – when my phone rang.

"Abi, it's Danny here. Danny Wells."

Of course it was. I recognised the voice immediately. It sounded like music from heaven. "Any news?"

"Jack Thornley has seen his own solicitor. It looks like there could be a problem. Jack's solicitor is taking his client's claim of theft of the funeral money and the key seriously."

"You mean _seriously_ seriously?"

"I don't think they've got a leg to stand on. They want to get things rolling quickly. I've made a provisional appointment for four o'clock today. Can you make it?"

Four o'clock? The painkillers were kicking in already. I guessed I could make it. "Is it going to be unpleasant?" I don't like doing unpleasant.

"It could be," Danny said, "but we've got a trick up our sleeve that should put an end to this nonsense."

_Our_ sleeve? "And the trick is?"

Danny laughed, his usual gentle but confident laugh. "Call round to my office just before four, and I'll explain. Jack's solicitor's office is only just round the corner."

We were surprisingly busy that afternoon, and Melanie told Pete to call Hayley in. I could see he wanted to know what was going on, because he'd seen me and Melanie huddled closely in conversation. But the thought of seeing Hayley, and helping her earn some money, no doubt persuaded him not to ask any questions.

The offices of Branks, Davis & Waters were only five minutes away on foot, and Melanie made sure I allowed plenty of time to get there. I was invited into Danny's office – yes, he had his own office with his name on the door – and he shared the news that he hoped would put an end to Jack's nonsense about the stolen funeral money and the ownership of the key. It sounded promising.

Danny looked really smart in a slate blue Italian-cut mohair wool tailored suit that was designed to impress. Unfortunately, I still had on my work jeans. I was glad they'd been freshly laundered, and a couple of small stains from Button Up today hardly showed. I hoped. My white sweatshirt wasn't long enough to hide the stains, but surely all eyes would be on Danny's amazing suit.

Jack's solicitor worked from a small upstairs room above the shoe repair shop. Nothing auspicious here then. I thought of Danny's impressive office at Branks, Davis & Waters. The small office of Murgatroyd & Browne – this was Mr Browne, and there was only one office, so I guessed Mr Murgatroyd was deceased or serving time for embezzlement ‒ reminded me of the sort of office a seedy private eye occupied in the old movies they sometimes show on television.

We sat down and Mr Browne put on his glasses and tried to look intimidating. Up to a certain point he succeeded, and I could only hope Danny's imminent revelation would be sufficient to silence Jack Thornley and his false accusation.

Mr Browne cleared his throat, probably trying to imitate a High Court judge or barrister. "Ms Button," he said slowly, "my client, Mr Thornley here, has made two serious allegations. Firstly, that you stole three thousand pounds from the bedroom drawer in Miss Ivy Smith's dwelling, money intended by Miss Smith to pay for her funeral."

I started to protest, but Danny wisely put his hand firmly on my arm. I waited to hear the second allegation, although I knew what was coming.

"Secondly, you illegally appropriated a small key, the property of my client here, and illegally took possession of certain documents and gold coins inside a wooden box that was in the care of a neighbour. How do you plead?"

Yes, Mr Browne was clearly acting the part of a judge or barrister. Quite impressively, I had to say. I was about to open my mouth to deny everything, when Danny took over.

"My client denies taking the money," he said. Convincingly, I have to say. It looked like there were two people who could play at High Court judges. "She was never shown the money. Can your client produce evidence that the money ever existed?"

Jack was about to say something, when Mr Browne spoke for him. "Regarding the second accusation, that Ms Button found the key. I put it to you that Ms Button found it in Miss Smith's bedroom, and hoped it opened a box that contained Miss Smith's jewellery, with a view to stealing and selling it."

"That's outrageous," I shouted. The painkillers had done their job, and I felt one hundred percent. Never mind what was going on down below, I was ready to take on the highest court in the land.

Danny gently pulled me back into my chair. I was so angry I'd not even realised I'd jumped to my feet. "Before we go any further," Danny said, "my client has obtained evidence of your client's guilt in the death of his aunt."

Mr Browne glanced quickly at Jack, who merely shrugged as though to say, "Nothing to do with me."

I knew what was coming, and I held my breath in anticipation as Jack took a clear polythene bag from his briefcase and put it on the desk.

I watched Jack's eyes closely as he stared at the brown and white ARB capsule. Danny said nothing, obviously waiting to see how Jack would react.

"I think you need to explain," Mr Browne said, frowning.

I guessed he could sense that the tables were turning, but Danny was behaving in a very calm and professional manner. I've seen television programmes where some dramatic evidence is presented in court, completely exonerating the prisoner on trial. And I felt like the prisoner on trial. As if I would really have taken Ivy's money! What a cheek!

Slowly, Danny unfolded a sheet of paper with the name of a pharmaceutical company on the top. He turned it round so Mr Browne could read it. And he did.

Mr Browne passed the paper to Jack. "Can you explain this?" he asked his client.

Jack looked either confused or guilty. I didn't know him well enough to read the expression. "Can we talk privately?" Jack muttered to his solicitor.

Mr Browne asked us to excuse him and his client, and they disappeared into a back room. I could see rows of files on shelves before the door was shut, so it looked as though they'd been busy over the years. I hoped they hadn't always been successful.

Danny gave me a thumbs up. "I think we're nearly home."

I wasn't so sure, but what did I know about legal processes!

We sat in silence for nearly ten minutes. I could hear faint muttering coming through the door, and the occasional raised voice. The raised voice was Jack's. Then the door opened.

Mr Browne sat down again and took off his glasses. He addressed Danny, not me. Jack sat by Mr Browne's side, looking at the floor.

"My client categorically denies any knowledge of the capsule containing a placebo. Furthermore, your client will be able to produce no evidence that the capsule in that bag contained an inert powder that came from Miss Smith's box of medication."

"But it did," I said, about to stand up again, but being gently persuaded to stay in my chair by Danny's firm hand.

"I'm afraid your word would carry no weight in a court of law," Mr Browne said. "My client suggests that even if that capsule could be proved to have come from Miss Smith's box of medication, you could offer no evidence that you had not changed the contents yourself in order to attempt to incriminate my client."

I was just about to burst into tears and rush from the room. No, probably not, but I felt the wind taken totally out of my sails. I really hoped Danny was an expert in such situations.

"Although my client will totally reject such a suggestion, I believe we are now able to call a truce," Danny said confidently, leaning back in his chair.

Truce? What sort of truce?

It was clear that Danny and Mr Browne were on the same page. "I have had a discussion with my client," Mr Browne said, "and he is prepared to drop all allegations of theft of the money and misappropriation of the key, on condition that your client says no more about the medication."

"But that's covering up a murder," I protested.

"Not so, Miss Button," Mr Browne said calmly. "Even if my client _had_ exchanged the contents of the capsules, something that he vehemently denies, there is no proof that would satisfy a jury that Miss Smith's death was hastened by such an action."

Danny stood up and helped me to my feet. "My client and I agree," he said.

I was fuming, and as soon as we were out in the street I really laid into him. "That's ridiculous," I said. "Ivy Smith was murdered!"

Danny shook his head. "I've already had a word with her GP. Ivy Smith's days were counted weeks at best, and maybe just a few days, with or without the ARB capsules. Mr Browne is right. No jury would convict. In fact, the Crown Prosecution Service would refuse to take such a case to court. Even if we took out a private prosecution, at great expense to yourself, the possibility of a conviction is zero."

We had got back to Danny's office by this time, and I was calming down. It occurred to me that although the chance of a successful prosecution of Jack for tampering with Ivy's medication might be zero, I could easily have been convicted of stealing Ivy's funeral money and taking the key.

"Thanks, Danny," I said with a deep sigh. "Ivy wasn't afraid to die, but I'm sure Jack was responsible for changing the contents of the capsules for something harmless, even though it might not have shortened her life. And he knows I'm sure. But maybe we also got off lightly. So thanks."

I phoned Melanie from Danny's office and told her to lock up at six as usual. She said Pete and Hayley had spent most of the time giggling in the stockroom, but she hadn't been busy. The two were now going off arm in arm for a night on the tiles, to quote Melanie Upton's old-fashioned expression.

"And I think I'd better go home for a quiet night in," I told her.

"Quiet night?" Danny said, raising his eyebrows. I didn't realise he'd been listening to every word. "I was hoping to take you out for a meal this evening. You look as though you could do with some company."

Was this a date? Or was it what solicitors usually did at the end of a satisfactory case? Well, date or what solicitors usually did, it was a great suggestion.

"Thanks."

###  Epilogue

The last six months have gone quickly. I know Jack felt ashamed of his false accusations. Surprise, surprise, the funeral money conveniently "turned up." Jack said Ivy must have moved it to a safer place without telling him.

I can still hear Jack Thornley's deep masculine voice speaking when we came out of church on the second Sunday, after I went forward to give myself to Jesus. "You didn't have to do that for me." And my reply. "I didn't do it for you, Jack. I did it for myself."

I guess he felt ashamed about the way he fawned over his aunt, purely because he believed he would inherit the house. He seemed keen to stop Ivy going into hospital where she would have got the correct medication, but the opinion of the hospital and the GP was that Ivy's life had come to its natural end anyway, so maybe Jack didn't actually hasten it.

The three thousand pounds Ivy left to pay for her funeral wasn't sufficient, because everyone in the area who knew and loved the old lady not only wanted to attend the church service, but to have a reception afterwards. Nobly, Jack Thornley made up the difference. The coffin was covered in flowers and thank you cards, for Ivy being such a lovely neighbour.

The little brick house in the terrace is currently empty. I believe Jack took a couple of things he wanted, and arranged house clearance for the rest. I don't think he got much for the contents, because Victorian mahogany furniture is almost unsalable nowadays. I wonder if he took the clock. Perhaps he did, and unwisely wound it up!

Although Ivy's house is small, the whole area is being gentrified, to use a modern expression, and property prices are rising fast. I find myself wondering how my parents will feel about their generous gift of their house to me. Hopefully, they'll never find out its current value!

It was only last week that we got a hit on one of the DNA family websites. I say we, because Danny and I are now going out together regularly. It was a granddaughter of Ivy's illegitimate baby who wrote. She's on the female side of Ivy's DNA, which means she's related to Ivy, not the young lad Ivy had the affair with. Maybe one day the father's DNA will surface, and the young people will be able to learn where their grandparents and great-grandparents came from, and come up with an amazing extended family.

Everyone in the family is over the moon. Sadly, we learned that Abigail Smith ‒ her adopted name was actually Abigail Lee – died four years ago. She had often told the family she knew nothing about her real parents. I'm glad the adoption agency kept the name Ivy gave her in the few seconds in which she held her daughter. The couple who adopted her either didn't know about Ivy, or they chose to say nothing.

Danny is still tracing family members to find out who should inherit Ivy's house. But whoever lives there next, I'll always think of it as Ivy's house. If only I'd got to know her earlier. Surely she would have been a lovely companion to call on for a cup of tea in her delicate bone china tea-set.

I passed the dental surgery the other day, and noticed Jack Thornley's name was missing from the sign outside. I can only conclude he's left the area. Maybe he was worried he'd bump into me in the street. Well, if he ever does, and it makes him feel ashamed of his behaviour, then he deserves to.

Of course, I know now that because I've been forgiven, I have to forgive too. Jesus says we have to. I'm enjoying church and the midweek fellowship there ‒ something that a year ago I never would have thought possible. So at least I've got _something_ to thank Jack Thornley for.

I see Danny several times a week after work, and most weekends. Things are definitely looking promising. He comes in for lunch when he can. The table in the far corner is always reserved for him.

Melanie Upton says Danny is _definitely_ a keeper. I really hope she's right this time. And if we do accidentally poison someone at Button Up, it will be good to have a lawyer in the family.

THE END

The hymn _Rock of Ages_ was written by the Reverend Augustus Toplady in 1763. The inspiration came while sheltering from a storm in a tall cleft in the rocks in Burrington Combe in Somerset, England. The famous rock is now marked "Rock of Ages" and is next to the road.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,  
Let me hide myself in Thee;  
Let the water and the blood,  
From Thy riven side which flowed,  
Be of sin the double cure,  
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

Not the labour of my hands  
Can fulfil Thy law's demands;  
Could my zeal no respite know,  
Could my tears forever flow,  
All for sin could not atone;  
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,  
Simply to Thy cross I cling;  
Naked, come to Thee for dress;  
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;  
Foul, I to the fountain fly;  
Wash me, Saviour, or I die! **  
**  
While I draw this fleeting breath,  
When mine eyes shall close in death,  
When I soar to worlds unknown,  
See Thee on Thy judgement throne,  
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,  
Let me hide myself in Thee.

<><><><>

Look out for the second Abigail Button Cozy Mystery Romance by Lizzie Lewis, _Poetry and Mayhem_. Coming soon.

Abi Button gets involved with the lazy nephews and nieces of their elderly uncle who lived in the creepy house at the far end of her road. Isaac Whittard Magritte Newton, to give him his full name, has set a cryptic clue in his will for the siblings to solve. The will says the first nephew or niece who can solve the clue is going to be extremely wealthy, but the puzzle seems unbreakable. The old man once set crossword puzzles for two of the national newspapers, and other puzzles for various magazines. Abi, with her modest skills in cryptic crosswords, has to admit defeat.

Also on Abi's mind, perhaps as a matter of greater importance than solving the clue that will help four squabbling siblings, is her developing friendship with junior solicitor Danny Wells. She wonders if she has at last found the right man. Melanie Upton ‒ Abi's co-owner of Button Up coffee shop ‒ assures Abi that this one is definitely a keeper. But as Abi points out, Melanie says the same thing about every man Abi gets to know.

This is the second Abi Button Cozy Mystery Romance.

_Cake and Calamity_ , the third Abi Button Cozy Mystery Romance, is also on the way.

"Organising a wedding is a piece of cake," to quote Abigail (Abi) Button. She could be right, because a local wedding shop provides the whole service: bridal gowns, venue, cake, food, cars ... everything that makes the perfect wedding. Apart from husbands!

Meanwhile, Melanie Upton ‒ Abi Button's co-owner of Button Up coffee shop ‒ confides in Abi that romance is in the air with an Italian property investor called Romero Rocco. Can it be true?

Abi's new friend and neighbour is also getting married. She now owns the house Abi calls Creepy Mansion. She says getting a builder to restore the old house should also be a simple matter. So with a joint wedding planned for Abi and her new friend, Abi asks, "What can possibly go wrong?"

**White Tree Publishing** publishes mainstream evangelical Christian literature in paperback and eBook formats, for people of all ages. We aim to make our eBooks available free for all eBook devices, but some distributors will only list our books free at their discretion, and may make a small charge for some titles ‒ but they are still great value!

We rely on our readers to tell their families, friends and churches about our books. Social media is a great way of doing this. Take a look at our range of fiction and non-fiction books and pass the word on. You can even contact your Christian TV or radio station to let them know about these books. Also, please write a positive review if you are able.

Check out our website to find over 100 fiction and non-fiction books, including a range of books for younger readers. The majority of our fiction books are Victorian romances carefully and lovingly edited and abridged for readers today.

www.whitetreepublishing.com

Return to Contents

