Sara Craven - Fugitive Wife

They said everything came in threes, and the evening’s surprises proved to be no exception. When she returned downstairs, the room was occupied. A large black cat with enormous green eyes was sitting in the middle of the hearthrug washing itself as if it had every right to be there. It turned its head gracefully as Briony came in and gave her a long speculative look before returning to its toilet.

Briony paused and watched it, her mouth curving upwards in amusement. Aunt Hes didn’t own a cat, but she was probably notorious to the neighbouring feline population as a soft touch who could always be relied on for a saucer of milk, and this handsome beast had obviously realised the cottage was occupied again and drawn its own conclusions.

The only thing was—how had he got in? Briony went out into the hall again, but the front door was securely shut. She had opened no windows, so the cat must have got in via the kitchen. But how? Puzzled, she walked out into the kitchen and looked around. The back door was shut and the place was deserted, but someone had been in, presumably while she was upstairs, because a large cardboard box full of groceries now reposed in the centre of the kitchen table. A piece of folded notepaper was stuck in one side of the box and Briony unfolded it.

‘Saw the car and thought I would bring these things up before the weather got worse,’ she read. ‘Hope all is satisfactory. Yours truly, N. Barnes.’

She looked into the box, her spirits lifting. Bread, butter, cartons of long-life milk, bacon and a couple of boxes of eggs. She wouldn’t starve even if the blizzard outside raged for a week. But how had Mrs Barnes known? Perhaps she had simply seen the car parked at the foot of the track and decided to bring up some supplies. It could all be as simple as that, and Briony would take it for granted that was what had happened until she knew differently. Perhaps Mrs Barnes was naturally psychic, she thought grinning slightly to herself, as she unpacked the provisions and put them away. There was even a frozen chicken and a small joint of beef at the bottom of the box, so whoever was expected was apparently planning to stay.

The cat stalked into the kitchen and pushed itself against her legs, purring vociferously.

‘Cupboard love,’ Briony accused as she bent to fondle the glossy head. ‘But we’ll both have a drink in a minute.’

A hot milk drink for herself, she thought, and one of those tablets the doctor had prescribed for when she could not sleep, as something told her she would not do tonight. All this time she had survived by shutting out the past, refusing to admit its existence. Now she had allowed it back to torment her with a vengeance, and it was not done with her yet.

‘Go and play in your own league,’ Logan had said to her, she thought as she stood waiting for the milk to heat, and it was sound advice, although she had not realised it then. Christopher had been far more suitable in every way. Christopher who would be now telephoning vainly round all her friends in an effort to find out where she had gone. Christopher whom she had seriously been considering marrying until that unbelievable evening almost a week ago when she had gone to the head of the stairs, drawn there by the sound of her father’s voice raised in anger, and seen Logan standing there. Logan who was dead—who’d been shot as a spy by Arab guerrillas. A much thinner Logan, his deeply tanned skin fine-drawn over his bones, lines of weariness etched around the grimness of his mouth as he stood quite immobile, his hands resting on his hips, his head bent slightly listening as her father raged at him.

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