Read Online Lightning Encounter by Anne Saunders - Free Book Online

house. She said: ‘Yes, it’s me,’ and held her breath.
    A chuckle carried down the line. ‘I didn’t think it was old Ian. You’re staying at the house, then? I did wonder . . . are you alone?’
    â€˜Quite alone. Who is that?’
    â€˜Don’t you know? Can’t you guess?’
    â€˜No, I can’t,’ she snapped. ‘Please stop teasing.’
    â€˜Sorry, didn’t mean to. It’s Mitch.’
    What did he mean by, ‘Are you alone?’ Was he hinting at anything? Ian’s manner, his calculated coolness, had triggered off a reaction in her. Her brain teemed with thoughts, making her brand ‘suspect’ what might have been kindly motive, impelling her to explain: ‘It’s all very correct, I assure you, so you can stop wondering. Ian—’ (Should that have been Mr Nicholson?) ‘has engaged me as his housekeeper. Since you thought it worth while to check up on me, I’ll repeat. I am alone, quite, quite alone. Ian has moved into the premises over the garage.’
    â€˜Sweet porcupine, I’m not checking up on you. I phoned on the off chance you might be there. That’s all. I swear it. And I’m certain Ian will make a praiseworthy employer. But if you want a reference, go along and see the vicar of St Mary’s. He’s known him almost as long as I have, and it will make the old boy feel useful.’
    â€˜Don’t be irreverent,’ she reproved, still feeling raw. And, anyway, she had been taught to respect the cleric.
    â€˜Sorry,’ came the contrite reply. ‘But I don’t want to talk about Ian.’
    â€˜What did you want to talk about? If you weren’t checking up on me, why did you ring? Anything special?’
    â€˜Very special. I wanted to say goodnight.’
    At the moment Howard Mitchell was a salesman. The first thing a good salesman learns to sell is himself, and though a comparative newcomer to the business, he had the qualities of a very good salesman. It has been said he could sell milk to a dairymaid, if not to a dairyman.
    â€˜That’s very sweet of you, Mitch.’ Sweet, because it’s what she had craved for all evening. Just a small spoonful of friendship, lightly flavoured with affection.
    â€˜Not sweet. Selfish. I shall take your voice to bed with me. Did you know you have the dulcet tones of a singer. Have you ever sung, professionally I mean?’
    â€˜No. I do sing, but only for my own pleasure.’
    â€˜I hope some day you’ll let me share that pleasure. Are you relaxed now? Not tense and all screwed up like a ball of twine any more?’
    â€˜How did you know?’
    â€˜I inherited the clear sight from my perspicacious grandmother. It told me there was a little girl who needed cheering up. And now . . . goodnight, little girl.’
    Ian came out of the Woodpecker, one of Hamblewick’s two pubs, whistling the tune the girl guitarist had been strumming. It was an evening ritual, one drink, pleasant conversation. He got on well with the locals, who had known him on and off since he was a lad. He lit a last cigarette, enjoying the peace of the unlit lane.
    The cottage was in darkness. Good. She needed an early night. He wondered what Val would make of her, and what she would make of Val. He also wondered if he could sneak some papers out of the desk without waking her.
    No, it was too late. If she did wake she might think someone had broken in to commit burglary. He paused where the drive split in two, and was just about to turn to his own quarters when the scream hit the night. His immediate thought was that someone had broken in. His key clicked into the lock and he took the stairs at two and three a time. As he thrust open the door, the landing light splashed in ahead of him, illuminating her bed, her shaking shoulders, her glazed, terror stricken eyes.
    She was sitting bolt upright, sobbing and screaming, and it was like nothing he