Authors: Carola Dunn
“And you move carefully. Good night.”
Walking down to the car park, she found a bit of Brahms circulating in her head. It didn’t conjure up any pictures, but the idea that it could was intriguing. When she got into the Jaguar, equipped of course with a car radio of the non-police variety, she tuned it to a concert on the BBC Third Programme.
Eleanor got out a packet of soup, looked at it, thought about washing up the pan, and put it away again. She dined on Weetabix and an orange, then packed her suitcase.
She took Teazle down for her last outing. No policemen lurked in the gorse bushes, thank heaven, and if she forgot to lock up when she went upstairs, no one would scold her.
In the aftermath of the gale, breakers boomed as they crashed against the rocky cliffs of the inlet and the jetty sheltering the harbour. From Nick’s open window came the voice of an announcer, followed by music—Mozart, she thought. The intermittent flash of the Crookmoyle light reflected off a layer of low cloud. A breeze brought the salty smell of seaweed to mingle with the scents of gorse and blackthorn. Eleanor breathed deeply.
On such a peaceful evening, it was difficult to believe the events of the past week had really happened.
“Come on, Teazle. Time for bed, girl.”
At last she snuggled down under the covers, with Teazle keeping her feet warm. Tomorrow she’d have to turn her mind to the dire situation in Nigeria. Before she left, she must make sure Jocelyn would keep an eye on Nick’s injury, little though he’d appreciate her interference. When she returned from the Scillies, she’d have to see what she could do to help Camilla and poor misguided Trevor. Then she ought to go up to London for some work with her
Sensei
—practising Aikido on her own was all very well, and she’d considered it sufficient in peaceful old England, but obviously she badly needed to hone her reflexes.
So much for the future. Tonight she drifted into sleep already dreaming of Nick and Megan living happily ever after.