a matter of fact, it’s not,’ declared Fliss, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘There’s a new tenant. Or rather, a new owner. I met him this morning.’
‘Really?’ George Taylor looked surprised. ‘They’ve kept that quiet. I didn’t even know it was on the market.’
‘Nor did I.’ Fliss looked momentarily wistful. ‘It certainly brings it home to me that Colonel Phillips is gone for good.’
‘Hmm.’ Her father nodded, and then reached across the table to pat his daughter’s hand. ‘He was very old, Fliss. What was he? Ninety-two or-three?’
‘Ninety-one,’ said Fliss firmly. ‘And I know he was old. But he was very kind to me.’
Her father sighed. ‘And you were kind to him, too. I doubt if he’d have got anyone else to do all his housework as you did.’
‘He paid me,’ Fliss protested. ‘I miss that income, I really do.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry you’re not working as a domestic any longer,’ declared her father, buttering another slice of toast. ‘You deserve better than that. I don’t know what your mother would say about you wasting your degree.’
Fliss sighed now. This was an old argument and one she didn’t particularly want to get into today. It was true, while her mother was alive, she had been able to leave Amy with her and attend the local university. But when her mother died in a car crash just a year after she’d graduated, she’d had to give up her job as a trainee physiotherapist to look after Amy herself.
There’d been no question of paying a child minder. Her father’s business had been folding and money was scarce. And, although he’d offered to babysit, he’d had enough to do coping with his own grief. Looking after a lively four-year-old would have been too much for him to manage.
Now, of course, he could have coped, but Fliss didn’t think it was fair to ask him. He’d settled happily into his retirement and he would have missed being able to go to the library when he felt like it, calling in at the pub for a drink, gossiping with his cronies.
‘Anyway, we weren’t talking about me,’ she said, taking another swallow of coffee. ‘Hmm, this is good. Why does my coffee never taste like this?’
‘Because you don’t put enough coffee in the filter,’ replied her father comfortably, slipping a crust of bread beneath the table for Harvey to take. Then, seeing his daughter’s eyes upon him, he added swiftly, ‘Anyway, maybe the new owner will want a housekeeper, too.’
Fliss knew he’d never have said that in the ordinary way. It was just to divert her from his persistent habit of feeding the dog at the table, and she pulled a wry face.
‘I don’t think so.’
He frowned now. ‘Why not?’ He paused. ‘Oh, perhaps they already have a housekeeper, hmm?’
‘Perhaps they do.’ Fliss felt curiously loath to discuss Matthew Quinn with her father. ‘In any case, I’m going to have to go over there and fetch the rabbit back.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
It was tempting, but Fliss shook her head. She wanted—no, needed—to see Matthew Quinn again. She needed to explain why Amy had felt free to deposit the rabbit on his doorstep.
When Colonel Phillips was alive and Fliss had worked at the house three mornings a week, Amy had often accompanied her. The old man had been especially fond of the little girl and he’d encouraged Fliss to bring her along. So, whenever Amy had been away from school, for holidays and suchlike, she’d been a welcome visitor at the house.
Sometimes the colonel had played board games with her, and she’d been fascinated by his display cases filled with coins gleaned from almost a century of collecting. The house had been an Aladdin’s cave to the little girl, and she’d been encouraged to share it.
In consequence, Amy had missed him almost as much as Fliss when he’d suddenly been taken into hospital. She hadn’t understood why she couldn’t go to visit him and, although Fliss had explained the circumstances of his illness, she suspected the child still regarded the Old Coaching House as his home.
When he died the house had been inherited by a distant cousin, who had apparently lost no time in putting it on the market, Fliss thought wryly. No one in the village had known anything about it or she was sure her father would have picked up the news on the grapevine.
Now she got up from the table, carrying her empty cup across to the sink. The overgrown lawn at the back of the cottage reminded her that she had other jobs she’d promised herself she’d do today. Dammit, if only Amy had let the rabbit go to the shelter and been done with it.
‘So what’s the new owner like?’ asked her father, getting up from the table to bring his own dishes to be washed. Then he opened the door to let the dog out, stepping outside for a moment and taking a deep breath of the warm, flower-scented air. ‘Mmm, those roses have never smelt better,’ he added. ‘I don’t know why you don’t bring some of them into the house.’
Because I don’t have the time, thought Fliss grimly, fighting a brief spurt of irritation. But it would never have occurred to her father to do something like that himself. No more than it occurred to him to wash his own dishes or make his own bed in the mornings. She filled the washing-up bowl with soapy water and dropped his cup, saucer and plate into the hot suds. She sighed. She mustn’t let her annoyance over the rabbit influence her attitude towards her father. He was the way he was, and there was nothing she could do about it.
But despite his admiration for the roses, he hadn’t forgotten his original question. ‘Who is he?’ he asked, coming back into the kitchen. ‘The man you spoke to at the big house? Did he tell you his name?’
Deciding there was no point in prevaricating, Fliss shrugged. ‘I think he said his name was Quinn,’ she replied carelessly. She finished drying the dishes and hung the tea towel over the rail to dry. ‘I might as well go and get Buttons now. You never know, he may have gone out. Do you think it would be all right if I took the rabbit without his say-so?’
‘Why not?’ asked her father, but he was looking pensive. ‘Quinn,’ he said ruminatively. ‘Quinn.’ He frowned. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’
‘The Mighty Quinn?’ suggested Fliss, giving her reflection a quick once-over in the mirror beside the hall door.
She looked unusually flushed, she thought ruefully, and she hadn’t even set out on her mission yet. Pale skin, that never tanned no matter how long she stayed out in the sun, had the hectic blush of colour, vying with the vivid tangle of her hair. Blue eyes—her father insisted they were violet—stared back with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, and she felt a frustrated surge of impatience. She wasn’t going on a date! She was going to rescue a rabbit, for pity’s sake.
‘I know!’ Her father’s sudden exclamation had her swinging round in surprise to find him balling a fist into his palm. ‘That name, Quinn. I knew I’d heard it recently. That’s the name of that man—that journalist—who spent about eighteen months as a prisoner of the rebels in Abuqara. You remember, don’t you? They did a documentary about it on television recently. He escaped. Yes, that’s right, he escaped. But not before he’d suffered God knows what treatment at the enemy’s hands.’
Fliss swallowed with
