3. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Nancy
T he sun is doing its best today.
It’s not exactly blazing, but it’s making a decent effort—pushing through the gaps in the clouds, casting a warm, golden light over the Dales. The kind of weather that makes people think, Oh, I might go for a nice walk today, rather than, I might be risking trench foot.
Which is a good sign.
I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to go.
The meeting spot is as picturesque as it gets—rolling fields, dry-stone walls, a little gate leading out onto the footpath. A proper postcard view. I picked this starting point deliberately. If I was trying to convince people that walking was an enjoyable pastime, I needed all the help I could get.
What I don’t know yet is whether anyone is actually coming.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to look relaxed, just in case anyone is watching. There’s a good chance half the village is waiting to see if this idea is a spectacular success or a tragic failure. St Claire thrives on minor drama.
I tug the sleeves of my fleece down over my hands. It’s not cold, exactly, but there’s a slight breeze, the kind that sneaks past your collar when you’re standing still for too long.
I’ve planned a simple route for today. A flat, circular walk, nothing too ambitious. If people turn up, I don’t want anyone keeling over in a ditch five minutes in.
That’s assuming anyone does turn up.
I exhale, scanning the road leading from the village. Any second now, someone will come striding over, eager and ready to embrace the great outdoors.
Any second.
I wait.
A bird flaps noisily out of a nearby bush. A sheep bleats in the distance. The clouds drift a little more.
I press my lips together. Well. This could be awkward.
I hear her before I see her.
The steady clack of a walking stick. The measured rhythm of sturdy boots on the path. The unmistakable sound of someone who walks with purpose.
Then she appears, marching towards me with military precision. Waterproof trousers, zipped-up fleece, a rucksack big enough to house emergency supplies for a month.
Mrs Higgins.
And trailing behind her, looking considerably less purposeful, is Bernard. The world’s most exhausted beagle.
I suppress a groan.
It’s not that I don’t like Mrs Higgins. I do. She’s the kind of woman you’d want in your corner during a crisis: sharp as a tack, tough as old boots, and completely immune to bad weather.
But she’s also nosy.
More specifically, she has a deep, unshakable interest in the state of my personal life.
And by interest, I mean she has made it her mission to casually, but relentlessly, question me about it at every available opportunity.
I school my expression into something welcoming as she reaches me. “Morning, Mrs Higgins! What a surprise.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Surprise? You put up flyers all over the village. I took it as a personal invitation.”
I glance at Bernard, who collapses at her feet with a dramatic sigh.
Mrs Higgins nudges him with her boot. “Lazy beggar. You’d think he had been climbing Ben Nevis.”
I let out a weak laugh, glancing at the road again. No sign of anyone else yet. Maybe if I stall long enough, another person will arrive and save me.
Mrs Higgins plants her walking stick firmly into the ground. “So then, Nancy, how are things?”
I smile, careful not to say anything that could lead me down a dangerous conversational path. “Oh, you know. Keeping busy.”
She nods. “Good, good. Of course, work isn’t everything, is it?”
My smile tightens. Here we go.
Mrs Higgins sighs, looking wistfully towards the horizon. “It’s nice to have a bit of company now and then, don’t you think?”
I hum noncommittally.
“I was just saying to Doris the other day,” she continues, “how it’s a shame how many lovely people in the village seem to be on their own.” She pauses meaningfully, giving me a sideways glance.
I feign ignorance. “Oh, were you?”
“Mmm,” she says, adjusting her rucksack straps. “Especially ones who are busy with work and don’t always have time to meet new people.”
I take a deep breath. “I get out.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, love,” she says kindly. “But there’s a difference between getting out and… putting yourself out there .”
I exhale slowly, keeping my expression neutral. Mrs Higgins has been the village gossip all her life. She knows exactly how to interrogate someone without ever making it sound like an interrogation.
I check my watch. Two minutes until the official start time. Two minutes to be rescued.
Mrs Higgins tuts. “It’s just, well… it’s a shame to see someone as lovely as you always rushing about on your own.”
“I like my own company,” I say, resisting the urge to rub my temples.
“Oh, of course, of course.” She waves a hand. “Nothing wrong with independence. It’s just, well…” Another pause. Another meaningful look. “Life has a funny way of surprising you when you least expect it.”
I let out a slow, measured breath. “That so?”
“Oh yes.” She glances around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Why, only the other day, I was saying how wonderful it is when certain people cross paths at just the right moment.”
I stare at her. “Mrs Higgins, are you matchmaking again?”
She looks offended. “Me? Matchmaking? Nancy, I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are always interfering.”
She pats my arm. “Only because I care, love.”
Before I can point out that caring should involve less strategic meddling, there’s a sudden, deep, ominous pffffft.
A pause.
Then the smell.
It hits me like a lorry. My eyes water instantly.
“Oh—oh my God,” I gasp, stumbling back. “What is that?”
“Bernard!” Mrs Higgins exclaims, slapping a hand to her nose. “For heaven’s sake, lad!”
The beagle remains completely unbothered, staring at the horizon as if contemplating all his past regrets.
Mrs Higgins glares at him. “Honestly, it’s noxious. I don’t know what’s going on in his gut, but the vet keeps saying ‘old dogs have sensitive digestion.’ I tell you; it’s weaponry.”
I retreat further, hoping the breeze will blow the smell away. “Do you—do you feed him sulphur?”
She sighs. “I’m starting to think he ferments his own meals internally.”
Bernard yawns. His ears flop. He lets out another quiet, deadly toot.
I gag, covering my nose with my sleeve. It does nothing.
Mrs Higgins coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. “I tell you what, love, if he lets one more of those off, I might not make it round this walk myself.”
I blink through the eye-watering horror. We are outside . In the open air. And yet, it lingers. The Yorkshire breeze, which should be carrying the fresh scent of wildflowers and damp grass, is utterly failing us.
“This is—” I cough, swallowing hard. “This is unnatural.”
Mrs Higgins nods. “I’m not saying I believe in demons, but if they do exist, I reckon one’s taken up residence in his digestive tract.”
I step even further away, frantically scanning the road.
Someone. Anyone. Please turn up before we both perish.
The smell clings to the air, thick and inescapable. Mrs Higgins takes a few determined steps away from Bernard, and I follow, my sleeve still clamped over my nose.
“This is unbelievable,” I mutter. “We are outside. In fresh air. And it’s still here.”
Mrs Higgins shakes her head, eyes watering. “It’s like it’s… settling.”
I shudder. That’s an image I didn’t need.
Just as I take another step back, movement catches my eye. Someone is approaching from the village, walking at a steady, measured pace.
Tall. Hood up. Hands in his pockets.
Luke!
The man who, up until yesterday, had successfully avoided engaging with most of the village. The man who, for reasons known only to himself, is now striding directly towards us. I didn’t think he would take me up on the offer.
I watch as he slows, frowning slightly as he clocks me and Mrs Higgins standing a good six feet away from Bernard, both looking deeply traumatised.
His gaze flicks to the dog, then back to us. He tilts his head. “What’s going on?”
Mrs Higgins, always the picture of composure, clears her throat. “Oh, nothing, dear. Just—” She pauses, struggling for words. “Just giving Bernard a bit of space.”
Luke’s frown deepens. “Space?”
I shoot Mrs Higgins a desperate look, silently begging her to leave it there.
She does not.
“He’s had a bit of an incident,” she explains. “A digestive event, if you will.”
I groan.
Luke glances at Bernard, who remains sprawled on the path, looking completely at peace with himself. Luke lifts an eyebrow. “Right. And that requires you both to stand several feet away?”
I sigh. “You’ll understand in a second.”
Luke gives me a sceptical look but takes a step closer to Bernard anyway.
I almost stop him. I should stop him.
But I don’t.
Because some lessons, quite frankly, need to be learned the hard way.
He gets two paces closer before his expression shifts.
His brow furrows. His nose wrinkles. He blinks.
Then—realisation.
His head jerks back slightly, his eyes narrowing like he’s just been personally betrayed by the atmosphere itself.
“What the hell is that?”
Mrs Higgins pats his arm sympathetically. “That, dear, is Bernard.”
Luke takes an immediate step back. “Jesus Christ.”
“I did warn you,” I say, barely suppressing a smirk.
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his jaw before looking at me properly. “So, this is your walking group, then?”
I nod. “Yes. Or, at least, it will be if more than two people turn up.”
He studies me for a second, then shifts his attention to Mrs Higgins.
I gesture between them. “Luke, this is Mrs Higgins. Mrs Higgins, Luke. He lives in the big house on the outskirts.”
"Luke Evans." He holds out his hand to Mrs Higgins in a way that's far too formal way for jolly hike through the countryside.
"Pleasure!" Mrs Higgins beams, delighted. “So you’re the man from London.”
Luke’s expression flickers. “That’s… one way of putting it.”
“Oh, we all know about you, love,” she says breezily. “Mysterious man. Keeps to himself. No one’s quite sure if he’s brooding or just socially incompetent.”
I press my lips together, doing my best not to laugh.
Luke, to his credit, just sighs. “Good to know I’m a local attraction.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she continues, eyes twinkling. “The verdict’s still out on whether you’re just a grump or hiding a dark secret.”
His jaw ticks slightly. “And which side are you on?”
Mrs Higgins squints at him. “Too early to say. Ask me after the walk.”
Luke lets out a short, tired breath. “Brilliant.”
I watch their exchange, fighting back a smile. This feels a lot less like cheerful ramblers and more like a group of misfits. The grump, the lonely woman, the nosy pensioner and a farting dog. I don’t think we will make it into The Guardian .