Zara Stoneley - Country Rivals

‘People do still have sex.’ Jamie wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was heading.

‘Jolly good. Bertie do leave those alone, there’s a good chap.’ The Labrador looked at her with big chocolate eyes, a boot held gently in his jaws, which he very carefully laid back down at his mistress’s feet. ‘He misses Holmes, don’t you old man?’ She patted the dog’s head and his tail swung a metronome beat as he looked up expectantly.

‘Holmes?’ Jamie looked around, half expecting a butler to appear.

‘Lab. Like peas in a pod the two of them were. Died of old age, dropped like a stone the other week as he ran out after a pheasant, daft old bugger.’

‘Ah.’

‘Philippa said she expects me to go the same way.’ She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘Never chased a pheasant in my life though.’

‘Maybe she didn’t quite mean …’

‘I know exactly what she meant. You remind me of her a little.’

He wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

‘Philippa?’

‘Friend of my granddaughter’s. Philippa, Pip, bright girl, most entertaining. Gone off to Australia with her surfing chap and I have to say I do miss her company. She’s a good girl, but I can’t be doing with this sky chatting, not the same as having her here. Darned new-fangled ideas.’

‘Sky chatting?’ Jamie looked at her blankly. ‘Oh, you mean Skype?’

‘That’s what I said. Do pull your trousers up properly, it’s no wonder you haven’t got a gal when you go around showing your underwear.’

‘I never said …’ He sighed as she marched across the oak-panelled hallway and pushed a door open. What was the point in wasting his breath? It was like some kind of test, to see what his reaction would be, although he reckoned he must have at least passed the first stage. It was a bit like playing an online game. And he hadn’t a clue what her end game was, although he still just about remembered his. Even if things hadn’t quite gone to plan.

Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe propped the shotgun at the side of her chair and took a proper look at the trespasser. He was more youth than man, and an untidy one at that. When he’d lain under the rhododendrons, his dirty-blond hair a splash of colour against the dark mulch, he’d looked impossibly young and innocent. Which was why she’d invited him in. ‘You appear to have been rolling in fox excrement.’

He took a sniff of his jacket and grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry.’

‘Tomato ketchup.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Our old housekeeper used to swear by it. To get rid of the smell.’ She put her hands in her lap and followed his line of sight.

‘Is that thing even licenced?’ He was staring at the gun, as though he’d never seen one before. ‘Is it safe?’

‘Of course it is, young man, it was one of Papa’s favourites. He bagged a lot of poachers with this, easier to hit than rabbits, can’t move as fast.’

‘Isn’t it illegal to shoot people?’

‘That rather depends.’ He was waiting for an explanation and Elizabeth watched him, bemused. He seemed bright, if a little confused, just like Philippa had been when she’d first arrived in Tippermere.

The girl had been a friend of her granddaughter, Charlotte, and the same age, but had soon become a firm favourite of Elizabeth’s.

She had a taste for adventure, the spirit of youth. It had been nice to have a youngster around the place who was smart, but still had a streak of mischief. Her inquisitive mind, and a natural leaning towards investigation, had made her an excellent journalist and an entertaining companion. Philippa had been such fun. Unlike most of the people she came across day to day.

‘Are you going to pour that drink, young man?’

‘Isn’t it a bit late?’

‘Never too late for a tot of whisky. Keeps you warm at night. So, do I know your mother?’

‘I doubt it.’ He grinned and reached for the ice tongs, deciding fingers probably weren’t the best etiquette.

‘Don’t you dare!’

Jamie jumped as the commanding tone rang out, making the cut glass sing.

‘You are not ruining my best whisky with bloody ice! Which school did you go to, boy?’

* * *

Old ladies, Jamie thought, were supposed to mutter and croak, although maybe that didn’t apply to the upper classes. ‘Not one of the better ones, obviously.’ Waving what he considered the right type of glass and the correct bottle of whisky he got a nod of approval. ‘But although I may be a heathen as far as whisky goes, I’m not a rambler.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Or a druggie or drunkard.’

‘But you were on private land so I was perfectly entitled to shoot. You could have been an armed intruder.’

‘I’m a scout.’

‘Aren’t you rather old to enjoy short trousers and middle-aged men?’ She raised an elegant eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Jamie laughed and took a sip of the shockingly smooth malt whisky. During his train journey he’d had the chance to read a little bit about the Stanthorpes, and in particular about Lady Elizabeth. Eccentric, elegant, impoverished. Matriarchal. But none of the reports had as much as hinted about a sense of humour. ‘I’m a location scout.’

‘Is that what the less-savoury reporters call themselves these days?’

‘God, no. Is that what you thought? I’m nothing to do with the press.’

‘They aren’t all bad.’ Lady Elizabeth frowned. ‘Philippa was always very fair in what she reported, but so many seem to be lacking in scruples as well as a grasp of the finer points of the English language.’

‘Oh. So, do you get many of that type out here?’

‘Only recently.’

‘Since the fire?’

She ignored the question. ‘And you’re not from the insurance company?’

‘Nope.’ He shook his head.

‘That fire has been rather an inconvenience, which is why I wasn’t surprised to find another interloper in the grounds. You’re not some kind of investigator?’

‘No. Honest, nothing like that. So you’ve not started repairs yet, then?’ He’d actually thought it rather odd, when he was taking photographs, that there was absolutely no sign of fire damage. The newspaper reports had talked about a devastating fire, about flames that took the fire brigade several hours to get under control. So he’d assumed that at least some of it must have been fixed pretty quickly, that the Stanthorpes were the type of people who could afford to put things right, even though they might still be willing to take Seb’s money. But if they had, why did she think he was from the insurance company?

And yet he hadn’t even noticed anything out of the ordinary since they’d arrived at the house. Apart from the very faintest trace of acrid smoke that hung in the entrance hall.

‘You do seem to be asking rather a lot of questions if that’s the case. But no. Not yet.’ She tapped a nail on her glass and Jamie could only guess at how annoyed that meant she was. ‘There appears to be a lot of bureaucracy involved.’