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‘Are you drunk, young man? Or under the influence of one of those new-fangled drugs you children play with?’ Which was quite a good question, considering the weird direction his mind was taking him in. ‘You’re all the same you youngsters, need to get out in the fresh air and do some manual labour. You look pasty.’
‘You’d look bloody pasty if you’d been shot at by a ghost.’
There was a glimmer of a smile across what he could now see were unmistakably aristocratic features. High cheekbones, beady eyes, a long slightly hooked nose and grey hair fixed firmly back. ‘In my day …’
He rolled his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow of leaves. It was surreal, being stuck in the middle of nowhere, well, a Cheshire estate – but it might as well be nowhere, in the shadow of an amazing building, hearing the same words his grandfather threw at him on a regular basis.
‘In my day nobody dived for cover. Stand up like a man, you lily-livered buffoon.’
Which wasn’t quite what he was expecting.
‘My estate manager will be sending a bill for any damage.’
Jamie stared up incredulously at the foliage that surrounded him. ‘How do you damage a bush?’
‘Fences, you fool. I know you didn’t walk in through the front gate as a normal,’ she stressed the word, ‘visitor would do. You don’t look like you’d be capable of damaging much, though. Far too stringy.’ Her eyes narrowed and she peered more closely at him. ‘Are you sure you’re not on drugs?’
‘No I’m bloody not. I could ask you the same. You’re the one in wellies and a nightie, walking the dog in the middle of the night.’ It was probably better not to mention the gun. ‘Nice dog, by the way.’ She harrumphed as he edged himself cautiously up onto his elbows, the dog’s tail beating a tattoo against the mulch of leaves. ‘Not much good at the hunting and killing, though, is it?’
‘He’s a Labrador, a gundog, trained for picking up game not tracking quarry.’ The unspoken ‘stupid boy’ hung in the air. ‘You are trespassing, young man, so you’re fair game.’
‘I know.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Would you mind if I got out of this bush?’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.’
‘If you do, you won’t find out why I’m here?’
‘I said shoot you, not kill you.’
‘Ahh. You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s down, would you?’
‘I am more than happy to give you a five-second start, young man.’
Jamie was just trying to decide if she was kidding or not, as her face was scarily emotionless, when she seemed to come to a sudden decision and straightened up. ‘You don’t look like a lunatic. Come up to the house and make me a drink.’ She lowered the barrel of the gun. ‘And you can explain yourself. Now where’s Bertie wandered off to? Damned sure that dog is going senile. Bertie, Bertie, come here you old fool.’ Breaking open the gun, she hooked it over her arm. ‘Well, come on young man, it’s too cold to stand about gawping.’ And without looking back, she stomped off out of the trees.
Jamie, plucking twigs from his hair and holding firmly onto his camera, ran after her. He caught up just as she reached the edge of the expanse of lawn.
‘Jamie, James Trilling.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ She didn’t even glance his way. ‘Bertie, old boy, don’t you even think of rolling in that excrement or you’ll be sleeping in the stables.’
‘Isn’t it rather late for you to be out walking him?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Overrated if you ask me, all this lying about. Does your mother know where you are?’
Jamie laughed. ‘Why, are you going to kill me and bury my body?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She chuckled, and he joined in. ‘That is the gamekeeper’s job.’
‘Oh. You’re kidding?’ She didn’t reply. ‘So you live here?’ They were crunching over the gravel that fronted the imposing house, and Jamie slowed his pace and glanced up. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘It is.’ Her tone softened, ‘and I do. I was born in that wing,’ she nodded, ‘and now I live,’ she paused to push open the large door, then gestured across the hallway, ‘in that one.’
Jamie stared. Visiting stately homes as a kid had been part of growing up, but now, standing here in the lived-in version he wondered if he’d cracked his head while climbing over the wall. It couldn’t be real. Close up, it was like something out of one of the BBC bonnet-busters that his mum loved to watch. She hated it when he called them that, or told her that the day a woman came out of the lake with a shirt clinging to her chest was the day he’d start watching them.
He supposed he should be used to places like this, just view it as another location, like the rest of the crew would do. But the only locations he’d been sent out to see since starting this job were sink estates that scared the shit out of him (Seb liked ‘authentic’ and was far more comfortable surrounded by concrete than fields), and deserted stretches of railway track where no doubt somebody would get brutally murdered on film. They gave him the willies, if he was honest, but this was different.
Jamie glanced at his ghostly companion as he followed her in. She couldn’t be real. But with a black Labrador at her feet, the shotgun cracked open over her arm and the Hunter wellingtons on her feet, he had to admit that even in her nightie her resemblance to the portrait at the end of the hall was remarkable. ‘You’re, you’re Lady …’
‘Elizabeth Stanthorpe,’ she finished for him, the hint of a smile twitching at her thin lips. ‘Who the blazes did you think I was? You may call me Lady Elizabeth. Now, are we having that drink or not? You’re not one of those feeble types that doesn’t drink are you? No appetite for anything these days, you youngsters, other than fiddling with those egg box things.’
‘X-box.’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gimmicky what-nots. All that staring at screens and fiddling with knobs. I bet you don’t even have time to fiddle with girls. It’s not natural.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Do those lap-dancing clubs still exist? They were very trendy at one time. I blame that Stringfellow chap for a lot of the shenanigans. And there were gentlemen’s clubs. That kind of thing was guaranteed to raise the blood pressure. Nowadays there are no wars to fight, no hunting allowed, no sex … mark my words the human race will die out if the do-gooders have their way. It’s all about being gay now, isn’t it?’ She pulled a wellington off, then pointed at his feet. ‘Shoes off. Not that I have a problem with gay men. It’s always gone on, that type of thing. Knew some splendid chaps who did it. But they did their duty and married the gals as well. Heir and a spare and all that.’
‘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.
Chapter 2
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.’
He zoomed in the picture on his camera. ‘You can’t see any damage from outside. I thought it was supposed to be a massive fire.’
‘It was bad enough. So what do you know about the fire, James? Is that why you’re here?’
She had a pretty piercing gaze for an old lady.
‘Jamie, not James. Not even my mother calls me that. Well, yes and no. I mean I’m here because I saw the pictures in the newspaper after the fire. I’d never heard of Tipping House before that, in fact,’ he grinned sheepishly, ‘I’ve never even been to Cheshire. But I thought the place looked cool, so, er, I came for a closer look.’
‘So you’re not one of those developer chaps?’ He shook his head. ‘Swarming round like flies they were. They smell the rot. I would have quite liked to have taken a pot shot at one or two of them, but Charlotte said she’d hide the key to the gun cabinet if I did.’
‘Charlotte?’
‘My granddaughter.’
He racked his brain for facts, but he hadn’t really been interested in reading the reports – his attention had been grabbed by the pictures. And there hadn’t been a memorable picture of any attractive heiress. Maybe she looked like a horse. ‘Seems sensible, you know, to stop you shooting at people. So, what happened?’ It didn’t really matter as far as the job went, but he was interested. ‘Was it arson, like some of the reports said? Are you after a big fat insurance pay-off?’
‘Ridiculous idea.’ She held her glass out for a refill, so he complied and wondered why she still looked sober as a judge when his world was wobbling at the edges. ‘To answer your questions, yes, we had a substantial fire here. Yes, arson is suspected but,’ she peered over her glass at him, ‘some people seem to think we had a hand in it, which is quite preposterous. And to answer your final question, quite honestly the extent of any insurance pay-out is none of your business, young man.’ She stared at the amber liquid. ‘Such a shame when the wedding business was beginning to turn a proper profit. Awful mess, damned good job they used to build places properly. The curtains, of course, were ruined. We’d only had them cleaned a couple of years ago. Such a waste. I do hate waste.’ She frowned. ‘It has been suggested that a disgruntled guest started it, because he had been muttering about jumped-up toffs, but that is nothing new, is it? I do rather suspect there is more to it than that. Bloody developers, no respect.’ Her voice had drifted, so maybe the drink was getting to her. Then she put her glass down on the table and fixed him with the type of look that made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, even though he’d never actually been that badly behaved. ‘Mark my words, I intend to get to the bottom of it. So,’ she sat slightly more upright, if that were possible, ‘why were you snooping about in the middle of the night rather than arriving at a more civilised hour?’
‘Well I don’t usually, er, snoop, in the middle of the night. My train was cancelled.’ He’d called Pandora to suggest a re-run the following day and had been told, in no uncertain terms, to make sure he took ‘the fucking photos today’ – so much for him suspecting she had a nice side. ‘I’m working for this film producer and he’s on the look out for a location. When I saw this place I thought it looked perfect, so I offered to come over.’ He held his camera up. ‘Take some shots. I mean, I would normally just knock at the door and ask, but I got lost looking for the place. Then, when I found it, with the gates being shut and everything, I thought it was a bit late to be bothering you. I only needed a few photos of the outside and the grounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought it would make sense to get on with it. So, I, er, got over the wall and then thought if I got a move on I’d be able to get the last train home, but …’
She was frowning. But it had seemed the sensible solution at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. But at least he’d met Lady Stanthorpe. His mum would be impressed, although he’d have to skate over some of the facts. ‘It’s amazing, the way the light …’
‘It’s dark.’
‘Even in the moonlight it’s fantastic.’
She didn’t look convinced. ‘And what are you filming? Some inaccurate historical nonsense? Why you people are too lazy to check your facts confounds me.’
‘Dunno exactly, but it’s not old-fashioned stuff. All they told me was that they wanted somewhere to shoot the polo bits. You know, that game they play on horses, with sticks.’
‘I do know what polo is, young man.’
‘They wanted a backdrop like this for it, you know, something posh, impressive.’
‘One doesn’t play polo in Cheshire in the winter, dear boy.’
‘One would,’ he grinned, ‘want to do a few shots now, and most of the shoot in the spring. Apparently there’s more to polo than just the beautiful game.’
‘Is there now? One would hardly call it beautiful, although some of the Argentinian players have a certain something about them. My late husband, Charles, used to play when he was abroad. He was rather dashing, I must admit, although all that racing about did take it out of him as he got older. Arthritis is a bugger and I rather feel that the poor ponies suffered as the poor old fool put weight on. So much nicer for them with some slim young man on board. So much nicer for all of us.’ She waved her empty glass again, and Jamie wondered if she was pouring it down Bertie, who was now snoring and whimpering, his feet dancing as he chased imaginary rabbits.
‘So, you say you will be filming outside?’
‘Outside only.’
‘And there would be substantial reimbursement?’ She tapped her stick on the floor and Bertie leaned more heavily against her. He guessed this was what Elizabeth looked like when under stress. Just a twitch. ‘Poor Charlotte does rather needs funds. Bloody insurance people aren’t paying out yet. I’ve always said one was better investing one’s money oneself elsewhere.’
‘It is all repairable, then?’
‘It is, for a price. But until then the business is at something of a stand-still. Brides-to-be are not interested in looking at scorched walls. No imagination, you youngsters, these days.’
‘Well, we would pay to film here.’
‘I’m not sure Tipping House, or the village of Tippermere for that matter, is ready for a film crew. You would no doubt ruin the lawns and litter the place with pop bottles, chip wrappers and people with loud-hailers.’ She stared gimlet-eyed down her long nose.
‘No doubt.’
‘And you would scare the horses. And you do realise that we can’t stop the pheasant shoot or the Boxing Day meet just to humour you?’
‘I do. But all that is finished by spring, isn’t it?’ A Boxing Day meet was surely on Boxing Day? ‘It could up your profile.’ She stared. ‘You know, keep you going while you’re waiting for the insurance money?’ The lines he’d been fed spilled out of him. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Be fun?’ He’d strayed from the script, but now he was pretty sure he had her hooked on that one. ‘Must be pretty quiet round here. Give me a call. I’ve got a card …’ He was reaching into his pocket as he spoke.
She waved a regal hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I will do no such thing. You may call me after Christmas and I will decide whether I wish to pursue this matter further. The first Tuesday in the New Year will suit, at 3pm. But I’m not promising anything. I shall raise the matter with Charlotte when the time is right. Although, if I were you I’d keep this quiet, because if my son Dominic gets as much as a whiff of this kind of thing he’ll raise the drawbridge.’
‘You’ve got an actual drawbridge?’ Jamie was even more impressed.
‘A metaphorical one.’
‘Ahh. And Dominic has the final say?’
‘Certainly not. But he can be quite sniffy at times and he is rather strong-willed when he puts his mind to it.’
‘I wonder where he gets that from?’ He hadn’t thought he’d actually verbalised the words, but it appeared he had.
The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘One has to know what one wants. But he is slightly too, what is the word? Conservative for my taste. He is a dressage rider.’
She said it as though it explained everything, which to Jamie it didn’t. Knowing very little about horses and absolutely nothing about dressage riders.
‘Precise, controlled. The boy sorted all his books alphabetically and his cars into the most orderly of rows when he was a child.’ That didn’t help much either. ‘Re-stabled all the horses one day because they weren’t in any kind of size or colour orientation. The head groom was not amused.’
‘Ahh.’
‘He was very young though. He appears to have grown out of his most faddy tendencies. Too many fancy notions and picky habits aren’t good for a boy. Poncey. Not quite sure where he gets it from, his father was nothing like that. If anything upset him he’d go out and shoot.’
‘And so Dominic helps you run the place?’
‘Oh heavens above, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Dominic is my son, but Charlotte, my granddaughter, runs the estate.’
‘Ah, so Charlotte is Dominic’s daughter.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, lips pursed. ‘Dominic is Charlotte’s uncle.’
‘Oh. But shouldn’t he …’
‘The Stanthorpes have never liked to stick to the normal order of things; we do things our own way. Tipping House is never passed to a male heir, it is inherited by the eldest female and sadly Charlotte’s mother, my daughter Alexandra, died in rather unfortunate circumstances. One day all this will be Charlotte’s. You really do need to do your homework, young man.’
Jamie frowned. He’d thought taking a few pictures and selling the idea to Seb was all he needed to do. But it appeared not. The longer he was here though, the more he realised it wasn’t just that he needed this job; he actually wanted it. He wanted to peep into the life of Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe. To make her smile.
‘And so Charlotte is in charge?’
‘I rather think I am in charge.’ Her tone was dry, but there were the crinkle lines of laughter around her eyes again. ‘But she is responsible for running the estate and raising the necessary funds.’
‘She’s the one who set up the business here, as a wedding venue, isn’t she?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘And one of the punters started the blaze, so she’s knackered.’
‘Knackered is a word I’d reserve for an altogether different usage, young man, but she is in rather a predicament. Most of the bookings were over the summer months, so very few had to be cancelled. But she should now be taking bookings for the spring after next, and how can she? These young girls look around and want everything to be perfect, and that is not going to be achievable for quite some time.’ She sniffed. ‘These insurance investigators are quite tiresome. And without the income one is very much back to square one.’