Which was the precise moment when his mobile phone had beeped its way into his conscience and he’d picked it up with trembling hands to find an irate ‘Well?’ text message from an impatient Pandora. The sight of her profile picture had rather brought him back to reality. Then he’d heard the clunk of the shotgun.
* * *
Jamie stared at the wellington boot, which didn’t appear to have moved.
‘Show yourself, man, or I’ll send the dogs in after you.’
‘No fucking chance, you loony.’ He stayed where he was, one hand clutching his precious camera to his chest. A ghost would have been easier to handle than this trigger-happy harridan.
Another shot rang out, alarmingly close, splinters of bark bouncing off the canopy of leaves that covered him, and Jamie froze. His ears picked up the clunk of the gun being reloaded, or at least that’s what his imagination told him it was. In his world nobody carried shotguns or fired at strangers.
He supposed he should wriggle his way, commando style, to freedom. Not easy with a camera like a brick in one hand. And she’d probably pepper his arse with shot, or send the hounds in to drag him back. Christ, he was going to need new jeans after this. His inner action hero had obviously abandoned him.
‘After him, boy, flush him out.’
‘Well, Mum, I’m not quite sure this was what you had in mind when you said a degree would broaden my mind,’ he muttered under his breath as the sound of snapping twigs heralded the oncoming dog. The Hound of the Baskervilles meets Miss Havisham, was his second thought as the snuffles and panting got closer. Although Havisham Hounds sounded more like a pub than a horror film. He had to breathe, calm down. Think rationally.
There was a rustle immediately to his left, the smell of sweet doggy breath, and Jamie opened his eyes – which he hadn’t realise he’d shut. Whiskers tickled his cheek, above them a black, wet, shiny nose. Jamie all but giggled in relief as he realised that it was a Labrador grinning down at him. It plonked itself down on its haunches by his shoulder, tongue lolling, tail swishing through the leaves.
Jamie, who’d never heard of anybody being eaten alive by a Labrador, even though they’d eat more or less anything, offered a hand. The dog sniffed, then licked him with a noisy slurp.
‘Bertie stop that, you bloody traitor.’ Bertie stopped and glanced up guiltily over his shoulder, and so did Jamie. Straight into the barrel of a very old shotgun, gripped by even older, liver-spotted hands. ‘And don’t even think about running off. Darned safety catch, sticking again.’
Jamie wasn’t even sure he could get up without help, let alone run. ‘Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?’ He nodded at the barrel, which was a damned sight steadier than his wavering voice.
‘I’m perfectly competent.’
Which he took as a yes. Despite the firearm pointed at his heart he could feel the blood returning to his extremities with a rush. His fingertips started to throb. ‘It might be nice if you pointed it somewhere else.’ She didn’t. ‘I thought you were a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
It was laughable now, but had seemed a real possibility only minutes ago. If it was minutes. He’d lost track of time, along with the feeling in one arm.
She was, he decided on closer inspection, quite an old lady. But one with a steady hand and a much firmer voice than most grannies he’d come across. More Clint Eastwood than Lady in a Van.
‘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 he
r 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?’
&nb
sp; ‘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.’
Country Rivals Page 2
