by John Burke
‘And bringing the goose back ready to be stuffed, sir.’
‘We can do without the jokes. This isn’t a television series.’
‘Sir.’
‘I’ve already considered those extenuating circumstances. But I still think you’re quite out of your depth, Gunn.’ The Super leaned back in his chair and rocked it from side to side with a discordant creak. ‘I suppose I must accept some of the blame for putting you on to something a bit tougher than pretty pictures and knick-knacks.’
‘You’re asking for my resignation, sir.’ It wasn’t a question. She waited for the chop.
‘Never said any such thing. There you go again, you see. Shooting off on your own without balancing things before you jump.’
‘What things, sir?’
‘I’ve had a vote of thanks from the Arts and Antiques fossils in London. Very pleased with that operation over at . . . where was it . . .?’
‘Dalspie, sir? That one?’
‘Yes, that one. Thanks to your tip-off, they’ve rounded some villains up. Shouldn’t imagine they faced much in the way of violence from seedy operators like that. But anyway, they suggest you might care to go for an interview there.’
‘They suggested it, sir?’
‘Absolutely. And I wouldn’t want to stand in your way.’
Meaning, she thought, that he would be damned glad to step aside and let her hurry past, out of sight and off his manor.
*
From the high window of Black Knowe it was possible to see the line of road along the ridge, descending in a slow arc to the outskirts of Kilstane. Tall delivery lorries flickered between the trees and then were briefly exposed before swinging down that slope. In late afternoon the sun struck sudden flashes from car windscreens. Through a gap between the trees Nick caught the glint of a pale blue hatchback which he recognized as Lesley Gunn’s. Heading back in to finalize things in the caravan incident room, he supposed, or to sign off at the police station, or to collect personal belongings from her digs.
He wondered whether to drive down himself into the town and intercept her. There were things that had to be said. There were going to be no mistakes this time.
Before he could leave the great hall, the Peugeot was stopping below his window, and Lesley was heading towards the entrance. He waited, motionless and apprehensive in the middle of his own room which had all at once lost all its reassuring qualities.
Mrs Robson announced ‘that detective lassie’.
When the door had been closed, Lesley said: ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
‘They want you back at the nick, after all?’
‘No. I’ve been offered an interview in London. Possibility of a transfer to what they call the Dusty Attic Department.’
‘But you’re not going to take it.’
‘I’ve no alternative.’
‘You know perfectly well you have. Right here.’
‘I’ve come here to say goodbye.’ She must have rehearsed it and steeled herself in the car on the way here. ‘I turned down that post you were offering me twice. I’ve not come here begging this time.’
‘The accommodation here’s much more comfortable than you’ll get in London.’
‘Oh, that would look marvellous, wouldn’t it? The laird’s bidie-in, visiting his aristocratic friends in the pretence of keeping an eye on their treasures, and coming back to perform other duties.’
He thought her anger was gorgeous, her voice so warm and vigorous, her whole body so tense and ready to give battle. And in the flash of a wonderful second he knew that she didn’t really mean a word of it: she was fighting desperately not to acknowledge the truth.
Happily he said: ‘You didn’t come here to say goodbye. You came here because you had to.’
‘Sir Nicholas, just because of a momentary lapse —’
‘Lapse be damned. That was the real thing. And ‘Sir Nicholas’ be damned. That’s not what you were calling me when —’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Liar.’
‘Please, we’d better both forget the whole thing. I’m not holding you to anything. It was just a —’
‘Just a glorious experience,’ he said.
‘And if I were on the premises, trying to work, I’d be available whenever you fancied another experience. On a regular basis.’
‘That’s enough.’ He put his hands on her flushed cheeks, pulling her face impatiently towards him and kissing her a long, demanding kiss. ‘You’re staying.’
She tried to step backwards but he held her firmly by the shoulders now.
‘This won’t do. It would never do. Can’t you imagine the snide remarks? They still snigger about my probationary period here, and then I messed up their pet legend about the Bareback Lass, and now —’
‘They’ll not dare make snide remarks about Lady Torrance.’
He could feel her trying to stay rigid and unresponsive; but she couldn’t. Her protest was only a helpless mutter. ‘This is crazy. I couldn’t . . . I mean, just because . . .’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just because. Lesley, please. My dearest Lesley. Will you please stop pretending, and say you’ll marry me?’
‘Nick.’ She was giving up the struggle. ‘Oh, it’s crazy, but . . . only, you know you don’t have to marry me if all you want is —’
‘Shameless hussy!’
‘I’m afraid so.’ She put her face up to his, and her lips parted. ‘I came here to say goodbye,’ she whispered. ‘Really I did.’
‘And made a mess of it.’
Their hands began moving greedily, and their mouths tasted greedily, and when he had drawn her closer to make it clear that he was never going to let her go, he said: ‘You will stop arguing and marry me?’
‘Isn’t it the deflowered maiden who usually has to ask that?’
He stroked her hair and let his fingers stroll possessively down her back. ‘You don’t have to ask. I’m the one who’s doing the asking.’ His hands reached down to her hips, still gripping her, absurdly afraid to let go. ‘No. I’m not asking. As laird of this domain, I am exercising my right to insist. You will marry me.’
Her head burrowed into his shoulder. ‘Well, I’ve been so used to taking orders for so long, I suppose I have to say yes.’
Later, when he had opened a bottle of champagne and sent downstairs for smoked salmon, he said: ‘We’ve been having too many funerals lately. I must see about arranging a wedding. And some suitable music for the service, of course.’
‘Of course. As poor Adam Lowther said, there’s always Bach.’
‘What else? Thank heavens, there’s always Bach.’
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