Page 104 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sammy laughed.

The pub door opened, and a scruffy man walked in. Sammy recognised him instantly from last night. The man Chloe liked. He walked straight to the bar.

Rose’s expression flattened instantly. ‘Wonderful,’ she muttered.

‘Afternoon, Jimmy.’ said George.

‘Afternoon George, Rose.’

Rose didn’t answer but produced a pint without being asked. Jimmy paid and took it toward the back tables. As soon as he was safely out of range, Rose spoke sharply. ‘That man should be barred.’

George looked offended. ‘No need for that.’

‘No need?’ Rose repeated. ‘Half the deer on this coastline vanish into his pockets.’

George shrugged. ‘And yet somehow excellent game keeps appearing in my kitchen.’

Rose shot him a withering look. ‘Funny that.’

George concentrated very hard on polishing a glass.

‘You never ask where it comes from, do you?’ Rose rolled her eyes toward Sammy. ‘Men are hopeless.’

George set the polished glass down. ‘Must get on, lots of prep for this evening.’

‘What’s tonight’s special?’ asked Rose.

Someone backed out of the kitchen doors, letting out a delicious smell of wine, herbs and slow-cooked onions.

‘What’s that?’ asked Sammy. ‘It smells incredible.’

‘Boeuf en daube. Been cooking since breakfast,’ said George.

The smell deepened as somebody walked past carrying plates.

George grinned. ‘Good food just needs time.’

And suddenly Sammy knew exactly what she was cooking for the next lunch.

Sammy lifted the lid from the pot on the Aga, releasing a pungent mix of wine, meat and stock. Slow fat bubbles broke on the surface. There was a half-used bottle of wine on the counter, and a glass nearby. Which made Sammy think about Chloe – with that man Jimmy who had been in the pub at lunchtime. Already. About Magnus’s voice last night. Highly unsuitable.

She reached for a spoon, stirring slowly. It might have been nothing. Chloe talked to people. She probably went back with a crowd to someone’s house after the pub shut and fell asleep. Classic Chloe. Jimmy would forget his promise to call – he probably already had a girlfriend; or a wife.

She shoved the pot over to the simmering plate and picked up the ingredients list, mentally ticking off each item. Halfway down, she spotted the words ‘bay leaf’.

Telling herself, that despite knowing where the bay tree grew, it would be appropriate to ask Nate to fetch the leaves, Sammy stepped out of the back door patting her pockets. No key. She wedged the door open with the boot scraper. She’d only be gone five minutes. This was rural North Devon.

The afternoon was warm against her skin, summer clinging on into September.

Nate was by the propagator. He must have heard her come in because he looked up immediately.

‘I need some bay leaves please, if you’ve some to spare.’

‘Temperature’s holding,’ he said.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Sammy said.

He lifted the lid, and together they peered in, at the eggs cocooned in straw.