Page 132 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Her mouth tightened. ‘I think so. I don’t keep track of her relationships. Why are you fixated on him . . . Chloe says he’s no harm to anyone.’

‘You let her decide what’s real do you . . .’ He wanted to take her and shake her into action. Show her the gulf between what she’d said and what had clearly bled out, only ten yards away. ‘Is he staying at your cottage?’

‘Not with my permission.’ She said quickly.

Not with my permission. He drew a slow breath, looking past her towards the fence again, to the snag of fur caught on the wire.

Her eyes flicked down to the flattened grass, then away, but still not at him. ‘It could be anyone. People get onto the land . . .’

‘Not with a gun,’ he said. ‘Not this close to the house. Someone knew these pots were here – deer love apples trees.’ A rook cawed somewhere beyond the trees as if sounding a warning. He gave her one last chance to step back onto solid ground. She didn’t take it. ‘Right,’ he said.

‘Want me to help look for those casings?’

‘Don’t bother . . . I’ll do it. You get back to the Hall.’

He turned away, crossing back to the line of trees. One of the pots still leaned over where it had been knocked. He set it upright, pressing the soil firm with the side of his boot.

Nate picked up his spade, weighed it in his hand, then drove it hard into the ground.

After a moment, he pulled it free again. The trees could wait.

He walked towards the walled garden without looking back.

Sammy spent Sunday making damson jam with Stop It’s assistance, and her two days off wondering how much longer Chloe intended to stay. She didn’t ask.

On Wednesday afternoon – ostensibly with Valerie’s assistance – she tackled the linen. The presence of Jimmy’s aunt brought the events of Saturday morning in the orchard back to Sammy.

With steady hands, Sammy fed the sheet through the roller iron, guiding the fabric carefully between the heated cylinders.

Behind her, the washing machine churned steadily. Valerie was sorting damp laundry into baskets with brisk, efficient movements. Every so often she shook a sheet out sharply as if punishing it.

A rifle casing. Sammy kept her eyes on the sheet as it emerged smooth and flat from the rollers. Jimmy had a gun – no, surely this couldn’t be Jimmy?

‘Mind that sheet,’ Valerie said suddenly.

Sammy’s hand jerked, letting the linen skew sideways.

Valerie clicked her tongue. ‘Honestly. If you crease it now, I’ll have to wash it again.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You’re miles away today.’

To avoid answering, Sammy busied herself folding the sheet, because her mind kept circling back to the conversation in the pub. Nate’s expression. The certainty in his voice. ‘Jimmy doesn’t do anything because he likes somebody.’

A cheerful tune started. The washing machine door clicked, and Valerie hauled another load out. ‘Mr Magnus says they found a rifle casing near the orchard at the weekend,’ she said conversationally. ‘Police wandering about. You’d think they had nothing better to do.’

Sammy’s hands slowed.

Valerie snorted. ‘Whole lot of ’em acting like there’s some criminal mastermind stalking pheasants.’ She slammed the machine door shut. ‘Though if you ask me, rich people get terribly emotional when somebody shoots one of their birds.’

Sammy fed another sheet into the roller. Her thoughts shifted uneasily. Jimmy poached birds. George practically admitted buying game off him. Sammy watched Valerie shake out another sheet with sharp, snapping movements.

A sheet emerged perfectly ironed beneath Sammy’s hands.

‘You’re doing that too slowly,’ said Valerie. ‘At this rate we’ll still be here by supper.’

Valerie stalked out. Sammy forced her mind back to the task – linen, she scolded herself. But if this was Jimmy. She reached for the next sheet. She’d have to say something to Chloe. The roller iron hummed on. Her hands didn’t falter.