Page 64 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Magnus made a note. ‘Valerie, do you think you could come back and finish that later?’

Valerie switched the machine off, standing to attention beside it, while Sammy rattled out Chloe’s details.

‘Thank you.’ said Magnus. ‘Both Jean and Chloe will be recorded.’

‘Jean sent me some money,’ Sammy said. ‘For a treat. What would you do with that Mr Magnus?’ she asked. ‘When family send money for a treat. They always want to know what you’ve done with it . . .’

Magnus closed his notebook. ‘I do not have that problem.’

‘Because they don’t send presents?’

‘Because they do not send anything. No one ever sends me a present.’

‘Why?’ she asked, picking up a porcelain figure and running the duster over the piece.

‘I will check the silver room,’ Magnus said, crossing the room. As he passed, Valerie bent over, fussing with the vacuum cable.

Sammy replaced the figure. Stepping back to check its position, she caught her heel in the cable. The porcelain figure wobbled. Her stomach dropped. She snatched the figure just before it tipped from the mantel.

Valerie gave a sharp laugh. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Those are older than you.’

Magnus stopped at the doorway.

For one awful second, Sammy thought he’d seen. But he only said, ‘The roses are a good addition to the room.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sammy.

He left.

The quiet of the library settled around her again, apart from the roar of the vacuum. ‘You want a bit of advice?’ Valerie said casually. ‘Don’t ask Magnus personal questions. Staff don’t do that here.’

‘I was only talking.’

‘Mm. Well.’ Valerie tugged the vacuum past her, clipping Sammy lightly with the handle as she went.

Valerie moved toward the desk, the wheels of the vacuum trailing lines across the rug Sammy had brushed earlier. Sammy stared at them. She picked up her cloth again. A haircut. That would do.

Valerie’s cottage was tucked into Brambleton’s main street, near the village hall, with a front garden close enough to the pavement that you could hear every passing conversation if you fancied it. Which Valerie did.

She sat in a faded deckchair with one sandal dangling from her toes, a glass of cider balanced on the armrest. Beside her, Jimmy – her nephew – lounged in a matching chair, long legs stretched out, bare feet crossed at the ankles. His top three shirt buttons were undone, revealing a thick gold chain on his chest.

‘You’re staring again,’ Valerie said.

‘I’m observing,’ Jimmy replied.

‘That what they call it now?’

Jimmy grinned into his cider. Mid-thirties now, but still with the same foxish look he’d had as a teenager – all sharp cheekbones and trouble beneath his mop of curly hair. There was a scrape healing across one knuckle and something dark on the shoulder of his shirt that Valerie strongly suspected was rabbit blood.

‘You been up Exmoor again?’ she asked.

‘Lovely morning up there.’

‘Mm.’

‘What?’

Valerie fixed him with a look. ‘You keep at it, you’ll end up in trouble.’