Читать книгу Country Rivals - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 10

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?’

‘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.’

‘Charlotte?’

‘My granddaughter.’

He racked his brain for facts, but he hadn’t really been interested in reading the reports – his attention had been grabbed by the pictures. And there hadn’t been a memorable picture of any attractive heiress. Maybe she looked like a horse. ‘Seems sensible, you know, to stop you shooting at people. So, what happened?’ It didn’t really matter as far as the job went, but he was interested. ‘Was it arson, like some of the reports said? Are you after a big fat insurance pay-off?’

‘Ridiculous idea.’ She held her glass out for a refill, so he complied and wondered why she still looked sober as a judge when his world was wobbling at the edges. ‘To answer your questions, yes, we had a substantial fire here. Yes, arson is suspected but,’ she peered over her glass at him, ‘some people seem to think we had a hand in it, which is quite preposterous. And to answer your final question, quite honestly the extent of any insurance pay-out is none of your business, young man.’ She stared at the amber liquid. ‘Such a shame when the wedding business was beginning to turn a proper profit. Awful mess, damned good job they used to build places properly. The curtains, of course, were ruined. We’d only had them cleaned a couple of years ago. Such a waste. I do hate waste.’ She frowned. ‘It has been suggested that a disgruntled guest started it, because he had been muttering about jumped-up toffs, but that is nothing new, is it? I do rather suspect there is more to it than that. Bloody developers, no respect.’ Her voice had drifted, so maybe the drink was getting to her. Then she put her glass down on the table and fixed him with the type of look that made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, even though he’d never actually been that badly behaved. ‘Mark my words, I intend to get to the bottom of it. So,’ she sat slightly more upright, if that were possible, ‘why were you snooping about in the middle of the night rather than arriving at a more civilised hour?’

‘Well I don’t usually, er, snoop, in the middle of the night. My train was cancelled.’ He’d called Pandora to suggest a re-run the following day and had been told, in no uncertain terms, to make sure he took ‘the fucking photos today’ – so much for him suspecting she had a nice side. ‘I’m working for this film producer and he’s on the look out for a location. When I saw this place I thought it looked perfect, so I offered to come over.’ He held his camera up. ‘Take some shots. I mean, I would normally just knock at the door and ask, but I got lost looking for the place. Then, when I found it, with the gates being shut and everything, I thought it was a bit late to be bothering you. I only needed a few photos of the outside and the grounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought it would make sense to get on with it. So, I, er, got over the wall and then thought if I got a move on I’d be able to get the last train home, but …’

She was frowning. But it had seemed the sensible solution at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. But at least he’d met Lady Stanthorpe. His mum would be impressed, although he’d have to skate over some of the facts. ‘It’s amazing, the way the light …’

‘It’s dark.’

‘Even in the moonlight it’s fantastic.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘And what are you filming? Some inaccurate historical nonsense? Why you people are too lazy to check your facts confounds me.’

‘Dunno exactly, but it’s not old-fashioned stuff. All they told me was that they wanted somewhere to shoot the polo bits. You know, that game they play on horses, with sticks.’

‘I do know what polo is, young man.’

‘They wanted a backdrop like this for it, you know, something posh, impressive.’

‘One doesn’t play polo in Cheshire in the winter, dear boy.’

‘One would,’ he grinned, ‘want to do a few shots now, and most of the shoot in the spring. Apparently there’s more to polo than just the beautiful game.’

‘Is there now? One would hardly call it beautiful, although some of the Argentinian players have a certain something about them. My late husband, Charles, used to play when he was abroad. He was rather dashing, I must admit, although all that racing about did take it out of him as he got older. Arthritis is a bugger and I rather feel that the poor ponies suffered as the poor old fool put weight on. So much nicer for them with some slim young man on board. So much nicer for all of us.’ She waved her empty glass again, and Jamie wondered if she was pouring it down Bertie, who was now snoring and whimpering, his feet dancing as he chased imaginary rabbits.

‘So, you say you will be filming outside?’

‘Outside only.’

‘And there would be substantial reimbursement?’ She tapped her stick on the floor and Bertie leaned more heavily against her. He guessed this was what Elizabeth looked like when under stress. Just a twitch. ‘Poor Charlotte does rather needs funds. Bloody insurance people aren’t paying out yet. I’ve always said one was better investing one’s money oneself elsewhere.’

‘It is all repairable, then?’

‘It is, for a price. But until then the business is at something of a stand-still. Brides-to-be are not interested in looking at scorched walls. No imagination, you youngsters, these days.’

‘Well, we would pay to film here.’

‘I’m not sure Tipping House, or the village of Tippermere for that matter, is ready for a film crew. You would no doubt ruin the lawns and litter the place with pop bottles, chip wrappers and people with loud-hailers.’ She stared gimlet-eyed down her long nose.

‘No doubt.’

‘And you would scare the horses. And you do realise that we can’t stop the pheasant shoot or the Boxing Day meet just to humour you?’

‘I do. But all that is finished by spring, isn’t it?’ A Boxing Day meet was surely on Boxing Day? ‘It could up your profile.’ She stared. ‘You know, keep you going while you’re waiting for the insurance money?’ The lines he’d been fed spilled out of him. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Be fun?’ He’d strayed from the script, but now he was pretty sure he had her hooked on that one. ‘Must be pretty quiet round here. Give me a call. I’ve got a card …’ He was reaching into his pocket as he spoke.

She waved a regal hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I will do no such thing. You may call me after Christmas and I will decide whether I wish to pursue this matter further. The first Tuesday in the New Year will suit, at 3pm. But I’m not promising anything. I shall raise the matter with Charlotte when the time is right. Although, if I were you I’d keep this quiet, because if my son Dominic gets as much as a whiff of this kind of thing he’ll raise the drawbridge.’

‘You’ve got an actual drawbridge?’ Jamie was even more impressed.

‘A metaphorical one.’

‘Ahh. And Dominic has the final say?’

‘Certainly not. But he can be quite sniffy at times and he is rather strong-willed when he puts his mind to it.’

‘I wonder where he gets that from?’ He hadn’t thought he’d actually verbalised the words, but it appeared he had.

The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘One has to know what one wants. But he is slightly too, what is the word? Conservative for my taste. He is a dressage rider.’

She said it as though it explained everything, which to Jamie it didn’t. Knowing very little about horses and absolutely nothing about dressage riders.

‘Precise, controlled. The boy sorted all his books alphabetically and his cars into the most orderly of rows when he was a child.’ That didn’t help much either. ‘Re-stabled all the horses one day because they weren’t in any kind of size or colour orientation. The head groom was not amused.’

‘Ahh.’

‘He was very young though. He appears to have grown out of his most faddy tendencies. Too many fancy notions and picky habits aren’t good for a boy. Poncey. Not quite sure where he gets it from, his father was nothing like that. If anything upset him he’d go out and shoot.’

‘And so Dominic helps you run the place?’

‘Oh heavens above, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Dominic is my son, but Charlotte, my granddaughter, runs the estate.’

‘Ah, so Charlotte is Dominic’s daughter.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, lips pursed. ‘Dominic is Charlotte’s uncle.’

‘Oh. But shouldn’t he …’

‘The Stanthorpes have never liked to stick to the normal order of things; we do things our own way. Tipping House is never passed to a male heir, it is inherited by the eldest female and sadly Charlotte’s mother, my daughter Alexandra, died in rather unfortunate circumstances. One day all this will be Charlotte’s. You really do need to do your homework, young man.’

Jamie frowned. He’d thought taking a few pictures and selling the idea to Seb was all he needed to do. But it appeared not. The longer he was here though, the more he realised it wasn’t just that he needed this job; he actually wanted it. He wanted to peep into the life of Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe. To make her smile.

‘And so Charlotte is in charge?’

‘I rather think I am in charge.’ Her tone was dry, but there were the crinkle lines of laughter around her eyes again. ‘But she is responsible for running the estate and raising the necessary funds.’

‘She’s the one who set up the business here, as a wedding venue, isn’t she?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘And one of the punters started the blaze, so she’s knackered.’

‘Knackered is a word I’d reserve for an altogether different usage, young man, but she is in rather a predicament. Most of the bookings were over the summer months, so very few had to be cancelled. But she should now be taking bookings for the spring after next, and how can she? These young girls look around and want everything to be perfect, and that is not going to be achievable for quite some time.’ She sniffed. ‘These insurance investigators are quite tiresome. And without the income one is very much back to square one.’

‘Even if you get it fixed up?’

‘A place like this costs a fortune to maintain and that is something that, sadly, we don’t have. That young fool of a bank manager is already starting to twitch, silly boy. But I’m sure things will sort themselves out, although I might well shoot the next person who arrives with a buy-out plan.’

‘Why not just sell the place?’

‘Sell?’ She raised both eyebrows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Over my dead body. If they think they can turn this village into a safari park or giant amusement arcade they have another thing coming. The Marquis of Bath and that Aspinall chap have a lot to answer for, putting ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. You will never see a pride of lions here during my lifetime. Utter tosh and nonsense. Right, I’m sure it’s past your bedtime. Your push bicycle is by the front door.’

‘Push …?’

‘The police called in to say they’d seen it propped against the south wall,’ she raised an eyebrow and he tried not to smile. ‘Some chap saw you climb over, but they knew better than to follow you. More than one policeman has been peppered with shot on this estate. By accident, of course, mistaken identity and all that. One of the gamekeepers went to collect it while I brought Bertie to sniff you out.’

‘You knew I was there? You didn’t find me by accident?’

‘What do you think I am? This estate stretches for miles, and I can’t see in the dark at my age, can I?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Be careful on the bicycle, you look a bit tipsy. Unlikely to meet any traffic but the ditches can be hazardous I’m told.’ She stood up. ‘Can’t have you killed just before Christmas can we? Your mother would never forgive us. Oh, and watch out for ghosts and wolves.’ And he was pretty sure that it was the whisky that made him think she’d winked.