Izzy returned to the kitchen, popped the radio on and began to potter, enjoying having the time to herself. She’d discovered that cooking was much better when she took her time as things tended to go wrong when she rushed. There was something soothing and reassuring about the process of making a dish. Chopping onions and knowing they would turn golden brown if you cooked them long and slow, frying spices over a gentle heat to add depth of flavour or stirring in cream to provide additional richness. Everything was better when it was done with care and attention. She loved being able to immerse herself in the ritual and not have to think about anything else. It was her time. It had begun to rain outside and the wind had risen, hurling the raindrops at the kitchen windows with alarming ferocity, but with the Rayburn, it was warm and cosy in the kitchen. Despite that, Izzy gave a small shiver as she looked out at the inky blackness of the early evening sky. There wasn’t a single light for miles to break up the darkness and it brought a sense of being marooned in the night.
It was quite a relief when Xanthe marched into the kitchen clutching two slender Champagne flutes. ‘Look at these. Aren’t they perfect?’ Without waiting for Izzy to comment, she bustled to the fridge and yanked out a bottle. ‘Bubbles.’
While Izzy fried onions and chopped garlic, Xanthe opened the bottle and poured two generous glasses.
‘What shall we toast to?’ she asked. ‘I think I shall start on the master bedroom tomorrow. I’ve seen the most stunning wallpaper from a wonderful Glasgow-based company, Timorous Beasties. Look, isn’t it stunning?’ She held out her mobile.
Izzy took the phone and enlarged the picture. It was typical Xanthe – dramatic and bold – but she could imagine it in that room. ‘It’ll look stunning.’ Then she scrolled down to check the price and gasped.
‘Three hundred and fifty pounds a roll! Mum!’
Her mother snatched the phone back. ‘It’s an investment,’ she said blithely before glancing up at the door and trilling, ‘Oh, Ross, you’re just in time. Come and have a glass of Prosecco. We’re celebrating finishing the morning room. Izzy’s done a marvellous job on the painting.’
It was rare to see him at this time of day. He still kept himself to himself and the only sign of his occupation was the occasional washed-up soup bowl on the draining rack.
Izzy glared at her mother who beamed back, knowing that Izzy wouldn’t say anything in front of him.
‘Sorry to bother you but I think there might be a leak upstairs.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Izzy. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Along the corridor from my room. There’s water dripping through the ceiling.’
Grabbing a bucket and a pile of old towels from beneath the sink she dashed out of the kitchen and had ascended two flights of stairs before realising that Ross was close behind her.
Sure enough there was water pooling and dropping onto the threadbare carpet a few metres along the corridor from his room.
‘I really don’t need this,’ said Izzy, glaring up at the ceiling, studying the crack through which the water seeped. If there was this much water here, how much was there upstairs?
‘Here.’ Ross held out a hand and took one of the towels, folding it several times before putting it down to soak up the water, and at the same time placing the bucket underneath the steady drip. ‘There must be a bigger leak coming in upstairs.’
‘Aye, Sherlock,’ she muttered, shaking her head as she squinted upwards, following the line of the ceiling down the corridor trying to work out where the leak might be coming from on the next floor. ‘I’ll go up.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘No, I don’t, but I’m going to.’ He smiled as he grabbed the bucket. ‘Two heads are better than one and all that.’
‘I’m not sure heads are going to solve this,’ she said, weakly returning his smile.
The two of them moved quickly down the corridor to the smaller servants’ stairs leading up to the attic immediately under the roof. Together they found the ominous bulge in the ceiling with a crooked crack running through it from which a small torrent poured, spilling water onto the floor and sending dusty splashes bouncing along the floorboards.
Her heart nose-dived in her chest. Glancing anxiously up at the distended plaster, puffed up like an angry spot, she had visions of the whole thing bursting and bringing the ceiling down.
‘Damn,’ she said, staring up at the water, paralysed by the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing she could do at this time of night and that things were only going to get worse.
Ross didn’t say anything but took the bucket from her hand and placed it strategically below the leak before tugging a towel from her limp hands to mop up the puddle on the floor, which was trickling away through the floorboards.
‘Sorry,’ she said, suddenly realising what he was doing. ‘I should be doing that.’ But she didn’t seem capable of rallying herself. Instead, she stared around the room while Ross went down on his knees at her feet to spread the towel to soak up the worst of the water.
‘Have you got anything bigger?’ he asked, as the bucket began to fill at an alarming rate.
Hysteria – that must have been what it was – made her giggle, even though the situation was far from funny. ‘Aren’t I supposed to say that?’
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I was thinkingJaws. You’re going to need a bigger boat … or rather bucket. Have you got anything suitable?’
She bit her lip and thought. ‘Not up here. There might be something down in the cellar or the scullery.’
