Page 112 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘I need some advice,’ Sammy said. The words came faster than she expected. The gun. Jimmy. Chloe. The Hall. The rules already bent too far. Jean listened. ‘Send them both packing.’

Sammy stared at Chloe’s possessions scattered as they always were in Swansea. A life that had been tangled up with hers for twenty-five years ‘That feels . . . a bit harsh,’ she said.

‘It’s not harsh,’ Jean replied. ‘It’s necessary.’

‘I’ll speak to her,’

‘You will,’ Jean agreed. ‘But don’t pretend this fixes itself. Now if that’s all I’ve got to get going. Sammy, promise me – deal with this before it goes too far.’

‘I will.’

‘Bye love.’

Sammy said goodbye then cleared a space on the table, pushing aside Chloe’s makeup sufficiently to find the wood beneath. The surface felt slightly tacky under her fingers. She found a pen and a scrap of paper.

No more guests.

Then, beneath it:

Please.

She set it down on the cleared space, where it couldn’t be missed.

Nearly a week had passed. Nothing had surfaced. No questions from Magnus. No trace of Chloe’s adventure.

That morning, while Magnus was out feeding the chickens, Sammy had slipped the linen through the roller iron and sneaked it back upstairs. The buzzer had sounded as she shut the linen chest, forcing her to run for the door. She was halfway down the stairs when she remembered the pillowcases; she’d pop up when he was closing the house and check them.

The library felt cool after the heat pumping out from the Aga. Light filtered through the tall windows, striking the floorboards and catching the edge of the table where Sammy had set a flower arrangement.

She tweaked a dahlia slightly, positioning the flower towards the light. The petals were past the tight bud stage now, beginning to loosen, the colour deepening – bright yellow. She stepped back, considering it.

Not bad. Better than not bad.

Everything was as it should be. Why rock the boat?

Behind her, the sound of footsteps rang out on the floorboards. Then stopped.

Sammy looked up. Magnus with a pillowcase in either hand. She didn’t have to touch them to know – both cotton.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

He set the pillowcases down on the table beside her flowers. ‘You’ll do this my way,’ he said, ‘or you’ll do it somewhere else.’

Sammy couldn’t peel her eyes away from the linen – the smooth sameness of them. ‘I see,’ she said.

She’d covered for Chloe. And now it was going to cost her everything.

Magnus spun around. ‘My office. Now, Miss Jenkins.’

Sammy steeled herself in the doorway, running her clammy hands down her skirt. She definitely wasn’t going to sit down before being invited.

Magnus had taken up station behind his desk.

The room felt cold. Magnus had switched on the overhead lights; their hum seemed to carry a chorus of whispered disapproval.

Her eyes caught sight of that photograph. Set dead centre, exactly where it always was. ‘Inside, Miss Jenkins.’

She took a step forward.