Page 131 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Proper stock, not the stunted things most suppliers tried to pass off these days. Apples and pears each in a twenty-litre pot, leaves turning, roots ready. Given a season, they’d take. Given a few years, planted properly – in the right spot – they’d bear fruit.

He set his spade down and walked the lines, checking tags, spacing it out in his head. Magnus would want symmetry from the drive, sightlines kept clean.

Something wasn’t right.

It took him a while to place it. One pot sat at an angle, the surrounding soil scuffed, as if someone had caught it with a boot and not bothered to right it again. He frowned, stepping closer. Then he saw it.

Something glinting in the grass. He crouched to pick it up but knew already; not a shotgun cartridge, a spent rifle casing. Recent – the colour still bright, no weathering. It hadn’t been there yesterday when he had helped unload the trees. He shuffled on his haunches, his gaze moving past the pots, out towards the fence line.

There. A darker patch in the grass.

Within a few strides the smell reached him – metallic; blood. New blood, and too strong for a nick or a scrape. The ground was churned where an animal had struggled, a patch of grass flattened in a rough oval.

He leaned over, fingers hovering but not touching, eyes tracking the marks leading towards the fence – intermittent, broken, but clear enough if you knew what you were looking at. Nate did: something dragged. Or hauled. His expression hardened. ‘Poor thing.’

Culling was sometimes necessary, poaching never was.

By the time Nate rose, Magnus was walking across the orchard from the house, coat buttoned, pace brisk. Behind him, bundled in a jacket against the wind – Sammy.

‘Good morning, Nate. We have a guest to entertain; he’s arriving on Sunday, being collected from us on the Wednesday evening,’ said Magnus.

Nate rolled his eyes. ‘Four legged?’

‘Indeed.’

‘The one and only Stop It,’ said Sammy. ‘Mr and Mrs Hastings are going to Normandy for a few days.’

‘I was hoping he might spend some time with you in the walled garden? What about on Wednesday?’ said Magnus.

‘Better shut the chickens away first,’ said Nate, smiling. He blew out a sigh. ‘You’ll want to see this.’ He opened his hand, revealing the cartridge case.

Magnus took it, rolling it between his fingers. ‘Hmm.’

‘Come over here,’ said Nate leading the way to the fence. He lifted a strand of wire, showing what was caught there. A tuft of coarse brown hair. ‘Deer,’ Nate said.

Magnus spoke at last. ‘This was done recently.’

Nate’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, I reckon last night, or this morning and whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.’ He let the wire fall back into place.

‘It’s quite close to our cottages,’ said Magnus. ‘I didn’t hear anything – did either of you hear a shot?’

Sammy crossed her arms over her chest. ‘No, Mr Magnus.’

Nate shook his head. ‘I’m a sound sleeper. Didn’t wake me.’

‘I will inform Sir. He won’t be pleased. I think I’ll also report the incident to the police. A clear case of poaching.’

Formal, then. Not a matter to be handled quietly.

Magnus turned and started walking away. ‘Miss Jenkins,’ said Nate, ‘can you give me a hand here for a minute, we should see if there are any more rifle casings.’ He waited until Magnus was out of earshot. ‘Is Chloe still seeing him?’

‘Seeing who?’

He tried to pin her with his eyes, but she lowered hers. ‘You know who.’

‘I don’t know what you’re . . .’

‘Jimmy,’ he said, cutting clean across it. ‘Is she still with him?’