Page 148 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Not so fast. You’ve been avoiding me all week. You think I don’t know what’s happened?’

‘I said I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘I warned you this would happen,’ she hissed. ‘I told you if you kept on with this poaching nonsense, you’d end up in trouble. So don’t stand there pretending it isn’t happening. What did the police say?’

‘You coming mate?’ called a male voice from the other side of the lane.

‘I’ll catch you up.’ Jimmy replied. He stared after his departing friends. ‘They’re charging me.’

‘With poaching?’

‘Firearms as well. The solicitor says . . . he reckons I might be looking at prison.’

Valerie closed her eyes for a moment. ‘And your shotgun licence?’

‘Gone.’

‘Your gun?’

‘They’ve taken both of them.’

She drew a slow breath. ‘You fool.’ Jimmy’s shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing. ‘Do you know how many people would give anything to hold a shotgun licence?’ she said. ‘You had one, and you’ve thrown it away.’

‘I didn’t mean . . .’

‘No. You never do.’

The wind rattled the noticeboard outside the hall as if emphasising the seriousness of the matter.

‘Listen to me.’ Valerie said firmly. ‘Whether you get off or whether you don’t, this finishes now. No more poaching.’

Jimmy looked away at the sea – or probably at the pub, thought Valerie, certainly not at her. ‘It’s time you found yourself an honest living.’

Without waiting for an answer, Valerie turned and walked away.

By the Wednesday morning the heat had followed the swallows south; autumn had set in. Sammy wished solutions arrived as easily.

She cut across the lawn anyway, the cold coming straight through the soles of her shoes, the dew from the grass soaking her shoes.

The borders had gone over – lavender greying, the plants mostly brown where they had been green.

Her phone was warm in her hands. The words came out before she could shape them.

‘Jean, I’ve ruined it.’

On the screen, Jean shifted slightly as if preparing herself for the conversation. ‘Tell me what’s happened love.’

Sammy pushed through the side gate, the hinge giving a familiar scrape. ‘Magnus says I can stay until the end of the week. But that’s it.’

‘Why?’

‘Chloe’s been staying. Too long. And Jimmy . . .’ She broke off.

‘What’s Jimmy done now?’

She told her then, everything, from Chloe allowing the poacher to continue visiting, despite Sammy’s insistence he wasn’t to come onto the estate; to the police turning up unannounced. ‘Magnus said I can’t protect the house if I can’t keep my own life in order.’ The words sounded different out loud. Harder.

‘And can you?’