Page 47 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

He’s not stupid. People always assume bull terriers are, but they’re stubborn and Stop It negotiates. Don’t let him.

The dog moved past her, slumped and started scratching at the skirting board.

He responds to praise more than anything else. Keep commands simple . . . same words, same tone.

Sammy removed the last few vegetables. ‘So, you respond to praise, Stop It, like the rest of us.’ The recording continued:

Come, Stop It. Good bully boy. That’s it. Well done. Good bully boy.

Sammy’s eyes flicked sideways.

Over by the door, Stop It had gone still, his head angled to one side. She paused the voice memo, rewound and hit play.

Come, Stop It. Good bully boy…

The dog took a step toward her.

Sammy lowered the phone, watching. She concentrated, trying to mimic the voice, ‘Come boy, good bully boy’.

The dog’s head lifted. Another step.

‘Good bully boy,’ she said again, a little more confidently this time.

The dog inched closer.

The back door slammed.

Nate looked up from the flower bed automatically. Magnus emerged first, Stop It already pulling at the lead. Sammy followed behind, one hand raised against the sun.

Nate stared at the border.

Approximately three seconds later, he looked up again. He chuckled to himself. Sharply ironed stripy grey and black trousers tucked neatly into wellington boots – who else took a dog for a walk wearing a butler’s uniform?

At the edge of the lawn, a grey squirrel sat upright, a chestnut tucked between its paws, watching Nate dig over the border.

Magnus said something – lost in the distance. The line of his arm went stiff, as if braced. The butler’s eyes were fixed on the lawn.

Nate tracked the other man’s gaze: the squirrel now had its nose tipped towards the house. The tail flicked.

The lead snapped taut. Stop It launched. Magnus followed a fraction too late, boots slipping on the grass.

They crossed the lawn in a broken line – the dog pulling hard, Magnus keeping pace by necessity rather than design. The squirrel vanished up the copper beech. The dog lunged at the base of the tree, barking upward, certain this was now a shared game.

Magnus gathered the lead, drawing himself upright again. ‘Heel.’

The dog strained, his focus on that squirrel.

Predictable, thought Nate.

Magnus held on, one-handed now, the line pulled tight across his body as he reached – awkwardly – for his pocket. The lead jerked, and Magnus stumbled, clinging to the leash. He tried again, fingers working against the fabric, balance skewing sideways as the dog dragged him half a step off-centre. A dog biscuit appeared, produced with a composure that belied the preceding seconds.

Motivated animals. Seems to be a theme around here. The phrase surfaced uninvited – Sammy’s voice. He recalled feeding the ducks with her – she was so easy to be around. He drove the fork hard into the soil: no, Nate. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, allowing his attention to revert to the dog.

The lead had changed hands; Sammy at the human end, the line of her arm taking the weight of the dog. The dog lurched forward. She let it go. But that was Sammy – easy to be around – and that was how trouble started. A woman who was easy to be around.

Her singsong voice floated across the lawn to him. ‘Heel, Stop It. There’s a good bully boy.’

Too soft thought Nate. No edge to it, he picked up the fork.