Page 70 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Save your breath. Magnus was there. He saw it for himself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got plenty to be getting on with. If you do see Magnus, please tell him I’ve gone to feed the chickens, save him doing it.’

The chickens heard Sammy before they saw her.

A low, expectant murmur built inside the shed – soft clucks, shifting feet – until Sammy slid the bolt back and opened the hatch. They spilled out in a flurry of feathers and purpose, fanning around her boots, already pecking, already busy. It reminded Sammy of a friendlier version of Valerie’s earlier ambush – she hoped the woman didn’t say anything to Magnus about her suspicions; there was nothing going on between Sammy and Nate, although she hoped that would soon change. ‘All right, all right,’ she said, tipping feed from the bucket. ‘There’s plenty to go round. No need to panic.’

One of them leaped higher than the rest, landing squarely against her shin. ‘You again,’ she said, stepping back. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

Behind her, the door creaked open. Nate, carrying armfuls of straw. ‘You’ve got fans,’ he said.

‘They’re very demanding fans.’

He dumped the straw on the grass picked up a shovel and, leaned into the hen house clearing out the bedding. Straw shifted, the dry smell of it rising into the warm air.

Sammy scattered more feed, watching the chickens jabbing at the grain. ‘Their bedding doesn’t look soiled,’ she said.

The shovel scraped the bottom of the hen house. ‘I thought I’d do it now anyway.’

She smiled to herself. Maybe this was how it started. Not fireworks. Not anything loud. Just . . . wanting to share the same minutes.

Peter came to mind without warning.

Not the end of it – that part she’d learned to step around – but the beginning. How easily it had slipped into place. Cups of tea that turned into evening glasses of wine. The assumption that it was going somewhere, because of course it was. No effort, no questions. Until there were. She let the memory sit a moment longer than she meant to, then moved past it.

Different. This felt different.

‘Magnus has noticed you coming to the polytunnel in the mornings.’ Said Nate. ‘He’d rather it stopped.’

‘It’s part of the job.’

‘Mrs Williams never chose the vegetables.’

‘I’m not Mrs Williams.’

A reluctant smile touched his face.

Her phone rang, the synthetic trill sounding jarringly out of place, like a fragment of the outside world dropped into the garden’s green stillness. Chloe.

Not again; Clo obviously had too much time on her hands. Instinctively her eyes darted toward the house. Magnus would . . . but Magnus wasn’t here. The phone kept ringing, the noise sharp above the scrape of the shovel.

Nate’s muscles flexed as he turned and tossed a pile of soiled bedding into a wheelbarrow. Deciding Nate wouldn’t mind, she answered. ‘Hi.’

‘Sammy, I’m losing my mind,’ Chloe said. ‘They’ve actually turned on me now. Like properly. It’s hostile.’

Sammy set down the feed bucket; this sounded serious. ‘What happened?’

‘Everything. They said I’m difficult. Can you believe that?’

Sammy’s mouth twitched. ‘A little,’ she said.

‘Sam.’

‘Sorry.’

She moved a few steps away, though Nate was still within sight, working steadily. ‘Have you found any work yet?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Chloe said. ‘It’s impossible. No one’s hiring. And now I can’t even think straight, let alone prepare for an interview, because I’m living with them.’

‘Them?’