Page 73 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

‘Come with me, Miss Jenkins,’ Magnus said.

She followed him down the corridor to his office. The desk with the single framed photograph – she was convinced that was Mr Wetherby. This time two chairs were arranged beside a tea table. Sammy put her hands on the back of one.

Magnus disappeared into the adjoining pantry. She heard water running, porcelain clinking, the low knock of a cupboard door, followed by a kettle rumbling to a boil.

When he returned with the tray – a teapot, milk jug, two cups and saucers, a small plate of biscuits – he set it down and poured. ‘Sit.’ He passed her a cup.

‘Thank you Mr Magnus.’

‘Better,’ he said.

‘The napkins.’

‘Yes, those too.’

Sammy traced a finger round the rim of her cup. ‘Mr Magnus?’

‘Hm?’

‘I don’t want to complain.’

‘Then don’t. Merely state the facts.’

Sammy drank her tea, choosing her words carefully. ‘The room situation is becoming a bit awkward.’

Magnus made a noncommittal sound. ‘A sensible observation.’

‘Valerie doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave.’

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘She doesn’t.’

There was no irritation in his voice, only certainty. For some reason, that reassured Sammy more than if he’d promised immediate action.

Halfway down the track, Nate found himself wondering if Sammy would be by the lake. He chided himself – she’s a colleague; you don’t think about Magnus in the evenings.

The lake lay flat, the last of the August light thinning across it, darkening under the trees. Reeds shifted, a dry, uneven sound. From beyond the hedgerow came the chug of a tractor. Nate scrambled down the bank, the earth loose underfoot.

She was already there, close to the water, scattering feed. The ducks came in fast, cutting straight lines across the surface, their wakes crossing and folding behind them. She didn’t crowd them. He’d shown her, and he felt a smile tug at his lips – she’d listened.

A reed warbler emerged for a heartbeat, picking delicately at the water’s edge before melting back into the reeds. Nate spotted the darker hen. Tucked low into the bank, reluctant to follow the others. She’d been there for a couple of weeks now.

‘Thyme’s not coming in again,’ Sammy said.

He almost repeated it – Thyme – then caught himself. Her daft names; these weren’t pets. ‘Don’t push it.’

‘Do you think she’s poorly?’ Sammy asked.

‘Reckon she’s got a couple of eggs under there.’

She turned to face him. ‘Really?’

‘Probably.’

She inched closer to the bird. ‘That’s . . . that’s amazing.’

‘Don’t touch her . . . it’s not amazing it’s natural,’ he said.

‘You say that like it’s nothing.’