‘Charlotte?’
‘My granddaughter.’
He racked his brain for facts, but he hadn’t really been interested in reading the reports – his attention had been grabbed by the pictures. And there hadn’t been a memorable picture of any attractive heiress. Maybe she looked like a horse. ‘Seems sensible, you know, to stop you shooting at people. So, what happened?’ It didn’t really matter as far as the job went, but he was interested. ‘Was it arson, like some of the reports said? Are you after a big fat insurance pay-off?’
‘Ridiculous idea.’ She held her glass out for a refill, so he complied and wondered why she still looked sober as a judge when his world was wobbling at the edges. ‘To answer your questions, yes, we had a substantial fire here. Yes, arson is suspected but,’ she peered over her glass at him, ‘some people seem to think we had a hand in it, which is quite preposterous. And to answer your final question, quite honestly the extent of any insurance pay-out is none of your business, young man.’ She stared at the amber liquid. ‘Such a shame when the wedding business was beginning to turn a proper profit. Awful mess, damned good job they used to build places properly. The curtains, of course, were ruined. We’d only had them cleaned a couple of years ago. Such a waste. I do hate waste.’ She frowned. ‘It has been suggested that a disgruntled guest started it, because he had been muttering about jumped-up toffs, but that is nothing new, is it? I do rather suspect there is more to it than that. Bloody developers, no respect.’ Her voice had drifted, so maybe the drink was getting to her. Then she put her glass down on the table and fixed him with the type of look that made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, even though he’d never actually been that badly behaved. ‘Mark my words, I intend to get to the bottom of it. So,’ she sat slightly more upright, if that were possible, ‘why were you snooping about in the middle of the night rather than arriving at a more civilised hour?’
‘Well I don’t usually, er, snoop, in the middle of the night. My train was cancelled.’ He’d called Pandora to suggest a re-run the following day and had been told, in no uncertain terms, to make sure he took ‘the fucking photos today’ – so much for him suspecting she had a nice side. ‘I’m working for this film producer and he’s on the look out for a location. When I saw this place I thought it looked perfect, so I offered to come over.’ He held his camera up. ‘Take some shots. I mean, I would normally just knock at the door and ask, but I got lost looking for the place. Then, when I found it, with the gates being shut and everything, I thought it was a bit late to be bothering you. I only needed a few photos of the outside and the grounds.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought it would make sense to get on with it. So, I, er, got over the wall and then thought if I got a move on I’d be able to get the last train home, but …’
She was frowning. But it had seemed the sensible solution at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. But at least he’d met Lady Stanthorpe. His mum would be impressed, although he’d have to skate over some of the facts. ‘It’s amazing, the way the light …’
‘It’s dark.’
‘Even in the moonlight it’s fantastic.’
She didn’t look convinced. ‘And what are you filming? Some inaccurate historical nonsense? Why you people are too lazy to check your facts confounds me.’
‘Dunno exactly, but it’s not old-fashioned stuff. All they told me was that they wanted somewhere to shoot the polo bits. You know, that game they play on horses, with sticks.’
‘I do know what polo is, young man.’
‘They wanted a backdrop like this for it, you know, something posh, impressive.’
‘One doesn’t play polo in Cheshire in the winter, dear boy.’
‘One would,’ he grinned, ‘want to do a few shots now, and most of the shoot in the spring. Apparently there’s more to polo than just the beautiful game.’
‘Is there now? One would hardly call it beautiful, although some of the Argentinian players have a certain something about them. My late husband, Charles, used to play when he was abroad. He was rather dashing, I must admit, although all that racing about did take it out of him as he got older. Arthritis is a bugger and I rather feel that the poor ponies suffered as the poor old fool put weight on. So much nicer for them with some slim young man on board. So much nicer for all of us.’ She waved her empty glass again, and Jamie wondered if she was pouring it down Bertie, who was now snoring and whimpering, his feet dancing as he chased imaginary rabbits.
‘So, you say you will be filming outside?’
‘Outside only.’
‘And there would be substantial reimbursement?’ She tapped her stick on the floor and Bertie leaned more heavily against her. He guessed this was what Elizabeth looked like when under stress. Just a twitch. ‘Poor Charlotte does rather needs funds. Bloody insurance people aren’t paying out yet. I’ve always said one was better investing one’s money oneself elsewhere.’
‘It is all repairable, then?’
‘It is, for a price. But until then the business is at something of a stand-still. Brides-to-be are not interested in looking at scorched walls. No imagination, you youngsters, these days.’
‘Well, we would pay to film here.’
‘I’m not sure Tipping House, or the village of Tippermere for that matter, is ready for a film crew. You would no doubt ruin the lawns and litter the place with pop bottles, chip wrappers and people with loud-hailers.’ She stared gimlet-eyed down her long nose.
‘No doubt.’
‘And you would scare the horses. And you do realise that we can’t stop the pheasant shoot or the Boxing Day meet just to humour you?’
‘I do. But all that is finished by spring, isn’t it?’ A Boxing Day meet was surely on Boxing Day? ‘It could up your profile.’ She stared. ‘You know, keep you going while you’re waiting for the insurance money?’ The lines he’d been fed spilled out of him. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Be fun?’ He’d strayed from the script, but now he was pretty sure he had her hooked on that one. ‘Must be pretty quiet round here. Give me a call. I’ve got a card …’ He was reaching into his pocket as he spoke.
She waved a regal hand, dismissing the idea. ‘I will do no such thing. You may call me after Christmas and I will decide whether I wish to pursue this matter further. The first Tuesday in the New Year will suit, at 3pm. But I’m not promising anything. I shall raise the matter with Charlotte when the time is right. Although, if I were you I’d keep this quiet, because if my son Dominic gets as much as a whiff of this kind of thing he’ll raise the drawbridge.’
‘You’ve got an actual drawbridge?’ Jamie was even more impressed.
‘A metaphorical one.’
‘Ahh. And Dominic has the final say?’
‘Certainly not. But he can be quite sniffy at times and he is rather strong-willed when he puts his mind to it.’
‘I wonder where he gets that from?’ He hadn’t thought he’d actually verbalised the words, but it appeared he had.
The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘One has to know what one wants. But he is slightly too, what is the word? Conservative for my taste. He is a dressage rider.’
She said it as though it explained everything, which to Jamie it didn’t. Knowing very little about horses and absolutely nothing about dressage riders.
‘Precise, controlled. The boy sorted all his books alphabetically and his cars into the most orderly of rows when he was a child.’ That didn’t help much either. ‘Re-stabled all the horses one day because they weren’t in any kind of size or colour orientation. The head groom was not amused.’
‘Ahh.’
‘He was very young though. He appears to have grown out of his most faddy tendencies. Too many fancy notions and picky habits aren’t good for a boy. Poncey. Not quite sure where he gets it from, his father was nothing like that. If anything upset him he’d go out and shoot.’
‘And so Dominic helps you run the place?’
‘Oh heavens above, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Dominic is my son,
but Charlotte, my granddaughter, runs the estate.’
‘Ah, so Charlotte is Dominic’s daughter.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, lips pursed. ‘Dominic is Charlotte’s uncle.’
‘Oh. But shouldn’t he …’
‘The Stanthorpes have never liked to stick to the normal order of things; we do things our own way. Tipping House is never passed to a male heir, it is inherited by the eldest female and sadly Charlotte’s mother, my daughter Alexandra, died in rather unfortunate circumstances. One day all this will be Charlotte’s. You really do need to do your homework, young man.’
Jamie frowned. He’d thought taking a few pictures and selling the idea to Seb was all he needed to do. But it appeared not. The longer he was here though, the more he realised it wasn’t just that he needed this job; he actually wanted it. He wanted to peep into the life of Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe. To make her smile.
‘And so Charlotte is in charge?’
‘I rather think I am in charge.’ Her tone was dry, but there were the crinkle lines of laughter around her eyes again. ‘But she is responsible for running the estate and raising the necessary funds.’
‘She’s the one who set up the business here, as a wedding venue, isn’t she?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘And one of the punters started the blaze, so she’s knackered.’
‘Knackered is a word I’d reserve for an altogether different usage, young man, but she is in rather a predicament. Most of the bookings were over the summer months, so very few had to be cancelled. But she should now be taking bookings for the spring after next, and how can she? These young girls look around and want everything to be perfect, and that is not going to be achievable for quite some time.’ She sniffed. ‘These insurance investigators are quite tiresome. And without the income one is very much back to square one.’
‘Even if you get it fixed up?’
‘A place like this costs a fortune to maintain and that is something that, sadly, we don’t have. That young fool of a bank manager is already starting to twitch, silly boy. But I’m sure things will sort themselves out, although I might well shoot the next person who arrives with a buy-out plan.’
‘Why not just sell the place?’
‘Sell?’ She raised both eyebrows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Over my dead body. If they think they can turn this village into a safari park or giant amusement arcade they have another thing coming. The Marquis of Bath and that Aspinall chap have a lot to answer for, putting ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. You will never see a pride of lions here during my lifetime. Utter tosh and nonsense. Right, I’m sure it’s past your bedtime. Your push bicycle is by the front door.’
‘Push …?’
‘The police called in to say they’d seen it propped against the south wall,’ she raised an eyebrow and he tried not to smile. ‘Some chap saw you climb over, but they knew better than to follow you. More than one policeman has been peppered with shot on this estate. By accident, of course, mistaken identity and all that. One of the gamekeepers went to collect it while I brought Bertie to sniff you out.’
‘You knew I was there? You didn’t find me by accident?’
‘What do you think I am? This estate stretches for miles, and I can’t see in the dark at my age, can I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Be careful on the bicycle, you look a bit tipsy. Unlikely to meet any traffic but the ditches can be hazardous I’m told.’ She stood up. ‘Can’t have you killed just before Christmas can we? Your mother would never forgive us. Oh, and watch out for ghosts and wolves.’ And he was pretty sure that it was the whisky that made him think she’d winked.
Chapter 3
‘Faster Worwy, faster, faster.’
Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Steel jumped as the unexpected shrill scream echoed down the hallway and her needle came unthreaded, and disappeared between the floorboards. ‘Bugger.’
She shut one eye and peered down the crack, wishing that they could afford to send the horse rugs to the local saddlery for mending. Impoverished landowners might be expected to make do and mend (and she definitely was impoverished), but sewing was really not her thing. She just wasn’t very good at it. She was much better at whitewashing the stables, if she was honest, and at least then she’d not be using her fingers as pin cushions.
In fact whitewashing, and mending fences, were the type of thing she’d spent most of her time doing before she’d discovered that one day she would inherit Tipping House – and in the meantime was expected to manage the day-to-day running of the estate, and remove as much of the responsibility as she could from her elderly grandmother. Not that Elizabeth considered herself either elderly or in need of assistance. It was rather Lottie who thought she needed help, especially since her wedding business had gone up in smoke, leaving them once again struggling to make ends meet.
But it was hard to imagine now that she’d ever thought she could belong anywhere else. When she was a child she’d always imagined that one day she’d follow in her father, Billy Brinkley’s, footsteps and enter the world of show-jumping (or at least groom his horses and be the one that educated the youngsters), and then when she’d moved in with Rory she’d imagined herself supporting his eventing career and chasing off his female fans, and the very last thing that had ever crossed her mind was that she would instead live a life rather more along the lines of her aristocratic grandmother Lady Elizabeth and her Uncle Dominic. Although whilst it all sounded rather grand, the reality was anything but. And at times she quite honestly found it hard to believe she was related to them, even if she did feel she would die rather than give up her beautiful, but demanding, inheritance.
Whitewashing and mucking out stables, she decided, came to her much more naturally than balancing spreadsheets and sewing.
‘Giddy up, horsey.’
A shrill whinny stopped her short and she forgot all about needles.
Her husband, Rory, could often be seen cantering around Tipping House with their goddaughter, little Roxy, riding on his shoulders, but he couldn’t whinny like that. That sounded far too authentic. Lottie scrambled across the room on all-fours and leaned out of the doorway.
It was indeed a horsey, or rather a very fat Shetland pony, coming down the hallway.
‘No Woxy, I mean Roxy. Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Lottie exclaimed. For a moment one of the portraits swung on the wall as the excited child caught it with a flailing arm before it came to a rest at a rather jaunty angle. ‘Stop, stop. Rory, stop before Great Uncle Albert falls off the wall.’
Rory stopped. The pony didn’t. It ambled on past him, reached the end of the lead rope and ground to a halt a couple of feet short of Lottie. Stretching its stubby neck out, it peered down at her through long-lashed brown eyes before snorting and showering both her and the hall rug with spittle. Roxy, who was perched like a cherry on a cake, lurched in the saddle, then giggled.
‘Lot-tie.’ Her blond curls trembled as she waved her hands in the air in an enthusiastic greeting and she bounced on the saddle. ‘Look at me, look at me, me and Alice have got weal horseys and I’m in my best pwincess dwess. Look, look.’ But Lottie wasn’t looking at her. She was staring at her devastatingly dishy husband and trying to keep the cross look fixed on her face.
Rory. Gorgeous, fit Rory. Clad in the tightest of breeches and sloppy polo shirt, despite the cold winter air. He tipped his head to one side and grinned, his tawny-brown eyes alive with mischief. ‘What are you doing down there, darling?’
Rory Steel loved the children, the children loved him, and as his best horses had been turned out for a rest and the ground was far too hard for jumping, he’d been glad of the diversion that a bit of baby-sitting offered. And he also loved his scatty but occasionally bossy wife, Lottie. In fact, when her assertive side emerged he found her totally impossible to resist, as that glint in her eye worked wonders for his libido. Not that he ever had a problem that way.
Rory and Lottie were widely accepted as the dishiest, and possibly the nicest, c
ouple in Tippermere. Where Rory was lean and hard, Lottie was no size zero, but possessed rather unfashionable curves. As a teenager she’d been as leggy as a yearling, but she’d matured into a statuesque (she thought fat) woman, who appealed to the old and young men of Tippermere alike. Her gorgeous thick hair gave her a ‘just out of bed’ look that was irresistible, and her enormous green eyes and generous mouth made her as huggable as she was desirable.
‘Rug-mending. It’s not going too well though.’ She stared at the row of haphazard stitches.
Rory also found her home-making activities quite attractive too. Well, all in all, the longer they’d been married the more he’d fallen in love with the girl.
Lottie gazed up at him and couldn’t stay cross. She never could with Rory, well, not unless he’d been really, really bad. Like the time he’d turned up with a string of horses and organised a jump-off at her father’s wedding, in the marquee, before the cake had been cut.
She fought the smile that was threatening to break out. It had been typical Rory – mad, fun and had signalled the end of the wedding cake. When his horse had landed on it.
Then there had been the episode on the day she’d launched her wedding fayre business. He’d done a runner – and then turned up and proposed like some dashing and romantic knight.
‘I’m not sure you should bring them in the house, even if they are small.’
‘You’re no trouble, are you girls?’ He winked at Roxy, who giggled.
Lottie sighed. ‘I meant the ponies not the girls.’
She had been finding it strangely therapeutic, sat on the floor sewing (even if she wasn’t very good at it). Except when the needle came unthreaded. That was annoying. But maybe leaning out of the doorway was a mistake, with a pony on the loose. ‘Hang on.’ She clambered to her feet, the horse blanket falling off her knee, and Tilly the terrier, who’d been chewing the end of it, let go and with an excited yap launched herself down the long hallway straight at Rory. Who, forgetting the job in hand, let go of the lead rope and caught the little dog. The shaggy pony, sensing freedom, did a swift U-turn and headed for the nearest open doorway.
Country Rivals Page 3