AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘I bet it’s Lewis Capaldi, isn’t it? Or maybe Ed Sheeran. My daughter loves Ed Sheeran.’
‘I think he’s already married,’ says Florence.
‘Oh, yeah. Well, Lord Buchan would have to agree.’
‘Lord David Buchan?’ I ask, feigning surprise.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation.’
The housekeeper is studying Florence. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’
‘I normally ride my motorbike when I’m scouting for locations. I left it in St Claire when we caught the helicopter. You might have heard us flying overhead a few hours ago. That’s how we found this place.’
‘Oh, that was you,’ she says, eager to convince herself that it must be true.
Evie turns her scepticism into a cough.
‘What nationality is your client?’ asks the housekeeper.
‘Does it matter?’ asks Florence.
‘Lord Buchan is quite discerning about his guests.’
‘Are you saying he doesn’t like foreigners?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ she replies hesitantly. We wait for her to explain. Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘But if your client were to be . . .’ She doesn’t finish.
‘A person of colour?’ asks Florence.
‘Muslim. He lost a childhood friend in the World Trade Center attacks. The best man at his wedding.’ She stops herself, as though she’s said too much. ‘I could ask Mr Collie about wedding bookings, but he’s with the shooting party.’
That name again. ‘Who is Mr Collie?’ I ask.
‘The gamekeeper, but he also manages the lodge.’
‘Is he any relation to Maureen Collie?’
‘Her father. Why?’
‘We’ve been staying at the Belhaven Inn, but Maureen didn’t mention this place. Has Mr Collie worked here long?’ I ask.
‘Longer than you’ve been born, laddie. His wife was the housekeeper until she passed away.’ She points to a squat stone building, camouflaged by ivy. ‘They raised eight children in the gamekeeper’s cottage. Four boys and four girls, Maureen among them.’
At that moment, a group of men appears from the far side of the treeline, carrying something between them. Leading the way is a heavyset man in an oilskin jacket and a tweed deerstalker hat. From a distance, I think it might be Lord Buchan, but this man is older, with white hair and a pirate’s limp.
‘Call an ambulance, Diana,’ he bellows.
‘Yes, Mr Collie,’ says the housekeeper, who dashes into the main house, leaving us standing on the front steps.
The approaching group are carrying a wounded man, whose torn shirt is stained with blood and pitted with shotgun pellets.
‘Put him in the shade,’ says Mr Collie.
The beaters do as they’re told. Dressed in shabby clothes and old shoes, they look Eastern European or Polish or Balkan. Migrant workers.
‘You can bring him inside,’ says the returning housekeeper.
