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‘Nae reason to get blood on the floor,’ says Collie. His eyes come to rest on me. ‘Who are you?’
‘They came to ask about a wedding,’ says the housekeeper.
‘We don’t do weddings.’
‘That’s what I told them, Mr Collie. But they’re asking on behalf of someone famous.’
‘Who?’
‘They can’t tell us.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
He is still looking at me rather than Florence, having decided that I’m the decision maker and Evie isn’t worth acknowledging at all.
‘They spotted us from a helicopter,’ says Diana, trying to be helpful.
Behind her, across the estate grounds, the rest of the shooting party is returning, climbing a stile and emerging from the trees, then crossing the lawn towards the main house. The men are dressed in three-quarter-length trousers, flat caps and tweed shooting jackets. Their twelve-bore shotguns are broken, the barrels pointing to the ground, and birds hang from the belts of loaders and pickers-up.
‘Fookin’ amateurs,’ grunts Collie. ‘The sixth drive and one cunt cannae tell the difference between a bird and a beater.’
‘Do we need to call the police?’ asks the housekeeper.
‘Nae. We’ll sort this out.’
The beaters are standing over the man on the ground, talking in broken English. Collie leaves us and walks towards the group, summoning one of them by name. Together they walk across the garden to a pergola. Collie is a foot taller and twice as wide, but the smaller man is angry and waving his hands around. Eventually, Collie reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieves an envelope, which he hands to the man who counts the contents, before slipping the envelope into the pocket of his corduroy trousers.
The hunting party has almost reached the house.
‘You should leave,’ says the housekeeper.
‘What about the wedding?’ asks Florence.
‘You’ll have to get permission from Lord Buchan.’
‘Is Lord Buchan here?’ I ask.
‘Now isn’t the time. He’s with a group of chums from London. You could leave your details,’ says the housekeeper.
One of the hunters, a barrel-shaped man with ruddy cheeks, approaches the tree, asking after the beater.
‘What a bugger!’ he says. ‘Damn gun misfired. How is he?’
A fellow shooter answers, ‘He’ll be fine, Toby. Don’t concern yourself.’
I recognise the voice and look more closely. Lord David Buchan takes off his flat cap, revealing his curly hair and bushy eyebrows. He’s dressed for the shoot, in olive-green trousers and a matching oilskin jacket.
‘I should compensate him,’ says Toby. ‘How much would be enough? Two hundred? More?’
‘I have it covered,’ says Lord Buchan. ‘Go into the house. Get a drink. Calm your nerves.’
A butcher’s van has pulled through the gates and is following the crushed-gravel drive, approaching the house.
‘At last, my pâté,’ says the housekeeper, scurrying to intercept the driver.
Lord Buchan is herding his shooting party into the house. Mr Collie has finished his business. ‘You’re still here,’ he says. ‘No weddings. You should leave.’
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ says Evie.
