and Drummond had sneaked: ‘Granny’s got a horse next door.’
‘Don’t be silly, Drummond.’
‘Not. I heard Trixie telling Dora on the phone.’
Seeing lights on in Badger’s Court, knowing Valent was away and hoping to ingratiate himself by flushing out a burglar, Martin rushed over and caught Etta in flagrante.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Mother?’
‘Saving Mrs Wilkinson’s life,’ cried Etta, suddenly fired up. ‘I found her tied to a tree, starving, close to death. At first I thought she was Beau Regard. I’ll move her as soon as she’s strong enough. There, darling.’
‘That horse must be put down,’ roared Martin. ‘Look at its ribs. I’m so sorry,’ he turned to Valent, ‘it’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow morning.’ Then, turning on Etta: ‘And how could you have used Father’s duvet, it’s sacrilege. I’ve told you you can’t have pets, Mother.’
‘She’d been tortured, she’s been so brave. You ought to have seen her a fortnight ago.’ Etta clutched at straws and Mrs Wilkinson.
‘A fortnight?’ thundered Martin. ‘How dare you despoil Mr Edwards’s house for that long! She’ll be put down in the morning.’
‘No!’ pleaded Etta. ‘She’s such a fighter.’
‘Go home, Mother,’ ordered Martin. ‘We’ll discuss this later. You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. And don’t forget you’re taking the children to school tomorrow. Romy has to catch an early train.’
Martin swept Valent off for a drink at Harvest Home, giving him an uncharacteristically large brandy and proud to introduce Romy, his beautiful suntanned wife. He quickly briefed her on Etta’s transgression, with particular emphasis on the sullying of Dad’s duvet.
‘My only excuse,’ he turned to Valent, ‘is that Mother is like an old door, ha ha, unhinged by my father’s death. Dad kept Mother’s outlandish behaviour under control. She’s addicted to lame ducks – or rather horses,’ Martin crinkled his eyes, ‘in this case. Even worse, she’s involved my young niece Trixie in this deceit.’
‘The room is going to be gutted anyway.’
‘Nevertheless, I can’t apologize enough, Valent. We will of course pick up the bill for any damage. Mother is here to look after our children, not dead horses. I’m so sorry you lost your wife, Valent.’
‘I didn’t lose her,’ snapped Valent. ‘She was killed.’
Not missing a beat, Martin launched into a pitch for the Sampson Bancroft Fund, during which a ping brought Valent a text message from Bonny.
‘I’m sorry, I was stressy, call me.’
Mistressy, thought Valent, but felt happier.
Romy meanwhile was studying Valent and decided that in a rough and ready way he was very attractive indeed. A determined chin, jawbones honed by chewing gum, nose broken by a punishing last-minute goal in a cup final, hard eyes the dark green of a Barbour, close-cropped hair more dark than grey, an athlete’s body that had thickened but not run to flab, and a tan even richer and darker than Martin’s. Here they were, major players, with their winter tans. Romy was going to enjoy working with Valent Edwards. She was sure he’d had a father or a grandfather who had died in pain. Badger’s Court would be ideal for functions. Willowwood Hall was obviously lost to compost.
‘I expect you knew my father, Sampson Bancroft,’ said Martin, pointing to the portrait.
‘I met him,’ replied Valent. An even more ruthless alpha male bully than himself, he remembered. He had disliked Sampson intensely. He disliked Martin even more – the pompous arse.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ he drained his brandy. Then, more to irritate Martin than anything else, he added, ‘You’ve talked me into it, the horse can stay for a bit.’
Horrified, Martin stopped in his tracks.
‘No, no, the horse must go. Mother can’t afford to keep it anyway. You’re too kind, but we know that room’s due to be gutted. And you don’t want mountains of horse poo and late-night neighing.’
‘How’s Bonny?’ asked Romy, as she followed Valent to the front door, lingering under the hall light, so he could appreciate her eyes, even tan and lovely breasts. ‘I hope we’re going to have the pleasure and privilege of meeting her soon. I so admire her oeuvre.’
Valent said nothing. He walked back up the lime avenue to Badger’s Court, crossed the grass, avoided falling down a badger sett and treading on the only snowdrops, to find Etta sobbing into Mrs Wilkinson’s shoulder.
‘We’ll save you, darling.’
She jumped as Valent entered the room, frantically wiping tears from her cheekbones, her face red and blotchy like a bruised windfall. Mrs Wilkinson struggled to her feet and collapsed into the corner awaiting new torture,