Elliot sat back in his chair. ‘I know someone who might help. But there’ll be no payment required.’

Lou let out a sigh. She had clearly passed whatever test Elliot had set, and he hadn’t even asked what she needed the evidence for.

Finishing their tea, they made arrangements for her to return at lunchtime the next day to see what Elliot had been able to find out. He drained his mug and offered to hitch up a carriage to take her out to the shoot. ‘They’ll be starting lunch soon.’

‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

‘As you like.’

On her way out of the stables, Lou paused at Ambrose’s stall to scratch him between the ears.

‘He’s not so bad now,’ Elliot said, ‘in case you were worried, like. Horses don’t hold a grudge.’

24

Outside, the mist had burned away, and Lou emerged from the stable block to a crisp winter’s day. With a free afternoon, she had time to go back to the library in her own time. But not before taking a turn around the grounds in the glorious weather. What she was going to do with any incriminating information on George Caxton, she wasn’t sure, but it was enough for now to know that she might find something to use against him.

Keeping the church to her right, she walked at a fast pace, the sun shining on her face, the icy air chilling her nose and cheeks. Following a set of rabbit tracks, she ventured into the woods and the darkness of the snow-covered canopy. The tracks eventually disappeared into a tangle of branches. Where did they come out? Over by the church wall? Down by the frozen fishing lake? Among the neat vegetable patches in the walled garden? Somewhere across the vast expanse of fields?

Shivering, she pulled her collar around her neck and pressed on, wanting to escape an unwelcome image of this forest floor buried beneath six lanes of tarmac with a footbridge replacing the oaks and a dismal concrete housing estate sprawling across the countryside.

With no discernible path, she beat her own, squeezing between tree trunks, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. In some places, the snowdrifts were so deep that snow spilled over the top of her boots. But she didn’t care; she was determined to feel everything this world had to offer. Even soggy stockings.

For ten minutes, perhaps longer, she pushed further into the wood until she became aware of a noise other than that of her boots breaking the crust of the snow. It began as a distant murmur but soon became recognisable as voices. She followed them to a clearing in the woods. Still sheltered by the trees, she looked at the fleet of vehicles parked up beside a marquee. Through an open flap, she caught a glimpse of the table laden with food and crystal and china, as though it were a dining room. A rug had been laid over the snow, and there was even a heater in the corner with a chimney belching smoke from the top of the tent to warm the members of the shooting party and their wives who sat at the table, served by a small army of staff. The only concession to this al fresco dining experience was the addition of overcoats and hats to the guests’ outfits.