‘Is it true it was your healing hands that stopped Ronnie Percy’s best foal from bleeding to death?’

Carly ducked her head modestly. ‘I told her your vet friend did most of it, but Ronnie reckons I could use my gift to work with horses. Says she’ll help set me up if I lend them a hand over there.’

‘Hang on, she’s offered you a job?’

‘It was a bit vague, if I’m honest. She’s got this expert coming over from America or somewhere she says might teach me handling and stuff.’

‘The Horsemaker?’

‘That’s him. I’m not sure. Things is, I want a skill, not a gift.’ She looked at her hands with their eight plastic nails, explaining that what she really longed to learn was an old-fashioned country craft like saddlery or blacksmithing. When she’d heard Flynn was looking for an apprentice, Carly had set her heart on farriery. ‘But he’s a right sexist sod. He wants my Ash to do it and so does Ronnie come to that. She says Healing is an old country skill.’

‘Yeah, like witchcraft and prostitution.’

Carly laughed, and Bridge was reminded how pretty she was beneath the constant frown and tired eyebags.

‘It freaks people out,’ she said, looking at her hands again. ‘Ronnie’s all for it, but other people reckon it’s just a con or voodoo or something. My Ash doesn’t like it at all.’

Bridge guessed that was the real reason she was doubtful about taking up Ronnie’s offer. Carly would take it up like a shot if her husband approved. She felt another spark of connection.

‘Janine swears that hex of hers only worked cos of me.’ Carly laughed again. ‘She keeps getting me to lay hands on Uncle Norm’s betting slips.’

‘I’ve a lottery ticket somewhere you can have a go at.’ Bridge went to fetch another bottle of wine, although Carly was still nursing the glass she’d refilled an hour ago.

‘If it worked liked that I’d lay my hands on our knackered washing machine and a lot else besides.’ Carly watched her over the sofa back. ‘I’d better just text Ash and let him know we’re still nattering.’

It was the third text she’d sent him that night, Bridge noticed, and he was only next door. Everyone around here knew who Ash Turner was, even if he wasn’t seen out much. She’d heard plenty of rumours about the rebel family’s war hero, mostly old ones from his ill-gotten youth as village tearaway, but also newer stories from the Cotswold wives who fawned over him at the gym. No wonder Ash’s wife wanted to keep herself visible to him, like a radar blipping. He certainly caught the eye on the dipping bars, torso ripped with muscles like cobbles. Not that she’d been looking.

They’d kept off the subject of marriage all evening, but Bridge was insightful enough to guess this was because they both had tricky ones. Who didn’t in the Comptons? Even perfect Petra’s was a finely balanced house of forgotten Valentine’s cards.