“It looks like he had a few drinks. He stinks of whisky, and this empty bottle has his prints all over it. Then he evidently sat against this tree, placed the both barrels under his chin and blew his brains out with his shotgun. There is GSR all over his hands - sorry, gun shot residue. Using both barrels means he has pretty much ruled out the need for a post mortem, because there isn’t much left of him to examine.”

Nick had no regrets about using Les’s own shotgun to obscure the real cause of Vaughan’s death, but he did wonder what impact the shooting of another human being would have on his sweet natured niece.

Two weeks later, after a cursory and largely unsympathetic investigation, the eventual official conclusion was that Les had committed suicide. To the despair of his parents, his wife refused to attend the funeral.

Chapter 1 3

Tallgarth Manor, Stratfield Turgis, Hampshire. 2003

Gil, as she was now known to her colleagues had returned to the family home, not to see her parents but to see Uncle Nick. He was still only middle aged, almost fifty, but cancer had eaten away at his insides for years and, being a tough countryman, he had never considered seeing a doctor, until it was too late.

Incurable and inoperable was the prognosis that had brought Gil running to the only man she had ever really cared for in her short life. Two years ago Nick had written his will, stating his desire to pass all of his worldly belongings to his niece on his demise, and a family row had ensued.

Gillian had been told in no uncertain terms that whilst she was their daughter the family estate must pass to a male heir, her cousin Raymond Madison. She asked whether this was because she was adopted. Her parents answered yes with their eyes while saying no with their words. Nick had been disgusted when he was told that his share of the Davis estate was held in a trust that could only be divested if all trustees agreed. Gillian’s father, Harold, was the other trustee.

Nick had hit back by using his trust funds to send Gillian to the best university possible to study combined sciences, when her parents wanted her to attend Reading University and study land management. Since then, relations between all concerned had been cordial but strained.

Gil wandered through the woods towards the lodge and entered into the clearing that the locals called ‘the pasture’, largely because deer could often be found grazing here. As she broke through the ash, elm and oak trees into the clearing she saw Nick kneeling beside a distressed roe deer fawn, which was lying on the ground.

Gil walked slowly and quietly towards the scene so as not to alarm the fawn, and saw that Nick was massaging its belly and pushing occasionally. The poor fawn was sweating and trembling, its eyes wide in fear and pain. Nick continued his work patiently and unerringly, not even acknowledging his niece’s presence, and then miraculously the fawn bleated, shuddered and tried to get to its feet. Uncle Nick steadied the fawn as it first stood and then began to walk uncertainly, but before long the little deer regained full mobility and darted off.

“What was that all about, Nick?” Gil asked as she hugged her ailing uncle and kissed him gently on each cheek. Nick pointed at a brightly coloured plant that had leaves the shape of dock leaves and a stunning red clover like flower. It was probably a weed but it was pretty.

“Redweed,” Nick answered knowledgably. “It was probably named after the plant of the same name in HG Wells’ book War of the Worlds, except that this redweed is very real and very toxic.”

Nick pulled the weed and handed it to Gil.

“It’s OK to touch, but if it’s ingested it can be fatal. Years ago my dad catalogued the redweed and sent a sample to Kew Gardens, who hadn’t seen it before. They concluded it was probably a hybrid, local to the area. It seems it has medicinal qualities similar to the poppy, which can produce morphine, opium and cocaine. Kew Gardens gave it a Latin name; Stylophorum Belgae, which is a combination of Stylophorum, the genus of the tree poppy, and Belgae, the Roman name for this area of Roman Britain.”

“So how did you save the fawn, if the weed is so deadly?”

“Come on, Gillian, you’re the chemist. You tell me.”

“OK, my guess would be that the active ingredients are deadly when distilled or taken in large enough doses, but the symptoms are transitory if taken in small doses.”

Nick smiled. He loved this girl. He was glad that she wouldn’t be tied to this dying estate; she had a greater calling, in his opinion.

Nick explained that the symptoms of redweed included partial or total paralysis. First the local area is paralysed, usually the mouth and nose due to the high concentration of exposed pores in both, then the paralysis moves down the body as the poison passes into the gut. Fortunately it is usually ingested in small quantities because of the bitter taste, and so the paralysis is usually temporary. Unfortunately, one of the first areas hit is respiration and so the victim has to force air into their body by using the diaphragm, because the automatic breathing mechanisms are frozen or numbed.

“By forcing the fawn to inhale and exhale air by pressing on its diaphragm, I was able to keep it alive until the paralysis wore off,” he concluded.

Gillian helped him to his feet, and with her hands on his cheeks she kissed him. There were tears in her eyes, knowing what was to come.

“Nick, you are brilliant. You are utterly wasted here. You could have done anything you wanted. I love you so much.” His niece linked his arm as they walked back to the lodge; Nick was smiling and blushing at the compliment.

***

It was dusk already and the two of them had enjoyed a ploughman’s salad for dinner, uncle and niece sitting in companionable silence. They walked over to the sofa and sat down. Nick was tall and muscular; he had never really carried much fat as he was exercising all day. His dark hair was greying and thinning but his eyes were bright. There were few outward signs of his critical illness. Gillian had been told by the consultant that Nick could have treatment that would prolong his life by as much as six months, but that he was refusing all medical advice on the topic. Instead he had chosen to have palliative care only, in his home, via a Macmillan Nurse.

Gillian asked her favourite question of Nick, knowing that he would never tire of giving her the answer.

“Nick, tell me how I came to be the future Lady of the Tallgarth Manor?”

Nick embarked on the story that had been familiar to his niece since her infancy.

“Andrea Bailey was the brightest and prettiest woman ever to adorn this manor house. She was employed as estate manager, following a spell at Windsor Great Park and after obtaining her degree at Reading University. She lit the place up and she made it pay for the first time since my grandfather’s time. Harold was useless and Bernice was even more useless; she could spend money and boss people around, but she had no idea what she was doing. Andrea changed everything. She lived in this lodge at the time, and I had a bedroom in the main house.

All was well when Denton Miles III turned up to understudy Andrea before returning to Virginia to manage his family’s estate, about twenty times the size of this one. I adored Andrea, but we became so close as colleagues that any romantic allusions were just that, allusions. Denton was a great kid, likeable, intelligent, funny and so caring. Despite the age gap of about ten years, I guess Andrea just fell for him. He stayed the summer and headed back to the USA when he was told that his mother was ailing. They both knew that returning with a fiancée ten years his senior would not play well with his parents, and so they said goodbye and parted as friends.