Delilah Metcalfe was running late. As always. Seven o’clock Saturday morning, the sky streaked with light from a sun yet to lift above the limestone crag that dominated the town to the east, and Samson was already at work. But Delilah was nowhere to be seen.
Under the guise of helping to pack the Peaks Patisserie van ready for the shoot, Samson had agreed to meet her at the cafe so they could get whatever communication system she had in mind up and running, all without Lucy being any the wiser as to the real reason Delilah had volunteered to be on the catering staff. So far, though, the youngest of the Metcalfe clan had failed to materialise.
Stifling his irritation, Samson went back inside the cafe to get yet another load, Lucy seemingly taking everything but the kitchen sink to the event. As he walked through the door, he saw a middle-aged woman coming towards him, struggling with three boxes piled up in her arms, her grey hair barely visible above the top.
‘Here, let me,’ he said, taking the boxes from her with ease.
Blue eyes sparkling, a plump face beamed up at him, the woman rubbing at her lower back. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’m getting too old for this.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Samson gallantly. ‘I’m Samson, by the way.’
A laugh met his introduction. ‘I know,’ said the woman, with an arch look. ‘I’ve heard all about you. I’m Denise, the hired help.’
‘I see you two have met.’ Lucy had emerged from the kitchen looking harried, a list in her hand. ‘Denise, if you’ve got a minute, could you go out and check with Elaine that we’ve got the cutlery. Oh, and the tablecloths.’
Denise nodded and headed outside to where Elaine Bullock’s trouser-clad backside and Dr Marten boots were sticking out of the van she was busy packing, leaving Lucy with Samson.
‘Looks like you’ve got a good worker there,’ he commented.
‘Who? Denise?’ Lucy nodded. ‘The agency really came through with her. But I should have known the minute I met her she’d be good. She’s related to Ida Capstick somehow, second cousin or something.’
Samson looked at the older woman again, short grey hair above a round face, a plump body beneath it. He couldn’t see any similarity to the rake-thin cleaner. Except perhaps a sharpness around the eyes.
‘Right, we’re almost done,’ said Lucy, pointing at the boxes in Samson’s arms. ‘Just those to get in and that’s it.’
Taking the hint, Samson turned and went back out to the van, Lucy following him. Elaine was standing to one side talking to Denise and simply pointed at the one patch of remaining space in the rear of the van as Samson approached.
‘You sure you’ve got enough food here?’ he asked dryly, as he placed his boxes where she’d indicated, the vehicle looking close to bursting.
It was the wrong thing to say to a chef before an event. Lucy’s face contorted with panic.
‘Do you think I need more? I mean, I’ve done enough for twenty people. But what if we run out. It won’t look good. I might not get another contract—’
‘Lucy!’ The sharpness of Elaine Bullock’s tone was counteracted by the gentle hand she placed on her friend’s arm. ‘Ignore him. He’s joking. There’s enough here to feed three rugby teams, so stop worrying.’
‘Sorry,’ muttered Samson, as Denise directed a glare in his direction.
‘It’s okay. I’m just nervous,’ said Lucy with a small smile. ‘I always get like this. Once we’re up at the manor and start feeding people, I’ll be able to relax.’
‘Is that everything, then?’ asked Denise, taking the list from Lucy’s hands and running a finger down it.
‘Think so.’
‘In that case, let’s get going,’ said Elaine, closing the rear doors of the van with a slam. With her trademark plaits in place, her smudge-free glasses slipping down her nose, her white shirt clean if already creased and her usual purple Dr Martens exchanged for a pair of black ones, it was as professional as Samson had ever seen the geologist look. But even so, she was a far cry from the practical Denise, with her sensible shoes, crisply ironed shirt and loose black trousers. Suddenly, Samson was glad of the presence of the older woman. If there was any trouble at the shoot – whether as a result of Delilah’s attempts to keep an eye on Bernard Taylor or simply through customers getting too friendly with the staff – given Denise’s shared DNA with the formidable Ida Capstick, she would be good to have around.
Not that Delilah would be an issue, seeing as she hadn’t turned up yet. He snuck a look at his watch. Where the hell was she?
‘Right, we’re off,’ said Elaine, throwing Samson a wave as Denise and Lucy moved with her towards the front of the van.
Samson watched them with bemusement. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he asked.
They turned, one blonde, one brunette, one grey, all three looking puzzled.
‘Or someone?’ he elaborated. ‘Delilah said she’d meet me here.’
Lucy looked at him with wide eyes. ‘Didn’t she tell you? She texted me this morning to say she’d decided to spend the night up at Ellershaw. We’re picking her up on the way.’
Ellershaw Farm – the Metcalfe home where Delilah’s parents lived along with her brother Will and his family. It was off Hillside Lane, the road that led up to Bruncliffe Manor, and so it made sense for Delilah to be picked up rather than coming all the way into town and back out again. But why hadn’t she told him about the change of plan?
‘Oh, right. Thing is, I need to . . .’ Samson paused. Lucy didn’t know that Delilah was going to the shoot to keep an eye on Bernard Taylor and he wasn’t sure she’d be best pleased if she found out.
‘You need to what?’ asked Elaine with a glint in her eye. ‘Declare undying love for her?’
Denise made a strangled sound and got in the van while Samson felt his cheeks burn.
‘No. Just wanted to have a word with her, that’s all.’
‘Right. Well, send her a text. We’ve got work to get to. Come on, Lucy.’
As Elaine sat in next to Denise, Lucy leaned over to Samson and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the help.’
Samson just nodded. He was still standing outside the cafe as the van turned right off the marketplace and disappeared down Back Street, heading for the hills behind the town. With a sense of concern, he started walking back to the office building.
No wire – or whatever the up-to-date equivalent was. That was what was making him so unsettled. He didn’t like the thought of Delilah working a case when he had no way of knowing what was going on. It was only when he reached the front door of the office that it hit him.
Ellershaw Farm. Lucy lived in a converted barn on the hill up above it. Her route to work this morning would have taken her past the end of the farm’s drive. So why hadn’t she picked Delilah up then?
Puzzling over this incongruity, he let himself into the hallway and was promptly greeted by an enthusiastic Weimaraner.
‘Tolpuddle!’ he exclaimed in surprise as the dog leaped up at him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Does tha really expect him to reply?’ came a sharp retort from the top of the stairs, making Samson jump. He looked up to see Ida Capstick standing there, arms folded across her thin frame, face in its customary sour expression, and on a day she didn’t usually clean at the office building.
‘Do you think he knew?’
‘Not a clue.’ Elaine looked sideways at the woman called Denise and let out a loud peal of laughter. ‘Some bloody detective.’
‘You can hardly blame him,’ protested Lucy, as she turned the van onto Hillside Lane. ‘I’m not sure I’d have twigged if I hadn’t been forewarned. I mean, you look so . . .’
‘Old?’ From behind her disguise, Delilah grinned.
‘Plump,’ suggested Elaine, pinching her fellow waitress’s waist and feeling a soft resistance. ‘That get-up has really done the trick.’
Get-up wasn’t the word Delilah would have used. Her transformation had taken over an hour, sitting impatiently in Phyllis Walker’s lounge while the former salon owner worked her magic in front of an unruly audience. A wig, lots of make-up and some foam padding in the right places, and Denise had been born.
‘Poor Samson. I don’t know how you kept a straight face,’ continued Lucy.
‘Me? What about you?’ Delilah looked at her sister-in-law, normally a woman incapable of telling untruths. ‘You were lying through your teeth without even blinking!’
Lucy grinned. ‘It was fun. I even embellished your backstory a bit and said you were Ida’s cousin. Samson swallowed it whole!’
Delilah’s mouth dropped open while Elaine let out a raucous laugh and slapped her thigh.
‘I wish I could see his face when he works it out,’ said the waitress.
‘If he does,’ said Lucy. ‘Are you going to tell him, Dee?’
‘Once we’re at the manor. I figured if he finds out after I’ve successfully managed to fool him, he’s less likely to worry. Or feel the need to come haring up here!’ Delilah was busy putting on a pair of glasses, the thick frames changing the shape of her face even more. She tapped the left arm by her ear, fiddled with her phone and then smiled, holding it up for Elaine to see as the same vista of stone walls and steep fields visible out of the windscreen rolled across the screen. ‘Hidden camera and microphone in my specs. I’ll send him a link to this for now, just to whet his appetite.’
Lucy shook her head. When her sister-in-law had approached her the day before and revealed her genuine reasons for helping out at the shoot, Lucy had been reluctant to get involved at first. She had vivid memories of a series of Dales Detective Agency cases that had ended with Delilah placed in jeopardy, the last one being the worst. Delilah, however, had protested that this wasn’t the same, but refused to elaborate on what it was about. Eventually, sensing Lucy was going to refuse to sanction her presence at the event in disguise, Delilah had confessed.
The Dales Detective Agency was investigating Bernard Taylor at the behest of his wife.
Lucy had been shocked – both at the thought of the town’s mayor having an affair and at the fact that the serene Nancy Taylor had resorted to setting detectives on his tail. But she could also see why Delilah was insistent that this case was straightforward and removed from danger, especially now there was no chance of deadly coronation chicken scones, given that Lucy was in charge of the catering.
It had been enough to make Lucy yield. And with Elaine Bullock in on the secret, neither woman the type to find keeping confidences a burden, Denise had been allowed to take Delilah’s place on the catering roster.
‘Just as long as you stay out of trouble, that’s all I ask,’ said Lucy.
‘I’ll do my best,’ grinned Delilah.
Up ahead, the drive to Ellershaw Farm came into view on the left and, opposite it, the turn-off for Bruncliffe Manor. Time to let Samson have contact. Fingers flying, Delilah wrote down a few brief instructions and sent him a link to the spy cam app. She waited a couple of seconds and then pressed the arm of her glasses again to turn the camera off: battery conservation. If her gadget was to last the day, she’d have to use it sparingly. Feeling like a real undercover operative, a thrill of excitement shot through her. She was completely incognito, and completely solo.
‘Morning, Ida!’ Samson aimed a grin at the familiar fierce features staring down the stairs at him. Having grown up at Twistleton Farm with Ida and her brother George as his nearest neighbours, he’d long ago learned that there was a generous heart beneath the cleaner’s granite exterior. ‘You do know it’s a Saturday?’
She scowled at him. ‘I’m making up for not being here yesterday morning – not that tha noticed!’ She tipped her chin towards Tolpuddle, who was still writhing around on the floor as Samson rubbed his belly. ‘Check his collar.’
Samson did as he was told, pulling out a note from under the band circling the dog’s neck. It contained a scrawled message from Delilah, asking him to look after Tolpuddle for the day. Nothing more.
‘Seems as tha’s been left in charge of that gorgeous hound,’ Ida commented, revealing that she’d had no qualms about reading the note, too.
‘It would appear so,’ muttered Samson. He stared at the piece of paper, wondering what was going on. Clearly Delilah had been down to the office at some point that morning in order to drop Tolpuddle off. Yet she hadn’t come to the cafe to share whatever monitoring system she was intending to use.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe she didn’t want him having access to whatever she was up to; Delilah Metcalfe was going it alone. The thought chilled him.
From upstairs in Delilah’s office came the sound of a phone ringing and Ida let out a snort of annoyance.
‘Blasted thing’s not stopped all the time I’ve been here,’ she muttered, casting a glare along the landing towards the open office door. ‘Can’t see as how a dating agency could be so busy at this time on a Saturday!’
The phone gave one last ring and fell silent, Ida nodding her head in satisfaction, as if her ferocious scowl had cowed the device into submission.
‘There’s a brew on,’ she called down in Samson’s direction, before turning away towards the upstairs kitchen. ‘Happen as there’s bacon in the fridge too.’
Not having had his breakfast yet, Samson didn’t need asking twice and he made his way upstairs, Tolpuddle following.
‘Has tha been left in the lurch, then?’ the cleaner asked, standing at the stove as she placed several rashers in a frying pan, the dog watching her every movement with anticipation.
‘You could say that.’ Samson sat at the small table, a mug of strong tea already set out for him with enough milk in it to turn it an unappetising shade of beige. He took a swig anyway, having finally accepted after more than six months back home that his southern-influenced concept of tea would never hold sway with people in Bruncliffe. With the mug in his hands and the comforting sound of bacon sizzling in the pan, he let his thoughts settle on the enigma that was Delilah Metcalfe.
He couldn’t get his head around her. She was acting in such an irresponsible way, going undercover at the shoot with no backup. It wasn’t professional. And he was worried.
Would he be worried if she was a man? Probably not as much. Besides, he consoled himself, Delilah was able to take care of herself. Goodness knows she’d proved that over the last couple of months with the scrapes they’d got themselves into. Plus, Lucy and Elaine were with her. And Denise, a sensible woman if ever he’d met one.
A thump on the table brought Samson back to the kitchen, a bacon sandwich now in front of him.
‘Eat,’ instructed Ida. ‘Tha looks half starved.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. He took a bite, groaned in appreciation and nodded towards Ida. ‘You’re a star. Just what I needed.’
The cleaner made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough, as much acknowledgement as she ever gave for praise. ‘Lucy’s off to the shoot, then?’ she asked, placing a saucer on the floor for Tolpuddle, two rashers on it. One of them had already been eaten by the grateful hound before she’d turned back to the stove.
‘Lucy, Elaine and your cousin, Denise, too,’ said Samson. ‘She seems like a nice woman.’
Ida looked at him, spatula in mid-air, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘Tha’s talking daft. There’s no Denise in our family.’
Sandwich halfway to his mouth, Samson stared at her. ‘You sure?’
Even as he asked it, he knew what the response to his question would be. This was Ida Capstick; she never spoke unless she was sure.
Ida snorted in derision. ‘Happen I’d know my own family. Tha’s got the wrong end of the stick. What did the lass look like?’
‘Middle-aged, grey hair, plump. A bit nondescript really.’
‘And called Denise?’ The cleaner shook her head. ‘No one I can think of.’
‘That’s odd. Lucy was adamant she was your cousin.’
‘Someone’s playing tricks, lad,’ Ida muttered, turning her attention back to the pan and her own bacon, which was starting to stick. ‘And given the line of work tha persists in pursuing, I’d be worried. Because whoever this Denise lass is, she’s no Capstick, that’s for sure.’
‘But why would Lucy . . .?’
‘Aye, that’s a surprise all right. Thought as young Lucy would know who’s who in Bruncliffe given her pedigree. Not like she’s of offcumden stock or owt. She should know better than to be passing someone off as Capstick kin when they’re not.’
With an indignant toss of her head, Ida flipped the bacon onto the waiting white teacake and turned towards the table. It was a moment of terrible timing. For just as the cleaner was twisting towards him, Samson – who’d been deep in thought, staring at his phone – shot to his feet with an oath, eyes wide, sending his chair flying backwards and sending the crockery on the table clattering. His reaction startled both the cleaner and Tolpuddle, who’d been watching hopefully as the last of the bacon was served, his own breakfast long finished.
Ida came off worst.
Leaping backwards in alarm, her right hand jerked, the plate in it flew upwards, and the bacon sandwich flew even higher – up into the air, twisting and turning like an edible frisbee. She moved to catch it. But she was too late.
The plate fell to the floor and smashed into pieces. The sandwich fell into the waiting mouth of the hungry Weimaraner.
‘Sorry Ida, got to dash,’ Samson was saying, moving towards the door at a run. ‘Come on, Tolpuddle!’
With a couple of frantic gulps, the dog swallowed his unexpected treat and bolted out after him, the sound of six lots of footsteps racing down the stairs preceding the slamming of the back door. And then silence.
Ida stared at the floor. The broken plate. The smear of ketchup. And at the puddle of undrunk tea on the table.
Life had been a lot less chaotic before Samson O’Brien had returned home. But, she admitted to herself with a rare smile, it was a lot more interesting with him about. The smile disappeared as the phone in Delilah’s office started up again. Muttering to herself, Ida strode across the landing towards it.
The Peaks Patisserie van had turned onto a curving tree-lined drive that spoke of wealth and history. To the right, beyond the trees, were sloping fields filled with contented looking sheep. To the left, rolling parkland could be glimpsed through the trunks of the limes marching up the road, whetting the appetite until the stunning facade of Bruncliffe Manor materialised around the next bend.
‘Wow,’ said Elaine, staring at the stone-built Georgian manor, ivy clambering up its sides, double-storey central bow windows looking serenely out over a south-facing terrace with steps leading down to pristine grass. ‘Imagine living in that!’
‘Hell of a lot of cleaning,’ said Delilah.
‘I doubt they do it themselves,’ remarked Lucy with a laugh as she pulled the van up on the gravel forecourt beside the huge house.
Ahead of them, standing to one side of the imposing entrance, was Gareth Towler. Resplendent in his formal shooting attire, the big man looked every bit the gamekeeper. A brown tweed jacket stretched across broad shoulders, covering a matching waistcoat and a checked shirt and tie, while plus fours and long boots completed the look. By his side was a liver-brown English springer spaniel, alert and eager for a day’s work, and a young man, dressed more casually in combat trousers, T-shirt and fleece, a walkie-talkie in his hand.
But while Gareth’s attire conveyed dignity and poise, the expression on his face as he shoved his mobile into a pocket conveyed a man holding onto his temper. With a dark scowl, he left the young man and strode over to the van, the dog trotting alongside him.
‘Morning all,’ he muttered, leaning on Lucy’s open window.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Lucy.
Gareth shook his head. ‘Got a bad feeling about today, is all. That was the manager of Mearbeck Hall on the phone,’ he said, referring to the five-star spa hotel to the south of Bruncliffe. ‘He’s a mate of mine and thought I ought to know that our clients are already proving to be a handful. Seems they decided it would be a laugh to go for a midnight swim last night so they broke into the spa and jumped in the pool. And then got aggressive when the staff tried to get them to leave. The manager had to step in and sort it out.’
‘Were they drunk?’
‘Aye. More than. Caused a bit of damage too.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not the sort of behaviour I want to hear about before I hand over loaded shotguns. If it weren’t for Rick Procter organising it, I’d be tempted to call the shoot off.’
‘You think that’s necessary?’
The gamekeeper removed his cap and scratched his head, his thatch of russet hair left sticking up in tufts. ‘I don’t know. There’s something about this group that makes me wary.’ He sighed and slapped his cap back on before straightening up. ‘Anyway, we’ll see how it goes. But just a heads up for you girls, I’m going to run this one as a dry shoot. No alcohol allowed. So if they start pressurising you to break out the hooch, send them to me, okay?’
The three women nodded. And it was only then that Gareth frowned, bending back down to stare at the older woman sitting between Elaine and Lucy.
‘No Delilah?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Lucy. ‘This is Denise. Delilah couldn’t make it.’
Gareth leaned across and held out a huge hand towards this new person. ‘Good to have you on board, Denise,’ he said, shaking hands. Then he turned back to Lucy. ‘Shame about Delilah. She knows how to handle herself and that might prove useful with this lot.’
Denise grinned. And got a sharp elbow from Elaine in her ribs in return.
‘I think we’ll be okay,’ said Lucy. ‘Any problems and you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Aye, well, just remember – don’t take any nonsense from them. I don’t care how much money or influence they have, they don’t get to behave badly. Not on my shoot.’
‘How about you?’ asked Elaine. ‘Will you be able to manage them?’
Gareth grinned. ‘I’ve ordered in reinforcements,’ he said enigmatically. Then he tipped his head at the lad waiting by the front door. ‘Right, I’d best get Tommy set up. He’s operating the traps today so I need to make sure he’s clear on what drive’s when and where. So, I’ll let you get on. The fourth member of your team is already round the back waiting for you. Good luck!’
With a slap on the roof of the van, he stood back and let Lucy pull away across the gravel. When she turned around the far side of the house onto a small track that led to the rear, a sigh of relief came from the seat next to her.
‘Well, that’s the first test passed,’ said Delilah, with a nervous laugh. ‘Gareth didn’t even blink when he shook my hand.’
‘He’s too worried to think straight,’ said Elaine. ‘Poor bugger. These clients sound a complete delight. Kind of glad I’m going to be stuck in the kitchen.’
Given her propensity for clumsiness, it had been agreed that Elaine would stay with Lucy preparing the food, leaving Delilah and the agency temp to serve the customers. It was a thought that now troubled the owner of Peaks Patisserie.
‘Will you be okay working front of house?’ Lucy asked, regarding Delilah with concern.
Delilah laughed. ‘I grew up with five older brothers, remember. A few raucous blokes won’t faze me. It’s whoever was sent by the agency you need to worry about.’
‘Who is the fourth member of the team? Anyone we know?’ asked Elaine.
Lucy pulled a face. ‘Er . . . kind of.’
‘Someone we know?’ Delilah shot her sister-in-law a look. ‘What about my disguise? We can’t let on who I really am.’
‘We might not have a choice,’ muttered Lucy, pointing towards a figure standing by the back door of the manor. ‘There she is.’
Delilah took in the blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, the pale face, the sharp cheekbones and the unmistakable beauty of a woman she hadn’t seen since Christmas Eve. Ana Stoyanovic, former manager of Fellside Court, was back in Bruncliffe.