Page 27 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

‘Grab a plate, Poe,’ she said when she saw him. ‘I’ve fried almost half a kilo of bacon.’

He pointed at the block of lard on the kitchen counter. It was unashamed. Lard didn’t mess about. It didn’t try to pretend it wasn’t the rendered fatty tissue of pigs. Poe loved lard. ‘Aren’t you both doctors?’

‘Yeah, but we’re not very good ones,’ Emma said, winking. She looked remarkably chipper. Poe wasn’t surprised. He’d yet to meet a hospital doctor who couldn’t hold their booze. ‘I’m going to eat this but take my coffee to go, if that’s OK, Est?’

‘I thought you were off today?’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘I want to pop into work for an hour, though. I have patients who like to see their doctor.’

She finished her breakfast, kissed Doyle and Poe on the cheek, then left them to it. Poe ate his bacon and eggs in silence, his mind on the case. He mopped up his egg yolk with that awful bread Doyle liked. The kind with gravel pebble-dashed on the crust. When he’d finished, Doyle said, ‘Walk?’

*

Poe and Doyle still split their time between Highwood and Herdwick Croft, Poe’s shepherd’s cottage on the bleak and desolate Shap Fell.

Herdwick Croft had the advantage of isolation, something Poe had always appreciated.

And now she was Lady Doyle, the late Marquess of Northumberland’s daughter, it was something she was learning to appreciate.

There was always something to do at Highwood.

Elcid Doyle, her late father, had an estate manager.

Estelle had kept him on but there were things he couldn’t do.

Decisions he couldn’t make. When she was at Herdwick Croft, cut off from wi-fi and a mobile phone signal, it was as if she was having the kind of digital detox Londoners checked into two-grand-a-night spas for.

But Herdwick Croft was cramped. Two hundred years ago it had provided shelter to one man and his dog.

Literally. A shepherd and his border collie.

It wasn’t built for two people. It wasn’t designed as permanent accommodation.

It was a waystation. Somewhere for the shepherd to hunker down when the weather got very bad very quickly.

On Shap Fell, that happened a lot and without warning.

Add a hyperactive springer spaniel to the mix and Herdwick Croft got full pretty darn quickly.

Highwood, on the other hand, had all those bedrooms. You could walk around the estate for days without seeing anyone.

You could play hide and seek and never be found.

It was the kind of house with wardrobes that led to magical wintery lands where white witches ruled and Turkish Delight was the local currency.

Fifteen bedrooms meant Bradshaw could stay with them whenever she wanted.

She even had her own room. She had a pair of wellies in the cloakroom.

Poe had thought it would be a wrench to leave Shap Fell for extended periods. And for a while it had been. He’d missed the wild beauty. The raw landscape. The smell of the heather, of the Herdwick sheep. The no-nonsense Cumbrians.

But he’d come to realise that Northumberland was Cumbria’s perfect cousin.

It had proper cities. It had beautiful coastlines.

Their sand was golden, unlike the shards of razor-thin rock found on most Cumbrian beaches.

Its castles were spectacular; Carlisle Castle looked like a condemned borstal.

Northumberland wasn’t better than Cumbria, but it was different.

And, at the end of the day, it was the north. The people were the same. Friendly, congenial, funny. Quick to anger, even quicker to laugh.

He’d soon come to appreciate Highwood. Yes, the estate had been planned.

Centuries ago, aesthetics had dictated where the giant oaks were to be planted.

Woods had been cleared to give uninterrupted views of the rolling hills, even parts of Hadrian’s Wall.

But whoever had designed the estate had earned their fee.

It was special. Poe had explored the grounds for hours and hours and still didn’t think he’d seen it all.

‘A groat for your thoughts?’ Doyle asked.

‘I was just thinking how the estate’s herd of red deer don’t venture too close to the house these days,’ Poe replied.

He hadn’t been. He’d been thinking about the case.

And how until the sniper was caught, he’d never not be thinking about it.

It was the way his mind worked. It had two gears – flat out and idling.

Nothing in between. Nothing healthy. It was probably why he still had PTSD. ‘Do you think it’s because of Edgar?’

‘Oh, I know it’s because of Edgar,’ Doyle said. ‘The gardener told me.’

‘We can try to keep him inside.’

‘No, the gardener loves him. And the deer were becoming pests. He couldn’t plant anything new without them getting at it. Now Edgar the scarecrow is prowling the grounds, they’re staying where we want them.’

They reached the top of a slope and looked back on the house. They were high enough to see the roof of the marquee. Edgar, sensing they’d stopped, ran back to them. Then he got bored and sprinted off again.

‘We haven’t discussed whether you want me to take your name, Poe,’ Doyle said.

She said it casually, but Poe could tell it was a question with bite. One she’d been wanting to ask for a long time. She wanted a thoughtful, not flippant, answer.

‘I don’t think what I want should be a consideration, Estelle,’ he said.

‘It’s your name and it’s a good one. It’s synonymous with Highwood, with Northumberland.

And even if it wasn’t, you’re Professor Estelle Doyle, world-renowned forensic pathologist. You’re also Lady Estelle Doyle, a member of the British aristocracy.

The Poes have been scratching around in the dirt for centuries.

’ He paused. ‘So, no, I don’t think you should take my name.

’ He paused again. ‘Anyway, Professor Poe sounds a little too much like Professor Poo to me.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve thought about this a lot,’ she said. ‘There’s been a Doyle at Highwood since the year dot, but—’

Poe’s phone rang. It was Mathers. He tilted the screen so Doyle could see.

‘Answer it,’ she said.

‘You sure? Seems like we’re having a moment.’

‘This can wait, Poe.’

‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘How quickly can you get to the Cairngorms, Poe?’

Poe covered the mouthpiece like he was holding a rotary phone. ‘The Cairngorms?’ he asked Doyle. ‘How far away is it?’

Doyle seemed to know where all the grouse moors were. Poe assumed it was the aristocratic equivalent of a London cabbie’s ‘knowledge’.

‘Four hours,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Take the Land Rover. The last few miles might get boggy.’

‘Four hours, ma’am,’ Poe said to Mathers. ‘Why?’

‘Your hunch paid off. Police Scotland have found where the bastard’s been zeroing his weapon.’