A Summer of Secrets by Alice Ross Page A

house.
    Buttersley Manor – once the pride of the village; the jewel of the Pinkington-Smythe treasure chest; the ultimate symbol of success, status and power – had sunk to a pitiful state of disrepair. Previously bursting with priceless paintings, incalculable antiques and exquisite furniture, it now boasted nothing more than dust, peeling wallpaper and dodgy plumbing. Wandering from room to room, the stench of damp seeping through her clothes, hair and skin, tears welled in her eyes. Why on earth hadn’t she done something about the house before now? How had it plummeted to this state in seemingly no time?
    But of course this couldn’t have happened over no time. The rot – literally – must have set in years ago. Even when Annie had lived in the cottage, acting as caretaker to the main house, they’d known the boiler had been on its way out. But no one had bothered to do anything about it. They’d all been too busy with their own lives. Too busy with – in her case – her career. And in Jasper’s case, too busy enjoying himself. And what exactly had happened to all those antiquities that had once graced the interior? They hadn’t been burgled, so she could only assume that, over the years, her parents had sold them off. Gradually. Replacing a priceless vase with a potted plant. Something a fleeting visitor would fail to notice. Did that mean, then, that her parents had been aware of the dire state of their finances? Had been reduced to such humiliating measures to top up their dwindling bank balance? The thought caused the tears to spill down her cheeks. She wiped them away and pulled the belt of her cardigan tighter around her slim waist, grateful she’d had the foresight to wear it. Despite the rising temperature outside, the house was freezing.
    Oh, well, she concluded – no point hanging about here getting more depressed. She might as well go back to the cottage and put on her thinking cap. Rather than wallowing in remorse and self-pity, devise a brilliant, fool-proof plan which would allow her to borrow the funds to rectify the dismal state of affairs. Although quite what that would be, she had absolutely no idea.
    She’d just locked up and was making her way down the steps at the front of the property when a black Porsche Carrera Cabriolet came haring down the drive, heavy rock music booming from its speakers. Portia stopped in her tracks. Who on earth –?
    The car reached the front of the house and swerved to a halt, sending up clouds of dust, through which Portia noticed a shocking-pink leather interior.
    The door swung open and out jumped a man she would have guessed to be in his early forties, wearing grey suit trousers, a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a navy-blue tie speckled with what looked suspiciously like little white ducks.
    ‘Portia Pinkington-Smythe?’ he enquired, removing his designer sunglasses from his nose and perching them on his head of spiky brown hair.
    Too shocked to speak, Portia merely nodded.
    ‘Jed Carr,’ he announced, in a manner that intimated a previous acquaintance.
    ‘Er, right,’ she muttered, desperately racking her brain for any signs of recognition.
    Undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm, the man bounded up the steps, bringing a cloud of cloying aftershave with him.
    ‘I heard you were in the village,’ he said, extending a hand to her. ‘Apologies for the early hour, but I was driving past and thought I’d swing by on the off-chance.’
    Now completely lost, Portia placed her limp hand in his. He affected an effusive shake.
    ‘So?’ he asked. ‘Any ideas yet?’
    Portia furrowed her brow as she tugged her hand from his grip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she retorted, in as icy a tone as she could muster. ‘But do I know you?’
    Jed adjusted his sunglasses. ‘Oh, no. We’ve never met. But I’ve had my eye on this place for a while now.’
    ‘What do you mean “had your eye on this place”?’
    Jed snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, God.