The Lost Empress by Steve Robinson

Author:Steve Robinson [Robinson, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Detective and Mystery Fiction
ISBN: 9781477825839
Google: CQC9oAEACAAJ
Amazon: 1477825835
Barnesnoble: 1477825835
Goodreads: 22341273
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Tayte and DI Bishop were met on the drive of the Ashcroft residence by a cheerful young member of staff in a smart navy suit. He informally introduced himself as John, and then he escorted them to the rear of the house, where the thump of tennis balls could be heard. John ushered them to a table on the partially shaded terrace behind the house, which overlooked the tennis court and gardens, with an expanse of hazy countryside beyond.

‘They should be finished soon,’ John said as they sat down. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Black coffee, thanks,’ Tayte and Bishop said in harmony, and John left them to watch the tennis, which Tayte thought was all very British.

He settled back on the upholstered rattan chair he’d been invited to sit on, and while they waited for their hosts to finish their game, he asked Bishop, ‘Are you from Kent?’

Bishop raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Born and bred.’

‘So, are you a Kentish man or a man of Kent? I see there’s a distinction, depending on where you were born.’

‘I was born near Canterbury, east of the River Medway, so according to folk lore that makes me a man of Kent.’

‘And any man born in Kent to the west of the Medway is a Kentish man?’

‘Or maid if it’s a woman. It harks back to the days of William the Conqueror. The East resisted the invasion, while the West surrendered without putting up much of a fight, so the East came to regard the West as Kent-ish, or so I read.’

Tayte became aware then that the near constant sound of a tennis ball being thumped back and forth since their arrival had stopped. He looked back towards the court to see three people—two men and a woman in their tennis whites—walking slowly up the garden path towards them. They were dabbing at their perspiration with towels as they talked, and judging from his animated arm movements, Tayte supposed the taller, younger of the two men was the tennis coach, finishing off the lesson. The coach broke away before reaching the terrace steps, and Tayte and Bishop stood up as their hosts came to meet them.

‘Good morning,’ the man said in bright tones, still trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s another fine one, isn’t it? Although I could use a breeze to help cool me down.’

Tayte and Bishop returned his smile. Tayte put him in his fifties. He had short brown hair of a slightly unnatural shade, which was glistening with sweat in the sunlight. Beside him was a woman who appeared a few years his junior, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail behind her tennis cap.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us, Lord Ashcroft,’ Bishop said. Then, as he made to continue, their host stopped him.

‘Do call me Brendan,’ he said. ‘I don’t go in for all that peerage puffery. This is my wife, Rachel.’

Everyone sat down, and John arrived with a tray bearing a large cafetière of

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