On instinct, Brigit ducked when she entered the hall. It had high ceilings but ‘the wonderful sense of space’ that presenters on TV property shows would have referred to was slightly ruined by the screeching eagle descending from above. On second glance, Brigit realised it was permanently frozen at the point of attack and suspended from wires. She looked around: dozens of sets of dead eyes stared balefully back at her. It was like someone had shot and stuffed an entire forest’s worth of wildlife.
Dorothy stopped and turned to look at her, before waving her gun about absent-mindedly over her shoulder. “Ah – sorry about all the death. Husband was a mucking lunatic, God rest him. Never met an animal he didn’t want to shoot. I thought it would only be appropriate to have him stuffed and put in the hall too, but apparently there’s rules. Tea?”