"Of course legally," said Jackson, feigning annoyance.
"The line between avoidance, which is legal, and evasion, which isn't, can sometimes be somewhat blurred,"Alex said, ignoring him.
"And what exactly is that meant to mean?" demanded Jackson, the simulated irritation having been replaced by the real thing.
"Nothing," Alex said, backpedaling furiously, and again embarrassed. "Just that sometimes what we believe is avoidance may be seen as evasion by the Revenue." Alex Reece was digging himself deeper into the hole.
"And who is right?" I asked, enjoying his discomfort.
"We are," Jackson stated firmly. "Aren't we, Alex?" he insisted.
"It is the courts who ultimately decide who's right," Alex said, clearly oblivious to the thinness of the thread by which his employment was dangling.
"In what way?" I asked.
"We put in a return based on our understanding of the tax law," he said, seemingly unaware of Jackson's staring eyes to my left. "If the Revenue challenge that understanding, they might demand that we pay more tax. If we then challenge their challenge and refuse to pay, they have to take us to court, and then a jury will decide whose interpretation of the law is correct."
"Sounds simple," I said.
"But it can be very expensive," Alex said. "If you lose in court, you will end up paying far more than the tax you should have paid in the first place, because they will fine you on top. And, of course, the court has the power to do more than just take away your money. They can also send you to prison if they think you were trying to evade paying tax on purpose. To say nothing of what else the Revenue might turn up with their digging. It's a risk we shouldn't take."
"Are you trying to tell me something, Alex?" Jackson asked angrily, leaning over me and pointing his right forefinger at his accountant's face. "Because I'm warning you, if I end up in court I will tell them it was all my accountant's idea."
"What was his idea?" I asked tactlessly.
"Nothing," said Jackson, suddenly realizing he'd said too much.
There was an uncomfortable few moments of silence. The others at the table, who had been listening to the exchange, suddenly decided it was best to start talking amongst themselves again, and turned away.
Jackson stood up, scraping his chair on the stone floor, and stomped out of the room.
"So how long have you been Jackson's accountant?" I asked Alex.
He didn't answer but simply watched the door through which Jackson had disappeared.
"Sorry. What did you say?" he said eventually.
"I asked you how long you'd been Jackson's accountant."
He stared at me. "Too long," he said. The kitchen supper soon broke up and most of the guests departed, Alex Reece being the first out of the door, almost at a run. Eventually, there were only a handful remaining, and I found myself amongst them. I had tried, politely, to depart, but Isabella had insisted on my staying for a nightcap, and I had been easily persuaded. I had nothing much to get up early for in the morning.
In all, five of us moved through from the kitchen into the equally spacious drawing room, including a couple I had seen only at a distance across the room earlier. He was wearing a dark suit and blue-striped tie while she was in a long charcoal-colored jersey over a brown skirt. I placed them both in their early sixties.
"Hello," I said to them. "I'm Tom Forsyth." I held out my hand.
"Yes," said the man rather sneeringly, not shaking it. "We know. Bella spoke of little else over dinner."
"Oh, really," I said with a laugh. "All good, I hope. And you are?"
The man said nothing.
"Peter and Rebecca Garraway," the woman said softly. "Please excuse my husband. He's just jealous because Bella doesn't speak about him all the time."
I wasn't sure if she was joking or not. Peter Garraway certainly wasn't laughing. Instead, he turned away, sat down on a sofa and patted the seat beside him. His wife obediently went over and joined him. What a bundle of fun, I thought, not. Why didn't they just go home?
Isabella handed around drinks while her husband remained conspicuous by his continued absence. But no one mentioned it, not even me.
"I thought all you trainers went to bed early," I said to Ewen Yorke as he sank into the armchair next to me and buried his nose into a brandy snifter.
"You must be joking," he said. "And turn down our Bella's best VSOP? Not bloody likely." He tilted his head right back and poured the golden-brown liquid down his throat. I couldn't help but think of my mother pouring her green-potato-peel concoction down her horses' throats in the same manner.
Ewen's wife, Julie, had departed with the other guests, saying she was tired and was going home to bed. Her husband seemed to be in no hurry to join her. Isabella refilled his glass.
"So, Tom," he said, taking another sizable mouthful. "Where does the army send you next? Back to Afghanistan? Back to the fight?"
Isabella was looking at me intently.
"I think my fighting days are over," I said. "I'm getting too old for that."
"Nonsense," Isabella said. "You're the same age as me."
"But front-line fighting is for younger men. More than half of those in the army that have been killed in Afghanistan were under twenty-four, and more of them were teenagers than were older than me. In the modern infantry, you're past it by the age of thirty."
"I can't believe that," Ewen said. "I was still wet behind the ears until I was at least thirty."
"But it's true," I said. "In a ten-year period, Alexander the Great, the Greek King of Macedonia, conquered Turkey and Egypt, much of the rest of the Middle East, as well as all of Persia and parts of India as far away as the Himalayas, and he managed it all by the time he was thirty. He is still revered by soldiers the world over as one of the greatest military commanders of all time, yet he was only thirty-two when he died. Sadly, the truth of the matter is that I'm over the hill already."
Was I trying to convince them, or myself?
"So what will you do instead?" Ewen asked.
"I'm not really sure," I said. "Perhaps I'll take up racehorse training."
"It's not always as exciting as it appears," he said. "Particularly not at seven-thirty on cold, wet winter mornings."
"Especially after a late night out drinking," said Isabella with a laugh.
"Oh God," said Ewen, looking at his watch. "Quick. Give me another brandy."
Isabella and I laughed. Peter Garraway sat stony-faced on the sofa.
"At least it would be a bit safer than you're used to," Rebecca Garraway said.
"I don't really think I'll be joining the ranks of racehorse trainers," I said with a smile. "It was only a joke."
However, neither Rebecca nor her husband seemed amused by it.
"I think it's time I was off," I said, standing up. "Isabella, thank you for a lovely evening. Good night, all."
"Good night," Ewen and Rebecca called back as Isabella showed me out into the hallway. Peter Garraway said nothing.
"Thank you for tonight," I said, as Isabella opened the front door. "It's been great fun."
"I'm sorry about the Garraways," she said, lowering her voice. "They can be a bit strange at times, especially him. I think he fancies me." She laughed. "But I think he's creepy."
"And rather rude," I whispered back, pulling a face. "Who are they?"
"Old friends of Jackson's." She rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, they're our houseguests. The Garraways always come over for the end of the pheasant-shooting season-Peter is a great shot-and they're staying on for the races on Saturday."