Secrets in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  And he was gone. She stood holding her phone, staring at the blank screen. Had that really been her husband, or had an interloper taken his place? He had sounded so … impenetrable. As if he’d put up barriers against her. Was he secretly furious with her for abandoning them, to the point where he could barely speak to her? Drew, who did not do secrets; who had always insisted they share all their thoughts and feelings, however unpalatable? Although Thea had known that such an ambition was unachievable, she liked the basic intention. The two of them had shared their doubts and anxieties concerning the business, and where they should live when faced with a sudden need to choose between Drew’s former home and Broad Campden. But Thea had concealed her reaction to Clovis, seeing no possible benefit to letting Drew become aware that his wife was in thrall to another man. She had believed it to be all over and done with, anyway. She had been entirely convinced that there need never be another encounter between her and the darkly handsome Mr Biddulph.

  Drew had tried to discourage her from phoning so often, which had felt a bit odd at the time, and now escalated into a much bigger deal. It suggested annoyance with her, at the very least. The message seemed to be, You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. He hadn’t wanted her to go off and leave him to cope with his children, and he wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about it. And she had forgotten their anniversary, only a year after marrying him. But then she recalled the whispering between Stephanie and either Timmy or her father. Did they perhaps – incredibly −have something secret going on? Had something happened to Hepzie, and they couldn’t bring themselves to tell her? Or was it something nice? A welcome-home present they were making, or a new interest that the children were working on, to surprise her.

  None of that entirely explained why they couldn’t take a phone call from her. Drew knew that she was at the centre of another murder investigation – but no, he didn’t. He had not let her talk for long enough to convey the full story. The only thing she’d really been able to say was how sorry she was about the anniversary, and he had brushed that aside as unimportant. The distance between them suddenly felt like a great gulf that he was making no attempt to bridge. A reciprocal annoyance seized her. There was no need for him to be quite so cold, after all. It was bordering on punitive, which was something she would never have expected from him.

  It was time to stop all this thinking. There was a whole evening still to get through, with the TV not working and no prospect of any congenial company.

  Except – the name she had been resolutely pushing out of her mind forced itself past the barriers she had erected and flashed up in neon lights. Clovis Biddulph had been to this house, looking for her. This was impossible to explain or account for, given the absence of any proper message via the builders.

  There was nothing she could do but wait to see if he came back. She had no phone number for him, and would have resisted any temptation to call it, even if she had. The very helplessness was anathema to her. She regarded herself as a person who made things happen. She did not sit waiting like a Victorian damsel for a man to confer his attention on her. And yet, that was exactly the situation in this instance. It made her fidgety, after the hour spent in quiet meditation. All that thinking had led nowhere, anyway. Without action, it was meaningless. And without any idea of what that action could or should be, there was a growing feeling of frustration.

  Everybody had deserted her. Gladwin, Drew, her dog, even Grace. Well, to be fair, it had been entirely involuntary in the case of the last two. But the result was that she was here on her own, entertaining increasingly dark thoughts, with several hours still to pass before bedtime.

  But she did have a car. And there was still some daylight to enjoy. She could go out, if she decided that that was what she wanted to do, and drive anywhere she liked. At that point, her imagination failed her. She disliked eating alone in a public place. There would be no shops open, other than supermarkets. She didn’t have anybody she could visit.

  ‘Arrghh!’ she moaned aloud. Everything had turned sour, and it was all her own stupid fault.

  Then her phone jingled, and she answered it on the assumption that it would be Drew, relenting from his uncharacteristic chilliness. The fact that the screen announced ‘Caller Unknown’ did not register, in her haste to respond.

  ‘Thea? I’m really sorry if I’m intruding, and I hope I didn’t startle you by trying to find you today. I expect your builders told you I’d been? I was hoping to talk to you in person, but you’re rather elusive.’

  ‘Clovis Biddulph,’ she said faintly. ‘How on earth did you manage to find me?’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘I had to turn detective. There was an item on the news about a suspicious death in Barnsley, and a brief mention of a house-sitter. I guessed that might possibly be you, so I tracked down the house and asked the builders if a Mrs Slocombe was staying there. Simple, really.’

  ‘But my phone number?’

  ‘That was a bit more tricky. But everything’s out there somewhere, and you might remember you placed an ad for your services as a house-sitter on a Cotswolds website, about three years ago, with mobile number? Well, it’s still there.’

  ‘Good God! That must have taken you ages.’

  ‘No, not really. I’ve got quite good at that sort of thing lately. And, of course, I could simply have phoned your husband and asked where you were, but I figured that might be a bit undiplomatic.’

  ‘Seems to me the whole Internet is a stalker’s charter,’ she said daftly, not really meaning to accuse him of any such thing.

  He seemed unwounded by the implication. ‘You needn’t worry. I just wanted to pick your brains about something. It’s all quite innocent, I promise you. But I thought I should phone before coming to the house again. I honestly don’t want to alarm you.’

  His voice was soothing and yet arousing. His words were reassuring and yet her heart was pounding with panic. ‘Can’t you ask me whatever it is over the phone?’ she said.

  ‘Well, no, not really.’

  ‘Is it something to do with your father’s grave? Or what?’

  ‘No, no. It’s nothing much, really. I just want to make use of your obvious talents.’

  She had a strong sense of drowning; of being swept out to sea by forces too powerful to resist. ‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. ‘It sounds as if you might need a counsellor or something. It must have been traumatic for all of you with your father dying as he did, but it’s way beyond my job description to try to help. I don’t even have a job description, really. You’d be better off talking to Drew, and even he’d probably be out of his depth.’ Because, she wanted to tell him, whatever happens between me and you, happens between me and my husband as well.

  ‘You don’t understand. I don’t blame you – I haven’t explained anything yet. So you won’t even meet me somewhere for lunch, then?’ He sounded profoundly reproachful. The way men so often sounded when they wanted something from you that you knew was dangerous, and they pretended was entirely harmless. The little-boy wheedling that was far more successful than it ever ought to be, because it left you feeling stiff and mean-spirited and needlessly cautious.

  ‘I would if I thought I could be of any help to you,’ she said. ‘But there must be countless people who’d do a better job than me.’

  ‘I think I might be the best judge of that. Look, I just want to talk something over with you, that’s all. I want to see if you can help me to understand myself a bit better, if that doesn’t sound pretentious. No strings. Nothing sinister.’

  She knew, then, that everything he was asking her was a smokescreen, a pretence in order to get beneath her defences. He knew that she knew, as well. They both knew that there had been a violent physical spark between them the moment they set eyes on each other. Two highly attractive people in their forties, she in a new and loving marriage, he a single man of indeterminate background – by some malign hormonal chemistry they could scarcely keep their hands off each other.
But nothing had happened and Thea clung to a desperate hope that nothing ever would or could.

  All this knowledge was providing only the flimsiest of barriers against him. Just the mental repetition of his name had been enough to make her warm. Now she was actually speaking to him, hearing his voice inviting her to meet him again, she was unequal to the test before her. There was almost no rational thought involved. She was nowhere close to having to justify herself. She was a rabbit staring into the hypnotic eyes of the fox, somehow accepting that her eventual fate was going to be worth the extreme gratification that was being promised.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ she said. ‘I hear there’s a good pub in Quenington. Can we meet there, say half past twelve?’

  ‘If that’s the best I can hope for, then fine. What’s the name of the pub?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s the only one in the village, I think. Should be easy to find.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Thea. I’m not going to harm you. You sound so scared, and that’s hurtful. I’m not a monster. I just want to talk to you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she murmured, wondering whether all the shameful expectations lay entirely within her, while knowing that absolutely was not the case. Perhaps, an insistent voice repeated, after all, he was much less concupiscent than she thought. Concupiscent, she mentally repeated, enjoying a word she had used a lot in her teens. It had been a favourite amongst the sixth-form girls for a while.

  At least he hadn’t threatened to invade the house that evening. He knew she was alone; he knew how to find her. Didn’t it prove his decency that he had agreed to hold off until the arrival of the purifying light of day in a public place? Bit by bit she relaxed and savoured the glow of anticipation. It would be pleasurable just to see him again. He could harmlessly feed her fantasies, while leaving her conscience clear. And on top of that, he might actually have some intriguing puzzle to run past her, which would give her something new to think about.

  Thanks to close questioning of Sid and Dave on the subject, she achieved a long hot bath at ten, with a book. The habit had been broken once she was living with Drew and his children. There was never quite enough hot water, and the Slocombes all thought there was something a bit mad about lying in a six-inch puddle reading for half an hour or more. The water went cold, they said. How could it be enjoyable? Somebody would bang on the door after ten minutes to ask if she was dead. Now she could relish Tabitha Ibbotson’s facilities, having wantonly used the immersion heater to get the water good and hot. Sid and Dave would have to wait for their plumber to activate the nice new boiler they had installed just that day along with the cooker, dishwasher and fan extractor. It had been eight hours of impressive work, by any standards.

  The book was diverting, and the hot bath soothed away at least some of the current anxieties. The most persistent was the question of Drew, and what was really going on with him.

  Tuesday dawned gradually, the sun blocked by dense cloud. It was almost eight when Thea woke, and she rolled out of bed with a sense of urgency. Only when she was washing her face did she pause to ask herself why she was rushing. All she could come up with was that the builders could arrive any time, and some old-fashioned sense of propriety suggested she should not greet them in her dressing gown. And there was Clovis to think about.

  The main thought was that Drew must never know that she had met the man she so shamefully fancied. She obviously wouldn’t lie if it occurred to him to question her about the people she’d met while in Barnsley. She just wouldn’t voluntarily mention it if she didn’t have to. It wouldn’t even feel like a secret. Just something he was better off not knowing. Any woman in the world would thoroughly agree with that.

  She made coffee and ate a piece of cold bread spread with butter and Marmite. Outside it was dry but grey. The trees looked dusty and tired, preparing to shed their leaves and call it a day. There was a patch of honeysuckle in one corner of the front garden, its flowers a distant memory and most of its leaves brown and crisp. July had been very dry, and the plant had evidently not recovered from the weeks of thirst. Tabitha couldn’t have watered it during her stay at the house.

  Forcing her thoughts away from Clovis, she concentrated on the group of women who deserved her attention. Gladwin, Grace, Barkley, Tabitha. They all swirled around, offering trouble and friendship in equal measure. They had all depended on her, Thea Slocombe, in one way or another, and she was determined not to let them down. Even Grace, already the recipient of genuine benevolence, deserved to have her story revealed and her death avenged. Tabitha was relying on her to keep her house intact, her piano undamaged.

  She was going to need all her resolve if the day was not going to lead to disaster. She needed to hold on to an idea of herself as a good dependable person. Her husband should be able to rely on her fidelity, and Gladwin needed her to contribute positively to the murder investigation. She must face facts and stay firmly in the real world. Such internal admonitions were tiring, she discovered. Combined with far too much thinking the day before, the unwonted earnestness was all a bit too much. She found herself craving some frivolity to counteract it all.

  The problem, of course, was that frivolity would come in the form of Clovis, if she let it, and was therefore not to be entertained. Instead she must do her civic duty, protecting the house and helping the police. With this in mind, she waited for the builders and planned her morning.

  Sid and Dave arrived at half past eight, their expressions slightly wary. She could hardly blame them for that after the shocks of the previous day. They were probably anxious to finish the work and go as quickly as possible. ‘Had a good night?’ asked Dave.

  ‘No problems,’ she reported. ‘Everything was nice and quiet.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He looked as if he did not entirely believe her. ‘Going out for a drive today, are you?’ He eyed the car in the driveway speculatively. Thea realised she had not explained how she’d acquired it.

  ‘The police have let me borrow it,’ she said. ‘Just so I can get some shopping when I need it.’

  ‘Nice,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘I think I’ll go for another walk this morning. I’ll be out for lunch with a friend. The man who showed up yesterday – Clovis.’

  ‘No more forensic bods coming here, then?’

  ‘Not that I know of. The trouble is, they’ve got a big investigation going on, and there’s nobody available to do a proper job on this one. It’s all wrong, you know. They can’t be everywhere at once, with all the cuts and restrictions.’

  ‘You’d think murder would trump all the other things, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You would,’ said Thea. ‘But it’s not always very logical.’ She had had the idea of revisiting the business park, perhaps from a different approach, trying to understand how it operated. It had seemed obvious that Grace was afraid of going near it, because that was the point from which she had escaped. The policeman at Cirencester had said there were at least a couple of cameras with recordings they were looking at. The fact that they had requisitioned the recordings must have alerted the people at the park to their supposed involvement with the murder. Would that have made any guilty individuals nervous? The website had talked of offices and workshops and businesses of varying sizes, all sharing the cluster of attractive stone buildings. It was impossible to know how much of a community it was, and who exactly made use of it. If Thea simply walked up the front driveway and started to look around, from one unit to another, would anybody stop her? She had done similar things before, usually with impunity. But what could she hope to gain by it, a sensible voice enquired. Who would she speak to, if anyone? In what way could such intrusion constitute responsible behaviour?

  Better, then, to retrace her original steps from Saturday without two police officers watching every move, looking for hidden clues, trying to make sense of what had happened. That would be a lot more focused and therefore easier to justify. Small details might come back to her. And if there was nobody from t
he police with her, making notes and asking questions, the very solitude might help to nudge her memory. And yet – did she really want to do it all again, for a third time? Wouldn’t it be nothing more than wasted time? She sat in the living room with a cooling mug of coffee and considered her options.

  Perhaps she could just regard it as going for another walk. Perhaps she would follow a different route from before, responding to whim and letting her thoughts roam freely. That was, after all, how she had envisaged this week before coming here. It would be a restful interlude, where she could indulge in drawing, reading, thinking, away from insistent children and the nagging demands of domestic routine. Couldn’t some of this yet be salvaged? There were four or five days still to go, in which she might yet make some sketches and read a book. She could go to Bibury and beyond, get to know the Ampneys and the outskirts of Cirencester. The fact of a murder, right under her nose, closer than any she’d been involved in previously, ought not to be allowed to consume every waking moment. It could be pushed to the edges of her attention, leaving space for some of the indulgence she had originally anticipated.

  So she took herself out into the village, with its smattering of houses, pub and hotel, church and village hall. And a mysterious old barn. A place that had offered refreshment and rest to passing drovers and their flocks or herds. There would have been a field close to the inn where the animals could also gather their strength for more miles of walking. There’d be water for them, but perhaps little or no grass, if times were busy and numerous previous travellers had already bitten it down to nothing and then trodden the ground to bare earth or mud. Thea ambled slowly past the various buildings, dreaming of bygone times, listening for echoes of hooves and whistles, barking dogs and even the occasional drover’s song.