Revenge in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘My car’s just up there.’

  With some final words to her daughter, the woman followed Thea and the dogs to the car. ‘My name’s Sheila,’ she said. ‘Sheila Whiteacre. It’s the early form of Whittaker,’ she added, as if answering an unspoken question.

  ‘Thea Osborne. I’m house-sitting in Daglingworth. I don’t know the area terribly well, but I’m good with a map.’

  ‘What’re you doing in Bagendon, then?’

  ‘They asked me to water some plants in a house here, as well as minding the other one. Just for a few days. I walked over yesterday and met your daughter. They seem to be up to a lot of exciting stuff.’

  The woman made a tutting noise, seeming to want to downgrade the activities of her daughter and her friends. ‘Strictly weekends, pet. Most of the time, they’re just ordinary citizens. Reminds me of the eighties all the same, when I was their age and we were fanatically CND. Well, Tiff’s dad was. Not me so much. It always seemed to be cold and wet when there was a march. I got out of it when I could. I did go to Greenham Common once.’

  Thea had the faintest of memories of her father’s sister, Auntie Jen, giving an account of a week spent camping outside the American base. It felt romantic and very long ago.

  ‘They all seem to be very committed.’

  ‘I know. I can’t really complain, even though I’m scared they’ll get into serious trouble one day. It’s all on the side of the angels, isn’t it? Somebody has to speak out and put the brakes on, or where will it all end?’

  ‘Mm,’ said Thea. ‘I’m not sure. Was that the whole group? It seems mostly female.’

  ‘Danny wasn’t there. Nor Giles. I think he’s gone up to Yorkshire for some reason.’

  ‘You know them all by name, then?’

  ‘Mostly. Tiff brings them to the house for meetings. We’ve got more space than anyone else. I give them coffee and cake.’ She laughed. ‘And her brother’s involved, too, which adds to the pressure to use our facilities.’

  ‘Was he there just now?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s working this weekend. Does funny shifts, three days on, three days off. I can never keep track of him.’

  They were on the same road as the one Thea had travelled in the Land Rover the day before. The A417 was just ahead. ‘Where do I go here?’ she asked.

  ‘Gosh – sorry. You should have turned left back at the last junction. I wasn’t concentrating. Never mind – we can go through Stratton. It’s not much further.’

  Thea remembered seeing Stratton on her map – looking rather a sizeable place. She didn’t think she’d ever been there. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But make sure you direct me in good time.’

  It was barely five minutes, along a very straight road, then a left turn to Baunton. Thea was glad of the excuse to see a new place, but was not unduly impressed. There were modern houses and a lot of traffic, compared to Daglingworth. But there were some beautiful buildings, one of which turned out to be their destination. ‘Gosh!’ she gasped.

  ‘I know. It’s been in the family for ages. Costs a fortune to maintain, of course. But it is rather special. We try to share our good fortune, and make good use of it. And we did fill it with children. Tiffany’s the youngest of five. We’re here all the year round, as well. We do our best to justify it.’

  ‘I’m not judging you,’ Thea said softly. ‘I think it’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes, well – I’m not going to argue with you.’ They sat for a moment in admiration of the property that was solidly Georgian, with perhaps six or eight upstairs rooms and a well-kept garden surrounding it. Ivy adorned the facade. ‘Come in, why don’t you? We’ve got a couple of Labradors who’d like a romp with your two. Well – the spaniel anyway.’ She looked over her shoulder at the back seat, where Gwennie was slumped as if she’d walked miles in Bagendon instead of a dozen yards or so. Hepzie was panting in anticipation of being released from the car.

  ‘No, no, thanks all the same. I ought to get back. It must be nearly lunchtime. I don’t want to get in your way.’

  ‘We don’t do Sunday lunches these days. My husband will be making soup or something. You won’t be interrupting at all. And anyway – it’s only half past eleven. You could have some coffee.’

  There was no reason at all to get back and coffee would be very welcome. ‘Okay – you’ve persuaded me,’ she capitulated. ‘Thanks very much.’

  The inside of the house made her think of her sister Jocelyn, who also had five children. Large families meant scuffs and stains and heaps and things kept for sentimental reasons. Even if Sheila’s children were all grown up, their presence persisted. The big kitchen was festooned with pictures, dog leads, coffee mugs, and a dusty board covered in notices and lists. ‘How many of them still live here?’ Thea asked.

  ‘Good question. I’d have to say two and a half. Tiffany and Ricky are here full time. He’s my second one, the one I was just telling you about. He works for what was British Waterways, always out and about, getting wet.’

  ‘Was?’ Thea had fond memories of British Waterways and canal holidays with Carl and Jessica.

  ‘It’s changed to the Canal and River Trust now, God help us. Much less money available. The usual business of making cuts and fudging everything.’

  ‘Nice job, even so. I love canals and locks and all that.’ She was tempted to recount the story of her stay in Frampton Mansell, nearly three years ago, which involved a very close encounter with the Cotswold Canal. But she resisted, finding it more interesting to encourage Sheila Whiteacre to keep talking. Which she did.

  ‘Then there’s Win. She’s a student, so she’s only here during the vacations.’

  ‘Win? Short for Winifred?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We had rather a thing about names – wanted them to stand out from the crowd. Of course, we boobed spectacularly with Tiffany. It’s now in the top five or something, on all the urban estates. It’s so difficult to be original. I wish I’d thought of Thea. That’s a brilliant name.’

  ‘My parents felt rather the same as you. We’re got Damien, Emily and Jocelyn as well as me.’ Saying her brother’s name made her think again of his momentous news. It was sitting somewhere inside her, a blob of information that was rather like the foetus itself. ‘Have you got grandchildren?’

  ‘One. Thomas.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit rude when they told me what they were calling him. I mean – how very dull.’

  Thea laughed, and Sheila made two mugs of instant coffee. She went to the door and shouted, ‘Coffee’s up, if you want it.’ Her accent, which had been puzzling Thea, came out as definite South London, when shouting. In response, two big chocolate Labradors came slouching into the room, shoulder to shoulder. ‘I said coffee, not supper,’ Sheila told them. ‘These are Bert and Jackson. They’re monsters.’

  Two large male dogs did strike Thea as excessive, and she inwardly resolved to leave Hepzie firmly in the car. Romping with these two might well result in some bruises.

  Then a man appeared. ‘Thea, this is my husband, Art. He’s American. This lady is called Thea and she’s house-sitting or something.’

  So the house had been in her family, Thea concluded doubtfully. The accent and the bright hair and even the name Tiffany (however accidental) felt at odds with the inheritance of a Georgian mansion.

  Art had an unruly grey beard and thick-rimmed spectacles. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m not really American any more. She just says that as a way of apologising for me. I’ve been here since I was seventeen. This house belonged to my father’s brother, who had no kids, so I got landed with it. It’s a long story.’

  Thea shook his hand and smiled. She liked him instantly. He was everybody’s idea of the perfect father and grandfather. Even his clothes looked soft and warm and embraceable.

  ‘There’s been some sort of accident at the quarry,’ Sheila said. ‘Sounded as if somebody might have been killed there.’

&
nbsp; Thea had actually forgotten about the helicopter and the police radio messages. Her heart thumped in self-reproach.

  ‘Good God! They don’t operate on a Sunday, do they?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. We’ll find out soon enough, I imagine.’

  ‘Guess so. Where’s Tiff?’

  ‘I left her there, with the car. They’re doing some sort of badger headcount. Thea gave me a lift home. She’s got two dogs out there.’

  ‘Bring them in,’ he invited, spreading his arms. ‘We like dogs.’

  ‘I’d better not. One of them’s very old and slow. I’m not sure she could cope …’

  ‘Oh, these two are real pussycats. They’d never do any harm.’

  Thea drained her coffee and got up from the kitchen table. ‘Better not. I should go, really. I feel as if I’m deserting my post.’ She smiled again and wondered whether she would see them again, and possibly meet their son Ricky.

  ‘What does a house-sitter do, anyway?’ Art enquired. ‘You make it sound as if you stand guard with a rifle on the front doorstep.’

  She laughed. ‘No, I don’t do that. It’s the dog, really. I’ve got to keep her happy.’ And alive, she thought ruefully.

  ‘Oh, well, if you get the chance, you should do some exploring. Baunton’s got a famous picture in the church, you know. St Christopher. It’s quite something. And we’re overflowing with fascinating characters. It isn’t just me and Sheila, you know.’

  ‘I’ve met some already. A man called Jack Handy, for instance. Do you know him?’

  Two pairs of eyes rolled up to the ceiling. ‘Everyone knows Farmer Handy,’ said Sheila. ‘Makes enough trouble for a dozen farmers. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.’

  ‘He told me about wanting to sell a bit of land for building. I suppose it’s got permission, the amount of money he was offered.’

  They both stared. ‘He told you all that? When?’

  ‘Yesterday. Why?’

  ‘He must have been drunk. He never reveals a word about money.’

  ‘He wasn’t drunk – just angry. He needed to get it off his chest.’

  ‘Something must have happened, then. That doesn’t sound like the man we know at all.’ Sheila was frowning in puzzlement. ‘Did he have a ratty collie dog with him?’

  ‘Yes. And he was driving a battered old Land Rover.’

  Before any more could be said, a phone sitting on a worktop rang loudly. Art picked it up. ‘Hi, Tiff … what about that essay? What …?’ He listened for several seconds. ‘Good grief, girl. Just you get back here right away. Don’t have anything to do with it. Take a deep breath and head for the car. You can deal with your friends later. I want you here, now. Understand?’

  After another few seconds, he put the phone down. ‘The body in the quarry – they’ve just heard that it’s Danny Compton.’

  Chapter Six

  Thea hovered near the kitchen door, unable to interrupt the tension to say goodbye, and in no rush, anyway, to leave. She might miss something interesting.

  ‘How can they know so quickly?’ Sheila asked first. ‘They don’t give out names for ages.’

  ‘She didn’t say. But there doesn’t seem to be any doubt about it.’

  ‘Oh, God. Poor Nella! They were getting married. Tiffany was all set to be a bridesmaid.’ She spoke partly to herself and partly to Thea. ‘What in the world could have happened to him?’

  ‘An accident, I expect,’ said Thea. ‘I saw the quarry yesterday. It’s a long way down. If you slipped off the path and over the edge, you might easily be killed.’

  ‘But Danny isn’t the sort of person to slip,’ said Sheila. ‘He’s super-competent at everything he does. Making placards, drawing maps, checking details. He’s the opposite of reckless, whatever that is.’

  ‘Cautious,’ said Art. ‘Thinks three times about everything.’

  ‘You know him well, then?’ said Thea sadly. ‘What an awful shock this must be for you.’

  ‘More for the girls. They all adored him. I think Sophie always expected she’d bag him, if anyone did. But he just fell for Nella from the start. It was ever so sweet.’ Sheila wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘What a terrible thing to happen,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Hey, honey, don’t upset yourself.’ Art put an arm around his wife’s shoulder and rubbed his beard against the top of her head. ‘The girls’ll rally round, and make sure Nella’s okay. You know what a great gang they are. They’ll get her through it.’

  ‘Mm,’ mumbled Sheila.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Thea. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you both. I expect I’ll see you again. Tiffany will be home in a minute. She won’t want me in the way.’

  They made no attempt to stop her and, as she drove back towards Daglingworth on the straight – and doubtless Roman – road, she met a car driven by Tiffany. She waved, but the girl showed no sign of having seen her. For the first time, Thea wondered why Art had been so concerned to have his daughter home. Why not encourage her to stay and support her friend instead? It was as if he feared for her safety. Or perhaps it was merely that he wanted to console her, having heard acute distress in her voice. In any case, Thea hoped she would see them all again. She had liked the Whiteacres very much indeed.

  The Fosters’ house was serenely Sunday-morningish when she got back. A bird was singing in a birch tree in the back garden and daffodil heads were starting to change their angle from vertical to horizontal, indicating an imminent opening into trumpets. A man called Danny was dead in a quarry and would never see such delights again. From the very little she knew of him, she assumed he had enjoyed the natural world, since he was working to protect it. Like her own dead Carl, who had been a conservationist before anything else, the fact of an early death was all the more terrible for knowing that this was somebody who would have made excellent use of a long life.

  The dogs had been badly cheated, too. There had been nothing by way of a walk. No new smells or interesting encounters. They had been left in the car together – which had done nothing for their relationship. Corgi and spaniel each curled into a corner, as far from one another as possible. Hepzie leapt out as soon as the door opened, but Gwennie had to be helped down, her body unbending and her short legs unequal to the task of jumping anywhere. She made straight for her familiar basket and sat in it, breathing heavily. There was a subtle air of outrage about her.

  ‘Come on, Heps,’ said Thea. ‘Let’s go up to the church or somewhere for a bit. You can probably go loose, if you promise to behave yourself.’ This was unfair, she realised, and added, ‘You’ve been a very good dog up to now.’ Memories of the extremely bad behaviour in Stanton made her shudder and resolve to keep a closer eye on the two. Leaving them alone in the car had been rather reckless, on reflection.

  There were still plenty of walks they could take in the coming days and she was resolute in her intention to explore them. Westwards lay Duntisbourne Leer, with a more southerly diversion into a large woodland. Beyond that lay Sapperton and Daneway, which she had visited nearly three years earlier with her sister Jocelyn, when they were house-sitting together in Frampton Mansell. That seemed a long time ago, with so many adventures in between, but the chat with Sheila Whiteacre had revived the memories and they now raced vividly through her mind.

  That area, in the lower left-hand corner of the Cotswolds map, was wooded and secretive, the levels as dramatically uneven as any she’d since encountered. Starkly contrasting with the open sweeps around Snowshill and the rootedness of Winchcombe, she remembered the Frampton Mansell experience as one of sudden shocks and passions, both personal and geographical. The constantly changing landscape, from wide open wolds to hidden glimpses of long-gone industry, by way of country lanes and characterful churches, was unfailingly appealing. Every mile contained a wealth of interest, enough for a day’s contemplation and enjoyment. She didn’t have to concern herself with a dead man in a quarry. It had nothing whatever to do with her.

  But the image that p
ersistently floated before her inner eye was that of the red-haired farmer, Jack Handy. Red-haired and red-faced, as he raged about the protesters. He wouldn’t shed any tears over the death of one of the leading members of the group, that was for sure.

  The walk up the gentle rise to the church was brief, but pleasantly distracting. Daglingworth had its own quirks, the best of which was a garden at the central road junction, raised considerably above ground level and full of many different herbs. They were at head height, flopping over the wall beside the road. Rosemary, mint, marjoram were easy to identify, but others were either too dormant or too unfamiliar to put names to. It was original and entirely delightful, making Thea smile.

  She had left her mobile behind, carrying nothing but the house key in a pocket. Wispy aromas of Sunday roasts and woodsmoke made her dreamy, drifting back in time, conscious that the same smells would have persisted in this place for countless centuries. The enveloping sense of history was one of the main attractions of the Cotswolds. Everywhere you looked there were ancient stones and earthworks that betrayed the millennia of human activity. The herb garden reminded her that this too was a time-honoured practice. Despite the comfortable affluence of the villagers, they still burnt wood and put lavender in their drawers. They surely maintained some sort of feeling for the particular elements of the past that had created this extraordinary region.