Deception in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  And that, she realised with a shock of comprehension, was exactly why there could never be a credible or effective law that authorised assisted suicide. Who could ever know the precise facts of those final moments? There was a monumental difference between – on one side – a loving, regretful, gentle service to somebody who quite definitely had come to the end of his endurance, and an impatient jumping of the gun on the other, an act born of stress and exhaustion, understandable but contrary to the wishes of the victim. A huge difference that mattered crucially, and yet was virtually impossible to detect from outside, after the event.

  ‘Phew!’ she gasped aloud, finding herself wracked by these thoughts on what had to be the most important subject there was. It was one thing to examine it in theory, round a chattering dinner table amongst young and healthy people – quite another to consider it in relation to a single real person who had actually died the previous day. If Donny had gone to his death resisting, fighting against it, that was certainly murder. That was cruel and horrible and deserving of punishment. It was also a dreadful betrayal of trust, if performed by his close friend Edwina.

  She wished she could share her deliberations with somebody, before the clarity was muddled and lost. It felt like an elusive insight that might just evaporate if not pinned down by being spoken aloud. The day was nearly over, and she had not spoken to a soul for close to twenty-four hours. Such was the fate of a house-sitter, she acknowledged. It was the reason her spaniel was of such significance – another familiar creature to link her to the living world. But Hepzie was no use at all when it came to philosophy. Thea could only think of one person who would listen and understand – and he was snugly at home with his wife and children.

  She watched an old film on the television and went to bed early, feeling the day had been a necessary interlude in which to absorb the fact of Donny’s death and let the implications work their way into some kind of logical shape. There had been at least two moments of major emotional impact – which was more than normally occurred in a month. Wherever the objective truth might lie, she would never abandon the two distinct certainties that had gripped her that day – that there was transcendent beauty to be found in this part of England, and that there could never be a fair and watertight means of legislating for one person to kill another, however benign the intention. It seemed like more than enough to be going on with.

  She fell asleep within seconds of turning out the light, the dog at her feet as always.

  Thursday dawned fair, sunlight flooding Thea’s bedroom for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘This is more like it,’ she told Hepzie. It was not quite seven o’clock, but she decided to get up anyway. Perhaps Jemima’s example on Monday had made more of an impression than she realised. There did, after all, seem to be something wasteful about lying in bed on such a lovely morning.

  Thinking about Jemima, she glanced out of the window where the woman had been cutting roses on Monday morning. No reason to do that any more, of course. No more visits to the Lodge fitted into a busy farming life; no more worries about what would happen when Donny needed urgent medical treatment simply to alleviate pain or get nourishment into him. Was Jemima feeling relief, on this sunny morning, that such a large burden had been taken from her shoulders? Surely anybody would.

  How much of a hole had Donny left in people’s lives? What about Toby, who somehow gave the impression of a man who had put himself on hold, treading water while he worked out how to live without his Cecilia? Thea would like to learn more about Toby and why he had tagged along with Edwina. She would even be interested in meeting Philippe again and his big grey poodle, to check his reaction to Donny’s death.

  She recognised her symptoms. All alone in this big house, still far from understanding the dynamics of the village community, shocked by the discovery of a dead man close by, she needed human contact. Whilst it was satisfying to have time for some serious thinking, too much time was destructive. Thoughts began to straggle into realms of fantasy, with no checks or balances from another person. False notions could flourish extravagantly, and take root when they really ought to be discarded.

  She could email a few people – her daughter Jessica, her sister Jocelyn, for example – and tell the story of what had happened in Cranham. She could phone her mother or her friend Celia back in Witney where she had her cottage and her official life. But she and Celia had very much drifted apart since the house-sitting had begun. A stalwart confidante in the year after Carl died, Celia had since found herself a new man and been absorbed into couplehood. Thea’s frequent absences had damaged the friendship more than expected, until there was little the two had left to talk about.

  In any case, you couldn’t phone people so early in the morning. After a leisurely breakfast she composed emails to daughter and sister, which said much less than she would have liked to convey, aware of a need to avoid worrying them. She permitted herself another pang of nostalgia for Phil Hollis, who would have talked through with her the whole matter of Donny’s death, before she quashed it firmly.

  She visited the geckoes, which were invisible again. They had eaten most of the mashed fruit from the day before, so she replaced it with a fresh helping, taking great care to fasten the catches of their tanks. Escaping animals, including a large snake, had caused trouble on more than one occasion in the past. These little reptiles would be impossible to find if once they got loose.

  At eight-thirty, she took Hepzie for a short walk across a field or two behind the house. Then she shut her dog indoors and set out for the collie in the woods, which had been looming large in her thoughts for some time. The pups must be close to a week old by this time, growing rapidly and likely to start opening their eyes in another week or so. She hoped she would still be around to see them when that happened. Would Drew really take one? she wondered, remembering their slightly silly talk about him adopting the whole litter. Most probably not, she concluded. He wasn’t even likely to get the chance. If she left Cranham at the end of the coming week, the whole thing would probably be out of her hands entirely.

  She would examine them more closely this morning, making sure of the number in the litter, and whether they were male or female. With each day that passed, she felt more confident of their survival, whilst knowing this was an ill-founded optimism. The bitch’s owner could still kill them all if he chose. He might even be so angry that he shot his collie as well, she thought wildly. It wouldn’t be the first time. Farm dogs led a precarious existence, even in these more enlightened times. Cruelty was far from eradicated, and neglect seemed to be a growing plague, as people assessed the cost of keeping a dog and decided to fling the encumbrance out of their car on the motorway.

  ‘Stop it,’ she muttered to herself. She was all too susceptible to agonising about the ghastly fate of countless dogs, not only in Britain but around the world. It was a deep well of pain she kept inside herself, never quite forgotten. Not just dogs, of course, but other animals as well: elephants, baby seals, terrified suffering cows in American abattoirs – people could be appallingly savage in their treatment of other species, and it was never going to get better. The fact that many creatures could sometimes behave cruelly and viciously to each other was irrelevant. People ought to know better.

  All of which contributed to a growing sense of foreboding as she approached the burrow. What if they’d been found, dragged out and hacked to pieces? What if they had just disappeared and she would never know what had happened to them? The situation was so insecure, the little family so vulnerable, that she could scarcely believe it when she found everything as normal. The mother dog came right out of the hole to greet her and sniff at the bag she carried. Small squeals came from the shadows, and while the dog ate the food, Thea gently reached in and brought the pups out, one by one.

  There were five of them, three girls and two boys. One was substantially bigger than the others, a grey male with the rippled coat of the first one she had handled. They all had white feet and white nose
s, ranging in colour from black to grey. They seemed perfectly healthy, clean and dry with fat, full tummies.

  ‘Well done, girl!’ she applauded. ‘You’re making a very good job of them, aren’t you?’

  The dog trustingly wagged her tail, moved away a little to relieve herself, and then dived back into the hole to receive her offspring as Thea returned them to her. With a sense of virtue rewarded, Thea turned to leave.

  She had only gone twenty or thirty yards before she heard somebody coming. Her heart leapt foolishly at the prospect of her secret being discovered. She glanced back, hoping there was no trace of the hidden dogs. The empty plastic bag in her hand might have to be explained. She couldn’t pretend to be gathering mushrooms or nuts in June.

  A large man came into view, between the trees. He carried a shotgun under his arm, and wore leather boots. His eyes were deep set and his cheeks pink. Thea felt a momentary terror at the sight of him, struck dumb by it, simply staring at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Morning,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Thought I heard a voice. Who’re you talking to, then?’

  She recovered her composure with an effort. ‘Oh, nobody. Just muttering to myself, I suppose. It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Too lovely to be out here shooting things, she wanted to add.

  ‘Best day of the week, anyhow,’ he agreed. ‘It’ll rain tomorrow, they say.’

  ‘Really? That’s bad news.’

  ‘It is,’ he affirmed.

  ‘You live locally, do you?’

  ‘Not far. And yourself?’

  ‘I’m house-sitting at Hollywell, for Harriet Young.’

  ‘Ah – I thought it must be you. But they said you’d got a dog.’ He looked all round, eyes narrowed. ‘Can’t see it.’

  ‘No. I left her behind.’

  ‘Why’d you do that, then? Good for dogs, in these woods. Why would you leave it behind?’

  Suspicion washed across his face like a dye. Thea’s mind went blank – what possible explanation could she give? The sight of his gun gave her an answer. ‘Somebody said there was shooting going on, and I was worried she might get hurt.’

  He shook his head slowly, like a teacher in despair at a pupil’s pathetic response to a question. ‘There’s nobody around here would shoot a dog by mistake, least of all me,’ he told her.

  ‘So – what are you shooting?’

  ‘Pigeons. Crows. Magpies. All the nuisances.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m missing a dog,’ he said suddenly. ‘Collie bitch, with a black face. Haven’t see her, have you?’

  The need to tell a direct lie was regrettable. Worse, it went against some deep principle that she had barely known existed until then. She played for time, pretending to think hard. ‘Black face? No, I don’t think so. How long has she been lost? You must be awfully worried.’ She gabbled the words, convinced that he could see right through her. ‘I’d be distraught if my Hepzie was lost.’ It occurred to her that he might start calling his dog, and at such close quarters, she might well be unable to resist responding and showing herself. If Thea could keep him talking and convince him there was no trace of the animal in the woods, that disaster might be averted.

  ‘Best part of a week,’ the man replied to her question. ‘I’ve a notion she was in pup, and has hidden herself away somewhere to keep them safe.’

  ‘The poor thing!’ Thea exclaimed. ‘Why? What was she afraid of?’

  ‘She knew I’d drown them if I found them. It’s happened before.’

  He showed no hint of shame at this admission. ‘You cruel beast!’ Thea accused him, too angry to mince her words. ‘No wonder she’s run away.’

  ‘She’s a working dog. Pups would keep her useless for a month or more.’

  ‘Is it legal to drown puppies?’

  He shrugged. ‘So long as it’s quick and they’re newborn, it’s nothing much.’

  ‘But if you’re right and she’s been gone a week, they wouldn’t be newborn now, would they?’

  He tilted his head at her, still manifesting suspicion. ‘I might be persuaded that she’d earned the right to keep one or two, at least,’ he conceded. ‘It’s not so hard to manage without her, this time of year.’

  It was tempting to believe him and disclose his dog’s hiding place, but something prevented her. There could be a cruel game going on, in which he sought to entrap her into giving the dog away. And keeping ‘one or two’ pups really wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Are you fond of her?’ she demanded. ‘Do you have the slightest feelings for what she must be enduring, if you’re right that she’s trying to rear puppies all by herself?’

  ‘She’s a bright girl, I’ll give her that. Doesn’t have to be told twice. Never been disobedient in her life.’ He was frowning at the question. ‘We’re a team, you might say.’

  ‘So don’t you think she deserves consideration? If you don’t want pups, why the hell don’t you have her spayed?’ Anger had been rising since the admission about the drowning.

  ‘Costs money,’ he said shortly. ‘Thought I’d kept her in this time, but some bloody dog broke in one night. Jumped right in through a window five feet off the ground.’

  ‘You don’t know who he was, then?’

  ‘Something big, that’s all I can say. There’s a lurcher lives over towards Slad. Might be him.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you if I see her. Where do you live?’

  He waved unhelpfully in the Sheepscombe direction. ‘I walked there yesterday,’ said Thea. ‘With my dog. I saw the most fantastic view of Painswick from the top of a hill.’

  He ducked his chin in agreement. ‘Pretty enough,’ he said shortly.

  ‘I’ll be getting back, then,’ she said, afraid to leave the hidden dog when her master was so close by, but with little choice in the matter.

  ‘And bring your animal next time,’ he called after her. ‘She’s in no danger from me.’

  It was a cleverly chosen parting remark, she guessed. He had a hunch that she was protecting his collie, and wanted her to believe everything would be all right if she revealed what she knew. Or perhaps she had penetrated his armour and made him see that he was behaving in a cruel way – not just by drowning puppies, but by shooting birds at a time when they had nests full of youngsters depending on them. The quick death of the parents would lead to slow starvation in the chicks. That was intolerable, to Thea’s mind.

  Chapter Nine

  All she could do was hurry back to the Manor and liberate Hepzie, passing the Lodge with a mixture of unpleasant emotions. There was still such a lot she didn’t know about Donny and his earlier life. Where had he lived before? What had his profession been? What would happen to his house now? She slowed her pace, in a vague gesture of respect, wishing she could bring him back to life again and resume their afternoon chats.

  Hearing voices behind her, she turned to see two women coming through the gates towards her. They progressed slowly as she watched and wondered whether she should greet them. The distance was still slightly too great for conversation, so she used the moments before convergence to examine the two together. Jemima Hobson and Edwina Satterthwaite made a curious pair. They might have become stepmother and daughter, if Donny’s senile wife had died and he had then married his lady friend – an awkward relationship at the best of times. Had his death brought them closer, or set them at odds, Thea wondered.

  ‘Where’s your little dog?’ asked Edwina, her face level with Thea’s, neither of them much over five feet tall.

  ‘I left her in the house.’

  ‘That’s a shame on such a sunny day.’

  ‘It was only for a little while. I’m going to fetch her now.’

  Jemima seemed distracted, impatient. She was hovering beside the front door of her father’s house, showing no inclination to talk, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.

  ‘I’ll get out of your way,’ said Thea, not at all wanting to leave them.

  Edwina’s face had sagged since
the previous day and acquired an unhealthy colour. Her Victorian hair, previously so smooth and neat, was now escaping in wisps. Thea guessed that the woman had spent a sleepless night, and was feeling the sharp physical pains that nobody told you accompanied grief. By comparison, Jemima looked robust and efficient.

  ‘No Toby today, then?’ Thea said. ‘I suppose he had to get back to work.’

  Jemima snorted. ‘What work?’ she demanded. ‘How did you come to meet him, anyway?’

  Had there been something surreptitious in the visit that he and Edwina had paid her on Tuesday afternoon? Too late now, anyway. The older woman was not discernibly discomposed by the reference. ‘It was Tuesday,’ Thea said vaguely. Further remarks occurred to her, but were dismissed as potentially tactless or somehow treacherous. Perhaps because of her recent encounter in the woods, she felt that there were secrets on all sides, and she should be careful what she said.

  ‘Toby’s very upset,’ Edwina put in, her voice toneless. ‘So is Thyrza.’

  ‘What!’ Jemima’s voice was strident. ‘She couldn’t stand him. Neither could that lunatic son of hers.’

  The lunatic son must be Philippe, Thea noted. She opened her mouth to say she had met him as well, but closed it again, remembering her resolve to remain quiet. Any urge she might have to show off how well she was keeping up would have to be quashed. Besides, there was enough to interest her in this exchange between the two women.

  ‘That isn’t true,’ mumbled Edwina unhappily. ‘You just don’t understand. You’ve never been any good at the more subtle things of life, Mimm. It isn’t your fault, but it can make you say very hurtful things sometimes.’