Deception in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  The spaniel flopped lazily at her feet, content to spend an idle afternoon in the sunshine, if that was her mistress’s choice. She had no better suggestions, needed nothing more to make life complete. If another person arrived, she would greet them cheerfully, but she had no craving for excitement. Thea watched her enviously, wishing she could so easily find satisfaction.

  The adjacent property revealed no sign of life, the huge and perfectly cut lawn basking in the sunshine all by itself. On the other side, a track led away towards some fields, holding little of interest that Thea could see. A tractor had passed along it a few days earlier, and nothing more. Planes silently crossed the sky, leaving silver streaks now and then.

  It was a very undemanding house-sit, by any standards. Only the geckoes, with their unregistered breeding programme, called for supervision. Harriet was paying her the usual rate, which was a not inconsiderable sum for two weeks. It seemed daft. But such daftness was far from unusual in Thea’s experience. She had been similarly employed before, to do something a neighbour could easily have handled. There was some element of guarding, protecting, that was born of the general atmosphere of nervousness in British society. Burglars, vandals, marauders were lurking just out of sight, intent on intruding, wrecking and stealing your precious possessions. Hollywell Manor clearly had to be kept safe from any such predations. There was a large and beautiful stained glass window on the landing upstairs. It would be tragic if that got broken. The wood panelling was probably worth quite a lot on the reclamation market. There was good antique furniture and expensive carpets. There were oil paintings along the upstairs gallery. Perhaps in Harriet’s place, Thea too would have wanted to know somebody was standing guard over it all.

  She thought of nightwatchmen, expected to stay awake from dusk to dawn, watching for robbers. They used television and all-night radio to pass the time, but how terribly long every night must seem to them. Did they phone their friends, and send emails and play computer games as well? At least Thea was allowed to go for walks and shopping trips and visits to any people she might befriend during her stay. At least she had her dog for company, and plenty to think about.

  But still the afternoon crawled painfully slowly along. The sun hardly seemed to move across the sky, the shadows barely shifting. She got thirsty, her book failed to engage her, and annoying questions about Donny persistently intruded into her head.

  It was not quite three o’clock when she got up and padded restlessly into the house for some fruit juice. She collected her mobile, to check whether anyone had sent a text. The only person who ever did so was Jessica, and that wasn’t a frequent event. When she had been with Phil Hollis, he had nagged her relentlessly about keeping the phone switched on and within earshot, in case he needed to speak to her. Since they had parted, she saw little reason to maintain the regime. If Jessica needed her urgently, she would find a way of making contact. Thea routinely lodged the address of the current house she was sitting with her daughter, and left it at that. The mobile was superfluous, most of the time.

  But there was a message on it. The voicemail icon was flashing. It took her a moment to remember what it meant, and how to access the recording. Eventually, she did it, and found herself listening to Drew Slocombe’s voice.

  ‘Thea? It’s Drew. Sorry to do this. I hope it works. It’s just that I’ve come across an interesting coincidence, and thought you’d like to know about it. It seems that your employer is a successful author of a book about funerals. At least I think it must be her. Call me if you’re interested. Bye.’

  Her employer? He could only mean Harriet. But she had seen nothing in the house to indicate that Harriet wrote books. There was nothing on the ground or first floors remotely resembling an office. A second floor remained unexplored, however. If Harriet had indeed produced a book about funerals, that might explain why Donny had paid such regular visits to her. He could have been consulting her special expertise – which could at a stretch surely extend to the subject of suicide. But why had he not long ago resolved the question of his own disposal, in that case? And where exactly had Harriet come by this particular interest? Had she worked as an undertaker, perhaps? Or had she been commissioned to write the book, as a freelance expected to turn her hand to anything that came along?

  And why hadn’t Donny said something, when the subject arose on his first visit? She thought back, trying to recapture every nuance of the short conversation on the doorstep as he departed on that first afternoon. She had described Drew’s business and what he could offer, as she understood it. Donny had seemed excited, warmly receptive of the sort of service being offered. He had seized on her words, like a person finally getting something they had wanted for a long time. When he had come back the next day he was more restrained, but still eager to meet with Drew. So what had Thea suggested that was different from Harriet’s contributions?

  She could hardly hope to answer that until she had seen the book itself. Was it a good time, she wondered, knowing little of his daily routines. His children would be arriving home from school – but did he stay away from the family, working in his little office until it was time for the evening meal? Was his wife capable of cooking? Where would his intriguing partner, Maggs, be?

  Arriving at the conclusion that it was as good a time as any, she returned his call. He answered on the second ring, giving the impression that he had been sitting by the phone just waiting for it to summon him.

  ‘Drew? It’s Thea. Thanks for the message. I only just found it. When did you ring?’

  ‘First thing this morning. I found a review of the book in a magazine. It didn’t mean anything to me until I noticed the name, Harriet Young. And it said she lives in the Cotswolds in a manor house, so I wondered if it could be her.’

  ‘Yes, it must be. What else does it say?’

  ‘Apparently the last chapter is highly controversial. It advocates a change in the law to permit assisted suicide, and people controlling the timing and manner of their death.’

  ‘Which chimes with what Donny wanted,’ said Thea, half to herself. ‘Can we get a copy, do you think?’

  ‘Already done. Maggs had heard of it anyway, and she dashed off to Yeovil to get one. She says the book’s selling really well. She was quite scathing that I hadn’t heard of it, actually,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘Even though it’s only just being reviewed?’

  ‘Oh … no. The magazine is six months old. They tend to pile up, and I was flipping through them before throwing them out. It’s not very busy here at the moment.’

  ‘It explains where her money comes from,’ said Thea.

  ‘Not really. At least, not unless she’s been writing bestsellers for a while. And I think we’d know if she had.’

  ‘Maybe she’s some sort of consultant. Maybe she helps people who want to die, and charges for it.’ It sounded unlikely, as she said it. Harriet had not struck her as any kind of consultant. ‘But I have to admit I’ve never heard of such people.’

  Drew knew better. ‘Oh I have. There’s a growing trend for that sort of thing. Like a sort of midwife, if you like. But they do have to be careful, obviously.’

  ‘So now we have a dodgy suicide right here on Harriet’s doorstep, which seems rather a coincidence, don’t you think?’ said Thea.

  ‘Definitely. I said it was. But maybe there is a logical connection, a reason why it’s all come together the way it has.’

  She reminded Drew that somebody had called the police and said Edwina helped Donny to kill himself, which could lead to her being charged with murder.

  ‘Who would do that?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. A man, is all I know. It could be anybody. I haven’t met everyone who knew Donny and his family, obviously.’

  ‘Just the main players,’ he said shrewdly.

  ‘Don’t you start. That’s what Higgins said. He’s the police detective who’s investigating.’

  ‘Have you met him before?’

  ‘Once
or twice, yes. He’s a nice man. Kind. A bit bovine.’

  ‘What does the coroner say?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘He has to sign it off before the funeral can go ahead. And that means being entirely satisfied that there was no foul play. The phone call could scupper the whole thing. Probably has, from the sound of it.’ She thought she could hear strain in his voice, an effort to concentrate on the remote events in Cranham when he had more pressing matters to attend to at home.

  ‘Cheer up! You might yet get the funeral,’ she said flippantly.

  He made a sound like somebody in pain. ‘No, Thea, that was never going to work. They’re not going to want him buried all the way down here. Stop trying to rustle up business for me. It’s never a good idea.’

  ‘It is if the alternative is that you go bust,’ she argued.

  ‘I’ll go bust all the quicker if people think I use shady practices to get customers. It all has to be totally transparent, don’t you see? The subject is very delicate. People’s suspicions are easily aroused.’

  ‘I know. I wasn’t being serious,’ she apologised. ‘So why did you call me, if you’re not interested in Donny any more?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m sorry I never met him. He sounded like a good man.’

  ‘I don’t know if he was good, but he was pleasant company. I’m lonely without him, to be honest.’

  He made a clicking noise, part sympathy, part frustration. ‘You can phone me any time,’ he offered. ‘For a chat.’

  ‘Thanks. I expect I will.’

  ‘Any news of your maverick dog in the woods?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’ She told him about meeting the rosy-cheeked man with the gun, who had to be the dog’s owner.

  ‘Was he going to shoot the dog?’ Drew asked.

  ‘No, of course not. He’s not that angry with her.’

  ‘But he wasn’t calling for her?’

  ‘He probably gave up days ago. Or maybe he was embarrassed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s embarrassing shouting for your dog. It suggests poor discipline.’ She paused and thought about it. ‘And he might be a bit ashamed as well.’

  ‘Mmm?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, he drove her away, didn’t he? He hasn’t played fair by her. I told him he was cruel and he just took it, as if he knew I was right.’

  ‘So you think it would be safe to tell him where she is?’

  Her stomach jolted in protest at this. ‘No, no. That would be a real betrayal. He said he’d only let her keep one or two pups. That’s no good.’

  ‘But she’s going to need help … isn’t she?’

  ‘When I’ve gone, yes. But there’s another week before I have to decide what to do.’

  ‘Right. Meanwhile, you can research Harriet and her book sales. Have a look at her Amazon ranking.’

  ‘Her what?’

  Drew laughed. ‘I’d never heard of it, either. Maggs told me. It’s on the Internet. I’ll leave you to figure it out. It’ll give you something to do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said dryly.

  ‘You’re welcome. So – you don’t sound as if you think my amazing discovery means anything much to the investigation.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think the biggest factor is the anonymous call to the police saying Edwina helped Donny to kill himself. Without that, there’d be no cause for suspicion.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard who’s doing the funeral?’

  ‘I doubt whether they’ve chosen anybody yet. They were looking through his papers this morning.’

  ‘But we know he hadn’t made any arrangements in advance, don’t we?’

  ‘I guess so, since he asked me if I knew anybody. That was a bit odd, actually. I mean – why me? You’d think Harriet would have sorted that out with him long since, if she’s such an expert on the subject.’

  ‘Do you think she knew about me?’ he said slowly. ‘That I’m trying to open a new burial ground in the Cotswolds?’

  Thea found this idea decidedly unsettling. ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Since it’s obviously a special interest with her.’

  ‘And could she have heard that you and I were both involved in the murder in Broad Campden?’

  ‘I wasn’t involved,’ she protested.

  ‘Yes you were.’

  ‘Not publicly. I wasn’t in the papers, like you were.’

  ‘OK. But I think you underestimate your fame across the area. Your reputation as a house-sitter who always has some sort of crisis to deal with must be quite widespread.’

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Here and there,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure what I think about that.’ This was not quite true. She definitely did not like the feeling of being under surveillance by the people of the Cotswolds, engaged for house-sitting by somebody who knew much more about her than had been acknowledged. She felt manipulated and insecure. ‘I’d rather maintain my privacy.’

  ‘So I gathered back in March,’ he said, with a short laugh. ‘And I can see why you wouldn’t like it. People don’t really understand. They hear half a story and jump to conclusions. All the same, I think you should be pleased they don’t regard you as a jinx. The way I heard it, you’ve got superhuman talents, and can solve mysterious crimes when the police are stuck. A kind of good fairy, restoring order out of chaos.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ she spluttered, feeling rather better. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Up to you. I’ll have to go now. Maggs is flapping at me outside. She thinks I’m slacking in here.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her sometime. She sounds nice.’

  ‘She’s a marvel.’ He said it like a mantra, repeated too often for the meaning to remain. Thea suspected he had created a myth where his partner was concerned, and could just be in the process of doing the same thing with her.

  ‘Thanks for the information, anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Bye then,’ he said quickly and he was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Drew had given her something fresh to think about, for which she was grateful. Donny’s character and state of mind had been clarifying over the days since she had first met him. The picture was quite consistent, given the history of the family and the personalities involved. He had endured years in which his wife and daughter had been long-term patients, never entirely healthy. His wife had officially become a ‘survivor’, his daughter a more acutely ill patient, before she died. It had left him asking himself what value it all had, what the cost-benefit balance really was.

  The discovery that Harriet was unusually knowledgeable about funerals had at first seemed like something Donny would find useful. But further thought cast doubt on this. Not everybody cared about their own funeral, thinking it quite irrelevant. Once you were dead, nothing else mattered. Even Donny, unafraid of the realities of dying, might have jibbed at exhaustive discussions about the disposal of his remains, especially if his daughter consistently refused to talk to him about it.

  And yet he had quite readily agreed to a meeting with Drew Slocombe, to discuss his own grave. A terrible thought hit her at this point: had Donny killed himself in order to avoid the meeting? Had he been too polite to tell her he really didn’t want to engage in it? Had Jemima or Edwina said something to strengthen this resistance? Had she, Thea, inadvertently driven him to kill himself weeks or months sooner than he would otherwise have done? It seemed all too dreadfully likely, as she recalled Jemima’s horrified anger at her admission that she had contacted Drew on Donny’s behalf. It was, after all, a dubious favour to do somebody – to arrange a meeting with an undertaker in anticipation of their death. Perhaps Harriet’s interest had not been helpful at all, but frightening. If she believed in assisted suicide, would that not be rather alarming to a man in Donny’s situation? Too close to being possible, too easy to get sucked into before you felt properly ready. Had sh
e recruited Edwina against Donny’s actual wishes, persuading him to make the living will, without ever properly listening to him?

  So why had he died two days after Harriet went away?

  Interference was always hazardous – she knew that. Especially coming into a new place, where everybody had their relationships established, and things were seldom what they seemed. Had she disrupted a delicate balance in some way, and precipitated Donny’s suicide? If so, wouldn’t Harriet have foreseen the consequences and made an effort to warn her? Instead, it felt as if the exact opposite had happened. Donny had broached the subject of dying and Thea had unhesitatingly jumped in with ill-considered assistance.

  Harriet really ought to have warned her. How could she, Thea, have possibly understood the undercurrents? There was no need to feel guilty or reproach herself, nothing she might have done to affect something so massively momentous as choosing the moment to kill yourself. Or so she tried to persuade herself.

  These musings made her restless. However vigorously she countered the arguments pushing into her mind, the logic seemed all too dreadfully clear. ‘Come on, Heps,’ she announced. ‘We’re going out.’

  On the doorstep, she changed her plan from a walk to a drive. The car had hardly been used since she arrived, and there was still much to explore. They would meander through the little lanes, taking a route around three sides of a square, with the idea of familiarising herself more closely with the locality. The sun was still high, the shops would still be open, and there was no need to hurry back for anything. There was even the option of carrying on to Stroud, a town she barely knew at all apart from the supermarket she had found on Monday.

  They did not get beyond Painswick. On a whim, seeing a clear space for parking in the main street, she got out and took the dog on a lead around the little streets. They didn’t meet any familiar figures – not Phil’s sister Linda or any of the few dozen people she had met during her various house-sits. The flash of disappointment this gave rise to made her realise how much she had hoped for a chance encounter with an old acquaintance. The church still struck her as incongruous, as it had when viewed from a distant hill. But the small jumbled streets were even more beautiful close up. Some were barely more than alleys, some sloped steeply. All the buildings were of the same perfectly cut stone, with low walls and barely protruding window sills effortlessly functional as well as utterly pleasing. Doors and windows were decorated with pediments and arches, shop signs were hand-painted and oddly shaped. She drifted slowly where the whim took her, savouring the visual glory of yet another confidently lovely small Cotswolds town.