Deception in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘They do, don’t they,’ Thea agreed mildly. ‘And you’re right, I should stay out of it. I was trying to make you feel better. Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m the one to be sorry. I miss Donny so terribly, I can hardly think about anything else. I just can’t believe he would do what he did, without talking to me first.’

  ‘But you were here, the night before.’

  ‘Yes I was, and yes we argued, and shouted at each other, and I know the police have heard about that – from you, I assume.’

  Thea remembered guiltily that she had indeed told Higgins about the raised voices on Monday evening. She flushed, and mumbled, ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I would probably have done the same in your shoes. But that isn’t what I mean. There was nothing unusual or different about that evening. So why did he choose to die a few hours later?’ The tears had dried up completely, but her face showed the ravages of her misery.

  ‘Well,’ said Thea, groping for something that might console the woman, ‘at least you shaved him. He looked much better for that.’

  ‘What? I never did. I know he was awfully stubbly, but I never managed to say anything about it, with him being so cross with me.’

  Before Thea could properly process this anomaly, a car engine alerted them to the arrival of DI Higgins. He got out quickly, his gaze on Thea. He did not seem pleased to see her, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. It was a familiar look, full of anxious questions as to how much she was disclosing to people the police would rather were kept in the dark. Have you told her? she could almost hear him asking. Did Edwina know that there had been an anonymous phone call accusing her of killing Donny? Thinking back through the long days since Monday, she could not be entirely sure just what she had said, and to whom. She did not think she had discussed Donny with anybody but Drew in any detail. With a reasonably clear conscience, she tried to indicate to Higgins that he had no need to worry, with a little shake of her head.

  ‘Mrs Satterthwaite – thank you for coming so quickly,’ he greeted Edwina. ‘Will you come into the house with me, please?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Thea with reluctance. She quite badly wanted to know what Higgins had in mind. Was he planning to somehow re-enact Donny’s death, hoping to push Edwina into a confession? If so, surely he should have a witness? It seemed odd that he had come here all on his own.

  ‘No! Stay with me,’ Edwina pleaded, much to Thea’s surprise.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said the detective. ‘It might be useful to have somebody with you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring somebody, then?’ Thea asked him. ‘You couldn’t rely on me being here. Or anyone else, come to that.’

  He shook his head distractedly. ‘Short-staffed. There’s been a major incident in town. A kiddie never turned up at school as he should have done.’

  Thea sighed. ‘He’ll be fine, of course. He just wanted some sunshine.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said tightly. ‘Meanwhile, practically everybody’s out looking for him.’

  ‘I’m impressed that you’ve given this case priority, then.’ She glanced at Edwina, who stood passively near the front door of the Lodge, seemingly uninterested in Thea’s evident acquaintance with the detective. Most people would have found it unsettling, at the very least. ‘I don’t know what you’re planning to do, but I’m not sure I want to be a witness to it.’

  ‘Chaperone, that’s all. Mrs Satterthwaite seems upset. She’ll be glad of a female friend, and she seems to trust you.’

  Thea nodded uneasily. The matter of trust very probably lay at the heart of this whole business, and she was no closer to working out where it might justifiably be placed than she had been a week ago. She followed the others into the Lodge, wondering exactly what Edwina had been expecting, both now and before Donny died. How had she seen the future for herself and her friend? Had she believed him to be terminally ill, destined for helpless dependency while he slowly died? Had she been prepared to change his nappies, rub his bedsores, spoon food into him? She was apparently a competent person despite her bad hip, a committed grandmother, a close friend. But she had been involved with a married man for many years, had argued and fought with him as a routine part of their relationship. How did she feel about the abandoned Janet? How close had she been to the death of Cecilia? The questions swirled, effectively silencing her, as Higgins led Edwina along the passage to Donny’s bedroom.

  She waited for the woman to question the reasons for visiting the room, with its tragic associations, but Edwina said nothing, leaving Thea to fill the void. ‘They’ve been clearing out his clothes already,’ she said. ‘Jemima and Toby. If you’re letting them do that, you can’t be expecting to find any clues as to what happened, can you?’

  ‘We have all we need,’ said Higgins. ‘Now, I’d like you both to look out of this window, if you don’t mind. That’s if you can squeeze around this big old chair.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Thea. Higgins put a finger to his lips, almost playfully, and she lapsed into silence.

  ‘Mr Davis enjoyed this view, didn’t he?’ The question was addressed to Edwina, who nodded. ‘You can see across the valley to the south, to Sheepscombe nearly.’

  It was the same view that Thea had paused to admire from the Manor, earlier that same day. Edwina went to the window and looked out. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘But from the bed, all you can see is the tops of trees. You have to sit just here, where the chair’s been placed, and then you get the full panorama.’

  So what? Thea was bursting to ask.

  As if aware of her impatience, Higgins turned back into the room, and approached a framed piece of writing hanging on the wall. ‘Have you noticed this?’ he asked.

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘You could tell her,’ he invited Edwina. ‘Couldn’t you?’

  ‘It’s one of his poems. He used to write them when I first knew him. This one is quite recent – since he came to live here. Harriet had a calligrapher copy it and frame it, for his birthday last year.’

  ‘Shall I read it, or do you want to?’ Higgins asked.

  Edwina shrugged, and turned back to the window. Higgins read in a gentle voice:

  ‘May my final glimpse be the beech

  That crowns the hill by the square church tower

  Or the mushroom yew by the

  Horlicks grave.

  May I sit at the window quietly, breathing my last,

  as Emily Brontë sat,

  Vertically dying, dignity intact.

  Or else in the garden with a rose in my hand,

  the big beech peering over the fence at me,

  to bid me farewell.’

  ‘Nice, don’t you think?’ he asked Thea.

  ‘Very,’ she said, with a surreptitious sniff. ‘He almost got what he wanted. He was luckier than most.’

  ‘He wanted to see the tree and the church, not the night sky distorted through a plastic bag. Don’t you think that was a pretty poor substitute?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She peered at the text. ‘What does “mushroom yew” mean?’

  Edwina answered her. ‘Have you not been to the church? The yew trees have mostly been trimmed so they’re shaped like mushrooms.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Thea doubtfully. ‘I’m sure they look great.’ She went back to the window. ‘You can’t quite see that from here.’

  ‘You can if you know where to look.’

  ‘Listen,’ Higgins interrupted firmly. ‘I see it as my job to try to understand as closely as I can exactly what happened here last week. I need to satisfy myself that Mr Davis freely and unaided took his own life, for reasons that make sense. I need to be able to assure the coroner at the inquest that there are no suspicious circumstances, no reason to think another person was here when he died, or that there was any coercion or violence used. I am finding it difficult to bring myself to that position, especially in the light of this poem, and
one or two other anomalies. Am I making myself clear?’

  Edwina spoke to him directly, almost for the first time. ‘He was ill; he knew he could only get worse. He knew he would soon be too shaky to commit suicide by himself. It was a warm summer night, and he had put everything in order. You’ve got to believe he killed himself.’

  ‘You believe it yourself, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Mrs Satterthwaite, there are people who are suggesting that you assisted him. How do you respond to that accusation?’

  ‘I know there are,’ she said with composure. ‘A lot of people know that I told him I would. It was no secret. My sister knew about it, and her son. They said I would never have the courage, and they were probably right. Jemima knows I did no such thing. So does Toby, as far as I can tell. I loved Donny. I don’t think I could ever have watched him die.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘You asked me that before, and I told you then – I was here on Monday evening. We argued about some small matters. I annoyed him, as I often do – did.’

  ‘Exactly what did you argue about?’

  ‘Food.’

  ‘Food?’

  ‘Yes, I said he wasn’t eating properly, and if he was ever going to get right, he needed a lot more fruit. He said I was patronising.’

  Thea opened her mouth to confirm this, only to shut it again. There was no reason for her to interfere any further than she had already.

  ‘Get right?’ repeated Higgins.

  ‘His bowels were sluggish,’ said Edwina repressively.

  ‘That’s true,’ Thea felt it safe to endorse. ‘He told me about it.’

  Higgins tapped his lips again, but this time it seemed more as an aid to thought than a message for her to stay quiet. ‘How was he in himself?’ he asked. ‘I mean, his mood, his manner, the way he came across.’ He looked from one woman to the other, eyes bright.

  ‘He was the same as usual,’ said Edwina. ‘Perhaps a bit restless. A bit bad-tempered, which I think was because of his problem. He knew I wanted him to see a doctor about it.’

  Higgins turned to Thea, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I only met him twice. He seemed …’ She struggled to find words for her impressions of Donny. ‘He seemed to be rather sorry for himself, perhaps. But not unbalanced or despairing or anything like that.’

  ‘You mean, not like you imagine an imminent suicide would be?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

  ‘So, let me ask you directly, as well. Do you think he took his own life without anyone helping him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we can know for sure. But if there’s no evidence that he didn’t, I think you ought to put it down as suicide.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’

  ‘I can’t see any alternative.’

  ‘Well luckily for the forces of justice, we do have evidence.’ He looked searchingly from one woman to the other. ‘We believe we do have evidence that Mr Davis was unlawfully killed.’

  Edwina and Thea both remained quiet and still as the words echoed around the room. ‘So what’s all this charade been about, then?’ Thea demanded eventually. ‘All that baloney about needing to understand his final moments. It’s not your job to play psychological games with the bereaved. What evidence, anyway? Are you accusing Edwina of murder?’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything about the evidence – obviously. And I am most certainly not accusing anybody.’

  ‘He wasn’t murdered,’ said Edwina. ‘Of course he wasn’t. It’s stupid to use that word.’

  They both looked at her, expecting some sort of confession to tumble out. Higgins pushed his face towards her on his short thick neck, his eagerness rather unseemly to Thea’s mind.

  ‘Could you explain?’ he urged her.

  Her shoulders sagged, and tears filled her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have argued with him. It must have upset him more than I realised. His last words to me were, “Go away and come back when you can be a bit nicer.”’ Sobs forced themselves into the open, and Thea went to hold her. Muffled words emerged: ‘So I went. I feel so terribly ashamed of myself. But I never intended him to do it. Perhaps he didn’t, either. Perhaps he just thought it would frighten me and make me understand how he was feeling.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Higgins gently. ‘I don’t think you have anything to blame yourself for, if what you’ve just said is true.’

  She raised her head from Thea’s shoulder. ‘It’s unkind to call it murder. And wrong. Even if I had done as he asked, it would not have been murder. The law says so.’

  ‘The current interpretation of the law is rather fluid,’ Higgins told her, with a sigh. ‘That’s a big part of the problem.’

  ‘You’re advised to turn a blind eye to assisted suicide,’ Thea elaborated. ‘Why don’t you go and look for that missing child, and let Donny rest in peace?’

  ‘Because, as I just said, we have evidence that this was more than assisted suicide. I came here hoping to learn that Mrs Satterthwaite actually carried out the promise she made, and materially contributed to Mr Davis’s death. But instead of that, I am very nearly satisfied that she did no such thing.’ He took a few steps towards the bedroom door, then paused and looked down at the low bed. ‘But somebody did, you see. I believe somebody killed him against his will.’

  They processed slowly along the passageway and out to the sunlit driveway. ‘I can tell you no more than that,’ he said.

  ‘I think your “clear evidence” is really just a red herring,’ Thea accused him. ‘Some small hint that doesn’t fit the bigger picture.’

  He widened his eyes, but said nothing.

  ‘Like that poem. It means nothing. Nobody would regard that as evidence of anything. And if Donny had somebody’s hair or skin under his fingernails, you’d have made an arrest by now. Besides, isn’t it a bit late, after you’ve opened the Lodge to all and sundry and everything’s been stirred up or taken away?’

  Still he said nothing, but a smile played on his lips, suggesting an amused respect for Thea’s impertinence. It only made her crosser.

  ‘And I don’t suppose the post-mortem was particularly thorough, either,’ she went on. ‘Stomach, lungs, heart – any visible signs of violence. I bet that was the extent of it. Wasn’t it?’

  Edwina moaned and laid a restraining hand on Thea’s arm. ‘Don’t, dear,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not doing any good.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Higgins reassured her. ‘Mrs Osborne is right, more or less. But there are other kinds of evidence.’ He clamped his lips shut again, as if afraid of saying too much.

  Thea’s mind worked. Witnesses? Documents? Hearsay? What else could comprise evidence in a case like this? Why did she suddenly feel so worried, her insides griping? Why should it matter to her whether or not Donny died by his own hand?

  ‘Edwina’s right, though,’ she insisted. ‘This vagueness isn’t doing anybody any good. Either it is a murder investigation or it isn’t. Shouldn’t you hurry up and make a decision?’

  He would not be drawn. ‘There’s no rush,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t think anybody’s going anywhere.’

  ‘And if they do, you’ll see that as evidence of guilt,’ she flashed back at him, even more annoyed by his manner.

  He smiled and shrugged infuriatingly, and headed for his car. ‘Thank you, Mrs Satterthwaite,’ he said. ‘You know where to find me if you need to.’

  ‘You don’t think I killed Donny, do you?’ The question burst out of her, giving Higgins pause, his hand on the door of his vehicle. ‘Do you?’

  He looked at her, the smile still on his lips. ‘No, madam. I don’t think you killed him.’ He switched his gaze to Thea. ‘Contrary to what you might think, this little meeting has certainly reassured me on that point.’ Then he seemed to consider briefly, before adding, ‘But we all know that somebody out there wants us to think you did.’ To Thea’s surprise, he went on, almost immediately, ‘And y
ou probably also know that if you had assisted him, and confessed to it, there’s very little chance that you would have been prosecuted for it. Juries won’t convict people for that these days. Do you see?’

  Edwina stared at him, with more intelligence than Thea had so far given her credit for. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re thinking it’s a bit late,’ he suggested. ‘That something is not quite as you thought.’

  ‘My thoughts are my own,’ she said tartly. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  The phone call must be the awkward, niggling piece of ‘evidence’ Higgins was holding on to, Thea concluded. Back in the Manor, she went over it obsessively, wondering why such a glaring fact had passed her by up to then. Higgins had plainly told her, days ago, that there had been an anonymous phone call, which had changed his thinking about how Donny had died, and put a stop on any firm conclusion that he committed suicide. While it had also altered Thea’s own thinking, the identity of the caller remained a shadowy unvisited question. She had focused on the wrong people, the wrong questions, while the police had gone about their own methodical enquiries more or less out of sight.

  It’s none of your business, she adjured herself repeatedly. Think about something else. She could provide no material help in the investigation, had only been present by accident when Higgins had his meeting with Edwina. If Donny had been murdered, it could easily have been by somebody she had never met, and knew nothing about. Except she had met everybody close to him, everybody who might have their own good reasons for wanting to hasten his demise. Edwina wanted it for his own good, Thyrza for her sister’s sake, Jemima because she had such trouble coping with illness and dependency. Even the absent Janet might not be quite as demented as Jemima had reported. According to Toby, she had lucid periods, when she knew quite well who she was and how cruelly she had been abandoned. And Philippe, the paradox, doting father and flamboyant exhibitionist, had made no secret of his opinion that Donny would be better off dead. Unusual for a doctor, she noted, to have such an attitude. But then many things about the man were unusual. Nor did she forget Harriet Young, who wrote about dying and must surely have regarded Donny as a useful example, if nothing more.