Deception in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  Increasingly she felt convinced that Donny had not wanted to die on that particular night. Again and again she came back to the twinkling eyes and rueful grins she had witnessed when she met him. Her numbness on discovering his body had been born of total astonishment, she realised now. And yet Jemima had not been astonished. She said she had expected it. ‘It’s just what I’ve been afraid of,’ she said. Perhaps she had been afraid that somebody would murder him, and not that he would end his life by his own hand.

  She knew from past experience that such intensive hypothesising led to restless nights and great frustrations, unless she could share them with another person. She could so readily find herself drawing wrong conclusions, missing obvious connections – although more than once she had puzzled out an explanation that was at least close to the actual facts of the matter. With somebody to interrupt and challenge, it was a lot more enjoyable, and generally more accurate as well.

  It was a year ago that things had begun to go wrong between Phil Hollis and her. She had failed him, even failed herself, when he had needed her understanding and support. The leap required had been too great for her: from Carl’s wife to Phil’s nursemaid. Carl had never asked that sort of role of her. If anything, he had been the supportive one, the capable breadwinner, full of certainty and strength. If there had been a problem, he would solve it cheerfully, explaining it all to her as he went. They had been a team, but Carl had been its leader. At first she had assumed that Detective Superintendent Phil Hollis would be similarly dominant. She had argued with him, defied his orders at times, but automatically expected him to be her protector when necessary. When he had physical problems, requiring her to drive, nurse and sympathise, she let him down by being impatient and annoyed with him. Only much later did she admit to herself that his sudden weakness had frightened her, the fear manifesting as bad temper and intolerance. By the time this realisation had dawned, however, Phil had moved away, unable to forgive the unkindness.

  Now she would very much have liked to talk to him about Donny Davis, to share her suspicions and observations, and to hear his not entirely discreet disclosures about what the police were doing and thinking. Jeremy Higgins was friendly and comparatively open with her, knowing her associations with Phil, but it was nothing like the same.

  Which left, of course, Drew Slocombe, undertaker and married man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She could think of no justification for phoning Drew, despite all her efforts to come up with something. He had shown a polite interest in Donny, because he had thought he might be asked to perform the funeral. He had brought Harriet’s book because it was obviously of relevance in more ways than one. But he had not offered himself as confidant, joint investigator or go-between in any way at all. He had not said Call me if there are any interesting developments. He had more than enough to deal with as it was, with his damaged wife and demanding children. She could not call him. Drew was nothing to her beyond a casual acquaintance with some basic qualities in common with hers. And even if he had been more important than that, he wasn’t available. Thea believed in marriage without even needing to think about it. She came from one of those families where everybody stuck to their vows as a matter of course. It wasn’t especially virtuous – it was simply the way you lived. There had been rocky marital moments for all her siblings, but infidelity had never been the reason for them, so far as she knew.

  So the perennial answer to boredom or frustration or confusion presented itself again. She decided to go for a walk, even though the beech woods had lost much of their appeal since the disappearance of the collie dog and her pups. That small tragedy still nagged at her at odd moments, the sudden loss a mystery she would like to have solved.

  Perhaps she could pursue it further, by locating the farm the dog had come from. The man with the gun obviously lived locally, and there were not so many working farms still remaining in the area. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out the most likely ones and find a public footpath close by. Footpaths were everywhere, after all. Most of them ran from north to south, connecting Brockworth to Sheepscombe via the woods. In at least two instances she could see from the map that a path went right through a farmyard.

  Despite a few unnerving experiences, she had little fear of farmers, or hesitation in venturing into their secretive worlds. For the majority of the population, there was an invisible but impenetrable barrier around the buildings and yards of a farm. The approach was often down a winding track between high hedges, with angry barking dogs at the end of them – or dangerous slurry pits, hostile cattle, loud machinery and the real probability of a defensive or aggressive man demanding an explanation for the intrusion. Very few people understood the workings of agriculture any more. Within two generations, a universal knowledge had been lost. When once almost everybody had a farmer somewhere in the family, now it was strange to the point where contact produced anxiety or bewilderment. Where once most institutions had given farmers precedence, consulting their convenience and serving their needs, now they were virtually forgotten. School terms had originally been constructed around the harvesting of potatoes, hay and corn. Weather forecasts had been aimed specifically at these same harvests. The timing of rent collection, the descriptions of engine size, the pattern and direction of roads had all been based on farming. Thea, as a historian, had a comprehensive knowledge of how things had once been. But she supposed that everybody knew it at some level. Or everybody over the age of around forty-five. Modern children did not learn that kind of history, although she had heard that fewer of them now believed that meat and eggs were made in factories, as they did a decade or so ago.

  But, while not afraid, she was certainly cautious. She had no intention of marching up to the man from the woods, if she were lucky enough to find him, and accusing him of cruelty again. If he had retrieved his dog, he had every right to do so. It was even possible that he had spared the lives of her pups. All Thea wanted was to know what had happened, and that her interventions had not somehow made things worse for the animal.

  Following some ill-defined instinct, she headed north on leaving the Manor. This meant crossing the common and passing the Black Horse pub. The woods rose majestically behind the buildings, the highest ridge running up towards Brockworth. Coopers Hill was the final flourish – a steep escarpment from which it was said the view was incomparable, despite several rivals within a few miles.

  She saw very few people once in the woods, despite it being a sunny summer weekend. She had learnt that this was the norm for the Cotswolds. Coachloads of tourists were deposited in Stow and Broadway and Bourton, a lesser number of visitors ventured into towns such as Chipping Campden and Snowshill, with a dwindling trickle spreading as far as the smaller villages. The more remote corners remained almost entirely unvisited, which Thea found ridiculous. To her eyes, the most beautiful places in the area were Naunton, Northleach and tiny perfect villages like Duntisbourne Abbots, none of which appeared on the usual tourist routes. Whilst a wholesale onslaught would undoubtedly ruin them, it struck her as rather a waste that hardly anybody realised what they were missing.

  The somewhat vague idea in her mind was that she could look down from the elevated ridge and identify possible farms to investigate. In reality this turned out to be a very poor plan. Trees obscured the views for much of the way, until she emerged an hour later on the summit of the famous Coopers Hill. The cheese-rolling contest had taken place less than two weeks earlier, despite an effort to cancel it by worried councillors. The crowds had swelled to alarming proportions over recent years, and a diligent risk assessment had concluded that it was impossibly dangerous. The angle of descent was almost vertical at times, the idea of hurtling down there with a crowd of other people very disconcerting, viewed in the calm light of day. The silliness of it struck her as perfectly, almost gloriously, English, although she suspected that other countries had their own versions of archaic rituals that were just as daft. Indeed, she had read somewhere recently that th
ere was a town in America which staged a ‘zombie festival’ where people lurched around the streets with their faces painted white, bodies daubed in fake blood, uttering inarticulate cries. It was hard to come up with anything much sillier than that, especially as she doubted very much that there was the slightest vestige of historical significance to it. At least the cheese rolling could claim to stretch back, scarcely altered, through centuries of time.

  Hepzie stood on the brink of the steep drop and looked over her shoulder at Thea, clearly asking Are we going down there?

  ‘No,’ said Thea decisively, turning back from the brink. ‘Definitely not. We’ll go back a different way, if we can find one, but not as steep as that.’

  A footpath branched to the left, running parallel to the edge of the woods, and yielding glimpses of the fields below, which Thea thought must be in the direction of Great Witcombe – a settlement she had not yet seen. The prospect of another week in the area began to feel more enticing as she realised how much there was to explore, if she felt adventurous. The map showed a Roman villa on the same slope she was now observing, but experience had taught her that this often brought disappointment. There would be little or nothing to see, she was sure. There was also a suggestion that Witcombe Park might be worth a visit, laid out below the great hill of Birdlip, with its big road junction and special viewing areas.

  It was one o’clock, and she began to reproach herself for not bringing food and drink with her. However many times she embarked on a walk, she seldom remembered to take provisions. Neither did she use proper footwear or carry a mobile phone. The increasingly burdensome palaver of setting out for a country stroll practised by serious walkers struck her as counterproductive and foolish. ‘Just go,’ she had always said, to anybody tempted to make excessive preparations. And to demonstrate, she habitually set out in sandals and T-shirt, admittedly with a large-scale map, but almost nothing else.

  The sun was partly screened by a light layer of cloud, which kept the temperature pleasantly warm. There was also a slight breeze blowing. New paths regularly intersected with the one she had chosen, and with care she maintained a southerly trajectory, aware that the woods could be deceptive and it would not be difficult to get severely lost. A major track ran from east to west, broad and dry enough to allow vehicles to traverse it. It was clearly marked on the map, which was helpful. Rather to her surprise, she found one or two substantial houses tucked amongst the trees, in situations where modern planning officers would die rather than permit a new building. Perhaps, she mused, they had started life as tiny log cabins for gamekeepers or coppicers, and had gradually evolved into the much-prized residences they had now become.

  And then, much more quickly than expected, she found herself once more in the middle of Cranham, the Black Horse unmistakable even from the back.

  A quick inventory of her pockets assured her that she could afford a drink, and such was her thirst that she overcame her foolish shyness and went in to the main bar. It was only another few minutes to the Manor, but that felt more than she could comfortably manage. The inside of the pub was shadowy and her eyes took a moment to adjust. It was quite full, and she felt herself under scrutiny from several directions. Hepzie was securely on her lead, walking nicely to heel, and Thea hoped nobody was going to object to her presence. Other Cotswolds pubs had refused her entry in the past, much to her annoyance.

  In an effort not to catch anybody’s eye, she stared at the stag’s head above the fireplace, its handsome antlers sporting a fine silk scarf, or so it appeared. ‘Been there since they tried to cancel the cheese rolling,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Things got a bit excitable here that day and Susie Powers threw her scarf at the stag in a fit of rage. Looks rather fetching, don’t you think?’

  It was Philippe, with his big grey poodle, smiling down at her as if they were the best of friends. He wore a short-sleeved shirt the colour of stewed damsons, and a pair of jeans decorated with gold embroidery. ‘I like the shirt,’ said Thea faintly. ‘Do you call it purple or puce?’

  ‘I think it’s burgundy, actually. My wife hates it, but Tamsin’s a big fan.’

  ‘Busy in here,’ she remarked. ‘You’d think they’d all want to sit outside.’

  ‘There isn’t much space out there. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Oh! Well, you don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to. Jasper would be delighted if you and your little spaniel would come and sit with us. He’s a great one for the ladies.’

  ‘Just a lemonade, then. I’ve been for a long walk and I’m gasping. Thanks very much.’

  The poodle gave no indication of enjoying Hepzibah’s company. His aristocratic nose pointed in roughly the direction of the desecrated stag, as he sat stiffly beside his master.

  ‘Where did you walk, then?’ Philippe asked, as an obvious conversation opener.

  ‘Coopers Hill. Have you ever taken part in the cheese rolling?’

  ‘Certainly not. It’s usually raining, for one thing. The mud must have been unspeakable.’

  ‘I’m sure it gets horribly churned up,’ she agreed, with a giggle she would have liked to stifle. For some reason she disapproved of this man, and had no wish to encourage him.

  ‘Funny little place, don’t you think?’ He looked round at the bar, but Thea imagined he was referring to Cranham in general.

  ‘Surprising,’ she corrected him.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well …’ she in turn looked round ‘… it isn’t nearly so pretty as most Cotswold villages, is it? Those bungalows, for a start. They’re completely out of place.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Architectural Purism, is it?’ he mocked. ‘What’s wrong with them? I’ll have you know I live in one of them.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Clever old you. But I might have done. You ought to be more careful what you say.’

  The glibness of his lie made Thea wonder what else he might have told her that was false. What anybody might have told her, come to that, over the past week. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said without repentance. ‘But you did ask me what I thought.’

  ‘And I do enjoy an argument. What else can we disagree about, I wonder?’

  The obvious answer was Donny Davis, but she had no intention of giving him that satisfaction. Under that self-imposed restriction, she could think of nothing else to debate. She shrugged, and drained the lemonade. On the floor beside her, Hepzie squirmed restlessly, and Thea realised that she was probably thirsty as well. ‘I think my dog wants a drink,’ she said.

  With no hesitation, Philippe jumped up, strode to the bar, and asked for a glass of tap water. Within thirty seconds he was back, pouring it into an anachronistic ashtray he had found on a window sill. Hepzie sniffed suspiciously at the offering, and took two half-hearted laps. He left the water on the floor beside her, and returned his attention to Thea.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That was very gallant.’

  ‘Oh, but I am gallant.’ He pronounced it with a French accent, which ought to have sounded pretentious, but instead made Thea feel like a country yokel with no finesse.

  She took a deep breath and refused to be cowed. ‘Do you have French connections?’ she asked, remembering dimly that his surname was something French-sounding.

  ‘French connections!’ he repeated with a laugh. ‘That sounds very funny. But yes, I had a French grandfather. I spent several summers there as a child.’

  ‘Must be your father’s father,’ she said slowly, mentally sorting the family and recalling the various names they had claimed. ‘But your mother’s surname is Hastings.’

  ‘Very true. Mr Hastings came after my Papa, who was in fact named Ferrier, which is more or less the equivalent of Smith.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, I think so. Your mother told me something about the house belonging to the family for centuries.’

  ‘That’s basically right. The house is act
ually nothing to get excited about. Its only claim to notoriety is its age. I’m sure you’d think it ugly.’

  She forced herself to resist this provocation, telling herself he was quite wrong to think he could predict what she would think. But she had a feeling she had brought it on herself, making dogmatic comments about the local buildings. She should have known better. ‘There are some really nice old houses just here, by the pub,’ she said. ‘As good as any in the Cotswolds.’

  He pouted exaggeratedly. ‘Too late,’ he told her. ‘The damage is done. Thea Osborne doesn’t like Cranham. We’ll never live down the shame.’

  It ought to have been funny, but the sharpness beneath the jokey words could not be ignored. It hinted at anger or a threat of some kind. As if she came to the village to pass judgement on it. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she protested. ‘What does it matter what I think?’

  ‘You have friends in high places. You come trailing clouds of influence.’

  ‘What? What on earth do you mean?’ She was genuinely bemused. Was he talking about Phil Hollis?

  He cocked his head. ‘You really don’t know? Do you remember a lady by the name of Cecilia Clifton, down Frampton Mansell way? Not a million miles from here, of course.’

  Ah. She knew the name Cecilia had rung bells when Donny had spoken about his daughter. It had conjured a fleeting image of a sturdy capable woman, which she had not bothered to examine in detail.

  ‘Now you mention it, I do. She was a college lecturer. My sister knew her ages ago.’

  ‘You made a big impression on her. And she makes a big impression on most of the people living between Stroud and Minchinhampton. She’s a veteran of a number of important councils and committees, let me tell you.’