by Rebecca Tope
‘I think she knows it. It’s very well cared for.’
‘She’ll have to find a new tenant for the Lodge now. She won’t like that.’
‘Donny must have hated renting, when he’d worked all his life, and had his own house, and a pension. He must have assumed he was secure for life.’
‘And then his daughter’s illness happened. And his wife’s.’ He smiled, as if to say – Look how efficient I’ve been in investigating his background. ‘They sold the family house to pay for all the medical stuff. Terrible luck.’
‘Maybe that’s why Harriet took him on. She felt bad about being so lucky herself.’
Higgins shrugged. ‘It’s possible,’ he said.
‘Donny’s left his collection of antique silver to be sold for Janet’s care – did you know? Funny, now I think of it, that he hadn’t sold it already, if she’s in such a bad way.’
‘Maybe he thought he might need it for himself,’ Higgins suggested, with a meaningful look.
Thea groaned. ‘Whatever he thought, he should have told poor old Jemima about it. He let her discover the contents of the will for herself, after he died. A bit mean of him, don’t you think?’
‘It’s my hunch he did tell her, or tried to, but she wouldn’t talk about it.’
She could have hugged him. ‘Yes!’ she whooped. ‘That’s exactly how it must have been. She would never let him talk about dying, or funerals or wills or anything. Seemed to think she was protecting him by being like that.’
‘It’s very common. More or less the norm, you might say.’
She blinked at him. ‘Don’t say that,’ she begged. ‘That would be awful.’
‘Why?’
‘It means everybody lives in fear and denial for most of the time. What a waste! What dishonesty!’
‘I must go,’ he said, already in the hall. ‘No time for philosophy just now. And you need to get ready for your lunch engagement.’
‘It’s not for ages yet.’ She sounded sulky, even to her own ears. A bit of philosophy would have been just the thing for a Sunday morning.
He would not be delayed, but as she followed him out to his car, he paused and said, ‘It’s not dishonest, you know. Not really. Didn’t somebody once say people can’t endure very much reality? That’s the truth of it. You shouldn’t judge.’
‘You sound just like Phil Hollis,’ she told him crossly. ‘But thanks for coming. It was kind of you – I think.’
He laughed softly and drove away.
Ten minutes later, Drew called her on her mobile. ‘Still on for this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘I am if you are. It’s a nice day for it. Where are you going – have you decided?’
‘It’s still under discussion. Do you have any fresh suggestions?’
‘Somebody told me about Painswick Beacon, near here, which might have more to offer, in a wild sort of way. Bourton will be awfully touristy. I wondered whether we should meet there, say four o’clock? I don’t know how high it is. You might be a bit too tired for a steep climb. But they say the views are spectacular.’
‘I don’t know,’ he hesitated. ‘Kids aren’t too keen on views, in my experience. Isn’t there a place near you with a funny name – Prinknash, or something? Have you been there?’
‘No. It’s a Benedictine monastery, isn’t it? I expect they do have a café, but I doubt whether your children would find much of interest there. They pronounce it “Prinnash”, actually, just for the record. It’s practically on the doorstep here, but I don’t think it would fit the bill, from what I know of it.’ She was groping for everything she knew about the place, odd snippets gleaned from time to time.
Drew sounded disappointed. ‘We could have tea there and find somewhere for the kids to run about. I rather like monasteries.’
‘Well I don’t think I do, to be honest. I’d feel uncomfortable there, especially on a Sunday.’
‘Hmm. That’s a shame.’
She was doing it again, she realised with a sick feeling – riding carelessly over other people’s feelings. ‘I’m sorry, Drew,’ she said. ‘I’m being inconsiderate. We can go there if you really want to. Or stick to Plan A and go to Bourton-on-the-Water.’
‘No, no. You know best. Where else do you suggest?’
‘You could go to the wildlife park first, maybe? Furry animals never fail to amuse, after all. And then we can go and look at Painswick Beacon. Toby told me about it yesterday. It sounds great. It’s on the A46, just north of Painswick itself.’
‘OK, except I’ll have to go to Broad Campden at some point, I suppose. As cover.’
She felt a different chill go through her. ‘Cover?’ she repeated faintly.
‘For the tax man,’ he added. ‘I can claim back the cost of fuel, if it’s business-related.’
‘Oh.’ The suspicion, if that was what it was, slowly receded. ‘You’ll be doing a lot of driving, then. Can you fit it all in?’
‘I can if I set off right away. Assume the Beacon at four unless I phone you to change it. Is that all right?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ she said, wondering why she felt so heavy about it. She had been looking forward to it, eager to bring Drew up to date with all the local developments, but suddenly it felt doomed to embarrassment and complication. After all, Drew could not possibly be as pure and squeaky clean as she imagined him. And if he was, she herself was definitely not. Her flaws were becoming more and more evident to her: she was impulsive and insensitive and unworthy of Drew’s friendship. He was certainly decent and friendly, willing to give full attention to other people’s troubles, as well as sharing much of her outlook on the world. Quite how much they had in common was only slowly dawning on her, forming a bond of friendship that she valued more highly every time she met him. But he was married, he had a fragile business that required most of his energy, and a person called Maggs who sounded like a kind of alter ego, welded to him in a fashion that Thea had not yet understood.
‘See you then,’ he said quickly, and rang off.
The Ferrier household was predictably unpredictable. Before she got there, Thea was prepared for pink walls, plastic chairs, Persian rugs, prayer mats or pouffes. Anything was possible. And the wife – what was she going to be like? And the poodle – was it allowed on the furniture, or kept in its own separate outhouse? Or what? The curiosity behind the hypothesising was pleasurably distracting from gloomy self-recriminations, as she walked the half-mile in an easterly direction, without her spaniel. She would be very nice, she vowed – very careful about what she said.
Initially she had assumed the village to be divided into two sections, but slowly she had worked out that there was a third cluster of houses, in a deep hollow sheltered by the woods to the north. Sheltered, protected, and perhaps rather threatened on dark winter days. Philippe lived in this third area, in a square stone house at a remove from the others, further up the easterly slope. She found it easily, pausing to admire the jumbled garden boasting a swing and a trampoline as well as a big old fig tree which looked to be bearing fruit in some quantity.
The door was festooned with a yellow Mermaid rose, which immediately reminded Thea of her own cottage, where Carl had planted just the same thing, which continued to drape itself all around the porch at the front. The reminder came with a pang, a flashback more complicated than usual. This was not the moment to remember her dead husband, with all the sensations of abandonment and helplessness that came with the memories. She took a deep breath and reached out to pull the strange oriental-looking contraption that was the doorbell. Before she could connect, the door opened, and two faces beamed out at her.
‘Welcome!’ said Philippe expansively. ‘What good timing! We’ve just finished the fruit punch.’
‘I cut up the peaches,’ chirped Tamsin, displaying fingers covered in juice and sticky pieces of peach skin.
‘Messy job,’ said Thea. ‘I’m afraid I come empty-handed, which is very rude of me. I should have cut some of Harriet’s roses
for you, but that seemed a bit—’
‘Perish the thought!’ exclaimed Philippe. ‘That would be grand larceny.’
The child beside him giggled, and repeated, ‘Grand larceny,’ with obvious relish, turning the syllables into mere sounds without meaning.
The wife was still invisible, but as they went into the house, Thea could hear glass clinking in a room at the end of the hall. ‘She’ll appear in a minute,’ said Philippe. ‘I do let her out of the kitchen on special occasions.’
It wasn’t a joke that any self-respecting independent woman could possibly laugh at, which he must surely realise. Thea said nothing, instead making a point of inspecting the hallway, which was windowless and stone-floored. The flags were polished, highlighting beautiful swirling marbled patterns contained in the stones themselves. It definitely wasn’t anything local.
‘Chinese marble,’ said the man of the house, seeing the direction of her gaze. ‘Aren’t the colours amazing?’
‘Fabulous,’ she agreed. ‘But I guess you have to work hard to keep them as shiny as this.’
A large wall hanging was the next cause for admiration. Apparently Indian, it was an explosion of textures and colours, with small mirrors sewn in at random intervals, gold thread stitched into swirling shapes, and raised quilted sections crying out to be fingered.
‘Come through,’ he urged her. ‘There’s much more to see.’
He led her into a living room almost as big as the one at Hollywell. There was no wood panelling, but instead three walls were papered in a design that Thea recognised as William Morris’s ‘Acanthus’ in shades of blue. The sheer perverse unfashionableness of it endeared it to her. Always a fan of William Morris and his many different products, she had made a study of his Cotswold connections. A big open fireplace was decorated with ceramic tiles, also carrying Morris designs. On the floor a pair of tufted wool rugs boasted further evidence of the same theme – flowers and leaves on a winding trellis with smaller leaves sprinkled all over the background.
‘Deborah made them,’ said Philippe. ‘She’s made a lot of the furnishings, actually.’
There was a portentousness to his tone that alerted her. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘It’s all lovely. I’m very keen on William Morris myself, as it happens. That’s the Acanthus design, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘And the rugs are Windrush. Very appropriate, don’t you think?’
‘Definitely. The blues and golds are gorgeous.’
Tamsin had flopped down in the middle of one of the rugs, and was stroking the pile. ‘Mummy’s rugs are famous,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Thea hesitated, then took the risk. ‘She’s not Debbie Fawcett, is she?’
Father and daughter grinned delightedly. ‘Got it in one!’ cried Philippe. ‘Most people need a few more clues than that.’
‘Wow! Now I’m really impressed,’ she breathed. Debbie Fawcett was close to becoming a household name with her Victorian revivals. Cushions, hangings, rugs, curtains, wallpapers and tiles – everything that Morris had designed, she built on, making her own variants, altering some of the colours, but using nothing but natural materials. People mocked, and insisted there was no market for such retro furnishings, but somehow they bought them anyway, seduced by the feel of real wool and cotton, heedless of the astronomical prices. They must be minted, she thought. With him being a private heart surgeon as well.
‘Don’t be,’ came a voice. ‘It’s pure plagiarism, when it comes down to it.’
A grey-haired woman with Mediterranean skin was standing in the doorway, smiling calmly. She looked to be at least fifty, tall and straight-backed, but with telltale grooves on her face, and inelastic skin at the base of her neck. She wore a beige embroidered dress that almost reached the ground, sleeveless and shapeless. The embroidery depicted similar leaves and flowers to those on the Windrush rugs. The beige colour was almost exactly the same as her skin, giving the impression that she was naked apart from the patterns.
Thea made no move to greet her, paralysed by her charismatic presence. She had registered that the child had some darker blood than her father, leading her to expect an Asian mother, if not African. The serendipity of racial mixtures always interested her. In this case, the result was a beautiful child with classic colouring that might have come directly from Helen of Troy.
‘It’s good to be appreciated,’ Deborah said in creamy English tones. ‘Now, can I get you a drink? We’ve made a rather extravagant fruit punch. We’ll be eating in the conservatory, if that’s all right?’
‘The punch sounds wonderful,’ said Thea, thinking of Tamsin’s sticky fingers on the fabulous handmade rug. ‘Your daughter has been telling me about it.’
‘Tam! Did you wash your hands?’ The normality of the question was somehow reassuring. ‘You were covered in peach juice last time I looked.’
The child sighed, and spread her fingers. ‘It’s dry now,’ she said optimistically.
‘Fibber. Go and wash.’
Obediently, Tamsin left the room, looking at her hands with exaggerated scepticism, throwing her mother a glance full of weary frustration laced with affection and a sort of wise understanding that some children possessed, to the discomfort of many adults. She returned within two minutes.
‘Now can we – you know?’ said the little girl, with a sideways look at Thea. ‘Can we show her?’
‘You’ll have to ask Jasper,’ said Philippe, who had been quietly watching the women as they met for the first time. There was something orchestrated in the whole encounter, Thea suspected.
Tamsin laughed, a joyous musical peal that made all the adults smile. ‘Come on, then,’ she trilled.
She led a little procession out of the room, and down the hall to the back of the house. Thea had time to register a big oak chest covered in scars and dents, with carved panels. On it stood a telephone and a scatter of papers. It filled an alcove next to a door, through which they all trooped.
They were in a large light kitchen, boasting a huge old pine table, almost the twin of Jemima’s. The walls were bright yellow, the floor covered in black and white tiles. Unhesitatingly, Tamsin took them through another door, into an area that must once have been a dairy. The wide slate slab where butter was once made, cheese and eggs stored, cold meat carved, remained as evidence of more self-sufficient times.
‘Here she is!’ crowed the child, kneeling in a corner where something alive stirred. ‘Hello, Lady. How are you today?’
Debbie and Philippe stood back to give Thea a clear view. She focused on a sharp nose, pricked black ears and a tangle of little bodies against a furry side. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘It’s my dog from the woods.’ She knelt down beside Tamsin, and let the dog sniff her proffered hand. ‘How did she get here?’
Nobody spoke, and for a moment Thea had no sense of tension or surprise. She rubbed the dog’s soft head, between the ears, letting the relief and gladness flow through her, to the exclusion of all else. Only at that moment did she understand how miserable she had been about the sudden disappearance. All five pups had survived, and grown to nearly double the size they were when she last saw them. Gently she picked up the biggest one, a shaggy-coated grey animal, whose eyes were just coming unglued. He squinted at her as she held him close to her face. She inhaled the drenchingly sweet scent of him, aware of the incomparable instinctive protective love people felt for baby things, and perhaps puppies above all else.
‘You’ve seen them before?’ came Philippe’s voice, oddly tight.
‘Yes, yes. My spaniel found the burrow in the woods. I took food for her. I suppose your poodle did the same thing.’ She fondled the bitch again. ‘Silly girl – you weren’t as well hidden as you thought, were you?’
‘We hid her there, as it happens,’ said Philippe. ‘And you ruined it.’
Finally she detected the anger in his voice. Awkwardly she turned to look up at him. ‘What?’
‘We knew old Sam would never
let her keep the pups, so we hid her. It wasn’t easy, but she settled down after a day or so.’
‘So you were feeding her as well? But she seemed so hungry. And thirsty.’
‘No, we couldn’t do that. She would have followed us home. It’s only a field away from here. She’d have brought the pups one by one.’
‘I don’t get it. Why not keep her here from the start?’
‘Because this is the first place Sam looked when she went missing.’
‘Why?’
A big, warm, grey body appeared from nowhere, and pushed between Thea and the mother dog. The shade of grey on the poodle was exactly the same as on the pup she held. ‘Oh! Now I see. They’re his. And Sam would have realised.’
‘Right. And no way does he want a mongrel litter of poodles. He despises the entire breed, for some reason.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘We’ll have to tell him eventually. We keep the pups and he gets his bitch back.’
‘But – why are you so cross with me? Didn’t I save her? She would have starved if I hadn’t taken food for her. And why did I ruin anything? What happened?’
‘You left a trail as obvious as the M4 to a dog. Jasper came across it, and followed it to the burrow. He wouldn’t leave her alone, so we had no choice but to move the whole lot here.’
‘But nothing’s ruined. This is better for all concerned.’
He shook his head. ‘It makes us into criminals. We’ve stolen Lady, in the eyes of the law.’
Thea blew out her cheeks in a puff of amused disbelief. ‘Rubbish. Anybody would have done the same.’
Deborah spoke for the first time. ‘The law doesn’t see that as a very good excuse, though, does it? Even when you act out of kindness, or ordinary human sensitivity, you can still be breaking the law.’
It sounded as if she was speaking about more than the dog. Thea looked at her consideringly. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she agreed slowly.
Chapter Eighteen
