A Grave in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  There were three cars already parked crookedly on the verge, leaving very little space for a fourth. One was modest and red and contained a small head with long black ears, peering out of the driver’s window. A surge of complicated feelings and questions went through me – why was Thea here? Was she in trouble? Had she offered to come because she thought she could help? Deeper than this brain activity was the thrumming of my blood at the prospect of seeing her again.

  Somehow we joined the assembly ranged around the grave. It struck me as macabre and unseemly, the way everyone was giving it quite the wrong kind of attention. The helpless corpse beneath the soil had had her say, and expected to be left in peace for the rest of eternity. Instead, she was plainly the subject of heated argument. I did a rapid scan of the people present – a crowd slightly larger than the original funeral, at first assessment. Two Talbots, two Watchetts, a woman I had never seen before, a man in a suit likewise new to me, Thea, an old man leaning on a stick and a uniformed policeman all turned to watch as I approached with my escort. In the fading light, everyone had a greyish appearance, like an old photograph, the trees behind them casting more shade on the proceedings.

  The unfamiliar woman strode towards me, her chin jutting. It took only a second to work out who she must be. ‘Drew Slocombe?’ she accused. ‘I’m Helena Maynard.’

  I did not offer her a hand to shake. The letter she had sent me was still sitting warmly in my pocket, emanating malicious vibes like the opposite of a talisman. ‘Oh…Mrs Maynard,’ I said feebly.

  She was tall and powerful, with short iron-grey hair fitting around her head like a helmet. She wore a coat that stopped mid-thigh, and leather boots. I tried to imagine her in conjunction with her husband, the scrawny Gavin, in vain. I tried to hold on to the fact that she might well have been the one who ought to be under arrest instead of me. She certainly looked strong enough to have inflicted the fatal blow on the man’s unprotected head.

  The next person to approach me was Charles Talbot. His face seemed to be grooved around the mouth and between the eyes. ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ he said menacingly. I was beginning to feel glad of the policemen on either side of me. If necessary, surely they would shield me from any violence. So far, both those who had addressed me were bigger and stronger than I was.

  The moment had clearly passed for formal introductions, but I was still unsure of the identity of the man in the suit. He was apparently attached to Judith Talbot, and I wondered whether he might be a solicitor. I could hardly ask who he was, in my role as scapegoat and thoroughly despicable worm. Besides, the parade of random thoughts flitted through my mind too rapidly for anything like lucidity to emerge. All I could do was react and try to maintain a few shreds of dignity.

  Thea was standing alone, very obviously removed from the main action, as if waiting for her cue that was still some way off. There was a sudden hiatus, where everybody continued to stare at me in silence, and the light seemed to disappear almost completely. What must we look like, I thought murkily – a crowd in a dark field, nobody saying anything? Were there owls and foxes watching from the sidelines, thinking how strange a manifestation this was?

  The suited man finally spoke up. ‘Mr Slocombe, there has been a request for an exhumation of this grave. Protocol demands that you be present, as the officiating undertaker.’

  ‘You’re the coroner’s officer?’ I asked, remembering something of the procedure.

  ‘I am the coroner,’ he corrected, with a glance first at the policeman and then at Thea. ‘George Wilson.’ He did not proffer a hand for me to shake.

  ‘Are you doing it now?’ There ought to be screens, if so, and a digger, and a receptacle for transporting the body. ‘Isn’t it a bit early in the evening?’ Again, procedure ordained that such ghastly events take place at midnight, with discretion verging on secrecy.

  Mrs Talbot gave a strangled cry, suggesting distress and rage and something like disgust. Still Thea Osborne said nothing.

  ‘Later this evening. The relatives have come to pay their respects before the body is disturbed.’

  I eyed the Watchetts with some scepticism, wishing I had the nerve to say, What are they doing here, then? They’re not relatives. Ghouls, I concluded, eager not to miss anything.

  ‘Why, though?’ I finally asked. ‘Why are you moving her? Is it at the request of the council?’ If so, I thought, where was the relevant official, another little Maynard clone? Was his wife here in that capacity, I wondered wildly?

  The first policeman spoke up. ‘Because there is a question about how she died,’ he said stiffly. ‘DI Basildon will see you shortly, and brief you about it.’

  ‘But…there was a post-mortem. She died of natural causes.’

  ‘Police investigations suggest this might not be the case,’ he said.

  Judith Talbot found her voice. ‘You murdered her, you bastard!’ she shouted. ‘You murdered both of them, to get your hands on her house. It’s sick, that’s what it is. All you care about is your own pocket, and setting up your empire. You killed her.’

  The word empire echoed so ludicrously in my ears that I gave a very unwise guffaw.

  At last, Thea was at my side, competing with the policeman on my left. She peered around him, her face only just above his shoulder level. ‘Drew – they have to act on such an accusation. I’ve been speaking to my brother-in-law about it. Mrs Talbot has produced some material that can’t be ignored.’

  She spoke quickly, as if fearing interruption. I tried to grasp the import of her words. Was she warning me to stay quiet? Was she simply being kind and keeping me abreast of developments? Was she letting the police know that she was somebody to be reckoned with, well connected and firmly involved?

  ‘Poor Greta,’ murmured a woman I could barely see in the gloom. It could only be Susan Watchett.

  ‘Yeah,’ came the strangled tones of Charles Talbot. ‘Poor Aunt Greta.’

  I wondered where young Jeremy was, and whether he knew what was being proposed. He, of the whole family, would surely be the most deeply distressed by what had been proposed.

  And lying at our feet, silently reproachful and very much present, was the grave. The heaped soil had settled slightly in the ten days since it was piled over the coffin, but it still looked like a fresh wound in the grassy field. If left alone, by the end of the summer it would be almost invisible. The grass and wild plants would quickly cover it, and although it would remain a mound for a while, when the coffin collapsed under the weight of the damp soil it would be almost impossible to detect. I had urged the Talbots to erect a small fence to mark the position, for this very reason. The law demanded that all human burials be marked in some way, as well as being left undisturbed. The precise manner of marking was not specified, but I had made it clear that the mere planting of a small tree or shrub would not suffice. Wild creatures, or even stray sheep, would all too readily destroy something so flimsy. A little wall of stones, a chain fence, even kerbs of some sort – something like that was required.

  ‘What’s the depth of the grave?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Four feet,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked frustrated, as if hoping for a different response. Then he seemed to assert his authority, as the most senior official present.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve finished here for the moment.’ He moved to face Judith Talbot and her son. ‘If I may, I suggest we all leave now,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll be kept informed of the results of our examination, of course. Probably tomorrow afternoon – at least with any initial findings.’

  Charles shuddered. ‘This is horrible,’ he groaned. ‘Mother – I wish you hadn’t insisted on it.’

  ‘I can’t think what good it can do,’ said Helena Maynard. Out of the blue I remembered the insinuation that Oliver Talbot had made that she was rather too close to Graham Ingram for propriety. Neither man from the altercation in the pub was present. But Thea had said in her message that it was Mrs Mayn
ard who had been making trouble, not Judith Talbot. Obviously, I sighed inwardly, both women were gunning for me. I was burning to question Thea. Why was she even in Broad Campden again, when I had assumed she was going to go back to Witney and stay there?

  ‘Good point,’ I said, rather loudly. ‘If all this is based on the idea that I killed her, then it’s a complete waste of time. It’s also an insult to my client and what she wanted.’ I was finally finding a seam of indignation, which had been submerged under all the other emotions. ‘She came to me of her own accord, and gave clear instructions as to the disposal of her remains when she died. All I did was carry out those instructions in good faith.’

  ‘So why did she die so soon afterwards?’ demanded Mrs Talbot. ‘She wasn’t ill. And why the hell did she leave you the house? You must have swindled her into it, telling her a pack of lies.’

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Helena Maynard. ‘I’ve thought that all along, ever since I saw the will. I said to Graham—’ abruptly she fell silent, a hand over her mouth. Nobody picked her up on it, but Thea made a small hissing sound, which I thought indicated some kind of confirmation of a thought or theory. The presence of Miriam Ingram would have been useful, I reflected. Any wife would surely have reacted. As it was, there was no one present who was likely to care what might have been going on between Helena Maynard and Graham Ingram. Foolishly, my mind snagged on the rhyming names – Graham and Miriam Ingram – repeating them to myself like a nursery rhyme, wishing Maggs were there to chuckle over it with me.

  They were all looking at me. I threw up my hands in defeat at the unjust accusations. ‘Well,’ I addressed the grave, ‘I did what I could.’ It was obvious that I was the only real representative of the dead woman, and the opposing forces were just too strong for me.

  It was not yet quite dark, but we could not properly see each others’ faces, and there seemed a sudden collective desire for some illumination. ‘Where do we go now?’ asked Charles of the coroner. ‘There’s no way we can go home with all this going on. We want to be on the spot, but…’ he sagged helplessly. ‘Greta’s house is no good.’

  The coroner showed no sign that this was his problem. Charles persisted, hungry for information. ‘Who’s going to be here for the actual…thing?’

  ‘Myself, two police officers, a police doctor and Mr Slocombe,’ came the ready reply. ‘Normally there would also be a minister of religion, but it seems in this instance that won’t be appropriate.’

  Good for Greta, I thought. At least she was spared that final indignity.

  ‘Who does the digging, then?’ asked Frank Watchett.

  ‘There’ll be a mini digger and an operative,’ said the coroner tightly.

  ‘What happens in the meantime?’ asked Thea, whose mind I could almost hear whirring. From about ten minutes earlier, I had gained the strong impression that she had a purpose, a plan, that was dictating her words and actions.

  ‘I suggest you all go home,’ said the coroner, as if this was self-evident.

  ‘We can’t do that,’ said Mrs Talbot. ‘We live the other side of Oxford. We’re staying right here in the village until we get some answers.’ She looked at Charles. ‘Susan says we can stay at her house for the night.’

  It occurred to me to wonder why Mrs Maynard was there in the first place. What role was she playing in this strange little melodrama? I suspected that Thea knew the answer.

  ‘Good old Susan,’ Helena said now, with some bitterness. ‘Always there in a crisis. Always shoving her nose in where it isn’t wanted.’

  ‘Oh, Helena,’ murmured the abused Mrs Watchett. ‘What a thing to say!’

  ‘It’s true, though. Except, of course, when my Gavin was bashed to death. Where were you then? Why weren’t you snooping around when this…swine…was attacking him?’ The swine, of course, was me.

  ‘Helena, I’m really not going to discuss this. You have your views, and the police are obviously thinking along the same lines, but it certainly isn’t for me to express an opinion about it. Gavin did what he felt he had to, and somebody felt they had to stop him. Beyond that, none of us can say.’

  ‘And I don’t know why you’re here, when you were so against everything Greta wanted.’ It was Judith Talbot speaking up, calling over her shoulder to Mrs Maynard as her son marched her determinedly away. ‘It’s a pity your Gavin didn’t stay out of it, that’s all I can say.’

  I wondered what the police were thinking about the many reckless utterances flying around, and whether they were noting every word for use as evidence later. I took great care to say nothing as we all left the field. I half expected to see Jessica Osborne and her detective boyfriend, in another echo of the funeral that had begun the whole miserable business.

  The cars belonged respectively to the Talbots, Thea and the coroner. Evidently the Watchetts had walked from their house in the village, and the police had no visible transport other than the car which had brought me from Somerset. I automatically headed for Thea’s red Fiesta containing the long-suffering spaniel, before being checked by the coroner. ‘Mr Slocombe!’ he called, more loudly than necessary. ‘We’ll need you here promptly at midnight. Is that understood?’

  I considered making some remark to the effect that I surely had no choice in the matter, but it seemed superfluous. Having made the journey yet again to Broad Campden, I could see no sense in disobeying orders. ‘I’ll be here,’ I said.

  Thea started the engine before I had shut the passenger door. ‘Oi!’ I protested. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘We’ve got four and a half hours,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to let them exhume Mrs Simmonds, are you?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of trying to stop them,’ I admitted. ‘I’d be terribly outnumbered.’

  ‘They won’t do it if they change their minds about her being murdered.’

  ‘That could be true, although I’m not sure the process is reversible, once it gets started. And what could possibly change their minds, anyway?’

  ‘A confession by the person who killed Mr Maynard, of course. And an assurance that Mrs Simmonds wasn’t involved in any way.’

  My head was spinning. ‘For goodness’ sake – how can we hope to manage that? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ll try to explain it, then. It’s been a very busy day my end, let me tell you. I must have made a dozen phone calls, and driven about three hundred miles. You see…I got an idea…’ And she proceeded to tell me, as we drove up an unfamiliar road into Chipping Campden, and parked in the small square in the heart of the town.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She talked for forty-five minutes, as we sat in the dark car, the dog curled quietly on the back seat. Very few people passed by – the town had closed for the night, the street lights transforming the medieval buildings into a scene from a painting. It was, I noted abstractedly, impossibly beautiful. The proportions were perfect – the use of space, with odd levels, could hardly have been improved. The main street had been built on a slope, so that one side was higher than the other, which might, I thought, have given rise to ancient rivalries and disagreements about status. The open-sided market hall, set bang in the middle, was of modest size but great antiquity. All the shops were small, some extremely so. All this I observed subliminally, the vast bulk of my attention on the story Thea was telling me, and munching the sandwiches she had very thoughtfully provided.

  She had begun, it seemed, on Saturday evening, having dropped me back at home after our visit to the commune, after hearing much the same account of Mrs Simmonds from her old friend as I had from Roger. ‘They didn’t like her. She was a troublemaker, always complaining. But she did have one or two allies, who argued her case when she was asked to leave.’

  She had enlisted PC Jessica in the project, checking legalities concerning alternative burials, for one thing. ‘But I could have told you all that,’ I protested.

  ‘I know. But there were several reasons for not asking you.’

/>   A cold finger prodded my heart. ‘You thought I might have killed her, and then lied about the rules?’

  ‘I thought that others might think that, so you would be contaminated.’

  I mused on this. ‘But facts are facts,’ I objected.

  ‘Yes, well. You were busy. There wasn’t time to talk it through with you.’

  ‘We had the car journey.’ To my recollection, we had spoken little during that half-hour or so on Saturday afternoon.

  ‘I wasn’t ready then. I had to think about it.’

  She went on with her debriefing. She had looked up the Land Registry on the computer, and discovered that there were indeed anomalies in the ownership of Mrs Simmonds’ house, going back to the middle of the twentieth century. ‘It is still under review,’ she said. ‘The boundaries are very unclear, for one thing.’

  ‘And she really didn’t own the field?’ It was a frail straw that I was clutching at, but just then anything seemed possible.

  ‘Sadly, no. She didn’t.’

  ‘Did you check the legality of burying a body in someone else’s ground?’

  ‘I tried, but couldn’t get a proper answer. It’s some sort of trespass, that’s all I could discover. There are conflicting laws, and I don’t know which trumps which. Then I went to see the Talbots,’ she said. ‘That was this morning.’

  Another unpleasant suspicion struck me. ‘So…did you have anything to do with this new idea that I killed Mrs Simmonds?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. But trust me, Drew. It’s all for a good reason.’

  I was poleaxed. Was this woman mad? Did she in fact hate me and want to see me thrown into prison for decades? Her calm request that I should trust her made me feel I was completely at her mercy.

  ‘How can I trust you?’ I said. ‘How could anybody?’

  She heaved a sigh. ‘I thought you might. I know what I’m doing, honestly. Just listen and I’ll explain.’

  I did listen and she did at least partly explain herself, although I remained shaken and confused. Her logic was based on a very dubious theory of human nature, to my way of thinking. ‘You’ve been reading too many Agatha Christie stories,’ I said, when she paused.