A Cotswold Killing

by Rebecca Tope

  Susanna hesitated in the hallway, waiting to be shown into a room, and Thea surmised that she hadn’t ever been inside Brook View before. This gave rise to a flicker of anxiety. Was she persona non grata then? Had she some feud with the Reynoldses, which effectively banned her from the place? She remembered that there were two Reynolds sons, either of whom might conceivably know this woman, or even have had relations with her. The yawning chasm of ignorance was frustrating. Worse, it was alarming. She could so easily say or do the wrong thing, betray a confidence, permit the breaking of a taboo. But of course everyone already knew that. They would be deliberately exploiting her if anything like that happened, and thus she was automatically exonerated. She couldn’t be blamed for what she didn’t know.

  Susanna was about five feet eight, and underweight. Her shoulders stuck out, and her trousers looked like a size ten at most. There was a girlish awkwardness to her, which Thea was aware of exaggerating with her own smaller and more feminine physique, which suffered very little from being wrapped in a shapeless red garment. As a general rule she felt sorry for tall women, especially when surrounded by those of average height. They could never just blend in and be one of the crowd.

  But for all that, she didn’t warm to this person. In possession of sisters and a daughter, Thea was good at quick and easy intimacies with other women, but this one was an exception. Something brittle and insensitive about her put Thea on her guard. She remembered the braying laugh, the casual flirting with James – Jim – Winstanley, the sad bowed figure of Lionel Jennison, and wondered what that had been about. Had a well-intentioned kindness gone sour? Had it been the Winstanleys or Susanna who had been struck by a surge of goodwill towards the bereaved farmer? Whose idea had it been to winkle him out of his misery and display him to the world in a pub garden?

  ‘When are they due back?’ Susanna asked.

  Thea made no pretence of not understanding. ‘A week on Saturday.’

  ‘Nearly halfway, then.’ The echo of her own earlier thought was unsettling. Did this woman read minds?

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are you having a good time?’

  ‘It’s beautiful countryside. I’m planning several more long walks, and some exploring of the other Duntisbournes.’

  They were moving into the living room, in a slow drift, where Thea was trying to lead the way, but somehow found herself herding Susanna towards the door. Eventually she said, ‘Let’s go in there and I’ll make some coffee.’

  ‘A bit formal, isn’t it?’ It became apparent that she was reluctant to do as invited, and preferred instead to sit in the kitchen. Thea gave in with good grace.

  ‘You don’t mind the dogs?’

  ‘Course not. I spend my life among horses and dogs.’

  ‘Do you? I thought…’ Thea paused, realising it might be rash to reveal that she’d been filled in on Susanna. At least she knew some history, and what she did for a living.

  ‘What? That I work in some office in town? Well, I do, but I’ve got animals as well. I have to work to feed the horses, bloody things. You’re not into riding and all that, then?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve never quite seen the attraction, if I’m honest.’

  Susanna laughed, the same upper-class noise that could almost have come from a horse rather than a human being. Thea wondered just who she was. There was something patrician about her, as if she expected to be recognised and acknowledged. The daughter of some local millionaire, perhaps, or slightly down-at-heel aristocrat. The red hair a defiant gesture towards Daddy; the concern for old Jennison a sort of noblesse oblige. And yet she seemed a trifle old for defiance, too assured and world-weary.

  There was still no hint as to the reason for the visit. If Susanna worked in an office, why wasn’t she there now? If she wasn’t an intimate of the Reynoldses, then what was she doing calling on their house-sitter?

  Again, the mind reading. ‘I’ve got this week off, as it happens. I’m supposed to be going with June and Lindy to arrange Joel’s funeral tomorrow. They’ve released the body – did they tell you?’

  The tone was unforced, with no discernible emotion. Thea paused before replying. ‘Not his father, then?’

  Susanna’s eyes narrowed, and Thea could sense a desire for a cigarette or a swig of alcohol. ‘He’s not in any fit state,’ she said with a carelessness Thea couldn’t entirely credit.

  ‘Will it be a burial?’

  ‘Right. Easier, after a murder, apparently. If they get new evidence, they can dig him up again for more investigations. Not that that happens very often.’

  ‘Do you have a date?’

  ‘Why? Thinking of coming along?’

  ‘I might. I did meet him, after all. And I found his body. I can’t help feeling involved.’

  ‘It’s likely to be Monday next. You’ll still be here. Feel free to come. The more the merrier.’

  Thea made coffee without consultation. Strong, instant, milky coffee. She pushed a half-full sugar bowl across the kitchen table, but Susanna ignored it, predictably.

  ‘My husband died, you know. Nearly a year ago.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ The offensive So what? hung in the air between them. ‘Joel and I were finished ages ago, but that doesn’t mean I’m not devastated by his death. I’m still like one of the family – and that’s why I’m helping them now. Actually, if you must know, I’m doing it for his mother. I always had a fellow feeling for the daft old thing. I gather you’ve been taken to meet her? Dear old Harry, he’s always trying to keep her in the loop. Can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Did you come to tell me about the funeral?’ Thea frowned, hoping to convey a measure of disapproval at the flippancy, while at the same time understanding it. Just another coping strategy – how many of the damned things were there, anyway? And why was it always women who proved so inventive with them?

  ‘Oh, no, not really. Mainly I was curious to find out what you’re like. We’re all nosy round here. The rich incomers hate it, of course. We spend half our lives trying to ferret out their stories, and guess how much money they’ve got. They build their fences higher and higher and put up their security systems, and we run rings round them. It’s a local pastime.’

  ‘You were born and bred here, then?’

  ‘Course I was. I think I’m descended from whoever the Roman bloke in charge of Cirencester was. Salt of the earth, me.’

  It was a contrived display. Anything further from the usual image of ‘salt of the earth’ would be hard to imagine. But Thea felt her guesses had been largely accurate, all the same.

  ‘You mean your family’s always lived here?’

  ‘More or less. Daddy’s been in the Army, actually, until a year ago. The family house is here, of course, but he’s been posted to all sorts of places.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Thea, before she could stop herself. ‘You were at Cheltenham Ladies’ College – as a boarder.’

  ‘I was, as it happens.’ Susanna’s eyes narrowed further. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ said Thea. ‘Now, if you’ve finished your coffee, I ought to get dressed and see to all the jobs. I’m not being paid to sit about chatting all day.’

  ‘Ha!’ Susanna crowed. ‘I thought that was exactly what you were being paid to do.’

  But she didn’t resist Thea’s unambiguous dismissal, and was gone within five minutes.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Thea muttered to the dogs, before hurrying upstairs to get dressed and take them out for some exercise. The weather was cloudier than the previous day, but still quite acceptable. The activity made her hungry, which reminded her that she ought to go and do some shopping. The sense of having a list of tasks, some of them almost urgent, lifted her mood. Today she would not be lonely or sad. Today she would bustle about, getting food and perhaps a newspaper. Clive had explained that they’d cancelled their usual copy of The Times, not wanting to waste it if it wasn’t her usual paper. He was only partly right. Th
ea didn’t read a regular daily newspaper, but when she did buy one, it was as likely to be The Times as anything else.

  Leaving Hepzie behind, on the grounds that it would be too hot for her in the car when she had to go shopping for food, Thea finally left at a quarter past eleven, heading once again for Cirencester. As she passed the entrance to Barrow Hill Farm, she automatically glanced down the drive, trying to see into the yard and identify Susanna’s vehicle. She’d noted that it was a rather modest dark blue Toyota, and not the ostentatious sporty model or hearty four-wheel-drive that might have been expected. In any case, although she couldn’t see the whole of the yard from the road, there was no sign of any vehicle at all.

  The shopping was brief and dull. A circuit of the town centre revealed, at first glance, no food outlets at all. But then she followed signs to a car park and found it was attached to a medium-sized supermarket. Feeling this was a more major exercise than she’d intended, she took a basket and quickly skimmed down two or three aisles, picking up milk, yoghurt, tinned soup, biscuits, bread, breakfast cereal and a pack of ready-cooked chicken. The basket would hold no more, and she decided this would keep her afloat for another few days, given that there were still plenty of basics in the Reynoldses’ fridge.

  Paying a quick visit to the Ladies’ in the car park, she took a wrong turn when she came out, and found herself in a small square, looking towards a large craft centre. Perhaps she ought to have a look for something for Jessica’s birthday, coming up at the beginning of June. Perhaps she would do just that, but not today. The place looked interesting, but daunting. Its wares would be expensive. She needed to feel decisive and relaxed, which did not describe her current mood. Instead she was on edge, impatient, distracted.

  And so, without giving the town anything like the proper inspection that was its due, she drove back to Brook View. But, stupidly, she missed the small left turn that took her to the upper road, avoiding the village. Instead she found herself in the middle of Duntisbourne Abbots, trying to decide how best to rectify the situation. Knowing it was a warren of tiny roads, with little logic to the way they were arranged, she did her best to project a mental map onto what she could see. By carrying on a little way, and hoping to find another left turn, she would probably come out on her familiar home road, just a bit beyond Brook View. From the walks she’d done, and the rides with Harry, this seemed quite feasible. And if it wasn’t, she’d just have to retrace her route until she got back to the larger road, and use the missed turning.

  It worked out almost as planned. The narrow roads pitched up and down, giving occasional open views across patchworked landscape, before closing in again, with great trees looming overhead.

  She found herself swinging round a tight bend, going slightly too fast. If her sense of direction had not deserted her, she ought to see the house ahead – but she did not. Instead there was a farm opening on the left-hand side of the bend, with a colourful painted sign announcing:

  HERBS FOR HEALTH

  Fairweather Farm

  M.& I. Stacey

  This, then, was the main entrance of the nearest neighbours to the west. At last she’d located it. Remembering Lindy Jennison’s story of spying, Thea looked across to the fields on her right, wondering if she could work out just what the girl had meant. There was a wooden gate a little way ahead, which looked as if it was almost never opened, to judge by the long grass and other vegetation growing around it.

  Still slowing, but with an uncomfortable feeling of inadequate control, she was alarmed, when she looked back at the road, to see a dark blue car emerging from the farm entrance on the left. Visibility was bad – why in the world had they put their gate on a blind bend like this? – and the driver was craning forward to look to her left, as the car kept moving out into the road. Thea was approaching from the right. She tried to swerve, but caught a glimpse of another vehicle approaching around the bend.

  She didn’t hit it very hard, but both cars cried out in distress. It was like being in a very aggressive version of the fairground dodgems, for a few seconds. The car slewed, and bucked, with a clash of thunks and scrawks, tinkling glass and hissing airbag. The airbag inflated with impossible speed, and then, its work done, it went down again, hanging obscenely from the middle of the steering wheel. Thea felt bounced and bumped, but nothing actually hurt.

  She was, however, aware of a desperate need to get out of the car, but as she fumbled for the door handle, it miraculously opened. Outside, a man was standing, looking down at her with an angry expression. It was Martin Stacey. ‘Is she all right?’ she demanded. The blue car and the driver’s bright red hair had left her in no doubt as to whom she had hit. Nor that there was a modicum of fault on both sides. ‘She pulled out right in front of me,’ she said, congratulating herself on having the wit to take the offensive.

  ‘You were going too fast,’ he said, stating a plain fact without accusation. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘How? Where were you?’

  ‘I was in the field just there. I saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Help me out,’ she said. ‘And why don’t you ask me if I’m hurt.’

  ‘I can see right enough that you’re not.’

  ‘And Susanna?’

  ‘My wife’s seeing to Susanna.’

  Thea discovered two women standing beside the Toyota, which had somehow spun round and seemed to have come into contact with the hedge. It was tilted, and there was a gash along its side. Shaking her head, she tried to work out where her own vehicle had come to rest. Was there a risk of being hit again by oncoming cars?

  ‘Am I in the road?’ she asked. ‘I mean, will something hit us?’

  ‘Not a lot of traffic along here, this time of day,’ said Martin. ‘But best get out, to be on the safe side. I’ve phoned for the police.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Thea, with feeling. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Law,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not. Not if nobody’s hurt.’

  ‘Who said nobody’s hurt?’

  ‘What d’you mean? Why are you bothering with me, if somebody’s hurt?’

  ‘Get out, and then I’ll explain.’ He took an arm and levered her up and out of the vehicle, leaving the flaccid airbag to dangle over the seat she’d vacated. She worked her neck, fearful of whiplash, then flexed her legs, noting a soreness on one knee. Then she looked around her.

  Another car was nose first in the opposite hedge, most of its length on the reasonably generous grass verge. Its driver was standing beside it, leaning over the roof, his head in his hands. Thea wondered for a moment if she had blacked out. A lot seemed to have happened in an impossibly short time.

  Then, with no warning at all, her knees buckled. Half in the road, she sprawled, all energy simply drained away in a wholesale collapse. Somebody cried out, but nothing else happened.

  It was a dream sequence from then on. Remembering her dog, Thea repeated that she was unhurt, just shocked, and must go back to Brook View. People came and went, earnest faces looming close to hers, demanding immense efforts to convince them that she was undamaged. A police car materialised, and orders were issued, questions asked. The ambulance only had space for two, and there was no immediate prospect of another. The man from the other car was bleeding, Susanna had a possible broken wrist. Thea’s airbag was praised, after all her vital signs were assessed. Eventually, the decision was made to send her home, with the promise of a medical visit at some later point in the day.

  ‘But somebody must be with you,’ came the stern injunction. ‘You might be concussed without realising it.’ The fact that Thea was silently and embarrassedly weeping did not help her argument that she was in no need of supervision.

  A silence followed, until Martin Stacey agreed to drive her back and sit with her, until someone else could be summoned. His wife, in a tone that could only be described as frosty, asked what she should do.

  ‘Phone June or somebody. Helen, maybe. She knows this woman, doesn’t she? The police�
�ll sort these cars out. What a bloody mess.’ Martin Stacey showed signs of impatience, and Thea cringed at the sacrifice he was making on her behalf. The prospect of an afternoon under his supervision was not one she relished. It seemed, however, that she was to be given no choice.

  He’s being kind, she kept reminding herself. He didn’t have to drop everything and come back with me like this. Stacey had loaded her into his big old estate car with some gentleness, and driven her the quarter-mile to Brook View. On the way, she tried to assess her condition methodically. Definitely no bones broken. Everything flexed and waggled as it should, including her neck. The unheralded collapse was, therefore, more of an emotional thing. And she knew, then, just what that was.

  ‘My husband died in a car crash,’ she said, in a voice that felt forced, obstructed. ‘That man, leaning over his car – that’s what did it. I’ve only just realised.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was the only response.

  He unloaded her with the same light touch, and walked her into the house. Thea was beginning to feel quite silly, but couldn’t deny the shakiness of her limbs. Strange images came and went, quite against her will. The ambulance, not calm and sedate as today’s had been, but frantic and noisy as they’d told her it had been for Carl. Broken heads, tearstained faces, the bottomless black pit of knowing nothing could be all right again.

  ‘This won’t do at all,’ she insisted, from the sofa where he’d made her lie at full stretch. ‘House-sitters aren’t allowed to be ill.’

  ‘It’s only the dogs, isn’t it? Anybody can come in and see to them, a couple of times a day. You’re not indispensable.’

  ‘Maybe not – but I want to do it. I’m going to do it. I just need an hour or two, and then I’ll be back to normal. Except’ – the bottomless pit rushed towards her – ‘the car! How will I manage without the car? I can’t get to any shops. And there’ll be all that business with insurance. What about that man in the other car? Do you know who he was?’