Crisis in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  Rosa seemed oblivious to this disclosure. She wasn’t ready for empathy or other people’s sharings. Thea reproached herself for letting her own memories intrude. Me, me, me, she told herself crossly.

  ‘Do you want to speak to Drew?’ she asked, after some silent moments. ‘He could tell you how she seemed on Wednesday.’

  Slowly the face was uncovered. ‘I don’t know. I suppose he’s told the police, and they’ll make something of it if they can. I can’t see that it makes any difference. Wednesday’s too long ago. What did she do on Thursday and Friday – where was she? She didn’t go to work. She loved that job. She was absolutely dedicated to it. Why did she stop going? Something must have happened.’

  ‘The police will have asked them, I expect.’

  ‘Yes.’ She grimaced. ‘There’s a woman who wants to stay in my house with me. A family something officer. She’s meant to keep me informed of what they find out.’

  ‘Liaison. Family liaison officer,’ said Thea automatically. ‘They’re usually very helpful.’

  ‘It feels like being supervised. It must be a horrible job.’

  ‘Is she nice?’

  ‘Not very,’ said Rosa, with a hint of her former self. ‘She tries too hard and she overdoes the sympathy.’

  ‘Does she know you’re here?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. I don’t have to answer to her. Unless they think I killed Juliet, of course.’

  Thea didn’t smile. Mothers had been known to kill their offspring, she supposed. ‘They don’t think that,’ she said.

  ‘Juliet’s like her father, you know. He was big and fair like her. His mother was Polish, and Juliet looks like her. I wonder where he is now.’

  ‘Is he called Wilson?’

  Rosa blinked. ‘Jan Wilson, yes. He said the J as the English do, but really it should be Yan. Nice man. I treated him very badly.’ She sighed. ‘Somebody should tell him his daughter’s dead. If they can find him.’

  ‘Do the police know about him?’

  Rosa sighed. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  ‘Well, they’ll probably tell him when they find him. It’s all part of their job.’

  A silence ensued, with both women conscious that there was little more to be said. The image of poor Juliet remained powerfully present, the sheer outrageousness of her murder still too large to fully confront.

  ‘They’ll find out who did it,’ said Thea, finally. ‘Which probably won’t make anybody feel any better.’

  ‘I would like to understand the reason, though. That might help a little bit. If there was even a tiny scrap of sense to it … well, that would be easier. At least, it might be.’ Rosa heaved another profound sigh. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all. It sounds very wise, actually.’

  They parted with watery smiles, each feeling they’d formed a bond. The forces of evil, just beyond the gate, had brought them together. Thea felt a cloudy sense of obligation to maintain something good and innocent, in Juliet’s memory. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.

  ‘So am I. Thank you.’

  The dumpy woman made her way back up the lane, as Thea watched. The light had almost gone beneath the big leafy trees, making it seem as if Rosa was being swallowed up in a grey mist. Drew came to stand behind her, on the doorstep. ‘I kept everybody out of the way,’ he said. ‘Was that right?’

  ‘Absolutely. And very noble. Did we finish supper? What about coffee? Where is everybody?’

  ‘Den’s putting Merry to bed. The film didn’t appeal so Maggs is playing Monopoly with our two. Timmy’s in heaven. I mean – he’s very happy indeed,’ he corrected with a grimace when he heard his own words.

  ‘Oh Lord. Not Monopoly. It’ll go on till midnight.’

  ‘I know. Lucky it’s Sunday tomorrow. We can all sleep in.’

  ‘Stephanie hates Monopoly,’ Thea remembered. ‘How did they persuade her?’

  ‘Maggs did it. Some promise about tomorrow morning. I didn’t catch what it was, but I expect we’ll have to go along with whatever it is.’

  Thea groaned. ‘Do you think they’d notice if I went off to bed now?’

  ‘Probably. It’s only half past seven. They’ll think you’re ill.’

  ‘I will be if things go on like this,’ she warned him. ‘I’ll have a flaming nervous breakdown.’

  He gave her a worried look. ‘Don’t say that,’ he pleaded. ‘Things can’t be as awful as all that, can they?’

  She chewed her lip. ‘You have to admit they are pretty awful. Everywhere I look there’s some sort of crisis. I can’t begin to imagine the future. Even next week seems like a whole different world.’

  ‘By this time next week, we’ll have everything sorted,’ he assured her. ‘And that’s a promise.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday began by exceeding Thea’s hopes by some margin. She woke shortly before eight to the soaring sound of blackbirds challenging each other across the fields, other birds joining in as well. It was better than any opera, she reflected drowsily. Then she detected a warbling human voice closer to hand, identified as Meredith serenading the morning. ‘She’s got a great sense of rhythm,’ mumbled Drew. ‘And she can hold a tune.’

  ‘They all can at that age,’ said Thea, thinking of some programme she’d seen or heard. ‘But adults knock it out of them, more often than not.’

  ‘That seems to be true of nearly everything.’

  ‘It probably is. Something about original sin, or the human condition.’

  ‘The opposite of original sin, surely? Original innocence, tainted and corrupted by the wicked world.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Thea. But it was too late. Already the fate of Juliet Wilson had thumped back at her, along with all the worries and troubles of the past few days.

  He quickly changed the subject. ‘Guess what Maggs promised the kids for today?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I hope it’s not going to include lunch, after I got that huge piece of pork.’ She had had second thoughts about the Sunday roast, deciding it was quicker and easier than most of the alternatives.

  ‘Well, actually, it might. It’s Snowshill Manor, and the website says it doesn’t open until midday. But they could be back here by two, so a late lunch would work.’

  Thea passionately resented the way social life always seemed to centre around meals. She also nursed an irrational animosity towards Snowshill Manor, for no better reason than the gardens refused admittance to dogs. ‘Honestly!’ she said. ‘What a silly plan.’

  ‘It’s not really,’ he argued. ‘Stephanie’s been wanting to see it for weeks now, and she’s got Timmy on her side. I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself, come to that.’

  ‘And Merry? Will they let her in? She’s liable to go toddling round knocking everything over, if it’s how I imagine it.’ He gave her a look, the implications of which were instantly evident. ‘Oh, I see. You’re all intending to go off for hours, leaving me with the cooking and the kid. I’m sure I remember a promise that you’d take charge of at least one meal. What happened to that?’

  ‘I would, but since you don’t want to go to Snowshill …’

  ‘All right. Point taken. Leave me to get on with it. Merry can peel the potatoes.’

  ‘Very funny. And you’ll have the dog. But Den says he’ll stay as well, if you need him to. He’s pretty lukewarm about the whole idea.’

  ‘You surprise me. What about his new hobby, buying and selling antiques? I’d have thought Snowshill was right up his street.’

  ‘Wrong sort of antiques, apparently.’

  ‘And when was all this decided, anyway?’

  ‘Last night. After you went to bed. For the record, Stephanie won at Monopoly, and Timmy was awake until quarter past ten. He ran out of money at about nine, but insisted the others keep going to the bitter end, with him being the bank. He really is remarkably good at that, you know,’ he concluded thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, I can see it’s all fixed. I suppose it�
�s quite a good idea, in some ways. If you get there early, you can be first in. It can’t take more than an hour, surely? So I’ll have everything ready for two. They’ll be leaving right after lunch, I presume?’

  ‘They want to be away by half past three, yes. Amazing what can happen over one little weekend, isn’t it?’

  She gave no reply to that, thinking his words were a definite understatement. She could tell that he was not thinking about Juliet, or the Biddulphs, or anything to do with past and present funerals. All he meant was Maggs and her announcement, and the various activities his children had been enjoying.

  At that point, Den wandered into the room carrying his daughter. ‘We decided to take Meredith as well,’ he said. ‘She likes an outing.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Thea, feeling more relief than she dared express. ‘You can all go, and I’ll take the dog out for an hour. Then I’ll come back and prepare a full-scale feast for everybody. It’s not particularly arduous. Meat, potatoes, broccoli and peas. I can manage that. And I can do a big fruit salad for pudding with all those bananas we bought last week.’

  ‘And the pineapple. Don’t forget the pineapple. It must be ripe by now.’ The pineapple had been a rash impulse on Thea’s part four days earlier, which Drew had judged to be unready for consumption.

  ‘There’s some tinned peaches somewhere as well,’ she said.

  It was a game she knew he had played with Karen, who had been very much more interested in food than was the second Mrs Slocombe. Discussions about forthcoming meals, often first thing in the morning, were irritating to Thea. She was much happier helping the children with homework, listening to their accounts of classroom feuds, or planning weekend outings than she was trying to feed them. She understood that fresh vegetables, good cuts of meat, sugar-free drinks were all obligatory, but secretly she hankered for the funds that would cover Waitrose ready meals and regular Indian takeaways.

  By ten o’clock Thea was impatient for everybody to leave the house. When they objected that they’d have far too much time to kill before even the Snowshill garden would open its gates, she whistled for her dog, and left them all to sort themselves out. ‘You don’t need me,’ she said, three times.

  Outside, the world suddenly opened up invitingly. She could go in any of half a dozen directions. Fields, lanes, footpaths were all laid on in abundance. The hedgerows were frothy with spring blossom, insisting that Thea inspect the different plants and remind herself of their identities. Carl, her first husband, had taken her and Jessica for many a long nature ramble on which he would teach them to distinguish between Queen Anne’s lace and meadowsweet, hemlock and hogweed. She had loved the names and been perpetually impressed by his knowledge.

  ‘Let’s go down to the burial field,’ she suggested to the dog, surprising them both. Hepzie preferred the walk they had taken the day before with Den or, even better, the Monarchs Way path that took them on rising ground to wide open spaces where she could run and run. When she realised they were heading for the modest five acres where Drew’s friend Andrew dug deep holes and then covered them in again, she sighed.

  ‘I just want to have another little look,’ Thea muttered. ‘We might be missing something.’ Listening to herself, she had to admit that she felt a foolish sense of having already missed a piece of highly important action in letting Juliet Wilson loiter so close by for so many days. She was also bothered by Rosa’s mention of badger culling. She had been culpably ignorant if she’d failed to observe such goings-on on her very doorstep. Did Drew have badgers living on his land without knowing it? Maybe the spaniel could answer that, given half a chance.

  Hepzie ran ahead, keeping tightly into the minimal verge, for fear of passing traffic. Now well into her middle years, she had developed into a reliably sensible animal. Having suffered a broken leg less than six months earlier, she had a slight limp, which nobody but Thea would admit to being able to see. At the entrance to the burial ground, she automatically turned in.

  ‘Just run about,’ Thea told her. ‘See if you can smell out a badger.’

  The words were unfamiliar and Hepzie ignored them. She could smell old meat, faintly but definitely, coming from some of Andrew’s holes. Her ancient wolfish genes prompted her to attempt to dig for it, but she knew that was forbidden. The conflict made her uneasy and recalcitrant. Better to run off into the next field, and then the woods, where there might be a rabbit or squirrel to chase. Setting off tentatively, she sped up when her mistress showed no sign of stopping her.

  Instead, Thea followed slowly, after pausing to inspect the row of graves. There was something forlorn about them, she thought, taking up such a small proportion of the whole field as they did. The baby trees planted over some of them were barely visible, in spite of their tender spring leaves. A potential customer had once characterised the whole ground as bleak, and Thea had been unable to forget the word ever since.

  Was it all a huge mistake, then? Would Drew ordain that they dispose of this entire property and go back to North Staverton? The children would slip effortlessly back into their former school, the house would welcome them like the old friends they were. Only Thea would be displaced, transplanted yet again, with no social network and no definable role. Not that her social network in the Cotswolds was particularly robust. She bumped into people she had known for a week or two during various house-sitting jobs, and she counted Sonia Gladwin as a friend. Nine months after abandoning her career as a house-sitter, she had yet to replace it with anything else. Cooking meals for a man and two children did not count as a valid occupation. The ever-present threat of boredom, which had explained so much of her intrusive behaviour towards the inhabitants of numerous villages while in charge of empty houses, returned tenfold. Repeatedly, she had announced to Drew that she was going to get a job. She needed to be occupied and they were in sore need of extra money. Den Cooper had listened sympathetically to her complaints, which only served to fortify them. Now, she was really going to do it. She’d broached the subject with Gladwin and was determined to press her case. Nothing was going to distract her this time.

  Thoughts of Gladwin recalled the very recent events on this exact spot. There had been a murder, less than two days earlier. That, obviously, was the real reason she had brought the dog over here, instead of letting her have her head on the higher wolds. She wanted to see for herself just where it had all happened. She might find a clue overlooked by the SOCOs. She might remember some detail about Juliet that everybody else had forgotten. Or failing that, she could simply accord the victim a few minutes of reflection – which some people might almost have characterised as prayer. She would think warmly of the life that had ended and resolve to do anything she could to assuage the suffering of Juliet’s mother.

  Walking around the field, and then following her dog through the gateway into the adjacent one, she gave her thoughts full rein. The police had driven back and forth through the gap in the hedge, not troubling to drag the ancient gate back into position. There were never any animals in the second field but, even so, the gate ought to have been put back as it had been originally. Wasn’t that the first rule of the Country Code? And what gave the police the right to flout it?

  She pushed away such observations, bringing her attention back to Juliet and her ghastly fate. She could see the feathery tip of Hepzie’s tail amongst tangles of bramble and nettle at the edge of the strip of woodland on the other side of the field. There would normally be police tape closing off the scene of the crime but, for some reason, they appeared not to have bothered on this occasion. Presumably, they had found all they hoped to and judged it unprofitable to maintain any sort of presence. Over recent years, Thea had witnessed every permutation of police response, which varied more than the strict book of rules might suggest. Finances, manpower, weather and the personality of the senior investigating officer all created diversity.

  ‘Poor, poor Juliet,’ she murmured. There seemed to be little else to say. She hoped her suffering had been min
imal, fear completely absent. Had she known her attacker, and felt the searing pain of betrayal? Had she been simply bewildered, unable to believe what was happening? These same thoughts were inevitably going through Rosa’s mind, over and over. The urgent need for answers could only be satisfied by finding who did it and persuading him or her to give an account of what had really happened.

  It was time to go home and cook a roast dinner. ‘Come on, Heps,’ she called. The dog obediently materialised at her side and they walked back towards the road. Halfway across the burial field they both saw a large figure coming through the gate. A very big man, with short brown hair and clothes that looked too warm for the season, was walking towards them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thea’s instant assumption was that here was the killer, revisiting the scene. He looked like a murderer, and her heart thudded insistently. Hepzie gave an alarmed yap at the sight of him. He did not smile at her as he walked towards her.

  ‘Um … Hello,’ she said, when they were close enough to speak.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied in a much lighter voice than his bulk suggested. ‘My name is Adam Rogers. I wanted to see where poor Juliet died.’

  He spoke with careful deliberation, the words sounding rehearsed. Cautiously, Thea diagnosed something awry with him. Something akin to Juliet’s condition. Something that would very probably bring them together in the care system.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Well, this is it. You knew her, then?’

  ‘I did. She was my girlfriend.’ He finally produced a self-conscious smile. ‘Sort of, anyway.’

  ‘Oh dear. Then I am terribly sorry about what happened. You must be dreadfully upset.’ Instinctively, she was speaking as if to a child. Very much the same way as she had spoken to Juliet, she realised. Short words. No metaphors or idioms or ironic asides.

  ‘The police talked to me.’ He frowned. ‘They asked me twenty-seven questions. I counted them.’