by Rebecca Tope
Drew stopped in the doorway and gave her a long look. ‘No. He didn’t arrange the funeral. And I wouldn’t tell you, even if I did have it. It’s confidential. You know that.’
‘Oh, yes, I know. But he did call you on Saturday, and I’m sure he’d be more than happy to chat. Don’t you think?’
‘Not if you’re acting on behalf of the police, trying to get him to incriminate himself. I would think he’d feel profoundly betrayed. Is that what’s going on?’
She flushed. ‘Sort of. Not really. We both – me and Gladwin – think he’s a sweetie. And he’s been questioned already. They’ve got no reason to talk to him again. She just wanted me to … you know. See if I got any hunches. He might tell me something he’d forgotten. Some clue that would help them catch who did it. He’s the only link between us and Juliet, when you think about it.’
‘I’m trying not to think about it,’ said Drew. ‘And I’m sure you can find him without my help. Ask Gladwin for his address. I’m surprised she hasn’t given it to you already.’
Thea nodded. ‘She should have done.’ In her bag, hanging on the back of a chair, her phone burbled. She took it out, and laughed. ‘And here it is, in a text. Fancy that!’
‘So you won’t be needing me,’ said Drew, and went to do his dusting.
Chapter Eighteen
If she didn’t bother with lunch, Thea had three hours and a bit to herself before the children got home from school. The arrangement was that she would always be there for them when they came in, since Drew’s movements were so hard to predict. It made for a short day and gave rise to occasional flashes of resentment. It also pointed out the potential complications of Thea embarking on any kind of paid employment. If she was only to be available for about six hours a day, and less if much travelling were required, it hardly seemed worthwhile. At least to her. Most other people seemed to think that gave her a perfectly reasonable thirty-hour week, with all the benefits accruing from that. ‘But what about the dog?’ she protested. Not to mention all her other interests, which were hard to define, but suddenly felt important when threatened.
* * *
Anthony Spiller lived on the outskirts of Broadway – a village Thea seldom visited. It was over the border into Warwickshire, which had no significance other than creating a foolish psychological barrier. Deeper than that was her resistance to the level of self-consciousness the place manifested. It existed in a time warp, preserved for the delectation of American and Australian tourists, much too clean and tidy for her taste. But she freely acknowledged that this was her own prejudice. Most people thought the place was gorgeous. And real people did live there, obviously. Including Anthony Spiller.
The road was another deterrent. It swooped downhill in a series of wild curves that made her worry for the steering. Sandy spurs ran off to the left at intervals, designed for vehicles with failed brakes to take evasive action. There was something unnerving about that. The unusual width of the road probably had no direct link to the name ‘Broadway’, but it very much was a broad way, even so. It felt out of keeping with the more common narrow lanes and high hedges.
The Spiller house was of modest size and unarguably lovely. The biscuit-coloured stone was weathered, both in colour and texture. There were trees in the front garden, and a large bird-feeding station. Birds were clearly a strong interest throughout the family. She remembered a house-sitting job in Winchcombe, where the interest had become an obsession, with a hide, camera and assorted nuts and seeds to give them.
How many times had she walked up a strange garden path and knocked on the door? She did it repeatedly, very often impelled by nothing more worthy than curiosity. She always experienced a thrill at the prospect of seeing the interior of yet another home. She liked to examine their carpets and furniture and colour schemes – although more often disapproving than admiring. So many of them looked unlived-in, the cushions undented and the ornaments perfectly dusted.
She rang the bell and waited, rehearsing what she should say. Inside, there was the sound of footsteps, apparently coming down the stairs. When the door opened, it revealed a middle-aged woman in something Thea thought might be called a ‘leisure suit’. Like pyjamas, only marginally more finished. There was elastic at the ankles and a pocket in the top. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Hello. I’m Thea Slocombe. Is Anthony in?’
‘Who?’
‘Gosh! Have I got the wrong house? Isn’t this Mayfield Cottage?’
‘I meant – who are you? What do you want with my husband?’
‘Oh. Sorry. My husband’s the undertaker in Broad Campden. He buried your husband’s uncle last week. Weren’t you at the funeral?’
‘Of course I was. But you weren’t. And I can’t be expected to remember the name of the undertaker, surely?’
‘No.’ The woman watched her struggle for something else to say. Mrs Spiller was definitely older and tougher than her husband. She was also careless of her appearance, and disinclined to be interrupted on what looked like a nice lazy day off. Thea found herself uncomfortably wrong-footed.
‘So why do you want him?’ the woman demanded.
‘Um … well, he phoned Drew – my husband – on Saturday, after he found poor Juliet. He seemed upset, and we just thought maybe we should check that he’s all right.’
‘Poor Juliet?’
‘Yes. That was her name. The dead woman in the woods close to the burial field. Anthony had gone to listen to the birds, and sit by the grave, and then he found her. It must have been a ghastly shock for him. Then the police asked a lot of questions, and that can’t have been pleasant, either.’
The woman stood on her front step and stared at Thea in total incomprehension. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anthony isn’t here. He hasn’t been here since this time last week, and then he only stayed for half an hour. We separated six months ago. He’s lodging with a friend in Chipping Campden.’
‘Oh. Well, he gave this as his address to the police.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose it sounded better,’ she said.
Thea laughed, despite a growing feeling that Anthony Spiller might not be quite the sweet innocent nephew she and Gladwin had taken him for. ‘Surely that can’t be it. Maybe he thinks he’ll be coming back sometime soon?’
‘I doubt it.’ The woman hesitated. ‘Look – do you want to come in and tell me the whole story? I can’t make head or tail of it so far. Somebody called Juliet died in some woods and Anthony found her? Is that right?’
‘More or less, yes.’ Thea was already halfway into the house. She liked this estranged wife, she decided, and they definitely had quite a lot to say to each other.
‘My name’s Nancy, by the way,’ the woman said as she led the way to a room at the back. Thea found herself in a room that could only be termed as ‘snug’. It had bookshelves on three walls, a shaggy green rug on the floor and two elderly armchairs liberally filled with cushions. The fourth wall was mostly window, overlooking a patch of jungle that could hardly be called a garden. Tall grasses, shrubs, climbers and ramblers. ‘They all produce berries or seeds,’ Nancy explained wearily, having observed Thea’s fascination. ‘Attracts about fifty different sorts of bird.’
Thea’s first thought was – so how could Anthony bear to leave it? Something rather serious must have gone wrong between him and his wife, which seemed a pity, since Thea was already liking the woman.
‘I know,’ said Nancy Spiller, as if reading her mind. ‘It should have been me that left, not him. But Tony’s a gentleman. Always has been. I think he must have been a very funny little boy. Uncle Dicky used to say he was born out of his time. He’d have been perfect as a Victorian clergyman.’
She sounded wistful and fond, and Thea felt sad, especially for Anthony. He’d lost uncle and wife, apparently, and then stumbled on a dead woman when he was trying to hear the dawn chorus. ‘I’m sorry he’s not here,’ she said.
‘I still don’t understand why you want him. Are
you with the police or something? How would you know his address otherwise?’
To the best of her recollection, Thea had never been asked that question before. Nancy had earned herself a gold star for quick thinking – and quick-thinking people automatically got themselves onto the list of suspects when a murder was being investigated. Uncle Dicky’s funeral early on Thursday was starting to look like a highly significant point in the story. Both the Spillers had been there and, quite possibly, Juliet Wilson had been hiding amongst the trees. ‘Did you know Juliet Wilson?’ she asked, dodging the awkward question.
‘Who? Is that “poor Juliet”? The one who died?’
‘She was murdered, during the night between Friday and Saturday. Your husband found her when he went to listen to the birds and look at his uncle’s grave. Then he phoned my husband after the police had questioned him, quite upset. We were busy, and worried we hadn’t given him the space to say everything he wanted to. So I came here to see if I could offer anything—’ She was going to say like sympathy, or a listening ear, but it sounded trite, and almost intrusive. Thea was often intrusive, according to a number of people.
‘You provide a counselling service, do you? Isn’t that rather American – chasing bereaved people in case they want to spill their misery all over you?’
Thea winced and wriggled in the soft chair. ‘It wasn’t meant like that,’ she said feebly.
Nancy shook her large head, greying hair flipping from side to side. She was a big woman, at least fifty, with heavy eyebrows and a wide mouth. ‘You obviously are with the police, or you’d have answered my question. Is Anthony a suspect, then? You think he killed this person?’
‘No, no. I mean – I am friendly with the woman in charge of the investigation. And I knew Juliet, you see. And Drew might have been the last person to see her alive – before the one who killed her, of course. We’re very much involved. I offered to come and talk to Anthony, that’s all. I’m not authorised to take notes or anything like that. It’s all completely informal.’
Nancy sniffed. ‘That sounds highly irregular to me.’
‘I know. It does, doesn’t it?’ Thea admitted. ‘It’s sort of evolved over a few years. I’ve found myself on the spot a few times, when a crime has been committed, and been useful to the police. And I’ve always had a lot of free time.’
‘That makes you weird, for a start. Nobody has free time these days. Being busy is the greatest virtue, apparently.’ Thea eyed the leisure suit meaningfully and Nancy laughed. ‘Touché. I can’t pretend to be fully occupied, can I? The thing is, I’ve had a pretty bad depression since Christmas. Couldn’t get out of bed. Didn’t wash my hair – all that stuff. But it’s a lot better now. Uncle Dicky dying was the turning point, which sounds peculiar, I suppose. It was something to do with death being the worst thing that can happen, and I was just being self-indulgent. Wasting my life. I was getting into seriously bad habits.’ She was speaking in jerky sentences, her face hardening. It was as if her words were battling with her inner workings. ‘I’ve been going for CBT – you know, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy – which ought to have sorted me out. I’m the sort of person who told everybody to pull themselves together. Now I tell it to myself. It doesn’t always work.’
Thea could find nothing helpful to say. Depression was not one of her areas of expertise. Grief, yes. Fear, sometimes. But on the whole she had a thick skin and a brisk outlook. World events often made her angry, but she never felt despair. ‘Is that why Anthony left?’ she asked, after a pause.
‘What? Oh, no. Not really. I guess I was pretty poor company, but he was always very patient with me. I’m eight years older than him, you see. That’s still quite unusual, and it brought us very close. Us against the world. Babes in the wood. That’s a technical term amongst couple counsellors.’
Still the short sentences, and the tormented delivery. ‘Uh-huh,’ said Thea neutrally.
‘He left because I asked him to. Simple as that. He was in my way. I couldn’t manage both of us. It’s not permanent – I hope. He’s happy enough, as long as he thinks that. He’s got a big family, and they’re all very loving and close. Now Dicky’s dead, they’ve all come together even more. His aunt adores him. Auntie Jenny. And there are cousins all over the place. Meanwhile I’ve been helped by going to the Paxford Centre. You know about that, I suppose?’
Thea frowned. ‘Well, yes, actually. One or two people have mentioned it over the weekend. Juliet went there, so you must have known her.’
‘Sorry. I never came across anybody called Juliet. I don’t mix very much with people there. Just turn up for my appointments and come home again.’
‘I’d never heard of it till a day or two ago. What does it do, exactly?’
‘It’s a funny mixture of Social Services and some private therapists. They’ve taken over a massive great manor house, and it’s really taken off. Anybody with any sort of problem is free to go there. A lot of them just sit around and chat. There’s a speech therapist and a physio, and a few others, funded by the state, as well as an osteopath and a couple of counsellors who you have to pay. And loads of volunteers, who mostly seem to be former patients – or “clients”, as they call us. They read to people, push wheelchairs around, bring shopping for the handful of residents. It started as a day centre, but they’ve made a few rooms for people to stay. They have to pay for those, as well. But you don’t want to know all that,’ she finished abruptly. ‘It’s not remotely relevant. In fact, Anthony is definitely not relevant to your murder investigation, either. It sounds as if he was just unlucky to find that woman. In the wrong place at the wrong moment.’
‘He didn’t tell you about it?’
‘Obviously not. I haven’t seen him since Thursday. Nor phoned, emailed, skyped – no contact at all.’
‘Right. Well …’
‘You still want to talk to him, don’t you?’
Thea wriggled her shoulders in overt embarrassment. ‘I think I should,’ she mumbled.
‘Well, I’m not going to tell you where he is. What do you think about that?’ She jutted out her chin in childlike defiance.
‘I thought you might say that. I know when I’m beaten,’ said Thea.
Nancy laughed again, as Thea had hoped she would. ‘You’re quite a one, aren’t you?’ she said, in admiration. ‘I must say I rather like you.’
‘Thanks. I like you, too.’
‘But I’ll kill you if you upset poor Tony. He’s not your murderer. The idea’s idiotic.’
‘He’s already upset,’ said Thea. ‘And nobody seriously thinks he did it. He had perfectly good reasons to be where he was on Saturday morning. The police understand that. It’s more the idea that he might have seen something important, without realising it.’
‘Mm,’ said Nancy.
It struck Thea that the woman was remarkably unconcerned by the fact of a murder. She had asked no questions at all about Juliet, or how she died, or what was going on in the investigation. Such a lack of curiosity felt bizarre. Almost, she realised, suspicious. Here was a big strong woman, who knew all about the alternative burial ground – had attended a funeral there two days before Juliet was killed. It was perfectly feasible that she knew Juliet herself, although quite how remained obscure. There was a tenuous theme developing around mental health, albeit of very different kinds. Depression bore no relation to learning disabilities. Even so, there could perhaps be professionals who dealt with them both – links that might usefully be traced.
‘I’ll go,’ she said decisively. ‘It was nice to meet you.’
‘Come again,’ said Nancy, as if she really meant it. ‘I’ll try to be dressed next time. Here – take my phone number, so you can warn me in advance. I could do with a new friend.’
‘So could I,’ said Thea, surprising herself. She took the scrap of paper with the phone number on it, noting with a smile that this was a transaction from the olden days. People keyed their numbers into each other’s phones now. It was obviousl
y a landline number. ‘Haven’t you got a mobile?’ she asked.
‘Somewhere, yes. But I’ve hidden it from myself. It had a lot to do with my depression, you see.’
Thea didn’t see, but this was clearly an issue for another time. ‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘Bye, then.’
Chapter Nineteen
Two and three-quarter hours before she had to be back on duty at home, she calculated. She was hungry but pausing for a proper meal felt like wasted time. She was on the northern edge of the Cotswolds, with places like Snowshill, Stanton and Laverton only a few minutes’ drive away. Laverton was where Rosa and Juliet had lived when Thea was in Stanton, two Christmases ago. She remembered seeing Juliet wandering ghostlike in a misty wood, claiming to be seeking out a suitable tree to take home and decorate. Now it was May, with new leaves and exuberant birds, and all the foolish anticipation of a decent summer for a change. At least there would be light evenings and flowers in the garden. Perhaps it was the improving season that had ameliorated Nancy Spiller’s depression.
But there was still more than enough to be depressed about in Thea’s own life: Maggs and Drew, Rosa Wilson, poor Adam Rogers. Even Mr Shipley’s sister, who had probably been too young to die. And on a wider level, the endlessly startling Twitter-created world of politics, where anything seemed to be possible. No wonder Nancy Spiller had been overwhelmed by it.
All the places she’d mentally listed were to the west. Eastwards lay Paxford and Ebrington beyond her home village of Broad Campden. She had been to Paxford ages ago, but, as a rule, she seldom turned eastwards. She favoured Blockley and Moreton, and even Winchcombe, quite a long way to the south. And the thing was, she admitted to herself, she did not want to go home. Her dog had been left behind, having not walked anywhere that day. Walking Hepzie was a random business at best. There were few routines in the spaniel’s life, which she appeared to cope with well enough. There would be enough time to let her have a little run in the field at the end of their lane once everyone was home and settled. It was light until nearly nine o’clock, after all.
