Death in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  Sally took a full minute to answer my knock – punishing me, I supposed, for my neglectful behaviour. When she did open the door, she scowled at me unforgivingly.

  ‘I really am sorry, Sal,’ I said. ‘But things haven’t been exactly normal lately.’

  ‘Saw it on the telly,’ she nodded. ‘And then that Ursula Ferguson told me it was you that’d found the body.’

  ‘You’re very thick with Ursula these days,’ I noted. ‘Gossiping at Bernadette’s, last I heard. Seen her again since then, have you?’

  ‘That girl of hers keeps the horse in the field at the back. I give him a carrot now and then. They were seeing to him just this afternoon, as it happens.’

  ‘Well, let’s get on with those sheets,’ I said. ‘I’m meant to be going to a meeting this evening.’

  ‘Bit late then, you’ll be,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Bourton. I might not go, actually.’ I’d lost track of the time. Sally’s wall clock said half past twelve, which certainly couldn’t be right. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Search me,’ she grinned. ‘Time for my supper, if my tum’s anything to go by.’

  ‘Have you got something cooking?’

  She shook her head. ‘Cold meat, that’s all. The bread’s stale and Ollie brought that poisonous stuff made out of chemicals instead of proper butter.’

  I ended up staying a couple of hours, turning out the fridge, putting some washing away, and giving her stair carpet a good brush. It was good therapy for me, having somebody else’s tasks to attend to. Sally was a friendly old thing, chattering on about nothing in particular, making the world seem more stable and ordinary than it really was. I used her phone to call Kenneth and tell him I would have to miss the meeting. He wasn’t very happy about it. ‘The whole point is so we can offer you our support,’ he whined. ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re late.’

  But I had decided, and was feeling quite liberated. The prospect of being supported by six over-emotional pagans was not very appealing. I thought of them crowding round me, asking questions, pretending to feel the loss of Gaynor as deeply as I did and quailed at my narrow escape.

  ‘Going to the Horse Fair then?’ Sally asked me.

  ‘I’m supposed to be running a stall,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got loads to do if I’m to be ready in time.’ I felt weak at the prospect. ‘I might give that a miss as well. It won’t be the same without Gaynor.’ Suddenly I seemed to be addicted to cancelling things. I could just lie in bed instead and indulge in total idleness for a change.

  It was the first time my friend’s name had been mentioned. Sally had made oblique references to the murder, but asked me nothing directly. Now it was as if I’d granted permission.

  ‘You’re pally with that important policeman, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Has he told you who they think it was?’

  ‘They don’t seem to have any idea. It’s crazy to think anybody would want her dead. She was such a harmless creature.’

  Sally grunted at that. ‘Not according to my Ollie, she wasn’t. Seemingly, she dropped him in some real trouble, a month or two back.’

  I stopped brushing and looked at her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. Something to do with some business takeover. She must have seen the papers in his car when he gave her a lift home – he always did, you know, after their bridge evenings – and went and said something to the wrong person. Don’t ask me for names, because Ollie wouldn’t tell me that.’

  ‘How does he know it was her?’

  Sally shook her head helplessly. ‘He just does,’ she said.

  When I thought about it, I could see how Gaynor might do something of the sort, in her innocence. But who could she have spoken to, and what exactly had been the consequences?

  More central to my thinking was the unavoidable fact that Oliver had lied to me about how well he’d known Gaynor. He had deliberately played down his links with her, when I’d told him she was dead, if Caroline’s story could be believed. It seemed a foolish move on his part – surely he must know that I would find out the truth? If it had been the result of a sudden panic, that might make sense. If he had murdered her, only to suffer all sorts of terrors at being discovered afterwards, that might lead him to tell lies. Except that Oliver was a calculating kind of person, who would think things through much more carefully than that. The murder itself had a calculated aura to it. Whoever committed it would surely have planned what he would say afterwards, making certain it was coherent and credible. Then again, if it was Oliver, he might not have included me in his plans. He might not have considered his line with Gaynor’s friend who just happened to have discovered her body.

  I gave it up. Here, it seemed, was yet another piece of information I had to pass to Detective Superintendent Hollis. I began to think I was doing a large part of his job for him.

  It was after eight when I got back to my own home. The Rayburn was on good form and the front room was warmly welcoming. I poured a modest glass of elderberry and sank into the armchair by the stove. The cat jumped onto my lap and nestled happily against my stomach.

  On Wednesday morning, Phil Hollis came to the door at eight, to collect the bagged-up mugs for fingerprinting. I was still in my nightclothes – a pair of men’s pyjamas and woolly socks. ‘Sorry I’m so early,’ he said. ‘We’re working long days at the moment.’

  ‘No problem,’ I yawned. ‘I’ll fetch them for you.’

  The mugs were my two best ones, both made of bone china. ‘Don’t break them, will you?’ I begged. ‘The blue one’s from Verona. The other one is Caroline’s.’

  ‘You think I might need her prints, do you?’ he asked levelly.

  I matched his tone with care. ‘She did know Gaynor,’ I reminded him. ‘They might come in useful.’

  His face was a picture, turning to oak in his efforts not to show his feelings. ‘I suppose that is sensible,’ he said at last. ‘Thanks.’ I had noticed that during our recent encounters he had steadfastly refrained from using my name. At least that was better than getting it wrong.

  ‘There are a few more things I should tell you,’ I said, almost having to hang on to his arm to stop him rushing off. He paused, with a faint sigh, and I quickly summarised what Sally had told me the night before about Oliver’s annoyance with Gaynor over some piece of business.

  Phil nodded. ‘I’ll send somebody to question him,’ he said.

  I waited for the again that never came. ‘Haven’t you done that already?’ I demanded. ‘After what I told your Baldwin man on Sunday?’

  ‘Not yet,’ was all he would say to that.

  As soon as I was dressed I went across the street. On the doorstep I took hold of the doorknob, intending to walk right in, before remembering myself. Helen wasn’t there any longer – I couldn’t treat the place like a second home. Instead I banged the knocker loudly, setting off all the dogs. Their racket made me wish I’d followed my first impulse.

  ‘What are your plans for today?’ I asked Thea when she opened the door.

  She kinked her mouth ruefully and asked me the same thing.

  ‘The weather’s not bad,’ I pointed out. A breeze was blowing, but the sky was blue.

  ‘Okay for a walk then,’ she said.

  I had never been one for ‘walking’ as a leisure activity. It was perfectly all right as a means of transport – often more direct than driving and just as quick in the narrow lanes. Cheaper, too. But wandering along footpaths, meeting ramblers and hikers in their comical costumes, was not my idea of fun. I had to walk to visit Arabella because there was no road to the coppice – but Arabella didn’t need a visit again so soon. It occurred to me that Thea might expect me to act as a kind of local guide, showing her places of interest, but this role held little appeal for me, either. I might have taken her to the Barrow if it hadn’t become imbued with grim associations. It never occurred to me that we might investigate the churches in Turkdean, Notgrove or Naunton, pretty as they doubtless were. />
  ‘We could try and find some sloes,’ I said, half-heartedly. ‘I usually make lots of sloe gin about now.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ she agreed.

  We were still in the hallway of Greenhaven, with the door open. The cries of children rang from the school playground where they gathered before the day got started. It reminded me of Helen, who had always enjoyed this proof of life and energy close by. And remembering Helen led to remembering Gaynor and how differently the two deaths had affected me.

  ‘How’s the sorting going?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve given up on it,’ Thea said impatiently. ‘Phil doesn’t agree with any of my categories. He just wants the whole lot disposed of, with no more messing about.’

  ‘In that case why didn’t he just use a house clearance outfit, months ago?’

  ‘Good question,’ she said, narrowing her eyes crossly.

  I felt a pang for Helen’s precious possessions. She had loved them all, keeping them dusted and polished, savouring the stories and memories that attached to them. In her middle years she had travelled to romantic places such as India and Guatemala, collecting rugs and cushions in the process. They were faded and patched now, but still very much part of her life story. A story that nobody cared about any more, not even me most of the time. I couldn’t share the experiences that were summoned by a hand-embroidered cushion bought in Jaipur or a woven woollen bedspread that had been attacked by moths.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ I asked, shaking the sadness off with a great effort.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, thanks. Weetabix and a banana.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. The dogs were milling around us, trotting in and out of the open door, plainly hoping for some kind of excursion. They were a pack, noisy and impossible to ignore. The spaniel repeatedly jumped up at Thea, paws scrabbling at her upper thighs, jaws flopping open in an unselfconscious grin.

  ‘I should shut the door,’ said Thea at last. ‘It’s letting the cold in. Although I’m not sure it’s not colder in than out, this morning.’

  I followed her through to Helen’s morning room, which faced east. It was full of light, as always. I had laughed at Helen’s routine of being in here until midday and then moving to the cosier back sitting room for the afternoon and evening – but it had made perfect sense. ‘Always make the most of the light,’ she said.

  For want of anything else to talk about, I told Thea about the mugs. It led to a renewed analysis of precisely who could have murdered Gaynor, with Caroline embarrassingly joining the list.

  ‘Phil will be mortified if it turns out to have been her,’ said Thea, with a frown.

  ‘But he won’t try to hide the evidence, if it points that way,’ I said, making it a statement, not a question.

  ‘Of course he won’t,’ she agreed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The morning continued to resist us. There was no clear plan, no impetus to get outside and do something constructive. Thea and I were still in the house at ten o’clock, trying to decide what, if anything, we could be doing.

  ‘Phil’s really sorry about you being embroiled in all this trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Only doing his job,’ I replied carelessly. ‘It’s a bummer for you as well.’

  ‘That’s true. I’ve almost written the week off now. It’s Thursday tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I groaned. When she made a questioning sound I explained briefly about the Gypsy Horse Fair and how I couldn’t face doing it without Gaynor.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she sympathised. ‘It sounds like fun.’

  ‘Colourful,’ I agreed.

  ‘Can’t we go anyway?’ she asked, suddenly excited. ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘But—’ I quailed at the thought of being there without the stall. The organisers might see me and wonder what was going on. There’d be a gaping space where my jumpers ought to be, and I’d have to pay for it, in any case.

  ‘Even better,’ Thea pressed on. ‘Let’s do the stall after all. I can help you. I could come over now and we’ll get everything ready.’

  ‘But…’ I repeated helplessly. ‘We’d have to leave at six in the morning. I was going to get everything organised, neat and tidy…’ I floundered, thinking of the work involved. No, I decided. I’d been right the first time. It wasn’t possible to have everything done in time.

  But there was no stopping her. ‘Go and get started,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll corral the dogs.’

  We spent the rest of the morning folding and labelling twenty-five assorted jumpers and jerkins, eighteen scarves, six woolly hats, one coat, four wallhangings and seven rugs. It took longer than it might have done because Thea kept stopping to admire everything and exclaim about it. ‘I want to buy all of them myself,’ she laughed. She also made a few suggestions about displaying the wall-hangings that I’d never have thought of myself.

  Then we stopped, noticed the time and by mutual agreement set out for the pub, Thea readily forgiving me for my non-appearance the previous evening. ‘We can make up for it now,’ she said.

  The Plough was a pleasant enough hostelry, with a single bar, average sort of menu and friendly staff. But when we’d settled down with a pint for me and a white wine for her, she seemed to change her mind. ‘Can we go and eat somewhere else?’ she asked. ‘Somewhere with a view or a garden or something for the dogs. I feel like getting away from Cold Aston for a bit, and there isn’t really anything I fancy on this menu.’

  I tried to think of a suitable place. ‘Hardly any of them allow dogs in,’ I said, secretly hating the idea of trying to eat with three sets of watchful eyes and slavering jaws at my elbow. I found her caprice irritating. I felt settled where we were and in no mood for driving around the area searching for a menu to Thea’s liking. Another consideration was the state of my fuel tank. I had enough to get to Stow and back next day and that was about it. I tried to limit my visits to the filling station to ten-day intervals, and the time wasn’t up until the weekend.

  She understood that she depended on me for transport and said no more until her drink was almost finished. I hadn’t seen this lethargic side of her before, where she seemed heavy and indecisive. I was hungry and had no quarrel with what The Plough had to offer.

  ‘I’d rather stay here,’ I said eventually. ‘And I think I’ll have the sausage and chips.’

  A flicker of her natural grace came through. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m being stupid.’

  To my horror, her eyes glazed over with tears as she spoke. ‘For pity’s sake!’ I protested. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She forced a weak smile. ‘Ignore me,’ she said, with a little flip of her hand. ‘I get like this every now and then. Life all seems too much sometimes, don’t you find?’

  I thought about my regular recourse to the homemade wine, and nodded. She did have quite a lot to be weepy about, I supposed, with her new boyfriend disappearing to solve a murder and Cold Aston offering nothing but a lonely pub and blowy wolds.

  ‘It’ll be fun tomorrow,’ I consoled her. ‘The Horse Fair is a real experience.’

  ‘Good,’ she smiled bravely.

  And it was. Phil helped us to load everything into my car when he got back much earlier than the previous two evenings. Thea and I explained self-importantly that we would have to get up at five-thirty, in order to set up the stall properly at the show.

  ‘What about the dogs?’ he asked. ‘They’ll be shut in here all day.’

  Thea thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I could take Hepzie with me. Are you going to be out the whole day?’

  ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘But I expect I could drop back at some point and let the others out for a few minutes.’ He sighed, as if she had somehow let him down.

  ‘That’ll be okay then,’ she breezed, ignoring his scratchiness as she had before, when we’d found the weirdness in the attic. What must that feel like, I wondered. Having somebody so determined to see only the nice
, pretending the nasty bits weren’t there. Irritating, eventually, I suspected. But then I remembered her gloom at lunchtime and realised I was over-simplifying. Thea could do the whole range of emotions when it came to it.

  The unusual thing about her, I was beginning to see, was that she was completely devoid of anxiety. If Phil was disappointed in her, that wasn’t anything to worry about. Most women would have bitten their lip, put on a brittle act of conciliation, even altered their plans, in this situation. She did nothing like that. If she even noticed his mood, she dismissed it as his problem, something that would pass in a few minutes.

  The Horse Fair was just as much fun as I’d hoped. Even the spaniel was reasonably good company, sitting quietly under the stall for much of the time. Once she’d had my assurance that I could manage on my own for a while Thea took the dog for a walk along the snaking line of stalls, down one side and back the other, with a detour to watch the horses and ponies in the field beyond the stalls. She was gone well over an hour, and came back infused with good cheer. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she gasped. ‘And I don’t even like horses. But those piebald ponies, with the little boys on them – they’re like elves, with their brown arms and dark eyes.’ She went on raving about how poetic and picturesque the whole thing was, until I had to stop her.

  ‘Yes, it’s all very grand,’ I said. ‘And I’ve sold three scarves and four jumpers while you were gone.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ she applauded. ‘Aren’t you glad I made you do it?’

  I nodded with a genuine smile. ‘Definitely,’ I said.

  Then I saw them. Oliver Grover and Leslie Giddins, walking side by side, just that bit too close together for normal comradeship and I made a startling and rapid deduction. Then I gave myself a shake – surely I was imagining it. Leslie had a wife – the admirable Joanne. I was just so surprised to see Oliver with anybody at all, that I’d surely jumped to a false conclusion. But as I watched them fingering some brightly coloured horse blankets and making each other laugh with some jokey remarks, it seemed inescapable. I leaned towards Thea and tipped my chin at the men, trying to make her look at them without being too obvious about it.