by Rebecca Tope
‘Not to mention pagans,’ I pointed out, with a small sigh.
‘You know,’ she said, after a bit of silence, ‘I thought when I came here with Phil, at least there wouldn’t be any mystery. Not like the other places.’
‘Uh?’ I queried, wondering what she was talking about.
‘The house-sitting. I told you. I’ve been doing it since the spring. I only do the Cotswolds area, but each time it’s a matter of walking into a strange house, where I don’t know any people, and have to work it all out from scratch. When something happens, it’s like being in a dream. Nothing makes sense at first. I thought, this time, it would be much more like a little holiday, with Phil knowing you and the house and everything.’
‘He doesn’t really, though, does he?’ I said. ‘Know the house, I mean. And he doesn’t know me very well these days, either.’
‘That’s what I’m saying – I was wrong. All this talk about Freemasons and pagans – those are both completely mysterious to me. Hidden sinister stuff going on out of sight. It’s horrible.’
‘You should come along to a moot,’ I invited. ‘You’ll see there’s nothing at all horrible or sinister about the pagan group. You haven’t been keeping up – more people are joining this sort of spiritual organisation, whatever they might call themselves, than are bothering with the Church these days. It’s all to do with individual paths and expressing what’s really important. We’re positively mainstream now.’
‘Hmm.’ She didn’t sound convinced, but at least I’d made the point.
We were waiting to get out of the gateway and onto the small road leading through the town. Almost all Stow’s shops had closed for the day, leaving the pavements thronged with pedestrians heading to and from the Fair.
Something seemed to be holding things up as we sat behind a Range Rover in the gateway.
As we finally emerged from the field, we had a better view. ‘Oh look!’ said Thea. ‘What an amazing car.’
It was Eddie’s bright yellow convertible, with the top down, the horn blaring at a pair of horse-drawn traps, moving slowly along the road. ‘That’s Eddie Yeo,’ I said. ‘Impatient as usual.’
‘Arrogant, I’d say. Who does he think he is?’
‘He knows who he is. So does everybody else. You watch, they’ll soon get out of his way. Even gypsies don’t like to get on the wrong side of him.’ I had hardly bothered to look at the object of our conversation. Eddie Yeo was a fact of life, somebody who buzzed about like a wasp, threatening people with refusal of planning permission, flaunting his influence. If it hadn’t been for Daphne I’d have managed to ignore him entirely.
‘Can you see the woman with him?’ Thea persisted. ‘Do you know who she is?’
I had to look, then. The car had, as I’d predicted, pulled ahead, dodging around a large group of people who were probably all one big family. Just as it disappeared I registered the tidily layered nut brown hair, and the emerald green knitted jacket. I blinked and gasped and shook my head. ‘Impossible,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m hallucinating.’
‘What? Why? Who is she?’
‘That’s Caroline,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Phil’s car was outside Greenhaven when we got back, which seemed to startle Thea. ‘Oh – he’s early,’ she said. Then, after a pause, ‘Come in for a bit.’ I knew she was shy of mentioning Caroline to him, and hoped I would carry on my role of informant, to let her off the hook. The feeling I’d had before of being the only one who was actually making progress in the murder investigation returned.
Prompted also by a reluctance to go back into my own home, I agreed. The aftermath of a day’s selling was always somewhat bleak. The build-up, the exchanges with the customers, the whole busy day could only finish on a down note. I couldn’t think of a thing I should be doing, apart from visiting Arabella – a task that was once again becoming overdue. Despite an abundance of acorns and beechmast she was probably feeling hungry for something extra by this time.
Phil was surrounded by cardboard boxes in Helen’s living room. The place was unrecognisable, with all the furniture moved, and nothing at all left on shelves or mantelpiece. The air was full of dust and the smell of abandonment. ‘Oh dear,’ I sighed.
‘Where did you get the boxes?’ Thea asked. ‘How long have you been back?’
‘Two hours. Supermarket.’ He didn’t smile at us. The male, jealous of the females spending time together.
‘We’re dying for some tea,’ Thea said. ‘We couldn’t find anything drinkable at the Fair, so we came straight back. Ariadne did ever so well. She sold nearly everything.’
‘You’ll have to light the gaz, then,’ he panted, carrying a pile of books to one of the boxes. ‘I can’t stop this now. We’re running out of time as it is.’
Calmly, Thea produced a pot of tea while I tried to help Phil. I knew better than he did where everything was. I pulled open some drawers, and found tablecoths and napkins. ‘These are Victorian,’ I said. ‘Hand embroidered and hemmed. They’re worth a bit.’
‘Does anybody use tablecloths these days?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, but they like genuine old table linen.’
He sighed. ‘There’s far more here than I expected. More of everything. I don’t remember her having all these books, for a start.’
I sat down, holding a beautiful cloth on my lap. It was big enough for a ten-foot dining table, the embroidered centrepiece a glorious business of trailing ivy leaves and bright flowers and berries. ‘There’s something horrible about the way a person’s things outlive them, isn’t there?’ I said, thinking again of Gaynor. ‘They just become so much jumble, a burden to other people.’
‘Well, they could hardly have buried all this with her. Why didn’t she dispose of it while she was alive?’
I tried to imagine the pain and sadness that would come from doing any such thing. The precious possessions, imbued with memories, valued just because they’d spent so much time in your house – given away to uncaring recipients. Pawed over by cynical dealers, if you tried to sell them. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said. ‘How could she possibly have done anything like that? If you don’t want to do it, then call a house clearance person. But don’t criticise Helen. That’s well out of order.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a bucketful of it today, that’s all.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
I could see him hesitating, remembering my role in the murder investigation. He was suddenly wary, where before he’d just been his natural self. I pretended not to notice, keeping my eyes on his face, my expression only mildly curious.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘That’s the trouble. We’ve interviewed everybody we can think of, done every sort of forensic test.’ He stopped and looked away.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I said emboldened perhaps by Thea’s habit of facing things squarely. ‘If it was me who killed her, all along, you’ve just given me a nice bit of reassurance. Or maybe it’s a double bluff. You want me to drop my guard and give myself away.’
Phil revealed an internal struggle between the professional senior policeman and the human being. It looked to me as if there was a serious gulf between the two. Finally, he gave me a thin smile. ‘Your friend’s death is one of those cases that should never happen. It breaks all the usual rules.’
I laughed at that. ‘Isn’t that the whole thing about murder? It breaks the biggest rule of the lot.’
‘Huh!’ was all he said to that, but I was pleased that the human being was still at least partially alive.
Thea carried a tray through from the kitchen and began pouring tea. ‘We saw some people at the Fair,’ she said. ‘Oliver Grover, for a start.’
I was impressed at how well she was keeping up, remembering all the names and who everybody was.
Phil seemed to feel differently. He gave her a tolerant look. ‘Oh?’ he said.
‘Ariadne probably told you he was gay, didn’t she?’ Withou
t waiting for a reply, she romped on, bursting with importance. ‘Well, we saw him with a boyfriend. It’s the first time they’ve been out together as far as we know.’
Phil looked at me for elucidation.
‘Oliver Grover and Leslie Giddins,’ I said. ‘Definitely an item.’
Phil could hardly help being interested. ‘Oliver Grover?’ he repeated. ‘The chap Gaynor fancied?’
‘Right. As far as I know he’s never had a proper boyfriend. Nothing that’s lasted more than a few weeks. I know his gran, remember. I do for her, more or less as I did for Helen.’
Thea chuckled at this old-fashioned usage. ‘The lady wot does,’ she repeated. ‘It doesn’t seem like you at all.’
‘I’m in great demand, I’ll have you know. I get it from my mother. She works at the hospice.’
Thea ducked her chin in a gesture of admiration but said nothing.
Phil stuck to the point. ‘And Grover’s gran knows all about his love life, does she?’
I recalled Oliver’s look of alarm when he recognised me at the Fair. ‘No, not exactly, but she probably would if he took up with anybody seriously. She does know he’s gay. At least, I think she does.’ I couldn’t remember any actual reference to the subject between us in all the years I’d been caring for her. It was all by implication, subtle changes of tone, smiles and nods. ‘Yes, I’m sure she does,’ I repeated. ‘We just don’t talk about it.’
‘He’s a good grandson, they tell me.’
I didn’t bother to enquire who they were. ‘He’s okay. Not as good as some. After all, he pays me to do stuff he could actually do himself.’
‘Which suggests that he’s got his own life. Full-time job, the bridge club, other social activities. Time poor, cash rich, it strikes me.’
‘That’s about it,’ I agreed. ‘And Sally would rather have me than him doing some of the things. Changing sheets, washing her clothes, that sort of stuff.’
He looked at me appraisingly, probably thinking that a big strong female like me was hardly a more fitting carer than an effete grandson would be. Except Oliver wasn’t really effete. Less so than Leslie, anyway. Oliver had an air of confidence, an easy manner, and a well-proportioned body. No wonder, really, that Gaynor had been attracted to him.
Thea seemed gratified that her input had sparked so much discussion. ‘They were quite upset that we saw them,’ she added. ‘The Leslie chap’s married, you see.’
‘Except his wife’s left him,’ I corrected her. ‘Presumably because he came out to her and she couldn’t take it.’
‘We don’t know that he wanted her to. He might have asked her to go.’
‘Hang on.’ Phil held up a hand. ‘Stop speculating, both of you.’ He looked at me. ‘Thanks for the information,’ he said. ‘It might turn out to be useful.’ He didn’t sound as if he thought it would help in the slightest, which left me feeling both relieved and frustrated. I didn’t want Oliver to be the murderer, mainly because of the effect that would have on Sally. But I couldn’t think of anybody else who roused more suspicion. And I couldn’t get Oliver out of my mind. Random memories came back at me, including the exchanges we’d had about his homosexuality at the meeting on Saturday. Leslie had sat there, saying nothing, taking it all in. What if – and my heart started thumping at this point – what if my careless talk about Gaynor had aroused Leslie’s jealousy? What if he, like Ursula, believed Oliver might change and become what Gaynor wanted? After all, Leslie believed in the power of ritual and pagan prayer, more than any of us.
I considered sharing these thoughts with Phil before I went back to my own home, but he had clearly grown tired of his responsibilities for the evening. Thea had joined him on the sofa, snuggling up close, playing with his fingers. But she was too nice to risk embarrassing me by any further demonstrations. I knew I ought to leave them alone for some time together, but there was still more to say. I drew breath to spoil the romantic atmosphere yet again.
But Thea was ahead of me. ‘Don’t forget all that about Eddie What’s-his-name,’ she said. ‘We ought to tell him about it while you’re here.’ And get it over with, she might have added.
I took over. ‘We saw Pamela and Daphne,’ I said. ‘They’d just seen Eddie, who was looking at a pony as if he might buy it.’
‘Eddie Yeo,’ Phil repeated quietly.
‘You know him?’ Thea asked.
‘Right,’ he said tightly. ‘I do know Eddie Yeo.’ He looked at me. ‘And you do too, don’t you, Mary?’
He obviously hadn’t noticed what he’d said, and I was feeling too weary to snarl at him again, so I let it go. Thea pretended not to have noticed anything.
‘Yes, I know Eddie Yeo,’ I said. ‘He was in the same Lodge as you.’
Thea gave an exaggerated sigh, as if to say, Not the bloody Masons again. I cut across her, again hoping to save her from having to tell him herself.
‘He was with a woman,’ I said, trying to alert him by my tone. I think, actually, it was Thea going rigid at his side rather than my voice that put him on his guard.
‘Oh?’ he said.
‘Phil – Eddie Yeo was with Caroline,’ I said. ‘She was in his car.’
He did not react at all except to turn a shade paler. Anybody could see that his ex-wife’s name was occurring far too much for comfort in the last day or so. But his brain was obviously firing perfectly.
‘So?’ he said. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
I left soon afterwards, almost dragging myself across the street. It couldn’t have just been the Fair that had worn me out. It was also the emotional upheavals of the whole week catching up with me. And on top of everything else, Phil Hollis had to call me Mary!
First thing next morning, I went to see Arabella, taking another bagful of apples, carrots and boiled potatoes as a peace offering. Her next litter was due in three weeks, and she needed to be well fed before she farrowed. It was awful timing, in any case, and I was not optimistic that the piglets would survive if the weather turned cold. Sometimes I felt that ownership of a breeding sow was one obligation too many. I neglected her shamefully, poor thing.
The coppice where she lived was only accessed on foot or by tractor for the last quarter of a mile. It was a solitary life for her and I’d considered keeping a daughter from the next litter, so she would at least have company. But it was all very vague. She couldn’t stay where she was indefinitely and probably the bother of finding somewhere else to keep her would be the final straw. The big decision then would be whether to eat her or try to find her a new home.
Part of the appeal of paganism for me was the acceptance that it was fine to eat meat – but only if you involved yourself in every stage of the process. This came as such a major stumbling block for many that they became vegetarians rather than assist in the slaughter and butchering of animals they knew personally. The morally unacceptable path of allowing others to sanitise the whole business was not an option, or so we insisted in our group. To purchase a bloodless pack of supermarket meat was regarded as the act of a coward. Some years ago, I had arranged for us all to attend the killing of a bullock, owned by my father. Normally, he sent his beef animals to the abattoir like anybody else, and off they went into the food chain, to finish up in Sainsbury’s or Marks & Spencer. But I had prevailed upon him to make an exception for one particularly fine Hereford, who I had helped to rear from a calf. I called him Gregory.
The butcher came in a van with his pistol and sharp knives, and I forced everyone to watch as Gregory was almost instantly transformed into four very large quarters of beef, plus a hide that two men could hardly lift. His head, feet and intestines were left for my father to dispose of. The group stood at a short distance, transfixed by the reflexive kicking as the muscles seemed to deny that the animal was indeed dead. The butcher calmly assured them that this was illusory, but I didn’t blame them for their anguished scepticism.
Since the catastrophe of BSE, of course, it had become virtually ille
gal to kill your own animals and to invite a crowd of onlookers might not be regarded as wise. The butcher himself was unimpressed by having an audience. Somebody would talk, he worried, and there’d be all kinds of trouble. But by that time, years after the peak of the BSE crisis – which had in any case turned out to be an appalling over-reaction – the rules were relaxing and I warned everyone not to say much about the experience to their friends and relations.
They talked about it for ages afterwards. For some it was almost the biggest thing that had ever happened to them. They felt proud of themselves for having confronted death in all its redness. I, of course, felt even more pleased with myself. It had been my animal, my idea. I remembered talking about it in the context of human death, as well, claiming that it was just the same, whatever species you belonged to – a thought some found comforting and some disturbing.
Arabella accepted my offerings with due enthusiasm, enduring a lot of ear-scratching and brow-rubbing with placidity. She was always quite gentle with me and I saw her as trusting that the world was essentially benign and would provide for all her basic needs. A small stream ran through the coppice, which she had diverted slightly to make a mud wallow for herself. Once the weather turned cooler, she stopped using it, preferring to lie in the ark I had provided for her – not without some logistical difficulty. I knew where her limits were, all the same. I would not venture inside the ark, for one thing. Such territorial impropriety might well strain her patience. I wouldn’t enter into a direct fight with her, either. When I wanted her to go through a certain gateway or into a trailer, I led her with a bucket of food. She weighed three or four times as much as I did, and her muscles were prodigious. Even if she didn’t bite me with her jagged tearing teeth, she could knock me flat without a second thought.
I stayed twenty minutes or so, inspecting the fences, talking to the pig as I made a circuit of her domain. The straightforward simplicity of it came as a great relief after the jangled emotions of human business.
