Death in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  Which led me to the conclusion that I ought to go and see her flat. Except that of course I did not have a key. And the police might well have sealed it up, after crawling over it for clues. So I’d have to ask Phil Hollis, wouldn’t I?

  He was not there; I could see by the absence of his car. Poor old Thea must be stranded yet again with all those dogs, even more trapped than she would have been as a house-sitter. At least then she’d have had wheels. I was surprised she hadn’t come knocking at my door when she saw – and she surely must have done – that I had come back from seeing Stella. It would be an act of kindness to go over and chat to her.

  She didn’t answer the door, but there was a lot of barking from the back, so I walked round and found her in the garden. It was the last hour of daylight, and not particularly warm, but she was sitting there on Helen’s old wrought-iron bench, wearing my jumper and writing on a pad of paper. The dogs were all romping wildly on the lawn, rolling each other over and making snarling sounds that I hoped were merely playful.

  Thea didn’t notice me for several seconds. When she did, she took a few more seconds to focus on my face and remember who I was. ‘Oh! Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I was writing a letter.’

  ‘With a pen!’ I exclaimed jokily.

  She grinned. ‘I know. But we’re already living in the Dark Ages here, with no power, so it seemed appropriate. I didn’t like to light the lamps so early, so I came out here, hoping I’d be able to see better.’

  I looked at the sky. ‘And can you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. My eyes adjusted very easily.’

  I couldn’t think what to say next, aware that she would report all of it straight to Phil. Despite her friendliness I felt distanced, not only from her but everyone else I knew. The taint of having been the person who had found Gaynor’s body seemed to get worse with each day. I could hear in my mind’s ear people muttering about it and reviewing the relationship I’d had with Gaynor. Plenty of people must have heard me snap impatiently at her now and then. They must have seen me as a bossy domineering character to Gaynor’s soft and meek personality. After all, I was about eight inches taller and four stone heavier than her. We must have looked odd together. In the malleable material that was most people’s minds, I could easily be transformed into a vicious murderer, I had no doubt.

  ‘I’m writing to my sister, actually,’ said Thea. ‘Normally I would email her, but I didn’t bring the computer with me.’

  ‘No. You said.’ Was life so impossible these days, I wondered, without a computer readily to hand? ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Near Bristol. She’s called Jocelyn. Have you got sisters?’

  ‘Three brothers.’ It was bland stuff, with no discernible subtext. I had no patience for it. ‘Did Phil say any more about Eddie Yeo after I’d gone?’

  ‘A bit. The Caroline thing’s rather awkward.’

  She seemed reluctant to talk about the murder, and I suspected that Phil had told her not to. The thought made me angry. ‘It’s nearly a week already,’ I burst out. ‘And they haven’t got anywhere at all, have they? I’m supposed to be sorting out Gaynor’s things, arranging her funeral. How much longer are they going to keep everything in limbo?’

  She shook her head gently. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘All I know is that it’s been a wasted week for me, as well.’

  Despite the soft tone, I could hear disappointment and worse. ‘Are you going home, then?’ I asked. ‘Are you supposed to be somewhere on Monday?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. But Phil is officially back at work then, so there’s no point in staying here.’

  I cocked my head. ‘What’s the difference? I mean, he’s working anyway, isn’t he? And Cold Aston is a lot closer to the centre of things than Cirencester. He’s still got the flat there, I suppose?’

  Thea nodded. ‘About two minutes from the police station. I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I don’t think he has, either. It would be nice to stay here a few more days. Especially with the dogs. They like it here.’

  All three dogs looked at her, understanding the word. She devoted several seconds to smiling at them in that dopey fond way some people have. The animals smiled back at her. Sickening.

  ‘Sounds like a good idea, then,’ I summed up.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Have you got things you need to be doing next week?’

  I thought about it. ‘The big thing at the moment is Samhain, really. I need to talk it over with the group, if they’re still speaking to me after I missed their special meeting the other night. I got waylaid by Sally Grover and never made it. I haven’t heard whether anything was decided. We were going to use the Barrow – you knew that, I suppose. Now the police might not let us in. And I’m not sure…’ I realised I might not be able to go back to the Barrow without a major personal struggle. The memory of Gaynor’s cold curled body would be all too vivid.

  ‘What happens in the rituals?’ she asked. ‘I hardly know anything about it.’

  ‘They focus on the turn of the seasons,’ I explained. ‘The onset of winter, and the death of the sun. Other deaths, as well. People used to slaughter the surplus beasts and salt down the meat for the cold months. And burning – they’d burn all the rubbish that had mounted up over the summer. Then they’d have to make sure there was enough fuel to see them through. Firewood and peat. Old people would sometimes go off and die, knowing they’d be too big a burden on the family. It’s the season of death,’ I finished, not having answered her question.

  She had given me her full attention as I spoke. ‘That fits with Bonfire Night,’ she realised. ‘Nothing to do with Guy Fawkes, after all.’

  ‘I think two things came together. That often happens. Like All Saints and All Souls. It sounds like mainstream Church stuff, but it’s really not at all. Samhain is the time when the other world nudges up close to this. You can feel the presence of the dead.’

  She pouted sceptically. ‘Isn’t that just because of the fog and the first frosts?’

  ‘If you like,’ I said. ‘I’m not trying to convince you of anything – just explaining what we believe.’ It felt like old ground. Hadn’t I already said much of this to her? Perhaps not, since she was listening so intently.

  ‘And you really believe that, do you?’

  ‘I know,’ I said, trying to keep it light. ‘It isn’t actually belief in anything. It’s my real experience.’ In spite of myself, my tone intensified. ‘I live it, every day.’

  She smiled. ‘You sound like a born-again Christian.’

  ‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I sound like somebody who has a true faith. It doesn’t matter what it is, only that it goes right down to your marrow. When you find something that works, the language tends to be the same across the board.’ I heard myself with some relief. On Sunday, hadn’t I snapped at Kenneth that I did in fact doubt the sense or usefulness of our convictions? It seemed I had got back on course, almost without realising it.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, rather faintly. ‘I see.’

  It was obvious that she didn’t, and in spite of what I’d said, I was niggled by that. ‘The rituals are mainly symbolic,’ I went on. ‘We use masks, which you can interpret in all sorts of ways. The usual explanation is that there are demons and goblins abroad at Samhain and they try to snatch your soul. If you’re wearing a mask, they won’t get you.’

  ‘Very sophisticated,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t think.’

  ‘I agree, actually,’ I said. ‘But masks are powerful, just the same. As I often say, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. You become somebody totally different to everyone around you, while keeping your own self safe and secret, behind the mask. Anyway, that’s one thing we do. And we practise divination, plus some singing and dancing. Apart from anything else, it’s very liberating. None of the usual daily things matter. It’s just the big stuff.’

  Thea said nothing for a little while, then s
he said, ‘Big stuff like death, you mean.’

  ‘Right,’ I sighed.

  She left another silence before asking, ‘And you’ll go ahead with it all, as planned, will you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I’ll have to speak to the others.’

  It was getting dark, and the dogs obviously wanted to go back into the house. We heard a car come up the quiet village street, and stop outside the front of Greenhaven. ‘Phil,’ we said, simultaneously. Just like wives and sisters and daughters had done for centuries, we put aside our own lives to go and greet the homecoming male. It never even occurred to me to stand back and let Thea have first contact. I followed her through the back door, only inches behind.

  I’d expected her to give him a hug and a kiss, while I waited for the crumbs of a smile and a nod. Instead he almost ignored his girlfriend and looked straight at me. ‘Ariadne, I want you to come with me,’ he said, his voice strained and harsh.

  ‘What? Why?’ I stuttered.

  He looked at Thea then. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know she’d be here. I was going to explain to you first, then fetch her.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her voice steady. She was such an adult. I would have whinged and sulked if it had been me.

  ‘There’s been another killing. We’ve got another body at the Barrow.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was Verona, of the chilling laugh and high ambition. Phil did not take me to the Barrow or ask me to identify the body. That had all been done hours ago. They had found her just after midday, when I had been looking at another body in the Northleach chapel belonging to Brown Brothers, undertakers. Stella could give me an alibi if I needed one, I thought wildly.

  Instead, I was escorted back to the police station in Cirencester, and handed over yet again to DI Baldwin. ‘Routine questions, that’s all,’ said Phil, in the car. ‘Nobody thinks it was you who did it.’

  ‘So why can’t you talk to me at home?’ I demanded. ‘Why do I have to be dragged here all over again?’

  ‘It’s the way we do things,’ was all he would say.

  Baldwin was with another constable, this time a man. He was tall and thin and fair, and I didn’t even try to catch his name.

  ‘Tell us all you can think of about Miss Farebrother,’ Baldwin said. A tape recorder sat on the table, and he showed no intention of taking notes. Over-reliance on technology, I thought with disapproval. Never a good idea.

  ‘About thirty-two or -three. Lives alone in Moreton, works in Gloucester, running her own business as a food distributor. A real high flyer. Probably lots of rivals,’ I added, rather to Baldwin’s irritation, to judge by his face. I ploughed on. ‘She has a sister – possibly more than one – who lives not far away. I forget where, but it might come back to me. She’s quiet, clever, self-possessed.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  I sighed. ‘It must have been Monday morning. She came to my house, to see how I was when she heard about Gaynor. And before that was Saturday evening. She was at the moot. I told you at my previous interview.’

  Baldwin nodded, and flipped back through some notes in front of him. ‘And what links her to Gaynor Lewis?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Except they were both killed at the Notgrove Barrow, and left in the same position, at the same spot.’

  ‘Weren’t you guarding it?’ I burst out. ‘Wasn’t it under police surveillance or something?’

  ‘We’d put a tape across the entrance,’ he said stiffly.

  I snorted. There was nothing to be said.

  They stuck to the point. ‘You knew them both,’ he said softly. ‘That’s a link.’

  I felt chilled. Was everybody I knew going to be picked off, one by one?

  ‘They were both young, single, childless women. Both of a quiet disposition, with few friends.’ Baldwin was tapping the desk lightly as he drew each comparison. ‘And both unlikely to be too sorely missed,’ he added.

  It was true. Verona’s minimal family had hardly seen her, to my knowledge, for years. She didn’t talk about them. Like Gaynor, she seemed happy with her own company.

  ‘You’re saying the murderer thought they were expendable?’ I said. ‘As if that might be some kind of justification, in his own eyes?’

  He met my gaze. ‘Am I saying that?’ he wondered. ‘Or have you just jumped to that conclusion?’

  I couldn’t think of a reply that would sound even remotely coherent. My mind was full of an image of some sinister hooded figure with a grudge against harmless women. One murder was ghastly, two were terrifying.

  Then another idea took root. ‘And me,’ I blurted. ‘I’m another one, aren’t I?’

  He just sat there, pushing his face forward slightly, inviting me to finish the thought. ‘The description fits me, as well.’

  ‘Does it?’ If I’d hoped for reassurance, I was doomed to disappointment. ‘And that scares you?’

  ‘Of course it does.’ I laughed shakily. ‘Although it seems daft. I mean – what possible reason could there be? Besides,’ I added, ‘I’m much bigger than either of them.’ It was stupid, but did in part identify a major way in which I felt different from either Gaynor or Verona. Maybe it was just me, but I’d always felt I had to make allowances for small women, as if they were slightly defective or inadequate. Walking along beside Gaynor, I had felt myself to be the normal one, and she the undersized runt. Although it wasn’t like that with Thea, I noted. Thea, who was even smaller than Gaynor, but somehow had a big aura, filling more space than her actual body did.

  Baldwin didn’t take me up on it, didn’t refer to this as a point against me. Bigger, and stronger and in possession of several knitting needles – lots of points against me, in the eyes of the police. Except that anyone who knew anything about knitting might realise I never used anything smaller than a 4mm pair of needles.

  Phil drove me home again, saying little in the face of my hyped-up condition. I couldn’t conceal my excitement, fuelled no doubt by adrenaline, at the abrupt descent into notoriety. ‘The papers will be full of it,’ I burbled. ‘Serial killer in tranquil Cotswolds. Knitting needle killer stalks the wold. You’ll be under terrible pressure to catch him.’

  ‘Who told you Verona was killed by a knitting needle?’ he asked tightly.

  In a TV murder mystery this would have been the giveaway moment. The last persuasive piece in the jigsaw that had me locked up awaiting trial. And it was a good question, to which I had no credible answer. ‘I just assumed,’ I said. ‘Everything else was the same – you told me that. Besides,’ I ventured a little laugh, ‘there’s a partner to the first one out there somewhere. They come in pairs, you know.’

  ‘You amaze me, you really do,’ he said crossly. He had said it to me before, when I’d been flippant at a moment when he’d wanted to be serious. I’d joked a lot about Freemasons, for a start. And when his daughter died, I’d tried to keep him going with a robust approach that must have jarred against all the tiptoeing around and embarrassed words of sympathy.

  ‘But you like me,’ I said. ‘Admit it.’

  ‘I don’t like you calling yourself Ariadne,’ he said, turning to look at me for two whole seconds. ‘I think it’s daft.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You think paganism’s daft, as well. The two go together. Who asked you, anyway?’

  Phil Hollis was a Detective Superintendent. That’s quite a senior position. He had a lot of people working under him and a terrifying amount of responsibility. He’d moved out of the realm of ordinariness where people routinely addressed him as an equal. He had few genuine friends – at least when I knew him – his wife had gone and married someone else and the path of his new love wasn’t running very smoothly. I felt fairly safe in assuming that my straight talking came as quite a blast of fresh air. I might even go so far as to believe I held a unique place in his life. Someone who had known him from his late teens, seen h
im through a lot of ups and downs, and had been closely connected to his aunt. I knew the secrets, not just about the Masonic fiasco, but one or two more shameful events. I’d always had a habit of being there when things happened to Phil Hollis.

  A car very often generates a kind of telepathy when two people are riding inside it. He read my thoughts pretty accurately, it seemed. ‘Why are you always there?’ he asked. ‘It’s like having a stalker.’ He said it resignedly, with a tiny hint of satisfaction, even.

  ‘I don’t do it on purpose,’ I said. ‘Not any more. I grew out of you a long time ago.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ He looked at me again.

  ‘You know what it means. It’s changed, over the years. It started as one thing, when I was about twelve, and evolved into what it is now. But there’s something that hasn’t changed. I know you, Phil – maybe better than anyone.’

  ‘And do you trust me?’

  I hadn’t expected that. I watched the road, trying to find the answer. ‘More or less,’ I said, eventually. ‘Although I’m not so sure you trust me. You might think I’m the killer, even now.’

  ‘I think you’re centrally involved in whatever’s happening here. And even if you’re not, you’re my best point of entry into the community. You know everybody, after all.’

  ‘It’s not a community, not as it’s normally meant. People have more intimate relationships with their computers than they do with each other.’