by Rebecca Tope
Shadows in the Cotswolds
REBECCA TOPE
Dedicated to
my long-suffering offspring-in-law –
Andrea and Gareth
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Copyright
Author's Note
The layout of Winchcombe is very much as described in this story, but some liberties have been taken with the lower end of Vineyard Street, Castle Street and the former Silk Mill building, for which I hope I will be forgiven. The main house and all the characters are products of my imagination.
Prologue
‘Thea? Hello? It’s me.’
‘Yes, Mum, I know. Where are you? It’s an awful line.’
‘I’m in the churchyard, so I can’t shout. I know it’s dreadful of me to be using a phone here, but I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Dad’s grave?’ Thea could visualise the whole scene. ‘Have they put the stone up?’
‘That’s why I’m phoning. They did it last week – at last. You’d think they could have made the effort to get it done in time for the anniversary. As it is, they’re a month late.’
‘I can’t come and see it yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Why can’t you? What are you doing?’
The answer was too complicated for a breathy mobile conversation. ‘I’m busy,’ was all she said. Her mother would give her the benefit of any doubt, accepting her second daughter’s unpredictable lifestyle with a reasonably good grace. The knowledge that the truth was a long way from the claimed busyness made Thea feel guilty. In reality, she had very little to do for the foreseeable future. She was in fact busy being bored and depressed, with none of the traditional September sense of bracing new beginnings. The onset of autumn was not something she anticipated with any relish at all.
‘Phone me again when you get home and we’ll have a proper talk,’ she said. ‘And see if you can make your phone take a photo of the headstone. Then you can send it to me.’
Her mother snorted. ‘I can do that quite easily,’ she said. ‘Damien showed me how, ages ago.’
The second phone call came at seven that evening, after a perfect picture of her father’s memorial had come through. Its tardiness could not really be blamed on the stonemasons: the family had taken months to decide on the wording. Her father had been dead a year, and everybody still felt the loss in their own distinctive ways.
‘Me again,’ chirped her mother. ‘Did you get the photo?’
‘It’s lovely. Dad would have been very impressed.’
‘You really must go and see it. Are you off on one of your house-sitting jaunts again? It’s been a while now, hasn’t it?’
‘Five weeks. It’s not unusual to have that sort of gap. But actually – no, there’s nothing in the diary until November. I’m busy with stuff here.’
‘Decorating?’ came the hopeful reply. ‘Not before time. You neglect that poor little house.’
‘More the garden, really. I decided to give it a facelift. It’s a huge project.’
‘You know, darling, I think you need to consider finding a more reliable job. I don’t want to interfere, but really, this house-sitting isn’t going to go on for ever, is it?’
‘It suits me.’
‘I can’t imagine why. But listen … I wasn’t sure whether I should tell you this, but I do know a man in Winchcombe who’s wanting somebody to mind his house for a fortnight. Starting this weekend.’
A man in Winchcombe sounded like something her mother would never in a million years be acquainted with. ‘Who is he?’
‘Oh, that’s a long story. He’s called Meadows. Oliver Meadows.’ She said the name in a tone of familiarity, as if it had been coming to her lips daily for decades.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Thea crossly. Her mother ought not to be having male friends without her knowledge. It went against the natural order of things.
‘I really know his brother, not him. Fraser, he’s called. He got in touch with me a while ago, on the email. He found me on Facebook.’ Her mother giggled complacently. ‘We had lots of nice chats, and I told him about you, and he said his brother needed a house-sitter. I wasn’t going to ask you, but somehow …’
Your tongue ran ahead of your brain, as usual, Thea thought. ‘It sounds very peculiar,’ she prevaricated, already bewildered as to which brother was which. Did she want to spend a fortnight in Winchcombe at three days’ notice? She looked to her spaniel for enlightenment. Hepzie was managing their boredom considerably better than her mistress was, and gave a small contented tail-wag.
‘It’s not in the least peculiar,’ sniffed her mother. ‘The man has a big wild garden full of birds, apparently, and wants somebody to keep up the food supplies for them. And fend off cats and things that might kill them, I suppose. He’s a photographer, so it’s not just a hobby. He does pictures of the birds for books.’
‘I hardly know Winchcombe.’ In her imagination it was a large town, very different from the little villages she normally frequented. She remembered something ecclesiastical in its history, and glimpses of medieval streets of heart-stopping beauty.
‘It’s lovely. Sudeley Castle is right there. Surely you’ve been to it? At least the gardens.’
‘I fear not. Are you sure he wants somebody at such short notice? What would he have done if you hadn’t said anything to me?’
‘I have no idea. Asked a neighbour, cut short his holiday, left the birds to fend for themselves – I don’t know. But he’s happy to pay the usual rate, and it seems as if you’re interested – despite being so busy,’ she finished sarcastically. ‘Let me give you his phone number. There’s a chance he’s already found somebody else, of course.’
Chapter One
Oliver Meadows had not found anybody else, and after a disconcertingly brief telephone conversation with him, Thea wended her way across the uplands of the eastern Cotswolds and through the heart of the region towards Winchcombe in the west, on the following Saturday morning. The weather was bright and balmy, the roads uncluttered, and the long undulations of the final miles brought to mind the endless unpredictability of the area. She was on the little road from Guiting Power that led crookedly past Sudeley Farm and then instantly into the heart of Winchcombe, which was nowhere near as large as she’d imagined, and even more beautiful.
The road narrowed impossibly as she approached the junction with the town’s main street, forcing traffic to be patient and polite as drivers took their turn to negotiate the junction. It was a steep hill up to the high street, and there was space for only one vehicle at a time, with high old buildings crowding in on
either side. One was a big pub, the White Hart, she noticed. A large black car was waiting to turn down into the street, which would be impossible until Thea got out of the way. The potential for genuine logjam was plain; all it would take was one impatient driver, or a learner stalling their car on the hill. But everyone seemed cheerfully content to give way and wait for things to sort themselves out. Thea turned left, wondering just how forbearing the drivers would have been if she’d tried to go the other way. She crawled along, hoping she’d remembered Oliver’s directions accurately. The town square (which was in fact a long thin rectangle) was full of parked cars, and a white van was obstructing the way ahead. This gave Thea time to look round and try to get a feel for the place – a first impression that she knew from past experience would colour her reaction to Winchcombe from that point on.
To her right was a long featureless wall and a generous pavement. The wall reminded her of the way Snowshill Manor sat invisibly in the heart of the village behind a similar stone barrier. But here in Winchcombe there was merely the ghost of an abbey that had once been of immense importance. That much she knew from her history. Now it looked to be nothing more than a park with large trees and uninviting gates. The eye was drawn back to the buildings and relative bustle on the opposite side. As she manoeuvred around the white van, she saw Vineyard Street a short way to the left, with a sign to Sudeley Castle. That was her destination and she turned down it with a feeling of relief that at least the first hurdle had been overcome. Getting lost in the Cotswolds lanes was a perpetual faint anxiety, although in reality it had very seldom happened. The local authority was blessedly generous with signs, which helped a lot.
Vineyard Street was wide and probably lovely, if she had been able to see past the throngs of cars packed on either side. There were also trees concealing the detail of the houses. A few yards ahead was a stone bridge, just as Oliver had said, and she accomplished the final approach without mishap.
It was far from customary for Thea to feel uneasy as she approached a new house-sitting commission. And yet here she was, her head swarming with worries. The instructions told her to turn left into a disused farmyard. The house, named Thistledown, was to be found beyond the yard, with its own short track and minimal parking area. That much had come easily, but she was still tense. It had all happened too quickly, with no time to get into the right mood. Normally she had weeks or months in which to prepare for a house-sit. She would consult maps and history books and plan some walks and visits. The fact that events all too often sent such plans into oblivion was neither here nor there.
She had, for the first time, agreed to do the job without her usual preliminary visit, which she knew was risky. She was relying on her mother’s recommendation, which felt anything but solid. The tenuous link with another Meadows, whose role in her mother’s life she still did not remotely understand, was perplexing. ‘But who is he?’ she had demanded.
‘He was a boyfriend of mine, before I met your father,’ came the unsatisfactory reply.
‘But Mum – that must have been fifty years ago,’ Thea had protested.
‘Yes. Isn’t life strange? He remembers all sorts of things that I have absolutely no recollection of.’
‘And vice versa, I expect.’
‘What? Oh, I’m not sure about that. His memory seems to be a great deal better than mine.’
There was a shadow of embarrassment in the whole situation. Mothers ought not to discover long-forgotten boyfriends. It was hard to see how any good could come of it.
‘Where does he live?’
‘He’s staying with his daughter at the moment, because he’s just come back from Australia. He went there when he was thirty-five, and now he’s decided he wants to spend his final years in England.’
‘Isn’t the daughter Australian, then? Why is she here?’
Her mother had sighed noisily. ‘Why so many questions? If you must know, the wife brought the child back here, after ten years of marriage. Fraser stayed in Perth, because he liked it there and had a good job. He married again, but that wife died after only a year. So now he wants to get to know his grandchildren. Is that clear enough for you?’
Thea thought of her mother’s handsome Oxfordshire house, where she lived alone, and wondered whether this Fraser might have unwholesome designs on it. The idea of her father being replaced in the bed and chair and garden shed gave her a sharp pang. ‘Has Damien met him?’ she asked. Her brother was now the acknowledged head of the family, to whose judgements his mother and sisters all deferred.
‘He has, actually,’ said her mother shortly. ‘And you’re soon to meet his brother, aren’t you?’
She met Oliver Meadows for precisely thirty-five minutes before he departed on his urgent business. He gave her no indication as to what that business might be, and offered no contact details. Thea inwardly sighed – too many people thought it was permissable to simply disappear into the blue, and leave their long-suffering house-sitter to deal with all the unforeseen events that very often transpired the moment their backs were turned.
‘It’s quite simple,’ he said. ‘You just have to maintain the feeding programme for the birds. I’ve written it all down here, look. And I’ve made a list of places you might like to go and see.’
Instead of reading the notes, she looked at him. He was tall and slightly stooped, aged somewhere in his mid seventies, with calm, slow movements. His gaze seemed to be focused at a considerable distance, so she never felt that he saw her at all. He did, however, see her dog. Somehow, nobody had told him about the dog. ‘That’s a dog,’ he said, when she walked up to his door with the spaniel at her heels.
‘I’m afraid it is. I always bring her with me. I assumed my mother would have told you.’
‘Does it chase birds?’
It was an awkward question. The dog was a cocker spaniel, so called because they had been bred from medieval times to pursue and catch woodcock. And woodcock were birds. Hepzibah, however, had seldom displayed very much of a genetic tendency to plunge aggressively into whatever habitat the modern version of woodcock frequented. She did, however, enjoy a hearty pursuit of waterfowl. She would sometimes dive into icy waters in futile efforts to catch a mallard or moorhen. ‘Oh no,’ Thea said. ‘She’s not the least bit interested in birds.’
‘Do you give me your solemn assurance of that?’
Experience suggested that it really was best to be honest, if at all possible. ‘She’s not entirely perfect with ducks,’ she confessed. ‘But otherwise, I can promise you she’ll be no trouble at all.’
‘Ducks,’ said the man thoughtfully. ‘There aren’t any ducks. I have been thinking of putting in a small lake, but it never happened. Perhaps when I get back …’
A small lake sounded ambitious. ‘How many acres are there?’ Thea asked.
‘Four and a half. I planted all the trees myself, twenty-five years ago. It was just open ground before that.’
‘Wow!’
They were standing on a small raised patio, a few steps up from the house, looking eastwards across a densely wooded area. Apparently, the birds were in amongst the trees, which were predominately silver birch, willow, and fir – fast-growing species that gave shelter to wildlife where none had been before. ‘Come and look,’ said Oliver Meadows, with a swift glance at his watch.
The property was situated immediately to the south of Winchcombe’s main street and roughly north of the grand edifice of Sudeley Castle. A little river bordered it on one side, and a generous swathe of allotments had been established just beyond the water course. The whole area was busy on this sunny Saturday, with visitors to Sudeley’s parklands, as well as the patchwork gardens dense with beans, cabbages and pumpkins. Both sides of the road were lined with parked cars, which Thea had been forced to negotiate as she located the approach to Oliver’s house. ‘There is a better way, from the back, but it’s too complicated to explain,’ he said impatiently.
The tour of the acres was rapid and bewildering
. In the middle of the woodland, quite invisible from outside, was a large hide, built from logs and thatched with bracken. Inside it had a cupboard full of peanuts, fat balls, mealworms and other food enjoyed by birds; a table; two high stools; a shelf containing binoculars and notebooks; and a large poster displaying all the finches that could be found in Britain. There was also an expensive-looking remote-controlled video camera positioned in the middle of the long viewing slit, which could swivel left and right to track birds as they visited the extensive feeding station ten feet away.
‘There’s no power out here,’ Oliver explained. ‘The camera runs on batteries. They have to be replaced every morning. So does the SD card.’
‘Is it going all the time?’
‘Ideally, yes. I don’t want to miss anything, but I can’t sit here the entire time.’
‘Of course not,’ said Thea, feeling relieved that she wasn’t expected to do so.
‘I understand that your mother would like to come and see the set-up while I’m away. I have no objection to that, so long as you take responsibility for her.’
The idea struck Thea as mildly comical, but she was careful to keep a straight face. ‘Let me show you the routines,’ he went on relentlessly, with another glance at his watch.
He took her outside and demonstrated the numerous tables, hooks, water bowls, and wire contraptions all intended to hold food for the birds. ‘Squirrels are a huge problem, of course,’ he sighed. ‘They can open almost anything, given time.’
‘I hope I don’t have to shoot them,’ she joked.
‘No, but there is a catapult in the hide, which you’re welcome to use. It does take a lot of practice, unfortunately.’
She wisely refrained from telling him that her spaniel was more than ready to chase a squirrel, given the chance. She had yet to succeed in catching one.
He led her down a little path to a sudden area of open ground, thronged with long grass and spikes of various meadow plants, long since gone to seed and stripped. It looked like almost half an acre in size. Thea could see a rickety gate at the far side. ‘This forms the boundary of my property,’ he said. ‘You can get out over there, on foot, and turn left to get into town. You come out in Castle Street, which leads into the high street. It’s a short, easy walk, if you want to pop out for some shopping.’
