Eggs would be more nourishing, she decided, and embarked on the task of preparing them, startled to see that it was almost one o’clock. The events of the day swam in and out of focus – several people had been in the house since she got up. The first one, Ralph Callendar, seemed a very distant memory now. What had he wanted? Had he been pretending to be nice and caring about her flu, when all along he was a murderer? The idea seemed laughable. So did any notion of Juliet being a killer. She’d have given herself away instantly, splashed with bloodstains or still holding the weapon. Unless, of course, her appalled mother had quickly concealed all such traces and persuaded her daughter to say nothing at all about Natasha, or where she was on Saturday afternoon. And what about Dennis Ireland, who now became a sinister figure with his expensive waistcoat and faintly odd reaction to seeing Cheryl in the Shepherds’ house? He might quite easily have done the deed himself. Perhaps he had been madly in love with the woman, and been rejected when he tried to replace Callendar in her affections? Perhaps he so profoundly disapproved of her liaison with the married man that he had flipped when she gave the funeral party so publicly.
The eggs were somewhat overcooked, but they went down fairly easily. She drank some cold milk with them, imagining herself as an Edwardian child doing Nanny’s bidding and taking wholesome food that would boost her energy. It was a new discovery that being ill returned a person to childhood, even when there was nobody there to nurse you. You became your own nurse, recapturing old injunctions that went back through generations, even if you hadn’t personally experienced them before. ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever’ had been echoing in her head for days. So had the slightly crazy controversy as to whether a person with a high temperature should be kept warm, or stripped of all bedcovers and encouraged to cool down. It was not an argument Thea had ever really engaged with, but she recalled Carl, her husband, insisting that nature knew best, and when the body got hot, it was for a reason, and so the sensible course was to go with it and pile on the blankets. It had seemed to work on the occasions when Jessica was poorly.
She did feel marginally better after eating the eggs. She addressed the two dogs – who had watched every mouthful – in a more cheerful tone. ‘Let’s go outside, then, shall we?’ She opened the back door and led them into the garden. Hepzie was unenthusiastic, sniffing under the dry red stalks of a dogwood bush. Blondie went down to her far corner and raised her head for a long careful listen to whatever might be happening in the village beyond. All Thea could hear was car engines, faint voices and a plane overhead. This was not proper exercise by any standards. The garden wasn’t large and neither dog showed any inclination to romp. But it was December, midwinter, and no animal could expect long sessions of enjoyment in the open air. Sheep would be glumly gathered behind hedges, rabbits would be hunkering in their burrows. Hedgehogs went to sleep for months on end. ‘It’s the best you can hope for, just now,’ she told her charges. ‘Sorry. But at least you can stay out here for a bit.’
Then Blondie’s sharp ears angled forward and she barked one short note. Thea had heard nothing, but with due attention she caught the sound of raised voices in the street the other side of the house. One was female and sounded urgent. ‘What’s going on?’ she wondered aloud.
She left the dogs and went back through the house to look out of the living room window. An altercation was taking place barely three feet away, between a middle-aged woman and a younger man. Thea recognised the woman by her dark glasses and long chin – it was Marian Callendar, last seen in the funeral limousine on Friday afternoon. The man was most likely one of her sons who had been in the same car, Thea guessed, although she couldn’t identify him from the glimpse she’d had of him. ‘Don’t try to stop me,’ the woman said shrilly. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It most certainly is,’ he argued, and grabbed at her arm.
If the mullioned window had been double-glazed, it would have been harder to hear what they said. As it was, there was no difficulty. Furthermore, the woman caught sight of the eavesdropper and paused in her struggles. ‘Seen enough?’ she shouted, right into Thea’s face. It was the sort of thing people said in Eastenders, but this was a smartly dressed woman, widow of a wealthy businessman, with a pure BBC accent. Thea grimaced her embarrassment and withdrew into the room.
‘No! Come out here,’ the woman ordered. ‘Let’s have a proper look at you.’
Mrs Callendar was also a magistrate, Thea remembered, accustomed to giving orders to delinquent youths and befuddled drunkards. On shaking legs she obeyed the order, slowly pulling the front door open and stepping into the street. In Stanton there were few proper pavements, and this house had the scantiest of boundaries between itself and the thoroughfare. No kerbs or yellow lines, simply a semicircular flower bed in winter dormancy, under the window. Passing traffic had to be trusted not to drive over it.
‘Where’s Gloria Shepherd?’ demanded the woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘She’s away. I’m house-sitting for her.’
‘Name?’
‘Thea Osborne.’
Behind her, both dogs had come to the door. Blondie now emerged and went directly to Marian Callendar, giving her pseudo-snarl that was really a smile. The woman squawked exaggeratedly and backed away. ‘Hold that dog! It’s going to bite me.’
Any respect or sympathy Thea might have had for her instantly evaporated. People who behaved stupidly with dogs had always been on her list of candidates for the firing squad. She told herself it was fine to be intolerant of intolerance and clung to her position unless an individual could give rock-solid justification for theirs. ‘She’s not going to bite you, you fool,’ she snapped. ‘Blondie, darling, come here.’ The Alsatian did her bidding with a canine shrug, that said I was only being friendly. Thea smiled understandingly and patted the big white head. The poor dog must have spent its whole life being misunderstood. The behaviour classes that Cheryl Bagshawe had mentioned had almost certainly not been at all necessary.
‘Mother, can we go now?’ said the man, who had hovered uncertainly to one side. Thea diagnosed him as another dog-unfriendly nuisance.
‘We’re not going until somebody lets me into this house.’ She pointed at Natasha Ainsworth’s erstwhile home. ‘There are things of mine in there that I want to reclaim.’
Thea knew she had a chance to retreat. She could gather up the dogs and firmly shut herself back into the house she was meant to be looking after. But the scene she had been dragged into was far too interesting for that. And the chilly air seemed to be clearing her head slightly. She looked to the man for the next move. He obliged with a valiant effort. ‘You can’t. You, of all people, must know that. It’s a sealed crime scene. See the tape? You know what that means. What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he finished in exasperation.
Thea wondered why nobody else had emerged from nearby houses to see what the noise was about. Probably they were all watching from their windows, remaining in the shadows rather more successfully than Thea had done. She focused on what the woman had said. Who did she think would let her into the house? There was no sign of any police people, who were the only ones likely to have such authority. ‘There’s nobody here to let you in,’ she said aloud.
‘Haven’t you got a key? Being next door, I’d think you would.’
‘Not as far as I know. And this man’s right. It’s a crime scene. Nobody can go past that tape.’
‘“This man” is my son, Edwin. He’s been treating me like a lunatic ever since … well, you don’t want to know all our business. It’s nothing to do with you.’
Rudeness from another person always gave Thea a little thrill, which she had recently worked out was because she was occasionally inclined that way herself. Discovering that other people could commit the same sort of indiscretion came as a kind of reassurance. ‘You’re quite right,’ she nodded. ‘Although, you did bring me out here.’
‘Only because you were snooping at us through the net curtains.’
‘I heard shouting. It was only natural to come and see what was going on. Especially as there was a violent murder here only yesterday.’
Marian Callendar subsided so completely it was like watching a balloon burst. One minute it was all round and colourful and buoyant, the next it was a limp rag, and you never quite caught the moment of transition. ‘Murder,’ she repeated with a shudder. ‘Such an awful word.’
She was a lunatic, Thea decided, with a glance at the son. He met her eye impassively, as if afraid to give anything away. But his mother was also a pillar of the community, a school governor and suffering from leukaemia. She did also have some excuse for erratic behaviour, given the events of the past week or two. Thea could find nothing to say that would be safe, so she clamped her lips shut, and wrapped her arms around herself. She was out in the cold without a coat. Medical advice had been to stay in the warm; she had every reason to leave the Callendars to their own messy lives. But she did want to see what happened next.
‘Mother, we have to go,’ bleated Edwin. ‘Half the village are going to be out here soon, wondering what the noise is about. There’s nothing of yours at Natasha’s, anyway. I can’t think why you ever had such an idea.’
‘Yes there is,’ hissed the woman. ‘What would you know about it? For a start, she had half my CDs. He kept “borrowing” them without asking, and then listening to them with her. Stupid man.’
‘For God’s sake – he’s dead. Have a bit of respect.’
‘I know he is. And I want my music back. I put up with a lot from your father, but I don’t see why I should let some house clearance people take what’s mine. What’s so crazy about that? Just tell me—’ She whirled round to look at Thea. ‘Tell me what’s wrong with that, will you?’
‘Nothing,’ stammered Thea. ‘Sounds reasonable to me. Except you still won’t be allowed in there, even with a good reason.’
The dark glasses had been an impediment from the start. Unable to see the woman’s eyes made it impossible to fully assess her mental state. Except, of course, the very fact of shades in December suggested something awry. Presumably they were intended to hide signs of weeping from the public gaze, but even if she had been crying at some point during the day, she certainly wasn’t doing so now. Or could it be something medical, like oversensitivity to light, Thea wondered. Something associated with the leukaemia? There had been a time when she might have asked outright, but her new resolve to be less confrontational and inquisitive was still holding good.
Edwin was giving her a grateful look, which she found slightly pathetic. This was brother to Ralph, son of the man who died in his bath. Neither of them betrayed much in the way of grief for their father – but Thea knew from her own experience that feelings could be concealed all too easily. Beneath the competence and composure a morass of acute suffering could be lurking. The British way was to keep calm and carry on, even when your lifelong partner died suddenly and left you floundering. Drew often talked of his admiration for the way bereaved people behaved in this society, the quiet, dignified stoicism making his job a lot easier than in some places around the world.
‘I’m sorry about your father,’ she said to Edwin, out of the blue. She could not pretend to herself that this was a simple statement of condolence. She knew it was intended to prompt some sort of disclosure, some further information that she had no right to. ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’
He nodded briefly and returned his attention to his mother. Okay, Thea told herself. Just leave it alone, will you? She took a step towards the open door of the house. It would be dark in another hour or two. She would try to find something watchable on TV and think about something trivial. She might phone Jessica and see whether she was at Jocelyn’s yet. She would tell the story of her car and conceal the fact of her flu.
But social interaction had not yet finished, rather to her annoyance. Before she could get inside and close the door, another person appeared. Dennis Ireland had all too obviously been listening to the exchanges in the street and now came out of his own house, with a half smile. ‘Hello again,’ he said, nodding vaguely at her. ‘Everything all right, is it?’
‘I thought you were going away,’ Thea frowned. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’
‘Change of plan.’ He made a little face of self-reproach. ‘Hadn’t taken my good sister’s priorities fully into account, and jumped the gun. Families, eh!’ He twinkled at the two Callendars, who were standing close together a few inches from the police tape across Natasha Ainsworth’s house.
‘Did you hear what we were saying?’ Marian challenged him. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
‘I heard raised voices, that’s all. It’s a quiet street, as you can see. Incidents such as we’ve had this weekend are severely upsetting. Everyone’s nervous. To be honest, I’m rather glad to be delaying my departure, under the circumstances. One never knows what predations might take place in one’s absence, you see.’ He glanced at Thea as if expecting endorsement of his words. ‘Besides, the local constabulary have asked me to keep an eye on this young lady, who never bargained for such goings-on, I’m sure.’
Thea winced inwardly. Here was at least one Cotswolds resident who had no idea of her reputation, then. Neither, come to that, did the Callendars appear to know anything about her. Perhaps she was much less famous than she’d come to suspect.
‘Does your sister live with you?’ she asked, needing as always to understand as much as she could of people’s domestic arrangements.
‘Heaven forbid!’ he cried, with much more drama than necessary. ‘No, she’s in Lower Swell – which is still too close for comfort. There’s more than a touch of the Gargery woman about our Elspeth, let me tell you. Just as Sebastian Callendar is a dead ringer for Steerforth. Different book, of course.’
Something had happened to the man, Thea was beginning to realise, through the haze of her flu. Either he’d been sampling the Christmas sherry, or had received some good news. He was much more buoyant than the last time she’d seen him. Most likely it was the reprieve his sister had given him. ‘So are you here for Christmas, then?’
‘Ah – no. Sadly not. It seems I stand little chance of escape, although I continue to hope for a miracle. We have another sister, you see, in Edgware, who insists on the ritual gathering of the clan every year. Nine of us, at least. It’s torture.’ He laughed grimly. ‘There are twin grandchildren who will be three by now. A desperate age, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Nobody took him up on this. His prattle was rapidly being perceived as crass and inappropriate. Marian Callendar evidently came to this conclusion at the same moment as Thea did. ‘A woman has been killed here,’ she said starchily. ‘Show some respect.’
Her son gasped audibly at this turnaround. Thea almost laughed. ‘Come on, Mother,’ said Edwin, taking hold of her arm. ‘This is ludicrous. We can ask the police to arrange for you to collect your things in a day or two. Nothing’s going to happen to a few CDs, is it? We’ll go back and sort out some more of Dad’s paperwork. Ralph might come over to lend a hand. There’s plenty to do.’
Marian looked at Dennis. ‘The Gargery woman,’ she said slowly. ‘You mean the one in Great Expectations?’
The man nodded. ‘Same sinewy forearms.’
‘I always thought Natasha was like the Dartle woman. Same martyred air of injury.’
‘You can’t beat Dickens for capturing a character, can you? They stay in your mind for life.’
‘They do,’ she agreed. There was a shared sigh, as the two people retreated from reality for a few moments, into a world of Victorian fiction where everything turned out right in the end.
Chapter Nine
The sense of being stuck in a Dickens novel persisted as Thea finally shut herself back inside the Shepherds’ house. Out in the village there were flickering lights in some of the windows, and winter birds were collecting on the trees behind the houses, forming sinister black clusters. She pulled the curtains across, knowing i
t wouldn’t be long before the daylight fully faded. The dogs were restless, pottering up and down the hall, their nails clicking on the tiles.
Her flu was becoming a familiar companion; the headache a background constant that made thinking difficult. She felt heavy and tired and shivery. The people outside had diverted her for twenty minutes or so, their oddness increasing as she listened to them. Perhaps her own condition had exaggerated this. Perhaps she had only imagined some of the things they said, some of the faces they made. She didn’t know who ‘the Dartle woman’ was, and only very faintly remembered the one from Great Expectations. It was rude of people to exchange literary references like that. People in Stanton were proving to be quite rude, she concluded. Even Cheryl and her impossible dog had been pretty direct on first acquaintance.
She should phone Jessica. It would take some energy and concentration to find the phone, press the right keys, make rational conversation. First she had to locate her bag, which occupied a few minutes. It was upstairs in the bedroom, and coming back down the stairs proved painful for her knees. They refused to bend properly, and hurt when forced. But it was eventually accomplished and her daughter responded quickly. ‘Hi, Mum!’ she chirped. ‘How’s things?’
‘Not bad,’ came the careful reply. ‘One or two glitches.’
‘Oh?’
‘My car, mainly. I put the wrong fuel in it and it died on me. I don’t know when I’ll get it back.’ Uttering these words engendered a sharp pang of anxiety, which she found shockingly disabling. What if it was another three or four days before she was mobile? She would run out of milk and bread before then.
Trouble in the Cotswolds (The Cotswold Mysteries) Page 11
