Trouble in the Cotswolds (The Cotswold Mysteries)

by Tope, Rebecca

  ‘Now I remember. He’s a womaniser, as well. Dennis Ireland says he’s like Steerforth, I think that was the name. But talking of shunning, they shunned Ralph because he’s had flu, and his mother was scared to catch it. She’s got leukaemia, so her immunity’s rubbish.’

  ‘What? Who told you that?’

  She paused. ‘Ralph. He said she had poor immunity, because she’d had a mild form of leukaemia for two years. Why – isn’t it true?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it. But then we don’t generally investigate a person’s medical records, unless there’s a good reason. She’s still working. It can’t be very bad.’

  ‘Maybe she’s in remission or something. But surely she’d have to tell the court people about it? If she’s that worried about catching things, she’d make sure nobody sneezed on her during a hearing.’

  ‘So who else have you met since you got here? Any other likely murderers?’

  ‘Only Dennis Ireland. He was lurking about yesterday afternoon. You’ll have a statement from him, probably. He was amongst the people who broke in and found Natasha. There could have been a feud between them, and he waited until the Shepherds were out of the way before attacking her.’

  ‘And a woman called Bagshawe, right? She was in the house with you when it happened.’

  ‘Cheryl, yes. With a Great Dane.’ Thea shuddered. ‘Thank goodness Hepzie didn’t tear his ear off as well. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Cheryl. She’s fairly formidable.’

  ‘Who is she? Where does she live?’

  ‘You’ll have her in your system – she made a statement yesterday, as well. She’s going away today – probably gone by now. I know virtually nothing about her, but she said she lives in Stanway. That seemed a bit odd to me, actually, because there are hardly any houses in Stanway, are there? She wrote it down for me somewhere, but I don’t remember where I put it.’

  ‘Um …’ Gladwin had lived in the Cotswolds for less than two years, and could be forgiven for gaps in her knowledge about some of the villages. ‘Stanway House,’ she hazarded. ‘With that big orange gate affair. Cottages. Farms. Is the Great Dane woman a farmer?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘She probably lives in Wood Stanway, then. There are several houses down there.’

  Thea thought about it. ‘There’s a place called Wood Stanway? I had no idea.’

  ‘There is, and if she’s in the system, we’ll have her address. I’ve been focusing mainly on the family so far. They have every reason to dislike Ms Ainsworth, under the circumstances. Except—’

  ‘Don’t tell me – none of them will admit to anything of the sort. She was a beloved old family friend, and it was fine with them if their dad had a thing with her.’

  ‘More or less. Hard to believe, of course.’

  Thea veered off the subject ‘Do you know a Dickens character called Dartle?’

  Gladwin showed no discomposure at this, but answered quite readily, ‘Rosa Dartle? In David Copperfield? Same as Steerforth – what’s all this Dickens stuff about, Thea?’

  ‘It seems to be a sort of game the locals like to play. What was Rosa Dartle like?’

  ‘Oh, heavens. Now you’re asking. Let me think. She sat by the fireplace, and had a nasty scar down her face. Steerforth did it when he was a boy, and she made a big thing of forgiving him. Except that really she made him suffer agonies of guilt for it, all his life. That’s amazing – I had no idea I knew so much. Mind you, I always did love David Copperfield.’

  ‘I must confess I’ve never read it. She sounds rather nasty.’

  ‘I still don’t get what she might have to do with anything?’

  ‘Dennis Ireland said Natasha Ainsworth was like her. And his sister is like the Gargery woman in Great Expectations. And Sebastian Callendar is Steerforth. I think Dennis was mostly just showing off. I thought it was a bit rude, quite honestly.’

  ‘If Natasha was like Rosa Dartle, does that mean that somebody did her a great injury, years ago, and that person has now killed her, just to get her off his back? Was the Ireland man trying to say that Sebastian Callendar did it?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ snapped Thea. ‘No good asking me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m just thinking aloud.’

  ‘It would make sense for it to be one of the sons,’ said Thea with a rush of confidence. ‘That would fit the Rosa thing perfectly. They knew Natasha when they were little. Did Steerforth murder Rosa Dartle, by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He seduced Little Em’ly and she emigrated to Australia. He was quite a bad ’un. What does Dennis Ireland know about it, anyway?’

  ‘Rosa …’ Thea repeated. ‘Juliet Wilson’s mother is called Rosa. What a coincidence!’

  Beside her, Blondie squeaked in a clear protest at being ignored. Thea turned to pacify her. ‘Not long now, old girl. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Is it bleeding again?’ asked Gladwin. ‘I don’t really want blood on the seats, although it wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be. She’s shaking it, though. What if she starts scratching at it?’

  ‘You’ll have to stop her. Don’t be so useless, Thea. It’s not like you.’

  ‘I haven’t had to deal with a dog this size before. She’s bound to be stronger than me if it comes to a disagreement.’

  ‘We’ll be there in a minute, so stop fussing.’

  They were approaching the complicated junction just before Stow, and Thea began to worry about what happened next. ‘Are you sure I’ll get a taxi? Will they take Blondie as well?’

  ‘The vet might keep her in.’

  ‘Surely not! It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. They wouldn’t do that. And how would I collect her again, without a car? Oh God.’ She slumped in the seat, and put both hands to her head. ‘My head hurts,’ she whimpered.

  ‘So does Blondie’s, I expect.’ She zigzagged through the traffic lights, and in another minute was pulling up outside a building that she evidently already knew. ‘They’re good in here. We’ve used them a few times.’

  ‘Personally or professionally?’

  ‘Both. There was a very nasty business with a horse, just a few weeks ago …’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ begged Thea.

  Gladwin laughed and turned off the engine. ‘I’ll help you get her out of the car and then you’re on your own. Call me tomorrow and tell me how you got on.’

  ‘Thanks, Sonia,’ said Thea miserably. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve given me some very helpful insights, as usual.’ She had driven away before Thea could say anything. She could not imagine what the woman meant.

  Chapter Ten

  The vet deftly cleaned and stitched the Alsatian’s torn ear, using a local anaesthetic and a sedative. The dog behaved impeccably throughout. ‘Give her half an hour to get back on her feet and then you can go,’ Thea was told.

  ‘I’ll have to call a taxi,’ she said apologetically. ‘Do you know one who’d take me and the dog?’

  The young man pursed his lips, as if this was by no means a reasonable request. ‘First we have to do the paperwork,’ he said. ‘How do you want to pay?’

  Payment had not occurred to Thea until then. If this was the vet that the Shepherds routinely used, perhaps they had an account and the cost could be dealt with when they came home. But Thea knew that she herself would have to find the money sooner or later. By any standards the injury had been her fault, and she would have to shoulder all the responsibility. ‘How much is it?’ she asked.

  The man sighed. ‘I’ll have to put it all through the computer. We need to go back to basics – your name and address, and so forth. Normally the secretary would do it, of course.’

  ‘But she’s not here,’ Thea stated the obvious.

  Between them they satisfied the computer’s craving for irrelevant information, and a final sum was displayed at the bottom of a lengthy column of services, extras and tax. It was almost tw
o hundred pounds. ‘Thank goodness you don’t want to keep her in overnight,’ said Thea with a gulp. ‘I’ll have to use a credit card.’

  ‘I’ll want to see her again at the end of the week,’ said the man. ‘And let me know meantime if there are any problems. She ought to wear a collar to stop her scratching it. Have you got one?’

  ‘You mean those awful plastic cone things? No, of course I haven’t.’

  ‘I’ll get one, then,’ he said with an air of martyrdom. ‘You can have it on loan. Bring it back when you come next time.’

  Not once had he remarked on how ill she was looking, or expressed any concern for her being alone at Christmas with an injured dog. She knew she was pale and clammy and could scarcely drag herself about. But nobody cared. Even Gladwin had been hurtfully lacking in sympathy. The prospect of struggling back to Stanton with Blondie was taking on the quality of a trek across the Himalayas. ‘Taxi?’ she reminded the vet.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said unhelpfully.

  ‘Come on,’ she pleaded. ‘There must be a card somewhere – everybody has cards for minicabs pinned up. Your customers must have to use them sometimes.’

  He shrugged, and then – finally – he really looked at her. ‘Where is it again? Where do you have to go?’

  ‘Stanton. It’s not very far.’

  ‘You’re in luck, then. I’ve got to go to Broadway this evening. Oh, and there’s something I should drop in at a farm in Wood Stanway. I’ll give you a lift. You don’t look awfully well.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Thank you.’ She almost wept on him. ‘Things always seem so much worse when it’s dark, don’t they?’

  It wasn’t yet five o’clock, but outside it was definitely night already. She stroked Blondie’s thick white coat and found that she was actually weeping. The dog was so well behaved, so beautiful and misunderstood, that sadness washed uncompromisingly through her. Why was it, she wondered fiercely, that almost every dog she met gave cause for worry, guilt or grief? Did she displace onto animals emotions that rightfully belonged to human beings? She suspected that was the judgement of a lot of people around her. She ought to be shocked and outraged by the killing of Natasha Ainsworth, instead of mooning uselessly over a damaged pet. She wiped her eyes with her hand and hoped the vet hadn’t noticed. ‘We’ll just wait quietly for a bit, shall we?’ she asked. ‘Until she’s ready to go?’

  He nodded. ‘I have to go back upstairs and get ready. But you can’t stay in here.’ He looked round at shelves of drugs, hypodermics, scalpels, and other dangerous veterinary materials and winced. ‘It’s not allowed. You’ll have to go into the waiting room. I’m afraid it’s a bit cold.’

  ‘What about Blondie?’ The room had no soft surfaces on which a dog might comfortably lie.

  ‘Take her with you. You can keep each other warm.’

  She forced a smile. He was doing his best, having obviously drawn the short straw and been dubbed the emergency vet for the Christmas period. Although, if he lived over the surgery, this must be a regular obligation, she presumed. He struck her as single, on the basis of very little evidence. Still in his twenties, with bad skin and poor people skills, she couldn’t see that he’d readily find a girlfriend. But what did she know about him? He was nifty with a suturing needle and did possess a warm heart somewhere, it seemed.

  Then it turned out that he had no way of taking her credit card payment. ‘The stuff’s all locked down for the night,’ he said. ‘And I’m not sure how to use it, anyway. We’ll have to trust you.’

  Thea just nodded, thinking vaguely that her finances would be in great disarray for the next few weeks, with this and the bill for her car. It did not seem to matter in the least.

  The vet drove a big estate car, with the rear section full of plastic boxes, rubber garments and long boots. Blondie was helped onto the back seat where she slumped dazedly and again Thea squashed in beside her. The dog was yet to have the unpleasant plastic collar fitted. Privately, Thea had already resolved not to use it if it could be avoided. She couldn’t imagine how any creature could sleep wearing such a horrid thing. Surely she wouldn’t scratch at her ear once she realised the painful consequences.

  At the crossroads by the statue of St George they turned left, where a sign said ‘Didbrook Wood Stanway’. Thea had automatically assumed that it led to a place called Didbrook Wood, and perhaps a smaller part of Stanway.

  ‘Oh – it’s Wood Stanway,’ she realised aloud. ‘I never knew there was a separate village of that name.’

  ‘It’s very small. A couple of farms and six or seven houses. The road peters out and just turns into a farm track.’

  She peered ahead down the dark lane, seeing no sign of habitation. They took a left fork, and the vet drew up beside a gateway beyond which she could make out a big Dutch barn with its curved roof. ‘I’ll be three minutes maximum,’ he said. ‘It’s just some antibiotics they need for lambing. It all starts at the end of the week.’

  ‘No rush,’ she said comfortably.

  They were parked near a triangular patch of grass in which was planted a post with indistinct footpath signs. Faint light from the farmhouse windows made it visible. Just as Thea was imagining life inside the scattered houses, all doors closed firmly against the early onset of darkness, a figure hurried towards her. She assumed it was coming to speak to her – perhaps suspicious of a strange car, or even recognising it and wanting a word with the vet.

  But instead, the person stopped at the post, and began to attach a white sheet of paper to it. Awkwardly, with a torch gripped under one elbow, she tied string around the upright, both at the head and the foot of the notice. As the beam wavered erratically, Thea caught enough detail to recognise Cheryl Bagshawe. Her conversation with Gladwin came back to her, with this confirmation that the woman really did live in Wood Stanway, as suggested. Cheryl and her Great Dane lived here, in a tiny hamlet that nobody knew about. Even walkers on whatever footpath it might be would probably not register where they were unless they kept a very firm eye on a map.

  She shrank down in the seat, hoping to go unseen. The attaching of the notice was quickly completed, and Cheryl disappeared the way she had come. The vet appeared half a minute later, and got quickly into the car.

  ‘Have you got a torch?’ Thea asked him.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t need it. It’s not so dark as all that.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Probably under your feet. I tend to keep it down there, so I can grab it quickly.’

  She fumbled on the floor of the car and found a substantial Maglite against the hump running down the middle of the floor. ‘Can you wait just a minute?’ she asked. ‘I want to see what that notice says.’ She was out of the car before he could respond, shining the light on Cheryl’s notice.

  The main part was printed in large bold capitals, and occupied five lines. CONTRARY TO PREVIOUS INFORMATION, IT IS NOW DEFINITELY CONFIRMED THAT THERE WILL BE A PERMANENT DIVERSION TO THIS PATH IN OPERATION FROM JANUARY 1ST. Below was a map and grid references to indicate the route of the diversion.

  ‘How boring,’ muttered Thea, and got back into the car.

  The road from Stanway to Stanton, between the huge old trees, with no lights showing on either side, seemed distinctly sinister. There was a mist, for good measure. ‘Rain tomorrow,’ said the vet. ‘And all over Christmas.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’ll ruin the atmosphere, won’t it?’ She felt inane, inarticulate. Her head was pounding, and she could think of nothing whatever to look forward to. Just a long, miserable winter ahead, once she had survived another week at Stanton. What did she care if it rained? What difference would it make?

  ‘Stanton’s where that woman got killed yesterday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right. In the house next to where I am, actually. I never met her, though. It looks like a family thing. At least …’ She wasn’t equal to the task of explaining the unorthodox arrangements of the Callendars. It wasn’t her business, anyway.

  ‘Fa
mily? I thought she didn’t have any family.’

  ‘Oh. You know who she was, then?’

  ‘Sort of. My mother’s in some club that she was in.’

  ‘A book club?’ Thea hazarded.

  ‘No, no. It’s a fundraising outfit for sick horses.’

  ‘Is your mother a vet?’

  ‘Actually, yes – sort of. She’s in research, now. All very leading-edge stuff. She knew Callendar quite well. His company sponsors some of her work.’

  Thea knew that if her mind had been functioning properly, she would grasp all these connections and make a pattern out of them. Something medical to do with Callendar snagged at her. ‘What exactly did Mr Callendar do?’ she asked.

  ‘He ran a business that transports urgent medical supplies for animals. Semen for horses, as well. And blood for transfusions. There are a whole lot of new developments in animal medicine. They’re talking about organ transplants, last I heard.’ He spoke carelessly, as if the subject was only marginally interesting. ‘Not my sort of line at all,’ he added. ‘Horses are my least favourite of all the things I deal with. Reaction against my mother, I expect. She’s obsessed with them – same as Natasha was.’

  Thea was relieved to have her niggling curiosity satisfied. ‘I saw it in the paper. Callendar Logistics. I wish they’d stop using that word.’

  ‘It’s “Solutions” that gets me,’ he laughed. ‘I suppose the people who first thought them up felt so pleased with themselves. They ought to get royalties every time a new business uses one or other of them.’

  ‘This is me,’ said Thea suddenly. They had almost passed the Shepherds’ house, in their belatedly absorbing conversation. ‘Thanks ever so much.’

  ‘I’ll help you get the dog out. She’ll be woozy for the rest of the evening. Don’t forget the collar.’

  ‘Do we have to? They seem such cruel things. How is she supposed to sleep wearing the horrible thing?’

  ‘I know they’re awful, but I’m required to recommend it. You can probably leave it for tonight, with her being so zonked with the painkillers, and see how she is tomorrow. You’ll have to keep a close eye on her and definitely put it on if she scratches at the ear.’