by Rebecca Tope
He tried to imagine himself in his mother’s situation, with great difficulty. The major stumbling block was her assertion that somebody was dead. Without knowing who – or what – that was, nothing made the slightest sense. There had been an implication that she felt herself to be responsible in some way, or at least liable to be blamed. Everything appeared to have started with the mysterious parcel that both the Blackwoods obviously regarded as precious and important. Counting that item, the list of missing people and things amounted to three. ‘What next?’ Ant murmured to his attentive dog. A dog, he remembered, who had barely been outside the house all day.
‘Sorry, Perce. Just a quickie out in the garden for now. It’s too dark to go any further.’ He opened the front door, and let the animal wander out. The Frowses did not believe in picking up dog droppings, whether on their own premises or someone else’s. For years, Beverley had insisted that the plastic bags used to collect it caused far greater damage than a bit of muck walked into the house or car. Finally, she pointed out, the world was starting to agree with her.
Everything outside was quiet. The security lights had come on, as always, so Ant went around the house closing the curtains. He was still thinking hard, now including his oddly unconcerned father. A short while after he’d first reported Bev’s phone call, stressing the words about someone being dead, Digby had jumped into an extended and not entirely serious brainstorm to try to explain what she might have meant. ‘If there really is a dead person – and not a dog or cat or aged uncle – we’ll find out soon enough,’ he had concluded.
‘An uncle’s a person too,’ said Ant crossly. ‘And I don’t recall us having any of those.’
‘Oh, there’s sure to be one or two lurking in the woodpile. Didn’t Bev’s dad have a younger brother who went to the bad? He’d be an aged uncle by now.’
‘Should we go through her letter drawer and see what we can find? Has it got to that point yet?’
Digby had coughed, expressing his discomfort with this idea. He also went slightly red. ‘Better not,’ he said quickly. ‘She would really hate us doing that.’
Ant had still been in panic mode. ‘Dad, we ought to be doing more to find her. Aren’t you scared for her?’
His father gave this some thought. ‘Not scared exactly. Worried, confused – that sort of thing. It’s all too complicated for my simple mind.’
Ant was not fooled by that. Digby’s mind was far from simple. The whole day had felt unreliable, his father acting one role after another, with none of it striking Ant as genuine. The suspicion that Digby knew a great deal more than he was admitting came back repeatedly. Something had happened that Ant had missed – or, more likely, several things.
Blackwood getting himself lost as well was another point that kept niggling at him. There surely had to be a connection with Beverley. Carla must have been pretty panicked to swallow her disgust and come knocking on their door. It made Ant wonder what sort of sinister outfits Blackwood might be involved with. What if his mother had blundered into something really nasty?
Then he snorted at his own fanciful notions. Was he thinking of Russian spies? That Carla had links with some underground political goings-on, and Rufus had got on the wrong side of them, dragging Ant’s wretched mother with him somehow?
‘It’s not impossible,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Unlikely, though. And if there was any whiff of that kind of thing, the police would be onto it, and be taking us a whole lot more seriously.’
The recollection of the police brought another person to mind. The person he had already concluded was his only hope in this whole messy business. When Percy came back in, looking reproachful at the lack of a walk, Ant said aloud, ‘We’ll just have to hope that Thea Slocombe can get things moving for us, won’t we?’
Chapter Seven
Jessica took charge of bedtime that evening. She read a story, not very well, and Thea stayed downstairs with the dog, banging pans a bit in the kitchen. ‘It’s so funny without Daddy here,’ said Stephanie. ‘Usually it’s Thea who goes away. I can’t remember a time when he’s been out all night.’
‘Must be his turn, then.’
‘I suppose. I don’t like it, though. Did Thea go away a lot when you were my age?’
Jessica gave this some thought. ‘Not really. We used to all go together, visiting my grandparents and uncles and aunts. And we had some nice holidays. My dad loved wide open spaces, like the Yorkshire Dales and Dartmoor. He really wanted us to sleep in a tent, but Mum was never very keen on that. We did it once or twice, but it rained and was quite miserable.’
‘Thea always knows what’s the best thing to do,’ said Stephanie, as if this was an obvious truth. ‘And she’s very brave.’
‘Is she?’
‘Oh, yes. She stays in houses where somebody’s just been murdered, and she goes round asking people questions, and gets stranded in the snow. All sorts of things like that, and it always turns out right for her.’
‘She’s been lucky. She should be more careful now she’s got you Slocombes to think about.’
‘Mm. It seems a bit unfair, though, having to think about us when she wants to be having adventures. And Dad doesn’t really get it sometimes. He thinks all he has to do is make enough money, so he sits in his office when he could be cooking or something. He leaves all the house stuff to her, and she doesn’t like it.’
‘Why doesn’t she tell him, then?’
‘Maybe because it sounds like moaning. And anyway, he’s been better lately. Ever since she came back and cried all over him, in the summer holidays.’
Jessica did not request further details, but got off the bed and leant down to kiss her little stepsister. ‘Christmas Eve tomorrow,’ she said, as if the idea was every bit as magical and amazing to her as it was to Stephanie. ‘Night night, kiddo.’
Just before she eventually fell asleep – which took much longer than usual − Stephanie remembered the man she had seen, with the gun that looked as if he had a third leg. Half asleep, she saw him again, much larger than life-size, pointing his gun through the bedroom window at her. The muffled cry she gave went unnoticed by Thea and Jessica downstairs, but she heard Hepzie give a sympathetic little yelp. That was enough to reassure her and she sank into a dreamless sleep.
‘They’re in Sheffield!’ Thea announced next morning, staring at her phone in disbelief. ‘At least, they were when Drew sent this. They got there at eight-thirty last night, in spite of dreadfully slow traffic. It’s a hundred and fifteen miles. They’ll be halfway to Durham by now.’ It was nearly nine o’clock; they had got up shamefully slowly. But now they bustled through breakfast.
‘Are you telling us you’ve only just picked up his text?’ Jessica asked accusingly. ‘If it’d been me, I’d have checked it at 7 a.m.’
‘I was up till nearly midnight, I’ll have you know. I didn’t open my eyes until half past eight.’
‘Oh, well – none of my business, I guess. Where did they stay the night?’
‘Holiday Inn. Forty-five pounds. All perfectly easy, apparently.’
‘Is Timmy okay?’ asked Stephanie.
‘Presumably,’ Thea told her. ‘He’s probably having a brilliant time. Now who’s going to walk the dog?’
Jessica and Stephanie took Hepzie out into the chilly morning, where everything was very quiet and still. A dove cooed somewhere and a plane hummed high in the sky, but there was no sound of human activity. ‘Gosh, this place is weird,’ said Jessica, not for the first time. ‘Where are all the people?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Stephanie vaguely. ‘Which way shall we go?’
‘The field, I suppose. She can run free there.’
‘She can run free anywhere. She’s very sensible.’
They turned right at the front gate and followed the narrow lane to the point where it simply stopped at the edge of a field. A characterful old house marked the final navigable point, with a sturdy Land Rover Discovery parked outside to prove it. The field had
been shaved late in the year, the grass now thin and patchy with outcrops of small stones all across it. ‘They made hay here in the summer,’ said Stephanie. ‘We watched them cutting it.’
‘Probably due to be ploughed soon,’ said Jessica, uncertainly. ‘I used to know all this stuff, but I’ve forgotten most of it. My dad used to take me for long walks, showing me all the plants and different sorts of corn. His grandfather was a farmer, about a hundred years ago.’
‘Your dad died, didn’t he?’
‘Right. You knew that already. Five years ago now, or nearly. Seems ages. He was a really nice man.’
‘Like my dad, then.’
‘A bit like him, yes. My mother seems to have a taste for a particular kind of man. She likes the quiet type, no rages or sudden passions. Steady, I suppose. Reliable. Not especially adventurous.’
The word boring hovered in Stephanie’s acute mental ear. ‘Thea’s very adventurous,’ she said, echoing the previous evening’s conversation. ‘She likes it when things get exciting.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ said Jessica carefully. ‘Didn’t we say all this last night?’
That felt like a put-down to Stephanie. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not all of it.’
‘We’d never manage all of it. There’s a quote – something about containing multitudes. A poem, I think. It’s true, though. One single person is fantastically complicated. And we never properly understand each other.’ She sighed. ‘And that makes life very difficult a lot of the time.’
‘Yes,’ said Stephanie warily. ‘I don’t think Daddy understands Thea very well, sometimes.’
‘I expect they’re fine, really. They’re a good fit. They seem to know what they’re doing. Not like me. I’ve been pathetic in my choice of men.’ She gave Stephanie’s hand a little shake. ‘But you don’t want to hear about my problems. I’m hoping I’ll know better another time.’
‘Boyfriend trouble,’ said Stephanie, hoping she sounded understanding and sympathetic, while aware that they were on dangerous ground.
‘Not any more,’ said Jessica. ‘All that’s behind me now.’
The spaniel was running aimlessly around the edge of the field, pausing to sniff at the wintry undergrowth, her plumy tail slowly wagging. Jessica watched her with a nostalgic little smile. ‘I remember when Mum first got her,’ she said. ‘She said it was a substitute for me, because I was doing my A-levels and would be leaving for college before long. My dad suggested a spaniel because he had one when he was young. He said they were the easiest of all dogs, because they didn’t have any vices.’
‘He was right. I wish she could have some puppies, though. I think puppies are brilliant.’
‘I imagine they’d be a lot of work. And it must be sad when they all go. Besides, wouldn’t you worry about them – wondering if the new people were being kind to them?’
Stephanie gave this some thought. ‘People are usually quite kind to their dogs,’ she concluded. ‘I think it’d be all right.’
‘Ah – such a trusting little soul,’ said Jessica with all the wisdom of a newly promoted police sergeant. ‘You should see some of the things I’ve seen. Except – no, you shouldn’t. Not until you’re at least twenty-one.’
They ambled after the dog, not saying very much more. Stephanie had a sense of holding in the delicious awareness that it was the day before Christmas. It was like having a lovely secret, or knowing something that everyone else had forgotten. The very air shimmered with it. She couldn’t remember spending so much time with Jessica before, having her all to herself. If Timmy was allowed to meet their mysterious grandmother, then she was going to find out all she could about their stepsister. It would keep things in balance.
They had walked around two sides of the big field, and were a quarter of the way along the third before Stephanie found the courage to ask, ‘So you haven’t got a boyfriend now?’
‘Didn’t I just tell you I haven’t?’ The tone was a lot less friendly than it had been three minutes before. ‘Has my mother been saying something about that?’
‘No, not at all. You … I mean, just now …’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s all right, Steph. I didn’t mean to snap. You touched a raw nerve, that’s all. I had some trouble, back in the summer. It’s all sorted now, no harm done. Nothing for you to worry about.’
Every word of which served to heighten Stephanie’s curiosity. ‘Tell me,’ she pleaded.
‘I can’t. You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I’m nearly twelve. That’s old enough.’
‘You’re still only eleven. Your father would kill me if I started talking about the sort of stuff that can happen when you’re daft enough to fall for the wrong man. Especially at Christmas. Ask me again when you’re about eighteen, and I promise I’ll fill you in on all the gory details. It’ll be a warning to you. I intend to do everything I can to stop you getting as hurt as I was. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.’
‘Oh.’ The world went a shade darker for a few minutes. Stephanie knew that people died, and that they sometimes actually killed each other. She knew that planes crashed and earthquakes happened, and there was an element of risk in everything you did. She knew that her own stepmother had been involved at close quarters with a lot of unpleasantness, often because she wilfully sought it out. But she hadn’t bargained for her own dear Jessica to be hurt by somebody she loved. That was definitely unfair.
‘I’ve said too much,’ Jessica realised. ‘Listen, Steph – don’t worry about it for a second. I’m fine now. Your dad and Timmy will be back tonight and we’ll have a fabulous Christmas. We’ll go back now and make some more mince pies or something. Mum’s never been much of a cook – we’ll have to make sure she does everything properly. She’s sure to need some last-minute shopping as well, which means we’ll have to use my car.’
Stephanie was gazing into the next field, which led into the further end of Chipping Campden, by the church. ‘There’s that man again,’ she said suddenly. ‘Look!’ She pointed to a figure at least two hundred yards away. ‘The one with the gun.’ Because he still looked as if he had three legs, as he had two days before.
‘What are you talking about?’ The morning sun was shining in Jessica’s eyes, and despite its December weakness, it was enough to dazzle her. ‘I can’t see anyone.’
‘Over there, look.’ The man was in silhouette, with a tall hedge behind him. He seemed to be turned away, offering only his back view. ‘By that holly tree.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jessica squinted. ‘I don’t think it’s a gun. It’s got some sort of bulge on the end. He’s waving it about in a funny way.’
‘I saw him the day before yesterday, when we’d just unloaded your car. I told you, but you didn’t take any notice.’
‘Did you? Hey – I know what it is! He’s got a metal detector. He’s looking for something under that hedge. Nothing to get alarmed about. He’s sure to have permission. And even if he hasn’t, it’s not much of a crime. Let’s leave him to get on with it.’
Not a gun – Stephanie felt relief and disappointment. And a flicker of interest, because metal detecting was actually quite exciting. What if he found a hoard of gold coins? After all, the Romans had been all over the Cotswolds – there could be loads of stuff still to discover. ‘I hope he finds something,’ she said, looking back as Jessica headed for the house. ‘That would make him happy for Christmas, wouldn’t it?’
‘Mm,’ said Jessica.
Stephanie gave one last backward look. Even from that distance, she was sure the man needed something to make him happy. He seemed sad to her. Or if not sad, then possibly bad. Something not very nice seemed to emanate from the slouching shoulders. She remembered the vision of the previous evening, when she had thought it was a gun, that he was pointing right at her through her bedroom window.
Shortly before Jessica and Stephanie set out for their walk, the body of Rufus Blackwood was found by the clichéd figure of a man walkin
g his dog. The dog had played no part in the drama, running right past the inert figure lying in the dead leaves without a second glance. The man, however, had been in little doubt as to what he was seeing, from a distance of fifty yards. He paused, aware that he was walking in a private woodland, where no footpaths allowed access to the general public. He liked it for that reason, and saw no good cause to stay out. But this would surely mark the end of his trespassing, and that was every bit as much of a shame as the fact that a man had died here.
He stood over the body, phone in hand, dog forgotten, and made himself take long, slow breaths. There was no obvious blood, but the deceased was lying on his side, with much of his front concealed. His head appeared to be undamaged. No knife was sticking out of his back. ‘Are you certain he’s dead?’ asked the woman at the end of the phone.
‘Completely,’ said the man. ‘His eyes are open and sort of cloudy.’
‘Can you feel a pulse on his neck?’
‘I’m sorry, dear, but I can assure you I’m not going to try. It’s quite obviously unnecessary. I would say he’s been dead for some time.’
He gave his name as William Turner, resident of Chipping Campden, aged seventy-four, owner of a sadly unintelligent Irish setter. He mentioned the dog because it seemed to him a significant part of the overall picture. He had at one point in his life worked as a hospital porter, and was a lot less affected than most people would be by the sight of a body in the woods on Christmas Eve. The knowledge that the woods had been for ever spoilt for him was still his primary preoccupation.
