Malice in the Cotswolds E-Book

Rebecca Tope

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Cotswold Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 434

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Thea Osborne, accompanied by her beloved spaniel Hepzie, has had her fair share of unfortunate occurrences while house-sitting, and her new assignment for the mysterious Yvonne Parker is no exception. The isolated and somewhat unsettling village of Snowshill, has Thea on edge as soon as she arrives, and Hyacinth House - her new, rather cluttered home - does nothing to dispel such feelings. Soon enough, her intuition in this case proves to be right, and once again Thea becomes entangled in another horrifying murder. Stevie Horsfall, a mischievous child from the village is found brutally strangled outside Hyacinth House, with his eccentric mother Gudrun as the prime suspect. Believing in Gudrun's innocence, Thea, alongside Sonia Gladwin and her friend Drew Slocombe, work together to uncover a sinister plot, where seemingly separate lives are intertwined with secretive and strange relationships. This malicious web of suspects leads Thea through the lives of the villagers and their secrets, to London and beyond.

Leseprobe

Malice in the Cotswolds

REBECCA TOPE

For my friend and travel companion Helen English. Also for Shirley Pick, reader extraordinary.

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapsAuthor’s NoteChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeAbout the AuthorBy Rebecca TopeCopyright

Author’s Note

As with other titles in this series, the action is based in a real village. Snowshill is largely as described, in particular where the pub and the Manor are concerned. But Hyacinth House and others close by have been invented. All characters are the product of my imagination.

Chapter One

Yvonne Parker, owner of Hyacinth House in Snowshill, had an out-of-control air about her, which made Thea want to protect and reassure her, as she apologised repeatedly for being such a nuisance. ‘I do hope you’ll be able to manage it all,’ Yvonne said, with a worried frown. ‘It seems such a lot to ask anybody to do. I hate leaving it. But—’

‘It’ll be absolutely fine,’ Thea insisted. ‘It really doesn’t sound too arduous.’

‘I suppose it’s just routine to you, this sort of work,’ said Yvonne wistfully. ‘But I’ve never left it like this before. It’s taken me all this time to get up the courage.’

Never before had this particular line been taken by a departing householder. Most of them had been blithely confident of the house-sitter’s abilities. Some had left exhaustive instructions, covering eventualities of every kind. A few had culpably failed to warn her of pitfalls. But nobody had yet expressed such reluctance to hand over the responsibility to her.

There was a girlishness to the woman, who had to be over fifty. Her blonde hair was obviously dyed, with occasional patches where the natural faded colour was still visible. There was puckered flesh at elbow and armpit, as she flapped her arms in explanation of the way her household worked. She wore a tight sleeveless top and cotton cut-off trousers, revealing pale mottled skin on her lower legs. Thea paid very close attention to everything Yvonne said and did, aware that every snippet of information could turn out to be of vital importance.

The Parker homestead comprised two beautiful young Burmese cats, a large garden and four placid-looking cows in a small field at the end of it. ‘They’re not mine, of course,’ said Yvonne. ‘They’re just here to eat the grass and have a bit of a rest. They’re dry.’ The cows were fat and docile, it seemed, awaiting their turn to give birth and rejoin the milking herd at a farm half a mile away. Yvonne’s easy reference to the cycles of dairy cattle suggested a long involvement with these and other animals. ‘If you think there’s a problem with the cows, call Pippa on this number, look. She’ll come over right away.’

Hyacinth House was modest in size and completely beautiful in appearance. It stood on the south-western edge of Snowshill, a village Thea scarcely knew at all. There was a famous manor house somewhere close by, but she had not yet located it, having only been to see Yvonne on a brief preliminary occasion, three weeks earlier. On that occasion she had found herself staring in disbelief at yet another achingly lovely Cotswold settlement. She had thought it impossible that she could still be stunned by the beauty of the old stone buildings and the way they seemed so carelessly scattered around a church, with a quirky pub for good measure. Snowshill had the same drunken sweeps as Duntisbourne Abbots; the same intriguing walls concealing large mansions as Blockley or Broad Campden – but its short uneven row of gabled houses to the west of the church easily vied with any of the other villages for sheer aesthetic glory. She looked forward to reading up on its history, and learning all about its own special features.

‘That sounds easy enough,’ she assured Mrs Parker, as they stood admiring the cows from the bottom of the garden. ‘And the cats probably won’t take much notice of me.’ She was deliberately putting emphasis on the least worrying part of her assignment, trying not to think about the greater responsibilities that lay within the house.

Yvonne glanced anxiously at Thea’s spaniel, which was nosing around the garden. ‘They’re not used to dogs,’ she said.

‘I won’t let her bother them. She’s very good in that respect.’

‘Of course, it’s the things you’ll be worrying about,’ said Yvonne, as if reading Thea’s mind.

Things was an understatement. The house was densely packed with ornaments, pictures, books, wall hangings, candles, bowls and much more. The ornaments were ceramic, wooden, stone and glass. A great many of them were made of glass. They were displayed on long shelves mostly, in the main living room. But many sat on low tables, window sills, mantelpieces, and on top of other furniture, not just in the living room, but all over the house. Everywhere Thea looked there were accumulations of Yvonne’s things.

The garden was similarly overstocked, with not an inch of bare ground to be seen – even the minute lawn grew lush and green. The colours were bright, if not positively gaudy. Reds, purples and vivid oranges ran riot. Thea could identify crocosmia, calendula, standard roses, lavatera, rampant geraniums – all in peak season in this, the last week of July.

‘Don’t worry about dusting anything,’ Yvonne pleaded. ‘It’s much too hazardous. I like to pretend I’m suffering from the Snowshill syndrome, if you know what that is. Have you been to the Manor?’

Thea shook her head. ‘No, but I do know a bit about it, and how it’s filled to bursting with some sort of eccentric collection. I’ll pay a visit while I’m here.’

‘It makes my stuff look quite modest,’ said Yvonne, with a rare smile. ‘Ten or twelve rooms, at least, all absolutely full of things from around the world. We think it’s wonderful.’

‘The village itself has a bit of a crammed feeling,’ Thea observed. ‘Houses pushed into small spaces, on all these strange levels. It’s even more chaotic than Blockley.’

‘Mmm.’ Yvonne’s attention had wandered, and she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave you in another twenty minutes or so, and I haven’t quite finished packing yet. Are you sure it’s going to be all right?’

Thea wondered uneasily whether news of her previous two years spent moving from one Cotswold village to another had filtered through to this woman. Had she heard stories of the house-sitter’s involvement in violent death and sudden crises, which were making her nervous? ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said firmly. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

Still the woman made no decisive move to finish her preparations. ‘Where exactly are you going?’ Thea asked, more for the sake of conversation than anything else. She had been given a mobile number for emergencies, but little further information. She thought she recalled a mention of France on her previous visit, but wasn’t sure.

Yvonne grimaced, her pale-blue eyes closing for a moment. ‘Oh! Well … um … London, actually. Crouch End, if you know where that is.’

‘Not exactly. Sounds interesting.’

‘It’s near Highgate. I’m going to see my husband,’ she added unexpectedly.

It took Thea a few seconds to work out what was odd about this remark. ‘I see,’ she lied.

‘Well, he’s my ex-husband now, of course. We were divorced not long ago, and haven’t seen each other since he left, five years ago. He’s between houses, or something. He wants to talk to me about boring legal stuff, I suppose. Our daughter’s getting married in September, and I have to be sure he’ll do right by her. I ought to have gone before now, but I can’t go anywhere in term time.’ She looked to Thea as if she was dreading the coming encounter, but was putting a brave face on it.

‘I don’t imagine that’ll be much fun,’ Thea sympathised, wondering how such a task could possibly take two weeks of anybody’s time. Would Yvonne be staying in the same house as her ex? Wouldn’t he have found a new woman after such a long time? ‘I thought you were going to France, actually.’

‘Oh, yes, I am. That’s next week. I’m not spending long with Victor. My sister has a house near Avignon, and I’ll probably need a shoulder to cry on. I did tell you I teach French, didn’t I? I haven’t been there for nearly twenty years, which is a dreadful thing to admit. I often feel an awful fraud, teaching it to children when I’ve barely been to the actual country. I haven’t been anywhere since …’ She looked sadly around her lovely garden. ‘I’ve been keeping busy here.’

‘So I see.’

‘It … I mean … I was quite ill for a long time. The shock and everything. I didn’t want to see people. It was all so humiliating. And now, with the cats, and the things … I couldn’t just leave it, you see. You do understand, don’t you?’

Thea made what she could of the garbled revelations. Yvonne had probably assumed that her marriage was permanent. Safe and solid and reliable, just as Thea’s own had been before her husband had been snatched from her one calm and cloudy day. The children raised, the finances secure, the habits established. And then the swine had pushed Yvonne Parker over a cliff and very probably replaced her with somebody else. As they did. At least, some of them did.

‘Yes, I understand,’ she said. ‘Trust me. Everything will be all right here. It’s only for two weeks. I’ll make sure the weeds don’t take over while you’re away.’

‘I expect he’ll claim to be short of money, as usual. He’ll say Belinda can afford to pay for her own wedding. If I had my way, we’d leave him out of it completely, but the children insist he should pull his weight.’

She was sounding more assertive, Thea noted, once she started to talk about her offspring. ‘Where does she live?’ she asked. ‘Your daughter, I mean.’

‘Wales. Her fiancé’s a farmer. It’s all very romantic.’ Her eyes went dreamy, and Thea tried to share the emotion, rather than imagining rainswept uplands and recalcitrant sheep. ‘It’s going to be a traditional village wedding, with everything home-made and authentic.’

‘Lovely,’ said Thea. ‘My daughter’s more likely to use a local registry office and a Manchester pub.’

‘Oh? Is she engaged?’

‘Actually no. She does have a boyfriend, but I don’t think marriage is on the cards at all. She’s very young.’

Yvonne’s worried frown was back, the crease between the blue eyes deepening. Despite the momentary flicker of something more substantial, Thea’s strongest impression was of a faded creature overwhelmed by life’s surprises, hair lifeless and clothes hanging shapelessly around her. Defeat and helplessness seeped out of her, making Thea want to take her in hand and brighten her life in some way.

‘You’ve done wonders in the garden,’ she said bracingly. ‘It must have been some consolation.’

The response was gratifying. ‘It saved my sanity,’ Yvonne said, with a wide-eyed smile. ‘Blake next door took pity on me and let me use some of his ground as well – do you see?’ She waved at an extra triangle of land, which began halfway down the adjacent garden and widened as it approached the road, leaving a modest wedge for Blake himself to tend. Seemingly he was not missing the donated area. His part was mainly a space for car parking, boasting little more than a small rowan tree rather too close to the house. The red berries were in full glory. Yvonne continued to explain. ‘We even had the fence moved. Mark says there’ll be the most dreadful legal complications if either of us ever wants to sell, but I don’t think there will. Blake’s very good. You’ll probably meet him later today. He’s called Blake Grossman and he lives here with his girlfriend.’

‘Right. And who’s Mark?’

‘My son. He’s always worrying about what’s legal. I’ve no idea where he got that from.’

It was Thea’s turn to glance at her watch. The spaniel was eyeing her impatiently, waiting for something to happen.

‘Oh, gosh, I must get on,’ cried Yvonne, noting the glance. ‘You’ll think I’m never going at this rate. It’ll take me ages to get there.’ She shivered. ‘I hate driving in London. I never know where I’m going. I ought to get a satnav thing, I suppose, but I could never manage to work it.’

Thea herself would have been hard-pressed to drive from Snowshill to Crouch End, so made no attempt to advise. She’d have been tempted to suggest the train, under the circumstances, but guessed there might be issues involving fear of crowds or panic over timetables.

‘So I ask Blake if I get into difficulties?’ she queried. ‘And I see there’s another house just over there.’ She nodded at a medium-sized building on the other side of the road and slightly further down the hill that led into the village centre. It had mature trees growing around it, and a wrought iron gate firmly closed across its drive.

‘That’s Janice and Ruby,’ said Yvonne distractedly. ‘I wouldn’t think you’ll see them. They’re not very sociable. What sort of difficulties?’ she asked with a frown.

‘Well … you know.’ Thea wished she’d had the sense to keep quiet. She did know better than to specify possible disasters, however. ‘Unforeseen events,’ she laughed. ‘Forget I said anything. It’ll all be absolutely fine.’

Finally, the green Peugeot set out, leaving Thea and Hepzibah to explore Hyacinth House in peace.

The house was old, with thick walls and low ceilings. The kitchen was small, with steps leading down to a shadowy dining room at the back of the house. Most of the ground floor was devoted to a rectangular living room which Yvonne had packed with furniture on which to display her ornaments. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. The glass and china figurines, jugs and plates jostled with all the other objects in deliberate patterns that slowly came into focus. Colours had been assembled together, so that blues were in one corner, greens in another, opposite the reds and pinks. It was an art gallery and a museum, a personal folly and a passionate collection. Thea wondered if Yvonne had started it all as a replacement for the errant husband – or had it contributed towards driving him away? What would happen if a careless move broke the arm off a shepherdess or the handle from a jug? Would Yvonne scream or cry or go into a sulk? And how, for heaven’s sake, was all this clutter consistent with the possession of two young cats?

The cats had a routine which Yvonne had described in detail. They had their own saggy armchair in the dining room, covered with a colourful blanket. They also had an elaborate climbing arrangement with platforms, a tunnel, scratching post and dangling toys. They could go in and out of the house at will, via a tiny scullery off the kitchen. But they were most definitely not permitted outside at night. The cat flap must be firmly locked, once Thea was sure they were both inside, when darkness fell. They were then confined to the kitchen until morning. A litter tray was provided, but was seldom used.

‘Their names are Julius and Jennings,’ Yvonne had said. ‘But they don’t really answer to them.’

‘They’re beautiful animals,’ Thea had said admiringly. One was a dark chocolate colour (‘That one is Jennings,’ said Yvonne) and the other a pale yellowy-grey. ‘Are they from the same litter?’

‘Yes. They were rejects, actually. The breeder wanted females, and got landed with all boys. She kept the best one and sold these off. She insisted they were neutered. They were done last week, poor things.’

Thea had made no comment, hoping there would be no delayed reactions to the surgery, under her care. ‘I assume they’re never allowed in the living room?’ she asked.

‘One at a time is okay. They’re very careful, moving so delicately it’s like magic, but if they’re playing, things can get a bit rough. Are you happy with that? It does mean keeping the door shut all the time.’ Both women had eyed Thea’s dog and its long plumy tail.

‘That’s fine,’ said Thea heartily. ‘And Hepzie’s not tall enough to cause any trouble.’

If their roles had been reversed, she did not think she’d have agreed to the inclusion of a spaniel in the house-sitting deal. Dogs knocked things over – everybody knew that. But it was July, and with any luck they could spend almost all their time outside.

On the map, Snowshill had looked tiny, with a pub, phone box and the prominent National Trust manor. Contour lines suggested chaotic sweeping slopes and rises, and there was little evidence of woodland. Her previous house-sitting commission had been at Cranham, to the south, a rather untypical village containing numerous post-war bungalows, surrounded by dense woods. The contrast between the two was dramatic. There did not appear to be any houses in Snowshill under a century old. It was a very contained little settlement, with none of the straggle that had enlarged such places as Blockley and even Broad Campden. No major roads came within two or three miles, which Thea supposed made it more of an adventurous goal for many of the tourists who found their way to Snowshill Manor. Hyacinth House was to the south-west of the village centre, on a small road leading up to sudden wide expanses of cornfields. There was a patch of grass outside the gate, between the garden wall and the single-track road, with space for two or three cars. There was no garage, although Blake-next-door had found space for one on his side. A track ran at right angles to the road, passing Blake’s house, and giving him access to his garage. Yvonne’s front garden was adjacent to a small field which rose to a patch of trees. Beyond that was the village.

It was eleven on a Saturday morning, and hazy sunshine lent a typical muted light to the landscape, as Thea slowly scanned the hills around her.

Yvonne’s beloved front garden included a tiny patch of lawn, furnished with a somewhat utilitarian wooden seat. Thea made herself a mug of coffee and went out to sit on the seat, intending to savour her surroundings. The low front wall was adorned with a vigorous climbing rose, which had ventured over onto the broad grass verge beyond, where she had been ordered to leave her car. A little group of people walked past, pausing to admire the garden and the handsome old house. Although the parking for Snowshill Manor was on the other side of the village, she realised she could expect to be included in the impromptu sightseeing tours that people took while waiting for it to be time for lunch at the pub. The whole settlement was so small that a five-minute walk in any direction would take people well beyond the actual village. As she watched the strollers disappear, she heard a tuneless whistling approach from the track beyond Blake’s garden. Peering curiously across the flower beds, she caught sight of a short blond haircut on a boy who seemed to be aged about ten, coming in her direction.

Before she could call out a greeting, or ask herself whether he was with family or friends, there was a sharp zipping sound, of air being torn apart by rapid movement. A thwack followed, and then another.

‘Hey!’ she shouted, jumping to her feet. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

The boy met her eye, full on, his face taut with ill will and triumph. He uttered a syllable that sounded like Yah! and broke into a run.

Thea went to the gate and surveyed the verge below Yvonne’s garden wall. Six or seven bright-red roses lay murdered on the grass. She went out and gathered them up, holding them to her nose for a final valedictory sniff. They smelt of joy and love and long sweet summers.

With tears in her eyes, she carried them back to the seat on the lawn, shedding petals in her wake.

Chapter Two

She sat holding the flowers and thinking about wanton destruction, when a voice hailed her from somewhere over her right shoulder. ‘Oh, hello?’

‘Who’s that?’ said Thea, twisting round on the wooden slats. ‘Are you calling me?’

‘It’s me. Blake. Next door. Hang on. I’ll come over.’ And before she could respond, he was standing in front of her, grinning like a labrador.

‘Hello,’ said Thea, without enthusiasm. ‘Yvonne told me about you.’

‘Oh dear! What did she say?’

‘Only that you were a good neighbour.’ Too good, she thought sourly, if you come over like this every five minutes.

‘That’s nice.’ He was in his late thirties, she thought, and not bad-looking. His mouth was fleshy, his black hair rather long, and he smiled too much. He struck her as an improbable owner of a substantial Cotswold residence. ‘She’s such a sweet lady, isn’t she?’

‘Well … I don’t really know her. She seemed very pleasant.’

‘She’s had a hard time. I do what I can for her – electrics and so forth. The wiring in this house isn’t very modern, I’m afraid.’

‘Are you an electrician?’

He laughed merrily. ‘Oh, no. But I’m reasonably handy. Eloise always says so, anyway. That’s my girlfriend,’ he added, in response to Thea’s raised eyebrows.

‘Does she live here as well?’

‘Sort of. She’s doing a degree, so she’s away in term time. And now she’s gone off to Palestine of all places. Honestly, it’s embarrassing. My parents would go ballistic if they knew. Not that they’re Zionists or anything, but even so—’

‘You’re Jewish,’ said Thea with a nod. ‘Right.’

‘Guilty as charged. Metropolitan intellectuals, for the most part. My uncle is something very impressive at the LSE and he lives in Hampstead.’

She had no idea how to reply, although it seemed her unduly direct reference to his race had caused no offence. Since her daughter had taken up with a black police detective, she had become far less wary about the whole business. She had discovered that there was no need to positively discriminate in favour of certain groups. Some people from ethnic minorities could be every bit as repellent as those of her own colour.

‘My name’s Thea Osborne,’ she told Blake. ‘And this is Hepzibah. She always comes with me when I’m house-sitting.’

‘Sweet,’ he gushed. ‘Eloise can’t wait to have a dog, but I’ve told her not until we’re married. It gives me a hold over her, you see.’ He grinned again, to indicate the lack of seriousness in this remark.

The massacred roses lay in a pathetic heap on the seat, wilting rapidly. ‘A boy chopped the heads off some of the ramblers,’ she said, hoping to dispel her own sadness by passing it to somebody else.

‘What? Ramblers? My God! How many? Where are the bodies?’

Hysteria gripped her, without warning, and she giggled helplessly for some moments. ‘No, no. Rambling roses. Look.’

‘How beastly. But I suppose boys will be boys. Summer holidays just started and he’ll be bored already.’

‘He looked as if he’d escaped from an outing from the local remand centre,’ said Thea tightly. ‘He’ll be off into the woods, setting snares for unwary wildlife next.’

‘Sounds like young Stevie Horsfall to me. Did he have yellow hair and freckles?’

‘I didn’t notice freckles, but the hair was right. Who is he?’

Blake shrugged, with a hint of rebuke at the question. ‘He’s just a boy. Lives down the track – see?’ He indicated a point behind his own house.

‘Not really. Where does it lead?’

‘Down to a farm, but his mum’s got a little house halfway along. It’s only a minute or two from here. But don’t worry – I don’t imagine he’ll bother you again. He generally concentrates on tormenting Janice and Ruby over the way.’

Not very sociable, Yvonne had said about the two women. ‘Oh?’

‘He’s got nobody to play with. But I would keep an eye on your dog, all the same. There’s something about boys and dogs, isn’t there?’

Thea had visions of tin cans tied to her spaniel’s tail, and worse. ‘Heavens! That sounds terrible.’

‘No, no. He’s just a boy,’ the man repeated, absently. He was staring at the sky somewhere behind the house. ‘There’s a lark – can you hear it?’

Blake was sounding evasive to Thea, but she chose not to demand further detail. She listened to the joyous bird for a minute, in silence. ‘It’ll be August next week,’ she observed inconsequentially. ‘It’s been a nice summer so far.’

‘Have you been busy with the house-sitting work? Flitting from place to place, never resting long in one spot?’

She gave him a narrow look. ‘Something like that,’ she nodded. ‘But I generally get three or four weeks at home between commissions. I don’t do it full-time.’

‘Even so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘It’s an unusual existence. Living out of a suitcase, as they say. Not to mention your dog.’ Hepzie was sitting a small distance away, ignoring the visitor in favour of something interesting in her own rear end. Her coat had grown shaggy over the past few months and there were a few lumps in the skirts at the back. ‘Who could do with a trim, if I might venture to comment,’ added Blake.

Thea resisted the temptation to make a snappy defence. ‘True,’ she admitted. ‘I know it’s perverse of me, but I prefer her a bit unkempt. She becomes a completely different dog after a haircut.’

She thought fleetingly of Phil Hollis, her former boyfriend, who had also nagged about getting the spaniel tidied up. Now there was no boyfriend, and it seemed that total strangers felt justified in filling the gap.

‘I gather you and Yvonne are good friends?’ she changed the subject.

‘You gather correctly.’ His smile could only be perceived as patronising and she felt a stab of resentment. There was a sense of being played with, or teased, and this was not something she had ever enjoyed.

She waited in vain for further elaboration. This man, then, was no gossip, which was cause for mild regret. It would have been interesting to learn more about the estranged husband and his circumstances. ‘I suppose I should come to you if there are any problems, then? She didn’t leave any other names or numbers other than a farmer called Pippa. I’ve just got her mobile for emergencies.’

‘I’d certainly have been happy to help if needed,’ he agreed, with a little inclination of the head. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be here after tomorrow. I’m going to be following Eloise out to hotter climes, actually.’

‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope everything will go smoothly.’

‘It’s only two weeks, isn’t it? I don’t imagine anything much will go wrong in that time.’

Thea shuddered inwardly. Don’t say that, she wanted to shout at him. Instead, she sighed and smiled and said nothing.

Sporadic clusters of exploring walkers went past all afternoon, an experience Thea had never had before in the Cotswolds. She had stayed almost entirely in small villages on the way to nowhere, where every visitor was an event. Not only did Snowshill boast the eccentric Manor, but there were extensive gardens that attracted their own swathe of trippers. The car park was a long walk from the Manor, a deliberate ploy beloved by the National Trust to force everyone to use their legs and traverse the grounds before reaching the main attraction. ‘We’ll go and have a look next week,’ Thea promised the dog. ‘If you’re allowed in, which is doubtful.’

The interior of Hyacinth House grew no more inviting as the day progressed. Outside was warm enough to make the garden a far better prospect, despite the people having a good look at the flowers over the wall. Where most Cotswold properties had the larger area of garden at the back, this one was almost entirely at the front. Only a shady patio, a clump of trees and a high hedge offered themselves in the rear, making it an unappealing place to sit. On the map, a footpath was marked plunging down a steep hill to some woodland on the other side of the road, but she was in no mood for exercise, especially where such a declivity was involved.

The best aspect was definitely from the front. The views were harmonious in all directions. Even turning one’s back on the landscape gave a pleasing picture of the facade of the house with its mellow colours and balanced shapes. The windows were set at exactly the right points, the roof suitably weathered, the size ideal for an ordinary family. Everything about it looked perfect. Only Yvonne’s excesses had spoilt the rooms inside, making them hazardous in the clutter of fragile objects and unrestful to the eye.

She was just deciding that it must be almost time to feed the cats, when the telephone rang from the hallway, a few feet inside the open front door.

Yvonne had left no instructions regarding messages, but common sense ordained that she must answer it.

A man’s voice burst loudly in her ear, before she had managed to utter more than a syllable. ‘Vonny? Where the hell are you? I’ve been watching out for hours now. You said you’d be here by two. It’s nearly five, and there you are, not even left yet. Couldn’t you have called me, instead of keeping me hanging around here all afternoon? I have got things to do, you know.’

‘This is Thea Osborne, the house-sitter,’ she eventually succeeded in telling him. ‘Yvonne left here at eleven.’

‘What?’

‘She left Snowshill at eleven. Even with Saturday traffic, she ought to be in London by now.’

‘Of course she ought. There’s no problem with the traffic. The silly cow’s probably got herself lost.’

For six hours? Thea seriously doubted that. ‘Surely not,’ she said mildly. ‘She would have called you.’

‘Precisely. That’s what I said.’

‘But sometimes it can take ages, if there’s an accident holding up the traffic. I assume she’s using the M4. You know what motorways can be like.’

‘She’s not answering her mobile. I tried it. Three times.’ Only now was he starting to sound worried. ‘Where the devil has the idiot woman got to, then?’

‘As far as I could tell, she had every intention of driving directly to you. I mean, she’s gone to the trouble of employing me to watch over the house. I really don’t know what to suggest.’

‘Well, I don’t see how she can be lost. It’s easy enough to find.’

‘But she hasn’t been there before – is that right?’

‘Actually, no.’ His voice faltered. ‘No, she hasn’t.’

‘Oh, well …’ Her own voice was losing conviction. Six hours really was a long time to spend trying to get to north London. Nobody went silent for that long in these days of perpetual communication. Except when they couldn’t get a mobile signal or the battery died. That could happen, of course. ‘There’s probably been some sort of hold-up,’ she repeated feebly, thinking that unless Yvonne herself had been injured, she had no justification for allowing so much time to pass without making contact. Although she could very easily have lost her nerve, changed her mind … been abducted? Of course not. There was no need to invent wild explanations of that sort.

‘Thank you for your help, anyway,’ he said, suddenly formal.

‘Will you ask her to call me when she turns up? Just to put my mind at rest?’

‘Of course,’ he said, leaving her doubting that he would do anything of the sort.

She spent the next hour restlessly moving from kitchen to living room, upstairs to her bedroom and out into the garden, holding her phone as if it were welded to her hand. Yvonne or her husband would use the landline in the house to call her, but somehow the mobile made her feel connected to the wider world – a feeling she had acquired only in recent months. Before that she had regarded it as more of an irritation than something useful. Since her daughter had given her a new model last Christmas, she had been discovering more and more functions in its repertoire, designed to give her access to virtually everything that was being done, thought or said across the entire globe. Almost against her own nature, she was finding it intoxicating. There were apps for things she had never dreamt could be provided so quickly, and for so little cost.

‘Hello again,’ came a man’s voice, the second time she found herself roaming restlessly around the garden.

‘Oh … Blake. Hi.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘Not really. It seems that Yvonne never reached London. Her husband’s worried about her.’

‘My God!’ The reaction did nothing to soothe Thea. ‘She must have got into trouble, then. She’s been gone all day.’ He made it sound like a month.

‘Yes. I thought perhaps she’d called in on somebody on the way, as a sudden whim. Or just … changed her mind.’ She shrugged at this temptingly normal idea. Something about the failed marriage, Yvonne’s nervousness that morning, the husband’s tone, made it seem rather plausible that the woman had deviated from her original plan, that she had got cold feet and decided instead to go and stay with a distant cousin in Beaconsfield or Haslemere.

‘She’s been psyching herself up for this for ages,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘The final showdown with bloody Victor.’

‘But aren’t they divorced? Wasn’t that the time for a showdown?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘She just signed everything that was put in front of her, whether it was fair or not. It didn’t do much to sort out the emotional side of things. She hasn’t been able to face up to a meeting ever since … well, for years. We talked it over endlessly. She wouldn’t chicken out of it now. I know she wouldn’t.’ He sounded less certain than his words.

‘If she hasn’t seen him for a long time, it must be hard for her.’ Thea fumbled to express her vague understanding of the situation. ‘I mean, that sort of thing – it looms bigger and bigger in your mind, doesn’t it?’

‘She wouldn’t do it now, if it wasn’t for Belinda.’

Thea nodded. ‘Yes, she told me. She wants him to come to the wedding.’

‘She wants him to pay for it. I’m not sure anybody wants him to show up as well.’ He laughed, and added, ‘I’ve got something of a similar problem myself, as it happens. Eloise’s dad is almost as out of favour as Victor is. All we can think of is to get married in the Caribbean or somewhere, with no family at all.’

‘Bit drastic,’ remarked Thea.

‘It’s a drastic business,’ he said severely. ‘So much can go wrong – as Vonny would tell you if she was here.’

‘I assume Victor took up with another woman?’

Blake’s eyelids dropped, giving him a sly appearance. He turned his head aside and examined the colourful flowers intently. ‘That’s what we all assumed. But Vonny would never say exactly what happened to split them up.’

‘Probably too painful to talk about. She said she felt humiliated.’

‘Poor old girl. She really does need to move on.’

Thea felt uneasy, now that gossip seemed to be finally under way. That Victor had behaved badly seemed axiomatic – and her impression of him from his phone call had not been favourable. But more pressing now was the question of what might have happened to Yvonne in the course of the day.

Blake, however, seemed to have settled any initial worries he might have been feeling, and was intent on conveying what he knew of the couple. ‘I don’t get why he’s in Crouch End,’ he said, with a little pout of puzzlement. ‘He was renting a swish apartment in Hampstead Garden Suburb as far as I knew. Don’t you love the sound of Hampstead Garden Suburb?’ he added incongruously. ‘It conjures such a lot in those three words.’

‘The point is, I’m not quite sure of my position, if my employer’s missing,’ Thea said, with some emphasis. ‘I ought to find out whether she’s okay.’ She refrained from mentioning that she had previously experienced the death of a homeowner whilst caring for the house, and it had led to considerable confusion and complication. She was not keen for a repetition.

‘I can understand how you feel,’ he said, as if this was a brilliantly helpful remark. ‘But I don’t suppose she’ll stay lost for long. I know old Vonny pretty well. She’s a survivor.’

The implication was that Blake regarded himself as in some sort of relationship with Yvonne, the exact nature of which was unclear. ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have watched the house,’ she said tiredly, ‘instead of going off on holiday.’

‘I know,’ he said carelessly. ‘Terribly bad timing. Plus I don’t like cats very much.’

I see, thought Thea suspiciously. Soit’s possibly rather auspicious timing, after all. Something about this man struck her as slightly too good to be true, as if he was playing a part, when his real attention was somewhere quite different. Which it probably was, with his girlfriend in Palestine and his own bags needing to be packed. But she had been given reason to think he actually cared what happened to Hyacinth House, its owner and its temporary sitter. Not just because the gardens had become connected, but from something less definable and more to do with feelings. Besides, he was, at that moment, all she had.

‘I’ll be left on my own, then,’ she said, feeling a daft kinship with the despised Victor. ‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Only five days. Back next Thursday, all being well. It’s business actually, not a holiday. Can’t be ducked, or I’d have helped poor old Vonny out, of course.’

‘Well …’ she began helplessly. ‘Not much I can do, I suppose. The cats still have to be fed.’

‘True. And the homestead guarded. You’ll be fine,’ he assured her, with the sort of expression that suggested quite the opposite.

She nodded and turned away. In her hand, the phone jingled and she read a message on the screen:

Mum – I need to talk to you. Can you call me asap? Jess.

Chapter Three

Her daughter was a probationary police officer in Manchester; a bright confident girl who had coped bravely with the loss of her father when she was nineteen, scarcely breaking step on her career path. Thea had been less successful in adapting to unimagined widowhood, the house-sitting a desperate attempt at distraction a year after Carl’s fatal accident. It had worked well, on the whole.

Jessica answered the phone within seconds. ‘What’s the matter?’ Thea demanded.

The answer came without prevarication. ‘It’s Paul. He’s dumped me.’ The voice was thick with tears and Thea’s heart turned a painful somersault.

‘Oh, darling! When?’

‘Yesterday. He was so horrible about it. He tried to do it in a text and when I phoned him he said terriblethings to me. Some of them about you.’

‘But why?’ It was a silly question, but words were proving difficult. This was a totally shocking turn of events. Last time she’d seen Jessica and Paul, she’d begun to worry that they might be planning permanent togetherness. Had the young detective been aware of her reservations, which she thought she had kept well hidden?

‘He says we’re both racist, and he never felt comfortable around you.’

Likewise, thought Thea. But it had nothing to do with his race and everything to do with his arrogant insensitive personality. She had also begun to suspect the existence of a hidden streak of cruelty in her last encounter with him, which Jessica now appeared to be confirming.

‘But surely …’ Again words were hard to find. ‘You poor girl. You sound dreadfully upset.’

‘I’ve been crying all day. I had to call in sick. I can’t go to work like this.’

‘It’s the shock.’

‘It’s much more than that. I had no idea. He must have lied to me the whole time, pretending he felt the same as me about us. I feel like a victim, absolutely powerless to do anything about it.’

Thea could readily understand that – the helplessness in the face of implacable forces working against you. The bruised and battered emotions that nothing could assuage. ‘Do you want to come here?’ she asked, with a sense of history repeating itself. Over the many house-sitting commissions she’d undertaken, her two sisters had used her as a refuge, one after the other. Jessica too had joined her once or twice. In general, such episodes turned out badly and Thea had concluded she preferred to have the places to herself. Although there were exceptions, she inwardly admitted.

‘No, no. I can’t. It wouldn’t help. Not at the moment, anyway. I never know what I’m going to find when I visit you in one of your houses.’

‘I know.’ Thea forced a laugh. ‘And this one’s already getting complicated.’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Well …’

‘No, I mean it. Don’t tell me. I’ve got enough to worry about.’ The tear-choked voice was sounding stronger, for which Thea was thankful.

‘Okay. Have you got someone there you can cry on? What about Sasha?’

‘Yeah, she’s been great. It happened to her last year, so she understands. She says she never liked Paul anyway. I wish she’d told me sooner.’

‘You wouldn’t have listened. That’s what girlfriends do – they wait on the sidelines, ready to pick up the pieces. That’s all they can do.’

Thea had never met Sasha, and had not realised how close the two girls were until Jessica made some casual mention of the effect her relationship with Paul was having on the friendship. It seemed the boyfriend had insisted on exclusive rights over her, virtually banning all outings with Sasha or other female friends.

‘Right.’ Jessica sounded doubtful, as if wary of accepting any pearls of maternal wisdom. ‘Maybe.’

‘Some things don’t change,’ her mother told her. ‘Certainly not this sort of thing. I do know how it feels, honestly.’

‘So what about your undertaker friend?’ Jessica asked, in an apparent change of subject.

‘What about him?’

‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘His wife’s in hospital, fighting for her life, as far as I know. He’s unlikely to have time to think about me.’ No, she thought. That isn’t what I meant to say.

‘Poor chap. I forgot there was a wife.’

‘Of course there is. Don’t you remember when he went off to phone her, in Broad Campden? How that led to all sorts of trouble?’

‘Vaguely, now you mention it. That seems ages ago now.’

‘Four months,’ said Thea, thinking that it did indeed seem very much longer. A lot had happened in the meantime. She also wished that her daughter had not raised the subject of Drew Slocombe. No good at all could come of it.

‘Anyway – thanks for listening. I might call you again if I need to vent, if that’s okay?’

‘Of course it is. It’s called “venting” now, is it?’

‘Keep up, Ma. You’re nowhere near as old as you like to pretend. Haven’t you signed on to Twitter yet? That’ll keep you in the mainstream. Or Facebook.’

‘I just might do that. Don’t write me off yet.’

Jessica gave a faint sniff of laughter. ‘Thanks, anyway. I feel a bit better now.’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ said her mother, in all sincerity. ‘You’ll be okay, you know. Don’t let him damage you. He’s not worth it.’

‘Tell me that again in a few weeks’ time. At the moment, I still think I love him. If he turned up now with a bunch of flowers, I’d take him back in a heartbeat.’

‘I imagine you would,’ said Thea, aware that her timing had been off. ‘But it would never be the same after this. Phone me again tomorrow, will you? I want to be kept informed. Whatever happens, don’t brood on your own. Go out and see people.’ The idea of her daughter sitting in her flat, weeping over the unworthy boyfriend, made her want to abandon Snowshill and rush to Jessica’s side. ‘When are you supposed to be at work next?’

‘Tomorrow. I don’t know whether I can face it. I might see him.’

‘Well, turn up if you can. Don’t let him think he’s won.’

‘I didn’t know we were in a fight,’ the girl wailed. ‘I thought he loved me.’

Thea made a wordless murmur of sympathy, and the conversation ended.

She spent the evening stewing over the beast that was Detective Constable Paul Middleman. That he could hurt her stalwart Jess was outrageous, and entirely unnecessary. Why couldn’t he have finished with her in a dignified manner, letting her down gently, finding the courage to talk it over with her in an adult fashion? And to throw in wild accusations about racism was thoroughly despicable. As far as Thea had been able to see, his ethnicity had been readily assimilated into the relationship, a mildly interesting detail that came second to their work and their feelings for each other. At least, so she had assured herself, as it slowly dawned on her that he really wasn’t a very nice person. The discomfort this realisation brought with it was almost entirely due to fears for Jessica’s happiness – of course it was. But it also contained a thread of worry that it wasn’t comfortable to dislike a black person. She had talked about it briefly with Drew, who had reassuringly understood.

She ought not to be thinking about Drew. During her recent stint in Cranham, looking after a handsome manor house and an old man in its lodge, Drew had come to visit her. But she had not seen him since then. His wife, Karen, had collapsed at the beginning of June and was still in hospital almost two months later. Thea had phoned for news once or twice, only to be given a terse ‘no change’ and an unspoken instruction to stay out of his life. And quite right too, she told herself firmly. Never mind that they had worked so well as a team, that his children had taken to her with enthusiasm, that she hugely admired his alternative funeral business. All his attention and time must go to Karen, obviously it must. Having been shot in the head a few years earlier, Karen had never quite returned to her former self; now, it seemed, some unidentified damage had been simmering deep in her brain, only to erupt, dramatically and shatteringly for the family.

But what if Karen died? nagged a wicked little voice. What would happen then? But she wouldn’t die. The doctors would work out a treatment, would devise a brilliant piece of microsurgery that would restore her to perfect robustness. That was what they did – especially when the patient was a thirty-six-year-old mother of two. Nobody was going to let her die without an epic medical struggle.

Jessica – that was where her thoughts ought to lie. Her poor unhappy daughter, suffering her first major romantic reversal, humiliated and betrayed. Thea could well understand the difficulties Jess would have in going back to work and facing the dubious sympathy of her colleagues. Police officers were notoriously flippant about matters of the heart. Jokes would be made, callous remarks exchanged. The loss of dignity would be impossible to conceal, when both parties were working in the same team. Paul would be in and out of her workspace, forcing Jessica to speak to him in the line of duty. The best hope was that an unusually sensitive senior officer would ensure that this didn’t happen for at least a few days. There would probably be lectures about the folly of embarking on a relationship with a close-working colleague. There were probably rules against it, which would be virtually impossible to enforce, but which did make good sense. The girl would learn some useful lessons in the course of her suffering, but Thea knew all too well that this would bring no consolation at all in the short term.

And Yvonne Parker, who had gone missing. This was another urgent subject that she ought to be thinking about. It mattered a great deal, after all. If the woman didn’t turn up, then she, Thea, was unlikely to be paid for her work. She would have to apply to the husband, or possibly the son or the soon-to-be-married daughter living somewhere in Wales.

She mentally tested a variety of hypotheses as to where her employer might have gone. The story about her broken marriage already had two versions which did not entirely match up. Something odd and mysterious had led to the departure of Victor, according to Blake from next door. Yvonne herself had said something about being humiliated and made ill by the break-up. She had not appeared to be especially secretive about it, despite Blake’s implications. If she had experienced a powerful loss of nerve, somewhere on the M4, that didn’t strike Thea as altogether unexpected. She was very likely cowering anonymously in a B&B while she tried to regain her courage. Given her timid dithering manner, this seemed altogether plausible. Other more dramatic ideas were dismissed. Loss of memory; abduction; a deliberate plan involving extensive lies and deceits – all felt utterly wrong in the light of the woman’s personality. Even the possibility that she had been the victim of violence felt unconvincing. Why would anybody bother to kidnap such a feeble creature?

But if she hadn’t materialised by the end of the next day, something would have to be done. Victor might call the police, of course, if he was as genuinely worried as he sounded. Thea herself would feel increasingly impelled to take action, if only to inform Yvonne’s husband that she needed some sort of assurance that she would be paid.

She ate a scrappy meal and took the dog outside to catch the last rays of the summer sun. The village in the hollow down to the left seemed to be comatose and there was a peaceful silence. Lights were coming on in the few windows she could see from the garden, and she noticed a watery beam coming from amongst the crocosmia in one of Yvonne’s flower beds. Closer examination showed it to be a solar-powered light, placed inexplicably amidst the flowers. Over the next ten minutes she found three more, barely visible in the densely packed beds. Once darkness fell, they might make better sense, she supposed. Having charged themselves up during the sunny day, they could well give a healthy light – perhaps even enough to prove annoying to anybody eager to avoid light pollution, as Thea was.

Idly, she poked about, searching for more of the lights. No two were the same, and she assumed they must form another kind of collection, like the stuff in the house. As she gently moved the tall flowers aside, without any warning she was attacked by an unseen assailant, which inflicted a sharp pain in her lower arm. It was impossibly intense and she ran blindly onto the tiny lawn, swiping at the affected spot, in case the attacker was still there. ‘What on earth was it?’ she demanded shrilly of the indifferent garden. Her dog was close by, watching her with a wholly unhelpful alertness. ‘Oooh,’ she moaned as the pain got steadily worse. She cradled her arm, swaying from side to side, gripped by a deepening agony, trying to think lucidly.