Peril in the Cotswolds E-Book

Rebecca Tope

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

Seitenzahl: 405

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Thea Slocombe is trying to settle into normal family domestic life with Drew and his two children in Broad Campden. But any sense of cozy domesticity is shattered when Thea finds the body of a neighbour. No longer a house-sitter, Thea has no choice but to stay in the village and deal with whatever happens next, even when this risks damage to her marriage. Unconvinced that the swift conclusion made about the death by the police is the right one, Thea is compelled to follow her nature and investigate herself. But what repercussions might there be for her, Drew and those with whom they share this corner of the Cotswolds?

Leseprobe

Peril in the Cotswolds

REBECCA TOPE

Dedicated to Luke with thanks for helpful input

Contents

Title PageDedicationMapAuthor’s Note Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four About the AuthorBy Rebecca Tope Copyright

Author’s Note

Liberties have been taken with the village of Broad Campden to suit the requirements of the story. The houses described might appear very similar to actual properties, but are in fact invented.

Chapter One

‘For heaven’s sake, Heps, get out of the way,’ pleaded Thea, feeling ashamed of herself even as she spoke. The dog had one leg in plaster and could hardly be expected to move quickly. Combined with her physical handicap, she was also in need of constant reassurance that one day she would be able to run and jump again.

But it was the first day of the spring school term, and the household was in chaos. The children were every bit as demanding as the spaniel, in their different ways. Stephanie was adamant that only one particular headband was acceptable, and Timmy was making it very clear to everyone that school was a place full of torturers and criminals, and it was indefensible to make him go there.

Drew was in the room at the back of the house on the telephone to a man whose wife had died during the night. Sounds of family conflict were very much not permitted to filter through the closed door, which left Thea on her own, trying to attend to every need.

‘She can’t help it,’ said Stephanie, leaping to the dog’s defence. ‘Don’t shout at her.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Thea, with a strong sense of being unjustly accused. ‘But I can’t move with her at my feet all the time. How can I find your headband if I can’t even go into the hall without kicking the dog?’

‘You can’t kick her!’ protested Timmy, his face full of horror.

‘No I know I can’t. That’s why I’m stuck here, and you’re going to be late for the bus.’

It was obvious that Timmy thought this an outcome devoutly to be wished. ‘Here it is, still in my bag,’ Stephanie discovered. ‘It must have been there for ages. Since we broke up last term, in fact. It smells.’ She sniffed at the strip of blue satin. ‘Pooh!’

‘Why? What else is in there?’ Thea asked warily. She had a sneaking feeling that she had simply left the bag unexamined for two and a half weeks. ‘Let’s have a look.’ She pulled out a plastic bag containing the mildewed crusts of lunchtime sandwiches and a furry apple core. ‘Could be worse,’ she muttered. ‘The smell’s just your trainers. You haven’t needed them over Christmas.’ She turned to the small boy. ‘What about you, Tim? What’s been left in your bag all holiday, I wonder?’

He tipped the mini-rucksack upside down and nothing whatsoever fell out of it. ‘I emptied it in my room,’ he said, ‘on the first day of the holidays.’

‘Well done, you,’ she approved. ‘I’m glad one of us has got some sense.’

The child made no reply, but merely sighed.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked Stephanie.

‘You know perfectly well he’s on the phone.’

‘I want him to kiss us before we go. It’s a new term – it’s special. Timmy wants it as well.’

‘The bus goes in two minutes. You’ve got to go now. You can’t miss it on the first day – they might give your seats to someone else, and then I’d have to drive you every morning.’ Thea had worked hard to get permission for the children to travel on the school bus, despite living under the requisite two miles away. Timmy had seemed terribly young to be consigned to such a form of travel, but his sister promised to watch out for him, and the previous term had seen them collected and returned without mishap, five days a week.

It was in no way her fault that Drew was unavailable to kiss his children goodbye. That she was getting the fallout from it was inevitable and not unduly burdensome. She felt no resentment about it. But she noticed it, just the same. She noticed everything, from the way everyone automatically assumed she would step into the role of general family organiser, to include everything from meals, clothes, housework, timetables and health matters to the absence of space, either physical or emotional, for her to be herself – whoever that might be. Thea Osborne had mutated into Thea Slocombe, and the new person was often hard to recognise.

She had spent half her life as Osborne, having married young and been widowed twenty years later. Drew Slocombe had come along quite out of the blue, here in Broad Campden. They had fitted together like magic, knowing – as they afterwards insisted – from that first day that they would end up as a couple. Now they were married and she had become a replacement mother for the two children, their own mum having died not too long ago. It had taken her a foolishly long time to accept that she was well and truly a stepmother, with everything that label entailed. While the fairy tales dealing with the subject held virtually no overt relevance to the new-made Slocombe family, the daily detail, the ever-present sense of responsibility, had been a slowly burgeoning shock. It was so far from the future she had imagined for herself that she was still not entirely convinced that it was real.

The children had been gone for three minutes when Drew reappeared. Having waved to them from the doorstep, Thea was sitting with a mug of tepid coffee thinking of nothing. Drew glanced around the kitchen, made a little face of regret and bent to scoop Hepzibah into his arms. ‘How’s our patient this morning?’ he crooned. ‘Does it hurt, I wonder?’ He stroked the animal gently as she flopped awkwardly on his arm. A cocker spaniel, with all her weight at the front end, she was never easy to carry. Drew had only recently begun to do it, apparently feeling a need to demonstrate his affection for her.

‘She’s getting lumpy,’ he observed, pulling at a section of matted hair over one haunch. ‘Ought to have a haircut at the poodle parlour.’

‘Put her down,’ said Thea. ‘You missed the children. They were hoping for a goodbye kiss.’ And so was I, she added silently. Not goodbye, but good morning. As far as she could recall, Drew had not so much as looked at her since the alarm had gone off at seven-fifteen.

He very carefully let the dog slide to the floor. ‘That was a funeral,’ he said. ‘Completely out of the blue. He wants it on Monday next week.’

It was currently Tuesday. ‘Is that a problem?’ she asked.

‘No, not really. It means more work for Andrew, which’ll please him. In fact, he’s going to be flat out for the rest of the week. We’ve got Miss Temple on Friday, and three separate lots of people want to come with trees on Saturday.’

‘In January? Is that sensible?’

‘Apparently you can plant bare-root things during the winter, so long as there’s no hard frost. I didn’t think I should argue.’

‘No.’

‘Are you okay?’

She sighed. ‘Oh, yes. First day of term. Tasks left undone. Stephanie’s schoolbag hadn’t been emptied since the end of last term and we couldn’t find her headband. It was in the bag, which was quite smelly. My fault, obviously. And I still don’t understand the system for school dinners that they’re doing now. It’s going to be a nightmare.’

‘I used to do their packed lunches every day. I did it for about two years. You get into the swing of it. Buy stuff in bulk – that’s the secret.’

‘I know the theory. But now it’s cooked dinners for two days and sandwiches for three. How will that work? And the obesity police will check everything I give them and hold them up to ridicule if there’s a Wagon Wheel.’

‘I’ve got to give a talk to the local radio people this afternoon. I mean – they’re going to come here and ask questions and then broadcast it a few hours later. I wanted to think up something that sounded really up to date and innovative.’

‘Have you made any notes for it?’

He shook his head. ‘All I can think of is what’s wrong with our field. It would never have been chosen as a burial ground by anybody who knew what they were doing. It’s too low-lying, too shady and too far from the church.’

‘You can make all those things sound like advantages if you try. It’s working out well enough, isn’t it?’

‘It could be a lot better,’ he persisted. The field had been left to him, along with the house, by a woman who had embraced the concept of green burials shortly before she died. Remaking her will in Drew’s favour must have felt like an act of supreme generosity as she did it. The house was certainly a valuable gift by any standards. But the field was a distance away, the planning permission slow and complicated to obtain, and local attitudes still hovered on the fence between acceptance and rejection of such a business in their midst.

‘Say something about New Year resolutions, and giving some thought to making a will, and keeping everything simple and affordable for the family,’ she suggested.

He pulled a face indicative of scepticism and impatience. ‘It doesn’t sound very positive,’ he objected. ‘I get the feeling I should be aiming much more for the aesthetic side of it. How every grave can be individually designed, to reflect the person’s character.’

‘More of those embroidered felt shrouds, I suppose. I don’t know why it is, but I can’t take them seriously.’

‘People like them,’ he said vaguely. ‘But they mostly change their minds when they hear the price.’

‘Drew …’ She had no idea what she was going to say. She felt tired, with nothing to look forward to. Christmas was over, with a stack of greetings cards on the windowsill and a large bag of crumpled wrapping paper behind the sofa all there was left to show for it. She had been intending to smooth out the paper in the hopes of using it again. The cards were too fresh to throw away, but were entirely useless. She remembered her grandmother cutting them up for labels the following year, and entertained the idea for a brief moment. But there were too many of them, and they would only create clutter in the intervening eleven months.

‘What?’ For the first time that day he looked into her face. ‘What’s the matter? You’re not really okay at all, are you?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing in particular. I’m just a bit frazzled. It’s the sixth of January – isn’t that supposed to be a national day of depression or something?’

‘Is it? Sounds barmy to me. Like a government edict to be miserable.’

‘It’s probably next week, now I come to think of it. But you can understand it. Short days. Too much family jollity. Overeating and drinking. No wonder everybody feels a bit sick.’

‘I don’t. I’m looking forward to a promising new year. I hate to say it, but I really am counting my blessings.’

‘You’re disgusting. What happened to worrying about your talk and providing innovations for your customers?’

‘I wasn’t really worried; just thinking aloud. It’ll be fine when it comes to the point. After all, everybody who’ll be interested is going to be over eighty, in all likelihood, and quite happy with something traditional.’

‘Traditional? What’s traditional about being buried in a shallow hole in a field with a tree for a memorial? No church, no hymns or fancy flourishes. No, my love, your customer base is the mavericks of this world, and you know it. Not every eighty-year-old is a conformist, anyway. Especially these days.’

He smiled at her, patient as always. ‘Depends how far you go back through history, I suppose. I’m thinking nineteenth-century tradition. I agree with you, if we’re talking twentieth. And the twenty-first has still not decided what it thinks about anything.’ Drew’s innumerable virtues – tolerance, patience, benevolence – had not faded or changed in the months since their marriage; Thea’s awareness of her own imperfections had intensified as a result. The imbalance made her search for flaws in him. Surely nobody could be as perfect as he often seemed to be? And wouldn’t it be impossible to endure if you turned out to have married a paragon?

One of his characteristics was to address discomfort or discord head-on. ‘I am very far from perfect,’ he regularly assured her. ‘I’m afraid of lots of things, lazy, unobservant, impatient of trivia …’ His list would generally fizzle out at that point. They both knew, but did not mention, that his greatest and most serious failing was in his relationship with his son. Timmy had been an intruder into the cosy family circle of Drew, Karen and Stephanie. He had brought noise and worry and inconvenience in his wake. A fractious baby, demanding at first and then all too dreadfully undemanding as he seemed to grasp the limitations of the situation. His mother had almost died when he was still a toddler, and never fully recovered her health. The deficiencies that he endured from that time on could be glimpsed in his eyes, from time to time. Thea suspected that the other children at school could see it, and punished him accordingly for his frailty.

And she herself found it hard to give the child what he craved. She substituted – as Drew had done – an undue emphasis on the superficial. He was given his favourite foods, electronic toys, the right clothes and shoes – as far as finances would allow. His school progress was closely monitored.

‘Oh, well,’ said Thea, after a silence. ‘Better get on. The dog hasn’t been out yet. She must be bursting.’ Taking Hepzie for a walk had been reduced to a brief hobble to a corner of the garden, where she would obediently relieve herself. The broken leg had been the result of a farcical accident as Drew had been unloading two newly constructed coffins from his van. The dog had been sniffing interestedly at the fresh woody scent, jumping up at the exact moment that Drew lost his hold, and the whole thing slid to the ground on top of her. A sharp corner caught her femur, and despite the relative lightness of the coffin, the impact on the soft body was disastrous. ‘I swear I heard the bone crack,’ Drew said miserably, as they waited for the vet to diagnose the damage. Thea had heard the canine screams through two closed doors, and rushed to see what had happened. It had been Christmas Eve. The whole family piled into the car and dashed to the vet, who had to be summoned from a party. The resulting bone-setting and plastering had been traumatic and expensive, and Hepzie became a heroine in everybody’s eyes. Drew, however, managed to avoid censure for his carelessness, except in his own conscience.

Now two weeks had passed, and everyone was growing impatient for the plaster to be off and normality resumed. The dog had tipped over into middle age: her coat was less glossy and her eyes more rheumy. As Drew pointed out, there were matted areas all over her body, where the soft feathering had turned into felty lumps. Thea knew she would be forced into regular trimming, losing the shaggy animal she loved, and replacing it with a streamlined version that looked completely different.

‘Come on, then,’ she said now to the dog. ‘Let’s get you some fresh air. We’ll go down the lane a bit for a change. You can manage that if you try.’

She opened the front door, and waited for Hepzie to limp through it. Three-legged progress was not supposed to be such hard work, she reflected, thinking of a number of dogs permanently reduced to such a state, which she had seen running as fast as any fully equipped animal. ‘Come on,’ she said again. ‘We’ll go into the field a little way.’

But before they had even got down the short path between the door and the little lane they lived on, a man had interposed himself, standing solidly in their way.

Chapter Two

It was Mr Shipley, a seldom-encountered neighbour from the other side of the lane, his property a handsome old house set at an angle on a gentle rise. Broad Campden consisted of gentle rises and dips, with generous patches of green on all sides. Meandering little roads, a narrow footpath and a sporadic little waterway gave it a jumbled spontaneous sort of atmosphere. No hint of deliberate design could be detected in its layout.

Mr Shipley had harrumphed mildly when Drew and Thea had first met him, expressing doubt as to the desirability of living opposite an undertaker, but since then had given relatively affable greetings from a distance, and no more than that.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Oh – hello. Did you want to see us about something?’ It was quite obvious that he did. His expression was severe.

‘I did, as a matter of fact. I have a piece of business to discuss with your husband.’

‘Ah. Well, he’s just in there. I’ve got to take the dog out for a bit. Go ahead. Just open the door and give him a shout.’

This informality clearly startled the man. ‘Well … well, all right.’ He nodded. Thea knew quite well that he expected her to perform a proper introduction, turning back and summoning Drew. But the dog came first, and she saw no reason to involve herself with whatever the man might have to say. The best guess was that he had a dead or dying relative requiring a woodland burial; the other end of the spectrum was a threat to make a formal complaint over excessive noise, obstruction or nuisance arising from funeral operations in the little road.

The walk with the dog took twenty minutes, during which Thea made much of the cool wintry light and the fresh breeze. January was predicted to be quiet and fairly gentle, with no snow and only moderate frost at times. She enjoyed the passage of the seasons, the reliable cycle bringing such extreme differences in the landscape that she could barely remember what trees looked like in full July leaf. She was conscious of the good sense in remaining in the present moment as far as possible. There before her was a stretch of English grassland bordered by skeletal trees, and beyond that a tranquil landscape of undulating hills in all directions. It was ancient country, inhabited for millennia by workers on the land. The Romans had taken to it wholesale, and then later the feudal lords had readily colonised it. Much of this history had been recorded in surprising detail. And once into the nineteenth century it would appear that almost every person and every square foot of ground was noted in some archive somewhere. Famous families had lived here in their grand houses, employing legions of workers indoors and out. Broad Campden, despite being a recognised settlement boasting significant buildings for well over four hundred years, had been slow to come to wider notice, its own brief climax occurring in the 1900s with the Arts and Crafts Movement selecting it and Chipping Campden as favourite locations. The Essex House Press, a famous weaver and a very old Norman chapel all successfully put the two villages on the cultural map.

Thea considered herself to be an amateur historian, regularly falling into short-lived obsessions with small aspects of the past. Canals, craftsmen, footpaths, woodlands all in their turn fed her curiosity about the area. She was trying to arouse a similar interest in Stephanie and Timmy, especially where canals were concerned. There were tunnels, abandoned locks and derelict bridges to discover, all with their own dramatic stories – and the children were finally taking a gratifying interest. ‘You should have been a teacher,’ said Drew. ‘It’s brilliant the way you’ve got them to take notice.’

Hepzie finally showed signs of involvement with the scents and sounds around her, and began her customary zigzag pursuit of rabbit or squirrel with the heavy plaster held well out of harm’s way at a strange horizontal angle. Thea wondered whether the leg would ever look normal again, even when released from the cast.

They meandered back to the house, with Thea in a better mood after her fix of natural beauty. None of her complaints had any real basis: Drew was a miraculous find, and his children were far more amenable and contented than they might have been. She just hoped the Shipley man would have gone before she reached home.

As she left the field and headed up the unpaved track leading back to the house, she could see him going back to his own house. ‘Praise the Lord,’ she murmured. ‘What good timing.’

Drew was in the kitchen washing up when she went in. ‘What did he want?’ Thea asked him. ‘Was it good news or bad?’

‘Neither. It was something quite peculiar. Well, it’s good news, I suppose, that we’re sufficiently accepted to be included in a village concern; bad news that there’s something sinister going on that we’re expected to take notice of.’

‘Sinister? What, for heaven’s sake?’

He dried his hands, and put the kettle on. ‘Sit down for a bit and I’ll tell you.’ She obeyed, with a sense that here at last was something to enliven the day. Drew made coffee before starting his report. ‘Okay. So – did you know there was a couple living in one of those tall houses opposite the church called Hilary and Graham Bunting? Retired. The one with honeysuckle round the door and a little flower bed at the front. It had lots of gladioli last summer.’

‘Vaguely.’ She nodded. ‘Didn’t everybody have good gladdies last summer? Even ours weren’t bad.’

‘Never mind them. The thing is, there’ve been ructions between Hilary and Graham: shouting matches that could be heard as far as the pub one way and the new houses the other. It’s disturbing the peace and spoiling the ambience and generally causing annoyance.’

‘What – worse than us?’

‘Very much so. We’re paragons by comparison. The thing is, some people think it’s all due to Hilary being under terrible strain because her sister’s dying, and others think it’s because Graham has always had a bit of a gambling habit, but in the main they all just want it to stop. There’s a petition.’

‘Oh, no. Did you sign it?’

‘He didn’t bring it with him. They’re still arguing about the wording.’

‘Have you ever heard shouting matches?’

He shook his head. ‘We’re probably too far away, unless it’s extremely loud with the door open and a carrying wind. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen either of them.’

‘So we’re not affected at all?’

‘Not really.’

‘It’s a witch hunt,’ she said flatly. ‘A lot of intolerant old villagers turning against a couple who’ve got some domestic trouble. Like medieval times.’

‘It might be that, but Mr Shipley did seem genuinely concerned. He said they’d discussed all kinds of solutions: calling social services, for one; consulting a doctor; having a quiet word with that community police girl who everybody likes so much. But they all run smack against the Data Protection Act or whatever it is. You can’t intrude on a person’s privacy even if it’s obviously in that person’s best interests.’

‘They could try reading the Buntings’ emails or tracking where they go with their mobiles,’ said Thea sourly. The surveillance society, which everyone else appeared to accept without a murmur, still outraged her. ‘Or fixing a CCTV camera to a lamp post outside their house,’ she added for good measure.

‘They couldn’t without good reason, as you know perfectly well.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘He isn’t sure. I think he was hoping I’d take on the role of a sort of secular vicar and call in for a quiet word.’

‘And offer them a cut-price funeral while you’re at it? I’m sure that would go down beautifully.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic. I said I couldn’t possibly invent a pretext that would be remotely credible. Besides, I don’t even know them.’

‘Haven’t they got any friends? What’s the matter with these bloody villages where nobody knows anybody?’

‘I thought you liked the villages.’

She sighed. ‘I do, mostly, but they’re not exactly sociable, are they? Maybe a few are, and I’m sure there are little groups of chums here that we haven’t found out about yet, but I haven’t seen much sign of communal garden parties or anything. Even at Christmas, nobody invited us for sherry.’

‘Nobody invites undertakers to sherry, except other undertakers. I thought I’d explained that. And you’re a bit notorious yourself. They’re afraid that if they get too friendly, you’ll start ferreting out old murders in their family that they’d rather not think about.’

‘Oh, pish,’ she said.

‘Pish?’

‘I’ve been reading some lovely old detective novels from the thirties, and people quite often say “Pish”. I’ve decided to use it myself.’

‘Okay.’ He seemed lost for anything more to say, until a new idea occurred to him. ‘Mr Bunting plays bridge, for money, according to Mr Shipley. There’s a club in Blockley. That seems to be what’s meant by his tendency towards gambling. Did you ever play bridge?’

‘No, but my dad taught us whist, and I don’t think it’s very different. I have often rather fancied it.’ She smiled. ‘And I like Blockley. It’s got everything a little town should have. Are you suggesting I join the club and spy on the old chap? I might be up for that. It could be my new year hobby. I was trying to think of something different I could take up.’

‘Not if they play for money.’ He shuddered. ‘You’d bankrupt us in no time.’

‘Besides, they probably don’t want learners.’

‘Fortunately. Why don’t you get a disk for the computer, or download something to teach you how to play?’

She pulled a face. ‘Because that wouldn’t be half as much fun.’

Again, he seemed stumped for words.

‘Anyway, thanks for updating me on what Mr Shipley said. Heps had a better walk than usual. She’s going to be fine again once the plaster’s off. It’ll teach her to stand clear another time.’

‘I can guarantee it won’t happen again,’ he said fervently. ‘I never want to hear screams like that for the rest of my life.’

She treated him to her most forgiving smile. ‘You can’t defend against accidents. Isn’t that the definition of an accident?’

‘You can be careful.’ Drew was on the whole a careful person, which sometimes irritated his wife. Thea had a reckless streak that had led to a range of good and less good consequences. She was driven by curiosity more than the average person, wanting to know the end of every story and the reason for every action. This could cause her to intrude into private lives and ask outrageous questions. But she did share with Drew a habit of voicing her feelings. This, she often thought, was the key to their relationship. So long as nobody hid anything, they’d be fine.

‘You know – I could probably think up some excuse to go and visit the Buntings,’ she suggested slowly. ‘They do sound interesting, and maybe in need of a friendly face. I could say’ – she paused – ‘I was thinking of starting a plant-swapping club. Or looking for people to answer a survey about bats or water voles or something.’

‘Or a book group,’ he offered.

‘No. Absolutely not a book group. There are far too many of them already, and I never want to belong to one.’ She took a breath in preparation for an extended rant, which Drew quickly aborted with a flip of his hand.

‘Okay. I forgot you didn’t like them,’ he said. ‘Plant swapping sounds quite sensible.’

‘It’s not. Stop humouring me. I can think of something better, given a bit of time.’

The phone then rang again, and Drew’s work day began in earnest. Thea made herself more coffee and applied herself to the matter of the warring Buntings. By half past ten, she had a firm plan, and ten minutes later she was putting it into action.

The house was set well back from the lane, on the junction with the tortuous road that ran through the village. An expanse of bumpy grass filled the space between the row of houses and the small lane that ran down to the Slocombes’ house. The front doors opened directly onto a barely visible path, but the one in question had broken with convention to create a very small flower bed under one window. Thea was reminded of the village of Stanton, where a similar arrangement occurred. No pavements in Broad Campden – walkers took their chances, getting muddy and splashed in winter, and brushed by impatient tourists in cars in the summer.

When she rang the bell, she was cheered to hear a dog barking inside. Drew had not mentioned a dog, probably because he had no idea it existed. It sounded quite large, and Thea set herself to guessing what breed it might be.

After a lengthy interval, the door opened cautiously. A woman’s voice was heard to say, ‘Back, Biddy. Get back, will you? Who is it? I’m trying not to let the dog out.’

‘I’m sorry. Can I help?’

‘Wait a minute. I’ll put the lead on her. I’ve got it here.’ Finally, the door opened fully, and Thea stood face-to-face with a tall woman of about sixty, holding a sandy-coloured mutt with long hair and a very long-suffering expression. In fact, the woman and the dog both gave an impression of exhaustion, as if they’d just come back from an extended walk.

‘I am so sorry to bother you. It’s nothing at all important. My name is Thea Slocombe. I live just a little way down there.’ She pointed accordingly. ‘My husband’s the alternative undertaker. We do the green burials in Mrs Simmonds’ field. I expect you know about it.’

‘Of course. What do you want?’ The question was uttered without any aggression or hostility, a simple request for an explanation.

‘Actually, it’s nothing at all to do with funerals. It’s really a project I’ve decided to take on, to do with local history. I know there’s a strong link with the Arts and Crafts Movement here, but I can’t find very much detailed information about it. I thought perhaps if some of the residents got together and pooled everything they know, we could come up with a booklet or something. I don’t know for sure, but I have the feeling you’ve lived here quite a long time.’

‘Oh! I suppose we have. Twenty-four years is a long time. But Ashbee was here a century ago or more. And surely there must be all kinds of books and other material already available. I can’t believe there’s a need for anything else.’ She hesitated, evidently considering the matter more closely. ‘I don’t think there is very much about Broad Campden specifically.’

Thea was forced to bluff. ‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m sure there’s more than people realise.’

‘Possibly. It would be nice to look at the Coomaraswamys a bit more. I’ve always liked the sound of them.’ She smiled faintly.

‘Who is it?’ came a strong male voice from inside the house, saving Thea from an embarrassing dilemma. She was unaware of the Coomar-whatsits. ‘Have you had that door open all this time?’

‘Sorry, dear.’ The woman looked at Thea, from the six or seven inches advantage she had on her visitor. ‘Would you like to come in? My name is Hilary Bunting, as you probably know. This is Biddy. She belongs to my sister. We’re just minding her for a while.’ The weary face clouded, and Thea remembered a reference to a sick sister. ‘We’re no good with dogs, I’m afraid. She really isn’t having a very nice time.’

Thea had been a house-sitter until she married Drew. She had taken charge of numerous dogs and other animals in their own homes. She knew a lot about their needs and anxieties. She definitely recognised a confused and pining dog when she saw it. ‘Has your sister gone on holiday? When does she get back?’ It was a small piece of dishonesty, but it seemed unwise to admit that she knew otherwise.

‘She’s in hospital. Nobody can say when – or whether – she’ll be able to go home.’ She raised her chin bravely. ‘Well, of course we do know if we’re honest with ourselves. There’s no chance of a recovery. We’re all just waiting for the end now.’ A tear swelled at the corner of one eye.

‘Oh dear! That must be such a worry.’

‘Hilary!’ The man’s voice bellowed again from close by. ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Go through,’ the woman ordered her visitor. She closed the front door, and ushered Thea ahead of herself and Biddy. ‘The door on the right.’

Curiosity was mixed with a thread of trepidation as Thea entered a room that felt like the lair of an angry animal. A man was sitting in a deep armchair, holding a newspaper open on his legs. He had a strong grey beard and black-rimmed spectacles, giving an impression of a man in disguise. Only his nose could be properly inspected. ‘This is Mrs Slocombe,’ said his wife. ‘She wanted to talk about local history.’

‘What?’ The man’s voice remained just as loud as when he was calling across the room and down the hallway. ‘Did you say local history? Of all the idiotic things to come bothering people with, that takes the biscuit.’

‘Don’t shout, dear,’ the woman said.

‘Am I shouting? I can’t help it. You know I can’t.’ The decibels reduced only slightly for this. Thea wondered what bizarre medical condition caused a person’s voice to emerge unnaturally loudly. The man clearly wasn’t deaf, which could have accounted for it. It did, however, explain the alarm in the village, assuming conflict and rage where it might not exist. Plus, it would surely be intensely disturbing for the wretched dog.

‘I think you can try a bit harder,’ said Mrs Bunting. ‘You know what that therapist said. There’s no organic cause for it. You just have to learn to stop it.’

‘I do try,’ he said like a sulky child. ‘The point is – aren’t we expecting the Taylors any time now? Didn’t you tell them eleven?’

‘I did, but they’re always late.’ She turned to Thea. ‘Our friends from Blockley are coming for the day. Graham plays bridge with them on Tuesdays. Morning and afternoon, with lunch in the middle.’ She smiled. ‘It gives me a chance to get on with my own little jobs in peace.’ The smile grew warmer. ‘We could have a chat about your history project, if you like.’

Thea realised how very ill-prepared she was for such instant enthusiasm. She was also suddenly inspired by the whole hasty idea. She was, after all, genuinely interested in the Ashbee story, and did actually suspect that there was scope for it to be revisited, for the edification of local people and visitors alike. ‘Well, it’s all very embryonic at the moment. I was basically just canvassing opinion, to see if anybody might be interested.’

‘I am interested,’ said Hilary. ‘It sounds really intriguing now I think about it a bit more. And I’ll talk to Rachel about it. I know she’d be keen to join in as well.’

Voices outside diverted them, and before she could ask who Rachel was, Thea was holding Biddy while Hilary Bunting went to welcome the Taylors. There had to be three of them, Thea reckoned, to make up a table of bridge with Graham. And sure enough, there they were – two women and a man, taking up most of the space in the hallway. The lady of the house looked harassed and indecisive. ‘I’ll go,’ said Thea. ‘Maybe I could come back when you’ve got a bit of time.’

‘This afternoon,’ said Hilary breathlessly. ‘Two o’clock. Is that all right?’

‘Absolutely,’ Thea assured her. She was openly inspecting the new arrivals, trying to work out whether she had seen any of them before, during her visits to Blockley.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ gasped Hilary. ‘This is Barnaby and Sally Taylor, and Sally’s friend Rachel Ottaway. This is Mrs Slocombe,’ she concluded the introductions.

Barnaby Taylor was broad and silver-haired. His skin was reddish, his expression bland. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said carelessly. The woman standing close to him had to be his wife, Sally. She had a long grey ponytail, was slim and dignified, and did not smile. The third person – Ms or Mrs Ottaway – was much more animated. She gave a little laugh and held out her hand. ‘Slocombe?’ she repeated. ‘The funeral people?’

‘That’s right,’ said Thea, taking her hand. ‘You’ve heard of us, then?’

‘Very much so. My father’s booked one of your graves. He’s ninety-seven, and bright as a button. You might have to wait a while yet for the business.’ She laughed again. ‘You should have seen his excitement when he read about you. Said he thought it was an act of Providence, because it’s so exactly what he’s wanted for ages.’

‘That’s very nice to hear,’ said Thea, instantly liking this woman. Five new people in a morning was riches indeed. More so, because at least one of them seemed to approve wholeheartedly of her and Drew.

‘Thea’s trying to start a new interest group, looking at the history of the Arts and Crafts Movement here,’ Hilary said. ‘I said you’d be sure to want to get involved.’

‘Me?’ said Thea’s new friend. ‘Just try to keep me away. That’s exactly what this place needs.’

Chapter Three

She and Drew sat down together for a very basic lunch, shortly before one o’clock. His morning had been uneventful, going through the schedule for the coming days with Andrew, paying a few bills. He was avid for Thea’s findings at the Bunting residence.

She gave him as much detail as she could, pleased to have his attention. ‘The man seems very strange. He shouts all the time, even though he’s obviously not deaf. She tells him not to, but that doesn’t make much difference.’

‘Is he angry?’

‘Hard to tell. He might be. He was quite rude to me, actually. Is it some sort of brain damage, do you think?’

‘I suppose it’s possible. Must be very hard to live with.’

She thought about it. ‘He is bossy. She hadn’t been two minutes in the hallway before he wanted to know what she was doing. The dog must hate him.’

‘Dog?’

‘Biddy. She belongs to Hilary’s sister, who’s in hospital. Actually, both the things Mr Shipley told you about them are true. Her sister’s ill – dying, in fact – and he plays bridge. He must be addicted, because he’s not just in the Blockley club, but has people over to play every Tuesday.’

‘That’s nothing. I had an aunt who played regularly four times a week, come what may.’

‘Gosh. Anyway, I’m going back after lunch to see Hilary and talk about the Arts and Crafts Movement. I’ll have to do some quick research in a minute. I never thought she’d take it up with such gusto. I have no idea what happens next. I burbled something about writing leaflets for visitors, but I expect the museum in Campden does plenty of that sort of thing already.’

‘Listen to you – Campden! You sound like a real local.’

‘Nobody says “Chipping Campden” every time. It’s far too cumbersome.’ She shook the interruption aside and went on, ‘But it does seem reasonable to claim some special status for Broad Campden in its own right, where the Arts and Crafts stuff is concerned.’

‘Broady, surely?’ he joked.

‘Stop it. Although I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll have to ask someone.’

‘Good idea.’

‘To finish my story, I have to tell you that Mrs Taylor’s friend, Rachel, strongly approves of green burials, and thinks we’re the bee’s knees. She’s the nicest of them all. She lives in Blockley.’

‘All very symmetrical,’ he said obscurely. ‘I mean – two sets of a man and two women. The Bunting man and the Taylor man,’ he elaborated patiently. ‘Two triangular relationships. Any offspring that you noticed?’

‘Must be some, but they didn’t get a mention.’

‘I’m sure all will soon be revealed this afternoon.’ He stared at the wall for a moment. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as slightly odd that she jumped at your idea so quickly? I know you can be very persuasive, but wasn’t she a bit too enthusiastic? Wouldn’t most people ask more about it, or say they’ll think about it, or something? She sounds as if she was desperate for something to fill her empty life.’

‘She wasn’t enthusiastic at first. But you’re probably exactly right. She might have lost all her friends because of her shouty husband, and is taken up with the dog and worry about her sister, rapidly going mad with it all. Then I come along, offering an absorbing distraction. No wonder she seemed relieved. I felt as if I’d saved her from something. And, I might remind you, this is almost exactly what we planned. It’s what I was angling for, and the mission was accomplished.’

‘A bit too well,’ he insisted.

‘Not if I get googling right away.’ She went to the laptop, which was the family’s only access to the internet, and began tapping keys. ‘Here!’ she said triumphantly, two minutes later. ‘There was a woman weaver, Ethel Coomaraswamy, married to a Sri Lankan philosopher. They lived right here. We ought to concentrate on them, at least to start with. I love that name, Coomaraswamy,’ she repeated the word sensuously, making it sound like a song. ‘Ethel must have been English. Doesn’t it make you feel nostalgic for those sunny days? I’m going to have a lovely time finding out more detail. Had you ever heard of the Coomaraswamys? Hilary knows about them. I had to pretend I did as well.’

He shook his head. ‘Ignorance prevails, I’m ashamed to say.’

‘We’re as bad as each other.’

Drew brightened. ‘You know – there’s no shame in it, after all. You can say you know hardly anything beyond the basics, and the two of you can find out more together. That would be a lot better than you giving her a lecture.’

‘I think she already knows more than I could hope to tell her. But it wasn’t meant to be just the two of us. I wanted to get a proper group going.’

He gave her a searching look. ‘Since when? I thought this all began – only a few hours ago – as a way of getting to know the Buntings and see if they warrant the concern of the whole village.’

‘Yes, but now I’ve thought of it, I like the idea of involving some other people. It would rehabilitate the Buntings at the same time. Besides, all this stuff about Ashbee and his arty friends is hugely interesting. I can’t think why it’s taken me so long to get into it. It’s what Broady’s famous for, after all.’

‘Please don’t say Broady,’ he begged. ‘At least not where anyone can hear you. I only said it as a joke.’

She laughed. ‘I bet you 50p it’s common usage already.’

‘I accept your wager,’ he said with a little bow.

‘I’ll ask my new friend Hillie. She’s sure to know.’

When she went back an hour later, having wished Drew the best of luck with his interview, she took with her a notebook and the laptop. But she was met by a much less welcoming woman. ‘Oh Lord – I forgot all about you,’ Hilary gasped when she finally answered the doorbell. ‘It’s all in chaos here. My sister’s in a coma. The dog’s jumped over the wall at the back and disappeared. Graham yelled at Rachel for making the wrong bid and said she was a terrible player. I can’t talk to you now, after all. Sorry.’

Thea just stood there, eyes wide. ‘How did all that happen in just a few hours?’

‘It just did. Everything comes at once – isn’t it always the way?’

‘Are the Taylors still here?’

‘Rachel’s gone looking for the dog. The others went home ten minutes ago. I don’t suppose they’ll ever come back,’ she finished with a groan. ‘I knew it was all too good to be true. I was so cheerful this morning. And then when you turned up it was another nice hopeful thing. Honestly, I’ve been so depressed for months now, and I really thought it was going to get better. At least it looks as if we’ll be getting the gutters cleared sometime this week,’ she added. ‘They’ve been full of leaves for months.’

It seemed a funny thing to add to the list of much more major worries, but Thea understood the way such things could work. ‘I could go and help look for the dog,’ she offered. ‘I’m really sorry about your sister. Which hospital is she in?’

‘The John Radcliffe. It’s the best place; everybody says so. And it’s not too awful to get to from here. I just hope Biddy hasn’t tried to run home. That’s Burford, by the way.’

‘That would be bad,’ Thea agreed. ‘Let’s hope not. She’s probably just very lost and bewildered, poor thing.’

‘Well, if you’ve got time, it would be terribly kind of you to have a look round. You seem to be good with dogs. Rachel is as well, and Biddy does know her. But it’ll be dark in an hour or two. What if she’s out all night?’ The expression on Hilary Bunting’s face was haggard with worry and guilt. ‘I’ll never forgive myself.’

‘Give me your phone number and Rachel’s,’ said Thea efficiently. ‘Then we can all keep in touch. If one of us finds her, we’ll need to tell the others.’

‘Of course.’ Hilary extracted a new-looking mobile from a nearby handbag and read out the numbers. ‘I can never keep them in my head,’ she said. ‘I used to be so good at that sort of thing.’

‘Nobody but me memorises them any more,’ said Thea. ‘Tell me your landline number and I’ll remember it. Here – let me give you mine as well.’

Hilary did as suggested, and then produced a thin leather belt. ‘Take this to use as a lead. I gave Rachel the proper one. I was going out to look myself, but Graham wants me to stay here.’

Thea waited for an explanation for this demand, but none came. At least, none beyond the shout that Thea realised she’d been expecting. ‘Hilary! Where are you?’ The booming voice echoed around the house, carrying hints of insane rage, or perhaps a fairy-tale ogre. I’ll grind your bones to make my bread, started running through her mind, making her smile.

‘He does shout, doesn’t he?’ she whispered.

Hilary rolled her eyes, but didn’t smile back. ‘I’ve got to do something about it. He’s getting worse.’

‘Poor you. Well, let me go and look for the dog. Would you like me to take her home with me, if I find her? I’ll phone you first, of course. But it looks as if you’ve got enough to cope with already.’

The woman’s face lightened. ‘Oh – would you? That would be wonderful. But first we’ve got to find her. She’s a nice dog, you know. Caroline adores her. She’s had her from a tiny pup.’

‘We’ll find her,’ said Thea, with unwarranted confidence.