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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Cotswold Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010
Once again, there's death on her doorstep... Thea throws herself into house-sitting for Babs and Cedric Angell in Lower Slaughter following her beloved father's death - anything to keep her busy and away from some of her rather difficult relatives. Although it's lonely, she has her spaniel, Hepzie, for company, and keeping the house in order and looking after the Angells' menagerie of animals does the trick for a short period of time. But when Thea's prickly older sister turns up, after witnessing a horrific killing, the timeless tranquillity of Lower Slaughter vanishes, replaced by the sinister connotations of the town's name.
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Seitenzahl: 411
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Slaughter in the Cotswolds
REBECCA TOPE
Another one for Liz, celebrating 50 years of friendship
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
They had automatically lined up in age order – Damien, Emily, Thea and Jocelyn – along the front pew of the little church. Their mother, however, interrupted the line, squeezed between Damien and Emily, clutching tightly to a hand of each. The pale coffin, which Thea had seen recorded as being 5’10” by 16” on the undertaker’s card, stood on trestles only three feet away. Her father lay inside, his hands folded tidily across his stomach, his lips and eyes glued shut, his hair brushed in a style it had never known in life. Only the day before she had studied him for several long minutes in the undertaker’s chapel, fighting to convince herself of the normality of death. But there was no shaking the aching loss that arose from knowing she would never again breathe in his warm male smell, never again know the special quality of attention that he gave her and each of the others in turn. Richard Johnstone had enjoyed fatherhood from first to last. He had loved being a grandfather – the full complement of nine grandchildren in a pew of their own across the aisle from their parents could all attest to that. Even Jocelyn’s youngest, Roly, had insisted on being included. Emily’s three boys, a gangling teenage trio, were behaving with unusual decorum.
That Thea had arranged the funeral with her daughter Jessica had surprised and unsettled some of the family. ‘Surely you never want to go through that again,’ Emily had said, reluctant to yield control. ‘Why don’t you let me or Damien do it? Or Mum. She’s quite capable.’
‘Anybody’s capable,’ said Thea impatiently. ‘I’m just saying I know the routine with the undertaker and may as well make use of that.’ Thea’s husband, Carl, had died in a car accident, two and a half years earlier, and she would never forget the calm kindliness of Mr Williams as she forced herself to make a long list of irrelevant decisions about flowers and whether the dead Carl should wear his best suit for the occasion.
‘Well I want to choose the hymns,’ said Damien unexpectedly. When his three sisters and mother all stared at him, he flushed and flapped a hand.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been reading up on hymns, that’s all, in the past day or two. There’s something awful about nearly all of them when you look at the words.’
‘Right,’ said Jocelyn. ‘They’ve all got God in them.’
Damien winced. It had been dimly apparent to them all that he had started going to church in recent years and involving himself in a weekly discussion group. Nobody had overtly referred to it, but it was dawning on them now that the crunch had finally come. ‘Well it’s just a short one,’ he went on, producing a folded sheet of paper. ‘I think it’s part of something longer, but these ten lines say it all. See what you think.’
Thea took the paper and unfolded it. After a quick glance, she read the words in a self-conscious voice, making the lines sound glib and obvious:
‘Take the last kiss – the last for ever
Yet render thanks amidst your gloom;
He, severed from his home and kindred,
Is passing onwards to the tomb.
For earthly labours, earthly pleasures,
And carnal joys he cares no more;
Where are his kinsfolk and acquaintance?
They stand upon another shore.
Let us say, around him pressed,
Grant him, Lord, eternal rest.’
‘Drat,’ said Jocelyn. ‘We were doing rather well until the last line.’
Thea looked at her brother. ‘What’s the tune?’ she asked.
‘No idea,’ he admitted. ‘I think it would work with the one to “Jerusalem”. If not, we can probably fit it to something else we know.’
‘I don’t know any hymns,’ said Jocelyn.
‘Shut up,’ Emily and Thea said in unison.
When Carl, had been killed, Thea had let herself be persuaded by her father to bring the whole funeral to her childhood home, where her family could support her. It was only fifty miles from Witney where she and Carl had lived. His colleagues and relatives made no objection to travelling the extra distance, if that was the choice of the new young widow. Carl had been buried in the same churchyard that her father was now to occupy. The graves were four yards apart. It was pleasing to think of them ending up so close. She suspected her mother eyed the plot with some wistfulness, seeing death as an easeful escape from the bother of being alive. Unlike her husband, Maureen Johnstone found it difficult to feel joy. There was always some worry, some irritation that spoilt it. ‘Your expectations are too high, my love,’ Richard would say. Thea had watched a thousand instances where her mother had nodded in rueful agreement, quite unable to do anything about it. People let her down and disappointed her. They forgot Mother’s Day, or gave her presents that were the wrong colour or size, or neglected to ask after her welfare. Or they timed it badly, wanting her to join a celebration when they knew perfectly well she was consumed with anxiety about Jessica’s choice of career or Emily’s sudden loss of weight.
The interment was the usual awkward procedure, the horror of it obscured by the potential for farce. The sky was overcast but still the day was hot and the undertaker’s men uncomfortable in their black clothes. The coffin was heavy and despite long practice, the moment of lowering, with its absolute need for dignity, gave rise to stress. When it had finally reached the bottom of the disconcertingly deep hole, the family shuffled their feet and threw glances at each other. ‘Do we chuck soil onto it?’ Jocelyn whispered loudly. Thea tried in vain to catch the eye of the funeral conductor who stood to one side, and then shook her head. ‘Seems not,’ she muttered. As at Carl’s funeral she persuaded herself it was only in films that the practice existed, since no handy pile of clean dry soil stood nearby.
The gathering afterwards, which Thea always labelled a ‘bunfight’ to herself, was the usual jolly event, relief buoying everybody up. Two cousins materialised, sons of Richard’s sister, not seen – at least by Thea – for a good twenty years. They had got fat and dull, both of them. Aged something like forty-seven and forty-nine, they seemed alarmingly old. Their own father had died five years earlier, and their position now as Top Generation seemed to have weighed them down. Brian was bald and Peter was grey and wrinkled.
Emily was slender and poised, holding a wineglass carelessly, sitting on the arm of her mother’s settee. She watched her sons critically, now and then correcting one of them, or instructing her husband, Bruce, to do it on her behalf. ‘Tell Mark to tuck his shirt in,’ or ‘Hasn’t Grant had enough of those sandwiches?’ Thea’s older sister had always been bossy, maintaining a tight control over everyone in her immediate orbit. She had worked herself up through the Civil Service, despite according each son due attention in his early years, and keeping dozens of friendships alive with relentless emails and phonecalls.
Thea and her elder sister had seldom been alone together, all their lives. Emily had been nearly three when Thea was born, and six when Jocelyn followed. Somehow it seemed she had never quite adjusted to these additions to the family. There had been her and Damien, brother and sister, nice and normal, and then for some bizarre reason, her mother had produced the two extra girls. The family dynamic had been constructed and maintained by Dad, by the man who loved babies and shared himself out so effortlessly. But even he had not always managed to placate Emily, who shared some of her mother’s tendency to dissatisfaction. Emily craved approval and respect, hating to be teased, forever suspicious of people’s motives. ‘Why didn’t Dad take Grant with him to London last week? He took Jessica often enough when she was that age,’ she would grumble to Thea, constantly watching for injustices and slights.
Maureen had arrayed the sympathy cards on a side table, where people drifted to look at them. The sentiments, added by hand inside the cards, were uninhibited. Such a lovely man; Richard was always so helpful and patient with me; A good man taken much too soon; What a shocking loss! But nobody uttered such thoughts out loud, not here in his house, an hour after burying him in the deep dark earth. Here they twittered and smiled and drank wine and forgot the man who had brought them there. Thea watched and grieved and inwardly raged.
‘I had forty-eight cards,’ said Emily, coming up behind her. ‘I could have brought them with me, I suppose, but Mum wouldn’t know who half the people were.’
‘Forty-eight?’ repeated Thea in blank amazement. ‘How is that possible? I’ve had four.’
‘Well, I emailed everybody in my address book with the news, plus work – I just know a lot of people.’
‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Thea shook her head. It seemed almost indecent of her sister to outdo all the rest of them in such a way. Her cards undoubtedly exceeded the total received by the rest of the family. ‘My mind boggles.’
Emily shrugged complacently. ‘It’s not so remarkable.’
‘I’ll have to go,’ Thea said at three. ‘I’m supposed to be in Lower Slaughter by now. Sorry, Mum, but it can’t be helped.’
Her house-sitting commission was scheduled to run from a Friday for two weeks – a change from the usual Saturday. Not that it mattered to her: the days were interchangeable as far as she was concerned. Only the fact of her father’s funeral on the day she had promised to take charge had caused difficulties.
Not lingering to bid goodbye to the cousins and friends, she kissed her mother, gave her younger sister a double pat on the upper arm, and left with a sense of escaping a situation that could only become more difficult as the hours went by.
The drive to the Cotswolds passed in a blur. The grey day would have been depressing in any circumstances, but on the day of her father’s funeral it felt somehow fitting. The leaves had not yet begun to turn to autumn tones, and might not for another month or so, but the best of the summer was irretrievably over. Her insides felt heavy, turgid with endings. There seemed little to look forward to but worry and bother. Following this house-sit, there were two more already fixed: a September week in a bungalow in Stow-on-the-Wold and an unusually protracted commission in Hampnett in January, which was definitely not something to look forward to. She had done her best to refuse, but the woman had offered to pay her such a high fee that she felt she had no choice. It would finance a decent holiday next summer, if she could survive the wintry uplands of that particular area without going insane.
‘You’re a fool,’ said her ‘friend’ (she was never able to think of him as ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’ despite both labels being perfectly appropriate) Phil Hollis, uncompromisingly. ‘You don’t need the money. If you want a holiday, come to Greece with me and I’ll pay for everything.’
Greece with Phil sounded fine, but she didn’t like the idea of letting him pay. Even after a year’s relationship with him, she clung to her independence. She still lived in her own Witney cottage, while he was in a Cirencester flat. They often went a whole week without seeing each other, and she was increasingly reluctant to make any changes to this pattern.
The house she was guarding in Lower Slaughter was old – very old in parts – low-slung and neglected. The owners were a dying breed – Cotswold born and bred, he a gamekeeper and she a former postmistress, her Post Office closed three years ago, and naught to be said about it. Retirement had been forced on them both, and in an effort to compensate for the shock, they were taking themselves off to their son in Hong Kong. They left behind them a motley collection of dogs and cats, as well as a gaudy parrot and a large cage containing five ferrets. ‘I’ll be bringing my dog with me,’ Thea had said firmly. ‘She’s a cocker spaniel, very well behaved.’
Cedric and Babs Angell shrugged this off as irrelevant. ‘Ours both be dogs,’ said the woman, referring to the animals’ gender. ‘They ain’t likely to mind a little bitch come to stay. Can’t vouch for Ignatius, mind. He can be funny about strange animals.’ Ignatius, it soon became clear, was the parrot.
Babs had introduced her to the bird with some ceremony. ‘He belongs to Martin, our son, by rights. He brought him home one day when he was fifteen. Never would say exactly where he came from, but swore he wasn’t stolen. That was twenty-something years ago now. Taught him all kinds of daft things to say – you’ll hear most of them, shouldn’t wonder. Turns your heart over sometimes, the way he seems to understand what’s going on.’ She scratched the feathers of the parrot’s chest with a confident finger. ‘He’s a good old boy. Can’t tell you how fond we are of him, after this long time.’
‘How old is he?’ asked Thea, with the inevitable house-sitter’s worry that an animal might die in her care.
‘No idea. Martin claimed he was just a fledgling when he came, but he seemed more than that to me, not that I ever knew anything about parrots. But they live sixty, seventy years, so he’s in his prime.’
This visit had been a fortnight ago, after an initial quick meeting a month or so before that, while in Temple Guiting with Phil. The owners had found most of her questions irrelevant and irksome. Routines, keys, visitors, phone calls – all were waved aside as minor issues. Past experience had taught Thea that there was almost certainly a central reason for employing her services that might not be instantly apparent. Given the feral nature of several of the animals, and the relative ease with which someone could have been asked to come in daily to feed them, there were grounds for wondering just what the point was.
The house was surrounded by a reduced acreage, remnants of a much larger farm. Cedric had bought the house and the vestigial two fields from the farmer who had been brought low by agricultural misfortunes. He told Thea the story, as if it had all taken place a week ago. ‘Poor old Ralph, too stuck in his ways to keep up with the times. Silly sod sold up in a fit of panic, and regretted it ever since. Just missed the price boom. If he’d waited another year or two, he’d have got half as much again.’ He smiled smugly, still glowing from his good fortune after ten years or more.
‘Is he still alive?’
Cedric nodded. ‘Got himself a nice enough place just beyond Moreton, market garden sort of thing. Never made much of a go of it, mind. Some people just don’t have the right outlook to make a success of things – don’t you find?’
Thea knew, in a vague way, that farmers detested selling any of their land. They hoarded and competed and mortgaged in an effort to hang onto every inch of their property. Like little heads of state intent on expansion, they glanced hungrily over borders and boundaries and dreamt of acquiring each other’s forgotten corners.
‘Poor chap,’ she murmured. ‘What happened to the rest of the land?’
Cedric’s face darkened. ‘There’s talk of building on the Six Acre field. It’s only a little way from the village, see – some bright spark snapped it up, on the off chance. Now they’ve got new houses going up in Lower Swell, there’s a chance he’ll get the go-ahead.’
Uh-oh, thought Thea. What am I walking into here? She looked to Babs enquiringly. The woman was in her early sixties, with curly white hair and a body the exact shape of a pear.
‘Everyone got a letter from the Council Planning Office,’ she said. ‘They’re applying to build ten new houses on the field. Can’t see it, myself. Lower Slaughter’s not Lower Swell. This is in all the books – famous it is, for the way it looks. New houses would stick out like sore thumbs.’
‘Right,’ Thea agreed. ‘And surely –’ Thea knew a bit about planning laws, as did most rural dwellers. ‘I mean, that must be a change of use? There must be a County Plan that excludes it from development? Didn’t Ralph put a restriction on it when he sold it?’
‘Never crossed his mind, seemingly. Well, it wouldn’t, him not being the sharpest nail in the bag. Cedric’s not happy about it, but I tell him not to worry.’ She threw her husband a complicated look of impatience and solicitude.
‘Well, it would be a shame.’ Thea offered the remark more as a palliative to the unhappy Cedric than from any genuine feeling of her own. She was tempted to add something consoling about even if the worst happened it was a mere six acres out of hundreds, a mere ten new houses, in a region where there was still a lot of open space and greenery.
After the historical explanations, the Angells informed Thea that she could use anything she liked out of the freezer. ‘Hope you like pheasant,’ Cedric chuckled. ‘I might be retired, but I still get my share of the bag.’
Babs threw up the lid of the stately white chest to reveal a jumble of meat in plastic bags almost to the top. Thea gasped in awe: there had to be easily fifty or sixty items to choose from. ‘Venison, rabbit, bit of lamb down near the bottom, bones for the dogs – but mainly it’s pheasant,’ said Babs.
‘Not many labels,’ observed Thea.
Babs laughed scornfully and closed the lid.
It seemed that the closest neighbour was a surviving farm, boasting a thousand head of sheep. The buildings were clearly visible from the back of the Angells’ house, two large modern barns and an older one stacked high with bright yellow straw in big circular bales. ‘Don’t let the dogs go over there,’ Cedric warned. ‘That Henry’s very twitchy about dogs getting among his sheep.’
‘But it isn’t lambing time,’ said Thea.
Cedric shook his head. ‘Lambing’s not a worry, with them all indoors. Dogs’ll chase sheep any time of the year, if they get the mood on them.’
Thea looked at Hepzibah and smiled at the image of the floppy-eared spaniel in pursuit of a large woolly prey.
‘They seem pretty friendly,’ she observed, eyeing Cedric’s two dogs.
‘They’re good old boys,’ Cedric agreed. ‘Not much of a life, but Babs insisted we have them as guards. They’ve got each other, and the chains are good and long.’
‘But presumably you untie them sometimes for exercise?’ The thought that the animals remained perpetually tied up was untenable.
Cedric ducked his chin in a gesture of shame. ‘Not as often as we ought,’ he admitted.
‘So – am I allowed to walk them? I can’t bear to leave them tied up the whole time. It’s just not in my nature.’ She struggled not to sound accusing or critical.
‘If you must. But make damned sure they don’t get away from you, that’s all. Best take them one at a time, maybe. That’s the safest. Babs paid a pretty penny for that huntaway – she’s not going to take it kindly if he comes to grief.’
‘Huntaway?’
Cedric indicated the short-haired dog, with black and tan colouring. His feet were tan socks on black legs, which gave him a characterful appearance. ‘They’re a three way cross – alsatian, sheepdog and something else. I can never recall what the last one is. Very good with cattle, so they say.’
Various sketchy details were provided about dustbin day and the best place to buy milk and bread, and then detailed arrangements had been made for the Friday departure. Five days later, Thea’s father had died, and she had been on the brink of cancelling the whole commission. She phoned the Angells and told them what had happened. The horrified silence at the idea that she might not fulfil her promise was enough to persuade her she couldn’t let them down. ‘We’re not sure when the funeral is, but if we have it in the church, it’ll probably be the end of the week, which is quite quick these days.’
Babs Angell had coughed, rather than attempt a response to this.
‘It gets very booked up at the crematorium,’ Thea elaborated. ‘People have to wait nearly three weeks sometimes.’
‘That’s a disgrace,’ said Babs. ‘Well, dear, I’m sorry for your loss. We only have one Dad, don’t we?’
The kindness had made Thea cry, and she put down the phone after promising thickly to do her best to keep to the arrangement.
* * *
They had been gone several hours when Thea and Hepzibah arrived. The sun was casting low rays over the sheep farm at the back of the house, the earlier clouds having cleared in time for a few last moments of summer evening.
The romantically named Hawkhill Farm stood on comparatively level ground to the south-east of the village of Lower Slaughter, the Roman-straight A429 a few fields away. The road slashed diagonally from Cirencester to Stow, as much part of the area as the butter-coloured buildings and the tumbling hills and valleys. Well-rambled footpaths criss-crossed at this point, the Slaughters one of the most popular attractions for tourists. Thea could see a marker post just beyond the corner of the Angells’ garden, showing where one of the paths ran. She found herself debating the pros and cons of having people in stout boots and rucksacks on their backs passing within speaking distance. She could position a garden chair under that handsome cherry tree and wave to passing ramblers. It might add a welcome air of sociability to her stay.
Phil had known better than to offer to share this commission with her. Once she had convinced him that she was intent on continuing the house-sitting work, he had been forced to accept that he couldn’t be with her every time. Still recovering from a severely slipped disc in his lower back, he had missed too much work to be able to take time off so soon, anyway. The proposed week in Greece could not have happened until the end of September at the earliest, he admitted.
And Jessica, her daughter, had made no suggestion of joining her, either. ‘Seems we’ll be on our own this time,’ Thea said to the spaniel, trying not to think about the long solitary evenings ahead. It was her own choice, after all. If she minded that much, she could get a proper job in an office and stop messing about.
The livestock under her care seemed only mildly suspicious. The dogs had their own quarters in a stone-built shed set at right angles to the house, and were content to have their food provided by a new person. Feeding them was a simple matter of scooping dry complete nuggets from a metal bin into two large aluminium bowls, and presenting them to the animals. The huntaway was the more friendly, approaching her with a slow tail-wag, before politely consuming his supper. The other was black and white, with a long full coat and looped-over tail like a husky. Their names had not been disclosed, which Thea found made her feel more detached from them than she would otherwise have been.
Three tabby cats sat on a flight of slate steps running up the outside of the barn to a door at the top. They made a charming picture, and Thea wished she’d thought to bring her camera. The door at the head of the steps had once been a corn store, ‘the granary’ Babs had called it. Now it contained discarded furniture and had been taken over by the cats. A small square hole had been cut in the door for their convenience. Thea gave them their complete dry food, in three cream-coloured ceramic bowls, and swiped her hands together. ‘Now there’s just the parrot and the ferrets,’ she said.
The ferrets occupied yet another part of the property – a wooden shed at the back, approached by a weed-strewn path around the side of the house, or through from the kitchen and scullery. They too had pre-packaged food, comprising pellets of various colours and shapes. Mr and Mrs Angell must have quite a job keeping up supplies, she realised, imagining the car coming back from a cash and carry loaded with all the different bags of animal feed, and the subsequent distribution to the various sheds and rooms.
The ferrets were restless, weaving their slender bodies round and round the cage, raising sharp pink snouts to sniff this strange hand that was feeding them. Thea had experience of ferrets – at the age of four, when visiting a small friend, she had poked a finger through the wire-fronted cage of the prize hob and had it savagely bitten. Not until Pauline’s father had arrived and pinched the animal’s tail had it released her. The screams had quickly become legendary. But Thea held no permanent grudge. She liked the streamlined creatures with their intelligent little faces. It came as no surprise that a former gamekeeper should keep them. They would still be used to start rabbits from their burrows, in places where rabbits were proving too much of a pest.
Ignatius held the privileged position of being the only creature allowed inside the house. He had a large cage in a corner of the front room, and a perch close to the window, where he was invited to sit when a change of scene seemed in order. A slender chain attached his leg to the bar, giving him perhaps twelve feet of scope for flight or exploration. Ignatius made Thea – and her dog – infinitely more nervous than all the other beasts put together. He sat hunched in the cage, his head cocked cynically as she approached and attempted to introduce herself. Like people always did with parrots, she tried to entice him to speak. ‘What a pretty boy, then,’ she prattled. ‘Where’s your Mummy and Daddy gone, then? Will you be good for me and Hepzie?’
The bird gave an inarticulate snort, and sank its head sadly into its chest.
The bedroom was the second door on the right at the top of the stairs. Carrying Hepzie’s blanket, and followed by the dog, Thea went up soon after ten. She needed to process the day, the momentous event of her father’s burial, the ongoing issues of Phil and the future and money.
She opened the door and suddenly the spaniel was yapping and leaping crazily at something inside the room. Switching on the light, bemused by the dog’s behaviour, she was aware of something flittering erratically above her head.
A bat! Increasingly hysterical, Hepzie was straining every nerve to catch it, bounding in matching zigzags after the creature. Thea threw the door wide open, hoping the bat would leave and somehow find a way out of the house. Instead, it darted in swooping dives at the central light, seeming to be both attracted and repelled by it. Holding up the blanket, Thea strove to direct it out through the door, flapping encouragingly when it headed in the required direction. But it repeatedly returned to the light, and the irrationality of it began to seem oddly sinister. The dog’s incessant yapping made everything worse.
After several futile minutes, she decided to try switching off the light in the room, and turning on the one on the landing, only to find that the now invisible bat darting around her head was intolerably alarming. It might catch in her hair, and cling there with its nasty little talons. Quickly she put the light on again, and renewed her efforts with the blanket. With Hepzie very slightly calmer, the strategy eventually worked and the flittering creature swooped out of the door and disappeared.
Shaking, Thea slammed the door after it, and threw herself on the bed, hugging the spaniel to her chest. Already she foresaw the whole episode repeated, night after night, as she tried to oust the bat from what it might well regard as its territory.
‘Never mind,’ she said to the dog. ‘It’s only a bat. Until now, I always thought I liked them.’
CHAPTER TWO
It had taken her a long time to get to sleep, and when she did, she dreamt her father was still alive, playing with Hepzie and laughing. But to her own shamed surprise, she woke with an urgent desire for the dream not to have been true. She had loved him, even rejoiced in him at times, and yet now he was dead, she wanted him to stay that way. The Lazarus story came to her mind, with the horror of that raised corpse stumbling through the streets, repelling everyone he encountered. The dead, she concluded, really ought to stay dead.
All of which led to a nagging feeling of guilt towards her mother. Not only had Thea abandoned her in her grief, but she had been infinitely relieved to have a good reason to do so. Despite the fact that she had experienced widowhood herself and might be expected to offer empathy and consolation in abundance, she knew her mother would adopt an entirely different pattern of mourning from her own. When Carl had been killed without warning in his early forties, Thea had been numb for weeks, and then so wracked with pain that she could scarcely function at all. Only her daughter and her father had been permitted anywhere near her, and they often proved to be intolerably irritating. Even a year afterwards, she had still preferred her own company, sinking into strategies that she had finally recognised as unwholesome – inventing ways to hurt herself in order to drown the emotional anguish. The distraction of the house-sitting had saved her, she believed now. She had met people with their own crises and losses, and slowly discovered in herself a hard-won wisdom that sometimes seemed to help.
Saturday morning dawned uncertainly, streaks of grey across the lower part of the sky suggesting a possible build-up of rain clouds later. Hepzie had clearly not forgotten the bat of the night before. She worked around the room, sniffing hard at skirting boards and glancing up at the ceiling every now and then.
The room was small, furnished with a single bed, chest of drawers and a round table covered with a cloth embroidered lavishly with honeysuckle and poppies. A hand-made rug was placed beside the bed, its pile pleasantly long and warm to bare feet. Thea had left her suitcase on the floor, still packed apart from pyjamas and spongebag. There was nowhere to hang clothes, and she wasn’t tempted to use the chest of drawers. Living out of a suitcase was no great hardship.
Phil had managed, after several months, to persuade her to make much greater use of her mobile phone. A busy senior police detective, he would often fail to answer a call, which forced her to master the art of texting. Every time she did it, she felt she had stepped into a different world from the one she had expected to inhabit for the rest of her life. Part of her felt it was pure nonsense, sending a handful of words to a friend or relative or lover, simply to remind them that you existed and had not forgotten them. It was a typical British substitute for intimacy, which only served to emphasise to her that she was more than happy to maintain her independence and spells of isolation. But part of her had grown to enjoy the link it forged between them. She composed her messages carefully, using proper spellings and punctuation. He made no remark about this, for fear of deterring her from making contact, but he himself would use u for ‘you’ and even l8 for ‘late’.
So now she picked up the gadget from where it sat on the round table and thought about her mother, not Phil Hollis at all. She ought to phone and see how the new widow was feeling. Now, as never before, family unity was called for. But instead she found herself keying in her sister Emily’s number. Safer, she thought, than intruding on a huddled hopeless mother who would not respond to bracing comments down a phone line.
Emily answered warily, sighing with relief when she recognised Thea’s voice. ‘Thank goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I thought you were Mum.’
‘Why? What’s she been doing?’
‘Oh – you know. She wouldn’t let me stay the night with her, and then spent about two hours crying down the phone at midnight. I told her to take a sleeping pill, but of course there aren’t any in the house. I can see she’s going to drive us all mad for the next twenty years.’ Maureen Johnstone was seventy-two – another twenty years was entirely feasible.
‘Bad luck,’ said Thea, sincerely. It was bad luck for Emily that she was the default daughter that their mother chose to cry on. Jocelyn had escaped into her own teeming demanding family, and Thea had never been quite sympathetic enough for comfort. Her tendency to make logical comments highlighting the flaws in her mother’s arguments or pleas for support seldom went down well. Perhaps, she thought, it was Emily’s position in the family that had shaped her character, and really her essential nature wasn’t so uptight and controlling after all. It was an idle thought, since there seemed little that could be done about it, but it helped give her patience. ‘You ought to just take her at her word, and let her get on with it for a few days.’
‘I’m going to, don’t you worry. She has every right to be sad – but so do I. What about my grief?’ The last words emerged on a sob that sent chills through Thea. She hadn’t bargained for this. If she’d given it any thought at all, she’d concluded that Emily wouldn’t especially miss her father; had never seemed as close to him as Thea had been, and often found him irritating. Emily kept emotion on a tight rein. Thea couldn’t remember seeing her cry since she was thirteen.
‘Oh dear,’ she said feebly. ‘I suppose this is how it usually goes. We all have to retreat into our burrows and deal with it in our own way.’
It was precisely the sort of sentiment that Emily could be relied on to agree with, in normal circumstances. But it seemed that a new normality was now in charge. ‘I’d really like to talk to somebody about how I feel,’ came the amazing reply.
‘Oh. Well, I imagine Bruce is the person for that, then?’ Emily’s husband was in fact a most unlikely counsellor, a man who left the room at a brisk trot at the first hint of emotional revelations – but Thea was making no more assumptions.
‘Of course not, you idiot. I want to come and talk to you.’
‘When?’
‘Well, sometime between now and Monday morning. I have to be at work then.’
‘It isn’t very salubrious here. There’s a parrot…’
‘Come on, Thea. Don’t give me that. If it’s good enough for you to live in for umpteen weeks, then I can cope with it for a weekend. The people need never know.’
‘I’m here for two weeks,’ Thea corrected her. ‘Not umpteen.’ The prospect of a visiting relative was far from unusual. People seemed to join her at most of her house-sitting commissions, for various reasons. They thought she would be lonely; they wanted to share the adventure; and in Phil’s case, he saw it as a chance to enjoy a brief holiday with her. But Emily was the last person she had ever expected to suggest such a move.
‘So?’ her sister prompted. ‘Did you say it was Upper Slaughter?’
‘Lower. It isn’t very far away. It’ll take you just over an hour, at a guess.’ Emily lived in Aylesbury, which Thea had always found faintly comic. ‘There’s a parrot,’ she said again, as if this was a crucial detail.
‘I don’t mind parrots,’ said Emily. ‘Why do you keep saying that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Suddenly Thea remembered that she too was in grief for her father. She, as much as her sister or mother, had cause to be in a strange state, irrational and forgetful. She felt as if something would break if there was any hint of overload. She wanted peace and simplicity. The parrot, perhaps, threatened to become complicated.
‘Well, I’ll come after lunch then,’ said Emily as if it was all agreed. ‘I’ll bring an overnight bag, but I’m not sure I’ll stay. It depends how it goes. Tell me how to find you. What’s the postcode?’
‘I have no idea. Why do you want that?’
‘For the TomTom, of course.’
The thing in the car, Thea realised. The device that was supposed to stop anybody ever getting lost again. What price adventure and fairytales now? The children of the future wouldn’t even understand the concept of not knowing precisely where you were at any given moment. ‘Well, I haven’t got the postcode. There are various ways to get here, but the easiest is probably to come to the middle of Lower Slaughter, turn left, up a narrow lane, and left again at the junction, round a bend and you’ll see a stone farmhouse set back from the road.’ She gave a few helpful landmarks, but said no words of welcome. She found that she quite badly did not want her sister to descend on her for a deep discussion of grief and loss. She had been quite pleased to have dodged all that, with the convenient timing of her latest commission.
‘Why does it have such a nasty name?’ Emily wanted to know.
‘Slaughter, you mean? Oh, I know the answer to that. It has nothing to do with killing things. It’s from “slough” which is a stretch of boggy ground. Like the Slough of Despond.’
‘That’s quite nasty as well,’ said Emily, obviously determined to see the grey side of things.
Before her guest arrived, and after all the creatures were dealt with, Thea took the spaniel for an exploration of the village. As Babs had said, the farmhouse was less than half a mile outside the settlement, with the sold-off fields even closer. There was a lot more overt tourist activity in Lower Slaughter than in the other villages she had stayed in. Two stately hotels set the tone – claiming stars and crowns galore between them, to prove the luxurious quality of their beds and cuisine. There would be none of the quiet deserted mornings before the tourist coaches came through that Duntisbourne Abbots or Temple Guiting enjoyed. Hotel guests would tumble forth to savour the early sun on the little river Eye, and self-catering holidaymakers would saunter out for some local colour before breakfast. The characteristic restraint of the dozens of tucked-away villages in the area had been lost in the Slaughters. Recalling what Emily had said, Thea wondered whether it was the intriguing, slightly repellent, name that had singled them out for such relentless attention.
A well-behaved little river ran through the very centre of the village, with the road on one side, and a wide pavement on the other. This pavement could almost qualify as a promenade, inviting strollers along the waterside. At one end was a bridge just sturdy enough to take cars, and at the other, the path turned a sharp bend to the Mill, which had been converted into a shop clearly aimed at tourists. At right angles to it was a small museum, with old rural artifacts standing outside. A row of gorgeous old houses with colourful front gardens lined the footpath, conspicuous in their Cotswoldiness, and a narrow footbridge offered walkers a car-free way across the river. It all felt like being inside a picture postcard, or a fairytale. The air was still, the water merely flickering in its lazy progress.
Keeping Hepzie on the lead, she traversed the village from end to end, and met ten or twelve people in the course of fifteen minutes. Even in the comparatively large Blockley, there had not been so many pedestrians. It felt intimate, as if all these people should become one’s friends, or at the least exchange something beyond a nod and a smile – an impression that Hepzie seemed to share. Three times she tried to jump up at a passing stranger, forcing Thea to rein her in tightly and make shame-faced apologies.
The tension between having definite tasks to perform on the one hand, and the irresistible sense of being on holiday on the other, had gradually become a familiar part of house-sitting. The fact that events had never unfolded as expected only added to this tension. There were many different motives for employing somebody to take care of one’s house, she had discovered. The pets and livestock often turned out to be quite incidental to the real reason for importing a guardian. Simmering at the back of her mind were the comments made by the Angells about property development and the conflicts that were bound to ensue. Quite how any of that could possibly affect her, she wasn’t sure. Probably it wouldn’t. But now that she knew about it, she felt she ought to be on the alert.
It was impossible to know which of the people she encountered were on holiday, and which lived in Lower Slaughter permanently. She suspected the vast majority fell into the former category. Cotswold villages appeared to possess remarkably few permanent residents. Even those who did officially reside there were off down the motorway at seven in the morning, and didn’t come back for a good twelve hours. To count them as ‘residents’ hardly seemed accurate.
But the one approaching her now was surely an exception. Not that he had straw in his hair or string tied round the knees of his trousers, but he certainly wasn’t in the clean shirt and slacks of the typical tourist. He was wearing a khaki flannel garment that looked rather warm for August, crumpled at the collar and bunchily tucked into his jeans – which had a narrow tear across one knee, exposing pale-coloured threads. He met her eyes from a distance of several yards, his head slightly cocked in a friendly question. Why, she wondered later, had he singled her out for curiosity when she was surely indistinguishable from any other self-catering visitor? But during the encounter, the only thing she wondered was how anybody could have such a vivid shade of blue to their eyes. They were gentian blue, the colour glowing in a tanned face. As she held their gaze, the blueness seemed to outshine every other hue in their surroundings. There was red on the buildings, yellow and purple in the gardens and hanging baskets, green above and below – but the man’s eyes were impossibly, inhumanly, blue.
He was about her own age, not particularly tall or slim or muscular. He smiled lightly, and nodded a greeting. ‘Morning,’ he said, as they passed. His voice was deep and rich.
‘Hello,’ she answered. Hepzie tugged at the lead, wanting to contribute to the exchange. The man took no notice of the dog.
It was over in seconds. Thea walked on slowly, blinking at the momentary dazzlement. So he had blue eyes – what of it? Phil Hollis had blue eyes as well, come to that. Phil would hold her gaze and bare his soul and invite her attention and love. There was no space in her life for sudden startling corneal intimacy with a scruffy stranger.
She increased her pace, letting the dog have more freedom on the extendable lead. The pretty river did its rivery thing, twinkling tidily between trim stone embankments and beneath charming little bridges. The slough after which the villages had been named was firmly channelled and drained and long forgotten. The essence of the Cotswolds was thriving here, everything safe and predictable and lovely.
She bought an ice cream at the shop, wishing it sold wine and olives as well, and turned back to Schloss Angell, alias Hawkhill Farm. The first thing she did on arriving was to go to the utility area beyond the kitchen and open the chest freezer. Two plucked and prepared pheasants caught her eye. She would cook them for her sister. Somehow they seemed just right for the occasion.
CHAPTER THREE
Emily arrived at three, pausing in the gateway as if unsure that she’d come to the right place. Thea was on a rickety garden bench, which had small patches of lichen growing on it to give witness to its extreme age. She sat outside because it was August, and she wanted to watch out for Emily, but it was a chilly vigil, with clouds gathering in the west and a spiteful little breeze blowing.
Along with the Angells’ bored dogs, she watched her sister park the shiny new car and emerge in a fluid elegant movement. Emily was superficially like Thea, but four inches taller. Jocelyn, the youngest, was much fairer and heavier, plucking her genes from the Johnstone grandmother, rather than Maureen’s slighter, darker, father, Grandpa Foster, a man they barely remembered, but who was immortalised in Emily, who was said to look exactly like him.
‘Don’t sit here,’ Thea warned. ‘It won’t take two. Every time I move it threatens to collapse.’
‘Hmm,’ said Emily. ‘The place seems a bit ramshackle.’
‘By local standards, it is – definitely,’ Thea agreed. ‘I quite like it.’
They went in through the front door and Thea instantly saw the house through Emily’s eyes. It was dusty; the windows weren’t very clean; the rugs and stair carpet had endured spillages and damage that left indelible marks. The curtains at the front window were ragged at the edges where the parrot had climbed up them countless times.
Ignatius was intently aware of a second intruder. ‘Lock the doors, Daddy! Lock the doors!’ it screeched, with impossible clarity. It was the first time Thea had heard him speak.
‘My God!’ said Emily faintly. ‘I see what you mean. It’s terrifying.’
‘That’s nothing,’ said Thea with relish. ‘There was a great big bat in my bedroom last night.’
‘No!’
‘I always thought I liked them until then. But it’s all true what they say – you get a real horror that it’ll tangle itself in your hair. I can’t think why, when they absolutely never do that, at least according to Carl. They move so irrationally, darting and swooping, and you know they can’t see you and don’t know what you are.’
Emily shuddered. ‘I would have run right out and driven home on the spot.’
‘Well, I can’t do that, can I? Whatever happens, I have to stay here for a fortnight.’
‘Well, you’re a lot braver than me, that’s for sure. And braver than your dog, by the look of it.’
Hepzibah was circling the parrot’s cage, eyes fixed on the bird, small squeaks emitting from her. ‘Lock the doors,’ said the parrot again, on a quieter note, sending the dog into further whining confusion. Distress was clear in every nerve.
Thea laughed. ‘Come on, silly. It won’t hurt you.’ But Hepzie continued her patrol, thoroughly bewildered, but convinced she had some sort of protective role to play. Thea dragged her into the kitchen, where she made tea and engaged her sister in the conversation she had come to conduct. It wasn’t long before they ventured onto the main topic – the death of their father and their mother’s future. It ebbed and flowed, as they moved from kitchen to living room, and then outside to feed the dogs and ferrets. Thea spent half an hour in the kitchen, forbidding Emily from joining her as she set the pheasants
