A Cotswold Ordeal (4 page)

‘You’re probably right,’ Cecilia agreed comfortably. ‘I’m doing my usual trick of rushing people into things. But you must go and see Daneway House. And the tunnel. And the pub’s not bad.’ She gave Thea a straight look. ‘And it isn’t a lot of fun going to a pub by yourself, now is it?’

‘That’s true,’ said Thea, who had a profound resistance to entering a pub alone. ‘This is all very kind of you.’ And it probably was, she concluded. The woman was just being kind and she was being churlish to entertain suspicions as to her motives.

Cecilia got up to go five minutes after finishing her coffee. ‘Here’s my phone number,’ she said. ‘I’m not doing very much in the coming week. I mean it about filling you in on local history. You seem interested – it’s only good sense to avail yourself of somebody like me.’

‘Thanks,’ Thea smiled, taking the slip of paper with the phone number. ‘As soon as the weather improves, I’ll take you up on it.’

Even when it began to drizzle, her mood remained buoyant. Retreating to the big kitchen, she turned on the radio.

As very often happened, the programme fitted well with her situation. Tuned to a local station, there was a woman talking about Minchinhampton Common and its mysterious history. Stories of gypsy encampments, amateur golfing and perennial kite-flying made the place sound unremarkable at first. But then the voice altered to a lower key, and the talk changed to sudden thick mists and dangerous trenches dating back to World War Two, all of it worthy of a much larger wilderness. Although people used it as if it were a country park, there were still echoes of a wilder darker history. And then, as if to lighten the mood again, the speaker went on to talk about courting couples from Thrupp and Brimscombe and Chalford spending their Sundays on the Common, walking miles for the pleasure of open grassland and bracing air.

The programme ended, to be replaced with the bland popular music that local radio tended to favour. Thea was left with a desire to visit the Common for herself. If nothing else, it sounded a perfect place for exercising a lively young spaniel. ‘We’ll go as soon as the rain stops,’ she told Hepzibah.

But the rain got worse and the sky even darker. The house seemed to wrap itself around her,
seducing her into remaining indoors, where there was a big new television with incredible sound and countless channels to choose from, slightly raising Thea’s hopes of classic movies or fascinating nature programmes – if she could work out how to operate the thing. There were also books, CDs, DVDs, magazines and games.

‘There aren’t any no-go areas,’ Julia Phillips had said. ‘Help yourself to anything you might need to pass the time. I hope it won’t get too tedious for you.’

At random Thea chose a recent copy of
Cotswold
Life
and found a page of listings advertising local garden fetes, barbecues, country shows and antique sales. Every village apparently had some ambitious scheme to celebrate the summer and raise some funds. Thea entertained pleasing visions of community jollity, until she remembered similar events she had attended in previous times. When Jessica was small, and Carl just embarking on his new vocation as an environmentalist in rural Oxfordshire, he had insisted they engage in as much ‘grassroots activity’ as they could. It had never quite been Thea’s cup of tea, waiting around for the results of the raffle to be announced, and the number of currants in the kilner jar. She’d never once won anything, and only reluctantly purchased a few leggy home-grown plants and dog-eared paperbacks from the stalls.

Time was passing slowly and she was beginning
to miss human company. If she’d been at home, she could have dropped in on any one of half a dozen friends. Women her age were often still encumbered by young children and therefore not generally working full time, despite the perception to the contrary. Some had given it a try for a year or two and then returned thankfully to the freedom and fulfilment of life without a job.

‘Doesn’t look as if this one’s going to be as exciting as the last,’ she muttered, with a wistfulness she almost instantly came to regret.

Neither Thea nor Hepzie heard anybody drive into the yard or come to the front door, so the first thing they knew was a loud knocking.

She trotted across the hallway with an eagerness she felt to be almost pathetic. Was she so desperate for human contact, despite the two encounters she’d already had that day? Was she going to have to admit to herself that there were aspects to this job that seriously disagreed with her?

A middle-aged man was on the doorstep, shoulders hunched against water that ran down his neck from soaking hair. His sodden trousers stuck to his legs. He shook himself and grinned at her. ‘Sorry to be a bother,’ he said, with no appearance of regret. ‘But I’m totally lost. Where exactly does this road go?’

Thea grinned back. ‘That’s a very good question,’
she said. ‘It doesn’t actually go anywhere, really. I mean, it just links to the A419. Where are you trying to get to?’

‘Some Godforsaken village called Daneway. I must have missed a turning.’

Thea was not a nervous or suspicious person. She had never had cause to fear an apparently innocent stranger. But some instinct warned her not to reveal her true situation. The man was nice-looking, well-spoken. Hepzie was wagging at him from the dry of the hallway. On the surface, at least, there was no imaginable reason for doubting him. Perhaps it was his extreme wetness that she found mildly repellent. What in the world could he have been doing to get in such a state?

Glancing over his shoulder, she saw a long, low, maroon-coloured car with a soft black top. A flicker of disapproval ran through her – something so sporty and speedy should not be venturing down quiet rural lanes where Siamese cats couldn’t cross to the neighbour’s without being slaughtered.

‘Daneway’s just a couple of miles that way,’ she said, pointing to the left. ‘You can’t really miss it.’ She injected a deal more confidence into her voice than she truly felt. All she was going by was her recollection of the map, and the blithe way Cecilia Clifton had suggested they walk to the village.

‘Okay,’ he nodded, with a half-smile that seemed much too knowing. As if he had been testing her
and found her wanting. Maybe he’d hoped for a cup of tea and a chance to dry his trousers. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find it,’ she said, retreating slightly and gripping the edge of the door. The gesture was firmly unambiguous. He understood that he was being rejected, and a flicker of something like sadness crossed his eyes. Thea felt ashamed and then impatient. This was how it was between men and women, she reminded herself. It was not wise to trust or believe the words of a stranger. If, as half her instincts were urging her, she had asked him in, she would deserve whatever happened next. Her female friends would be aghast if she were to make such a terrible mistake. Her male ones would sigh and shake their heads and talk dispassionately about vulnerability and sensible precautions. And she would never know what the right thing would have been.

‘Oh, I expect I shall,’ he agreed. ‘Thanks very much.’

She soon forgot about him, especially as the late-afternoon routines for the livestock were due to commence. The geese had to be braved, in order to get to the henhouse, where eggs must be collected. The nesting boxes were attached to a wire run, where the birds were confined at night. The pond lay only a few feet beyond and at the sight of her,
the geese abandoned their paddling and mudlarking to waddle hurriedly towards her. Hepzie saw them coming and veered away, changing course in favour of an urgent foray into the pony’s quarters. Thea tried to make herself tall and assertive, holding the egg basket before her like a shield, thankful that she was wearing her raincoat for protection against pecks as well as precipitation. Three large white birds lined up in front of her, their black eyes unblinking. Without looking at them directly, Thea marched to the henhouse and lifted the flap to reveal five perfect brown eggs divided between two nesting boxes. The geese did not follow and she exhaled in relief.

Collecting eggs had to be one of life’s most simple satisfactions, akin to finding mushrooms or digging new potatoes. The natural bounty appearing like a small miracle couldn’t fail to inflate the spirits. She would make herself an omelette for supper and think herself blessed.

The rain did not abate throughout the evening. Having fed and watered the pony, shut the birds in and mourned briefly for the poor Siamese cat, she logged onto the internet to retrieve any emails she might have.

There was one from James, her brother-in-law, who persisted in monitoring her movements and nagging her about keeping safe. In the light of events during her earlier house-sitting adventure,
she could hardly criticise him for his solicitude.

I hope all’s well in Minchinhampton? No strange farmers or such? You’re certainly a glutton for punishment.

As it happens, Rosie and I are off to Deauville tomorrow for a week, and that means I won’t be able to rush to your side if there’s a crisis. So stay on the sunny side, there’s a good girl. Maybe Jessica can be on standby if you need anything.

Seriously, love, do try not to get involved. Settle down with a good book, or go shopping in Cirencester. Anything that’ll keep you out of trouble.

With our love, James.

Hurriedly, she keyed in a reply.

It’s all perfectly fine here, thank you for asking. Apart from the weather, of course. Nice warm family house, lovely people, easy animals. There has been one disaster, though. The cat got run over this morning – or during the night, I imagine. It was a lovely Siamese, so that’s quite a bummer. I’ve put it in the freezer for now.

I’ve briefly met the closest neighbour, who seems a bit of a pain on first acquaintance. A chap got lost in the rain and asked me the way. I pretended I knew, so he wouldn’t guess I’m strange here myself. You’d have been proud of me.

Enjoy Deauville. (WHY Deauville, I ask myself). Love to Rosie.

Thea

The next message was from her younger sister Jocelyn, who very rarely sent emails.

Thea, where are you? Is it that house-sitting business again? I can’t get anywhere with your mobile, so this will have to be my last resort. The thing is, I’ve got a bit of a crisis here, and would love to get away for a couple of days. Can I use your house, do you think? If you’re away, I could water the plants and answer the phone. I won’t take any of the kids.

Don’t phone me at home. That sounds much more sinister than it really is, but I just prefer to keep it all under my hat for a while. You can email me if you get this before Sunday evening. Otherwise I’ll try your mobile again on Monday.

Love

Joss

Thea rattled off a reply almost before she’d had time to think.

What in the world is all this about? No, you can’t just waltz into my house without me being there. And without any proper explanation. You’ll have to come here first and talk to me about whatever it is that’s going on. I’m at a place called Juniper Court, a mile and a half off the A419. The nearest village is Frampton Mansell. I doubt if you’d find it by yourself – we could meet in Minchinhampton or Stroud. Oh, damn, I don’t know what to say until you’ve told me the whole story. I’ll switch my mobile on, and make sure you call me as soon as you see this.

Thea

Jocelyn was four years her junior, and the mother of five children. Large, cheerful and apparently contented, she was the last person Thea would have expected to be sending panicky emails. Her husband, Alex, was every bit as equable as Jocelyn, house-trained and reasonably attentive. Thea could not imagine him being the cause of her sister’s crisis. The usual candidates were presumably infidelity, financial disaster, illness or trouble with the law. If forced to guess, Thea would opt for the second of these. Jocelyn was bad with money, and five children cost a lot to run. But why, in that case, would she want to get away from the family home? Impatiently, Thea awaited the call that would, she hoped, explain everything.

By the time it was dark, Thea had had more than enough of her first full day on the job. She took Hepzie outside for a swift circuit of the yard, and a glance in at the pony, who was standing passively in his stable, one back leg kinked in a picture of relaxation. Then she retreated to the house, locked all doors, closed windows and made herself a hot milky drink. At half past ten, she took herself and the dog to bed.

The dragons on the bedroom wall looked less friendly than they had the previous evening. The room felt airless, with a faint whiff of something teenage and chemical. All those potions they used on hair and skin, the odd stuff they drank, combined in a miasma that reminded Thea of Jessica in her early teens. Jessica’s attempts to be a typical girl had been blessedly shortlived. ‘It’s all such hard work,’ she complained, before having her hair cut in short layers and leaving her face comparatively clear of make-up. ‘I don’t know why people bother.’

Flora was fourteen, she reminded herself, the age where life consisted of one long experiment, most of which resulted in painful disappointment or humiliation. There would be boys, inevitably, and passionate interests. If the dragons were anything to go by, this girl was capable of impressively sustained obsessions. There were magazines stacked on two shelves, which might reward a brief examination at some point.

The peacocks next morning were apparently sulking. Either that or the previous dawn had been some sort of aberration. Or perhaps the corn she’d thrown to them at poultry-feeding time had disagreed with them. But the most likely explanation for their silence was that it continued to rain. Peacocks might be expected to dislike rain, she reasoned. They came from hot sunny places, where they could rely on months of good weather. It was a small miracle that they’d adapted to the British climate at all. Idly, she played with the idea of reading up on them via the internet. It would be a good way to pass an hour or so, if nothing else. The geese were rather quiet, too, she noted. The previous morning’s birdsong had definitely included some argumentative honking.

Pallo seemed to be surviving without undue difficulty. He pricked forward his ears and took a few steps towards her when she arrived with his meagre bucket of feed, which she took to be
encouraging signs. She promised to bring him a carrot or two later on, and carefully secured the lower half of his door, so that he could get a view of the yard over the open top. The rain was abating, she noted with some relief, by ten o’clock.

It was Monday, with all the ingrained injunctions that went along with the first day of the working week. Despite having only a patchy employment record, Thea was not immune to these associations. On Mondays you checked that there were good stocks of groceries and household requisites. You changed the sheets and made telephone calls to set up dates and meetings for the coming week. If you were looking after someone else’s house, you did a bit of vacuuming and some light dusting.

And when that was done, you chirped at your dog and set off to explore the neighbourhood, despite the threat of more rain. And in order to do that, you searched out public footpaths or bridleways in preference to the open road, however sparse the traffic might be. Remembering the dead Milo made this even more of an imperative.

She took the creased Ordnance Survey map as insurance against getting completely lost. She put on the wellington boots she’d prudently brought with her and set out with the dog. A jumbled network of footpaths seemed to offer an interesting circular walk, if roads were also used here and
there. It was only two or three miles to Minchinhampton and the intriguing Common, with its history and misty trenches. There were also stately homes in the shape of Gatcombe Park and Owlpen Manor, at feasibly walkable distances. And the canal tunnel she had already discovered close to the village of Coates exerted a fascination for her. The western end of it emerged at Daneway, with another pub, mentioned by Cecilia Clifton as being an easy stroll from Juniper Court.

‘Spoilt for choice,’ she said to the spaniel. ‘We’ll be experts on the place before long, if we go on like this.’

Perhaps because of the man asking directions the previous evening, she took the path towards Daneway, through the woods – the walk she had declined to do with Cecilia Clifton the day before.

The early part, after wading through some long wet grass, involved walking across the railway line, which made her feel as if she’d stepped back in time. Keeping the dog on a tightly-clutched lead, she hurried over the track, looking repeatedly to right and left and listening hard. There was a clear view for hundreds of yards in each direction, but it was still an echo of the past, or at least of a more relaxed society, to be permitted to stride confidently in front of the train if you so chose.

Immediately, she was in the woods, which were deep and dark, but readily navigated by paths that
could in no way be missed. She let the dog run free, and gave herself up to the silence and stillness. Almost deliberately she opted for smaller pathways when given a choice, but within ten minutes she was back on the trail that she only gradually understood was the one-time canal towpath. All that was discernible was a concavity in the ground to her right, until suddenly confronted by a large notice announcing dangerous locks, where children must not be permitted to play.

With utter fascination she identified the deep brick-lined pits that had once been a flight of four generous-sized locks, much wider than on other canals she had known, and she was puzzled as to how they came to be in such dense woodland. Surely there’d have been lockkeepers’ cottages, broad basins for barges to loiter whilst waiting their turn, and the general bustle that went with the opening and closing of huge lock gates. Now there was nothing of that. The trees on all sides were mature deciduous specimens, giving an impression of permanence. But sixty or seventy years ago, when the canal ceased to be used, it was possible that all around had been much more open. Perhaps she should ask Cecilia Clifton, who would surely know all the answers. Then she found herself wondering how purist the restoration people would be. Had they any intention of clearing the trees back to where they would have been in 1786 – or
even 1925? Although canals routinely passed through wooded areas, she could not recall ever seeing locks so thoroughly encroached upon.

Walking slowly along, calling once in a while for Hepzie to stay within sight, she let her thoughts drift, first to her sister and then to her daughter. Jocelyn, she remembered with a jolt, was supposed to be phoning her this morning – and she had forgotten to bring her mobile with her. The thought of it trilling its mechanical jingle in these silent woods was distasteful anyway. What was all this crisis about? They were not a family given to dramas, as a general rule. The death of Carl had not just been the biggest event they’d had to deal with – it was pretty well the
only
one. Many years ago, Damien’s wife had had an early miscarriage which had been sighed over. Emily had fallen off a ladder when cleaning windows and spent a night in hospital with concussion. But overall, they were a charmed lot, taking good fortune for granted and making very little complaint.

Which was all the more reason for puzzlement now. Jocelyn simply did not behave like this. Although, Thea mentally added, if anybody in the family was going to throw a wobbly, Joss would be the one.

As for Thea’s daughter, there didn’t seem to be any cause for concern, touch wood. When her father had died, Jessica had wept quietly, gone off
her food and lost the colour from her cheeks. But she had rallied within a month or so, and picked up more or less where she’d left off. Which had been a very focused determination to become a police officer. Only a few weeks ago, she had graduated handsomely and was due to embark on a fast track police training, supported by her Uncle James, a Detective Superintendent, whose gratification knew no bounds. Currently, Jess was in the Rocky Mountains, touring with a group of fellow graduates in a Winnebago. She had warned her mother that there would be no communications for at least a fortnight.

Sooner than she had expected, the path emerged onto a small road, with the Daneway Inn only a short distance to her left. A quick consultation of the map showed her that she could return through the same woods, but on a lower path, the other side of the one-time canal. Mindful of the pony back at Juniper Court and the evident imminence of rain, she turned right, and within a few yards located a second footpath roughly parallel to the first.

This was an even wider pathway, with signs of motorised vehicles and horses’ hoofprints. With only a few minor mistakes, she recrossed the railway line and cut up through a field that bordered the road leading into Frampton Mansell.

In a sudden burst of high spirits, she began to run up the sloping field through another swathe of wet
grass reaching to knee height. She called to the dog and the two raced like children for a few hundred yards. Hepzie’s long ears flew and flapped behind her, and her jaws parted in a doggy smile, as she bounded energetically through the grass.

Breathlessly, Thea rested against a stone wall beside the stile onto the road. ‘Whew, I’m unfit,’ she panted. Her chest was tight and her head quite giddy. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees, giving herself a chance to recover slowly. The dog nosed unconcernedly along the foot of the wall, where clumps of dock and nettles offered shelter to small rodents.

When the sound of a car engine came closer, Thea glanced at the spaniel, to ensure she wouldn’t run into the road at the wrong moment. There seemed to be little risk of her so doing, but Thea moved a few steps away from the stile, to discourage any such idea.

When the car passed, she watched it over the wall. It was familiar, but it took her several seconds to connect it with the man from the day before. The maroon colour was the same, but the soft top had been folded back, so the driver was open to the rushing air. He wore old-fashioned goggles and an odd leather helmet, which concealed most of his face. It also concealed the direction of his gaze. He did not slow, or wave, or in any way suggest that he had noticed Thea standing there. But in spite of
this, she knew with complete certainty that he had seen her.

She waited until the car was out of earshot before climbing back into the lane. Something was wrong. Despite the long list of perfectly innocent scenarios that would account for his presence, she was not happy. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was no more than her lasting nervousness around fast cars and potential traffic accidents. Losing her husband in a car crash was surely enough to explain this anxiety. And if it was not, then the death of the cat only a day or two ago added to the sense of vulnerability. Although not overly alarmed for herself, the real possibility of Hepzibah being run over was constantly at the back of her mind. Shakily, she attached the lead to the spaniel’s collar and walked briskly back to the smallholding.

Everything seemed serenely normal as she walked in through the wide road gate. Geese were paddling in their slimy pond, peacocks perched on the roof of the barn, apparently dozing. The front door was closed and her car was where she’d left it.

But something was different. She scanned the yard again, and the paddock beyond. It all looked entirely normal. Then she realised: the door to the pony’s stable was wide open. Not simply the top half, left for Pallo to look through, but the lower
section now stood at the same angle. And there was no sign at all of the animal.

A yap from Hepzie drew her to the rear of the house and she laughed aloud with relief. The pony was placidly pulling carrots from the net hanging at a perfectly convenient height for him to reach. Ignoring the puzzle of how his door had come open, Thea approached assertively and gripped a handful of creamy-coloured mane in the absence of a halter. She pulled the pony around, reassured at the willing way he cooperated. ‘Come on, you bad boy,’ she murmured at him. ‘You’re not supposed to be out here. What would your young mistress say?’

Returning him to his quarters proved comfortingly easy to begin with. Only once or twice in her life had she been in such a situation, and her recollections of horses had given rise to a belief that they were not always so conciliatory. Her affection for Pallo rose in direct proportion to her relief that no harm had befallen him.

But halfway into the shed, he baulked. He pulled his head up and back, forcing Thea to release the hank of slippery hair. ‘Oi!’ she shouted, which only served to encourage him in his abrupt disobedience. He clattered a few steps backwards, before stopping and rolling his rheumy eyes at her. At least he didn’t seem inclined to run away and she moved calmly towards him, hoping to carry on as before.

The whole process was repeated, except that this
time he dragged Thea with him as he backstepped out of his shed.

‘This is getting silly,’ she grumbled. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Tugging hard on his mane did not persuade him, and she understood that she could only lose in a trial of strength. Beneath it all, she had a sense that there was some sort of logic to the pony’s behaviour. He was not acting wildly, nor exerting his superior force in any way. He simply refused to be shut in the stable again.

‘Time for some lateral thinking,’ Thea muttered to herself. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered Pallo. ‘Don’t you dare move.’

Then she went into the building, to check that there was no flood or goose or rat in the corner to account for the pony’s reluctance.

There was no flood or goose or rat; nothing in any of the corners. But there was something guaranteed to upset a pony, however old and placid. There was a human body suspended from a beam in the roof, its feet so far off the ground that Thea would have had to jump up to touch them. A male person, sagging and leaking and slightly twisting on the end of a rope knotted appallingly tightly around his neck.