Deception in the Cotswolds (18 page)

‘Nice, don’t you think?’ he asked Thea.

‘Very,’ she said, with a surreptitious sniff. ‘He almost got what he wanted. He was luckier than most.’

‘He wanted to see the tree and the church, not the night sky distorted through a plastic bag. Don’t you think that was a pretty poor substitute?’

‘I don’t know.’ She peered at the text. ‘What does “mushroom yew” mean?’

Edwina answered her. ‘Have you not been to the church? The yew trees have mostly been trimmed so they’re shaped like mushrooms.’

‘Right,’ nodded Thea doubtfully. ‘I’m sure they look great.’ She went back to the window. ‘You can’t quite see that from here.’

‘You can if you know where to look.’

‘Listen,’ Higgins interrupted firmly. ‘I see it as my job to try to understand as closely as I can exactly what happened here last week. I need to satisfy myself that Mr Davis freely and unaided took his own life, for reasons that make sense. I need to be able to assure the coroner at the inquest that there are no suspicious circumstances, no reason to think another person was here when he died, or that there was any coercion or violence used. I am finding it difficult to bring myself to that position, especially in the light of this poem, and one or two other anomalies. Am I making myself clear?’

Edwina spoke to him directly, almost for the first time. ‘He was ill; he knew he could only get worse. He
knew he would soon be too shaky to commit suicide by himself. It was a warm summer night, and he had put everything in order. You’ve got to believe he killed himself.’

‘You believe it yourself, do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Mrs Satterthwaite, there are people who are suggesting that you assisted him. How do you respond to that accusation?’

‘I know there are,’ she said with composure. ‘A lot of people know that I told him I would. It was no secret. My sister knew about it, and her son. They said I would never have the courage, and they were probably right. Jemima knows I did no such thing. So does Toby, as far as I can tell. I loved Donny. I don’t think I could ever have watched him die.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘You asked me that before, and I told you then – I was here on Monday evening. We argued about some small matters. I annoyed him, as I often do – did.’

‘Exactly what did you argue about?’

‘Food.’

‘Food?’

‘Yes, I said he wasn’t eating properly, and if he was ever going to get right, he needed a lot more fruit. He said I was patronising.’

Thea opened her mouth to confirm this, only to shut it again. There was no reason for her to interfere any further than she had already.

‘Get right?’ repeated Higgins.

‘His bowels were sluggish,’ said Edwina repressively.

‘That’s true,’ Thea felt it safe to endorse. ‘He told me about it.’

Higgins tapped his lips again, but this time it seemed more as an aid to thought than a message for her to stay quiet. ‘How was he in himself?’ he asked. ‘I mean, his mood, his manner, the way he came across.’ He looked from one woman to the other, eyes bright.

‘He was the same as usual,’ said Edwina. ‘Perhaps a bit restless. A bit bad-tempered, which I think was because of his problem. He knew I wanted him to see a doctor about it.’

Higgins turned to Thea, eyebrows raised.

‘I only met him twice. He seemed …’ She struggled to find words for her impressions of Donny. ‘He seemed to be rather sorry for himself, perhaps. But not unbalanced or despairing or anything like that.’

‘You mean, not like you imagine an imminent suicide would be?’

‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

‘So, let me ask you directly, as well. Do you think he took his own life without anyone helping him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we
can
know for sure. But if there’s no evidence that he didn’t, I think you ought to put it down as suicide.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’

‘I can’t see any alternative.’

‘Well luckily for the forces of justice, we do have
evidence.’ He looked searchingly from one woman to the other. ‘We believe we do have evidence that Mr Davis was unlawfully killed.’

Edwina and Thea both remained quiet and still as the words echoed around the room. ‘So what’s all this charade been about, then?’ Thea demanded eventually. ‘All that baloney about needing to understand his final moments. It’s not your job to play psychological games with the bereaved.
What
evidence, anyway? Are you accusing Edwina of murder?’

‘I can’t tell you anything about the evidence – obviously. And I am most certainly not accusing anybody.’

‘He wasn’t murdered,’ said Edwina. ‘Of course he wasn’t. It’s stupid to use that word.’

They both looked at her, expecting some sort of confession to tumble out. Higgins pushed his face towards her on his short thick neck, his eagerness rather unseemly to Thea’s mind.

‘Could you explain?’ he urged her.

Her shoulders sagged, and tears filled her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have argued with him. It must have upset him more than I realised. His last words to me were, “Go away and come back when you can be a bit nicer.”’ Sobs forced themselves into the open, and Thea went to hold her. Muffled words emerged: ‘So I went. I feel so terribly ashamed of myself. But I never intended him to do it. Perhaps he didn’t, either. Perhaps he just thought it would frighten me
and make me understand how he was feeling.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Higgins gently. ‘I don’t think you have anything to blame yourself for, if what you’ve just said is true.’

She raised her head from Thea’s shoulder. ‘It’s unkind to call it murder. And wrong. Even if I had done as he asked, it would not have been murder. The law says so.’

‘The current interpretation of the law is rather fluid,’ Higgins told her, with a sigh. ‘That’s a big part of the problem.’

‘You’re advised to turn a blind eye to assisted suicide,’ Thea elaborated. ‘Why don’t you go and look for that missing child, and let Donny rest in peace?’

‘Because, as I just said, we have evidence that this was more than assisted suicide. I came here hoping to learn that Mrs Satterthwaite actually carried out the promise she made, and materially contributed to Mr Davis’s death. But instead of that, I am very nearly satisfied that she did no such thing.’ He took a few steps towards the bedroom door, then paused and looked down at the low bed. ‘But somebody did, you see. I believe somebody killed him against his will.’

They processed slowly along the passageway and out to the sunlit driveway. ‘I can tell you no more than that,’ he said.

‘I think your “clear evidence” is really just a red herring,’ Thea accused him. ‘Some small hint that doesn’t fit the bigger picture.’

He widened his eyes, but said nothing.

‘Like that poem. It means nothing. Nobody would regard that as evidence of anything. And if Donny had somebody’s hair or skin under his fingernails, you’d have made an arrest by now. Besides, isn’t it a bit late, after you’ve opened the Lodge to all and sundry and everything’s been stirred up or taken away?’

Still he said nothing, but a smile played on his lips, suggesting an amused respect for Thea’s impertinence. It only made her crosser.

‘And I don’t suppose the post-mortem was particularly thorough, either,’ she went on. ‘Stomach, lungs, heart – any visible signs of violence. I bet that was the extent of it. Wasn’t it?’

Edwina moaned and laid a restraining hand on Thea’s arm. ‘Don’t, dear,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not doing any good.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Higgins reassured her. ‘Mrs Osborne is right, more or less. But there are other kinds of evidence.’ He clamped his lips shut again, as if afraid of saying too much.

Thea’s mind worked. Witnesses? Documents? Hearsay? What else could comprise evidence in a case like this? Why did she suddenly feel so worried, her insides griping? Why should it matter to her whether or not Donny died by his own hand?

‘Edwina’s right, though,’ she insisted. ‘This vagueness isn’t doing anybody any good. Either it is
a murder investigation or it isn’t. Shouldn’t you hurry up and make a decision?’

He would not be drawn. ‘There’s no rush,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t think anybody’s going anywhere.’

‘And if they do, you’ll see that as evidence of guilt,’ she flashed back at him, even more annoyed by his manner.

He smiled and shrugged infuriatingly, and headed for his car. ‘Thank you, Mrs Satterthwaite,’ he said. ‘You know where to find me if you need to.’

‘You don’t think I killed Donny, do you?’ The question burst out of her, giving Higgins pause, his hand on the door of his vehicle. ‘Do you?’

He looked at her, the smile still on his lips. ‘No, madam. I don’t think you killed him.’ He switched his gaze to Thea. ‘Contrary to what you might think, this little meeting has certainly reassured me on that point.’ Then he seemed to consider briefly, before adding, ‘But we all know that somebody out there wants us to think you did.’ To Thea’s surprise, he went on, almost immediately, ‘And you probably also know that if you
had
assisted him, and confessed to it, there’s very little chance that you would have been prosecuted for it. Juries won’t convict people for that these days. Do you see?’

Edwina stared at him, with more intelligence than Thea had so far given her credit for. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re thinking it’s a bit late,’ he suggested.
‘That something is not quite as you thought.’

‘My thoughts are my own,’ she said tartly. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

The phone call must be the awkward, niggling piece of ‘evidence’ Higgins was holding on to, Thea concluded. Back in the Manor, she went over it obsessively, wondering why such a glaring fact had passed her by up to then. Higgins had plainly told her, days ago, that there had been an anonymous phone call, which had changed his thinking about how Donny had died, and put a stop on any firm conclusion that he committed suicide. While it had also altered Thea’s own thinking, the identity of the caller remained a shadowy unvisited question. She had focused on the wrong people, the wrong questions, while the police had gone about their own methodical enquiries more or less out of sight.

It’s none of your business
, she adjured herself repeatedly.
Think about something else
. She could provide no material help in the investigation, had only been present by accident when Higgins had his meeting with Edwina. If Donny had been murdered, it could easily have been by somebody she had never met, and knew nothing about. Except she
had
met everybody close to him, everybody who might have their own good reasons for wanting to hasten his demise. Edwina wanted it for his own good, Thyrza for her sister’s sake, Jemima because she had such trouble coping with illness and dependency. Even the absent
Janet might not be quite as demented as Jemima had reported. According to Toby, she had lucid periods, when she knew quite well who she was and how cruelly she had been abandoned. And Philippe, the paradox, doting father and flamboyant exhibitionist, had made no secret of his opinion that Donny would be better off dead. Unusual for a doctor, she noted, to have such an attitude. But then many things about the man were unusual. Nor did she forget Harriet Young, who wrote about dying and must surely have regarded Donny as a useful example, if nothing more.

Increasingly she felt convinced that Donny had not wanted to die on that particular night. Again and again she came back to the twinkling eyes and rueful grins she had witnessed when she met him. Her numbness on discovering his body had been born of total astonishment, she realised now. And yet Jemima had not been astonished. She said she had expected it. ‘It’s just what I’ve been afraid of,’ she said. Perhaps she had been afraid that somebody would murder him, and not that he would end his life by his own hand.

She knew from past experience that such intensive hypothesising led to restless nights and great frustrations, unless she could share them with another person. She could so readily find herself drawing wrong conclusions, missing obvious connections – although more than once she had puzzled out an explanation that was at least close to the actual facts of the matter.
With somebody to interrupt and challenge, it was a lot more enjoyable, and generally more accurate as well.

It was a year ago that things had begun to go wrong between Phil Hollis and her. She had failed him, even failed herself, when he had needed her understanding and support. The leap required had been too great for her: from Carl’s wife to Phil’s nursemaid. Carl had never asked that sort of role of her. If anything, he had been the supportive one, the capable breadwinner, full of certainty and strength. If there had been a problem, he would solve it cheerfully, explaining it all to her as he went. They had been a team, but Carl had been its leader. At first she had assumed that Detective Superintendent Phil Hollis would be similarly dominant. She had argued with him, defied his orders at times, but automatically expected him to be her protector when necessary. When he had physical problems, requiring her to drive, nurse and sympathise, she let him down by being impatient and annoyed with him. Only much later did she admit to herself that his sudden weakness had frightened her, the fear manifesting as bad temper and intolerance. By the time this realisation had dawned, however, Phil had moved away, unable to forgive the unkindness.

Now she would very much have liked to talk to him about Donny Davis, to share her suspicions and observations, and to hear his not entirely discreet
disclosures about what the police were doing and thinking. Jeremy Higgins was friendly and comparatively open with her, knowing her associations with Phil, but it was nothing like the same.

Which left, of course, Drew Slocombe, undertaker and married man.

She could think of no justification for phoning Drew, despite all her efforts to come up with something. He had shown a polite interest in Donny, because he had thought he might be asked to perform the funeral. He had brought Harriet’s book because it was obviously of relevance in more ways than one. But he had not offered himself as confidant, joint investigator or go-between in any way at all. He had not said
Call me if there are any interesting developments
. He had more than enough to deal with as it was, with his damaged wife and demanding children. She could not call him. Drew was nothing to her beyond a casual acquaintance with some basic qualities in common with hers. And even if he had been more important than that, he wasn’t available. Thea believed in marriage without even needing to think about it. She came from one of
those families where everybody stuck to their vows as a matter of course. It wasn’t especially virtuous – it was simply the way you lived. There had been rocky marital moments for all her siblings, but infidelity had never been the reason for them, so far as she knew.

So the perennial answer to boredom or frustration or confusion presented itself again. She decided to go for a walk, even though the beech woods had lost much of their appeal since the disappearance of the collie dog and her pups. That small tragedy still nagged at her at odd moments, the sudden loss a mystery she would like to have solved.

Perhaps she could pursue it further, by locating the farm the dog had come from. The man with the gun obviously lived locally, and there were not so many working farms still remaining in the area. It shouldn’t be difficult to work out the most likely ones and find a public footpath close by. Footpaths were everywhere, after all. Most of them ran from north to south, connecting Brockworth to Sheepscombe via the woods. In at least two instances she could see from the map that a path went right through a farmyard.

Despite a few unnerving experiences, she had little fear of farmers, or hesitation in venturing into their secretive worlds. For the majority of the population, there was an invisible but impenetrable barrier around the buildings and yards of a farm. The approach was often down a winding track between high hedges, with angry barking dogs at the end of
them – or dangerous slurry pits, hostile cattle, loud machinery and the real probability of a defensive or aggressive man demanding an explanation for the intrusion. Very few people understood the workings of agriculture any more. Within two generations, a universal knowledge had been lost. When once almost everybody had a farmer somewhere in the family, now it was strange to the point where contact produced anxiety or bewilderment. Where once most institutions had given farmers precedence, consulting their convenience and serving their needs, now they were virtually forgotten. School terms had originally been constructed around the harvesting of potatoes, hay and corn. Weather forecasts had been aimed specifically at these same harvests. The timing of rent collection, the descriptions of engine size, the pattern and direction of roads had all been based on farming. Thea, as a historian, had a comprehensive knowledge of how things had once been. But she supposed that everybody knew it at some level. Or everybody over the age of around forty-five. Modern children did not learn that kind of history, although she had heard that fewer of them now believed that meat and eggs were made in factories, as they did a decade or so ago.

But, while not afraid, she was certainly cautious. She had no intention of marching up to the man from the woods, if she were lucky enough to find him, and accusing him of cruelty again. If he had retrieved his dog, he had every right to do so. It was even possible
that he had spared the lives of her pups. All Thea wanted was to know what had happened, and that her interventions had not somehow made things worse for the animal.

Following some ill-defined instinct, she headed north on leaving the Manor. This meant crossing the common and passing the Black Horse pub. The woods rose majestically behind the buildings, the highest ridge running up towards Brockworth. Coopers Hill was the final flourish – a steep escarpment from which it was said the view was incomparable, despite several rivals within a few miles.

She saw very few people once in the woods, despite it being a sunny summer weekend. She had learnt that this was the norm for the Cotswolds. Coachloads of tourists were deposited in Stow and Broadway and Bourton, a lesser number of visitors ventured into towns such as Chipping Campden and Snowshill, with a dwindling trickle spreading as far as the smaller villages. The more remote corners remained almost entirely unvisited, which Thea found ridiculous. To her eyes, the most beautiful places in the area were Naunton, Northleach and tiny perfect villages like Duntisbourne Abbots, none of which appeared on the usual tourist routes. Whilst a wholesale onslaught would undoubtedly ruin them, it struck her as rather a waste that hardly anybody realised what they were missing.

The somewhat vague idea in her mind was that
she could look down from the elevated ridge and identify possible farms to investigate. In reality this turned out to be a very poor plan. Trees obscured the views for much of the way, until she emerged an hour later on the summit of the famous Coopers Hill. The cheese-rolling contest had taken place less than two weeks earlier, despite an effort to cancel it by worried councillors. The crowds had swelled to alarming proportions over recent years, and a diligent risk assessment had concluded that it was impossibly dangerous. The angle of descent was almost vertical at times, the idea of hurtling down there with a crowd of other people very disconcerting, viewed in the calm light of day. The silliness of it struck her as perfectly, almost gloriously, English, although she suspected that other countries had their own versions of archaic rituals that were just as daft. Indeed, she had read somewhere recently that there was a town in America which staged a ‘zombie festival’ where people lurched around the streets with their faces painted white, bodies daubed in fake blood, uttering inarticulate cries. It was hard to come up with anything much sillier than that, especially as she doubted very much that there was the slightest vestige of historical significance to it. At least the cheese rolling could claim to stretch back, scarcely altered, through centuries of time.

Hepzie stood on the brink of the steep drop and looked over her shoulder at Thea, clearly asking
Are we going down there?

‘No,’ said Thea decisively, turning back from the brink. ‘Definitely not. We’ll go back a different way, if we can find one, but not as steep as that.’

A footpath branched to the left, running parallel to the edge of the woods, and yielding glimpses of the fields below, which Thea thought must be in the direction of Great Witcombe – a settlement she had not yet seen. The prospect of another week in the area began to feel more enticing as she realised how much there was to explore, if she felt adventurous. The map showed a Roman villa on the same slope she was now observing, but experience had taught her that this often brought disappointment. There would be little or nothing to see, she was sure. There was also a suggestion that Witcombe Park might be worth a visit, laid out below the great hill of Birdlip, with its big road junction and special viewing areas.

It was one o’clock, and she began to reproach herself for not bringing food and drink with her. However many times she embarked on a walk, she seldom remembered to take provisions. Neither did she use proper footwear or carry a mobile phone. The increasingly burdensome palaver of setting out for a country stroll practised by serious walkers struck her as counterproductive and foolish. ‘Just
go
,’ she had always said, to anybody tempted to make excessive preparations. And to demonstrate, she habitually set out in sandals and T-shirt, admittedly with a
large-scale
map, but almost nothing else.

The sun was partly screened by a light layer of cloud, which kept the temperature pleasantly warm. There was also a slight breeze blowing. New paths regularly intersected with the one she had chosen, and with care she maintained a southerly trajectory, aware that the woods could be deceptive and it would not be difficult to get severely lost. A major track ran from east to west, broad and dry enough to allow vehicles to traverse it. It was clearly marked on the map, which was helpful. Rather to her surprise, she found one or two substantial houses tucked amongst the trees, in situations where modern planning officers would die rather than permit a new building. Perhaps, she mused, they had started life as tiny log cabins for gamekeepers or coppicers, and had gradually evolved into the
much-prized
residences they had now become.

And then, much more quickly than expected, she found herself once more in the middle of Cranham, the Black Horse unmistakable even from the back.

A quick inventory of her pockets assured her that she could afford a drink, and such was her thirst that she overcame her foolish shyness and went in to the main bar. It was only another few minutes to the Manor, but that felt more than she could comfortably manage. The inside of the pub was shadowy and her eyes took a moment to adjust. It was quite full, and she felt herself under scrutiny from several directions. Hepzie was securely on her lead, walking nicely to heel, and Thea hoped nobody was going to object to
her presence. Other Cotswolds pubs had refused her entry in the past, much to her annoyance.

In an effort not to catch anybody’s eye, she stared at the stag’s head above the fireplace, its handsome antlers sporting a fine silk scarf, or so it appeared. ‘Been there since they tried to cancel the cheese rolling,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Things got a bit excitable here that day and Susie Powers threw her scarf at the stag in a fit of rage. Looks rather fetching, don’t you think?’

It was Philippe, with his big grey poodle, smiling down at her as if they were the best of friends. He wore a short-sleeved shirt the colour of stewed damsons, and a pair of jeans decorated with gold embroidery. ‘I like the shirt,’ said Thea faintly. ‘Do you call it purple or puce?’

‘I think it’s burgundy, actually. My wife hates it, but Tamsin’s a big fan.’

‘Busy in here,’ she remarked. ‘You’d think they’d all want to sit outside.’

‘There isn’t much space out there. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Oh! Well, you don’t have to.’

‘I want to. Jasper would be delighted if you and your little spaniel would come and sit with us. He’s a great one for the ladies.’

‘Just a lemonade, then. I’ve been for a long walk and I’m gasping. Thanks very much.’

The poodle gave no indication of enjoying Hepzibah’s company. His aristocratic nose pointed in
roughly the direction of the desecrated stag, as he sat stiffly beside his master.

‘Where did you walk, then?’ Philippe asked, as an obvious conversation opener.

‘Coopers Hill. Have you ever taken part in the cheese rolling?’

‘Certainly not. It’s usually raining, for one thing. The mud must have been
unspeakable
.’

‘I’m sure it gets horribly churned up,’ she agreed, with a giggle she would have liked to stifle. For some reason she disapproved of this man, and had no wish to encourage him.

‘Funny little place, don’t you think?’ He looked round at the bar, but Thea imagined he was referring to Cranham in general.

‘Surprising,’ she corrected him.

‘In what way?’

‘Well …’ she in turn looked round ‘… it isn’t nearly so pretty as most Cotswold villages, is it? Those bungalows, for a start. They’re completely out of place.’

‘Oh, Miss Architectural Purism, is it?’ he mocked. ‘What’s wrong with them? I’ll have you know I live in one of them.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly.

‘Clever old you. But I
might
have done. You ought to be more careful what you say.’

The glibness of his lie made Thea wonder what else he might have told her that was false. What
anybody
 
might have told her, come to that, over the past week. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said without repentance. ‘But you did ask me what I thought.’

‘And I do enjoy an argument. What else can we disagree about, I wonder?’

The obvious answer was Donny Davis, but she had no intention of giving him that satisfaction. Under that self-imposed restriction, she could think of nothing else to debate. She shrugged, and drained the lemonade. On the floor beside her, Hepzie squirmed restlessly, and Thea realised that she was probably thirsty as well. ‘I think my dog wants a drink,’ she said.

With no hesitation, Philippe jumped up, strode to the bar, and asked for a glass of tap water. Within thirty seconds he was back, pouring it into an anachronistic ashtray he had found on a window sill. Hepzie sniffed suspiciously at the offering, and took two half-hearted laps. He left the water on the floor beside her, and returned his attention to Thea.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That was very gallant.’

‘Oh, but I
am
gallant.’ He pronounced it with a French accent, which ought to have sounded pretentious, but instead made Thea feel like a country yokel with no finesse.

She took a deep breath and refused to be cowed. ‘Do you have French connections?’ she asked, remembering dimly that his surname was something French-sounding.

‘French connections!’ he repeated with a laugh.
‘That sounds very funny. But yes, I had a French grandfather. I spent several summers there as a child.’

‘Must be your father’s father,’ she said slowly, mentally sorting the family and recalling the various names they had claimed. ‘But your mother’s surname is Hastings.’

‘Very true. Mr Hastings came after my Papa, who was in fact named Ferrier, which is more or less the equivalent of Smith.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you?’

‘Well, I think so. Your mother told me something about the house belonging to the family for centuries.’

‘That’s basically right. The house is actually nothing to get excited about. Its only claim to notoriety is its age. I’m sure you’d think it ugly.’

She forced herself to resist this provocation, telling herself he was quite wrong to think he could predict what she would think. But she had a feeling she had brought it on herself, making dogmatic comments about the local buildings. She should have known better. ‘There are some really nice old houses just here, by the pub,’ she said. ‘As good as any in the Cotswolds.’