Trouble in the Cotswolds (The Cotswold Mysteries) (2 page)

The only anomaly that Thea had so far observed was that at least one of the Shepherds – and she supposed it was probably Gloria – was a dedicated smoker. There were ashtrays in every room, with the telltale grey-brown singe marks that betrayed constant use. The unemptied swingtop bin under the kitchen sink smelt powerfully of old smoke. On a shelf in the larder there were two boxes of Marlboroughs, with the health warnings in French. Thea knew people who smoked, of course, but they were a dwindling band and the smell of tobacco was unusual enough to be noticeable, especially inside a building.

It was eleven-thirty on a Friday morning, and she had little or nothing to do until the rats were to have their constitutional and Blondie to have her supper. Although there was no fixed pattern to her various commissions, she generally did some preliminary exploring on the first afternoon. Acutely aware that this was the shortest day of the year, with barely another four hours of proper daylight left, she chirped at the spaniel and suggested a walk. Inevitably ecstatic, Hepzie jumped up at Thea’s legs, long ears flapping, tail waving.

Thea had momentarily forgotten Blondie, who stood a few feet away, staring hard at the spectacle of the spaniel’s exuberance. ‘Gosh, sorry!’ Thea said. ‘You can come as well. Of course you can.’

There was no sign of gratitude or enthusiasm. The heavy dog seemed to droop, the thick tail brushing the floor. Depression was all too evident, barely twenty minutes after its people had left. ‘Come on,’ Thea urged. ‘It’s not as bad as that. They’ll be back before you know it. Let’s go and have a look round, okay?’

Gloria had drawn her attention to a drawerful of small plastic bags in the hall, essential equipment for dog walking, along with Blondie’s smart lead hanging on a hook. ‘You have to bring the bag home and put it in the bin,’ Gloria explained with a sigh. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, when dog poo goes into the landfill. There’s a man across the street who flatly refuses to do it. He’s got two corgis and insists their poo is natural and good. Slugs eat it, apparently.’

‘They do,’ Thea confirmed. ‘But do we want to make life easier for slugs?’

Gloria laughed. ‘Good point,’ she said.

So Thea pocketed a couple of bags and attached leads to both dogs. There was unlikely to be anywhere for them to run free in the centre of the village. Tomorrow, she promised herself, they would venture onto one of the footpaths that branched in every direction. The chief one was the Cotswold Way, which made a deliberate diversionary loop to take in Stanton, so charming was the village deemed to be. The footpath meandered like a river along the bottom of the steep escarpment to the east of Stanton, before surging up the hill to an ancient settlement and turning sharply northwards, following the ridge along the top of Shenberrow Hill. The landscape undulated drunkenly, with patches of woodland serving to disrupt any attempt at a direct walk. Thea had been slightly unsettled to see from the map that Snowshill was less than two miles distant. It felt much further away, and much longer ago than the five months since she was there. That had been a violent and distressing experience, leaving her shaken and sad. She had no desire whatever to go back to Snowshill. To her relief, she ascertained from the map that the footpath headed for Broadway without going near the scene of disagreeable memories. She could take the dogs along it without fear of reliving the misery of what had happened.

There were no shops in Stanton, but she had enough provisions for a few days. She had stocked up at a busy supermarket the day before, astonished at the crowds of people buying extraordinary quantities of Christmas fare. Would they really eat it all, she wondered? Caught up in the frenzy, she found herself dropping mince pies, nuts, dates, and a large bag of satsumas into her basket. She did not buy a turkey or a Christmas pudding, but she selected some chicken legs, sausages and ham. The resulting bulging carrier bags that she stashed in the boot of her car were far bigger and heavier than she had planned.

She let the dogs lead the way, and tried to concentrate on the beauty of the village, mentally comparing it with Winchcombe, Blockley, Naunton and other Cotswolds settlements. Their triumphant variety was one of the main sources of her admiration. Nobody could mistake Painswick for Chipping Campden, or Northleach for Stow. A single glance would identify any one of them, as they devised their own individual methods of adapting to the topography, positioning the church and the main hostelries accordingly, curving their streets or bravely situating them on a contour which necessitated one side being several feet higher than the other. The smaller places were even more distinctive, and very much more numerous. She had tried to count them a few times, with no definite conclusion, other than it had to be between a hundred and a hundred and fifty, if you included everywhere
with at least ten properties clustered around a church. Perhaps more. It depended, of course, on where you drew the boundary. Some people insisted that Banbury was in the Cotswolds, which Thea was doubtful about. Others pulled a sceptical face when she talked of Winchcombe as a Cotswold town. Her own home in Witney felt decidedly beyond the invisible line.

She had been house-sitting for two and a half years, widowed for three and a half. She was in her mid forties, another birthday looming in six weeks’ time. Her future was a disconcerting blank, with no ideas other than some decades spent in a similar pattern of taking over other people’s homes for a brief spell, and dealing with whatever aspect of those people’s lives might arise in their absence. She usually grew fond of the animals in her care and did her best to keep them happy and safe.

They crossed the wide street and walked along a stretch of raised pavement that was well clear of the road. Blondie walked beautifully on the lead, gliding smoothly at Thea’s side without pausing to sniff the ground or scan the scenery. By contrast, Hepzie pulled outrageously, always wanting to be onto the next thing, darting from side to side to investigate smells. With a dog in each hand, Thea could do nothing but maintain a civilised pace and hope the exercise was sufficient for them all.

She could see the narrow spire of the church close by, with a turning leading to it. For want of anything
more enticing, she took the dogs that way, observing a stone cross on a broad area of pavement that might merit closer inspection. Christmas lights glowed in several windows, even in the middle of the day. Thus far there had been no sign of anybody in the open air, but she felt sure she was being watched from some of the windows, and wondered how widespread the news of the Shepherds’ absence was. Blondie was surely a giveaway – she had to be a familiar figure throughout Stanton.

There were two cars parked outside the church gate, leaving very little space for any other vehicles. Residential houses stood opposite, needing access in and out of their own gates. Something was apparently going on, she decided, seeing a small group of people in the church doorway. Preparations for a carol service, most likely. No chance, then, of having a quick look at the interior – something she mainly did from a sense of completeness rather than genuine interest.

She turned back towards the main street, where an estate car was drawing up just around the corner. She watched a woman of roughly her own age climb out and walk to the back of the vehicle to release a very large dog. A dog bigger than Blondie by some way. It was a Great Dane, its legs much the same length as Thea’s, its neck long and strong, holding up the handsome head. ‘Wow! Look at that!’ she breathed in admiration. ‘What a beauty!’

The woman must have heard her. She turned and
stared unsmiling at the little group. She had wide cheeks and wavy hair fading into the neutral colour that came between blonde and grey. She wore well-cut grey trousers and a short black jacket. Her dog – which Thea noted was a castrated male – raised its nose and sniffed the air with a haughty serenity that went some way to dilute Thea’s esteem. This was not an animal that would gush and romp and slobber over her. Blondie gave a tiny throaty sound that was not encouraging. A fight between the two big strong dogs would be appalling – although she had a notion that Great Danes were amongst the least aggressive breed of dog. All the same, Thea didn’t think she could hold the Alsatian if it decided to exert itself. And the other woman looked equally unfit for the task. ‘It’s okay,’ Thea called. ‘We’ll go the other way.’

‘Thank you,’ said the woman as if nothing less was to be expected. ‘I’m afraid I’ve learnt to avoid that dog as far as possible.’

Then why did you let yours out in plain view of Blondie?
Thea silently asked. Normally she would have voiced the question aloud, but in recent months she had been making a concerted effort not to make sharp comments to people who might take them badly. It had slowly become apparent to her that the world at large required a level of politeness that was oddly new. Something to do with political correctness, she assumed ruefully.

‘Oh?’ she said neutrally.

‘She has something of a reputation. Haven’t you been told?’

‘Actually, no. She’s been absolutely fine with me so far.’

‘They took her on some sort of training course, earlier this year. Gloria insists she’s completely reliable now, but “once bitten”, as they say.’

‘Did she bite you?’ Thea glanced down at the white ears, which were pricked alertly. Hepzie was sitting unconcernedly, nibbling at her own rear end and ignoring both the other dogs.

‘Well, no. Not quite.’

‘Come on, then,’ Thea invited both dogs. ‘Let’s go and see what’s this way.’ She threw a last look at the Great Dane and its owner. ‘My name’s Thea Osborne,’ she said, before the distance between them became too great for conversation. ‘I’m here until New Year’s Eve.’

‘I’m Cheryl Bagshawe,’ came the response. ‘I live in Stanway. There’s a nice long circular walk we often do, from here to Laverton and back. This is Caspar.’ She pronounced her name with a soft
sh
sound, rather than the usual hard
ch.
Thea heard it as Sheryl with an S.

‘We’ll probably do it ourselves one day, then,’ she said, with a forced smile. Cheryl kept her lips together, and glanced back towards the church in an attitude of calculation. ‘Just time for a quick stroll today,’ she muttered, contradicting Thea’s assumption that she was
about to embark on the circular walk she’d described. On further examination, it became obvious that she was not dressed for a substantial trek through wintry countryside. And the car would not have been required, either. Thea’s natural inquisitiveness suggested several questions, but she could see there was no prospect of posing them. The woman said nothing more and Thea walked westwards nursing a lonely sense of rejection.

She took the dogs along the main street another fifty yards or so, and then turned into a branching road that offered a new set of views to the south and west. Stanton had a pleasingly informal air, which it took some time to associate with the sporadic provision of pavements. Along many parts of the street, the road simply stopped at the front walls of the houses, the edges blurred by flowers planted in shapeless clumps. At least, there would have been flowers in any other season. All that remained were chopped-off stalks and a few naked rose bushes. Thea’s imagination had little difficulty in fast-forwarding six months, when there would be verbena, montbretia, hollyhocks, lupins and penstemons: tall self-confident plants that would enhance the handsome houses and force pedestrians to keep their distance. A few houses had low stone
walls to fend off any traffic, and some had wider grass verges. The very variety held an old-fashioned charm that Thea remembered from Winchcombe in particular. The Cotswolds were peopled by individualists, and had been for centuries. They didn’t want to emulate their neighbours, but instead preferred their own property to stand out as especially lovely and therefore desirable.

The street itself was more like a country road that happened to have buildings along both sides. There were very few straight lines. There was a sense that traffic only came through on sufferance, and would be expected to stop for a loitering dog or child. Stanton was not on the way to anywhere, the residents would reason – and therefore only those with business in the village ought to visit. In summer there would be tourists in cars, but likely to be greatly outnumbered by walkers, with rucksacks and sticks and stout sensible boots. Stanton was in the books and on the maps as a detour for the Cotswold Way footpath. If you wanted to see it, you really ought to do it on foot.

Thea turned herself and the dogs around and dawdled back to the Shepherd house after twenty minutes or so of fresh air. To her surprise, this final leg of the little walk turned out to be a wholly different experience from the earlier part. As if responding to some inaudible call, people had emerged on all sides, and were gathered on the roadside in small groups or walking towards
her. ‘What’s happening?’ Thea muttered to the dogs in astonishment. Neither expressed an opinion.

On closer inspection it became apparent that the people were dressed more smartly than might be expected for an ordinary Friday afternoon. Long dark skirts, black suits, and even a woman in a boxy hat with a veil – ‘My God! It’s a funeral!’ she finally realised. The population of Stanton was making its way towards the church where one of their number was to be despatched. As if in confirmation, just as she drew level with the Shepherds’ house, the bell began to toll.

Dimly, she recollected that there had been a time when a village church bell would announce a death in coded form – indicating the age and gender of the deceased, so anyone hearing it would have a fair chance of guessing who had died. No such practice existed now, when telephones and emails and tweets could inform the world that the death had happened almost before the last breath had been exhaled. Except that Thea had no idea at all whose funeral it was, and whether she should care, and what if anything it might imply for the coming days.

She could hardly stop one of the townsfolk and ask. It wasn’t her business, after all. She couldn’t have known the person being disposed of. But the sense of exclusion was strong as she faced in the opposite direction from everybody else, and would be going into a house when they were all leaving theirs. There
could have been no more powerful indication that she was an alien, an intruder, knowing nothing of recent events and what they might mean for the inhabitants. She thought of the woman Cheryl, leaving her car in a spot likely to be needed for a hearse, and was oddly gladdened by this suggestion that at least one other person had no idea what was happening.

She stood by the Shepherds’ front door and watched the faces of the people walking towards her, and thought about tight village communities clustered around the church, and how they had existed for a thousand years and more. Here was a local brother, known to them all, dead in the deeps of winter – and they all suspended their busy lives to mark his passing. It was nicely medieval, she decided, particularly the way they were all proceeding on foot. And then, there were motor vehicles coming down the street. An unmistakable hearse, followed by two sleek black limousines, crawled along at walking pace. Thea had plenty of time to stare in through the car windows and make what she could of the chief mourners.

In the first car was a woman wearing a black hat and dark glasses. Obviously the widow. With her were two men in dark suits in their late twenties or early thirties, as well as a young woman. In the second car was another youngish couple with a boy who looked about ten. They all kept their eyes straight ahead and seemed not to be speaking to each other. Thea constructed a rapid family tree from what she
had seen. The deceased was a man, in possession of probably three offspring, as well as partners in two cases, plus a single grandchild old enough to attend the ceremony. How had they divided up the seats in the limousines, she wondered? The little family in the second one gave the impression of lesser importance. Perhaps a daughter, rather than the two sons in the leading car. Or simply the fact of the young boy had ordained the separate limousine, in case there was a last-minute change of plan, or worries about what he might witness in the company of his grief-stricken grandmother and uncles. The coffin itself had been lavishly adorned with flowers, which was pleasing to Thea. It implied a burial rather than a cremation, and her acquaintanceship with Drew Slocombe had taught her that burials were infinitely preferable.

It was almost one o’clock, which was plainly the time scheduled for the start of the funeral. There were no more people on the main street – they had all turned the corner into the little road containing the church, and would be rapidly settling into the pews, ready for the procession up the aisle. Thea went into the house and released the dogs from their leads, hoping the walk would keep them satisfied for the rest of the day. The poop bags had remained unused. They could go out in the garden later on, just before it got dark, and then help her through the long evening to come. The fact of Christmas approaching so closely was more intrusive than she
had expected. She had sent the usual twenty or thirty cards, and received a slightly lower number. More would arrive while she was away, and that now struck her as a shame. They would lie unopened until the last day of the year, by which time their message would be superfluous. They could be displayed for a week and then thrown away. Philip and Gloria, by contrast, were evidently hugely popular. In the face of all predictions that astronomical postage costs would kill the habit, the Shepherds had festooned their living room with cards. They were strung on slender silvery strings across the considerable space, from corner to corner of the large room, crossing in the middle. Idly, Thea counted them, finding the total to be an impressive one hundred and seventeen. And there would be yet more, no doubt.

There was no Christmas tree, however. Again, this struck Thea as a source of vague sadness. The previous year she had spent the festivities with her mother, and had not gone to the bother of setting up a tree in her own house. The trappings of Christmas died unwillingly, trailing so many associations, so much symbolism, hyped up so mercilessly by every commercial outfit in the land. Without it, the winter would seem much longer, the darkest days infinitely more depressing. With it, the obligations and expectations could give rise to their own sorrows when they failed to come up to scratch.

And just down the street there was a funeral service
going on for someone who had not survived to see this particular Christmas. Someone known to virtually everybody in Stanton, if the turnout was anything to go by. Likely to be a relatively young person, then. Thea’s natural curiosity circled around the question of who it was who’d died. Had that Cheryl woman been planning to attend, first walking her dog and then leaving it in the car? Would there be a new grave in the churchyard, or were they driving off to the nearest crematorium after the service taking all those flowers with them? She thought, on balance, that a burial was more probable. With utter inevitability, thoughts of funerals led to thoughts of Drew Slocombe and his alternative burial ground in Somerset. Drew was an undertaker, albeit an unconventional one. He would like the picture of a whole community turning out to bid farewell to one of their number, on the shortest day of the year. He would draw meaning from it even now, after the death of his wife had shaken some of his deepest convictions.

The puzzle was solved in moments, at two o’clock that afternoon, when Thea came across a local paper from the previous week lying on an oak chest in the large hallway. It was folded over, with the lower half of the front page showing. ‘
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD
’ was the unimaginative headline over a lengthy report to follow. A quick perusal disclosed that a man by the name of Douglas Callendar, aged fifty-six, long-time resident of Stanton in Gloucestershire,
father of three sons, had been found dead in his bath. Post-mortem investigation revealed that he had been electrocuted by a radio he had been in the habit of listening to in the bathroom. It was plugged in with an extension cord from the landing outside. His wife claimed to have warned him persistently that this was a dangerous thing to do, but he had insisted there was no risk. An expert in electrical accidents had confirmed to the police that only in the most rare and exceptional circumstances could a person be killed even if the radio were to fall into the water. It was a freakish thing to happen and Mr Callendar had been extremely unlucky. He was founder and managing director of Callendar Logistics, an international company dedicated to the transportation of urgent medical supplies. No foul play was suspected.

So that was that, Thea concluded. A silly accident, waiting to happen. A waste of a life that might easily have run another thirty years. Douglas had obviously been well liked, depended on for local employment and engaged in a business that nobody could find objectionable. The word ‘businessman’ conjured somebody worthy, slightly dull, comfortable amongst other men rather than women. All outrageous stereotypes, she felt sure, but persuasive just the same. She congratulated herself on having only the most limited acquaintance with anyone liable to be termed a businessman. Nobody could use the word to describe
Drew, for example, even if he did run a business. Her brother Damien was definitely no such thing. But neither Drew nor Damien would be daft enough to perch a radio on the side of the bath whilst it was plugged into the mains. Douglas Callendar must have really liked his music, or football reports, or reruns of old sitcoms, as he wallowed in the tepid water – itself a somewhat unpopular pursuit for men of his age, these days. How had the radio come to fall in, anyway? Had an errant cat jumped onto the side of the bath and sent it tumbling? Had the man fallen asleep and flailed his arms when he found himself almost submerged? And it seemed from the words of the expert that the radio would have had to be defective in some way for the current to escape its casing and flow lethally through the bathwater. Did the usual rules about making a circuit in order to create an electric shock not apply when water was involved? Had Callendar only died when he touched a tap or a handrail? Had it been a cast iron bath?

Such questions were meat and drink to Thea. She relished the vivid scenarios that her imagination conjured out of the few newspaper lines. She felt the cooling water, and then the sudden desperate shock of the electricity. She thought herself into the wife’s shoes, perhaps hearing a splash and venturing cautiously into the room to discover its cause. Did the Callendars have their own bathrooms, his ’n’ hers? Did Douglas lock her out while he took his bath? Did
she try to revive him, or simply screech hysterically and dial 999?

Eventually, she caught herself up with a little shake. Such musings were unwholesome, and possibly disrespectful. There were elements to the story she found almost amusing. She could not pretend to be shocked or sorry, not knowing the man – nothing more than a gentle regret for the missing thirty years washed through her.

A yap from Hepzie drew her attention to the street outside. People had appeared, and were slowly walking up to the front door of the adjacent house, on the same side as the church, so they had no reason to pass by her window. But they milled around outside the door, so she had no trouble working out what was happening. Even so, she thought in frustration, a big bay window would have come in useful instead of the simple glazed hole in the facade of the house. On the whole, Cotswolds architects over the centuries had eschewed bay windows, which seemed to Thea rather a pity. She tried to catch sight of the owner of the Great Dane, at least, but could see no sign of her. Would such a large dog be welcomed as a guest, or would he remain for hours in the car?

The funeral party was adjourning to the house next door. That suggested that Douglas Callendar had lived there, and was therefore a close neighbour to the Shepherds. Had they not felt bad about missing the funeral? She remembered Philip’s muttered reference
to a Douglas, to be quickly hushed by his wife. As always, she felt the bafflement of knowing nothing about the interactions between the people she was amongst for the short spell of her house-sit. The newspaper had mentioned three sons – did that mean the new widow was delivering tea and sandwiches with the aid of daughters-in-law? How rotten it must be for her, so close to Christmas. Perhaps, when everybody had finally gone, Thea should approach her and offer some sympathy. She shook herself reproachfully at this notion. The woman would have plenty of people around, any of whom would do a better job than a strange house-sitter. The idea was ludicrous.

The stream of mourners took several minutes to get themselves inside the house. The loud chatter in the street could be heard through the closed window as the usual release that came after a funeral exerted its influence.
Douglas might be dead – but we’re alive,
was the inevitable message flowing amongst them all. Not just alive, but still able to function. They’d escaped the reaper’s scythe for the time being, and owed it to themselves, and even somehow to Douglas, to make the most of it.