by Rebecca Tope
‘Could be,’ said Phil tightly. He looked at Thea. ‘You’ll be all right now, then?’ he said. ‘Sorry it turned into such an interrupted afternoon.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘I brought it all on myself.’
‘Yes, you did,’ he said. She searched for a palliative twinkle in vain. At some point in recent weeks, Phil had changed. He no longer delighted in her as he once had. He had become older, slower and sadder, and she suspected she was more of a duty than a pleasure to him now. She sighed.
‘We’ll need to talk to Emily again,’ he said softly, on the doorstep. Galton was following them, oddly lethargic, and Thea found herself wondering whether Phil would wait to see the man completely off the premises.
It turned out that he did, because he had last minute instructions to issue. ‘I realise it doesn’t feel fair, but I’d be very grateful if you refrained from discussing my thoughts with your sister for a couple of days – OK?’
‘I doubt if I’ll be speaking to her during that time anyway,’ she shrugged. She’d watched the bulky Galton depart the way he came, across one of his own fields, in near darkness. After all, he only lived next door, she reminded herself. Next door might be half a mile away, but there were protocols of neighbourliness that might be called upon in a crisis. Besides, he had already said they hadn’t heard the last of the sheep-worrying business, even though it was clear that Phil had succeeded in obtaining a stay of execution.
‘You’ll be all right, will you?’ he said, with an air of having said the same thing just a few too many times.
‘Oh yes. I’m always all right,’ she smiled, knowing this was not strictly true – that safety was never guaranteed. People could sometimes behave alarmingly badly.
As soon as he’d gone, she let Hepzie out of the scullery and stood her on the slate slab beside the sink, hoping to get more of the mud out of the long coat. She had never had her spaniel trimmed professionally, dealing with knots and lumps herself as they arose. Now the matted hair down the dog’s chest and along both sides presented a daunting task. ‘You’ve never been as bad as this before,’ she complained. ‘Where on earth did you go?’
‘Buckets of blood, Cap’n, buckets of blood.’ The voice came clear and penetrating from the living room. It took Thea several seconds to remember Ignatius, during which time she clasped the spaniel to herself and froze with fear.
‘Oohhh,’ she exhaled. ‘The bloody thing. What have they been teaching him, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Get your gun and follow me,’ continued the bird. ‘We’ll have that varmint.’
‘Madness,’ concluded Thea. ‘This is madness. What was wrong with “Pretty Polly”?’
Hepzibah was plainly confused – the bird sounded like a human being, and yet clearly was nothing of the sort. Her mistress was talking to her, wasn’t she – not that other creature? She shivered and yawned. It had been a long day.
Thea lifted her down, and went to confront the parrot. ‘Who do you think you are?’ she demanded. ‘I suppose we’ll be hearing about pieces of eight next. I must say you’ve got a very violent repertoire.’ She stared at the handsome plumage and pale flickering eye. There was definitely something unsettling about parrots, the way they would come out with utterances that fitted the occasion uncannily at times. She wondered about the teenaged Martin Angell, repeating such bizarre snippets of film and literature to the bird. How many times did you have to repeat a thing for the avian mind to retain it? And how much did they pick up from ordinary family life? Surely ‘Lock the doors, Daddy’ was something from real experience, and not deliberately taught? But was it Babs or Martin who had been so concerned with security?
This way lies madness, she concluded. It didn’t matter, anyway. Let the parrot say what it liked, she’d be used to it in another day or so.
The nicely progressing jigsaw was still on the kitchen table, disturbed slightly by a Galton elbow as he drank his coffee. Neither he nor Phil had commented on it. With gritted teeth, Thea sat down to work on it a bit more. Whatever happened, she was going to finish it before she left.
But she made little progress. The strange events of the previous evening, the unreliability of her sister’s story, the knowledge that there was far too much to come in the days ahead – it all crowded in on her. Phil had asked her how well she knew her sister, or words to that effect, and her instinct had been to protest that she knew her extremely well. But was that true? She and Emily had never shared many interests, beyond a united impatience of little sister Jocelyn, and worship of big brother Damien. Emily as an adult was almost a stranger. When Thea had become more and more committed to environmental matters, expressing horror at the sight of her sister throwing bottles into the dustbin and keeping her house far too hot, Emily had not even troubled to defend herself. ‘We’ve gone our different ways,’ she said. ‘I don’t see the world the same as you do.’
Their husbands had typified the differences, and although there was never any animosity, everybody knew that they found each other just a bit boring.
Still, she was certain that Emily would never get involved in covering up the identity of a killer, or directly lying to the police. She wouldn’t have the courage for a start. And the shame and humiliation of public exposure would be enough to deter her from such behaviour. So Thea’s original theory that the murdered man had been too disfigured for Emily to recognise must be the right one. Then a terrible thought occurred to her: what if he had recognised Emily? Had he been conscious in those final moments? Would he have tried to say something to her?
From one minute to the next, all too aware of what was happening, Thea was engaged. She had resisted and distracted herself, she had refrained from asking questions of Phil or Emily, she had devoted herself to the dogs and the Hawkhill responsibilities – all in vain. She had, after all, met Sam Webster. He had seemed a decent human being, clever and cheerful. He ought not to have been bashed to death as he had been. Nobody deserved that. And if Emily had any means of helping to catch and punish his killer, then she had a duty to use them. And her sister, Thea Osborne, was going to make sure she did.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday was overcast, with a serious threat of rain. Basil and Freddy were still subdued, but did finally eat the meal that Thea offered them again. Ignatius muttered, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,’ five times in a row, when she removed his night-time cover. The voice was so completely unlike Clark Gable’s that it took Thea four of the repetitions before she got the reference. Then the bird cracked a lot of sunflower seeds and threw the shells onto the floor. The ferrets squirmed and frolicked and cheeped at her in a manner she took to be friendly.
‘Everybody seems OK today, then,’ said Thea. ‘Except for you, that is,’ addressing the spaniel, who had spent the night in the kitchen on an old blanket. The dog had yapped intermittently, in the hope that this was an oversight and she could sleep as usual on her mistress’s bed. Thea had shouted at her from the spare room, until she quietened down. The resulting reproach overflowed from the liquid eyes by the bucketful. Hepzie was not enjoying herself, that was obvious. The parrot continued to horrify her, and banishment to the kitchen just because of a bit of mud seemed the height of cruelty. Plus she had a lot of sore scratches from the barbed wire that needed intensive licking at regular intervals.
Freddy and Basil were still far from presentable, particularly Freddy, with his long hair. Thea took each head in turn and looked into the clear trusting eyes. ‘Did you slaughter those sheep?’ she asked each in turn. ‘Are you really guilty of murder?’ For reply she got two slowly wagging tails, two earnest gazes of friendship. ‘Oh, God, I hope you didn’t,’ she groaned. ‘You’re such nice boys. It wouldn’t really be your fault. I never should have let you go.’ She had reattached their chains soon after they returned home, wondering whether it felt like much worse confinement after their hours of freedom.
‘I suppose we could go for another walk,’ Thea capitulated, having
noticed Hepzie’s gloom. ‘On the lead, through the village, no nonsense – right?’
Even under grey skies, Lower Slaughter was gorgeous. The ancient stone alongside the little river, the quiet solid atmosphere, as if nothing could really matter after so many centuries of continuity – it all combined to create a picture of perfection. The buildings took precedence over everything. If a seam of pure gold were to be found underneath them, there would be no question of mining for it. There was no imaginable human need that could justify the destruction of these beautiful symbols of the Cotswolds. It was restful to know this, as if there were no need to make difficult decisions or worry overmuch about anything. There was a strong impression that even after humanity was long gone, these well-constructed houses would remain.
She walked slowly alongside the river, which was only slightly deeper and faster than it had been on Saturday, despite all the rain, a breeze ruffling the water where it widened on the western side of the village. Now and then a car would pass by on the other side of the river, moving slowly, the driver giving her a good look. She felt considerably more self-conscious than she had on her previous stroll, before her sister had witnessed a murder and the dogs in her charge been accused of wholesale slaughter. Now she felt conspicuous in her delinquency, sure that people were whispering about her behind the curtained windows. Further attention must surely be drawn to the scruffy spaniel, still showing signs of yesterday’s mud bath.
‘Morning,’ came a voice behind her. She turned, and met the vivid blue eyes of Saturday afternoon. Useless to deny to herself that this was exactly what she had hoped would happen.
But something had changed. The good-natured face, the startling eyes, were the same. But beneath them was the distinctive white collar of a clergyman. Her fantasy lover was a vicar. She almost laughed in his face.
But then she noticed another difference: the man was under some great strain. His blue eyes were sunken into skin that was a nasty shade of putty. Lines pulled his mouth into an inverted saucer, like a cartoon of a sad person.
‘Hello,’ she said, with a little frown. ‘Can I help you?’
He shook his head with a grimace. ‘That’s normally my line,’ he said. ‘But, yes, you might be able to. I think we’re connected, via our siblings. That’s if I’m right in assuming you’re the house-sitter at Hawkhill. Your dog gives you away – I was told it was a lady with a cocker spaniel.’
‘That’s right,’ she acknowledged. ‘Thea Osborne. But I’m not with you about siblings.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ he agreed. ‘I’m still rather muddled myself. But as I understand it, the lady who saw my brother being murdered was – is – your sister. And – is this right? – they knew each other? Your sister’s husband is Bruce Peterson, isn’t he?’ He smiled flickeringly, as if the muscles had to be coerced into action.
‘Your brother!’ She stared at him, unable to compute this sudden rush of apparent coincidence. Then she remembered that Phil had said Sam Webster had a brother who was a vicar. This must be the man. Even in her confusion and apprehension, she felt a flutter of excitement. Whatever happened, she was going to get to know him better. But – a vicar! That was still a most unwelcome shock.
‘I was thinking I would probably bump into you. People find it hard to keep away from this spot if they’re staying locally. The village acts as a kind of magnet. They all pause and stand just where you did, though most of them take photographs as well.’
She was finally mastering her thoughts and impressions. Wasn’t he being unnaturally calm, given recent events? Where was the horrified grief and rage at what had happened to Sam? Even a vicar might be expected to show some strong emotion under the circumstances. But she could hardly ask him how he was feeling. Instead she looked around her. ‘Are you living in one of these houses, then?’ she asked. ‘Is there a vicarage?’ How did he come to have time to hang about on the offchance that she would stroll by?
He grimaced. ‘No such luck. Can you imagine the poor old C of E affording one of these? Although I mustn’t grumble. Not about that, anyway.’
‘Oh?’ The calm manner continued to puzzle her, until she noted the rigid jaw and the tremor in his hands. Hepzie was ignoring them both, sniffing idly at a patch of grass. Thea felt an urgent need for explanations, but forced herself to remain silent. Far better to let him reveal exactly where he stood, in his own words. There were, she was starting to realise, large areas of awkwardness where she ought not to venture.
He did not respond to her note of interrogation. Instead he shifted the focus to Emily. ‘Your poor sister. It must have been awful for her,’ he said.
‘Yes. She was in quite a state on Saturday night. She was a bit better the next morning, though. But infinitely worse for you. I mean – I can’t imagine losing my brother.’ She devoted a few seconds to trying to envisage life without Damien, in vain.
The man nodded slowly, his face registering something closer to anguish. The story began to emerge jerkily from his lips. ‘He’d come to see me. We’d had a meal at his hotel and I left him finishing off a brandy and planning to go to back to his room to read.’
‘I’m awfully sorry. When did you first hear about it?’
‘Early yesterday. The worst part was having to conduct two Sunday services, having just been to identify Sam’s body.’
‘Good Lord! Surely you didn’t! That must have been ghastly.’
‘Well,’ he smiled deprecatingly, ‘actually it was quite a help, once I got going. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, but it felt right, in the end.’
‘I suppose that’s what God’s there for,’ said Thea tactlessly. ‘I mean – my father’s funeral was just last Friday. So, well—’
‘Oh dear. Your poor sister!’
The sympathy for Emily was starting to feel slightly excessive, and Thea made a small brushing motion with her hand. ‘She’ll get over it,’ she said, afraid she sounded callous, but concerned that the man was overlooking his own good reasons to be distraught. ‘Were you very close?’ she went on. ‘To your brother, I mean?’
‘Oh – you know. Brothers generally tend to drift apart once they’re adults. I’ve been abroad for quite a long time, and since coming back I’ve seen him precisely twice. So, no, not exactly close. But that doesn’t make it any easier – you find yourself going back to the early years, reliving all the childhood pranks and so forth. It hasn’t quite dawned on me how much has gone with him. Memories that nobody else can share.’ His face crumpled and he gazed fixedly at the river.
‘No other brothers and sisters then?’
He shook his head. ‘Our mother is still alive, but she’s not very lucid these days. I’m not at all sure how I’m going to tell her the news.’
Hepzie had been waiting patiently for the conversation to finish. Normally inclined to jump and scrabble at people’s legs, she was much more subdued than usual. Just as well, thought Thea. The man didn’t look as if he would welcome such demonstrations.
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t tell you my name, did I? One gets into the shameful habit of assuming everybody knows it. It’s Peter. Peter Clarke.’
Thea could not avert the blink of surprise, and the blurted, ‘But I thought—’
‘Oh, yes. Sam Webster. Same mother, different fathers. We grew up together, though. His Dad died when Sam was a year old. Mum wanted to change his name, but his grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. Carrying on the family escutcheon and all that nonsense. My father came on the scene quite quickly, and they had me just before Sam’s third birthday.’
‘Right.’ The story had emerged as a rehearsed speech, something he’d had to explain a hundred times before. Thea visualised the situation, how it might have been her own story if she had been younger when Carl died, and found somebody to sire another child. She briefly tried on the shoes of each person in the picture – the little boy who never knew his real father, the secure second child with the slightly anomalous big brother. ‘I see,’ she said.
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‘You do, don’t you.’ His tone carried surprise and a small breath of relief. ‘You strike me as someone to whom things have happened.’
Powerful stuff! She met the jay-feather blue of his eyes, letting herself believe in a merging of experience and emotion that would make long conversations with him a delight. But, oh blast, he was a vicar. And besides that, he was virtually certain to be married.
‘Well, my husband died, about two years ago. That’s all, really.’ Not true, but how could she begin to tell him the things that had taken place since then – the adventures that a house-sitter finds herself heir to; the unpredictable course of her relationship with Phil Hollis; the daughter and the dog and the bleak prospects for her mother?
‘It’s getting to be quite a list, isn’t it,’ he said ruefully. ‘All the people who’ve died. And we’ve not finished it yet. I had a wife in Zambia. She died of AIDS last year.’
Thea felt only the slightest inclination to recoil, to suddenly regard him as unclean, infected – a latter-day leper. Surely if his wife had had the virus, then he must have caught it too?
He read her mind. ‘Don’t worry – I managed to avoid it. We knew she had it when I married her.’
This time Thea could not in any way stand in his shoes. They had become strange distorted alien things that her feet could not come close to fitting. Was the man a saint, or a lunatic, or simply so desperately in love he would do such a thing merely to be with the adored woman? She stared at him in bewilderment. ‘Gosh,’ she said weakly.
Peter Clarke smiled, and the lines of misery disappeared. His expressive face plainly manifested that he was taken with her, found her appealing and easy to talk to. ‘Gosh is about it,’ he agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed the experience. And I have a daughter to show for it.’
‘So have I,’ said Thea. ‘Mine’s twenty-two. There’s nothing like a daughter, is there?’