by Rebecca Tope
‘So you think it’s nothing more than a coincidence that the worrying happened just as this pack was roaming freely across the countryside, do you?’
Something about the age-old use of the word ‘worrying’ made her reassess the man and his complaints. Sheep-worrying was a problem that occurred in Victorian novels by people like Thomas Hardy, not in the barely rural reaches of modern Gloucestershire. And yet it did still matter, and the law still recognised the rights of the farmer as paramount.
She squared her shoulders, wishing as so often before that she was taller. ‘That’s the only explanation I can suggest, yes. Some other dog or dogs must have been on the loose. I don’t suppose it’s all that unusual, is it?’ Suddenly she remembered the man she had met on the path; the man who had issued his apocryphal warnings about what was going to happen. ‘It must have been the man I met who told you these dogs were loose,’ she said. ‘Nobody else knew about it.’
‘People have eyes, don’t they?’ he snapped back. ‘Anybody could have seen them and known they came from here. I don’t know what man you’re talking about, do I?’
‘Quite small, not much hair, early fifties, wearing a blue sweatshirt kind of thing. Talked with a westcountry accent. I’d say he must be local. He seemed to know all about you.’
‘Sounds like Mike Lister,’ said Galton indifferently. ‘And so what if it was him who alerted me?’
‘Does he have an axe to grind with Cedric Angell?’ Thea asked slowly, beginning to glimpse a possible pattern behind the previous day’s events.
A sudden glint in his eye alerted her. A flash of surprise, quickly covered up. He gave no direct reply to the question, saying instead, ‘Seems to me he was being neighbourly in telling me what was going on. He couldn’t have known he’d be too late.’
She was sorely tempted to cross-examine him as to the precise time and place of the attack, as well as exactly when the Lister man had spoken to him. From what she’d heard so far, it all sounded suspiciously neat. But despite his revealing reaction, she refrained from pursuing the notion of a convoluted conspiracy to bring pain to the absent Angells on the part of Mr Lister.
‘At least you didn’t bring your gun this time,’ she said lightly, fighting the continuing fluttering in her chest. If this man chose to execute the dogs, there was very little she could do to stop him.
‘I came to tell you it’s not over. Keep them chained up, and don’t think you can hide what you did from Cedric. He’s going to have to know about it. If I was him, I’d feel perfectly justified in docking your pay for disobeying instructions.’ As on the previous day, she detected an underlying reasonableness in his voice, as if the effort to maintain the aggression was too great to sustain for long. He cared about his mangled sheep – of course he did. But he perhaps wished as much as she did that the whole business could be dropped.
‘I suppose that’s between him and me,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t feel I have very much to reproach myself with. He did say I could walk them, so long as they were on leads.’
‘Except they weren’t on leads, were they? They were running wild all over the countryside. Three of them,’ he added, with a pointed look at the spaniel.
‘Goodbye, Mr Galton,’ she said tiredly. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more we can say to each other.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday stretched bleakly ahead, as Thea woke at seven to the sound of more rain dashing against her bedroom window. She had no expectations of enjoyable social exchanges, apart from a flickering hope that Peter Clarke might pay a visit. Phil was likely to phone and she tried to rehearse what she would say to him. From her own selfish standpoint, the issue of the dogs was more urgent than that of the dead don, although she understood that this would probably change once she gave the murder more thought. Phil might well decide not to include her in the investigations anyway. He had never been comfortable with her getting close to a murder enquiry, and there was ample opportunity to exclude her this time.
She dealt with all the animals, braced for whatever Ignatius might try to startle her with, only for the bird to remain stubbornly silent. She spent some minutes standing in front of his cage, trying to meet his eye and get some grasp of how he functioned. She was familiar with stories of parrots saving people in burning houses, or making incredibly pertinent remarks as part of the household proceedings. Owners of parrots insisted that their pet knew exactly what was going on, and understood most of the conversation. This one was perhaps disturbed by the presence of a stranger and the disappearance of his known people. That might account for some of his more alarming utterances; even the Rhett Butler line hinted at marital strife.
He met her eye with his head cocked, dancing gently on the perch, the great talons curled loosely around the wooden pole. Once or twice he opened his beak to reveal a thick grey tongue that looked completely wrong for speech. If a parrot could talk so well, why couldn’t an ape? Did parrots in the rain forest converse lucidly together in their own language? She reflected idly that she might activate her laptop one day and do some research into the whole parrot kingdom.
Freddy and Basil seemed restored to normal, running to the extremity of their chains and then circling frustratedly, gaining almost no opportunity for real exercise. The rain seemed irrelevant to them, although they pushed further under the dogwood than previously when they finally lay down. A tabby cat ventured into the open, staring up at her warily, poised for flight. The ferrets twined and twisted and squeaked in apparent contentment.
The silence was finally broken by the mobile playing its diddly-pop tune. ‘Thea? How are you?’
‘Hello, Mum. I’m perfectly all right, thanks. How are you?’
‘Damien’s here. He wants to go through Daddy’s papers and books.’
‘Oh.’ She tried to establish how she felt about that, remembering the way her grandmother had cleared out all her husband’s possessions barely a week after his death. Everything had gone – clothes, tools, hairbrush, toothbrush, cigarette card collection. Was her mother going to behave in the same way?
‘I’ll keep some of the novels, but all that historical stuff can go. And the bound magazines. Damien says there’s quite a good market for them. He’s got Punch and The New Statesman going back to the forties.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She had loved the carefully arranged collections, dipping into old copies of Punch in her teen years, with delight. ‘It seems a shame to dispose of them.’
‘Do you want them then? You’ve never said.’
‘Well, I haven’t really got room.’
‘That’s what I thought. It’s no use being sentimental about it. I know I’ll never look at them, so what’s the sense in hanging on to them?’
This, then, was what normal people did, was it? When their spouse died, they discarded all his effects. She hadn’t done it with Carl. She was still in the same cottage in Witney, the one they had bought when Jessica was a year old, and which had no mortgage on it now. Carl’s books and music and wellingtons and socks were all still there. Only a few of his clothes had been given away. Their lives had been sufficiently enmeshed for the things that were Carl’s to be more or less Thea’s as well. They had liked the same things, bought pictures and furniture together, received joint gifts of kitchenware and china. ‘Mmm,’ she said to her mother, noticing belatedly how much better she was sounding. ‘It’s completely up to you, of course. I’m glad you feel up to it already. That’s really good.’
‘Oh, I’m tougher than you think,’ her mother asserted, with a little laugh. ‘And it has to be done sometime. It’s not as if he really had very much. Men don’t, as a rule. They’re not so inclined to hoard things as women. The papers are just business letters, work stuff, nothing very interesting.’
Thea thought of Sam Webster. Unmarried, as far as she knew, and liable to have a study somewhere stuffed with books and lecture notes and jottings for his own writings. He must have left everything as if returning to it imminently. A
nd who more likely to be dealing with it all than his brother? Would some parish woman offer to help – or might Thea be justified in suggesting it? Would that seem very strange, on such a slender acquaintanceship?
‘Have you heard from Emily?’ she asked her mother.
‘Not a word. I realise there’s something you two aren’t telling me. That attack she’s supposed to have seen on Saturday, I suppose.’ She spoke resentfully, a tone Thea had heard many times before. Keeping things from Mother had become habit from childhood, for no very good reason. She seldom over-reacted or issued stringent punishments, but somehow it had always seemed easier not to tell her too much.
‘It really was horrible. I expect she’ll tell you all about it any day now.’ She felt awkward, knowing it was not her story, but Emily’s. She was almost at the point of telling her mother she was asking the wrong daughter, when Mrs Johnstone took an audible breath and said, ‘Well, I think I’d rather not know, actually.’
‘Very wise,’ Thea approved. ‘It’s lovely to hear you sounding so together, Mum, honestly. Not that I ever really doubted you. As soon as I’ve finished here, I’ll come and see you.’
‘You do that, darling. And bring Jess, if she’s free.’
The call left Thea feeling that all would be well with her mother – a small oasis of relief in a world full of worries. Clouds of suspicion hung over everything else – the death of Webster, the savaged sheep, the way the police apparently regarded Emily. There seemed to be nowhere she could safely repose her trust, and worse than that, she felt that she herself had become untrustworthy. She had let those dogs escape through sheer incompetence. She might well find herself betraying Phil, at least in thought, if she saw much more of Peter Clarke. She was letting her father down by thinking about him much less than she expected to. What would Peter advise – that she pray for Dad’s soul, and bathe his memory in love and gratitude, probably. She wanted to do all that, to grieve gently, without letting the emotions become too raw and painful. But it all felt blocked and diverted by events at Hawkhill. And those were all either her own reckless fault, or her sister’s awfully bad luck.
The rain slowly abated, until by eleven it was a thin drizzle. Rain before seven, Fine by eleven, Thea repeated to herself. It had been a favourite saying of her father’s, and was generally reliable, although Carl had been very sceptical, even to the extent of drawing meteorological maps for her to show how it couldn’t possibly work.
An image was lodged in her mind, prompted by Peter Clarke’s remark about the growing list of dead relatives: an untidy pile of bodies, like the prey of a cat left alone for a week. It would frantically slaughter anything it could find in the hope that the stack of delectable bodies would lure the beloved owner home again. Not really what Thea was imagining, but the same random collection of victims, their presence intruding into everything. The remembered disagreement about rain between her father and Carl felt bizarre now they were both dead. Would they be out there in some unimaginable heaven, still debating the matter?
Had her father ever met Sam Webster, she wondered? Was this another peculiar connection that ought to be taken into consideration? It seemed important to know, all of a sudden. Important, too, to learn more about Webster, as the police must surely be doing as part of their investigations. Was it permissable for her to wander over to the mysterious hotel where he had been staying? Could she come up with a reasonable excuse for such a move? Much easier if she had somebody to go with, of course. Then they could be dropping in for a coffee in the lounge, and get chatting to a member of staff who’d be full of gossip about the murdered man. That, at least, was the way it should happen. And of course she did know a few people in the area. Cold Aston was less than three miles away, and in Cold Aston there was Ariadne, long-time friend of Phil Hollis and recent acquaintance of Thea. Ariadne was a real character, prickly and argumentative, but with a good heart. She devoted herself to various old ladies, quietly ensuring they could remain in their own homes by handling the chores that had got beyond them. She ran classes in spinning, and sold flamboyant hand-knitted garments at local fairs. It would be good to see her again.
The next big question was whether to walk or to drive. There was a footpath almost the whole way, but the journey there and back was a good five miles, and Thea wasn’t sure she could face quite so much walking. Besides, Ariadne disliked dogs, and if she took Hepzie, she’d have to be invited in, and then taken into account for the rest of the visit. It would be much easier if she could just be left in the car. Besides, if Ariadne could be persuaded to have a drink – or even lunch – at the hotel, they’d need to drive there.
She hadn’t used her car since she arrived, and she got a whiff of warm dog when she got in, the August heat having worked on the molecules deposited by Hepzie, especially on the passenger seat where she habitually sat during their drives together. ‘Could be worse,’ said Thea cheerfully.
The village of Cold Aston straggled along a single street, with a small triangle outside the pub that might at a stretch be termed a village green. Ariadne owned a cottage at the northern end, not far from the school. She might well be out, of course. Thea did not have her phone number, and would have been reluctant to call ahead, anyway. She wanted her visit to be a surprise, a spur of the moment thing. That way, she could more easily assess the other woman’s mood, and the general trend of her life over the past nine months.
There was no response to her knock on the door, but she could hear a radio playing at the back of the cottage. Walking around the side, she found her friend picking blackcurrants from a well laden bush, the radio sitting on a little table on a tiny paved area. She was able to observe Ariadne for a moment before announcing herself. Ariadne was tall, with broad shoulders and a thick creamy neck. Her hair had been dyed in dreadful stripes the previous year, but was now a more acceptable copper colour. The radio was playing “I Get a Kick Out of You” and Ariadne was singing quietly along with it.
The words warbled high and clear, and Thea understood that the mood was good. In fact it was better than she could have imagined.
‘You sound happy,’ she said.
Ariadne spun round, her face well tanned and relaxed. ‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘Fancy seeing you.’ She sounded much less surprised than the words suggested. It was as if she had half expected the visit, and Thea remembered that she was also a pagan, immersed in country lore and the secret ways of nature. Perhaps she’d foreseen this encounter in a crystal ball.
Calmly, Ariadne fetched elderflower cordial, home-made almond biscuits and the latest piece of knitting, sitting Thea down next to the radio, which she switched off. ‘I heard you were in the area again,’ she began, deflating Thea’s romantic notions of second sight. More than likely, of course, that village gossip would have passed on the information.
‘So what’s new?’ Thea asked.
The other woman flushed and fiddled with a flake of wood on the table top. ‘Something I never expected in a thousand years,’ she smiled.
‘Let me guess,’ said Thea. ‘From the look of you, it must be a man?’
‘Is it that obvious? I feel such a fool. It can’t possibly go on – I know it’ll all end in heartbreak. But just now it’s amazing.’
‘Why shouldn’t it last? What’s the problem?’
‘Oh, it’s not that he’s married or anything. But we’re so different. He’s bound to go off me sooner or later. And he’s smaller than me. I thought of you a few days ago, wishing I was five foot nothing like you.’
‘Five foot one, if you please,’ laughed Thea. ‘So – who is he?’
‘He hasn’t been here for long. We met at a church jumble sale, would you believe? I just caught his eye, and something – well – we sort of clicked. It was the most incredible thing.’
Afterwards Thea marvelled at how slow she’d been. ‘It does happen,’ she said, feeling mildly envious. ‘Though not very often, and not to everybody.’ Hadn’t it happened to her, when she’d be so drawn to P
hil Hollis at Frampton Mansell? With hindsight, it felt like something much less than Ariadne was describing. ‘Lucky you.’
‘I know. And he keeps saying he’s the lucky one. He’s so sweet. And he’s got the most fabulous blue eyes. But the really insane part is that he’s a vicar – a fully paid-up Church of England vicar. Isn’t that hilarious!’
Thea felt sick. She could feel bile rising up her gullet. ‘Peter Clarke,’ she whispered. ‘You’re talking about Peter Clarke.’
‘Right! You know him, do you? I suppose that’s not surprising. Everybody knows the vicar.’ She was innocently prattling on, pleased that her beloved was known to Thea. ‘Where exactly are you staying? I gather it’s another house-sit?’
‘Lower Slaughter.’ Her mind was in meltdown. That man – had all that intimate confiding smiling act been nothing more than the look he turned on for everybody he met? If so, what had he done extra to make Ariadne so confident of his devotion? Had she, in her admitted naiveté, got it wrong – had she mistaken his normal manner for something exclusive to herself? Were they sleeping together? Were vicars allowed to have sex outside marriage?
‘Did you walk here?’
‘No, I came in the car. I thought you might not want Hepzie in the house. And it’s a bit far to walk both ways.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Ariadne belatedly noticed the sudden change. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is it something to do with Peter? Lower Slaughter is one of his parishes.’ A frown hovered. ‘And how come you know him, when you’re not really from around here?’
Thea forced a smile. ‘We met when I was walking Hepzie. Nothing’s the matter. I’m just getting used to the idea of you and him. You’re not the most likely of couples, are you?’