A Cotswold Casebook

by Rebecca Tope

She smiled. ‘It sounds as though you’re trying to talk me out of it. Why are you moving, anyway? I think I’m supposed to ask you that.’

  He had prepared an answer in advance. ‘My sister tells me the time has come to reduce my horizons. That’s the phrase she used.’

  ‘Are you going to live with her, then? Where is she?’

  He flinched at the very idea. ‘Oh, no. That would never work. I expect I’ll get a flat.’

  ‘With no garden? Wouldn’t you miss it terribly?’ She had already detected his fondness for the well-stocked flower beds and borders and natural area at the bottom, despite his efforts to be casual about it. At least she had ignored the padlocked shed, to his relief.

  ‘The rheumatism won’t get any better,’ he said with a sigh.

  ‘Well, I should tell you I’ve got two more properties to consider. I’ve been to all of you twice now and it doesn’t get any easier.’

  He had no answer to this, but simply looked at her. She was early thirties, fair in her colouring, and nicely spoken. The sort of off-the-shelf wife you would expect a City financier to choose. Biddable, presentable, fertile. She would fit quite readily into Cotswold society, with the coffee mornings and book groups and fundraising dinners. Harry flinched again at the way the world had gone when he wasn’t looking. He still had friends who worked the land, planted trees and fashioned stone walls. He actually had no intention of moving into a flat. His plans were both vaguer and more ambitious than that. He was going to atone for what he had done – somehow or other, that was his goal.

  ‘Just go with your heart,’ he told her, hoping he didn’t sound fatuous. ‘Which one can you imagine yourself in most clearly?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The thing is, they all have to be more or less gutted and remodelled. Scott wants a place where he can get some peace away from the kids. So that means four bedrooms, ideally. But they cost so much. Even with his bonus, it’s a huge amount to spend. I think you’re right, actually. This one isn’t quite big enough for what we want.’

  At least she didn’t say need, he thought grimly.

  The other prospective buyer was altogether different. A woman by the name of Mrs Langrish (he never learnt her first name) in her late fifties, with an eye to retirement with a husband named Edmund. Edmund featured in almost every sentence, until Harry felt he knew him intimately. Edmund had a troublesome knee. The replacement joint had never properly worked, and they were going to have to do it all again. Edmund had a very ancient mother who seemed set to live to a hundred and ten. ‘People do these days, you know,’ said the woman crossly. Edmund had a daughter by a brief early marriage who was always nagging him for money. ‘Just what right she thinks she has, at her age, I can’t imagine.’ Edmund belonged to a very active historical society which centred around the events of the Crimean War. He went to obscure places like Cappadocia and the Black Sea with a group, leaving his wife to hold the fort on her own. Their younger son, Alistair, had taken his time in leaving home, but now he’d finally gone, his parents wanted to start again on their own. Harry had a sense of an escape to a hideaway where Alistair would never find them.

  ‘I think it’s a bit near the main road,’ she demurred. ‘If we have a cat, it might get killed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Harry judiciously. A cat was as unappealing a prospect as an Irish setter had been, bringing horrible images of the slaughter of small rodents and birds. Harry had possessed a cat himself until recently, but it had been a lazy, domesticated creature, antisocial and unadventurous.

  Mrs Langrish was gracious enough to apologise for her reservations about the cottage. She hated to hurt his feelings, he could see. He could not disclose to her his much more complicated reactions to the dawning realisation that she was not going to buy the place. He really did have to leave it, and yet he cringed from the changes to the poor old cottage that would result. It served him right, he repeatedly told himself. He should never have done what he did.

  He went to see his sister Muriel in Bisley, not to confess his crime, but to apprise her of his decision to move. It was a visit he had postponed too long, only increasing his dread with every passing day.

  ‘Move?’ she shrilled. ‘What in the world for? You’re not dying, are you?’ She gave him a close inspection, to see whether this might be the case.

  He was tempted to invent a terminal condition, which would serve a useful purpose for the moment. But the implications were far too complicated for it ever to work. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he sighed. In his mid seventies, he supposed that he was more or less dying from natural causes. But it might take another twenty years.

  ‘So what in the world are you thinking? Have you gone mad?’

  Again it was tempting to answer in the affirmative. Indeed, he thought it might even be true. His deed and the subsequent reaction to it would certainly seem bizarre to many people. ‘A bit, perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘What’s it worth, then? Do you need the money? Have you been gambling? Or is there an expensive floozie you’ve been hiding from everyone?’ She jittered around him, firing questions and hardly waiting for answers. Muriel had always been a nervous, restless creature, and the ageing process had yet to effect any changes.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘I was thinking it might fetch close to four hundred thousand, but it seems I have been unduly optimistic. Thus far, nobody has come close to mentioning a figure, because nobody seems to want the place. But I am determined to move, you know.’

  ‘But why?’ she almost screamed. ‘What about your precious garden? And all that stuff?’

  He no longer took the same delight in the garden as he had for much of his adult life. But he could not explain that to Muriel. ‘The pub gets noisy,’ he said weakly. ‘Especially at weekends, when it’s full of children.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ she dismissed. ‘You like the sound of children.’

  ‘Not so much these days,’ he told her. ‘And I have to start disposing of much of the clutter. It’ll be very refreshing. I want a new start somewhere else.’

  ‘But where? You’re not leaving the Cotswolds, are you?’ They both looked out onto the little street that was the centre of Bisley. Colourful, quiet, serene – it was obviously the best place in the world to live. ‘You don’t want to move in here with me, do you?’ The thought plainly caused her acute horror. ‘That would never work.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I was thinking perhaps a little town, like Tewkesbury or Bromsgrove.’

  ‘Tewkesbury? Bromsgrove?’ This time it was a real scream. ‘Have you ever even been there?’

  ‘Once or twice. They both have a good deal to commend them for somebody of my age. Groups, outings, interesting shops. I think either one would be most congenial. And then there’s Droitwich or Kidderminster. All with good buses and attractive countryside close by.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Muriel weakly. ‘You really have gone mad.’

  He went home feeling lonely, guilty and misunderstood. Who could he ever confide in? Not one person. He drove past a dozen idyllic stone houses, many built a century or more before his, but some a lot more recent. They were all beautiful. He had always taken pleasure simply from the appearance of the many-hued stone, from deep mustard to a particular yellowy grey that spoke of age. He had loved the gardens, and created one of his own that took a well-earned place in the picture. Many of these houses were only occupied at weekends or during school holidays. His might well become just such a one, if Scott-the-financier got his way.

  Once home, he walked around his rooms, assessing the contents. Books, china, pictures, rugs – but no flowers. Until recently he had always maintained a fresh vase of flowers on the table in front of the window. Not any more. On one level he blamed the flowers for what had happened.

  He could – he must – leave here without a backward glance. He had spent twenty happy years amongst people he had felt companionable towards, and who showed every sign of reciprocating. They accepted him without question, welcomi
ng him into their own homes, confident of his good character and decency. The village of Duntisbourne Abbots was just across the main road from his cottage, close enough to walk to, but not so close that he felt observed or judged by the inhabitants. There were even one or two working farms in the area, where he had been known to go and buy eggs. He knew a farm where the daughter kept a small free-range flock in the traditional fashion. It was a relaxed way of life, on the whole. The double murder that had taken place so shockingly just a mile from his home, when he first met Thea Osborne, was well into the past now. The storm had abated and recriminations reduced to a trickle.

  But he was undeniably solitary, for all that. His son was gone, living his own life and completely detached from his parent. He sent emails three or four times a year, and a Christmas card, all very friendly. He and Harry met rarely on neutral territory for strained lunches in country pubs, and reminded each other that they were father and son and that surely had to matter. But they quickly ran out of anything to talk about. Paul had married his beloved, a theatre designer called Bobby, and they lived a contented life in Hornsey – a place that had no real character for Harry. He had trouble even finding it on a map.

  I am a poor lonely old man, he mumbled to himself, knowing as he said it that he was being disgracefully pathetic and self-pitying. He had his sister, and a very adequate set of good friends. He had his wits – although recent events gave rise to some doubt on that subject.

  And he still had the number for Thea Osborne’s mobile.

  Thea had arrived as if dropped from the sky, a few years previously; a young widow still suffering the acute effects of her sudden bereavement. The two of them, almost thirty years apart in age, had formed an instant bond. He had acted as protector, facilitator, confidant and liaison between her and the local people. He had observed her vulnerable state and been tempted to capitalise on it. He could have extended his role of protector, taking her into his arms and keeping the horrid world at bay. But he didn’t, and she stepped back, standing on her own two feet and visibly healing. The fact of a murdered man on the property she was responsible for gave her backbone and a sense of perspective. Harry was glad for her, at the same time as he was sorry when she left. He heard later that she had jumped into a relationship with a police detective only a few months after the Duntisbourne Abbots business. Could have been me, he said wistfully, while knowing he was far too old for her.

  But it would do no harm now to call her. Assuming her number hadn’t changed, of course. There had been some talk about her movements over the past few years, with shocking events following her from one house-sit to another. Snowshill, Winchcombe, and the village of Daglingworth, only a little way south of where he lived – they and other places had all seen Thea involved in investigating violent crime. He had been aware that she was becoming a figure of some renown, encountering trouble on a regular basis. She was, it seemed, increasingly expert at getting to the heart of things. The local newspapers had begun to label her as ‘The House-Sitter Sleuth’ and such fatuous epithets as that. And then he had noticed a piece headed ‘From Sleuthing to Undertaking’, which told of Thea’s recent marriage to a man named Slocombe, and their opening of a burial ground near Broad Campden. An unusual event, by any standards, but all the more so for the fact that these were so-called ‘green burials’ with much less of the ritual and fripperies that went with a standard funeral.

  Harry had been intrigued. And very slightly repelled. What was that lovely woman doing getting herself into such work? She ought to concern herself more with the living, free of death and all its trappings.

  He wanted to call her. He had wanted to for the past three years. But he could never think of a pretext that could justify so doing. Nor could he now – except a threadbare idea of asking her if she knew anybody who might like to buy his cottage. He wanted to tell her he was moving, just in case she decided to pay a sudden visit. It would be a shame if she found new people in the house. He hated to think that this might happen.

  So he did it. With a shaking hand he pressed the buttons, feeling himself grow hot with anxiety as he listened to the odd burring that replaced the usual ringing tones of a proper phone. He disliked mobile phones on principle. Was it not obvious that the things ought never to have been invented?

  It dawned on him that there was a clear danger to what he was doing. Thea Osborne – or Slocombe as she must be now – was gifted with an almost uncanny ability to sniff out wrongdoing. Did he perhaps hope that she would do the same with him, exposing his transgression and thus providing some sort of absolution?

  She answered with a slightly wary ‘Hello?’ Her phone, of course, had failed to inform her of who was calling. He was a ‘caller unknown’ and that itself was unnerving, he supposed. Even Thea, who was so fearless, might be bracing herself for an unwelcome shock.

  ‘Thea? You might not remember me. Harry Richmond, in Duntisbourne Abbots. It’s three years ago and more now, I suppose …’

  ‘Harry!’ The tone was unreservedly warm. ‘Of course I remember you. How nice that you’ve called me. I’m living in the Cotswolds permanently now, you know.’

  ‘So I understand. I was wondering … the thing is … would you like to come over one day, for tea or something?’

  ‘That would be lovely. How are you anyway? It does seem an awfully long time.’

  ‘I’m older,’ he said, with a strangled little laugh.

  ‘And wiser?’ she said teasingly. She sounded free of care, settled, confident. She sounded older and very much wiser herself.

  ‘Definitely not wiser. I’m a foolish, fond old man these days. I’ve put the cottage up for sale. It’s a month ago now, at least. Nobody wants to buy it.’ Again the painful laugh, which carried very little humour.

  ‘That sounds bad,’ she said.

  ‘Bad that I’m selling it, or bad that nobody wants it?’

  ‘Both.’

  This time his laugh was more like the real thing. It was funny. An unfamiliar sense of delight flashed through him. Had he been a fool to let this woman go? Wasn’t she something deeply precious, to be treasured and kept and enjoyed, regardless of what people might think? ‘When can you come?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  It was like a wonderful gift. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Come at three, and I’ll have cake. Can you remember how to find me?’

  ‘I think so. Head for that pub, and you’re just past it.’

  ‘Exactly. Will you bring the dog? I have fond memories of the dog.’

  ‘What about your dog-phobic cat?’

  ‘Gone. She’d be very welcome.’ The dog had been an integral part of Thea, he recalled. A soft, patient spaniel that made few demands and offered a unique companionship that Harry could scarcely comprehend.

  ‘She’s enjoying her new life here. Drew’s got two children and they take her for walks across the fields. Actually, three isn’t a very good time. I have to be here when they get home from school. There are still a few more days of term, before they finish for the summer. Drew has to go and see someone about a funeral. Would the morning be any good for you?’

  ‘Of course. Coffee instead of tea. Biscuits instead of cake. Ten-thirty?’

  ‘That should be fine. And why not have cake? Such rules are made to be broken.’

  He laughed, marvelling at how much better he felt.

  But another phone call ten minutes later ruined his mood. It was the estate agent calling to tell him that Mr and Mrs Armstrong-Beavish wanted to come and look at the house again that evening.

  ‘Really?’ said Harry. ‘I thought they’d decided against it. You do mean the City trader bloke and his nice little wife, I suppose? It that really their name? Armstrong-Beavish?’ His contempt was startling even to himself.

  ‘I believe we informed you of their name before the first visit,’ said the young man stiffly.

  ‘I expect you did,’ said Harry, feeling defeated.

  The couple arrived at seven that evening.
The sun was just disappearing, leaving the garden in shadow and making all the rooms seem gloomy. Harry did none of the recommended tricks involving grilled coffee beans or lavender-scented sachets. The kitchen was its usual self, an unwashed saucepan in the sink and a cobweb over the window. Harry was tidy, but not obsessively so.

  ‘I thought you’d decided against it,’ he said to the wife, who had greeted him like a close friend.

  ‘Scott wanted to see for himself,’ she said, with a minimal roll of her eyes.

  Scott was fortyish, with elegant black hair and a twitchy, darting glance. He resembled an actor given a part he felt unequal to, after striving desperately to attain it. He avoided Harry’s eye and stared impertinently into the corners of the hallway. ‘Could I see the garden?’ he asked. ‘I understand there’s a shed. Does it have a secure lock?’

  ‘Not really. Just a padlock,’ said Harry. ‘Why – what are you planning to keep in it?’

  ‘Tools. You realise we shan’t be here during the week. The place will be vulnerable. It’s very close to a main road, after all.’

  Harry made no attempt at a smile. He was visualising security cameras, keypads, bars on the windows. What sort of relaxing country retreat would that be for his wife and children? Or even for himself, come to that. ‘I would have thought that the road worked in your favour, in that respect. Any intruders would be seen by people driving past.’

  ‘Complete myth,’ snapped Scott. ‘Nobody would bother to stop, would they? And it’s convenient for criminals to make an escape.’

  ‘I see,’ said Harry, trying not to catch the eye of the wife. He was also trying not to feel sorry for her. She’d married the man, after all, presumably not at knifepoint. ‘Well, let’s have a look at the shed, then.’ He very much did not want to visit the shed, but if it was unavoidable, the sooner it was over with the better.

  Scott and his wife followed close on his heels, politely admiring the borders full of colour. Harry grew dahlias, gladioli, lupins, carnations. He liked tall things, and packed them in closely together. There was garden both front and back, and everywhere there were flamboyant blooms at almost every season of the year. It never felt like work to him, the snipping and feeding, weeding and transplanting. The rewards far outweighed the effort, sometimes to the point of making him feel mildly guilty. Admiration was generally misplaced, he felt. Six weeks ago he had decided to clear an overgrown area at the far end of the garden, preparatory to making new beds for yet more colourful flowers. Crocosmia, perhaps, with some alliums to keep it interesting in the early summer.