Cotswold Mystery, A

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘It’s a baby auk, of course,’ Thea defended.

  They had found an impressively substantial dictionary in Ron’s study and were using it to settle disagreements. Thea’s definition proved almost right. ‘Any variety of small auk,’ they discovered.

  ‘Duh!’ said Thea as if it had been obvious from the start. ‘That gives me forty-seven, if my calculations are correct.’ She had placed the K on a triple letter score in two directions, turning the word thin into think.

  ‘You’re much too good at this,’ grumbled Jessica.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of practice. I was hooked on internet Scrabble this time last year. It ruins a person for the real thing. I ought to give you some sort of advantage, I suppose. Like making sure you always get the Z and the Q.’

  ‘That wouldn’t help,’ said Jessica glumly. ‘I don’t have the right sort of mind.’

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ patronised Thea. ‘And it’s a great distraction.’

  It had been, until she said that. They were abruptly plunged back into anguished hypothesising about how Granny Gardner would react to being arrested and possibly charged with the unlawful killing of Julian Jolly and their pact evaporated.

  ‘I suppose they’ll do that awful trick of bashing on the door at six in the morning,’ said Thea.

  ‘They won’t. Of course they won’t. They know she isn’t going anywhere. I’ve told you already, they’ll be extremely sensitive.’

  ‘She still won’t understand what’s happening. If she genuinely can’t remember anything about it, she’ll be terrified. Can you imagine it?’ Thea shuddered.

  Jessica sighed. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.’

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s just so awful.’

  ‘I think it might be less awful than you think. She’s a tough old thing, and don’t forget we’re not sure how much of her forgetfulness is just an act. She could be playing games with us all. Being old in itself isn’t any reason to give a person special treatment.’

  Thea considered this clumsy statement with as much objectivity as she could muster. A jumble of conflicting impressions of the old woman collided in her head, crystallised by the strange walk they’d undertaken on Saturday afternoon. One moment Granny had been surging ahead, firmly grasping Hepzie’s lead and very much in control of herself. The next she was a helpless heap of old bones on the pavement. And then she’d got up again and walked home only slightly the worse for the experience. It had gone on like that ever since. Bewildered and frail one moment, deftly delivering a stuck lamb the next. She was like two people in one body. Maybe more than two. And at least one of those personae was capable of driving a knife into an old man’s back. An old man she knew well and could manipulate just as she manipulated everybody around her. Thea recalled the contradictory instructions left by Ron and Yvette. What they had actually been saying was along the same lines – if Granny A manifests, you have to do this. But if she wakes up as Granny B – then this would be better.

  Thea struggled to assure herself that whatever happened would be for the best. If nothing else, the murder of Julian Jolly had provided a powerful distraction from Jessica’s trouble in Manchester, but for all that it was only a distraction. Jessica would have to go back the next day, face a reprimand, learn how to avoid such calamities in future and make herself vulnerable once more to whatever the criminal urban classes might elect to throw at her. James’s undoubted generosity in allowing the girl access to the Blockley investigations ought to earn Thea’s gratitude, she knew. But it had also deprived her of the lazy little holiday she had envisaged. She had been drawn in to the horrid little murder, against her will, and now found herself forced to face the imminent arrest of an old lady she had come to admire and respect.

  The idea that somehow Icarus Binns and Nick Jolly had been involved in murder was tempting, if only because it exonerated Granny. But in her heart, Thea couldn’t believe it. The complications of the locked doors, the closed access through the gardens, the timing, all worked against it being a viable explanation.

  Before turning out the light and trying to sleep, Jessica said, ‘Granny mentioned Julian and Thomas writing about the box – do you remember?’

  ‘When the police asked her what she knew about Julian,’ Thea confirmed. ‘Yes. It didn’t make much sense at the time.’

  ‘It means she knew about it. It links everything up, in a way.’

  ‘You mean they all killed him? One held him, another kept lookout, and a third stabbed him. You think one of those was Granny?’

  Jessica pushed her face into the pillow and moaned.

  Thea switched off the light.

  They woke with the dawn light, with most of the same emotions of the night before still active. Jessica’s last day¸Thea remembered, with a stab of unease. Outside it was raining.

  ‘I’ll phone Uncle James at nine,’ said Jessica. The portentousness swelled around them, as if they’d named a moment for an execution.

  Somehow nine o’clock arrived without Thea rushing into the cottage to warn Granny and help her to hide inside a hollow tree in The Warren. She sat listening, gesturing occasionally and screwing up her face. From Jessica’s end of the lengthy conversation, it seemed that it was not running to the expected script. Almost, Thea thought, there could be room for optimism.

  ‘Well? What did he say?’ Thea demanded, a quarter-second after the call was finished.

  ‘He knew about her record already.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It isn’t evidence. It can’t be revealed in court. It means nothing to this investigation.’

  ‘Oh. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well, it means they’re not charging round here with battering rams to arrest the poor old thing.’

  ‘After what he just told me, I think they probably should.’

  Thea leant back gingerly in the chair. ‘Go on, then – tell me,’ she invited.

  ‘Gladys Fielding, as she was then, had a baby boy. He was two when he contracted meningitis. He died in hospital. She killed the doctor who tried to save him.’

  ‘My God! How?’

  ‘Stabbed him with a pair of sharp scissors. In the back.’

  ‘And they called it manslaughter?’

  ‘She was out of her mind with grief for the child. The doctor was insensitive. A nurse testified to say she thought anybody might have done it, under the circumstances.’

  ‘And she was pregnant.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I might have forgotten to tell you that bit. She was expecting Yvette, and had her while she was in prison. Yvette’s father brought her up for the first eight years.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Jessica.

  They sat quietly contemplating the tragic story for a few minutes. Then Thea said, ‘So they don’t see it as an indication that she stabbed Julian in the back with a kitchen knife?’

  ‘They do. Of course they do. But it isn’t evidence. And they’re still hoping it turns out to have been somebody else.’

  ‘What about Nick, then?’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Yes – Nick. The grandson who’s suddenly best buddies with Icarus, owner of the van carrying soil from diggings in a restricted site, while searching for a mythical object.’

  ‘Ah. That Nick. Yes. Uncle James actually thinks he could possibly be the perp.’

  ‘Perp? Do English police officers say perp?’

  Jessica giggled. ‘Not very often. It’s rather good, though, don’t you think? Better than killer or murderer.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It’s a nasty American euphemism, like passed on and a thousand other silly phrases.’

  ‘Mum, please, not now. I can feel us about to start on political correctness and I don’t think I can face it. Did you hear what I said about Nick?’

  ‘James thinks he could be the person who killed Julian – his own grandfather.’

  ‘Right. But it’s no more than a hunch, because of t
he road accident and his suspicious behaviour. There’s no evidence against him, either.’

  ‘So how is he?’

  ‘Recovering. They think he can be discharged tomorrow or Saturday.’

  Thea could think of nothing to say. Suddenly the whole process felt as if it had nothing to do with her at all. She merely had to keep an eye on Granny, the wonderful nonagenarian who delivered lambs in the middle of the night and aroused complicated feelings amongst the people of Blockley, and savagely killed insensitive doctors. Had the sympathetic nurses applauded her, she wondered? Had she done them all a favour by removing a tyrant from their midst?

  Perhaps it was because the old woman was so independent and stoical that Thea felt such a desire to protect her. The life spark or spirit or whatever you called it was simultaneously strong and fragile, arousing admiration and concern in equal measure. Granny Gardner was like silk, Thea concluded, in her flurry of poetic musings. Slender filaments spun together to form a cord as tough as steel – that was Gladys Gardner, formerly Fielding.

  ‘You’re not saying much,’ Jessica noted crossly. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I’m thinking about Blockley, I suppose, and how much more there is to it than appears at first glance. Not just the history going back to the Dark Ages and beyond, but the silk mills and Joanna Southcott and the sheep – and there’s bound to be more. I bet if we went to the church we’d find a whole new load of stories. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all, I suppose – but in a nice way. There’s no possibility of being bored – you only have to walk fifty yards in any direction and there’s some amazing new thing to find out.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jessica was doubtful, but Thea suspected she was getting some of the same feeling in spite of herself – thanks to Google as much as Blockley itself, admittedly. ‘I’m with you on the Southcott woman. That really is something you could get your teeth into.’

  ‘Pity you’re going back this afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jessica again, with a shudder. ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘It’s going to be fine. Didn’t James manage to persuade you it would?’

  ‘Sort of. But it still feels like being summoned to the Year Head at school. You remember Mr Mattingley.’ She shuddered again. ‘Terrifying man.’

  ‘Last of his kind,’ Thea recalled. ‘Not afraid to enforce discipline. I thought you’d approve of that now.’

  ‘I do, in a way. But he still makes me tremble, just thinking about him.’ She was visibly struck by a thought. ‘And you wouldn’t believe the number of times I fantasised about killing him. I yearned to stick a compass between his ribs, or push him out of the art room window. And there’s Granny, who really did it. Maybe twice. Makes you think, doesn’t it.’

  They lapsed into silence. An unsettling mixture of urgency and paralysis seemed to have gripped them. The weather became less and less inviting, but to remain indoors with nothing to do but bicker between themselves until lunchtime did not feel like a valid option.

  ‘We still haven’t been to look at the church,’ Jessica said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Perhaps we should. It might have some link with Joanna Southcott.’

  ‘Will it be open, do you think?’

  ‘We could go and see. It’s practically next door, after all. And maybe we’ll meet somebody who’ll invite us back to theirs and tell us some good stories.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to be out in this weather,’ said Jessica. ‘But we might as well give it a try.’

  Shrugging into waterproof jackets and shoes, they left the dog behind and headed along the street. Before reaching the church, Jessica drew her mother’s attention to the small brown sign indicating ‘The Little Village Hall’.

  ‘Pooh!’ scorned Thea. ‘That’s tiny. No wonder I didn’t notice it.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Jessica said. ‘Let’s see if that art exhibition’s still on. The one Julian went to on Saturday.’

  The Little Village Hall, as it was officially designated, was very close by. ‘It’s photographs, not art,’ Jessica corrected, tapping the publicity poster on the door.

  A woman sitting just inside gave them a fierce look as they entered. ‘And what makes you think photography isn’t art?’ she demanded angrily.

  Jessica’s jaw dropped, and Thea felt the disproportionate sense of alarm and outrage that comes from unexpected aggression in a stranger.

  ‘Well,’ stammered Jessica, ‘I suppose it can be sometimes. I didn’t mean to…’ she trailed away, wondering why she felt the need to defend herself.

  ‘Just you look at the pictures before you pass judgement,’ the woman told her. ‘That’s all we ask.’

  ‘Do we have to pay to come in?’ Thea wondered.

  ‘No, but we’d like you to sign the book.’ The tone had softened. Perhaps it had been a long boring week for the woman, sitting waiting for visitors who never materialised. Thea and Jessica had the whole place to themselves on this drizzly Thursday morning. It seemed unwise, however, to attack them when they did show up. They signed the book and started towards the right-hand wall and the first of the display.

  ‘No, you’re meant to start on the left,’ said the woman tiredly. ‘It goes in a clockwise direction.’

  Thea could sense her daughter’s growing impatience with the ill-tempered custodian, but they both changed course as instructed. They had not reached the first picture when the woman said, ‘You’re the people who found Julian, aren’t you? On Sunday? I’ve seen you in the village once or twice.’

  Jessica turned to answer her. ‘Yes, that’s right. I understand he was here on Saturday.’

  ‘He was. Not surprisingly, considering there are several of his photographs on display. We missed him when he didn’t come in on Sunday as well. He liked to explain his work to people.’

  A thought struck Thea. ‘Are there some of Ron Montgomery’s as well?’

  ‘A few. The sepia group over there, and another pair on that wall.’ She pointed to the wall on the right.

  The space was unimaginatively arranged, with two of the walls covered quite densely with pictures, and a row of free-standing boards at the far end, made necessary by a small stage. Two short rows of similar boards were positioned in the middle of the hall, facing each other with a fairly narrow walkway between them.

  ‘What a lot!’ Jessica said. ‘Are these all by local people?’

  ‘Definitely. We have a very active Photographic Society, and with the new technology – well, some people have become very prolific.’

  Thea had begun her inspection. The level of experimentation surprised her, with montages and superimposings regularly to be found. The church tower had a large tree growing out of it in one, and the children’s playground was thickly strewn with imported sheep and cows in another. ‘Clever!’ she breathed, hoping to appease the woman on the door. Privately, she found them merely silly.

  Jessica had skated past the early displays, apparently attracted by something at the further end of the left hand wall. A suppressed yelp alerted Thea, who hurried to join her, glad to find that they were hidden from view by one of the display boards in the middle of the room.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Look!’

  The picture was A3 size and very eye-catching. In the centre was a carved wooden chest, painted with gold and scarlet markings. At each corner was a view in sepia, of open countryside, showing the familiar patterns of furrows and ridges that could be found at Upton and the Ditchfords. Beneath the chest was a copied image of the face of Joanna Southcott, which had appeared on more than one of the websites Jessica had located.

  ‘That clinches it,’ said Thea. ‘Just as Icarus said.’

  ‘So it can’t be very secret,’ muttered Jessica. She pointed to the caption beside the picture. ‘The Blockley Box’ she read. ‘By Julian Jolly’.

  ‘Not particularly good as art,’ said Thea critically. ‘Quite poor composition, and the mixture of colour and sepia doesn’t work at
all for me.’ She spoke audibly, unable to resist winding up the woman by the door.

  Jessica snorted her amusement. ‘I think it has a certain boldness,’ she argued. ‘It caught my eye from quite a distance.’

  ‘Well, perhaps. It does seem to be trying to say something.’

  This was certainly true. Thea stared at the picture, legacy of a murdered man, and tried to understand its message. Had the police not discovered it already? Would they regard it with a new interest now that Jessica had recounted the meeting with Icarus and the whole business about the Southcott Box and Upton’s ruins?

  They forced themselves to give due attention to the other work on display. One group of simple images of leaves and grasses appealed to Thea. The name beside them was familiar, but for a moment she couldn’t place it. ‘Sarah Livingstone Graham.’ Of course – the sheep woman! The delicacy of the photographs seemed at odds with the rather hearty person she’d spoken to the day before. If asked to predict, she would have said there’d be photos of animals, perhaps in attitudes of distress, and farmyards with old tractors and pools of stagnant mud. She gave herself time to absorb the subtle shots of single instances of transient life, taken at very close quarters, the scars and holes made by insects or harsh weather suggesting a real fragility.

  ‘I could live with these,’ she murmured. ‘They’re wonderful.’

  Jessica drifted closer and cast an unimpressed look at the pictures. ‘Can’t say they do much for me,’ she said. ‘But I have found some I like.’

  They spent half an hour in the hall, during which time no other visitors appeared. As they left, Thea faced the woman. ‘We were wrong,’ she said with a smile. ‘They definitely are art, after all. Or some of them, anyway.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the woman, barely managing a returning smile. ‘But you’re wrong about the Blockley Box. It’s a masterpiece. You probably don’t appreciate the context, but I can assure you it’s going to become a very special part of Blockley’s heritage, now that Julian…’