Malice in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Please! I’m sure people have been intrusive, with the awful business you told me about – you know, the little boy …’

  Thea nodded helplessly. Yvonne was obviously incapable of listening to anything unpleasant or upsetting. ‘But I really don’t want to talk,’ she went on. ‘Not yet. Do forgive me.’

  The conversation with Belinda came back, in which Yvonne’s odd hormonal deficiencies had been described. Knowing that, the present behaviour did make some sense. The equivalent of a teenage girl shutting herself in her room rather than listen to sensible lectures from the adults, perhaps. The prospect of conveying the news about Victor felt more and more daunting with every passing minute. And why should I be the one to do it, anyway? she wondered mutinously. Eventually the police, or Belinda, or even Mark, would presumably make contact and force Yvonne to hear what they had to say.

  But it felt close to ridiculous to be sitting there quietly when a few yards beyond the walls of Hyacinth House there was violence and grief and tragic loss all going on, much of it closely linked to Yvonne herself.

  The ban on talking was astonishingly powerful, as well as ludicrous. Even to open her mouth felt unkind and aggressive after such clear pleading for silence. The paradoxical strength of weak individuals had struck Thea before, on occasion. The pathetic don’t hurt me stance effectively rendered all but the most insensitive quite incapable of action. Yvonne Parker clearly had it off to a fine art, worthy of any languid Victorian lady. And yet she functioned as a schoolteacher, she had reared two children and seemed capable of all the requisite tasks for normal life. She surely couldn’t be as feeble as she pretended. Thea could feel a rising surge of impatience, as Yvonne simply sat there, eyes almost closed, and she fidgeted at the imposed hiatus.

  ‘Yvonne – I’m afraid I think this is rather silly,’ she said eventually. ‘There are important things going on, and you will have to know about them sooner or later. I can’t see anything to be gained by postponing it.’

  The eyes closed more firmly, and a small sigh escaped from the immobile lips. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, almost inaudibly. ‘I do see that this is awkward for you. Perhaps it would be best if I go upstairs after all. And if you could do the usual with the cats, and act as if I wasn’t here, we can manage. I’d like you to leave early tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I’ll send a cheque on to you.’

  Again there seemed to be no defence, no way of insisting on being heard. The sheer implacable force of the woman was extraordinary. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. Do feel free to carry on with any plans you had for the evening. TV, or a little drive – anything you like. And you’ll need to do your packing, of course.’ And with that, she got up from the sofa, and without a backward glance went out of the room and up the stairs.

  Thea was at a total loss. Angry, frustrated, bemused, she looked at her dog for suggestions. Hepzie had providentially settled on a rug in front of the empty fireplace, rather than jumping on any of the furniture, and was curled up peacefully as if nothing strange was happening. ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Thea crossly. ‘Get up. We’re going out to look at cows for a bit.’

  The dog was always ready for exercise and new smells, so got up willingly enough. They went out quietly and followed the path to the back of the house and the gate into the field. The arrangement was very reminiscent of the first house-sitting commission in Duntisbourne Abbots, two years earlier, she realised. In that case, the field had been a rougher patch of land, sloping downwards to a pond and bordered by hedges. This one sloped upwards and had fences on three sides. Duntisbourne sheep were replaced by Snowshill cows. But the fact of a violent death, leaving shattered relatives behind, was similar.

  ‘It’s not the same at all,’ Thea muttered aloud. Only the gate, leading from a well-tended garden into a field, was a common factor – and Thea’s instinctive resistance to actually going into this field, because of what she had found in the earlier one.

  She leaned her forearms on the top bar of the gate and tried to still her turbulent thoughts. If she had had somebody to talk to, she could have aired the legion of questions and half-made connections that were swarming through her head. As it was, it felt almost dangerous to her sanity to give them a free rein. What about Yvonne’s car, for one thing? She must have gone to collect it from the street in Crouch End, oblivious of what had happened to Victor. But wouldn’t she have called in on him while she was there? came a niggling voice. Or had she scuttled rapidly to the vehicle and driven away, hoping not to be seen by him, unaware that he was dead? That would be more in character, Thea judged. In any case, she must have moved it before Belinda discovered Victor’s body, or the police would have swooped on it and arrested it as suspicious.

  She listened for sounds of further strife in Blake’s house, but all seemed quiet. Had they arrived at some sort of understanding? Had he thrown the woman out again? Had she managed to explain to him exactly who she was and why she was there? Should she, Thea, behave responsibly and go to check that all was well? Blake had sounded furiously angry, capable of violence, in the moments before Yvonne had appeared. To confront him now felt like the height of recklessness. The more she thought about it, the more unreliable Blake Grossman seemed. Yvonne had dismissed any hint that he should be mistrusted, and she ought to know. She had spoken warmly of him when Thea had first arrived. And yet she had no choice but to go with her own gut reactions, and they told her that he was not on the side of the angels. He had shown little concern for Stevie’s death, which had become, in some clouded way, Thea’s rule of thumb for assessing people in recent days.

  She felt lost and alone, a small figure in an indifferent landscape. She could, just possibly, have an early night, get up at six the next morning and drive home, leaving Snowshill and its residents to resolve their own foolish problems as best they might. She had no special insights, had witnessed no key events that cast any clarifying light on the terrible things that had happened. They could perfectly well do without her. She could even load up her dog and her bag and go now. As she stared into the field, the other side of the gate, she was tempted to do exactly that.

  But there was Gudrun, surely falsely accused. There was the Filipina woman, distraught and adrift with little hope of rescue. There was Belinda, who had seemed rather a nice person, as far as Thea could judge. Above all, there was Yvonne, upstairs in her bedroom, fiercely refusing to be told that people had died and questions really did have to be answered. In spite of her impatience and frustration, Thea felt a degree of responsibility towards the owner of Hyacinth House, whose life seemed so narrow and difficult and frightening that she simply retreated from it when things became threatening.

  The summer evening was already closing in, an hour earlier than it had done in June. While the sun had some way still to go, the light was changing and some of the birds were starting to sing their day’send songs. By the same time tomorrow, she would be back in Witney, in her own dusty silent house, where she still felt as though she lived in a suspended state, three years after losing her husband. She should sell it perhaps and find something in the Cotswolds, now that she knew the area so well. Or she could bank the money and alternate short-term rentals with house-sitting, becoming a real Flying Dutchwoman, with no permanent base. She could spend time abroad, as more and more people did. And if the house-sitting commissions dried up, she might consider some completely new career in a completely new place … fantasies began to flit into her mind in which she found a position as live-in matron in a boarding school, or full-time carer for a rich old lady …

  ‘Hello?’

  She turned lazily, forgetting for a moment where she was and why she might be well advised to remain on guard.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she told Blake, who stood with his hands on his hips and eyes wide open with indignation.

  ‘That’s Vonny’s car out there. I’ve just noticed it.’

  �
�I know.’

  ‘Where is she? I have to speak to her. We have to speak to her. The three of us.’

  Victor’s girlfriend glided up behind Blake, looking sinister in the slanting rays of the sun, which caught her face and turned it to bronze.

  ‘You can’t. She’s gone to bed. She won’t talk to anybody.’

  ‘I’ll damn well make her,’ he said, with a jerky twist of his body, as he turned towards Hyacinth House. ‘She can’t hide away like that.’

  ‘Why? I mean why don’t you leave her alone? What’s it to do with you?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you fool. I thought you were stupid, the first time I saw you, and nothing you’ve said or done since has changed my mind.’

  Nobody since her older brother, thirty years ago, had called her stupid. It was one epithet she could confidently reject. Except … there had been a few episodes over the past year or so where her behaviour hadn’t been entirely sensible. This time, though, she could see no possible justification for the accusation.

  He ignored her outraged spluttering and strode to the front door, followed by Nutella. No, it’s Mariella, Thea suddenly remembered. She should at least do the woman the justice of getting her name right. She wrestled with her powerful urge to stop them, or at least warn Yvonne. ‘She’ll probably be asleep,’ she protested. ‘You’ve no right—’

  Blake paused at the door and scowled at Thea. ‘I have more right than you,’ he said. ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’ she persisted. ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘Vonny!’ called Blake in his powerful bass voice. ‘Come out here!’

  There was nothing friendly or compassionate in his manner. If he had learned of Victor’s death from the girlfriend and felt it incumbent on himself to inform Yvonne, he was going about it in a very unpleasant way. Granted, he knew a lot more than Thea did about the Parker family, but it still seemed unforgivable of him to be so loud and aggressive about it.

  As Thea expected, there was no response from Yvonne. ‘Stop it!’ she ordered him. ‘She must be asleep.’

  ‘She’s not asleep. She’s got to take what’s coming to her, and I’m going to make her.’

  ‘You are not. You’re to leave this house now, or I’ll call the police.’

  These words did appear to penetrate his angry brain, and he hesitated, still on the doorstep. Thea seized her chance. ‘I will,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve got the number of the detective superintendent. She’s a friend of mine. She’s not going to take kindly to you behaving like this. It’s harassment. Whatever grievance you’ve got against Yvonne can be discussed reasonably when she’s feeling better.’

  At some point during the past few minutes it had begun to seem as if Blake did not simply want to inform his neighbour of Victor’s death, but to enforce some kind of punishment on her, for reasons Thea could not grasp. He was personally angry, thanks to something the Filipina must have told him. And she must have told him within moments of entering his house, because he’d been shouting at her before Yvonne returned. There was some logical thread to be grasped, but her head was far too jangled and confused to be able to find it.

  The little tableau seemed frozen for a few seconds, as Blake appeared to consider his next move, the two women watching him closely. None of them paid attention to another vehicle pulling up a little way along the lane outside the garden gate. Only when a female voice addressed them did they react.

  ‘Is Vonny home already? That’s her car, isn’t it?’

  Clara Beauchamp stood in the little gateway, wearing jodhpurs and a ribbed jersey. She looked sweaty and dishevelled. Thea found herself thinking that this was quite possibly the first person she had seen, in two years, who completely represented the stereotype of a Cotswold resident. ‘Is something going on?’ Clara added, looking from face to face and resting curiously on that of the foreigner. ‘Who’s this?’

  Nobody replied, but Thea felt some of the tension in Blake drain away. He made a small tutting noise and took a step towards the newcomer. ‘Go away, Clara. How do you always manage to show up at the wrong moment?’

  Clara shrugged this off. ‘Where’s Vonny, then? She’s not meant to be back yet, is she?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’ Blake’s voice had resumed its loud tones, the anger returning. ‘Just go away.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that. I know you, Blake Grossman. Always thinking you know best what’s good for people, forcing yourself on them, telling them what to do. If Vonny doesn’t want to listen to you, then she doesn’t have to, poor thing. Never mind telling me to go away – looks as if it’s you that needs to back off. And who is this person?’ She pointed a rude finger at Mariella and looked to Thea for an explanation.

  ‘She’s come from London. She wanted to see Yvonne, but I sent her away. Blake went after her and took her into his house, and started shouting at her, for some reason. Now they both want to speak to Yvonne.’ It sounded rather a masterly summary in her own ears, but Clara seemed bewildered. Obviously she had no idea of what had happened to Victor. The news could hardly have started to spread yet, unless Belinda or perhaps Janice had chosen to phone all and sundry with it.

  Suddenly the sound of a bolt being shot into place came from inside the door. Then that of a key turning in the lock.

  ‘She’s locked us out!’ exclaimed Blake. He gave Thea a savagely accusing look. ‘This is your fault. We’ve lost our chance now.’

  ‘Chance for what?’ asked Thea, thinking that Yvonne had probably just done a very sensible thing. She checked to make sure her dog was on the right side of the door, finding it close to her feet, sitting unconcernedly licking its paws.

  The atmosphere of conflict dissolved into a group of people standing rather foolishly outside a locked door, each of them deeply confused as to what the others were intending. Blake’s anger had comprehensively embraced all the women, on both sides of the door, but now coalesced around the Filipina. ‘You have to get in there, and talk to her,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s all up to you now.’

  The young woman flinched and took several steps towards Clara, who was still some distance away. Thea dimly figured out that Blake believed Mariella was the best person to persuade Yvonne to accept that Victor was dead. The shouting, she supposed, had been his own way of reacting to the news of the second death. There was no sign now that he thought Mariella had committed a murder herself.

  Inside the house, the phone began to ring. It was not answered, as far as they could tell, but stopped after six peals for the automatic messenger to take over. ‘Why doesn’t she answer the phone?’ asked Thea, still aware that many important answers were somewhere inside her head if she could only give herself time to explore them. Every time she thought she was close to understanding something, a new external distraction drove it away again. There was no time or space for methodical thought, with all these incomprehensible people crowding in on her. She fancied she knew just how Yvonne must be feeling.

  The road past the house was as quiet as always, but the three cars parked against the garden wall made it seem as if some unusual event was taking place in Hyacinth House. A party, probably, people would think. Another one or two would make a crowd, forcing anything trying to pass to squeeze through slowly, with time for a good look at whatever might be going on. The bumpy atmosphere of dawning crisis was intensifying. Blake was rubbing his chin with a large hand, apparently thinking about his next move. Clara was eyeing Mariella with narrow suspicion, as if trying several hypotheses out, to explain her presence and her effect on Blake. Thea was feeling in her pocket for her mobile, with a growing certainty that the only way out of the impasse was to call Gladwin. And yet nobody seemed actually on the brink of genuine violence or criminality. If there had not been two murders already, it would seem that little more than a heated discussion had taken place. As it was, Thea’s thundering heart was insisting that there would be no calm or easy outcome to this bewildering evening.

 
Chapter Twenty-Two

  Before she could make the call, a fourth car arrived, as she had somehow known it inevitably would. Clara saw it first and emitted a little yelp that sounded more pleased than alarmed.

  ‘It’s Mark!’ she announced, going to meet him and hopping impatiently as he got out of his car. She grabbed his arm the moment he emerged, and shook it like an importunate child. ‘Hey, Mark, come and see to your mother. She’s locked herself in the house. Blake’s having one of his rages and there’s a strange woman. Come on. Oh, by the way, I saw your car here on Sunday afternoon. I thought you’d come to see us, but you never showed. I want an explanation for that. I got Baskerville all saddled and ready for you, for nothing. I was sure you’d come for a ride.’

  Much of this was incomprehensible to Thea, but her attention snagged on the reference to the car. That surely had to be important.

  The foppish young man appeared unfazed by this sudden stream of information, smiling uncertainly from face to face until he reached that of Mariella. ‘Hello, Elly,’ he said with a kind of regretful politeness. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She made no reply, seeming less than delighted to see him.

  ‘You know her, of course,’ said Thea. ‘And you know about your father.’ She searched his face for signs of grief, and discovered grooves around his mouth and shadows under his eyes. It made absolute sense that he would rush to his mother’s side on hearing the news – whether to comfort her or himself was probably unclear even to him. ‘Did you know Yvonne would be here, as well? Isn’t she meant to be in France?’

  He ignored her, leaving Clara to address herself to Thea, apparently reassured by the arrival of Mark. ‘Has something happened to Victor?’ she asked.

  ‘It seems so. That’s what all this is about – I think. I’m sure Yvonne will settle down now Mark’s here and everything’ll be fine.’

  ‘Right,’ Clara nodded uncertainly. ‘I hope you’re right. Now I do have to get back. I was already late. My husband’s got the horses in the trailer and he’ll expect me to be there when he unloads them. Sorry if I intruded,’ she added stiffly. ‘I just wanted to see Vonny, that’s all.’ She was already walking back to her car.