Crisis in the Cotswolds

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Gosh! Did you have answers for all of them?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m not sure they were all the right ones, though. Some were a bit hard to understand.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  He smiled again. ‘How many are you going to ask me?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. My name is Thea Slocombe. My husband runs this burial ground. See the graves.’ She pointed. ‘I came here for the same reason as you, probably. Just to think about Juliet and wonder what happened to her.’

  ‘I live in Blockley, with some people called Dunsford. They get paid to look after me and two others. They’ve got Down’s syndrome, but I haven’t. We’ve all got learning difficulties. Like Juliet. But she’s got a job.’ Reflected pride at this achievement shone brightly. ‘Most of us just go to the workshop at the day centre and do some weaving or pottery.’

  ‘I see. And that’s how you knew Juliet – when she was going there?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She looked at his huge meaty hands and the very broad shoulders. He must be strong, she thought. And perhaps unpredictable, with little self-control. Or was she being outrageously unfair, stereotyping him without any justification? She recalled discussions and documentaries on the subject of relationships between people of restricted capacity. Quite where things currently stood, she had no idea. The social services changed their rules constantly, encouraging and enabling one minute, and enforcing draconian limitations the next. She regularly arrived at the conclusion that the way villagers in Victorian times handled such dilemmas were probably a lot less damaging than present-day practices.

  ‘But didn’t Juliet go to a different centre, somewhere near here?’

  He did not appear to have a direct answer to this, but went on, ‘She stopped going, just after Easter. She was a success story,’ he said proudly. ‘They paid her proper wages, and she went there all on her own on the bus. Every day.’

  ‘I knew her, too. She was a lovely person.’

  ‘They all say that.’ He nodded to himself. ‘She shouldn’t be dead.’

  ‘No,’ Thea agreed emphatically. Then she shook herself. ‘Well, I’ve got to go home now. I’ll leave you to it. Maybe I’ll see you again.’

  He twitched in naked astonishment. ‘You’re not taking me home? Or phoning somebody?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘Well, people usually do. Like I’m a lost child or something.’

  ‘Do you think you’re a lost child? Did you walk here from Blockley? Will people be looking for you?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes.’ He shook his head. ‘Too many questions. I did walk here, because I’m clever with maps.’ He waved a folded copy of the large-scale Ordnance Survey for the area. ‘And I did tell Philip where I was going. He’s my house-father. That’s what I call them. My house-father and mother. He said it was no problem because of the tracker. I felt very sad about Juliet, and wanted to think about her.’

  ‘Who told you this is where she was killed?’

  ‘It was on the news,’ he said, frowning as if suspecting a hidden intent behind the question. ‘Philip said I should be careful not to annoy anybody, and if there were police people about, then to do anything they told me. But there’s only you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is Juliet going to be buried here?’ He looked critically at the row of graves.

  ‘I don’t expect so. But she might. Her mother hasn’t decided yet. Although …’ she remembered that Rosa and Juliet had belonged to a small church in their home village. ‘I think it’ll be closer to where they live. Lived.’

  ‘In Laverton, yes,’ he said, starting to unfold the map to find the village. ‘I know where it is. I’ve been there.’

  ‘Yes. Okay. Sorry, Adam, but I really have to go now. You’ve got a phone, have you? To call Philip if you need him?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Broken,’ he smiled. ‘But I’ve got this.’ He proffered a wrist, banded by an unfamiliar device. ‘It’s a tracker. Philip says everyone’s going to have one soon. And dogs as well. Nobody will ever be lost again.’

  Thea shuddered. ‘What a ghastly idea.’

  ‘No, no. It’s good.’ He leant down to give her his earnest assurances. ‘It’s really good.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said, backing away from his large face. ‘Well, stay as long as you want to. I’m pleased to have met you.’ She considered holding out a hand for him to shake, but thought better of it. His grip might break a few metacarpals.

  ‘Bye, then,’ he said flatly.

  Walking back with Hepzie, Thea reflected that there was at least a chance that she had just been speaking with Juliet’s killer. Strong, big, unpredictable – the man might well have lashed out blindly and broken her neck. But she had seen The Green Mile and absorbed its message. Big silent men on the edge of society were as likely to be gentle giants, caring and protective, as they were to be casual killers. The story of the dog Gelert reinforced the message – as did Frankenstein, come to that. On the other hand, Adam Rogers had to be on the list of suspects, especially if he really had been Juliet’s boyfriend. Volatile emotions, frustrations, misunderstandings were all entirely possible, and all of them recognised triggers for violence. And stories with messages very often bore little resemblance to the real world.

  She ran through events of the past twenty-four hours or so. It was only a day since Anthony Spiller had found Juliet’s body. The police must have worked fast to acquire every clue and angle already, and then clear away from the scene. Perhaps this had something to do with Gladwin’s affection for Thea – trying to cause as little disruption to the burial business as possible. The idea was uncomfortable. Special treatment was close to the sort of corruption that Thea associated with Freemasonry and small-town politics. Drew had glimpsed some of it when working for a mainstream undertaker. It was, he had concluded, part of human nature – which did nothing to make it more acceptable.

  The joint of pork was calling her. It needed two hours of cooking, at least, besides all the vegetables to prepare, table to lay, floor to sweep. Domestic stuff that she agreed was essential to the survival of the family, but which she still resented. Her own mother had often complained at the way social gatherings seemed to require a handsome meal at their core before they could properly function. ‘Why is it that people only seem to communicate properly when sitting around a table with food in front of them?’ she would say. Nobody ever offered a credible answer.

  But it was still not quite eleven o’clock, which left her ample time. Her thoughts went back to the murder, with the central question nagging insistently at her: was it in any way connected to Drew and his burials? The location of Juliet’s murder seemed to suggest so. There was a thread somewhere, linking the dead woman with one of the funerals, and therefore to her killer. The logic insisted that he or she – but surely he – was also known to Drew. A mourner, in fact. Rosa’s theory about badger culling was appealing, but there was no shred of evidence to support it, as far as Thea knew. The additional fact that one of these very mourners had found the body made the link feel stronger. Had Anthony Spiller performed a classic double bluff, by being both the murderer and the discoverer? It wouldn’t be the first time, if so. Did Gladwin think the same thing? How closely had Spiller been questioned? Frustration at not knowing the answers to such questions filled Thea’s chest. She needed to know. It was visceral, this curiosity that always arose when she found herself close to a murder. She could not avoid or subdue it, however much Drew might want her to.

  Neither could she avoid or subdue the ever-present image of Clovis Biddulph. His handsome face hovered inescapably behind every thought, superimposed on other faces that were there in the flesh. Embarrassment at this irrational reaction was every bit as strong as the other emotions going through her. What if he was the murderer? It was perfectly possible, even rather likely, although she could imagine no conceivable reason why he might be. He was just too good to be true. Stro
ng-looking, intense, angry, and infinitely charismatic. He was a sort of Rasputin, she thought fancifully. Everything larger than life and imbued with a rare force. Probably, every woman he looked at melted shamefully, just as Thea had done.

  She should tell Drew about it. If their relationship was as solid as she believed it to be, it could easily withstand a flurry of hormonal nonsense. But she could hear all her female friends and relations screaming NO-O-O at her. No marriage was as strong as that. It would undermine Drew’s trust in her. It would taint her in his eyes. It would, at best, wound and worry him. Far better to remain silent and let the whole thing fade away, with Clovis never seen again.

  She might, though, one day confess to another woman. Her sister Jocelyn, perhaps. Or even Gladwin. But probably not Gladwin. Certainly not if the awful thought that Clovis might be a killer turned into reality. She very strongly did not want that to happen.

  She and Hepzie got back to the house without further incident. The Snowshill place would still not be admitting visitors even after all this time, but Drew and the others would have at least got into the garden, which was probably pretty enough to divert them for a while. The morning was yet young, and now she was in the kitchen, she found that her tasks were much less onerous than her mutinous thoughts had suggested. The hardest part was peeling a small mountain of potatoes and tracking down a roasting pan big enough to take them as well as the meat. She couldn’t remember when she had last cooked for so many people. Christmas had never brought more than Jessica to her table – and more often, the Osbornes had joined another family for the large celebratory meal.

  It was peaceful all alone in the house. The process of potato peeling was actually mildly soothing. There were broccoli, carrots and frozen peas to go with the meat. ‘And apple sauce,’ she muttered. Did they have any apple sauce, or apples with which to make it? By some miracle, there were two nice Bramleys in the wooden bowl she used for fruit. Drew must have got them at some point, bless his heart. And he’d never even said anything.

  The phone and doorbell both remained silent, which felt rather like another miracle. By half past eleven, she had let all thoughts of Juliet Wilson’s death slide into the back of her mind, to be replaced by more personal issues to do with the Peaceful Repose burial ground in Somerset. Given her natural inclination to assume that nothing truly terrible would happen, she focused on listing the various outcomes that might lead to wholesale happiness and well-being. The list was short. It basically boiled down to selling the whole North Staverton property, and enjoying an improved lifestyle in the Cotswolds as a result. In fact, the more closely she examined the situation, the more foolish it appeared for them to have retained ownership of the Somerset house in the first place. Maggs had been using the cool room and office in her operation of the business, but there had been no prospect of capitalising on the main house while it was an integral part of an undertaker’s work. Who would want to be tenants under such circumstances? In retrospect, it seemed careless of Drew to allow such an entanglement between house and grounds, once he and his children had moved out. Thea had asked why Maggs and Den hadn’t moved in, saving themselves time and money, only to receive the vague reply that they were too fond of their own little cottage, and Den was resistant to living so close to a field full of graves. ‘I don’t think it’s actually that,’ Drew had confided to Thea. ‘It’s more a case of not wanting to be any more committed to Peaceful Repose than they are already.’ That assessment now seemed very persuasive in the light of Friday’s announcement.

  It would all work out happily, Thea assured herself now. The Broad Campden business would expand, with funds for better publicity and alterations to the access and parking arrangements. Without the ongoing responsibilities in Somerset, Drew could give all his attention to the Cotswolds. The more she thought about it, the more appealing it all seemed. She became impatient for Drew and Maggs to come back, so she could tell them that everything would be fine. They would put all matters regarding property on a more professional footing, too. Drew had been slack about maximising his assets and claiming refunds and rebates that he was almost certainly owed. He could give Andrew more secure employment, as well.

  Feeling quite ridiculously optimistic, she went out into the garden to find a selection of flowers for a centrepiece. She gathered big white daisies, several sprays of greenery and an early pink rose, just on the brink of opening. It made a handsome display, when plonked into a big blue jug she’d bought fifteen years ago at a car boot sale.

  Twelve o’clock saw almost all the work done. And still the others would only just be getting into the main attraction at Snowshill. Never having been inside the place herself, she had little idea of how long it would take to admire the whole collection. She knew she could trust Drew to get them all back by two, but she had a suspicion it would be sooner than that. The pork was making appetising smells and might well be ready early. Whatever happened, she had half an hour at her disposal, and she opted to use it selfishly, sitting in warm sunshine outside with a book.

  But the gods had other ideas. Within three minutes of arranging herself comfortably on their only usable garden lounger, the doorbell rang, the dog barked, and a cloud drifted across the sun. Gritting her teeth, Thea got up again and tried to guess who the intruder might be. It was a long list of possibilities, including some wholly unknown newcomer wanting to arrange a funeral. That was the least likely by a long way, but still entirely feasible. Sudden death could make people forget all about protocols involving Sunday lunch, or advance phone calls.

  The person on the doorstep had been somewhere on Thea’s list, but she was still surprised.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ whined Lawrence Biddulph. ‘But I really do have to speak to someone.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thea managed to be briskly polite, but far from friendly. She had no wish to listen to a spate of self-pity, and she had forgotten the exact details of the Biddulph family complications. There were things she was not supposed to say, she knew that much. ‘Is it about the funeral?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, not really. My wife insists there’s nothing to worry about, and my mother is behaving oddly because of the grief and so forth. Are you going to let me in?’

  She did not answer directly, and made no move to invite him into the house. ‘Drew isn’t here. I can phone him if it’s important, but it might be better if you just leave him a note, if there’s anything he needs to know. It’s Sunday lunchtime, you see,’ she finished. ‘So it’s not entirely convenient.’

  His face sagged, making it even longer than it had been before. He really was a very unprepossessing character. ‘I see,’ he mumbled. ‘I should have known. It’s nothing much, to be honest. Just a worry that things might go badly on Tuesday. My mother keeps saying it will all be fine.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be? My husband is very professional, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. And I don’t have any real idea of what might happen. But people are being so funny. Peculiar. Evasive.’ His eyes seemed to slide closer together, making him look sly and secretive. Thea assumed he was acting out the way he felt others were behaving. She had remembered that people really were withholding information from him, until after the funeral. They were treating this grown man as a child, and she thought she could understand their reasons. Or – not so much their as her. His mother was the only one who possessed all the facts in the family story, and she was the one trying to keep him in the dark for another few days.

  ‘Just hang on until the burial’s all done,’ she advised. ‘Things will calm down, then, and you’ll have more time to talk it all through.’

  Again he squinted at her. ‘What things? You sound as if you know something, as well.’

  She gave a minimal shrug. ‘There’s always loads of stuff – money, property, disposing of your father’s things. Endless decisions to make. Thanking people for their cards …’ She began to flounder. ‘Look, I’m sorry I can’t ask you in and have a proper talk. Bu
t I’m in the middle of preparing a meal for seven people. It’ll be ruined if I don’t get back to it. You can phone Drew this afternoon, if you like. He’ll be free from about three o’clock.’

  ‘Oh.’ The word erupted as frustration and impatience. ‘I can’t get any sense out of anybody.’

  She waited in vain for an apology for disturbing her. Instead, he turned away, and began walking back along the lane. Where had he left his car, she wondered, as she nearly always did. Patterns were emerging, where people’s good sense could be assessed purely on the basis of where they parked. Some defiantly squeezed their vehicles onto the side of the lane, crushing plants and impeding the movement of neighbours. These irritated even Drew, causing, as they did, bad feeling in the lane. ‘We must get permission to put a sign up by the church, telling people they have to park there,’ he said, repeatedly.

  The lack of proper parking was a mark against the business, they both understood. In heavy rain, it was embarrassing to require people to walk a hundred yards or more down to the house. When Greta Simmonds had left her property to Drew, on condition he open a natural burial ground close by, she clearly had not thought through prosaic issues such as where people might leave their cars.

  Lawrence Biddulph stomped out of sight like a mutinous four-year-old. Funny, thought Thea, the way some people just never grow up. You could still see their toddler-selves in their body language and sense of entitlement. To her jaded, middle-aged eye, there seemed to be increasing numbers of them.

  She was forced to abandon her moments in the sun. The meat needed basting, the potatoes should get roasting, and she still hadn’t made the fruit salad. The wine glasses could do with a wash, as well. They definitely weren’t sparkling as they ought to.

  Now she had another male face to join the procession through her imagination. Clovis remained dominant, but now his half-brother sidled up to him, the contrast in their features almost ludicrous. Plus Adam Rogers, Anthony Spiller and another shadowy Biddulph brother, whose name she’d forgotten. He was in a wheelchair – that was all she could recall. It was tempting to suspect that one of them was at least involved in the killing of Juliet Wilson – but nothing stronger could be said, given a complete absence of motive. Juliet’s life had been full of projects and notions when Thea had first met her in Stanton. She roamed the countryside and made friends – and perhaps enemies. She walked uninvited into people’s houses, and rebelled against her mother’s efforts to contain her. But it sounded as if much of that had changed with the move to Blockley. She had a job, a boyfriend, and people similar to herself to share a home with. All that was new since the Stanton days.