A Cotswold Ordeal

by Rebecca Tope

  I’ve briefly met the closest neighbour, who seems a bit of a pain on first acquaintance. A chap got lost in the rain and asked me the way. I pretended I knew, so he wouldn’t guess I’m strange here myself. You’d have been proud of me.

  Enjoy Deauville. (WHY Deauville, I ask myself). Love to Rosie.

  Thea

  The next message was from her younger sister Jocelyn, who very rarely sent emails.

  Thea, where are you? Is it that house-sitting business again? I can’t get anywhere with your mobile, so this will have to be my last resort. The thing is, I’ve got a bit of a crisis here, and would love to get away for a couple of days. Can I use your house, do you think? If you’re away, I could water the plants and answer the phone. I won’t take any of the kids.

  Don’t phone me at home. That sounds much more sinister than it really is, but I just prefer to keep it all under my hat for a while. You can email me if you get this before Sunday evening. Otherwise I’ll try your mobile again on Monday.

  Love

  Joss

  Thea rattled off a reply almost before she’d had time to think.

  What in the world is all this about? No, you can’t just waltz into my house without me being there. And without any proper explanation. You’ll have to come here first and talk to me about whatever it is that’s going on. I’m at a place called Juniper Court, a mile and a half off the A419. The nearest village is Frampton Mansell. I doubt if you’d find it by yourself – we could meet in Minchinhampton or Stroud. Oh, damn, I don’t know what to say until you’ve told me the whole story. I’ll switch my mobile on, and make sure you call me as soon as you see this.

  Thea

  Jocelyn was four years her junior, and the mother of five children. Large, cheerful and apparently contented, she was the last person Thea would have expected to be sending panicky emails. Her husband, Alex, was every bit as equable as Jocelyn, house-trained and reasonably attentive. Thea could not imagine him being the cause of her sister’s crisis. The usual candidates were presumably infidelity, financial disaster, illness or trouble with the law. If forced to guess, Thea would opt for the second of these. Jocelyn was bad with money, and five children cost a lot to run. But why, in that case, would she want to get away from the family home? Impatiently, Thea awaited the call that would, she hoped, explain everything.

  Chapter Three – Sunday into Monday

  By the time it was dark, Thea had had more than enough of her first full day on the job. She took Hepzie outside for a swift circuit of the yard, and a glance in at the pony, who was standing passively in his stable, one back leg kinked in a picture of relaxation. Then she retreated to the house, locked all doors, closed windows and made herself a hot milky drink. At half past ten, she took herself and the dog to bed.

  The dragons on the bedroom wall looked less friendly than they had the previous evening. The room felt airless, with a faint whiff of something teenage and chemical. All those potions they used on hair and skin, the odd stuff they drank, combined in a miasma that reminded Thea of Jessica in her early teens. Jessica’s attempts to be a typical girl had been blessedly shortlived. ‘It’s all such hard work,’ she complained, before having her hair cut in short layers and leaving her face comparatively clear of make-up. ‘I don’t know why people bother.’

  Flora was fourteen, she reminded herself, the age where life consisted of one long experiment, most of which resulted in painful disappointment or humiliation. There would be boys, inevitably, and passionate interests. If the dragons were anything to go by, this girl was capable of impressively sustained obsessions. There were magazines stacked on two shelves, which might reward a brief examination at some point.

  The peacocks next morning were apparently sulking. Either that or the previous dawn had been some sort of aberration. Or perhaps the corn she’d thrown to them at poultry-feeding time had disagreed with them. But the most likely explanation for their silence was that it continued to rain. Peacocks might be expected to dislike rain, she reasoned. They came from hot sunny places, where they could rely on months of good weather. It was a small miracle that they’d adapted to the British climate at all. Idly, she played with the idea of reading up on them via the internet. It would be a good way to pass an hour or so, if nothing else. The geese were rather quiet, too, she noted. The previous morning’s birdsong had definitely included some argumentative honking.

  Pallo seemed to be surviving without undue difficulty. He pricked forward his ears and took a few steps towards her when she arrived with his meagre bucket of feed, which she took to be encouraging signs. She promised to bring him a carrot or two later on, and carefully secured the lower half of his door, so that he could get a view of the yard over the open top. The rain was abating, she noted with some relief, by ten o’clock.

  It was Monday, with all the ingrained injunctions that went along with the first day of the working week. Despite having only a patchy employment record, Thea was not immune to these associations. On Mondays you checked that there were good stocks of groceries and household requisites. You changed the sheets and made telephone calls to set up dates and meetings for the coming week. If you were looking after someone else’s house, you did a bit of vacuuming and some light dusting.

  And when that was done, you chirped at your dog and set off to explore the neighbourhood, despite the threat of more rain. And in order to do that, you searched out public footpaths or bridleways in preference to the open road, however sparse the traffic might be. Remembering the dead Milo made this even more of an imperative.

  She took the creased Ordnance Survey map as insurance against getting completely lost. She put on the wellington boots she’d prudently brought with her and set out with the dog. A jumbled network of footpaths seemed to offer an interesting circular walk, if roads were also used here and there. It was only two or three miles to Minchinhampton and the intriguing Common, with its history and misty trenches. There were also stately homes in the shape of Gatcombe Park and Owlpen Manor, at feasibly walkable distances. And the canal tunnel she had already discovered close to the village of Coates exerted a fascination for her. The western end of it emerged at Daneway, with another pub, mentioned by Cecilia Clifton as being an easy stroll from Juniper Court.

  ‘Spoilt for choice,’ she said to the spaniel. ‘We’ll be experts on the place before long, if we go on like this.’

  Perhaps because of the man asking directions the previous evening, she took the path towards Daneway, through the woods – the walk she had declined to do with Cecilia Clifton the day before.

  The early part, after wading through some long wet grass, involved walking across the railway line, which made her feel as if she’d stepped back in time. Keeping the dog on a tightly-clutched lead, she hurried over the track, looking repeatedly to right and left and listening hard. There was a clear view for hundreds of yards in each direction, but it was still an echo of the past, or at least of a more relaxed society, to be permitted to stride confidently in front of the train if you so chose.

  Immediately, she was in the woods, which were deep and dark, but readily navigated by paths that could in no way be missed. She let the dog run free, and gave herself up to the silence and stillness. Almost deliberately she opted for smaller pathways when given a choice, but within ten minutes she was back on the trail that she only gradually understood was the one-time canal towpath. All that was discernible was a concavity in the ground to her right, until suddenly confronted by a large notice announcing dangerous locks, where children must not be permitted to play.

  With utter fascination she identified the deep brick-lined pits that had once been a flight of four generous-sized locks, much wider than on other canals she had known, and she was puzzled as to how they came to be in such dense woodland. Surely there’d have been lockkeepers’ cottages, broad basins for barges to loiter whilst waiting their turn, and the general bustle that went with the opening and closing of huge lock gates. Now there was nothing of that. The trees on all s
ides were mature deciduous specimens, giving an impression of permanence. But sixty or seventy years ago, when the canal ceased to be used, it was possible that all around had been much more open. Perhaps she should ask Cecilia Clifton, who would surely know all the answers. Then she found herself wondering how purist the restoration people would be. Had they any intention of clearing the trees back to where they would have been in 1786 – or even 1925? Although canals routinely passed through wooded areas, she could not recall ever seeing locks so thoroughly encroached upon.

  Walking slowly along, calling once in a while for Hepzie to stay within sight, she let her thoughts drift, first to her sister and then to her daughter. Jocelyn, she remembered with a jolt, was supposed to be phoning her this morning – and she had forgotten to bring her mobile with her. The thought of it trilling its mechanical jingle in these silent woods was distasteful anyway. What was all this crisis about? They were not a family given to dramas, as a general rule. The death of Carl had not just been the biggest event they’d had to deal with – it was pretty well the only one. Many years ago, Damien’s wife had had an early miscarriage which had been sighed over. Emily had fallen off a ladder when cleaning windows and spent a night in hospital with concussion. But overall, they were a charmed lot, taking good fortune for granted and making very little complaint.

  Which was all the more reason for puzzlement now. Jocelyn simply did not behave like this. Although, Thea mentally added, if anybody in the family was going to throw a wobbly, Joss would be the one.

  As for Thea’s daughter, there didn’t seem to be any cause for concern, touch wood. When her father had died, Jessica had wept quietly, gone off her food and lost the colour from her cheeks. But she had rallied within a month or so, and picked up more or less where she’d left off. Which had been a very focused determination to become a police officer. Only a few weeks ago, she had graduated handsomely and was due to embark on a fast track police training, supported by her Uncle James, a Detective Superintendent, whose gratification knew no bounds. Currently, Jess was in the Rocky Mountains, touring with a group of fellow graduates in a Winnebago. She had warned her mother that there would be no communications for at least a fortnight.

  Sooner than she had expected, the path emerged onto a small road, with the Daneway Inn only a short distance to her left. A quick consultation of the map showed her that she could return through the same woods, but on a lower path, the other side of the one-time canal. Mindful of the pony back at Juniper Court and the evident imminence of rain, she turned right, and within a few yards located a second footpath roughly parallel to the first.

  This was an even wider pathway, with signs of motorised vehicles and horses’ hoofprints. With only a few minor mistakes, she recrossed the railway line and cut up through a field that bordered the road leading into Frampton Mansell.

  In a sudden burst of high spirits, she began to run up the sloping field through another swathe of wet grass reaching to knee height. She called to the dog and the two raced like children for a few hundred yards. Hepzie’s long ears flew and flapped behind her, and her jaws parted in a doggy smile, as she bounded energetically through the grass.

  Breathlessly, Thea rested against a stone wall beside the stile onto the road. ‘Whew, I’m unfit,’ she panted. Her chest was tight and her head quite giddy. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees, giving herself a chance to recover slowly. The dog nosed unconcernedly along the foot of the wall, where clumps of dock and nettles offered shelter to small rodents.

  When the sound of a car engine came closer, Thea glanced at the spaniel, to ensure she wouldn’t run into the road at the wrong moment. There seemed to be little risk of her so doing, but Thea moved a few steps away from the stile, to discourage any such idea.

  When the car passed, she watched it over the wall. It was familiar, but it took her several seconds to connect it with the man from the day before. The maroon colour was the same, but the soft top had been folded back, so the driver was open to the rushing air. He wore old-fashioned goggles and an odd leather helmet, which concealed most of his face. It also concealed the direction of his gaze. He did not slow, or wave, or in any way suggest that he had noticed Thea standing there. But in spite of this, she knew with complete certainty that he had seen her.

  She waited until the car was out of earshot before climbing back into the lane. Something was wrong. Despite the long list of perfectly innocent scenarios that would account for his presence, she was not happy. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was no more than her lasting nervousness around fast cars and potential traffic accidents. Losing her husband in a car crash was surely enough to explain this anxiety. And if it was not, then the death of the cat only a day or two ago added to the sense of vulnerability. Although not overly alarmed for herself, the real possibility of Hepzibah being run over was constantly at the back of her mind. Shakily, she attached the lead to the spaniel’s collar and walked briskly back to the smallholding.

  Everything seemed serenely normal as she walked in through the wide road gate. Geese were paddling in their slimy pond, peacocks perched on the roof of the barn, apparently dozing. The front door was closed and her car was where she’d left it.

  But something was different. She scanned the yard again, and the paddock beyond. It all looked entirely normal. Then she realised: the door to the pony’s stable was wide open. Not simply the top half, left for Pallo to look through, but the lower section now stood at the same angle. And there was no sign at all of the animal.

  A yap from Hepzie drew her to the rear of the house and she laughed aloud with relief. The pony was placidly pulling carrots from the net hanging at a perfectly convenient height for him to reach. Ignoring the puzzle of how his door had come open, Thea approached assertively and gripped a handful of creamy-coloured mane in the absence of a halter. She pulled the pony around, reassured at the willing way he cooperated. ‘Come on, you bad boy,’ she murmured at him. ‘You’re not supposed to be out here. What would your young mistress say?’

  Returning him to his quarters proved comfortingly easy to begin with. Only once or twice in her life had she been in such a situation, and her recollections of horses had given rise to a belief that they were not always so conciliatory. Her affection for Pallo rose in direct proportion to her relief that no harm had befallen him.

  But halfway into the shed, he baulked. He pulled his head up and back, forcing Thea to release the hank of slippery hair. ‘Oi!’ she shouted, which only served to encourage him in his abrupt disobedience. He clattered a few steps backwards, before stopping and rolling his rheumy eyes at her. At least he didn’t seem inclined to run away and she moved calmly towards him, hoping to carry on as before.

  The whole process was repeated, except that this time he dragged Thea with him as he backstepped out of his shed.

  ‘This is getting silly,’ she grumbled. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Tugging hard on his mane did not persuade him, and she understood that she could only lose in a trial of strength. Beneath it all, she had a sense that there was some sort of logic to the pony’s behaviour. He was not acting wildly, nor exerting his superior force in any way. He simply refused to be shut in the stable again.

  ‘Time for some lateral thinking,’ Thea muttered to herself. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered Pallo. ‘Don’t you dare move.’

  Then she went into the building, to check that there was no flood or goose or rat in the corner to account for the pony’s reluctance.

  There was no flood or goose or rat; nothing in any of the corners. But there was something guaranteed to upset a pony, however old and placid. There was a human body suspended from a beam in the roof, its feet so far off the ground that Thea would have had to jump up to touch them. A male person, sagging and leaking and slightly twisting on the end of a rope knotted appallingly tightly around his neck.

  Chapter Four – Monday

  A host of crazy thoughts flooded through Thea’s mind, explanations entangled with the need for action. I
t was one of the Harrys, somehow returned home to hang himself. It was the person who’d killed Milo, struck suicidal with remorse. Even, idiotically, she imagined the body had been there for days, bizarrely forgotten or abandoned by the Phillipses, and unobserved by Thea herself. She had to keep Hepzie away for reasons she could not have explained. She had to do something with the blasted pony. And she had to call the police.

  The face was inhumanly pale and lopsided, and Thea could only bear to regard it in short snatches. She didn’t even consider cutting it down – and wouldn’t have known how to go about it anyway. Quite how the chap had got himself there, suspended above such a long drop, was not a question she asked herself until some time later. Also much later she would analyse with some distress her total absence of sympathy or concern for the person this had been. She felt sick and angry, despairing and confused. She felt unfairly singled out and grossly misused – but she didn’t immediately feel pity.

  Before calling the authorities, she led the pony to the big barn across the yard, where she found a halter hanging on a nail. This she slipped over his unprotesting head, and then tied him to an upright post. Somehow, the wellbeing of the pony now seemed more crucial than ever. Whatever happened, she was going to ensure that he would survive until his little mistress came home.

  Police came, mutedly, almost secretively, with a doctor but no ambulance. First everybody went to the stable, and with some discussion and difficulty removed the body from the beam. Nobody told Thea not to watch, as they climbed up into the loft and discovered the end of the rope securely tied to a hook above the big opening at the back of the building. Unable to see exactly what they were doing, she focused on the gentle lowering of the dead youth to the floor, where the doctor was waiting. She saw him check for vital signs, and sigh softly when none could be found. Then she saw him react as he turned his attention to the area of the neck.