A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Why can’t you do it?’ Digby whined. ‘Where are you planning to be this afternoon?’

  ‘Nowhere special,’ Ant admitted. ‘Once I’ve taken the tree to the hotel, I thought I’d set up the rest in the usual lay-by and catch a few last-minute customers. I could pack that in by about two, and get back then.’

  ‘That’ll do, then,’ said Digby, in a disinterested tone. ‘I may as well make the effort, even if it only fetches a few quid.’ He had signed up for an evening stall in Blockley High Street, the last attempt to make some sales before Christmas. The whole family had agreed that they would stay at home on Christmas Eve regardless of what final business opportunities might present themselves.

  ‘So just take the dog down to the gate and back for now. Don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Digby. ‘But Bev’s sure to be back sometime today. Isn’t she?’

  An hour after Drew’s bombshell, during which he had answered countless questions and made an attempt at explaining his fractured relationship with his parents, Stephanie found herself stupidly feeling as if she had caused her unknown grandfather’s death. Was that possible simply by the way she had recently been thinking about how her blood relations seemed so distant? She had been critical of them, in her own mind, and resentful of the way they seldom made contact. Or had she telepathically read Drew’s mind, when he went so quiet after the phone call? In either case, she felt overwhelmed with concern for him, as she watched his face. Strange pouches had appeared beneath his eyes, and he couldn’t look at any of them.

  ‘Christ, Drew,’ said Thea. ‘Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I know it is. But if I don’t go then, I won’t be able to get away for days. She begged me. What could I say?’

  Thea and Jessica both knew what it was to lose a father – though not one who had been entirely estranged for over twenty years. Stephanie and Timmy had lost their mother. Everyone understood how much such an event mattered. Timmy spoke up. ‘Who’s your father, Daddy?’ he asked with a frown.

  ‘Oh, Tim.’ Drew pulled the child to him, and buried his face in the small shoulder. Again, Stephanie had a dreadful sense of having somehow made all this happen, by the power of her thoughts. ‘You never met him.’ Drew lifted his head. ‘I’m so sorry about that. It was very wrong, and now it’s too late. We never even had a name for you to call him. Your grandfather – that’s who he was. His name was Peter James Slocombe, and he was seventy-six years old.’

  ‘That’s not very old to die,’ said Stephanie, well aware of how many of their burials were of people over ninety.

  ‘No,’ said Drew emphatically. ‘I always thought there’d be time to patch things up with them, and take you two to see them.’ He was holding himself tight, pinching his nose to stave off the tears. ‘I thought I might not tell you about it until after Christmas. I didn’t want to spoil it.’

  ‘Oh, Drew.’ Thea was at his side, hesitantly patting his arm. ‘We won’t let it spoil anything. How far is it from here? County Durham – right? Can you get there and back in a day?’

  ‘Barely. It must be four hours each way, at least.’

  ‘What does she want from you? Will you have to go back again for the funeral? What about those cousins in Liverpool? Or wherever it is.’

  He gave her a very rueful smile. ‘That’s the other thing. Apparently, she’s been following my career more closely than I realised. She likes the idea of a natural burial for him, and wants me to see to it for her. She says it’s the least I can do after abandoning them the way I did. It’s all my fault, in her view. I’m stubborn and selfish and a big disappointment.’ He looked up, misery and anger fighting for dominance. ‘She always said she hated the idea of my being an undertaker. Now she’s completely changed her mind about it – without ever telling me.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying,’ said Jessica. ‘If she’s just lost her husband she’ll be in shock.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Drew impatiently, managing to convey the obvious fact that as an undertaker he knew quite a lot about newly bereaved people. ‘But she knows I’m going to have to do as she wants. Aren’t I? She’s still my mother.’

  ‘She can’t possibly want you to bury him here.’ Thea looked round at her daughter and stepchildren. ‘Can she?’

  ‘No, no. She’s never been anywhere near the Cotswolds. But apparently there are two or three natural burial grounds within reach of Barnard Castle, and she wants me to see to the whole thing, because I “know the ropes”, as she puts it.’

  ‘She said all this on the phone yesterday and you sat through the whole evening without a word? You’ve taken all this time to tell us about it.’ She was not so much accusing as bewildered.

  ‘You were all so jolly, it wasn’t too difficult to stay quiet.’

  ‘If anybody’s selfish, it’s me,’ said Thea sadly. ‘I should have given you more attention, instead of worrying about potatoes and custard.’

  ‘Potatoes and custard!’ snorted Timmy. ‘Yuk!’

  ‘There was more,’ said Drew, giving his son an oddly speculative look. Everyone went quiet. ‘She said it was very wrong of me to keep her grandchildren away, and not even ask her to our wedding last year. I never even told her about it until last Christmas.’

  ‘You were scared of what she might say,’ Thea nodded. ‘Too many stories of terrible mothers turning up at weddings like wicked fairies.’

  ‘Well, anyway – she said I should bring them with me tomorrow. It would be a consolation, when she’s got such a miserable Christmas in store for her.’

  Thea gave a small shriek. ‘Don’t tell me – she wants you to bring her back here tomorrow night. She wants to have Christmas with us. Doesn’t she?’

  ‘Would that be so awful?’

  ‘Yes! Call me selfish as much as you like, but yes, it would be awful. A woman I’ve never met, just widowed, with a mountain of baggage on her shoulder, sitting like a dead elephant at the dinner table. Besides, there’s nowhere for her to sleep, if she’s still here when Damien comes. No, Drew, it’s impossible.’

  She looked from face to face, puzzled to see a variety of grins looking back at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Dead elephant,’ giggled Timmy. ‘You said she was like a dead elephant.’

  ‘Did I? You know what I mean – people say there’s a dead elephant in the room. That’s what she would be.’

  ‘Elephant in the room, Mum. Nobody ever says it’s a dead one,’ Jessica told her.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, anyway, I’m not having her and that’s that.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to come, actually,’ said Drew. ‘But she does want me to take the kids with me tomorrow. I thought maybe just Timmy … Stephanie’s got to entertain Jessica. I thought it might be nice just to have him …’ He tailed off awkwardly.

  Another silence filled the room. ‘Me?’ said Timmy eventually, with a frown. The idea was so new, it took some effort to process. Stephanie felt a rising anger at being excluded. However alarming and confusing this sudden development might be, she didn’t want to miss any of it. What about me? she wanted to whine. But she was eleven and old enough to bite back the words. In any other situation she would have been happy for father and son to spend time together, confident of her own favoured place in Drew’s heart. But this was different – this was a Significant Moment. That much was obvious already. Timmy would remember it all his life; he would be the first to meet their grandmother. He might even see their dead grandfather in his coffin. Dead bodies in coffins were nothing strange to either of them, after all.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Thea, bending over the little boy. ‘He’s very young.’

  ‘He’s nine. What do you think, Tim?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he shrugged. ‘So long as we get back for Christmas.’

  ‘I promise we will.’

  ‘The roads are going to be dreadful,’ Jessica reminded him. ‘Everybody starts rushing around on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I think it’s a b
it silly, to be honest,’ said Thea. ‘You’ll be a wreck by Monday, just when you should be on top form.’

  ‘If we left this afternoon and stay overnight somewhere like Sheffield, then start early tomorrow, we’d easily be there by half past ten or so. Then stay till teatime and be home again by bedtime tomorrow.’

  ‘More like midnight, if the traffic’s as bad as Jessica thinks,’ Thea corrected him. ‘And you can’t just go, like that. You’ve got to pack if you’re staying overnight.’

  ‘Which would take five minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘Find a Premier Inn or one of those places they have on the motorway. Look – it’s all perfectly feasible. We could even go now, and be there by dark – but I don’t think she wants us staying there overnight. I’ve worked it all out. Don’t argue with me, okay?’ He spoke to Tim. ‘Go upstairs with Mum and help her to pack your things.’

  It was not the first time he’d done it – referring to Thea as ‘Mum’ – but it always jarred the whole family. It was obvious that he had conflated his two wives in a forgetful moment, and that offended everyone, even Karen’s ghost. Especially Karen’s ghost, in Stephanie’s opinion. And now he was being uncharacteristically masterful, brooking no disagreement, which didn’t seem fair. He’d had the whole night to work out what he wanted to do, while the rest of them were still trying to digest the news of the grandfather’s death. But he was obviously right in thinking the trip could work. If anyone could construct an effective itinerary, it was Drew Slocombe. His logistical calculations were born of his days as a conventional undertaker, where there might be five funerals in a day, with limousines and hearses to be scheduled with absolute precision, flowers delivered and ministers arranged. It soon became second nature, even for one of the lesser employees, to compulsively work out routes and timings.

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Jessica. ‘He can be decisive when he tries, can’t he!’

  Thea abandoned any further argument and took Timmy upstairs to choose clothes for the next day and pack pyjamas and a toothbrush. Stephanie watched with a mixture of sadness and envy. Poor Timmy – his first night in a hotel, and it was all too much of a rush for him to enjoy it. Hours and hours in a car, then a meeting with a grandmother who sounded like something close to a witch. ‘Be nice to him, Daddy,’ she said impulsively. ‘Nine isn’t very old, you know.’

  ‘You think I won’t be?’ He really seemed to want to know.

  ‘You might forget about him,’ she said bravely. ‘With everything else that’s going on. It’s all a bit surprising, isn’t it? I mean – he hasn’t had time to understand what’s happening. You need to look after him,’ she urged. ‘Like you look after me.’

  ‘Oh, Steffie.’ Their eyes met in a long gaze of mutual understanding. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’

  Jessica made a pretend-coughing noise. ‘God – you two! Don’t worry, Steph, Tim’ll be fine. They’ll be back again before you know it, and we’re going to be mega-busy tomorrow. Your dad says you have to entertain me, remember.’

  It was around eleven that morning by the time Ant was parking his van in a narrow Chipping Campden street, where only the slenderest of vehicles could squeeze past him. He was only going to be two minutes, and the street was a minor one. ‘Should be okay,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘You’ll get a ticket,’ came a female voice at his shoulder. Turning he saw Bronya, the eldest of Carla Blackwood’s three daughters. Beside her was one of her sisters; he wasn’t sure which.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, startled not just at her sudden appearance but at the relatively friendly look on her face. ‘Down here for Christmas, are you?’

  ‘That’s right. Just me and Annika this time. Olga had a better offer from a man in Scotland.’ She laughed. ‘Mama isn’t pleased about it.’

  The trio of sisters were Russian by birth, but had acquired a near-perfect mastery of English. Bronya in particular was inclined to be talkative, despite a degree of hostility acquired from her mother. ‘Oh,’ said Ant feebly. ‘Well, I’d better crack on, or you’ll be proved right about that parking ticket.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Bronya curiously.

  ‘Taking a Christmas tree to the hotel just along there.’ He pointed to the front door of the Campden House Hotel. ‘Something happened to the first one, and they want a replacement.’

  ‘Why not take it around the back? There’s a big car park there, you know.’ It was the other sister speaking. Annika was smaller and younger and quieter than Bronya. It surprised him to realise she had such a good grasp of the town’s confusing geography.

  ‘I know – but this is quicker,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a walk from the car park to the building, and the tree’s pretty heavy.’

  ‘We stayed here when Mama and Rufus got married,’ Bronya explained. ‘With a lot of other guests.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ant again. The Frowses had been only vaguely aware of the scale of the Blackwood wedding, three years earlier. They had not been invited, and only discovered that it was happening at all from town gossip a week or so before the event. Guests filled the main hotels, big expensive cars filled the local parks and helicopters landed at Crossfield in greater numbers than usual.

  ‘Rufus is so good to her,’ Annika suddenly gushed. ‘She has been so lucky with him. A much better man than our father, it must be said.’

  Bronya nodded her big golden head, her expression sceptical. She had Eastern European looks, with plump cheeks and a lot of yellow hair. She wore a fur coat that looked heavy and rather too warm for an English winter. Ant was torn between ‘cracking on’ as he termed it, and staying to encourage whatever further indiscretions might be on offer. It was highly unusual for anyone from the big house to make conversation like this. Must be Christmas, he thought. The mellow attitude was oddly seductive, so he hesitated, waiting for more.

  ‘But this week has been quite troubled,’ Annika went on, pulling a face to indicate chagrin. ‘A package has got lost somehow, and Rufus was frantic about it. Quite frantic. Saying somebody has robbed him and the police have to be called.’ She gave Ant a searching look. ‘He thinks perhaps it was wrongly delivered to your cottage, and was saying he would go and ask your mother about it.’

  ‘Or your father,’ added Bronya. She nudged her sister. ‘All that was days ago now. We haven’t even seen Rufus since Thursday. He had to go away for some reason.’ She shrugged, lifting the heavy coat with strong shoulders. ‘He’s always dashing off to some crisis or other. Mama is worried he won’t get back for Christmas.’ Her mastery of the English language was noticeably better than Annika’s, which made Ant wish he knew more about their early lives. While entirely unfamiliar with the works of Russian literature, he had a sense that they remained exotic and intriguing by virtue of their birthplace.

  ‘We haven’t had any deliveries,’ said Ant quickly. ‘We did hear there’d been a lost package, but it’s nothing to do with us. We’ve only had the usual Christmas cards. Nobody ever sends us parcels.’ Not strictly true, he silently corrected himself. Digby routinely ordered books and other things online, which various delivery services brought to the door.

  ‘It’s his present to Mama, you see,’ Bronya explained. ‘A very valuable piece of jewellery. The parcel was supposed to be registered and sent by special delivery, but somehow it hasn’t arrived.’

  From one moment to the next, Ant understood that there had never been anything mellow or benign about the sisters’ approach, here in the street. They had been playing with him, pretending to be friendly before leaping into accusations. Both pairs of eyes narrowed and each woman stepped a little closer to him. The fact of their Russian origins felt significant in a much more threatening way. They were going to stab him with a deadly toxin or carry him off to a prison somewhere in order to beat him senseless. The clichés crowded his mind, born of James Bond stories and decades-old paranoia. And yet, it was real. There was malice vivid on both faces.

 
‘What are you accusing me of?’ he asked, much too loudly. A woman passing by gave him a worried look. ‘Leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘We’re not keeping you, are we?’ said Bronya with appalling sweetness. ‘Carry on, why don’t you? Deliver your tree and go home to your Gypsy parents. They’ll be worrying about you, little boy.’

  It was horrible. The ‘Gypsy’ was meant as an insult that carried special resonance for a Russian. The ‘little boy’ was even more insulting, since he was pretty sure both women were marginally younger than he was. They were referring to the fact that he still lived at home, barely a fully functioning adult as a result. He was happy to be a Gypsy, but he did not want to be thought of as immature or childish.

  He pulled away and went to the back of the van. But before he could lift out the large tree, he got a surprise phone call. Letting go of the heavy trunk, he extracted the phone from his jacket pocket.

  ‘It’s me,’ breathed his mother. ‘I’m phoning to say I’m really all right, but I don’t think I’m going to be home for Christmas.’ He could hear an unfamiliar hint of emotion in her voice. He gazed unseeingly at the street around him, the Russian girls walking arrogantly away from him.

  ‘For God’s sake! What’s happened? Can’t I come and get you from wherever you are?’

  ‘No, love. Don’t do that. It’s all horribly complicated. He’s dead, you see. Ant – do you hear me? He’s dead and I won’t be able to come home.’

  Ant was balancing a large tree half in and half out of his van. People were tutting loudly at the obstruction he was causing. The narrow pavement was unsuited to such manoeuvres, and with the phone in one hand, he was further impeded. A woman pushed at him impatiently. When he tried to lift the tree out of her way, it brushed the top of her head and caught in her hair. His van was also causing trouble, its back doors open. ‘What?’ he called down the phone. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He grimaced apologetically at the woman and a handful of others who were finding him a nuisance.