by Rebecca Tope
‘Enough talk,’ said Drew loudly. ‘We’re off.’ And after a brief exchange of kisses, they were gone.
It was less than half an hour later that Ant Frowse made his phone call to Thea. He had gone outside to do it, not wanting his father to hear him. ‘Are you busy?’ he asked his friend. ‘Have you got time to talk?’
‘Loads of time,’ she assured him. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s going to sound silly, but my mother’s gone missing,’ he began. ‘And so has some precious trinket belonging to old Blackwood.’
‘Oh – we heard about that. He was making a fuss at the post office about it. I should think the whole of Chipping Campden knows about it by now. They think Beverley took it, do they?’
‘No, not exactly. Nobody knows she’s gone off. There’s not really any connection. I think.’
‘Start at the beginning,’ she told him.
So he did, leaving nothing out. He described the episode in town that morning, with the Russian sisters making veiled threats and the visit from the police a little while later. ‘Dad did his usual injured peasant act, running rings round them, so they didn’t know what to say.’
‘Did you tell them it was just Carla doing her usual harassment?’
‘Actually, no. We might have missed a chance there.’
‘Beverley would probably say so.’
‘We mostly leave all that up to her. She’s taught herself the legal stuff and knows exactly what to say to them.’ He made a small sound of frustration. ‘But where is she? Somewhere beginning with “Win”, apparently. I’m going mad trying to figure it all out – and Dad’s not helping at all. He says he’s got no idea where she is, but he doesn’t seem a bit worried. What if she doesn’t come back for Christmas?’ he wailed, like a much younger person.
‘Cook the turkey yourself,’ she said unfeelingly. ‘It’s not very difficult.’
‘It’s a goose. And I don’t think we could face it without her. Christmas is never very jolly here at the best of times, even though Mum does make an effort to keep it all going.’
‘She’s probably just exhausted, then. Can’t face another year of that. Gone off to Windsor or Wincanton for a break by herself.’
‘I never thought of Wincanton,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’
‘Somerset. Not terribly far, but unless she knows someone there, it’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?’
‘The point is – why couldn’t she just tell us? Why the secrecy?’
‘Scared you’d talk her out of it, presumably. I don’t know, Ant. She’s your mother, not mine. People do funny things. But she did phone you, so you know she’s alive. That’s the main thing.’
‘You sound just like Dad,’ he said glumly.
‘And you sound like a lost little boy crying for his mother,’ she said brutally. ‘I bet you she’ll show up tomorrow evening and you’ll have a lovely roast goose, after all.’
The call finished with Ant feeling even worse than before. Did Thea privately think that Beverley actually had nicked the Blackwoods’ trinket and run off with it somewhere? Or was she so accustomed to violent murders and convoluted police investigations that a simple case of a missing woman carried little to interest her? Ahead lay the rest of Saturday, and then the whole of Christmas Eve. His plan had been to tidy the house, walk the dog, and wrap the presents he’d got for his parents. None of that seemed to have any point now, except for his faithful and long-suffering Percy.
Chapter Six
The afternoon was passing rather aimlessly at the Slocombe house. Thea built up the log fire, and all four females settled down in front of it, letting the warmth seep into them and relishing the peace. The scent of the tree in the corner was faint but real, spreading the smell of Christmas, adding to Stephanie’s blissful condition.
Thea was looking and feeling rather less blissful. ‘When are we going to move the table?’ she said suddenly. Drew’s belated suggestion about the dining table was as unusual as it was irritating.
‘When Drew comes back,’ said Jessica. ‘It won’t take a minute.’
‘I suppose I’m in charge of the funerals while he’s gone. He never even thought about that, did he? I can’t leave the house until he gets back. What if I have other things to do?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like trying to help Ant and Digby,’ she muttered. ‘Sounds as if there’s a problem over there.’ Drew’s sudden dash north to gratify his mother’s wishes seemed to Thea to justify a few hours devoted to the mysterious disappearance of Beverley Frowse. But her phone was not linked to the business line, which effectively meant she would have to stay in the house just in case, the whole time Drew was away. Unanswered calls would be diverted to his mobile – which he would be unable to answer if driving.
‘They’ll be fine,’ said Jessica airily, on the basis of no real knowledge.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Ant’s really worried about his mother,’ Thea snapped. Then she noticed Stephanie’s alarmed expression, and modified her tone. ‘But it is what it is, I suppose,’ she added with a sigh. ‘I don’t suppose it’s anything much. And there’s always a possibility someone will phone about a funeral.’ Despite she and Stephanie having agreed that people really should not die at Christmas, the fact remained that they did. Their relatives might well expect a suitable response, even from an alternative undertaker with limited facilities and a young family. ‘So I’ll try to be good and stick by the phone.’
‘We should play a game,’ Stephanie said a minute or two later, anxious not to let any of this magical time go to waste, as well as hoping to improve Thea’s mood. The spaniel was snuggled against her on the big armchair, and the firelight was dancing on the shiny surfaces of the decorations hanging from the ceiling.
‘Good idea,’ said Jessica. ‘But nothing too noisy or competitive.’
‘Most things need an even number of people,’ said Thea, clearly not wanting to get up from her place on the sofa. But then she gave herself a slap. ‘Listen to me, making difficulties as usual. A game would be brilliant.’
‘Snakes and ladders,’ said Stephanie. ‘That’s all down to chance. Anybody can win, from the age of two to a hundred. It says so on the box. And it doesn’t matter how many players there are.’
‘Where is it?’ wondered Thea.
‘Middle drawer,’ Stephanie told her with total certainty. And it was. ‘And we should have candles,’ she added. ‘I love candles.’
‘Tomorrow. We’ll put one in every window, to welcome Dad and Timmy home again.’
‘And mulled wine,’ said Jessica. ‘And did you get some crackers?’
‘Obviously,’ said her mother, with a sigh that suggested contentment as well as the long list of tasks ahead of her. ‘Charles Dickens has a lot to answer for, you know.’
‘It can’t all be down to him.’
‘The tree was Prince Albert’s idea,’ said Stephanie. An annoying idea occurred to her. ‘I suppose it’s quite bad for the environment, cutting down all these trees?’
‘They say not, because they grow them specially, so they don’t count,’ said Thea quickly.
‘That makes no sense at all,’ Jessica laughed. ‘But just at the moment I can’t pretend to care.’
They played snakes and ladders, the dice consistently favouring Stephanie. Thea accused her of cheating and fetched a plastic cup to use as a shaker. The rattle it made was loud in the peaceful room. ‘It is fairer like that. Her little hands don’t turn it around properly,’ Thea insisted.
But still Stephanie got fives and sixes, dodging the snakes almost every time.
‘We forgot the carols,’ said Jessica, as the game came to a finish. ‘I knew there was something missing.’
‘The quiet’s nice, though,’ said Stephanie.
‘It is,’ Jessica agreed. ‘We can have the CD playing all day tomorrow – and the next two days, if we don’t get sick of it by then.’
‘Right,’ said Thea. ‘I do love the q
uiet.’ She got up and put more logs on the fire. They crackled softly and added another scent to that of pine needles. For another twenty minutes, everything remained tranquil. Then it was teatime, and Thea remembered the washing-up hadn’t been done after lunch and there was an urgent need to make another batch of mince pies, and the dog wanted to go out.
At the Old Stables, Digby and Ant were scraping a small meal together, much as the Slocombes were, but with considerably less appetite. Ant was sinking further into despair, seeing no way out of the morass surrounding him on all sides. His dog was squatting beside him, its nose on his leg, conveying bucketsful of sympathy and concern. Any idiot canine could detect an anxious atmosphere in that kitchen.
‘Better get a move on,’ said Digby. ‘I should start setting up by five. The punters turn up at six.’
‘Nice evening for it,’ said Ant listlessly.
‘Buck up, son. I don’t like to leave you in this mood. Come with me, why don’t you?’
Ant shook his head. ‘You’re better on your own. I’d just put people off, the state I’m in. I’ll try Mum’s phone again, and see if I can raise her. Although I’m not holding my breath.’
‘I was thinking,’ Digby started slowly. ‘Maybe she’s more upset than we realised about that spat you told me she had with Blackwood. When was it? Wednesday?’
‘Right. When he first started flapping about that parcel and laid into her at the gate about it. He might have accused her of taking it, to her face.’
‘She would have said something.’
‘She did say something. She came back in a rage about it.’
Digby blinked. ‘Did she? Well, it looks as if they’ve all decided it was one of us that took it, now. Sending the cops over is a bit of a giveaway. Real harassment, that is.’
Ant wondered why he hadn’t connected the events together before this. ‘That must be it,’ he said, with a much brighter expression. ‘She’s scared she’ll do something she’ll regret if she stays around here.’ Then he thought again. ‘But that doesn’t explain who’s dead, does it?’
‘It strikes me you might have misheard her there,’ said Digby. ‘Nobody’s dead, are they? We’d know about it by now if they were.’
Ant had no answer to that.
Digby went on, ‘Mind you, I don’t think I’ve seen the old bugger for a couple of days. Last thing I can remember is Carla yelling at him about something in the parterre. Must have been Wednesday, as well.’
He pronounced the word parterre with fully rounded contempt. When the Frowses had first lived there, the area concerned had been a perfectly ordinary yard. The Blackwoods had taken a JCB to it, shipped in soil and turf and low-growing shrubs and transformed it into a mock-Tudor garden with a seat and a sundial. Beverley had found it particularly offensive in its poor positioning and total mismatch with the rest of the house. It was the closest point to the Old Stables, visible from an upstairs window.
‘Shouldn’t that be on the parterre?’ queried Ant. ‘Maybe not. Mum would know.’ He paused. ‘What was his missus shouting, then?’
‘I don’t know. Probably something trivial. Maybe she wanted to be the one to accuse us of pinching her bauble. She would have enjoyed that. You know how much she loathes us.’
‘Well, we never got a Christmas card – again.’
‘Nor an invitation to a festive glass of sherry.’
The attempt at banter felt woefully flat. ‘I’m going to try her phone again,’ said Ant tiredly. ‘Sometimes the battery revives a little bit, if you leave it a while.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Digby. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to try.’
The phone reported itself as being out of commission and the two men picked forlornly at their simple meal. ‘Some Christmas this is turning out to be,’ grumbled Digby. ‘Deserted by wife, harassed by landlord and invaded by the forces of the law. God knows what we’ll do with ourselves tomorrow.’
‘She might have turned up by then,’ said Ant with unconvincing optimism.
Instead, a different woman turned up, just as the men were tidying away their plates, Percy having consumed quite a lot of the food that had been on them. A double knock on the door sent the dog barking and Digby almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to answer it.
It was Carla Blackwood, the witch herself. Her expression was a bizarre combination of accusation and embarrassed reluctance to engage with her tenants at all. ‘Have you seen my husband?’ she blurted, without any preamble.
‘Several times,’ quipped Digby, unable to help himself. ‘Do you mean on one specific occasion?’
‘Since Thursday. Three days ago. Have you seen him?’
‘Careful,’ murmured Ant very softly in his father’s ear. Digby blinked and merely shook his head.
‘Why – have you lost him?’ Ant asked, with exaggerated concern.
‘He must have gone on a business trip, I think. Though perhaps not, so close to Christmas. I haven’t been able to contact him.’
‘Oh dear! But why in the world would you think we might know where he is? We have no dealings with either of you, as you know quite well.’
‘He had a disagreement with your wife last week. I thought …’ When it came to it, she could not bring herself to make a direct accusation. ‘Is she here? Perhaps she could shed some light on his disappearance.’
‘No, no. She’s out just now,’ said Digby airily. ‘But I can promise you she’s got absolutely no idea where he might be. We move in such different circles, you see.’
They could almost hear her gnashing her teeth – or at least grinding them. She was dressed in a luxurious costume comprising silk and leather and real fur at the edges. Her face was elaborately made up, and her hair sleek and glossy. It would not take anybody long to guess at her Russian origins. ‘Well, it is very strange. And worrying. He always keeps me informed of his movements, and said nothing about going away. Especially seeing that it’s Christmas.’ This detail was clearly important. She looked up at the sky, as if expecting snow to start falling, or Santa Claus to come sweeping down in his sleigh.
‘Oh dear,’ said Digby, noncommittally.
‘The police were here earlier, you know,’ said Ant. ‘Didn’t you ask them to send out a search party for him? Instead of trying to get us arrested for stealing your missing parcel? Could be that Rufus has got it with him, all along, and couldn’t face telling you. Does he know you reported it to the police?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ she flashed.
‘Well, he’s bound to turn up,’ said Digby. ‘Maybe you could send those daughters of yours out to search for him. He might have had a heart attack.’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘He is in perfect health, thanks to our excellent doctor. His pacemaker is the best in the world. There must be another explanation.’
Ant and Digby had heard about the state-of-the-art pacemaker before, when Rufus had spent a week in an expensive London clinic having it implanted.
Carla went on, ‘But I must ask you to inform me if you—’ She broke off, evidently realising how unlikely her request was to be honoured. ‘Well, I mean, if you see or hear anything,’ she finished bravely.
‘That isn’t going to happen, is it?’ Ant was brutal. ‘Even if he’s lying dead in one of your beautifully kept ditches, it won’t be any of us who find him. Seeing as how we’re not allowed into any of your fields.’
Carla Blackwood turned pale. ‘If he isn’t back by tomorrow, I’ll have to contact the police – again.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘Well, that’s all,’ she said, and turned on her heel. ‘Goodbye.’
‘And a happy Christmas to you, too,’ said Ant, rather loudly.
It gave them an uncomfortable amount to talk about, when she’d gone, despite Digby’s need to leave for Blockley within the next twenty minutes. The implications of Carla’s visit were all too starkly obvious. ‘So what do we do?’ said Ant, for the fifth time. ‘If Mrs B contacts the police, we’ll have to own up t
hat Mum’s disappeared, even if we don’t say exactly what she told us about the argument with Blackwood.’ He had another thought. ‘I did tell Thea about it, though. And she’s matey with one of the top CID people.’
‘No sense in worrying about who tells who what,’ Digby insisted. ‘I can’t see bloody Carla bothering the cops again so soon, either. It’s the same thing as we said before – there’s never much concern about a healthy adult going off for a bit. Especially at Christmas.’
New thoughts were exploding in Ant’s poor head. ‘You don’t think … ? What if … ? I mean, they haven’t gone off together, have they?’
Digby gave a loud guffaw at this idea. ‘What – your mother and Rufus Blackwood? I hardly think so. She hates his guts.’
‘Right.’ It had reached the point where Ant thought he could believe almost anything. After all, Blackwood was rich, and fairly handsome. He and Beverley had been almost friendly years ago. But it was an awful thought, even so.
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Digby, moving towards the door. ‘They’ll put me right at the end of the street if I’m not careful.’
Ant still had things he wanted to say. ‘But what if … ?’ he started. ‘I mean, it does look bad for Mum, on the face of it. She said – he’s dead and I can’t come home. And now a man she hates has gone missing at the same time as she has. What’s anybody going to think?’
‘She hasn’t killed Rufus Blackwood, Ant. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well, I just wish she’d come back and tell us that for herself.’
‘She will. We’ll talk about it a bit more when I get back. Shouldn’t be too late. These things don’t last very long as a rule. Wish me luck.’ And he made his escape, driving off with a vanful of Christmas goodies.
Ant’s thoughts revolved even more rapidly without his father there to bounce them off. Perhaps the apparent disappearance of Blackwood was a good thing, if Carla reported it. The police would quickly clock the fact that something odd was happening at Crossfield, and maybe they should have a look round. And they might equally quickly come up with a harmless explanation. Except that they might just as easily find something dreadful. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that Beverley didn’t want to be found – she wasn’t answering her phone, after all. But she couldn’t know that Ant had only caught the first syllable of her place of exile. She might have assumed he knew she was in Winchcombe or Wincanton or wherever.