A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

by Rebecca Tope

  Downstairs, they had put a Christmas CD on, and the carols came wafting up the stairs. Stephanie tried to convince herself that the day had been as good as anybody could reasonably hope. There were no raised voices, everything seemingly restored to harmony.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to my fish,’ said Timmy before sliding into a deep and happy sleep.

  At midnight, as a tragic conclusion to two local families’ Christmases, there was a collision on the A44, not four miles from Broad Campden. In one car there were three young men, the flower of Blockley youth, driving home in a southerly direction after a happy day spent with relatives near Stratford. Not one of them was under the influence of alcohol. Two of them died. In the other was a woman aged sixty-five, transporting three teenage grandchildren back to their families in Evesham, after a happy day spent with relatives near Oxford. She had consumed almost a whole bottle of Cava and a glass of brandy. All three grandchildren died.

  The coincidences were legion. In each car, the dead youngsters were related, and in both cases the driver survived. And, as was to eventually be revealed, there were distant familial connections between the two sets of people. They were all descended from a single Victorian businessman, down diverse branches of the family tree. It was calculated that they were fourth cousins to each other. This was to make the story additionally poignant in the newspapers over the coming weeks.

  Such an accident placed great strain on the depleted police pathology department. The precise cause of death had to be established as soon as possible. Five post-mortems had to be performed as a matter of urgency. This meant that the already-queued-up body of Mr Rufus Blackwood had to be dealt with quickly. On Boxing Day, in fact.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Boxing Day started even earlier than Christmas Day had done. Both children were awake by seven, and Timmy was fiddling with one of his stocking toys that he had taken to bed with him. Stephanie experienced an uneasy mixture of irrepressible interest in what was happening to the Frowse family and apprehension as to how things were standing between Thea and Drew.

  ‘What’s Boxing Day really for?’ Timmy asked, over breakfast.

  ‘Nobody seems too sure about that,’ Drew told him. ‘Fox hunting. Delivering charitable goodies to the peasants – in boxes, I suppose.’

  ‘But no boxing matches,’ smiled Thea. ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’

  ‘And no proper fox hunts, any more. Just pretend ones,’ added Jessica.

  ‘People go for long walks, and write thank-you letters,’ Thea remembered. ‘Or they did when I was little.’

  ‘We can send texts,’ said Stephanie. ‘I want to tell Auntie Jocelyn how much I like the tights.’

  ‘And my kit,’ added Timmy. ‘My kit’s awesome.’

  Which inevitably led to the production of mobile phones by Jessica and Thea, and the day was set in a pattern that was to persist, with minor variations, until dark.

  It began when Gladwin called Thea at nine-fifteen. ‘I heard from DS Graham,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve been withholding information from me.’

  ‘You mean about Beverley Frowse being missing? Yes. Sorry. It was rather awkward, you see.’

  ‘Skip the excuses. We’re past all that.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘You haven’t heard the news, then?’

  Anybody but Thea would have said What news? But instead, she saved time by saying, ‘Almost certainly not.’

  ‘Nasty accident on the A44. Our Blackwood man’s PM is happening as we speak, accordingly. Results expected in a couple of hours, with any luck. All systems go, if they show it was homicide – which we assume they will.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you going to be available today? This little matter of the Frowse woman scarpering is very much of interest, and without you, we wouldn’t know about it. And now we’re done with Christmas, it’s going to be all hands to the pump. Or something. Probably.’

  ‘I expect I am available,’ said Thea, glancing round the room. Everyone was there, frankly listening. Drew gave a groan. ‘You realise that if it is murder, whoever did it might be in Australia by now.’

  ‘We’ll know who to blame, then, if that happens. If it turns out to be Mrs Frowse, at least.’

  ‘Thanks. But gosh, Sonia – it’s going to make a huge story if he was murdered. The man knew Alan Sugar and Pippa Middleton and all sorts of celebrities. He was really somebody.’

  ‘So it seems. I keep imagining the funeral.’ Despite being a detective superintendent, Gladwin was seldom able to stay stern or solemn for very long. And Thea Slocombe was skilled at arousing her more frivolous side.

  ‘Which isn’t going to take place in our little burial ground, is it?’ Thea laughed. ‘I think Stephanie was already hoping it would be.’

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t go anywhere, will you.’

  Thea ended the call and looked up. ‘She told me not to go anywhere,’ she said. ‘That nice Finch boy has really got things going.’

  ‘You can’t blame him,’ Jessica protested.

  ‘I wasn’t, really. Oh – there’s been some sort of accident not far from here. In the night, I presume. People must have died, because the pathologist has had to go in to do the post-mortems. At least, I think that’s what she meant.’

  Drew cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you just slow down and explain it all to me? I seem to have missed a lot more than I realised. Stephanie’s hoping for a burial? Pippa Middleton’s got something to do with it? And who in the world is the “nice Finch boy”?’

  Jessica went first. ‘We met him on Sunday. He’s a detective sergeant. Finch Graham.’

  ‘How did you come to meet him?’

  Thea spoke up. ‘I found him wandering around the village with a metal detector. Looking for treasure, apparently. He found some nails and an old shoe buckle. I already knew him by sight, from one of my house-sits, and I suppose he knew who I was, though he didn’t exactly say so.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Drew.

  ‘And I brought him back here and we got talking about Blackwood being dead, because he was off duty and hadn’t heard about it, and we said a bit too much about the Frowses, and now he’s told it to Gladwin, and she’s not best pleased.’

  ‘We knew he would,’ Jessica pointed out. ‘We rather hoped it would happen, didn’t we?’

  ‘Losing me,’ Drew interrupted. ‘It sounds as if you practically adopted him after five minutes’ acquaintance.’

  ‘He was instantly dazzled by my lovely daughter, and when they discovered they were both in the police, it all just started to flow. So to speak. It’s not exactly surprising, considering we’d just come back from hearing all their troubles from the Frowse men. We were already involved. It’s not as if we’re just ordinary members of the public having a gossip.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Drew with a sigh. He hesitated as a new thought struck him. ‘Was Stephanie with you when all this was happening?’ He gave his daughter a worried look.

  ‘Obviously she was. So what? She hasn’t been upset about it. She’s used to people dying, after all.’

  ‘But not when they’ve been murdered,’ he shouted. ‘She’s been shielded from anything like that, ever since—’

  ‘Ever since her mother was attacked. Yes, I know. I get that. But this is – different. Tell him, Steph,’ Thea appealed.

  ‘I am a bit upset about Ant and his mother,’ Stephanie admitted slowly. ‘It’s horrible for them. But it’s been horrible for ages, with that beastly landlord, so now he’s dead, it might be better. Because we’re sure it wasn’t them who killed him. Aren’t we?’ She threw it back at Thea.

  ‘I certainly hope so. We’ll probably know a lot better by the end of today. It’s all still very unsure at the moment. The man might still have just died of heart failure or something.’

  ‘So now tell me what you expect to happen today,’ Drew went on, more and more like a magistrate or a counsel for the prosecutio
n.

  ‘I have no idea, except that I want to speak to Ant, and I want to hear the results of the post-mortem. After that, it’s completely unknown territory.’

  ‘Right.’ Having it presented to him like that, Drew could find no reasonable grounds for objection. It was apparent to everyone that he wished passionately to stay out of the whole business, as he had more or less successfully done with nearly all of Thea’s previous adventures. He managed to conveniently overlook the fact that it had been a murder, less than half a mile from where they now lived, that had originally brought him and Thea together.

  ‘Isn’t there an exotic Russian wife?’ he remembered now. ‘Or widow, I should say.’

  ‘There is, and two equally exotic daughters. Three, in fact, but one of them seems to be out of the picture for the moment.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You don’t want every detail, do you? I’ve told you the basics.’

  ‘Don’t forget the missing package,’ said Jessica. ‘The one Andrew told us about on Friday.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t expect it’s relevant,’ said Thea.

  ‘Remind me anyway,’ ordered Drew.

  ‘It’s just that the Blackwood man was accusing Beverley of stealing his registered parcel with some jewellery in it. It was just the latest in a whole string of rows between the landlord and the Frowses. We must have told you before that the Blackwoods have been terrible landlords, with harassment and intimidation going on for years. Just look at that ghastly fence.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen it,’ said Drew mildly. ‘But I heard about it.’

  ‘They found him only a few feet away from it,’ said Jessica. ‘From what we could gather.’

  Drew snorted. ‘He wouldn’t be stupid enough to let his own fence kill him – would he?’

  ‘I doubt if it’s powerful enough to kill anybody. That wouldn’t be legal. Although …’ Jessica grew thoughtful. ‘Now you mention it, it’s an idea.’

  Ant and Digby, unlike the Slocombes, were in no hurry to get up for Boxing Day. It was shortly after ten-thirty when they were forced to pay attention to somebody banging on their front door.

  Ant opened it, holding Percy back, to find three women standing there. ‘Good morning. This is quite a visitation,’ he said. The dog’s hackles were standing vertically on his neck.

  Carla and her two daughters surged forward. ‘What do you call this, then?’ she shrilled. ‘How do you explain this?’ She brandished something chunky and yellow in his face.

  ‘You found your necklace. Congratulations.’ His voice shook, despite all his efforts. Something bad was happening. Percy had known all along.

  ‘You stole it. You or your ludicrous mother. And I’m calling the police right now. Bronya, Annika, one of you – where’s your phone?’

  It was a staged melodrama, performed by people who should by rights be piled on a sofa weeping for their lost husband and stepfather. The action was progressing into the Frowses’ living room, whether they liked it or not. The shorter of the sisters produced a phone. Digby was standing in the middle of the room, blank confusion on his face.

  ‘It’s Boxing Day,’ Ant reminded the Russian trio. ‘If you dial 999 for a lost-and-found necklace, they won’t be very pleased.’

  ‘You found it,’ said Digby. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hidden in your garden. Under one of your piles of rubbish.’

  ‘My goodness! Really? How did you come to track it down there, as a matter of interest?’ asked Digby.

  ‘Annika has a metal detector. She used that. She was certain you had it, so she went in search of it.’ Carla was shrill, her face rigid with rage, her emotions barely under control.

  Digby had clicked into one of his more familiar roles. He stood easily, the picture of unconcern. ‘Well, that’s quite amazing,’ he said, throwing an admiring look at Annika. ‘Out of all these hundreds of acres, she managed to locate the thing on the first attempt on a totally groundless suspicion. Miraculous.’

  Ant was far less relaxed than his father. The invasion of his home, the loud female voices, the fact of Rufus Blackwood’s death all combined to make his head swim. More than that, he was transfixed by the sight of the necklace, still dangling from Carla’s hand. It was chunky and tasteless and any fool could see was worth umpteen thousand pounds.

  Annika replied with a vicious snarl. ‘She knew you’d stolen it. She said so all along.’

  Digby turned his calm gaze onto Bronya, and a little smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Ant watched as he gave her a tiny nod, but was at a loss as to what it signified. ‘She knew no such thing,’ Digby contradicted the woman. ‘Let’s try this for a hypothesis. What your hysterical mother knew was that she herself had intercepted the wretched delivery man, signed for the package and hatched a plot to incriminate me and my family in its theft. I dare say you knew all about it yourself. And I dare go on to suggest that you were so impressed by the idea that you extended it to the point where it became a motive for murder. Or am I running ahead too quickly for you?’

  Carla, not unlike Ant, was having trouble in following the logic. ‘Motive for murder?’ she screamed. ‘Don’t talk to me about motive for murder. You’ve been wanting us all dead for years. Admit it.’

  ‘And vice versa, I imagine,’ Digby riposted, with a little circular wave of his hand. ‘None of us has lost any love for the other side. But wanting anybody dead is putting it a little too strongly for us English peasants. I think you’ll find it’s more of a Russian thing.’

  Bronya had not uttered a word. Now she addressed her sister. ‘Annika, I don’t believe you can sustain the story about finding the necklace in the way you claim. It might have been sensible of you to consult me first, before putting your plan into action.’

  Digby, Ant and Carla took varying lengths of time to absorb these words. Was it, Ant wondered, as great a betrayal as it sounded? Had one of the threesome astonishingly defected to the other camp, without warning? Or had there been warning in that little nod she’d given Digby?

  ‘C-consult you?’ stammered Annika, who was perhaps the slowest of them all.

  ‘Bronya? You little bitch – what are you saying?’ screamed Carla. ‘These people stole my husband’s gift to me. They stole it before he could even wrap it up. And he knew it. And now they’ve killed him. Annika—’

  ‘We did not steal it,’ Ant interrupted loudly. ‘If you ask me, the shock of your husband’s death has unhinged you.’

  ‘It’s very strange to be out metal detecting in somebody’s garden so early on Boxing Day, you know,’ said Digby, evidently wishing to prolong the confusion. Even for a Russian, was the unspoken implication.

  Annika had still not perceived that the game was lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was so angry and puzzled. So I got up, and decided I should search the premises of our family of tenants, who live like tinkers.’

  ‘Gypsies,’ said Carla. ‘Filthy Gypsies. In Russia, the Gypsies have been eradicated long ago.’

  All three women spoke excellent English, but the overtone of something foreign never quite went away.

  ‘You’d like us to be eradicated, I know,’ said Digby.

  ‘And I believe the correct term is “Roma”,’ said Ant, suddenly enjoying himself.

  ‘Whatever you call them, they’re all criminals – like you,’ said Annika. ‘And we have the evidence to prove it.’ Bronya sighed and rolled her eyes. She plainly thought both mother and sister were beyond stupid. For her and Digby, somehow the matter was already settled.

  ‘We are not criminals. We did not take your gold and we did not kill your husband. I think you’ll find you have to look closer to home for the perpetrator of both crimes,’ said Digby.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Carla thundered, her contralto voice dropping even lower. ‘As Annika says, there will be evidence. We have cameras recording everything you do. I am going back to the house now, to view the recordings from the camera over our gate. I w
ill discover one of you two, or your mother, in the act of hiding my property. Everything will be there as evidence.’

  Annika made a strange sound in her throat. ‘Camera?’ she said.

  Bronya sighed again. ‘You forgot the camera, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘You are by far the biggest fool I’ve ever met, you know. Mother’s going to find a nice clear piece of film showing you leading us here, half an hour ago, pretending to find the necklace with your idiotic device.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Annika uncertainly. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But it won’t show anything else, will it? Not you moving around the junkyard out there, digging up one thing after another, until finally you magically discover the necklace itself. None of that will be there, because none of it happened.’

  ‘There’s an awful lot of metal out there,’ said Digby. ‘That thing would have beeped its clever little head off, once you started swinging it about in our private property.’

  Annika fell silent, and Digby confronted Carla. ‘I’m afraid you have rather a lot to talk over between yourselves,’ he said, with devastating kindness. ‘The good news is that you’ve got your jewellery back. Small consolation, I’m sure, in the much greater loss of your husband – but even so.’ This time he turned again to Bronya, and Ant observed a definite wink.

  Carla tossed her head in a tragic attempt at dignity. ‘Come along, girls. We’re leaving now.’

  ‘You two go ahead,’ said Bronya. ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing me.’

  Annika revived at this. ‘Yes – you stay away, now you’ve done your worst. You disgusting traitor. You’ve always envied me, done all you can to make me look stupid, treated everything as a competition. Ask Olga – she’ll say the same.’

  ‘I didn’t have to make you look stupid, Anny. You just are stupid. And our precious mother is about to find out just how very, very stupid that is.’

  Carla was ageing as they watched. She had shrunk in stature, her anger festering as she fought against accepting that it belonged rightfully to her own offspring. But she had not entirely lost her grip. She gave Bronya a final questioning look. ‘Why are you staying behind? What do you have to say to these men?’