It was only nine-thirty, and the damp day stretched uninvitingly. ‘I should try and get hold of Fraser,’ said Maureen half-heartedly. ‘And find out what all this business with Jason is about. I should have phoned him last night, really. He’ll think I don’t care.’
‘And do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ The emphasis was surprising. ‘I really do. I’ve been worrying about him ever since I woke up. I don’t think he wanted to go back with Mo yesterday. She just bundled him off without giving him a chance to think.’
‘I should walk the dog.’ Thea peered out at the sky. ‘It’ll probably brighten up in a bit.’
‘I hate September. Always have. I hated you children going back to school, worried about new teachers and new timetables. It always seemed so cruel to me.’
‘You must be the only mother in the world who felt like that. Four kids under your feet all summer must have been dreadful.’
‘No, it was nice. And look at Jocelyn. She’s got five, and she says the same thing. She really finds the new term a pain. All those new shoes and packed lunches. It’s a nightmare.’
They contemplated the imagined chaos of Thea’s sister’s domestic arrangements. ‘It must be rather a scramble,’ Thea agreed.
‘And there’s always somebody in trouble, these days. Especially the boys. The poor little things can’t do anything right in the eyes of those silly, soft, female teachers. Did you hear about poor Noel, at the end of last term?’
‘Sort of.’ Thea wasn’t interested in an analysis of modern education. Her own child had sailed through the experience with very little difficulty. The only children she had spent time with recently were Drew’s, and that had been quite a brief acquaintance. She knew nothing about their attitude towards school.
‘You’ve got me terribly confused about Fraser,’ Maureen complained, changing the subject. ‘I just keep going round and round it, all the time.’
‘We’ve said everything there is to say about it, for now,’ Thea cut her off. ‘Just so long as he isn’t planning to kill you, I suppose there’s no great urgency about it.’
‘But what if he is?’
It was the sort of question that you either had to dismiss completely, or treat with utter seriousness. Thea hovered between the two. ‘I expect he would have done it by now, if that was the case. If he did intend to at first, it looks as if he’s grown to like you now. It’s very difficult to kill somebody you like.’
The words echoed around the room. Thea conjured the cheerful Melissa into her mind’s eye, and wondered who in the world could possibly have hated her enough to kill her. She herself had found her faintly irritating, she recalled, for no very good reason. But dislike was ten million miles from a murderous loathing. Reuben was different – she could already name three people who found him obnoxious. But that wasn’t good enough. A murderer needed to convince himself that his own happiness, reputation, prosperity or stark survival depended on this person being dead. Somewhere, somehow, Melissa Anderson had threatened another person’s well-being, and had been viciously punished for it. Thea felt a sharp pang of sympathetic pain for the elderly mother, hearing the annihilating news about her girl.
‘Let’s go out,’ her mother said. ‘We’re depressing ourselves in here. We might find a person called Ben and solve the whole case for your nice detective lady.’
‘Have you got a mac? It’s still quite wet.’
‘I can borrow Oliver’s. There’s one hanging on the back of the kitchen door.’
‘He’s at least eight inches taller than you. It’ll look silly.’
‘No, it’s a short one. And he’s so thin that I’ll fill it well enough. It hasn’t got a hood, though. I need something for my head.’
They found a somewhat greasy black scarf hanging with the coat, and Maureen wrapped it gingerly around her head. ‘It’s one thing to borrow someone’s coat and quite another to wear his scarf,’ she observed. Thea fetched her own waterproof anorak and they set out with the dog for a walk in the Sudeley grounds. Hepzie pulled annoyingly at her lead, so Thea released her before they reached the park. There was little enough traffic on the lower end of the street, and the dog was reasonably sensible with cars anyway.
The drizzle was invisibly fine, misting the trees and grass in a way that could only suggest autumn. In summer it would evaporate away; in winter it would turn to ice, or at least heavy droplets on the bare boughs. Swelling chestnuts still hung on the large handsome trees, reminding Thea of the words ‘mellow fruitfulness’ in a poem she had always loved. The flat grey light cast no shadows at all.
‘Pity we can’t go around the castle,’ said Maureen. ‘That would have been just the thing for a day like this.’
‘We wouldn’t be able to take the dog,’ said Thea automatically. She had been prevented from indoor exploring on more than one occasion by this difficulty. When necessary, she would leave Hepzie shut inside whatever house she was looking after, but she preferred not to do it. Idle sightseeing did not constitute necessity, to her mind.
‘It isn’t open to the public anyway.’
‘Right. Although they do tours now and then, at significant cost. I can’t say I’m tempted.’
There were very few people around, unsurprisingly. A play area for children stood deserted, and a handsome old bridge over a small lake, which had attracted people on Thea’s first excursion, was now unoccupied. ‘We’ll turn back at the bridge,’ Thea decreed. ‘I don’t think any of us are enjoying this very much.’
They stood gazing at the water below for a minute or two, trying to work out whether the lake was man-made or natural, and whether it was fed by a stream or simply by rainfall. They reached no conclusion, and turned to retrace their steps. ‘Oh, look,’ said Maureen. ‘There’s Priscilla.’ She spoke as if it was her best friend who had suddenly come into view.
‘So it is,’ said Thea, with considerably less enthusiasm. ‘She looks a bit cross.’
Hepzie bridged the substantial space between them and Priscilla by running up to the woman and jumping at her knees with wet paws. She was swiped away with scant ceremony – something she was quite accustomed to. ‘Sorry,’ said Thea insincerely, when they got close enough for conversation. ‘Don’t jump up, Heps. How many times have I told you?’
‘I’ve just had the police questioning me,’ Priscilla Heap burst out. ‘Was that your doing?’
Thea and her mother froze under this unexpected attack. ‘What? Of course not,’ said Thea, after a pause. ‘We haven’t even mentioned your name. Have we?’ she asked her mother to confirm.
‘Not that I can recall,’ said Maureen. ‘And what if we had? Why does it matter? I expect they want to speak to everybody.’
‘You do live near the Hardys,’ Thea remembered. ‘It must have been a routine house-to-house.’
‘No it wasn’t. It was because I was there yesterday when you found his body. I deliberately melted away before they could get my name. But somebody gave it to them anyway. Are you sure it wasn’t you?’
‘Why does it matter so much?’ Maureen asked again. ‘Do you have something to hide? Don’t you want them to find the murderer?’
‘I think you told them that I touched his face. They knew about that. They kept asking why I’d do such a thing, and did I have special feelings for him. It was most unpleasant.’ She shuddered. ‘They made me feel guilty, when I haven’t done anything against the law.’
‘It wasn’t us who told them. Perhaps it was Fraser or one of those people at the top of the alley. There were three or four watching, weren’t there? Someone amongst them must be more public-spirited than you.’ Thea spoke sharply, annoyed by the woman’s attitude.
‘Could be, I suppose. The town is full of busybodies.’
‘And I get the impression that you’re not very popular,’ Maureen observed. Then she addressed her daughter. ‘It wasn’t Fraser, though. We’d gone by then.’
‘What makes you think I’m unpopular?’ Priscilla demanded.
‘You came to us when you wanted someone to talk to, even though you’ve lived here for years. Why haven’t you got friends to turn to?’
‘Be quiet!’ Priscilla snarled. ‘How dare you?’
Thea felt a vague sadness that things were turning out so unpleasantly. For herself, she had rather liked the woman, and felt some sympathy for her apparent isolation. Not everybody wanted to be bosom pals with the people next door. ‘It wasn’t us,’ she said again. ‘And I know what you mean about being under suspicion. It happened to a friend of mine earlier this year, and I know it’s horrible.’
‘It is.’ Priscilla visibly mellowed. ‘And they’ve got it hopelessly wrong, of course. I didn’t care a fig for Reuben. I never could see what Jenny saw in him, to be honest. Oily little beast, he was.’
‘I hope you didn’t say that to the police?’ Thea smiled.
‘No, no. I’ve got more sense.’
Thea was burning to reveal the news that Reuben had apparently died of a drug overdose, and therefore probably had not been murdered after all. But she too had enough sense to remain silent. She cast a quick look at her mother to reassure herself that there would be no revelation from that quarter, either. Maureen showed little sign of wanting to divulge anything.
‘Nasty weather,’ she said, greatly to Thea’s amusement. The past few days had caused her to revise her assessment of her mother, based on a lifetime of family myths and assumptions. There was a lot more spirit inside her than Thea had ever discerned until now. To her credit, Priscilla Heap similarly appreciated the gesture, and gave a little smile.
‘And showing no sign of improving,’ Thea added. ‘I thought it would have done by now.’
‘Rain before seven, fine by eleven,’ quoted Maureen. ‘Your father always said that.’
‘So did Carl. It’s generally true.’
‘Well, it’s got another forty minutes,’ said Priscilla, having consulted her watch. Harmony having been restored, the three walked together, back towards Vineyard Street.
‘Funny how quickly a place becomes familiar,’ said Thea. ‘I feel I know Winchcombe rather well, already.’
‘You don’t, though,’ Priscilla argued. ‘You have no idea of how people are with each other, on a daily basis. It’s got its share of miscreants – some of them with very unpleasant dogs. Look what one of them did to me last year.’ She proffered her forearm, which sported a jagged red scar. ‘Twenty-seven stitches,’ she boasted. ‘Nearly bled to death. And I didn’t do a thing to provoke the bloody animal.’
Thus was her antipathy towards dogs explained, realised Thea. ‘It must have been dreadful,’ she said.
‘Did they put it down?’ asked Maureen.
‘They did – at my insistence.’
‘You can’t blame the dog,’ said Thea automatically. ‘I suppose it was a pit bull or something?’
‘Or something. Bull terrier of some sort. It was doing its best to kill me. The owner was pathetic. All he did was kick at it and shout.’
‘Well, Hepzie wouldn’t bite anybody,’ said Thea with perfect confidence. ‘It would never even cross her mind.’
‘That’s what Jenny says about that handsome puppy of hers. I quite liked dogs before that happened,’ said Priscilla wistfully. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll get over it.’
Again Thea felt the shadow of an unfocused sadness pass over her. Despite the effort to be brisk and witty the previous evening, this woman was leaking misery and anxiety. Lonely, antisocial, clumsy – whatever image she presented, these underlying traits would soon emerge. She had antagonised neighbours with her new house, favoured her horse above people, and very possibly let Reuben Hardy know what she thought of him. But she had been genuinely shocked by his death – Thea was sure of that. She had surreptitiously stroked his dead cheek, after all. Or perhaps it had been a gesture very far from affectionate. Perhaps she had simply needed to satisfy herself that he really was gone for ever. Perhaps she had hated or feared him, and could scarcely believe her luck when he’d died. Perhaps … perhaps … There was no real evidence for any of these suppositions – the only sure thing was that the death of a healthy young man was a sorrow that affected them all.
‘When did the police question you?’ she asked.
‘First thing this morning. Two of them, at half past eight. Made me late for poor old Sally-Girl.’
‘It wasn’t Gladwin then?’
‘Who?’
‘The detective superintendent. She came to see us at nine.’
‘No, it was two men. I don’t remember their names.’
‘You know the Hardys quite well, don’t you?’ Maureen accused. ‘Both of them. That must be why you were questioned.’
Priscilla flushed. ‘Not especially. What makes you think that?’
‘You use the wife’s name so casually. You know their routines. You were appalled by his death. It’s obvious.’
Again, Thea was impressed by her mother. ‘You like her, but not him – is that right?’ she asked Priscilla, starting to feel as if they were playing some sort of party game. At the end of all these questions there lay an answer that might be the key to all that had happened.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ the woman burst out. ‘This is exactly what they asked me this morning, and I’m not going over it again. What business is it of yours, anyway? Can’t I have an opinion of people living across the street from me without being suspected of killing one of them? I don’t imagine I’m alone in finding Reuben Hardy difficult to like. He was too charming to be real. He was selfish, greedy, rich and insincere. Like a lot of men around here, in fact. He took what he wanted, with no concern for other people’s feelings. His wife had to make the best of it. She got her nice home and a lovely dog out of it, and seemed happy enough. I make no claims to understanding what happens in a marriage. That way is far too fraught with confusion for my simple mind. She’s going to have to start all over again without him. And I think there might be a baby on the way, as well. Her waistline has expanded over the summer.’
‘But she hasn’t said anything?’
‘Little hints, that’s all. Having the dog for practice, and thinking of moving to a larger place – that sort of thing.’
‘She talks to you, it seems.’
‘She talks to everybody.’
‘She even talked to me,’ Thea remembered. ‘In this very spot.’
‘Did you like her?’
‘I liked the dog,’ laughed Thea. ‘I didn’t take a lot of notice of the woman. When they came to the door on Sunday, it was mostly him I focused on. She seems pretty ordinary, at first glance, except for her hair. It’s a rather dramatic colour, isn’t it?’ And she screamed for ten minutes, ran the line in her head.
Priscilla showed no sign of wanting to accompany them back to Thistledown. ‘I’m going that way,’ she said firmly, tipping her chin towards the castle. ‘I need the exercise, and I like this weather, to be honest. I find it restful.’ Her colourless hair was frosted with drizzle, and there were damp patches on the shoulders of her jacket. ‘I can circle round along the footpath, and over to the bridge at the top of town.’
Thea was lost. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Another bridge?’
‘It’s the main one over the Isbourne. That’s the name of our esteemed waterway. The footpath, river and road all converge there, which is handy.’
‘Right,’ Thea nodded vaguely. ‘I might go that way later on, if it stops raining.’ She glanced at her watch and wondered what they might profitably do for the rest of the day – the rest of the week, probably. Sightseeing was the obvious answer, admiring the endless glories of Cotswolds towns and villages, but that depended on the weather being at least dry. Sunshine would be a nice bonus. There was a little museum in the middle of Winchcombe, and another one beyond the church. She approved of such local enterprises, usually run by dedicated eccentrics who could spend most of their time knitting or reading, lucky to receive more than two or three visits a day. ‘Or we might go to the museum.’
Priscilla snorted. ‘That won’t take long. It’s one and a half rooms of jumble. Most of it’s devoted to a display of old police stuff.’
‘Fascinating!’ crowed Thea. ‘Just my line. Several of my friends and relations are in the police, you know.’
‘Oh,’ said Priscilla sourly. ‘I might have guessed. Now, I’m on my way. Goodbye.’ She gave a formal little nod and strode away.
‘We don’t have to go to that museum, do we?’ muttered Maureen. ‘I’ve never really liked museums.’
‘What else do you suggest?’
‘I want to go home, Thea. I want to see Fraser and find out how he’s coping with this horrible trial. I want to know where Jason’s gone, and if he’s under police suspicion. Mo will have something to say about him going missing, and she’ll probably take it out on her father. He lives with her, in case you’ve forgotten.’
Thea had a sense of events taking place beyond her capacity to keep track. On the face of it, Jason had behaved very suspiciously by disappearing shortly after the discovery of Reuben Hardy’s body. The complications of who had used which car still eluded her, but she supposed Jason had heartlessly driven off without his girlfriend and her father. Fraser had taken Mo home in his vehicle, and her mother was now stranded without transport. The notion of Jason as murderer was both feasible and ridiculous. He was a strong man, engaged in shady property dealings, superficially bluff and amiable, but probably capable of all sorts of dodgy doings. But the timing didn’t work. When Reuben died, the man had either been in the car with Mo, or at home in his caravan park. It could only be that Gladwin had worked this out already and dismissed him from her list of suspects. Any attempt to unearth a motive looked doomed to fail, not to mention a convoluted theory whereby he was in Winchcombe in the early hours of the morning, then fled home again, collected Mo and made the return trip to Thistledown, looking perfectly relaxed. Unless, of course, Mo was actively involved, and had conspired to lay a false trail. It was, after all, possible that they had both arrived in Winchcombe before dawn, or even the previous evening, and somehow killed Reuben with pharmaceuticals and hidden his body. Then Jason could have laid it in the alley at half past ten, not long before it was found by the little party, subtly led there by Mo.
She ran it through again, slowly. Had Mo actually arranged for them to go that way? It seemed possible. There had been very little deliberate steering on Thea’s part, although she had regarded herself as the party leader. The most difficult part to square was the actual killing. Could Reuben have been forced to take the overdose – or could it be injected into a vein? Would the pathologist find the place on his skin, if so?
And why? Only the original suggestion that Reuben had seen something he shouldn’t offered itself as an answer to this central question.
‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ her mother remarked.
‘Sorry. I’m thinking.’
‘About murder, I assume?’
‘Right.’ She gave a quick outline of the direction her thoughts had been going. ‘It would mean Mo being part of it,’ she concluded. ‘For some reason.’
‘And that would take us back to the question of who, if anyone, is going to continue the Meadows funeral business?’
‘Yes,’ Thea nodded, ‘I hadn’t got that far. I keep forgetting about them. All I can get my head around is what happened here in Winchcombe. I’m being very parochial about it.’
‘You won’t get to the bottom of it like that. It seems obvious to me that it’s all about the people in London, with Oliver as the link. It’ll be that Henry. I’ve been thinking as well, and it keeps coming back to him. He killed Melissa at the first opportunity after Oliver was out of the way, and somehow Reuben got himself involved, so he killed him as well.’
‘Hmm. Maybe. But that leaves a lot of unanswered questions. Like – was Reuben actually murdered at all, and if so, why was he dumped in the alley?’
‘That’s the bit we don’t know,’ Maureen agreed. ‘Can we go in now? It must be time for some coffee.’
They were a few yards from the turning into the Thistledown track. Hepzie was plainly of the same opinion as her mistress’s mother, and veered to the right on the assumption that they could get out of the rain. ‘All right, then,’ said Thea.
‘That dog is awfully wet. We can’t let it onto any of the furniture like that.’
‘It’s only water. She’s not muddy.’
A woman stepped in front of them, from behind a wall. ‘Thea Osborne? I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said.