Deception in the Cotswolds Read online

‘How long have you two known each other?’ Thea asked. After all, Donny still had a wife living. Had Edwina been his ‘other woman’ for decades?

  ‘Twenty years or so,’ said Jemima with an air of relief at being asked something factual. ‘Dad and Weena worked together for ages.’

  ‘Oh?’ Thea did her best to imagine what sort of work would bring together a philosophical Donny and a Queen Victoria lookalike. ‘What was it? The work, I mean.’

  ‘He was a social worker, and I was a volunteer visitor.’ Thea watched as Edwina focused briefly on earlier times when other people were sad and needy and she was the strong charitable one. A weak smile came and went, followed by a deep sigh. ‘In West Bromwich.’

  ‘Is that where you lived?’ Neither Donny nor Edwina had anything like a Midlands accent. Nor did Jemima, come to that.

  ‘At the time, yes.’

  ‘And we were in Derbyshire, before moving to the Black Country,’ said Jemima. ‘Dad was promoted. Mum hated it. So did Cecilia. He moved down here the week after he retired.’

  ‘Into the Lodge?’ Thea eyed the little house doubtfully.

  ‘No, no. They bought a bungalow up by the church. But Mum’s nursing home fees meant they had to sell it.’ Jemima fixed a sharp gaze on the older woman, and added, ‘And Edwina came too.’

  Edwina bridled. ‘It wasn’t like that at all!’ she objected. ‘My family has lived here for centuries, and I wanted to return to my roots. It was Donny who followed me, not the other way around. I might remind you that Thyrza is still in the same house that we grew up in, and I found Donny the bungalow in the first place. Furthermore, when they had to sell up, I suggested the Lodge. That was before Harriet bought the Manor,’ she added.

  Thea was in her element. She loved piecing together the history of people’s families and residences and where the turning points had come. Where women like her mother became obsessed by the names of people’s children and the various ailments their friends were prone to, Thea wanted to know about reasons and connections and ambitions. Why did people move from one part of the country to another, and how did they settle in the new place? What made them happy? What were they most afraid of?

  ‘So Thyrza stayed here all her life and you moved away – right?’

  ‘Exactly. She was married twice, first to a local solicitor who died and then to a teacher who worked in Painswick. He used to walk to work across the fields in all weathers. People thought he was crazy. He’s dead now as well. A sudden heart attack when he was fifty-nine.’

  Thea made a suitable face at this unspectacular piece of cruel irony, and stored it up to report to Drew, if and when she saw him again. Already she had understood that he rather enjoyed swopping stories of noteworthy deaths, although they had shared only one or two thus far.

  ‘It happens a lot, I think,’ she said. ‘It’s not just the fat and lazy who have bad hearts.’ Too late she remembered Cecilia, and her ghastly transplant. A glance at Jemima suggested that there was no call for remorse. Cecilia’s sister was growing increasingly impatient, barely heeding the conversation. Thea accepted that she was not going to hear the story of Edwina’s past, or what became of Mr Satterthwaite. She told herself not to be greedy – she already had a lot more detail than before.

  ‘We ought to get on,’ Jemima said. ‘We’ve come to look for Dad’s will. I thought his solicitor would have it, but apparently Dad insisted on keeping both copies here. Seems peculiar to me, but that’s Dad for you.’

  Edwina gave a little whimper of protest, but said nothing.

  ‘And I must go and rescue my dog,’ said Thea. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you again.’

  Jemima evidently had a thought. ‘There’s no date for the funeral yet. The coroner’s officer is prevaricating over releasing the body.’ Her staccato manner reached new heights. She seemed tight with frustration. ‘You’d think they’d take my word for it, wouldn’t you?’

  Thea frowned slightly, wondering what that meant. ‘Um …’ she said.

  ‘You can back me up, come to that. You’ll probably have to, at the inquest. It’s an obvious case of suicide. I don’t know why they’re wasting time and money in questioning it.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Jemima looked at Edwina. ‘But nothing’s settled. And I’ve been thinking that perhaps we should think again about the funeral, especially if Dad’s left a note about wanting a particular sort of burial. Mind you, I’d be surprised. It’s just that Matt says we ought to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘My husband. And there’s Silas, of course. He’s trying to force us to fix a date for the funeral, so he can book a flight. He won’t come for more than the bare minimum, because his wife can’t let him out of her sight.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she come as well, then?’

  ‘She won’t fly.’ Jemima rolled her eyes in undisguised contempt. ‘Can you believe it, in this day and age?’

  ‘It’s quite common,’ said Edwina. Something in her tone made Thea give her a close look. ‘It’s a sort of claustrophobia usually.’

  ‘Don’t you defend her, for heaven’s sake,’ snapped Jemima. ‘That’s taking saintliness a bit too far.’

  Edwina gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘I’ve no reason to dislike Susan. It’s Silas who’s got the problem.’

  ‘Um …’ ventured Thea.

  Both women looked at her. ‘Silas feels a somewhat misplaced loyalty to his mother,’ Edwina explained. ‘It’s perfectly natural.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ said Jemima succinctly. She puffed out her cheeks in exasperation at all the demands piling on top of her. ‘Now, come on, Ween, we’ve got work to do.’

  Thea watched as they went to the front door. It was Edwina, she noted, who produced a key and unlocked it. Remembering the way Jemima had smashed her way in through the back door, it looked as if she still hadn’t remembered to bring the one she had at home. She had not yet broken the habit whereby she took it for granted that the door would always be unlocked and she could walk in any time she liked. But Edwina could let herself in through the front, with a key. So which was the favoured visitor, Thea wondered – the daughter or the girlfriend?

  It was still only half past ten, she noticed with surprise, when she got back inside the Manor. Hepzie jumped up at her in unreproachful greeting, and then ran outside to sniff around the front lawn as if tracking some wild creature. She always did that, Thea reminded herself. It did not necessarily mean that a badger or fallow deer had been there in the night; even less did it suggest that a human being had silently watched the house in the small hours. On the other hand, it could mean that. Just occasionally, the spaniel had tried to convey something important, which had only become apparent with hindsight. ‘My next dog is going to be a beagle,’ Thea told her. ‘They’re much more reliable informants than you.’

  Time for some housework, she decided, with the sunshine highlighting dusty surfaces and demanding a polish to help create good reflections. The house was a pleasure to work in, with good-quality carpets and rugs on the floors and a general absence of clutter. The wood panelling was in excellent condition, waxed in the old-fashioned manner, without any crass varnish or synthetic polish. A light buffing with a soft cloth brought out the grains and colours of the wood like magic. A duster whisked over the window sills and shelves brought them up to scratch. The sofa cushions needed more attention, which seemed rather a wasted effort, given that Hepzie would only flatten them again, and leave a veneer of her hair at the same time. There was no sign of any cobwebs in the corners, or scuffs on the skirting boards, which meant the whole project was completed well within the hour. It was a therapeutic interlude, in which Thea pretended she was living in 1860, working as chief parlourmaid to the wealthy and enlightened owners of the house. The Master was a publisher, she decided, producing liberal works by people like John Stuart Mill and Herbert Spencer – a man she had encountered in her youthful studies and always liked the sound of. The Mistress w
ould be a bluestocking, reading everything her husband published and holding large dinner parties of highly intelligent people at which to discuss them. The servants would be contented and fairly treated. The delightful house, newly built, would be a joy to maintain.

  The fantasy was rudely interrupted by the house telephone ringing. Somebody for Harriet, Thea assumed, putting down her duster and going to answer it. It had not rung since Edwina’s call on Tuesday, and she fumbled it from its base, where it sat in the spacious hallway.

  ‘Mrs Osborne?’ The voice was familiar, but not immediately identifiable. ‘It’s DI Higgins again. Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘No problem,’ she said, wondering whether that was true. The police often gave rise to problems, after all. She found herself unexpectedly wishing they would leave the whole matter of Donny Davis’s death alone. What good would it do now to try to work out precisely what happened? It was a wish that must have been born from her meeting that morning with the two women who might be most aware of the secrets of Monday night and Tuesday morning. She had found herself liking them both, wanting things to go well for them in the aftermath of their loss. Even Jemima with her prickly stoicism must surely be experiencing some quiet relief at her father’s death.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Higgins. ‘I expect you can guess what I’m going to say?’

  He overestimated her. ‘Not really,’ she said.

  ‘The coroner’s officer isn’t satisfied with the circumstances of Mr Davis’s death. He wants us to make further enquiries. Not surprising, of course, after that phone call we had, but a shame, in a way.’

  ‘A terrible shame,’ she confirmed. ‘I can’t believe anybody actually killed him against his wishes. It seems a waste of your time.’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Higgins. ‘But ours is not to reason why. Rules are rules, as I think you and I agreed the other day.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘An objective assessment of Mr Davis’s frame of mind,’ came the prompt reply. ‘You saw him only hours before he died. Did he come across as a man about to kill himself?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I can’t answer that,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been with a suicide just before they did it. A whole lot of things might have happened after he left me.’ She was dodging the question, and she knew it. The true answer was that, no, Donny had not seemed at all like a man contemplating suicide within the next twenty-four hours. She had been so surprised by his death that her brain had seized up on the day she and Jemima found him. Then she had struggled to convince herself that there was no good basis for her astonishment; that she hadn’t really known the man and was in no position to judge his state of mind.

  She found herself growing more and more certain that Edwina had been actively involved, probably at Donny’s request. The woman’s demeanour might be interpreted as that of a person carrying a guilty secret, a burden more complicated than simple grief.

  Higgins grunted down the phone. ‘And you’ve no other comment to make? Nothing else we ought to know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I can see you’ve got a problem here, but I have no idea what you’re supposed to do about it. How do you decide whether or not it’s a murder investigation, anyway?’

  ‘We piece together as much as we can of the picture, and take it from there.’

  ‘Did the post-mortem show anything useful?’

  ‘Nothing conclusive. No bruises or signs of any struggle.’

  ‘Was he drugged?’

  ‘Sedatives, dissolved in a drink. The sort of thing you’d self-administer.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ What had she been going to say? Her tongue had operated without conscious thought.

  ‘But what?’

  She thought hard. ‘Donny wouldn’t have had sedatives in the house, if I’ve understood him properly. He hated any kind of medication. He might have had a few aspirin and laxatives and Lemsip, but I can’t imagine him taking sleeping pills.’

  ‘As it happens, he did have a prescription for them, but not recently. We’ve checked with his doctor.’

  ‘A local GP, I suppose?’

  ‘Right. Not that he’d seen her for over two years.’

  ‘That fits. He hated the whole medical profession, after what happened to his daughter. Maybe the pills were to get him through the awful time when she was dying.’

  ‘I’m still not really getting it,’ Higgins confessed. ‘How does an old sick man manage not to see a doctor for so long? It’s impossible.’

  ‘He was stubborn. He’d boxed himself into a corner over it, and infuriated his daughter in the process.’ It was coming more and more into focus for her as she spoke. ‘He was convinced there was no possible good outcome for him, if he let himself fall into the hands of doctors. As he saw it, they’d just cut him up, or starve him slowly, or pump him full of drugs. He believed he would become subhuman and lose all control of his own destiny. He hadn’t really any option but to take a short cut by killing himself.’ She paused, surprised at her own detailed grasp of Donny’s attitude. ‘At least – I’m embellishing a bit, I think. He didn’t quite say all that.’

  Higgins grunted again. ‘I imagine a lot of people feel like that – but they don’t follow through on it, do they? If something hurts, they run to the doctor automatically. It’s inevitable. We’re all programmed that way.’

  ‘Not Donny. He reprogrammed himself.’

  ‘He must have had support. Somebody who was on his side.’

  ‘Edwina,’ said Thea promptly. ‘That was Edwina.’

  ‘Not Mrs Hobson, then?’

  ‘She didn’t like it, I told you. And she might have understood that she was on dangerous ground if she let herself be drawn in to what he said he wanted. She was effectively his next of kin, which I guess made it all more serious for her. She couldn’t show herself to be in favour of him killing himself, when she presumably inherits his house and any money there might be.’

  ‘Did he own the house?’ Higgins could be heard rustling papers at the end of the phone. ‘No – I thought not. He rented it from Miss Young. Three hundred quid a month.’

  ‘Really? I suppose that’s cheap for this area.’

  ‘A nice little income, all the same.’

  It was obvious, Thea realised on a moment’s reflection. The Lodge would be part of the Hollywell estate in perpetuity, only available for rent. ‘So there wasn’t very much for Donny’s family to inherit,’ she concluded.

  Higgins went on with his questions. ‘What do you know about Mrs Davis?’

  ‘His wife? Not as much as you, I imagine. She’s in a home somewhere, more or less abandoned, by the sound of it. Lost her marbles when Cecilia died. Jemima shows no sign of caring about her. Toby visits, apparently.’

  The detective inhaled sharply, as if that snippet was indeed new to him. ‘Isn’t that rather odd?’

  ‘More like overload. Jemima has a husband, kids, a farm and a stubborn old dad. A batty mother probably feels like a burden too far.’

  ‘I mean odd that the husband of a dead daughter should be the one to keep up the visits.’

  ‘I don’t see why. It isn’t unusual, surely?’

  ‘Maybe not. Thanks, anyway. You’ve been very helpful,’ he congratulated her. ‘This is absolutely the sort of thing we need.’

  ‘You could find it out quite easily for yourself.’ She felt a flash of resentment at being used in such a way. ‘Just ask them all.’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell us, would they? Not the way you have. People hold very tightly to their self-esteem. They don’t admit to neglecting their mothers or wishing their fathers dead. They assume we’re looking for guilt, so they’re defensive from the outset.’

  ‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘But I can’t see where all this is getting you.’

  ‘I told you – it creates the big picture. It throws up anomalies. It gives us some background.’

  ‘But it’s only my take on it. I could be completely wrong.’

  ‘
Don’t worry, that’s understood. We’re not going to quote you.’

  She examined her conscience for any betrayals she might have inadvertently committed. There didn’t seem to be any. ‘OK, then,’ she said. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  * * *

  The fact of Donny having taken ground-up sleeping pills niggled at her for the next hour or more. She tried to imagine him mixing them into a mug of black coffee and drinking it down, despite the bitter unnatural taste it surely had. What would his thoughts have been? Dogged determination that there could be no failure? Loneliness? Despair? Fear? Yes – fear must have been a large part of it. How could it not be? Sheer quivering terror, more likely. She could see his hands shaking even more than usual, the tremor in his neck keeping his head perpetually moving. At what point would he then have pulled the bag over his head and wound sticky tape several times around his own neck? When he felt himself slipping away? How in the world could anybody time it properly, all on their own? Too soon, and the instinct to survive would have you clawing at it, trying to pull it off again. Too late, and it would be impossible to do effectively. You’d be too woozy to get it all the way on.

  Which indicated, yet again, that he had somebody there to help. And if she, Thea, could work that out, then the police would certainly arrive at the same conclusion, if they hadn’t done so already.

  The afternoon was even sunnier, the whole house warming up. It was a day for being outside and Thea followed her instincts without hesitation. From the front garden, the Lodge was plainly visible, a fact that made her uncomfortable. She would rather forget Donny and his friends for a while. So she went around to the back, where there were large trees and a very neglected vegetable garden. She found a folding chair in the utility room at the back of the house, and erected it on a small level patch in dappled sunshine. She had a book with her, but found it difficult to concentrate on reading. Instead she found herself comparing this garden with others attached to houses she had been left in charge of. The variety could hardly be greater, from immaculately kept showpieces to muddy areas colonised by ducks and geese. In some cases the weather had prevented her from scarcely getting to know the outside areas at all.