Death in the Cotswolds Read online

  ‘I honestly have no idea. It isn’t anything specific. But if she wanted to have a bit of quiet time there, it would have to be before the traffic got going. And on a Sunday, that would be later than other days.’ I could feel the ground crumbling beneath my feet. This was almost as bad as fingering poor Oliver Grover. Worse, in some ways. When they learned that Oliver was gay it would come as little surprise or cause for alarm. Paganism was something else – the average jobbing copper had only the most distorted grasp of what was involved – despite several of them being steeped in Masonic mumbo-jumbo and therefore at least au fait with the general business of symbolism. I could see they didn’t entirely trust me. I’d answered all their questions in language I’d hoped they could understand. I’d bitten back a dozen sarcastic remarks, but a few had slipped through, in spite of my efforts. I had tried to make them see how upset I was at the slaughter of my harmless little friend. ‘Gaynor couldn’t possibly have been a threat to anybody,’ I insisted. ‘She was quiet and shy and never hurt a living thing.’

  In the end I found myself wishing they’d leave me alone and turn their attentions to the others. My shame at having named them quickly transmuted into an eagerness for them to share my discomfort. It wasn’t fair that I should have to put up with this on my own. In any case something about the questioning had sown some dawning suspicions in my mind. I wanted my fellow pagans to be roused by the police hammering on their doors as they enjoyed a lazy Sunday afternoon because as I went over it all again, forcing myself to confront the probabilities, it seemed that Gaynor’s killer was very likely lurking behind one of those very doors.

  A policeman drove me home again, asking me very politely not to leave the area without notifying them. ‘What happens next?’ I asked him.

  ‘In what way?’ He raised his eyebrows as if the question might be regarded as impertinent.

  ‘Gaynor’s house. Who’s going to clear out the cupboards, turn off the electric, collect up the junk mail?’

  ‘Nobody yet, for a while,’ he said. ‘It’ll be searched first. In the course of the investigation,’ he elaborated.

  ‘I think it will have to be me, eventually,’ I said. ‘Will you tell me when you’ve finished with it?’

  ‘Give DI Baldwin a call, at the end of the week,’ he advised.

  My phone was ringing as I went back into my house. Somehow it felt as if it had been ringing for much of the time I was out. The walls seemed to echo with it.

  When I picked it up, it was Kenneth. ‘Ariadne?’ he breathed, as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Helping the police,’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’

  ‘That girl – the mousy one with the Welsh name. Is that right? She’s been murdered at the Long Barrow. Everybody’s talking about it.’

  ‘Her name’s Gaynor, as you know perfectly well. We were only talking about her last night. What do you want me to say?’

  He went quiet, breathing just audibly enough for me to know he was still there. ‘Is it right that you found her?’

  ‘Who told you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody – not exactly. I was passing through Notgrove this morning, and saw something was going on, so I stopped to ask. They’ve set up a police incident room in the village hall.’

  Kenneth lived in Lower Slaughter. His reason for driving through Notgrove on a Sunday morning was not instantly apparent. But then, if it was suspicious, presumably he would not have mentioned it.

  ‘Ken,’ I said, feeling cold – and breaking his rule about never shortening his name, ‘I had to give the police your name. And Pamela’s, of course. They interviewed me a little while ago. They want to talk to everybody who knew Gaynor. I imagine they just feel they have to start somewhere and we’re as good a place as any. The group, I mean.’

  He spluttered at that. ‘But I didn’t know her. I can’t even remember her name half the time.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. Just tell them that, then, and it’ll be fine. I didn’t go into the whole business of us being pagans.’

  ‘Why would you? What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘They found her at the Barrow, Kenneth,’ I reminded him. ‘She was curled up, very tidily and stabbed with a knitting needle.’ Oops, I reproached myself, the moment the words were uttered. It would probably have been better not to have revealed that detail.

  He made a sound, half disgust, half amusement. ‘Good grief. They must think you did it, then.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I said, feeling more offended than I ever had in my life. ‘She was my friend.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Ignore me. I always turn flippant in times of crisis. I’d better get my act together before the rozzers show up on the doorstep, hadn’t I?’ He paused. ‘Maybe I’d better pretend I don’t know the bit about the knitting needle while I’m at it. You didn’t ought to have told me that.’

  He was still being much too jokey for my liking. ‘Suit yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. Let’s be practical for a minute. Are we going ahead with the Samhain ceremony? Will they seal off the Barrow somehow?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said tiredly. Then I revived enough to ask him, ‘Have you ever seen a dead body, Kenneth?’

  ‘No,’ he said, serious at last.

  ‘Well, it’s nothing like the films or the stories. It changes everything. The whole world becomes different. Do you know what it made me think?’

  ‘No,’ he said again.

  ‘That everything we’ve been doing is childish nonsense. Games and silly rituals that we all know, these days, have no power and precious little meaning. It’s time we all grew up and stopped fooling about.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘Completely and utterly wrong.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s bound to be a test of faith,’ he said, sounding like a vicar. In some ways, Kenneth was rather like a vicar, anyway.

  I made an impatient sound, but found that his words had had a mildly soothing effect.

  Then he said, ‘And Ari—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry I was so – inappropriate. It must be really grim for you. Pamela’s going to be horribly upset when I tell her about it. Now listen, kid – be gentle with yourself, okay?’

  I put the phone down in a blur of tears.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was quite late in the afternoon when Thea came back across the street and suggested we go for a walk before it got dark. ‘I’ve got to exercise these dogs,’ she explained. ‘They’re getting hopelessly stir-crazy. We took them out early this morning, but it obviously wasn’t enough.’

  I remembered them driving off, a thousand years ago. ‘Where did you go?’ I asked, thinking confusedly that if they hadn’t done that, everything might have been different.

  ‘Phil wanted to show me Guiting Power in the morning light. We gave the dogs a run at the same time.’

  ‘Guiting Power?’ I blinked at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘He loves it,’ she said simply. ‘And Temple Guiting. We were still arguing about Freemasonry, and he wanted to demonstrate to me that there’s a lot of real history woven into the nonsense.’ She stopped herself. ‘You don’t want to hear it all now, but it was fascinating stuff.’

  ‘Where’s Phil now?’ I wanted to know.

  She rolled her eyes, trying to keep things light. ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘But he’s on holiday, surely?’ I was still confused as to Phil’s role in the investigations.

  She smiled patiently. ‘Well, it seems that when somebody’s as senior as he is, and on the spot like this, holidays don’t really count. It might have been different if we’d gone to Easter Island or Vladivostock.’

  ‘I’m not very good with dogs,’ I said.

  ‘What – you’re scared of them, are you?’ Her eyes had widened, as if I’d revealed some unsavoury perversion.

  ‘Not at all. I just don’t like them.’

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sp; ‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘Well, you don’t have to do anything. They’ll run off on their own and we can forget about them. Assuming we can find somewhere without roads or pregnant sheep.’

  ‘They chase sheep?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They might, for fun.’

  ‘I imagine Phil’s got his better trained than that.’

  ‘You don’t have to come. I just thought…’ she turned wistful and young, looking up at me with her pretty face.

  ‘No, it’s okay. Tell you what – we can go and see Arabella. She’s due for some apples. You can help me carry them. We’ll have to be quick, though. There’s only an hour or so of daylight left.’ Fortunately it was a bright day, and walking in the last light of the day was one of my greatest pleasures.

  ‘Arabella?’

  ‘My pig,’ I explained, ignoring the amazement on her face.

  I gathered the apples and some other leftovers, and grabbed my jacket from the back of the door. Thea was wearing the brown jumper I’d given her. It seemed weeks earlier that they’d arrived at Helen’s cold dark cottage. The jumper reminded me of Gaynor.

  I led the way past the primary school and off to the right, when the ground sloped downhill slightly and became rather less exposed. Arabella’s woodland was far from densely provided with cover, but she had permission to dig it over as much as she liked, the mature trees easily withstanding her predations and the brambles and bracken were deftly removed by her powerful snout. She lived the life of pigs a millenium ago and more, except for one detail. She was all alone, a solitary creature starved of companionship. I tried to make it up to her by visiting three or four times a week.

  I explained some of this to Thea as we walked, relieved to have a topic so far removed from Gaynor’s death.

  ‘Don’t you have to give her extra food?’ she asked. ‘Pig swill or something?’

  ‘I do in the winter months, but it’s amazing how well she copes with what she can forage. Mind you, she’ll have to move soon, or she’ll start doing more harm than good. Geoffrey wants to put bluebells and snowdrops in, and I doubt if they’d last long with Arabella there.’

  She kept Phil’s two dogs on leads until we were clear of the village, letting her own long-tailed spaniel run free. It seemed to understand what to do when a car passed by. Once we were off the road, she liberated the others, and I half expected to see them disappear over the horizon. Half hoped, as well, if I’m honest.

  ‘I hope they’ll behave,’ she said, with little sign of anxiety.

  ‘I remember the first dog Phil had,’ I said. ‘Just before he got married. Mavis, he called it.’ I was drawing breath to describe the horrors of Phil’s Labrador when I remembered that Thea liked dogs. It seemed silly to deliberately irritate her.

  ‘He told me,’ she nodded. ‘She sounds a dear old thing. Lived to sixteen, he says. I hope Hepzie lasts that long.’

  ‘Hepzie?’

  ‘It’s really Hepzibah. My spaniel.’

  I bit back the sarcasm. It seemed we’d finished the pig conversation, and I didn’t want it to move on to dogs. The inevitable happened, of course. After a short silence Thea asked, ‘How are you feeling now? Still a bit shaky, I expect?’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t really got to grips with it yet. I keep seeing it, over and over. I s’pose I’ll dream about it – if I ever manage to get to sleep.’

  ‘How did it go at the police station? Being interviewed, I mean?’

  ‘Weird. Not at all like I’d have imagined. They don’t really know what to ask, do they? I mean – it seemed quite confusing, a muddle between the basic facts like times and places – and trying to get a handle on who Gaynor was. Sorry, I’m not explaining it properly.’

  ‘I know what you mean. There’s always such a lot going on in a village that isn’t visible to an outsider. Stuff everybody takes for granted, and doesn’t think can be relevant.’

  ‘But Gaynor didn’t live in Cold Aston. Or Notgrove, come to that. She’s nothing to do with the village.’ I found myself speaking loudly, trying to make her understand. ‘The place isn’t relevant at all.’

  ‘Oh?’ She was much more interested than she sounded. Her eyes were full of questions and quick thinking. ‘What then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Gaynor always seemed so – simple. Shallow, even. She never got involved, never seemed to take much notice of anything or anybody. I mean – she hadn’t even the sense to realise that Oliver Grover was gay!’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s just an example. She’d taken a fancy to a local chap, trying to get me to do some work on it – when it was as plain as anything he was never going to be interested.’

  ‘Some work? What does that mean?’

  Too late, I wished I’d spoken more carefully. I would never have made a secret agent, the way my mouth blabbered of its own accord.

  ‘Oh, you know. There are things you can do. Country lore, that’s all. Most of it’s very silly. But – well, there are things you can do.’

  ‘Witchcraft?’ Her voice rose, partly amused, partly alarmed.

  ‘We call it Wicca, these days. It really isn’t a big deal. It’s only that most people have completely forgotten a whole dimension of existence. They’re operating as if blindfolded.’

  ‘Hmmm. Or is it just that reason and science have developed to a point where magic spells have been exposed for the wishful thinking and superstition they really are?’

  ‘Whoa!’ Her outspokenness came as a shock. Wasn’t it supposed to be out of order to cast scorn on another person’s belief system? ‘That’s a bit strong.’

  ‘Is it? Look, Ariadne…’ For the first time I heard my chosen name as fatuous, a mouthful as dopey as Hepizibah for a spaniel or Arabella for a pig. Thea pronounced it deliberately, every syllable enunciated, not rushed as most people said it. ‘Look,’ she repeated, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, but I think I’m well qualified to judge. My husband was killed eighteen months ago, and believe me, I went through all that stuff about his spirit lingering, trying to reassure me that all was well, the vital spark persisting in some other realm. And I found out, by first-hand experience, that it’s all nonsense. He’s gone, forever, and I won’t ever see or hear or feel him again. It’s finished. He’s just bones in the ground.’

  ‘I’m not talking about spirits,’ I argued, wasting no time on sympathy, saving the questions for later. ‘I don’t believe in an afterlife, either – not in the sense of individual survival, at least. This is something much more ancient, centred on the soil, the energies that connect us all. The life force, if you like. It isn’t possible to deny that it exists. It’s all around us.’ I stopped walking, and took hold of a convenient sprig of holly, with a few early berries on the stem. ‘Look at this. Berries say it all, if you think about it. Actual and symbolic. They protect the new seeds, they’ve got colour and sweetness and nutrition—’

  ‘Okay.’ She held up her hand. ‘I get the point. Everything connects. That still seems to me a long way from whatever “work” you’re talking about doing for Gaynor. A very long way indeed.’

  ‘Maybe it is. Gaynor never really understood what was possible, anyway. She thought the same way a lot of Christians do – just get your prayers properly formatted and God’ll send you whatever it is you want. Like getting the right combination on a safe. I’d given up trying to explain to her that it wasn’t like that at all.’

  Thea just murmured something monosyllabic at this, and we walked on in silence for a bit. ‘The police are going to interview everybody in the group,’ I said, still worrying about it. ‘They won’t like it, some of them.’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Six. Two are a couple. Actually Kenneth phoned me earlier on. I warned him.’

  ‘Why did he phone?’

  ‘He’d heard what happened. They probably all have by now. He knew I found the body.’

  ‘How?’

  It was a deceptively simple question. I didn’t know what news reports t
here might have been on local radio or TV. The car driver who stopped might have described me, or even remembered my name. ‘Somebody told him, I suppose. It’s not a secret, is it?’

  ‘There hasn’t been any news coverage yet.’ Thea frowned. ‘They’ll be doing a press conference either this evening or tomorrow morning, once they’re sure there’s no family that needs to be notified.’ She spoke as if all this was ordinary to her, familiar procedure hardly worth talking about.

  ‘Incident room,’ I said. ‘Kenneth said they’ve set it up in the Notgrove village hall. There were people milling about outside.’ I found myself quailing at the idea that they were all uttering my name in the same breath as Gaynor’s. I would be forever linked with murder in their minds, which was not an image I would have chosen.

  ‘Amazing how that happens,’ said Thea. ‘They come buzzing around like flies and the story gets passed along with all sorts of mistakes and wrong assumptions.’

  ‘And theories about who did it,’ I said glumly.

  ‘That too,’ she shrugged. ‘You’ll soon find you start suspecting everybody you meet.’

  I stared doggedly ahead. ‘I don’t think I will,’ I said.

  ‘So who do you think killed her?’

  The question was like an ice-cold knife right into my guts. It brought back the image of my friend’s body, laid so neatly in the Barrow. And by some association with neatness perhaps, I remembered the bizarre appropriation of Helen’s attic.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said. Then I looked at her. ‘But I have a sudden feeling it might be the same person who’s been using the attic in Helen’s house.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about that.’

  The dogs handsomely lived up to the press Thea had given them – they behaved perfectly and allowed us to pay them no attention for almost the entire walk. Claude, the Welsh corgi, turned out to have some character traits that even I found appealing. He followed in the rear, constantly checking that the party was complete, nodding to himself in satisfaction, and bumbling along on his short legs like a quick yellow caterpillar. The setter, on its rangy legs, ran ahead, long coat flying, head held high, only to stop every few minutes and wait for us all to catch up.