Revenge in the Cotswolds

As with all the titles in this series, the setting is in real villages with real pubs, churches and other public buildings. The individual properties, however, are invented and all the characters are imaginary.

There had been other times, in the past, Thea supposed, when everything had felt out of control, but on nothing like the current scale. Her house, garden and bank account were all defying her feeble efforts to manage them. Her dog was in urgent need of a trim and her car was overdue for its MOT. Even her body was misbehaving, with alarming hormonal surges at unpredictable moments. ‘This is what comes of being in love,’ she muttered ruefully. It had been a shock to discover that romance could make life so unreasonably complicated. Such a very large element to be factored into everything one did called for considerable adjustment. It hadn’t been like that with Carl – probably because she had been twenty when they decided to get married, and at twenty life tends to be fairly straightforward. In one’s mid forties, it was a very different matter.

Money had become a serious issue, requiring that she continue with her career as a house-sitter, like it or not, because otherwise she might not be able to dress herself in anything other than jumble sale clothes. Worries over her little house in Witney escalated because there was a clear need to make it pay for itself. Either she must rent it out or sell it, and whichever course she chose, the window frames had to be replaced and the whole building redecorated inside and out.

All of which explained her Saturday morning drive to the little old settlement of Daglingworth in the Cotswolds. For two weeks, she was to take charge of a small house at the lower end of the village, containing one arthritic corgi and a hibernating tortoise while the owners were in Australia attending the wedding of a niece. Her own spaniel was with her, as always, although the homeowners had expressed some concern at this, during Thea’s preliminary visit, three weeks previously. ‘Gwennie isn’t very good with other dogs,’ they said.

Gwennie moved slowly, her rheumy eyes unfocussed. Thea did not admit to simmering concerns as to the behaviour of her own pet. Hepzie had been guilty of outrageous unprovoked aggression a few months earlier. There had been no warning and no explanation for it, other than something to do with canine hormones. ‘I’ll keep a close eye on them,’ she promised. ‘I bet they’ll soon be firm friends.’

The tortoise was asleep in a glass tank in the garage. ‘But she’ll probably wake up while we’re away,’ said
Mrs Foster. ‘If that happens, you’ll have to make sure she’s all right. If it’s sunny, put the hibernation tank outside to get warm. Then if she wakes up, give her a tepid bath, and get the vivarium ready. It’s in the spare room.’ A quick guided tour and a comprehensive set of instructions followed. Thea noted it all carefully, with a little glow of excitement at this new experience. The prospect of a reviving reptile was definitely appealing.

There had then been a minor bombshell. ‘Oh, and is there any chance you could keep an eye on my sister’s house in Bagendon as well?’ asked Mrs Foster. ‘Just for the first week. She’s going to the wedding as well, but coming home the next day. We’re staying on for a bit. There aren’t any animals, so it would just be a matter of popping over every other day to water the plants and collect the post. It’s only a mile from here.’

The wedding must be midweek then, Thea thought, as she tried to keep track of everyone’s movements. So, straining for a businesslike response, she agreed, firmly adding that another hundred pounds would be payable for the extra service. Did the sister not have neighbours, she wondered? And was it really only a mile away? She had never had any reason to discover the exact location of Bagendon. If it was as close as that she might walk across country between the two houses, exercising herself and her dog in the process. ‘Let me have the address, then,’ she concluded. ‘And tell me where I can find the key.’

The Fosters handed over the keys to their own
house, which they emphasised was the first priority, and explained in exhaustive detail how the Bagendon property could be found, with a hand-drawn map for good measure. ‘We’ll get Mary to write everything down and leave it here for you when you come,’ they promised. ‘Along with her front door key.’

For the past year or more, it had become clear to Thea that she had a distinct reputation in the area. She had featured in a number of reports in newspapers, even been glimpsed on the television, as a result of various violent crimes committed in villages where she happened to be. There had been a time when she feared it would put people off employing her, seeing her as some kind of jinx. But instead there appeared to be a notion that she was useful to have around. Nobody admitted to truly believing that any of the crimes happened
because
of Thea Osborne. But when they
did
happen, she waded in and asked questions or made connections that nobody else seemed capable of making. Her role as outsider gave her an objective picture of motives and relationships that others found hard to spot.

So it was that she waited for Mr or Mrs Foster to say something about this. They were a quiet couple, he over sixty and she somewhat under. They were unmistakably excited about their trip – very much further afield than they had ever been before. They had lived in this same house since they married, which in itself endeared them to Thea. They’d never had children, and Gwennie
was the last of a dynasty of Pembroke corgis, many of which had their photographs displayed on the walls. They made no mention of work or careers, but they seemed unlikely to be retired.

Nothing was said about Thea’s reputation. ‘We don’t anticipate any problems,’ was the nearest they came. ‘Please don’t contact us, even if something happens to Gwennie. The vet in Cirencester knows her. We’ve left the number.’

‘I ought to have some sort of contact for you,’ Thea pointed out. ‘Don’t you think?’

They gave her the name and phone number of Mrs Foster’s Australian sister in Canberra, reluctantly. Mr Foster gave his wife a look, with eyebrows raised, and said, ‘Can’t think of anything that couldn’t wait, can you?’

His wife shook her head and laughed.

It was agreed that Thea would arrive during the morning of the day of their evening flight, an hour or two after they had departed for the airport.

Which she duly did, wondering at the level of trust implied in this. After all, if something had prevented her from turning up, poor old Gwennie might have died of dehydration before anybody realised. The house faced north-east, set back from a small road that seemed unlikely to boast much traffic. A century ago it must have been the main route into Cirencester, and probably fairly congested as a result, but now the A417 had taken over completely. She drove her car into the
garage, which stood separate from the house, and closed the door behind it as instructed. Leaving her spaniel on the doorstep with her bag, she went in cautiously, chirruping to the corgi, which was nowhere to be seen.

The hall was narrow and rather dark, but extended some distance to the kitchen at the back. On each side was a door, leading to the living room and dining room. The sort of house a child would draw, or a medieval merchant of modest means might build for himself. There was nothing especially imaginative or surprising about it, but Thea could readily believe that it had provided comfortable shelter for the centuries of its existence. It was warm and quiet and faintly complacent.

Gwennie finally came out of the kitchen, sniffing the air suspiciously. ‘Hello, old girl,’ sang Thea. She squatted down to let the dog get her scent and gently stroked the head. The coat was warm and dense, the feet very white and the nose very sharp. ‘You’re a nice dog, aren’t you? We’ll be all right, won’t we? Nothing to worry about.’ The crooning came instinctively, and seemed to have a positive effect. The small stump that was all Gwennie possessed by way of a tail moved slightly.

There were two yellow envelopes on the little shelf holding the telephone in the hall. Before reading their contents, Thea collected her bag and dog and supervised the early stages of what she hoped would be a new canine friendship. Hepzie, when brought in from the front porch, made a casual advance, which was not rebuffed. Gwennie did a lot more sniffing,
which the spaniel clearly found irritating, jumping sideways to get away from it. She gave her mistress the sort of liquid gaze of reproach that was a spaniel’s chief trademark. ‘Be nice,’ said Thea. ‘She’s a poor old lady, and she’s got no idea what’s happening.’

Hepzie sighed and went to explore the living room.

The Fosters kept a reasonably neat home, which was nonetheless well equipped with comfortable places to sit. Sheepskin rugs, soft cushions, heavy curtains all gave it a cosy feel. Nothing looked particularly new, and there was no attempt at a colour scheme. In the living room the main feature was a large, handsome Victorian clock over the fireplace. It was black and gold, with delicate filigree hands and figures of cherubs perched on top of it. It was certain to strike noisily every hour, if not more.

The dining room had a square table just large enough for four, with a set of chairs sporting needlepoint seats. A battered oak bureau stood in one corner, with a bookcase perched on top of it. Another corner held a sort of chest with a domed, hinged lid, which Thea suspected had been a cabin trunk in its former life. With a quick guilty glance around, as if to ensure the Fosters really had gone, she lifted the lid to see what it contained.

It was full of canvas, hanks of thick wool, books of designs and other paraphernalia fit for a keen needlewoman. So Mrs Foster had done the chair seats. Good for her.

When she opened the envelopes, Thea found exhaustive instructions concerning plants, security lights and burglar alarm – more so for the Bagendon house than the Fosters’. She sighed. Alarms and locks and lights were familiar territory for any house-sitter, but she had been lucky in keeping them to a minimum on most of her assignments. She made a speciality of caring for animals, with the actual property taking secondary significance. So long as it didn’t burn down or find itself invaded by drug-crazed vandals, everything was more or less all right. Disasters had regularly occurred, but very seldom as a result of Thea’s sloppy security practices.

The imposition of a second responsibility began to seem more of a burden than first assumed, with so many additional details to get right. The trick would be to make a virtue of it in some way. If it really was only a mile away, then the best thing would be to walk over the fields from one village to the other, exploring them both in the process.

It was March, Easter still some weeks away, and the trees reluctant to risk much in the way of new leaves. Buds were swelling, barely perceptibly, and the Cotswold gardens boasted their customary displays of crocus, scilla and iris amongst the infinite shades of daffodil. Traditionally a time of promise, combined with the treachery of late frosts and biting winds, it reflected Thea’s mood rather well. It was a year since she had first met Drew Slocombe, three years
since she first began her career as a house-sitter, and four years since her husband had died. Anniversaries crowded into this time of year, including her own birthday in February. Hitting forty-five had been blessedly untraumatic, thanks to Drew’s attentions, and an unexpected celebration provided by a rare collaboration between her daughter and her brother. She had felt loved. What more could anyone ask?

A year ago, she had been in Broad Campden when Drew Slocombe turned up to bury the owner of the house she was looking after. That one, actually, had not involved any animals at all. She had been struggling with the third anniversary of Carl’s sudden death and Drew had been understanding. Now his own wife was dead, too, only eight months ago, and he was still in the early maelstrom of adjustment. ‘One of the worst things,’ he said, ‘is that people think an undertaker should handle loss more easily than everybody else.’

His shortcomings in that respect had been starkly symbolised by his inability to bury Karen in his own burial ground, which they had created together. The plans had been altered at the eleventh hour, to the horror and rage of his small son and larger colleague, Maggs. Only Stephanie, his little girl, had understood and shared his feelings. In fact, it had been Stephanie’s distress that cemented the decision, in the face of everyone else’s wishes and assumptions.

Thea trod very carefully around that topic, which continued to cause difficulties. Now and then she caught
a look from Maggs that suggested it might all be her fault. Reflecting briefly on her own character, Thea concluded that people often thought she was at fault in a variety of ways. Accused of being impatient, opinionated and even patronising, she struggled to be a better person and to bring out the best in other people. She had learnt to bite back sharp remarks, at least some of the time. Drew, she hoped, had been a positive influence in that respect.

It was one o’clock, and there was nothing important to be done. Gwennie was glumly curled up in her basket, with her back firmly to Thea and Hepzie. Since her docked tail had briefly wagged on Thea’s arrival, she had not been friendly. The decision not to take her on a lengthy walk was easily made.

Unfolding the Ordnance Survey map, she calculated the distance across country to Bagendon to be just over a mile. Comparing it with the sketch map provided by the Fosters, she thought she could work out the location of the sister’s house. The way was not entirely straightforward, using a combination of footpaths, country lanes and open fields, but she had every confidence. ‘Start as we mean to go on,’ she told the spaniel. ‘Look at that sunshine.’ Hepzie glanced out of the open door without enthusiasm.