Tope Guilt in the Cotswolds

The page-turning cozy crime series
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-0-7490-1909-9
Verlag: Allison & Busby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 14, 320 Seiten

Reihe: Cotswold Mysteries

Thea Osborne's latest house-sitting assignment is a little different to the rest. Along with her spaniel, Hepzie, Thea finds herself in the village of Chedworth. She is tasked with creating an inventory of Rita Wilshire's possessions, requested by her son, Richard Wilshire, after moving her into a care home. All goes to plan, until Thea and her fianc , Drew Slocombe, find Richard dead in a barn. When family members come knocking, Thea and Drew struggle to give them answers. The Wilshire family has its own past and, whilst Thea knows it is not really her business, she cannot help but become involved in the case. Was Richard's death suicide? Or something more sinister? When the clues lead them in circles, Thea's relationship with Drew is put to the test. But there is a crime to solve, and neither of them is willing to give up just yet.

Rebecca Tope is the author of three bestselling crime series, set in the Cotswolds, Lake District and West Country. She lives on a smallholding in rural Herefordshire, where she enjoys the silence and plants a lot of trees.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Tope, Rebecca

Leseproben

Chapter One

Thea was lost; lost and late. It was getting dark and the narrow lanes of Chedworth began to close in on her, the village seeming to come to an end only to start again a little further on. She should have paid better attention to the instructions, instead of blithely assuming she knew the area well enough by now to avoid any difficulty. It had become apparent in the past five minutes that there was both a Chedworth and a Lower Chedworth – which came as a big surprise. Small roads wandered off in all directions, including dramatic downward plunges. Richard Wilshire would be waiting impatiently for her in the stone house set on a small road that went nowhere, close to the church. He had ordained five o’clock as the required moment for her arrival. ‘Then we can settle you in for the night,’ he had said, with a laugh that had a trace of snigger in it. His instructions, taken down during a phone call, were scribbled on a scrap of paper beside her. ‘Next left after Hare and Hounds pub. Right at the Farm Shop – straight through Chedworth until Seven Tuns pub.’ No hint of distances or useful landmarks. She had met a T-junction soon after the right turn, of which there was no mention in the instructions. A defunct red telephone box beside the road had ‘Defibrillator’ blazoned across it, which made her smile. And then the road had carried on and on, around bends and up hills, passing the usual old stone houses with no lights on inside. Anyone, even the most unimaginative, could quite easily believe themselves to have slipped back a century in time. The existence of motorways, airports, bright lighting and high speed had all faded into a far-off realm. Here in this monochrome twilight world, it was easier to revert to a slower, simpler mode. As if to emphasise this, there were signs announcing ‘Twenty is Plenty for Chedworth’ in reference to the speed limit.

It was half past five in early October, which was still an hour short of the moment the sun sank over the edge of the world. But it was a cloudy day and there were trees and high banks and houses on all sides, closing out the lingering light. It felt later than it was. ‘Not sure I like the atmosphere here,’ she muttered to Hepzibah, her constant companion. The spaniel on the passenger seat gave her a liquid look of sympathy. But the houses were as lovely as those in most other Cotswold villages, some of them impressively old and weathered. As she hunted for the church, which surely ought to be on an elevation somewhere visible, she passed clusters of closely packed homes, with never a glimpse of a human being. Seconds later she found herself in virtually open country, with no buildings visible. This lasted only a short time before another typical house came into sight, followed by several more. The stop-start nature of the place was disorientating.

Chedworth, then, was nothing like Stanton or Daglingworth, Hampnett or Broad Campden – all of which she had come to know in the past year or so. All of which were also remarkably close by, many within walking distance. The way each settlement could acquire so distinct a character was a mystery.

Richard Wilshire was in his late fifties, a solid man of limited horizons. That much Thea had gleaned from information received from Drew Slocombe, her soon-to-be husband and acquaintance of Mr Wilshire. It was thanks to Drew that this commission existed in the first place.

‘He’s got an aged mother who’s just moved into a residential home,’ Drew had explained. ‘She heard about the natural burials, and came to me to arrange her funeral when the time comes.’ Drew had achieved the first stages of establishing a second burial ground in the heart of the Cotswolds, taking pre-planned customers, but so far only one grave lay there. In the process of funeral arranging, it had transpired that Old Mrs Wilshire was leaving behind a substantial house containing a lifetime’s possessions. Her son found himself unequal to the task of sorting these items into any meaningful categories. Young Mrs Wilshire – Daphne – no longer regarded the fate of her mother-in-law as relevant. She and Richard had separated five years previously and she was living with a man called Nick. ‘Are you keeping up?’ Drew had checked with Thea at this point.

‘Easily.’

‘Good, because there’s more.’ He went on to report that there was a daughter named Millie who was twenty-five and – according to her father – so completely appalled by the treatment of poor old Granny that she couldn’t bring herself to go near Chedworth ever again. ‘All of which explains why a certain Thea Osborne is sorely needed,’ he summarised. ‘It might not be exactly house-sitting as we know it, but it’s well within your capabilities.’

She had given him a look. ‘You’re telling me the job has expanded into that of house-sorter and house-clearer, as well. Which might include heavy lifting. Do I get paid extra?’

‘I left that to you to negotiate. I will, of course, come and help with anything heavy.’

Her reply was a familiar one. ‘How will you find the time to do that?’

‘I’ll manage it somehow,’ he said, as usual.

Drew and Thea had been together – emotionally if not logistically – for well over a year. The summer just ended had seen them spending more and more time as a family, with his two children rapidly accepting her as a fixture. Their wholehearted enthusiasm for her and her dog was almost unnerving. The first week of their school holidays that summer had been spent with Thea in a house-sit that had passed so idyllically she sometimes wondered if it had all been a dream. The four of them squatted in a large Cotswold house in Farmington in the most perfect weather with a pack of Siamese cats. On the last day, Drew had recklessly suggested marriage. In a surge of euphoria, Thea had accepted. Three months later, she was still uncertain as to whether it would ever actually happen.

The Seven Tuns pub occupied a site near another T-junction. Peering at the final words of her directions, Thea read, ‘Left, then follow road past church. House on left, easy parking.’ Not seeing the church, she drove blindly to the left, up a steep little road that showed virtually no sign of having changed since before cars were invented. Suddenly, the church was right beside her, and all became clear.

She finally knocked on the door at five-fifty. Richard Wilshire brushed aside her apologies for lateness and led her into the living room. ‘You come well recommended,’ he assured her. ‘Good in a crisis, they said about you. Ready for anything.’

She flinched at the they. Who else, other than Drew, had been talking? ‘It isn’t exactly what I’m usually asked to do,’ she reminded him. ‘There are professionals for this sort of thing. They take all the stuff in return for leaving a nice empty house.’

‘I don’t want that. This isn’t about clearing the house. We’re not disposing of anything other than absolute rubbish. First, I need an inventory.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I lived here all my life, until I married, but I still have no idea what’s in some of the cupboards and boxes. It never really occurred to me to wonder. But now – well, I can’t leave it any longer.’

Thea attempted to look capable, sympathetic and responsible all at the same time.

‘Be warned,’ Mr Wilshire went on. ‘My mother lived here for seventy years and there are places that probably haven’t been touched for most of that time. How are you with spiders?’

‘Not great,’ she confessed. ‘But better than I used to be.’

‘The attic is the worst. Mum hasn’t managed the stairs for a few years now. I should have gone up there myself, but I never got around to it. Take a killer spray with you, if you like.’

‘No, no. I don’t like to kill the poor things. I’ll be all right if I’m forewarned. The dog sometimes catches them for me, if they’re really huge.’

They went on to discuss the procedure she was required to follow. ‘I don’t think there’ll be very much rubbish, but what there is can go straight into bin bags,’ he said. Then he suggested she set aside items of obvious value; sort through papers (important and otherwise), make a list of items that were broken but potentially useful, and another list of whatever she found in the unexamined cupboards and boxes. She wrote much of it down and asked several questions.

‘I understand Mr Slocombe’s going to join you at some point,’ he said.

She noted the formality with interest, having assumed the two men were on better terms than that. ‘He’ll try,’ she said. ‘It won’t be easy for him to get away if things are busy.’

‘I’ve prepared the main bedroom for you.’ His tone implied that this had been a tremendous achievement, for which she owed him much gratitude. ‘Turned the mattress over, so it ought to be okay.’

‘Thanks.’ Visions of an incontinent old woman sleeping on that mattress until a month or two ago made her uneasy. But it sounded as if all the other rooms were even less habitable.

‘Listen,’ he said with a tormented look, ‘I know it’ll be hard work, and I should be doing it myself. All this stuff – it doesn’t matter to me. I’m not sentimental about most of it. But...