A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

A Cotswold
Christmas Mystery
REBECCA TOPE


For Dave and Tasia


Author’s Note
As with other titles in this series, the action is set in a real village. But the individual houses are invented – and in this case liberties have been taken with the layout of roads and properties to the south-west of Chipping Campden.


Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
By Rebecca Tope
Copyright


Prologue
One whole week to go until Christmas. Four more days at school. Stephanie and Timmy were both close to bursting with anticipation. ‘We can walk over to see Ant,’ said Thea. ‘You two need to get out for a bit.’
‘Three,’ Stephanie corrected her. ‘Don’t forget Hepzie.’
‘When do I ever forget Hepzie?’ laughed Thea, giving her spaniel a quick ear-tickle.
The walk took them up onto high ground to the west of their village, and across a small road to a large estate where the Frowse family lived in a dilapidated old cottage that was actually a converted stable block on a large rural estate. The route was a section of the Monarch’s Way footpath, which ran for hundreds of miles and was much loved by walkers. On this uninviting Sunday afternoon, however, there were very few examples of this species of humanity. Grey clouds drifted heavily not far above the wolds, but it was not quite raining. Nor was it particularly cold. Gloves and scarves had not been called for, but all three wore woolly hats.
The procedure for gaining access to the Frowses’ cottage was entertaining in itself. The owner of the estate surrounding the little house had caused an intimidating electrified fence to be erected between his own large mansion and the small residence of his tenants. On their first visit, this had plunged Thea and Stephanie into great confusion. Once you left the road, there was a paved driveway that soon branched off in two directions. If you carried straight on, you encountered a large wrought-iron gate, which had a high wire fence on one side, and a good-sized patch of woodland on the other. The road itself veered sharply away, circling the wood to the west. But if you were visiting the Frowses, you took the smaller branch, which also had an entry gate. This one was more like an ordinary farm gate, but it was equally difficult to pass through. The high fence ran across your path, with the gate an integral part of it. The purpose quickly became clear, as you were confronted by this barrier. The Old Stables was enclosed by a security fence worthy of any prison. Its occupants could only enter or leave via this electronic gate, and the same went for any visitors. There was no back way, other than walking across fields from another larger road to the north. Even then, the fence would prevent access. When challenged about this outrage, the landlord insisted it was intended as added security, deterring intruders, which included deer and foxes. Two of his fields had been enclosed along with the cottage, which he claimed to be the main reason for the fence.
Ant’s parents, Beverley and Digby, scoffed at this piece of blatant dishonesty. ‘What’s so special about the fields?’ Digby demanded. ‘All he keeps in them is those dozy alpacas.’ The alpacas had been a whim on the part of the landlord’s wife, and had rapidly become sadly neglected. One of the employees was required to feed them every day, but beyond that nobody gave them any attention. They would run to greet anyone who managed to negotiate the gate, eager for diversion.
Arriving at the gate, pedestrian visitors, as well as those in vehicles, were obliged to request entry by a telephone kept in a small weatherproof box mounted on a post close by. Unless, that is, they knew the passcode; then they could use the keypad that was also in the box. Or so the landlord believed. In fact, Digby Frowse had employed unsuspected computer skills to hack into the software governing this arrangement, so that the mere act of lifting the phone bypassed the code and opened the gate without further ado. Nobody in the family or amongst his friends could understand how he did it, but it worked.
Stephanie delighted in this act of rebellion. Ant had sworn her and the others to secrecy. ‘Old Rufus still thinks it works his way,’ he chuckled. ‘He can’t see the gate from the house, luckily. And the camera only shows cars or people standing a bit further away.’ The CCTV cameras were another outrageous intrusion on the privacy of the Frowse family.
Beverley met them at the door and welcomed them in. Stephanie gave her a hug, as always, and Timmy stood shyly back and was excused from making a similar gesture. Thea was no more demonstrative than he was. ‘Digby’s upstairs and Ant’s walking the dog,’ said Beverley. ‘He’ll be back in a minute.’ She was a sturdy woman of few words, in her early sixties. Stephanie knew little about her, other than that her daughter had been murdered in America, not very many years ago. This gave her an aura of tragedy, as it did her husband too. It made them seem slightly distant, as if wrapped in an invisible cloak of misery that they could not shake off, even when chatting and smiling.
Beverley gave them drinks and mince pies and asked one or two questions about Christmas, while they waited for her son and Percy the dog. Digby came downstairs to join them.
‘People!’ he said with a twinkly smile. ‘Good to see you.’
Stephanie settled into a rather doggy chair and observed the scene. The kitchen was immensely untidy, with bottles, boxes, papers, old tin cans, jam jars, utensils, a radio, and many other objects cluttering the central table and much of the floor. Beverley carelessly cleared a