A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

up. They told him he would have to try tracking it online, and he said he’d done that and the fools insisted it had been delivered and signed for. The signature was one of those done with your finger, which always looks like a bit of meaningless scribble. He said the delivery man must have stolen it, which was going too far for the woman in the post office. She turned her back on him. It was rather fine, actually. That man’s a complete bully.’
‘It was Sunday when we were there. This must have happened since then. Or else the Frowses didn’t know about it.’ Thea regarded Stephanie. ‘They didn’t say anything, did they?’
Stephanie shook her head. ‘Ant just said there were two daughters visiting and Beverley was annoyed about that.’
Thea nodded. ‘Right – I remember. It’s dreadful the way those people make them live. The Frowses, I mean. I’m sure there must be a law against it, but Beverley says it’s all very complicated and inexact. And Ant says it’s the wife that’s the real pig. Rufus wasn’t too bad before he married her.’
Stephanie absorbed the new story about the necklace with interest. A fight in the local post office must have been quite a drama. And priceless jewellery sounded like something out of a book. Jessica seemed to think so too. ‘Have they reported the loss of the necklace to the police?’ she asked.
Andrew spread his hands in a display of ignorance. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Although I would guess not, the way he was talking.’
‘He probably will, though,’ Thea said. ‘Those sort of people won’t let anything go. They’re very likely thinking it was Ant or one of his parents who nicked the thing. They’ll use any excuse to persecute them.’
‘Nasty,’ said Andrew.
‘They are nasty,’ said Stephanie fervently. ‘Nasty rich people.’
Everyone laughed at that, which made her feel silly and ridiculously young.
Then it was nine o’clock, and the Emersons were going home, and Thea was clearing up glasses and the dog was gleaning crumbs from the carpet. Jessica stretched and said what a lovely lazy day it had been, and still two more to go before Christmas. Timmy groaned and said it felt as if Christmas would never come. Drew sat in one of the armchairs, watching them all with a weirdly distant expression.
‘Bed, you two,’ ordered Thea. ‘Dad can read to you tonight. It must be his turn.’
And he did, briefly, and with very poor expression. Because the children were in the same room while Jessica was staying, one story did for them both. It was Martin’s Mice by Dick King-Smith, which was childish and funny and familiar. Drew had owned the book since he was eight, and the cover was badly torn. When he picked it up before starting to read, he went very quiet, until Timmy said, ‘Dad? We’re waiting.’
Then they got the hurried chapter, and a perfunctory kiss, before being left to their own devices. ‘Weird,’ said Timmy.
‘He’s worried about something,’ said Stephanie. ‘I think somebody he knows must have died.’
‘So why doesn’t he tell us? Has he told Thea?’
‘No,’ said Stephanie with certainty. ‘He hasn’t. He’s probably going to do it now.’
‘She might not listen,’ said Timmy, to Stephanie’s surprise. ‘She often doesn’t.’
Stephanie found herself pulled in two directions. She wanted to defend her stepmother, who was being really good about Christmas, and staying cheerful and keeping it all going. But her deeper sympathies were with her father. He just wasn’t very good at getting to the point, when he wanted something. He had a very poor grasp of timing; it made Stephanie wince when he would broach an important topic when it was obvious that Thea was juggling five other things already. And he would regularly start in the wrong place, jumping into the middle of a story that needed much more careful introduction. Thea would stop him, often irritably, saying, ‘I can’t read your mind, Drew. You need to explain what you’re talking about.’
‘She will if he says it properly,’ she told Timmy.
‘If,’ said her brother sombrely.
Next morning, it soon became apparent that no meaningful conversation had taken place between the adults. Thea was still in domestic mode, making lists and teasing Timmy about his minute-counting. ‘Just under forty-eight hours to go,’ she calculated. ‘We’re getting there.’
Jessica had got up early and was on her mobile. Nobody asked who she was texting or why, but she volunteered the information anyway. ‘I have to be back bright and early on Wednesday,’ she announced. ‘I was hoping I could have the morning off. I’m on duty all over New Year as well.’
‘Do you get paid double time for that?’ Thea asked.
Jessica shrugged. She was well known for being careless with money, haphazard with direct debits and credit cards. ‘You’ll never be able to buy your own house if you don’t pay more attention,’ Thea repeatedly warned her.
‘That doesn’t worry me at all,’ came the blithe reply.
‘So who’s keeping you informed about the work rota?’
‘Sandy. My flatmate. She’s working right up to the end of tomorrow. She’s CID and they’ve got a new case. Not sure what it is, but it’s having an effect on the shifts, apparently.’
Drew wandered into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call, but first I need to tell you something,’ he said to the room in general. ‘I’m going to have to be out all day today and part of tomorrow. Lucky Jessica’s here – you can use her car if you need to.’
‘Why? What are you talking about?’ Thea seemed breathless with surprise.
‘I had a phone call yesterday afternoon from my mother. My father died on Thursday night. She wants me to go up and see her.’

Chapter Four
Antares was slow to wake on Saturday, after drinking quite a lot of wine with Alice the previous evening. It was half past eight and he was supposed to be selling Christmas trees in Chipping Campden. The final day of a punishing three weeks, which had