A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

with no sense of optimism. His mother did in theory carry a mobile with her, but generally it languished in the glove compartment of her car, the battery dead. ‘Why would I want to be pursued by a telephone, when I’ve hated them all my life?’ she would demand, with scant originality. When family or friends insisted, ‘But they’re so useful,’ Beverley just laughed.
It was not that she was a deliberate rebel, going against the flow in any way. She was simply unaware most of the time that there was a flow. She barely noticed the news, had absolutely no grasp of current affairs, and only concerned herself with events inside her own small circle. She had not always been like this, however. The brutal and unsolved murder of her daughter Aldebaran had been the cause of her withdrawal from the world. ‘If I can’t do anything to change it, then I have no choice but to ignore it,’ summed up her existence. ‘I would rather not engage with this stinking world,’ was what she said at the time. Digby’s grief had also smothered most of his emotional life in a dense grey blanket. Both parents seemed to Ant to have drifted away from normal social intercourse, even with him, their only surviving child.
But he made his second phone call anyway and left a voicemail to the effect that he and his father were wondering what had become of her. ‘I have to go,’ he realised, five minutes later. ‘One final push. I can hardly wait for tomorrow. Did you find the Christmas carols?’
‘I did. It’ll be playing all day, just as always.’
There was one special CD they always put on for Christmas Eve, and which always concealed itself in one or other pile of junk throughout the rest of the year. ‘Where was it this time?’ asked Ant.
‘Top shelf, above the telly. Quite logical, really. Probably put it there myself.’
‘Don’t forget to take the dog for a quickie before you go out. If Mum’s not back soon, he’s going to have a boring day, poor old lad.’
The dog was Ant’s, officially, and he was diligent in exercising and entertaining him as a rule. But Christmas chaos ensured that very few of the usual rules pertained.
‘I’ll have to wait for you to get home, won’t I? I’ll need the van.’
‘So you will.’ Ant sighed. ‘You’ll have to take him up to the footpath or somewhere. He ought to get a run.’
‘Why can’t you do it?’ Digby whined. ‘Where are you planning to be this afternoon?’
‘Nowhere special,’ Ant admitted. ‘Once I’ve taken the tree to the hotel, I thought I’d set up the rest in the usual lay-by and catch a few last-minute customers. I could pack that in by about two, and get back then.’
‘That’ll do, then,’ said Digby, in a disinterested tone. ‘I may as well make the effort, even if it only fetches a few quid.’ He had signed up for an evening stall in Blockley High Street, the last attempt to make some sales before Christmas. The whole family had agreed that they would stay at home on Christmas Eve regardless of what final business opportunities might present themselves.
‘So just take the dog down to the gate and back for now. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t,’ said Digby. ‘But Bev’s sure to be back sometime today. Isn’t she?’
An hour after Drew’s bombshell, during which he had answered countless questions and made an attempt at explaining his fractured relationship with his parents, Stephanie found herself stupidly feeling as if she had caused her unknown grandfather’s death. Was that possible simply by the way she had recently been thinking about how her blood relations seemed so distant? She had been critical of them, in her own mind, and resentful of the way they seldom made contact. Or had she telepathically read Drew’s mind, when he went so quiet after the phone call? In either case, she felt overwhelmed with concern for him, as she watched his face. Strange pouches had appeared beneath his eyes, and he couldn’t look at any of them.
‘Christ, Drew,’ said Thea. ‘Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.’
‘I know it is. But if I don’t go then, I won’t be able to get away for days. She begged me. What could I say?’
Thea and Jessica both knew what it was to lose a father – though not one who had been entirely estranged for over twenty years. Stephanie and Timmy had lost their mother. Everyone understood how much such an event mattered. Timmy spoke up. ‘Who’s your father, Daddy?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Oh, Tim.’ Drew pulled the child to him, and buried his face in the small shoulder. Again, Stephanie had a dreadful sense of having somehow made all this happen, by the power of her thoughts. ‘You never met him.’ Drew lifted his head. ‘I’m so sorry about that. It was very wrong, and now it’s too late. We never even had a name for you to call him. Your grandfather – that’s who he was. His name was Peter James Slocombe, and he was seventy-six years old.’
‘That’s not very old to die,’ said Stephanie, well aware of how many of their burials were of people over ninety.
‘No,’ said Drew emphatically. ‘I always thought there’d be time to patch things up with them, and take you two to see them.’ He was holding himself tight, pinching his nose to stave off the tears. ‘I thought I might not tell you about it until after Christmas. I didn’t want to spoil it.’
‘Oh, Drew.’ Thea was at his side, hesitantly patting his arm. ‘We won’t let it spoil anything. How far is it from here? County Durham – right? Can you get there and back in a day?’
‘Barely. It must be four hours each way, at least.’
‘What does she want from you? Will you have to go back again for the funeral? What about those cousins in Liverpool? Or wherever it is.’
He gave her a very rueful smile. ‘That’s the other