A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

didn’t seem fair. He’d had the whole night to work out what he wanted to do, while the rest of them were still trying to digest the news of the grandfather’s death. But he was obviously right in thinking the trip could work. If anyone could construct an effective itinerary, it was Drew Slocombe. His logistical calculations were born of his days as a conventional undertaker, where there might be five funerals in a day, with limousines and hearses to be scheduled with absolute precision, flowers delivered and ministers arranged. It soon became second nature, even for one of the lesser employees, to compulsively work out routes and timings.
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Jessica. ‘He can be decisive when he tries, can’t he!’
Thea abandoned any further argument and took Timmy upstairs to choose clothes for the next day and pack pyjamas and a toothbrush. Stephanie watched with a mixture of sadness and envy. Poor Timmy – his first night in a hotel, and it was all too much of a rush for him to enjoy it. Hours and hours in a car, then a meeting with a grandmother who sounded like something close to a witch. ‘Be nice to him, Daddy,’ she said impulsively. ‘Nine isn’t very old, you know.’
‘You think I won’t be?’ He really seemed to want to know.
‘You might forget about him,’ she said bravely. ‘With everything else that’s going on. It’s all a bit surprising, isn’t it? I mean – he hasn’t had time to understand what’s happening. You need to look after him,’ she urged. ‘Like you look after me.’
‘Oh, Steffie.’ Their eyes met in a long gaze of mutual understanding. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’
Jessica made a pretend-coughing noise. ‘God – you two! Don’t worry, Steph, Tim’ll be fine. They’ll be back again before you know it, and we’re going to be mega-busy tomorrow. Your dad says you have to entertain me, remember.’
It was around eleven that morning by the time Ant was parking his van in a narrow Chipping Campden street, where only the slenderest of vehicles could squeeze past him. He was only going to be two minutes, and the street was a minor one. ‘Should be okay,’ he muttered to himself.
‘You’ll get a ticket,’ came a female voice at his shoulder. Turning he saw Bronya, the eldest of Carla Blackwood’s three daughters. Beside her was one of her sisters; he wasn’t sure which.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, startled not just at her sudden appearance but at the relatively friendly look on her face. ‘Down here for Christmas, are you?’
‘That’s right. Just me and Annika this time. Olga had a better offer from a man in Scotland.’ She laughed. ‘Mama isn’t pleased about it.’
The trio of sisters were Russian by birth, but had acquired a near-perfect mastery of English. Bronya in particular was inclined to be talkative, despite a degree of hostility acquired from her mother. ‘Oh,’ said Ant feebly. ‘Well, I’d better crack on, or you’ll be proved right about that parking ticket.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Bronya curiously.
‘Taking a Christmas tree to the hotel just along there.’ He pointed to the front door of the Campden House Hotel. ‘Something happened to the first one, and they want a replacement.’
‘Why not take it around the back? There’s a big car park there, you know.’ It was the other sister speaking. Annika was smaller and younger and quieter than Bronya. It surprised him to realise she had such a good grasp of the town’s confusing geography.
‘I know – but this is quicker,’ he said. ‘It’s quite a walk from the car park to the building, and the tree’s pretty heavy.’
‘We stayed here when Mama and Rufus got married,’ Bronya explained. ‘With a lot of other guests.’
‘Oh,’ said Ant again. The Frowses had been only vaguely aware of the scale of the Blackwood wedding, three years earlier. They had not been invited, and only discovered that it was happening at all from town gossip a week or so before the event. Guests filled the main hotels, big expensive cars filled the local parks and helicopters landed at Crossfield in greater numbers than usual.
‘Rufus is so good to her,’ Annika suddenly gushed. ‘She has been so lucky with him. A much better man than our father, it must be said.’
Bronya nodded her big golden head, her expression sceptical. She had Eastern European looks, with plump cheeks and a lot of yellow hair. She wore a fur coat that looked heavy and rather too warm for an English winter. Ant was torn between ‘cracking on’ as he termed it, and staying to encourage whatever further indiscretions might be on offer. It was highly unusual for anyone from the big house to make conversation like this. Must be Christmas, he thought. The mellow attitude was oddly seductive, so he hesitated, waiting for more.
‘But this week has been quite troubled,’ Annika went on, pulling a face to indicate chagrin. ‘A package has got lost somehow, and Rufus was frantic about it. Quite frantic. Saying somebody has robbed him and the police have to be called.’ She gave Ant a searching look. ‘He thinks perhaps it was wrongly delivered to your cottage, and was saying he would go and ask your mother about it.’
‘Or your father,’ added Bronya. She nudged her sister. ‘All that was days ago now. We haven’t even seen Rufus since Thursday. He had to go away for some reason.’ She shrugged, lifting the heavy coat with strong shoulders. ‘He’s always dashing off to some crisis or other. Mama is worried he won’t get back for Christmas.’ Her mastery of the English language was noticeably better than Annika’s, which made Ant wish he knew more about their early lives. While entirely unfamiliar with the works of Russian literature, he had a sense that they remained exotic and intriguing by virtue of their birthplace.
‘We haven’t had any deliveries,’ said Ant quickly. ‘We did hear there’d been a lost package, but it’s nothing to do with us. We’ve only