A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

Thea. ‘I do love the quiet.’ She got up and put more logs on the fire. They crackled softly and added another scent to that of pine needles. For another twenty minutes, everything remained tranquil. Then it was teatime, and Thea remembered the washing-up hadn’t been done after lunch and there was an urgent need to make another batch of mince pies, and the dog wanted to go out.
At the Old Stables, Digby and Ant were scraping a small meal together, much as the Slocombes were, but with considerably less appetite. Ant was sinking further into despair, seeing no way out of the morass surrounding him on all sides. His dog was squatting beside him, its nose on his leg, conveying bucketsful of sympathy and concern. Any idiot canine could detect an anxious atmosphere in that kitchen.
‘Better get a move on,’ said Digby. ‘I should start setting up by five. The punters turn up at six.’
‘Nice evening for it,’ said Ant listlessly.
‘Buck up, son. I don’t like to leave you in this mood. Come with me, why don’t you?’
Ant shook his head. ‘You’re better on your own. I’d just put people off, the state I’m in. I’ll try Mum’s phone again, and see if I can raise her. Although I’m not holding my breath.’
‘I was thinking,’ Digby started slowly. ‘Maybe she’s more upset than we realised about that spat you told me she had with Blackwood. When was it? Wednesday?’
‘Right. When he first started flapping about that parcel and laid into her at the gate about it. He might have accused her of taking it, to her face.’
‘She would have said something.’
‘She did say something. She came back in a rage about it.’
Digby blinked. ‘Did she? Well, it looks as if they’ve all decided it was one of us that took it, now. Sending the cops over is a bit of a giveaway. Real harassment, that is.’
Ant wondered why he hadn’t connected the events together before this. ‘That must be it,’ he said, with a much brighter expression. ‘She’s scared she’ll do something she’ll regret if she stays around here.’ Then he thought again. ‘But that doesn’t explain who’s dead, does it?’
‘It strikes me you might have misheard her there,’ said Digby. ‘Nobody’s dead, are they? We’d know about it by now if they were.’
Ant had no answer to that.
Digby went on, ‘Mind you, I don’t think I’ve seen the old bugger for a couple of days. Last thing I can remember is Carla yelling at him about something in the parterre. Must have been Wednesday, as well.’
He pronounced the word parterre with fully rounded contempt. When the Frowses had first lived there, the area concerned had been a perfectly ordinary yard. The Blackwoods had taken a JCB to it, shipped in soil and turf and low-growing shrubs and transformed it into a mock-Tudor garden with a seat and a sundial. Beverley had found it particularly offensive in its poor positioning and total mismatch with the rest of the house. It was the closest point to the Old Stables, visible from an upstairs window.
‘Shouldn’t that be on the parterre?’ queried Ant. ‘Maybe not. Mum would know.’ He paused. ‘What was his missus shouting, then?’
‘I don’t know. Probably something trivial. Maybe she wanted to be the one to accuse us of pinching her bauble. She would have enjoyed that. You know how much she loathes us.’
‘Well, we never got a Christmas card – again.’
‘Nor an invitation to a festive glass of sherry.’
The attempt at banter felt woefully flat. ‘I’m going to try her phone again,’ said Ant tiredly. ‘Sometimes the battery revives a little bit, if you leave it a while.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Digby. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to try.’
The phone reported itself as being out of commission and the two men picked forlornly at their simple meal. ‘Some Christmas this is turning out to be,’ grumbled Digby. ‘Deserted by wife, harassed by landlord and invaded by the forces of the law. God knows what we’ll do with ourselves tomorrow.’
‘She might have turned up by then,’ said Ant with unconvincing optimism.
Instead, a different woman turned up, just as the men were tidying away their plates, Percy having consumed quite a lot of the food that had been on them. A double knock on the door sent the dog barking and Digby almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to answer it.
It was Carla Blackwood, the witch herself. Her expression was a bizarre combination of accusation and embarrassed reluctance to engage with her tenants at all. ‘Have you seen my husband?’ she blurted, without any preamble.
‘Several times,’ quipped Digby, unable to help himself. ‘Do you mean on one specific occasion?’
‘Since Thursday. Three days ago. Have you seen him?’
‘Careful,’ murmured Ant very softly in his father’s ear. Digby blinked and merely shook his head.
‘Why – have you lost him?’ Ant asked, with exaggerated concern.
‘He must have gone on a business trip, I think. Though perhaps not, so close to Christmas. I haven’t been able to contact him.’
‘Oh dear! But why in the world would you think we might know where he is? We have no dealings with either of you, as you know quite well.’
‘He had a disagreement with your wife last week. I thought …’ When it came to it, she could not bring herself to make a direct accusation. ‘Is she here? Perhaps she could shed some light on his disappearance.’
‘No, no. She’s out just now,’ said Digby airily. ‘But I can promise you she’s got absolutely no idea where he might be. We move in such different circles, you see.’
They could almost hear her gnashing her teeth – or at least grinding them. She was dressed in a luxurious costume comprising silk and leather and real fur at the edges. Her face was elaborately made up, and her hair sleek and glossy. It would not take anybody long to guess at her Russian origins. ‘Well, it is very strange. And worrying. He always keeps me informed