A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

hurt as I was. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.’
‘Oh.’ The world went a shade darker for a few minutes. Stephanie knew that people died, and that they sometimes actually killed each other. She knew that planes crashed and earthquakes happened, and there was an element of risk in everything you did. She knew that her own stepmother had been involved at close quarters with a lot of unpleasantness, often because she wilfully sought it out. But she hadn’t bargained for her own dear Jessica to be hurt by somebody she loved. That was definitely unfair.
‘I’ve said too much,’ Jessica realised. ‘Listen, Steph – don’t worry about it for a second. I’m fine now. Your dad and Timmy will be back tonight and we’ll have a fabulous Christmas. We’ll go back now and make some more mince pies or something. Mum’s never been much of a cook – we’ll have to make sure she does everything properly. She’s sure to need some last-minute shopping as well, which means we’ll have to use my car.’
Stephanie was gazing into the next field, which led into the further end of Chipping Campden, by the church. ‘There’s that man again,’ she said suddenly. ‘Look!’ She pointed to a figure at least two hundred yards away. ‘The one with the gun.’ Because he still looked as if he had three legs, as he had two days before.
‘What are you talking about?’ The morning sun was shining in Jessica’s eyes, and despite its December weakness, it was enough to dazzle her. ‘I can’t see anyone.’
‘Over there, look.’ The man was in silhouette, with a tall hedge behind him. He seemed to be turned away, offering only his back view. ‘By that holly tree.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jessica squinted. ‘I don’t think it’s a gun. It’s got some sort of bulge on the end. He’s waving it about in a funny way.’
‘I saw him the day before yesterday, when we’d just unloaded your car. I told you, but you didn’t take any notice.’
‘Did you? Hey – I know what it is! He’s got a metal detector. He’s looking for something under that hedge. Nothing to get alarmed about. He’s sure to have permission. And even if he hasn’t, it’s not much of a crime. Let’s leave him to get on with it.’
Not a gun – Stephanie felt relief and disappointment. And a flicker of interest, because metal detecting was actually quite exciting. What if he found a hoard of gold coins? After all, the Romans had been all over the Cotswolds – there could be loads of stuff still to discover. ‘I hope he finds something,’ she said, looking back as Jessica headed for the house. ‘That would make him happy for Christmas, wouldn’t it?’
‘Mm,’ said Jessica.
Stephanie gave one last backward look. Even from that distance, she was sure the man needed something to make him happy. He seemed sad to her. Or if not sad, then possibly bad. Something not very nice seemed to emanate from the slouching shoulders. She remembered the vision of the previous evening, when she had thought it was a gun, that he was pointing right at her through her bedroom window.
Shortly before Jessica and Stephanie set out for their walk, the body of Rufus Blackwood was found by the clichéd figure of a man walking his dog. The dog had played no part in the drama, running right past the inert figure lying in the dead leaves without a second glance. The man, however, had been in little doubt as to what he was seeing, from a distance of fifty yards. He paused, aware that he was walking in a private woodland, where no footpaths allowed access to the general public. He liked it for that reason, and saw no good cause to stay out. But this would surely mark the end of his trespassing, and that was every bit as much of a shame as the fact that a man had died here.
He stood over the body, phone in hand, dog forgotten, and made himself take long, slow breaths. There was no obvious blood, but the deceased was lying on his side, with much of his front concealed. His head appeared to be undamaged. No knife was sticking out of his back. ‘Are you certain he’s dead?’ asked the woman at the end of the phone.
‘Completely,’ said the man. ‘His eyes are open and sort of cloudy.’
‘Can you feel a pulse on his neck?’
‘I’m sorry, dear, but I can assure you I’m not going to try. It’s quite obviously unnecessary. I would say he’s been dead for some time.’
He gave his name as William Turner, resident of Chipping Campden, aged seventy-four, owner of a sadly unintelligent Irish setter. He mentioned the dog because it seemed to him a significant part of the overall picture. He had at one point in his life worked as a hospital porter, and was a lot less affected than most people would be by the sight of a body in the woods on Christmas Eve. The knowledge that the woods had been for ever spoilt for him was still his primary preoccupation.
‘It could very well have been natural causes,’ he added. ‘There’s no sign of violence.’ Then he looked closer. ‘Although I suspect I’m wrong about that. I neglected to mention that he’s wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. And I repeat that there are signs that he’s been here for quite some time.’
That was half past nine. By half past ten a large turnout of police personnel had erected a tent over the body, taken numerous photographs and successfully identified the deceased as local magnate Rufus Blackwood. Two different officers recognised him. ‘He’s a Freemason,’ said one. ‘Mega-rich.’
William Turner was taken home by a needlessly solicitous female officer, where his wife told him off for being late and treated his discovery with hurtful indifference. ‘That damn dog, I suppose,’ she said.
‘Not at all. The daft thing never even noticed.’
‘Do they know who it is?’ she asked