A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

coming home with every kind of junk. Most of it was set down on the patch of grass between the house and the driveway and never attended to again.
Inside was not much better. Digby and Beverley had moved into separate bedrooms around the time Aldebaran had died, and filled each room with paraphernalia. In Digby’s there was a computer, scores of books, stacks of printed-out text and boxes of junk that would decay or disintegrate if left outside. In the past year he had drifted into selling as well as buying, setting up his own car boot two or three days a week, weather and work obligations permitting. ‘This is my stock,’ he would say, waving vaguely at the boxes. He had begun to focus on old Bakelite radios and telephones, along with table lamps and car mascots. ‘People collect this sort of thing, you know,’ he asserted. Some of the lamps were so old they were fuelled by oil.
In Beverley’s room there was also a laptop and books, but her studies were much more focused. She was teaching herself law, with special regard to property rights, tenantry laws and council responsibilities. Nobody would have been surprised if she had suddenly announced an intention to go into local politics.
‘She’s probably just sick of this house,’ said Ant now. ‘Carla’s daughters will have been the final straw.’
‘You could be right. It’s like being under surveillance by the Stasi – even if we have worked out how to dodge the cameras.’
The CCTV cameras, ostensibly intended to deter burglars and other intruders, overlooked the Frowses’ cottage at the front. If the family left by the main door, walked down to the small parking area and drove down the drive, every step would be captured. But they had soon devised a system whereby they left through the back door, walked in a loop around the side of the house, and reached their vehicles without being seen. Little by little, they had shifted the parking area out of range, too. But there was no avoiding the camera down at the electric gate. The only satisfaction there was that the landlord couldn’t see who was inside the car as it drove away.
To Ant, this was mostly just a game. He didn’t let it affect him emotionally, beyond the concern he felt at the way it upset his parents. His mother was right in saying it was definite harassment and intimidation, and she wrote regular letters to the Housing Department to say exactly that. She kept a detailed dossier with every tiny event logged, and a copy of every letter. She was talking about buying a ‘dashcam’ to set up inside their car, so that any physical approaches that occurred in the driveway could be recorded. This was because there had been one occasion when Rufus Blackwood had stopped her at the gate and started accusing her of letting their dog Percy trespass on forbidden ground. Carla owned a precious pedigree Pekinese, of all things, and the existence of other dogs presented a direct threat to its welfare, apparently.
‘They’ll be too busy with Christmas to bother about us,’ said Ant. ‘They’ve kept at a distance so far, anyway.’
Digby said nothing and Ant went on, ‘I’m going to try and phone Mum and see what’s she’s up to.’
But when he did just that, the phone was unresponsive. ‘She’s switched it off,’ he said.
‘What’s new?’ said Digby.
Ant himself had plans for the evening. Although not considering himself to be in a committed relationship, he did have a female friend whose company he enjoyed. Alice Whitworth lived in Chipping Campden with her young daughter and two corgis. Because of the child, Ant was never permitted to stay overnight – except when young Lydia was sleeping at her father’s, which did not happen very often, because he lived in Birmingham. Alice and Ant had known each other since school, off and on, and had an easy understanding that never developed into anything serious.
‘I’m going over to see Alice,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably be late back. I’ll go on the bike, so it won’t matter if I drink.’
‘Lydia not at her dad’s for Christmas, then?’
‘Certainly not. But she is going there for New Year’s Day, I think. Staying a night or two.’
‘Ah well. She’s right, you know. Best not to confuse the kid,’ said Digby, as he had said many times before. Ant didn’t argue. They had all seen enough bewildered children from broken families to understand the pitfalls. ‘It’s not as if you’re aiming to marry her, now is it?’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ sighed Ant, who was beginning to resign himself to perpetual bachelorhood. ‘If I do, it won’t be till Lydia’s about sixteen.’
‘Well, don’t worry about me,’ said Digby. ‘I’m going to see if I can get that radio to work. I think if I give it a better aerial, I might get somewhere. And your mother’s sure to be back before bedtime.’
‘Maybe clean the place up a bit, as well,’ said Ant, with a cheeky grin.
‘I might just do that,’ said his father.

Chapter Three
Thea Slocombe was doing her best to concentrate on Christmas. She owed it to Drew and his children to make the best possible effort. The year before, everyone had been finding their feet and wondering how this newly formed family was going to work out. They had all been treading carefully, wary of hurting each other’s feelings or trampling on sacrosanct ground, so that Christmas had turned into a somewhat scrappy event, with everybody going through the motions with far too much care. It was more relaxed now, but expectations were higher. Memories of Karen were inevitably more vivid at such a time, her special Christmas touches still important to her children. The tree was a prime example. Drew had explained it, with some embarrassment, leaving it to Thea to decide whether or not to adhere to the ritual established by his first wife. ‘That’s not fair,’ she had wailed. ‘Can’t you take an