‘Smell?’
‘I think there was a problem with drains or something,’ he said vaguely. ‘And there’s an awful old cat that pees everywhere.’
None of this fitted at all with the picture Stephanie had gained so far. ‘She sounds awful. Is she really old then?’
Timmy shrugged. ‘Quite. But she can move about all right, and isn’t deaf or anything. And she’s strong – the dog can’t pull her over and she throws great hunks of wood about. She might be a bit mad. But she laughed when Dad went round shutting the windows and said she should light the fire.’
‘That’s when he had to cut the logs, is it?’
‘No, he did that after lunch. She made us cottage pie with carrots and cabbage. It wasn’t too bad, actually.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘Funerals mostly. Then they sent me upstairs to look at Dad’s old books, and I suppose they talked grown-up stuff while I was out of the room. Dad looked funny when I came down again. He didn’t say anything much, and she went to do things in the kitchen. She’s got a big sitting room, much bigger than the one here. She said they knocked a wall down, and made two rooms into one.’ He paused as if speculating about the possibilities. ‘Couldn’t do that here,’ he concluded.
‘What’s so great about a big room?’
‘Nothing, really,’ he agreed.
‘I still don’t get why they never saw each other for all this long time. I mean – didn’t they like each other?’
Timmy had no answer to this, to Stephanie’s frustration. She knew if she had gone instead, she’d have discovered much more about the family history. ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ll see for myself when she comes here.’
‘She won’t like Thea,’ said Tim suddenly. ‘That’s for sure.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re too much like each other.’ He seemed surprised at his own words. ‘I can’t explain exactly, but they are.’
Stephanie gave a fleeting acknowledgement of the two senses of the word ‘like’. Did you like things that were like each other? Did being alike imply a liking? Not according to her little brother. ‘That should be interesting, then,’ was all she said. ‘But I expect you’ve got it wrong. You’re only nine, after all.’
Downstairs, they had put a Christmas CD on, and the carols came wafting up the stairs. Stephanie tried to convince herself that the day had been as good as anybody could reasonably hope. There were no raised voices, everything seemingly restored to harmony.
‘I’m really looking forward to my fish,’ said Timmy before sliding into a deep and happy sleep.
At midnight, as a tragic conclusion to two local families’ Christmases, there was a collision on the A44, not four miles from Broad Campden. In one car there were three young men, the flower of Blockley youth, driving home in a southerly direction after a happy day spent with relatives near Stratford. Not one of them was under the influence of alcohol. Two of them died. In the other was a woman aged sixty-five, transporting three teenage grandchildren back to their families in Evesham, after a happy day spent with relatives near Oxford. She had consumed almost a whole bottle of Cava and a glass of brandy. All three grandchildren died.
The coincidences were legion. In each car, the dead youngsters were related, and in both cases the driver survived. And, as was to eventually be revealed, there were distant familial connections between the two sets of people. They were all descended from a single Victorian businessman, down diverse branches of the family tree. It was calculated that they were fourth cousins to each other. This was to make the story additionally poignant in the newspapers over the coming weeks.
Such an accident placed great strain on the depleted police pathology department. The precise cause of death had to be established as soon as possible. Five post-mortems had to be performed as a matter of urgency. This meant that the already-queued-up body of Mr Rufus Blackwood had to be dealt with quickly. On Boxing Day, in fact.
Chapter Fifteen
Boxing Day started even earlier than Christmas Day had done. Both children were awake by seven, and Timmy was fiddling with one of his stocking toys that he had taken to bed with him. Stephanie experienced an uneasy mixture of irrepressible interest in what was happening to the Frowse family and apprehension as to how things were standing between Thea and Drew.
‘What’s Boxing Day really for?’ Timmy asked, over breakfast.
‘Nobody seems too sure about that,’ Drew told him. ‘Fox hunting. Delivering charitable goodies to the peasants – in boxes, I suppose.’
‘But no boxing matches,’ smiled Thea. ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘And no proper fox hunts, any more. Just pretend ones,’ added Jessica.
‘People go for long walks, and write thank-you letters,’ Thea remembered. ‘Or they did when I was little.’
‘We can send texts,’ said Stephanie. ‘I want to tell Auntie Jocelyn how much I like the tights.’
‘And my kit,’ added Timmy. ‘My kit’s awesome.’
Which inevitably led to the production of mobile phones by Jessica and Thea, and the day was set in a pattern that was to persist, with minor variations, until dark.
It began when Gladwin called Thea at nine-fifteen. ‘I heard from DS Graham,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve been withholding information from me.’
‘You mean about Beverley Frowse being missing? Yes. Sorry. It was rather awkward, you see.’
‘Skip the excuses. We’re past all that.’
‘Are we?’
‘You haven’t heard the news, then?’
Anybody but Thea would have said What news? But instead, she saved time by saying, ‘Almost certainly not.’
‘Nasty accident on the A44. Our Blackwood man’s PM is happening as we speak, accordingly. Results expected in a couple of hours, with any luck. All systems go, if they show it was homicide – which we assume they will.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you going to be available today? This little matter of the Frowse woman scarpering is very much of interest, and without you, we wouldn’t know about it. And now we’re done with Christmas, it’s going to be all
