‘Okay,’ Stephanie nodded. ‘And Timmy?’
‘Of course. Timmy’s Percy’s best friend, after all. And he missed out the last time.’ Their Christmas Eve visit to the Frowses seemed a long time ago now, as did Drew’s epic trip to see his mother. Everywhere she looked, Thea saw loose ends and unfinished business. Drew’s mother, especially. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked, then. She had assumed that Drew would be in the kitchen as well.
‘In the office, I think,’ said Stephanie.
The implication was that he was sulking, hiding away from Gladwin because he did not approve of her presence in his house. But there was no sense in trying to placate him yet, since Thea was highly likely to compound her misdeeds further before the day was done. Stephanie was right, of course, in her assumption that at least one of the Frowse family was liable to be taken in for questioning now that it was established that Blackwood had been murdered. Thea wasn’t sure why she had been so slow to grasp that herself. Her momentary relief at realising it would probably work against them to have the man dead had quickly evaporated. They hated him quite strongly enough to override such a consideration.
And Beverley Frowse hated him worst of all.
Only a few minutes after Gladwin and Graham left, Thea thought better of her judgement on Drew, and went to find him. He might be wanting some coffee, even if he was disinclined to speak to her. She tapped lightly on his office door and opened it without waiting for a reply.
He was sitting at his desk, writing on a pad of old-fashioned notepaper. ‘Gosh – is that Basildon Bond?’ she laughed. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘I think Karen gave it to me about fifteen years ago. Or rather, perhaps somebody gave it to both of us as a wedding present. It was in a big blue box with a ribbon attached to one corner. Most of it’s still left, as well as about two dozen blue envelopes.’
‘And you’ve kept it ever since.’ It made her feel fond of him, for some reason.
‘It’s not the sort of thing you can just throw away. It’s excellent quality. I rather wish I was using a fountain pen, to do it justice.’
‘You’re a dinosaur. The only forty-year-old in the land to write a proper letter by hand.’
‘I expect I am. I don’t know why I’m doing it, to be honest. And I won’t be forty for a long time yet.’
‘It can only be a letter to your mother,’ she realised. ‘Better than an email, easier than a phone call. I get it.’
‘Do you?’ He looked up at her for the first time. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘Do you want to tell me what you’re saying to her? Do you think I should put a note in as well?’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘I should, of course. Do I call her “Mother” or “Sandra”?
‘She doesn’t like Sandra much. Her friends – and my father – call her Sandy. I think you’ll have to ask her, not me.’
‘Tell me more about her. I feel stupid, hardly knowing a thing about my own mother-in-law.’
Drew sat back in the chair and nibbled his pen. ‘Well, let’s see … She was born in nineteen fifty and worked in a racing stable before she was married. Some of her horses won big races. She always followed the Grand National and all the rest of them, on the telly when I was little. I never liked horses myself.’
‘Was your father horsey as well?’
‘Not so much. He preferred mechanical things. But they followed the hunt on Boxing Day every year. On foot, not horseback. They never actually owned a horse of their own, which I think my mother still resents to this day.’
‘Boxing Day’s today,’ said Thea, superfluously.
‘Yes, I know. That’s why I’m writing, partly. I was just saying I remember how it was thirty years ago – although I haven’t put the bit where I refused to go with them, when I was about twelve, because I said the hunt was cruel and barbaric and outdated and morally unacceptable. She probably hasn’t forgotten, which means it’s probably daft of me to mention it.’
‘Tricky,’ said Thea. ‘But your side came up trumps in the end. The whole thing’s banned now.’
‘There’ll be people out there today, dragging a pretend fox about and letting their horses and hounds rush about over the wolds, much the same as before. The hope is, of course, that they’ll accidentally stumble on a real one, and accidentally let the hounds go after it.’
‘You think?’ Thea had never given the topic much thought. ‘I get the impression this is going to be quite a long letter, then. Do you want some coffee to fortify you while you write it? Lunch is in about an hour. Leftovers. Including the uneaten Christmas pudding, which isn’t going to be very nice.’
‘It’s bringing an awful lot of stuff back,’ he said, ignoring the inconsequential food talk. ‘Most of it makes me feel horribly guilty. My mother up there, waiting for his funeral all over Christmas. It’s all wrong. What was I thinking, letting it carry on for so long?’
‘You’ve been busy with your own life. It seems to me it was up to them to make the first move. Where were they when Karen died? And before that – when you needed help with the kids? I know it’s not all on one side, but nobody could doubt that they were the pig-headed ones.’ She went to him and cuddled his head against her front. ‘If you ask me, you did what you had to, to survive. I know I’ve never heard the full story, but it’s obvious that they were pretty rubbish parents.’
‘Don’t say that.’ His voice was muffled. ‘They probably did their best. It goes back generations, if you start looking for blame.’
‘Well, I think people can learn
