Blood in the Cotswolds Read Free Page B

scents of ripening grass and warm wood on all sides,sounds of distant lawnmowers and bleating sheep. ‘It could be a hundred years ago,’ said Thea. ‘Except for the lawnmowers.’
    ‘If this is global warming, bring it on,’ said Phil, aware that this was something he said slightly too often, and with a lurch of guilt every time.
    ‘Easy to say,’ she reproached mildly. ‘But you know perfectly well it isn’t something to celebrate. All the same, it’s hard to argue with regular long hot summers. The Edwardians had them, after all.’
    ‘And what about the Knights Templar?’ he wondered. ‘Did they have good summers, as well?’
    She shook her head. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ll look it up and let you know.’
        
    They walked a mile or so along the Windrush, much to Hepzie’s joy. The sense of perfection persisted for all three of them. Landscape, buildings, weather – it all came together to bathe them in a pure sensory harmony that combined with the physical delights of the morning to reinforce a growing conviction that they toobelonged together. Phil could hear Thea’s thoughts, hoping perversely that she wouldn’t utter them. Nothing needed to be said, as they meandered with linked arms, pressed closely together, savouring the best that England could offer. If niggling recollections of the working week ahead, the existence of malevolent forces, the fragile edifice of civilisation teetering on the brink of some cataclysm intruded into his thoughts, he firmly pushed them away. Stay in the moment, he adjured himself. Whatever might happen, there’ll always be this glorious afternoon to hold on to.

Chapter Two
    They got back to Hector’s Nook shortly after four, and sat outside with mugs of tea, watching Miss Deacon’s two horses in a good-sized paddock behind the garage and extending up to the road. Thea had checked that there was water in their trough, and given each a pat on the neck, before going to make the tea. Now she and Phil were lounging on the small patch of lawn at the corner of the house, surrounded by low maintenance shrubs, the willows screening them from the front. ‘Miss Deacon doesn’t like gardening,’ Thea remarked. ‘She says it’s pathetic. Those willows were just sticks that she bought on a whim. She rammed them in, along the edge of the grass, and in three years they were trees.’
    ‘Pathetic?’ The word had snagged his attention.‘How does she work that out?’
    ‘Something about it being a substitute for real creativity and a forlorn attempt at immortality.’
    ‘You seem to remember a lot of her quotes. How long did you have together before she left for Argentina?’
    ‘A couple of hours. She does talk a bit like a book of aphorisms. I liked the way she’s obviously thought about everything, and not just adopted other people’s ideas.’
    ‘Like you,’ he said.
    She looked at him, eyes wide. ‘Me?’
    ‘Thea, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you utter a cliché,’ he smiled, reaching for her hand. ‘You’re an original, same as this Miss Deacon.’
    ‘Oh.’ She swilled the last drops of tea around the bottom of the mug. ‘Nobody’s ever told me that before.’
    ‘You’re surprised?’
    ‘A bit. But in a nice way. It must be good to be an original – I suppose.’
    ‘Of course it is. It makes you more real than most people.’
    She shushed him with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s a car coming down the track,’ she said. ‘What a nuisance.’
    ‘Perhaps they won’t see us if we keep still,’ he suggested.
    ‘Too late.’ Thea tipped her chin towards Hepzie, who had gone trotting towards the sound, long tail wagging in welcome. ‘She loves new people. Besides, whoever it is’ll see our cars and know we’re both here.’ The car engine was loudly evident now, the tyres crunching on the gravel in front of the house.
    ‘You go, then,’ he said ungallantly. ‘You’re better with visitors than me.