Free Trouble in the Cotswolds (The Cotswold Mysteries) by Rebecca Tope Page A

attention and concern. ‘I put the wrong fuel in my car and it died. Stupid. I’ve never done that before.’
    ‘I imagine it’s something a person only does once.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So what are you going to do? Won’t you need somebody here with you?’
    ‘I’ll be all right. It’s not very demanding. Blondie can survive without a walk for a day or two.’
    ‘What about neighbours?’
    ‘There’s a man on that side, who’s going away tomorrow. And on this side there’s just been a funeral. You knew that, I imagine. Did you go to it?’
    Cheryl was scrutinising the room, including the strings of Christmas cards and the well-tended house plants. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I had to be somewhere else.’
    ‘Did you know the man who died, though? Douglas Callendar. He must have lived right next door, because that’s where everyone came afterwards.’ Then she remembered the gossip in the car and knew she’d got it wrong. There was a complication that would normally present no difficulties. But now her understanding seemed to be clouded with something urgent and physical.
    ‘Yes, I knew him – not that I ever saw much of him. He never had a lot of time for socialising.’ She sounded slightly bitter to Thea’s ears. ‘But his house isn’t theone next door,’ Cheryl corrected. ‘He’s got a great big property up towards Snowshill, in the middle of nowhere.’ She was speaking slowly, appearing to Thea to recede in an oddly dreamlike fashion.
    ‘Yes,’ said Thea weakly. She could feel her knees buckling, as she tried to stand up straight and conduct a normal conversation. ‘Um … I think …’ She felt herself swaying, a rushing sound in her head, and the world went a curious pinky-grey colour.

Chapter Five
    It wasn’t a proper faint, she insisted to herself. She felt the floor hit her quite hard on her bottom and shoulders. She felt Cheryl’s hands on either side of her head, pressing and shaking in a decidedly unpleasant and unhelpful fashion. She opened her eyes and saw a nightmare vision of a massive dark-grey head, with loose lower lips showing flashes of pink. A long tongue was coming towards her. ‘Caspar – get back,’ said the woman. ‘That’s not going to help, is it?’
    But Thea was more grateful to the worried dog than she was to its mistress. She looked into the liquid eyes and wanted to stroke the huge head. ‘Pity he’s not a St Bernard,’ she said, idiotically.
    ‘You fainted,’ said Cheryl accusingly.
    ‘I didn’t. I just … I didn’t pass out. I’ll be all right.’ A wave of energising anger swept through her at thesituation. She could not permit herself such weakness. It was embarrassing, humiliating. She sat up. ‘I didn’t have any lunch,’ she said, by way of excuse.
    ‘You’re shaking. Your skin’s all clammy. You’re incredibly pale.’ Cheryl listed the symptoms dispassionately. She pulled her up and half dragged her onto the sofa where the strings of Christmas cards seemed to cut out the light and loom threateningly over her. ‘Lie down,’ Cheryl ordered. ‘Now, you really must have somebody here with you. What if you fall downstairs or something?’
    Thea’s rage grew hotter. ‘There isn’t anybody,’ she said furiously. ‘The world is full of women managing on their own. It’s what we do. Have
you
got somebody to look after you if you catch my flu?’
    ‘Actually, no,’ Cheryl admitted. ‘A son, with a wife and a child, in Norwich. An ex-husband, with a wife and a child, in Manchester. A sister in Devon.’
    ‘There you are, then,’ said Thea. ‘We manage on our own. Like I said.’
    ‘No we don’t. We help each other. Especially at Christmas. It’s a religious festival, after all.’
    Thea imagined the woman and her dog moving in for Christmas, she and Thea feverishly cooking a turkey together and pulling crackers. There was a look in her eye that reminded Thea of her brother Damien, who had embraced the Christian life wholeheartedly,