Free A Grave in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope

already a permanent part of my image of her, a kind of daemon, automatically going everywhere with her. Except she had not been at the funeral the day before – left in the car or Mrs Simmonds’ house, I supposed.
    ‘Murder,’ I managed to mutter. ‘Murder most foul.’
    ‘I wasn’t going to look,’ she said. ‘I forgot, when Jessica said about the stone. It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?’
    I nodded. ‘Poor chap.’
    ‘I suppose you’re used to it – seeing broken and bloody bodies, I mean.’
    ‘Not really. I mean…you could never exactly get used to it, and I’ve never encountered one so…well, fresh .’
    ‘Mm.’ She turned away, her lips pulled back, her nostrils flexing, creating a vivid expression of disgust and distress.
    ‘I didn’t do it, I promise you.’ It seemed important to say it, to make every effort to keep her on my side. ‘The thing is, he probably had quite a few enemies if he was the same with everyone else as he was with me. I suppose I shouldn’t say it, but he did seem a bit of a pest.’
    ‘But it happened today ,’ she almost moaned. ‘That’s the trouble.’
    ‘Yes. And your daughter’s convinced she’s solved it before he’s even cold.’
    ‘I’m so sorry. Jessica isn’t really as – well, rigid as she seems. She’s actually perfectly nice.’
    ‘I believe you,’ I said with a tight smile at this endearing attempt at fairness. ‘I’m sure it’s all my own fault.’
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ she smiled back.
    But I meant it. It did feel as if I’d brought it all down on myself somehow or other. I should have made sure the car was legal, for a start. As I traced events back, this seemed an important element. With new tyres and current tax disc, Jessica would never have spoken to me. I would have bade farewell to Thea with no further conversation, and therefore not have been invited to join them for lunch. And I definitely should have checked that Mrs Simmonds was the rightful owner of that field. That, more than anything, now appeared crucial. I’d been sloppy and negligent, and see where it had got me.
    I shrugged. ‘Logically, I think I’m right,’ I told my new friend. ‘But thanks for sticking up for me.’
    We walked up and down the road, with an idea of keeping the dog occupied, but could not avoid repeated glances at the crime scene. One of the first procedures was to erect a sort of tent over the body, which was made difficult by the strong wind, corners of it flapping wildly. I found myself hoping that any particles that might have come from me during my earlier encounter with Mr M had already blown away. At least, I thought glumly, there could be none of Mr Maynard’s blood anywhere on my person.
    A man arrived and, after a few false starts, was accosted by Jessica and apprised of the situation. She indicated me, where I remained on the verge, beginning to feel rather shivery. He walked up to me, his eyes narrow. ‘Detective Inspector Basildon,’ he introduced himself. ‘I understand you are Mr Drew Slocombe.’
    ‘Right,’ I agreed, resisting the impulse to put out a hand for him to shake.
    ‘And you can identify the deceased?’
    I shrugged self-effacingly. ‘Mr Maynard from the council – that’s all I know.’
    ‘And that’s very helpful, sir.’
    ‘And I might as well tell you I walked through this gate, over more or less the exact spot where he is now, at about twelve-fifteen today.’
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, with an impressively straight face.
    ‘I’m an undertaker, and I live in Somerset,’ I carried on, intent on getting the basics out of the way. ‘I conducted a funeral here yesterday, in a field a short distance from this spot. There was a problem over ownership of the land and I was called back today – a round trip of a hundred and twenty miles – to be told off by Mr Maynard. Officer Osborne witnessed Mr Maynard walking away after our conversation, and I told her afterwards that I wished people like him