Read Online Revenge in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope - Free Book Online

wondered why Art had been so concerned to have his daughter home. Why not encourage her to stay and support her friend instead? It was as if he feared for her safety. Or perhaps it was merely that he wanted to console her,having heard acute distress in her voice. In any case, Thea hoped she would see them all again. She had liked the Whiteacres very much indeed.
     
    The Fosters’ house was serenely Sunday-morningish when she got back. A bird was singing in a birch tree in the back garden and daffodil heads were starting to change their angle from vertical to horizontal, indicating an imminent opening into trumpets. A man called Danny was dead in a quarry and would never see such delights again. From the very little she knew of him, she assumed he had enjoyed the natural world, since he was working to protect it. Like her own dead Carl, who had been a conservationist before anything else, the fact of an early death was all the more terrible for knowing that this was somebody who would have made excellent use of a long life.
    The dogs had been badly cheated, too. There had been nothing by way of a walk. No new smells or interesting encounters. They had been left in the car together – which had done nothing for their relationship. Corgi and spaniel each curled into a corner, as far from one another as possible. Hepzie leapt out as soon as the door opened, but Gwennie had to be helped down, her body unbending and her short legs unequal to the task of jumping anywhere. She made straight for her familiar basket and sat in it, breathing heavily. There was a subtle air of outrage about her.
    ‘Come on, Heps,’ said Thea. ‘Let’s go up to the church or somewhere for a bit. You can probably go loose, if you promise to behave yourself.’ This was unfair, she realised, and added, ‘You’ve been a very good dog up to now.’ Memories of the extremely bad behaviour in Stanton made her shudder and resolve to keep a closer eye on the two. Leaving them alone in the car had been rather reckless, on reflection.
    There were still plenty of walks they could take in the coming days and she was resolute in her intention to explore them. Westwards lay Duntisbourne Leer, with a more southerly diversion into a large woodland. Beyond that lay Sapperton and Daneway, which she had visited nearly three years earlier with her sister Jocelyn, when they were house-sitting together in Frampton Mansell. That seemed a long time ago, with so many adventures in between, but the chat with Sheila Whiteacre had revived the memories and they now raced vividly through her mind.
    That area, in the lower left-hand corner of the Cotswolds map, was wooded and secretive, the levels as dramatically uneven as any she’d since encountered. Starkly contrasting with the open sweeps around Snowshill and the rootedness of Winchcombe, she remembered the Frampton Mansell experience as one of sudden shocks and passions, both personal and geographical. The constantly changing landscape, from wide open wolds to hidden glimpses of long-gone industry, by way of country lanes andcharacterful churches, was unfailingly appealing. Every mile contained a wealth of interest, enough for a day’s contemplation and enjoyment. She didn’t have to concern herself with a dead man in a quarry. It had nothing whatever to do with her.
    But the image that persistently floated before her inner eye was that of the red-haired farmer, Jack Handy. Red-haired and red-faced, as he raged about the protesters. He wouldn’t shed any tears over the death of one of the leading members of the group, that was for sure.
    The walk up the gentle rise to the church was brief, but pleasantly distracting. Daglingworth had its own quirks, the best of which was a garden at the central road junction, raised considerably above ground level and full of many different herbs. They were at head height, flopping over the wall beside the road. Rosemary, mint, marjoram were easy to identify, but others were either too