all them police cars arrived with
their sirens blazing. Shouldn’t be allowed in a place like this. People come here for peace and quiet, you know.’
Rachel refrained from saying that the area wasn’t some sort of theme park, that people had to conduct their everyday lives
and businesses there. She also noted that the woman showed no curiosity as to why the police cars were causing a disturbance
in the first place. They were led into a small, low-beamed living room decorated in an unexpectedly modern way; bare floorboards,
stark white walls, panels of snowy voile at the windows, and angular modern furniture. Somehow Rachel had expected chintz
– and lots of it.
It was clear from the outset that Rachel and Steve wouldn’t be invited to make themselves at home. The woman made no move
to sit on the white linen sofa but stood there, arms folded in front of her brightly patterned chest.
‘Do you live here, madam, or are you here on holiday?’ Rachel began, sensing that the woman wasn’t going to make it easy for
her.
‘Neither,’ was the non-committal reply. Her accent wasn’t local: somewhere near London, Rachel guessed.
Steve, not setting much store by etiquette, sat himself down on what appeared to be a modern take on the traditional director’s
chair. The woman shot him a hostile glance but said nothing.
Rachel rephrased the question. ‘Is this your house?’
‘No.’ There was a pause. The woman’s silky blouse undulated around her ample bosom as she shifted her stance.
‘Well, can you explain what you’re doing here?’ asked Rachel with a touch of impatience in her voice. She was tired of guessing
games. Steve looked across at her and grinned. It wasn’t often Rachel lost her cool.
‘We’re house-sitting. Me and my Alec. Answered an advert, we did. We look after people’s places when they’re away.’
‘So the owners employ you to look after this cottage?’ The woman nodded impatiently. ‘And how long have you been here?’
‘Since October. They just come here for the summer, you see. They live in London most of the time, but they’re in Tuscany
at the moment.’
‘All right for some,’ mumbled Steve automatically. Rachel turned and gave him a withering look.
She asked the woman’s name, and was told reluctantly that it was Gloria Treadly. Rachel, like the heroine in the story of
Rumpelstiltskin who gained the upper hand over her tormentor once she knew his name, at last felt she was getting somewhere.
‘And do you know the owners of theOld Vicarage?’ she continued more confidently.
Gloria Treadly shook her head. ‘Some old colonel and his la-di-da lady. Never talked to the likes of us unless they wanted
something. Up for sale now, it is. They’ve gone off to the south of France,’ she added bitterly. Rachel diagnosed a bad case
of social envy here. She wondered whether looking after the holiday homes of the rich was really the right job for Gloria
Treadly.
She returned to the matter in hand. ‘A body was discovered in a field near here yesterday and we’re treating the death as
suspicious. Have you noticed anything unusual at all? Or seen any strange vehicles parked in the lane?’
Steve took out his notebook and sat on the edge of the uncomfortable-looking modern chair expectantly.
‘There’s been all sorts of comings and goings what with the Old Vicarage being up for sale. All them car engines … it’s like living on a main road. There’s been this big BMW going into the drive at all sorts of times and other cars racing
up and down. Not that I have time to stand and watch, of course,’ she added righteously.
Steve and Rachel exchanged looks. For someone who claimed to have seen nothing, Gloria Treadly was surprisingly well informed.
‘And did you see any cars around on Wednesday afternoon or evening?’
Rachel, tired of standing, sank down into a nearby chair, a blue plastic specimen that hadn’t been designed with the
their sirens blazing. Shouldn’t be allowed in a place like this. People come here for peace and quiet, you know.’
Rachel refrained from saying that the area wasn’t some sort of theme park, that people had to conduct their everyday lives
and businesses there. She also noted that the woman showed no curiosity as to why the police cars were causing a disturbance
in the first place. They were led into a small, low-beamed living room decorated in an unexpectedly modern way; bare floorboards,
stark white walls, panels of snowy voile at the windows, and angular modern furniture. Somehow Rachel had expected chintz
– and lots of it.
It was clear from the outset that Rachel and Steve wouldn’t be invited to make themselves at home. The woman made no move
to sit on the white linen sofa but stood there, arms folded in front of her brightly patterned chest.
‘Do you live here, madam, or are you here on holiday?’ Rachel began, sensing that the woman wasn’t going to make it easy for
her.
‘Neither,’ was the non-committal reply. Her accent wasn’t local: somewhere near London, Rachel guessed.
Steve, not setting much store by etiquette, sat himself down on what appeared to be a modern take on the traditional director’s
chair. The woman shot him a hostile glance but said nothing.
Rachel rephrased the question. ‘Is this your house?’
‘No.’ There was a pause. The woman’s silky blouse undulated around her ample bosom as she shifted her stance.
‘Well, can you explain what you’re doing here?’ asked Rachel with a touch of impatience in her voice. She was tired of guessing
games. Steve looked across at her and grinned. It wasn’t often Rachel lost her cool.
‘We’re house-sitting. Me and my Alec. Answered an advert, we did. We look after people’s places when they’re away.’
‘So the owners employ you to look after this cottage?’ The woman nodded impatiently. ‘And how long have you been here?’
‘Since October. They just come here for the summer, you see. They live in London most of the time, but they’re in Tuscany
at the moment.’
‘All right for some,’ mumbled Steve automatically. Rachel turned and gave him a withering look.
She asked the woman’s name, and was told reluctantly that it was Gloria Treadly. Rachel, like the heroine in the story of
Rumpelstiltskin who gained the upper hand over her tormentor once she knew his name, at last felt she was getting somewhere.
‘And do you know the owners of theOld Vicarage?’ she continued more confidently.
Gloria Treadly shook her head. ‘Some old colonel and his la-di-da lady. Never talked to the likes of us unless they wanted
something. Up for sale now, it is. They’ve gone off to the south of France,’ she added bitterly. Rachel diagnosed a bad case
of social envy here. She wondered whether looking after the holiday homes of the rich was really the right job for Gloria
Treadly.
She returned to the matter in hand. ‘A body was discovered in a field near here yesterday and we’re treating the death as
suspicious. Have you noticed anything unusual at all? Or seen any strange vehicles parked in the lane?’
Steve took out his notebook and sat on the edge of the uncomfortable-looking modern chair expectantly.
‘There’s been all sorts of comings and goings what with the Old Vicarage being up for sale. All them car engines … it’s like living on a main road. There’s been this big BMW going into the drive at all sorts of times and other cars racing
up and down. Not that I have time to stand and watch, of course,’ she added righteously.
Steve and Rachel exchanged looks. For someone who claimed to have seen nothing, Gloria Treadly was surprisingly well informed.
‘And did you see any cars around on Wednesday afternoon or evening?’
Rachel, tired of standing, sank down into a nearby chair, a blue plastic specimen that hadn’t been designed with the
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