Slaughter in the Cotswolds Read Online Free PDF Page A

motives for employing somebody to take care of one’s house, she had discovered. The pets and livestock often turned out to be quite incidental to the real reason for importing a guardian. Simmering at the back of her mind were the comments made by the Angells about property development and the conflicts that were bound to ensue. Quite how any of that could possibly affect her, she wasn’t sure. Probably it wouldn’t. But now that she knew about it, she felt she ought to be on the alert.
    It was impossible to know which of the peopleshe encountered were on holiday, and which lived in Lower Slaughter permanently. She suspected the vast majority fell into the former category. Cotswold villages appeared to possess remarkably few permanent residents. Even those who did officially reside there were off down the motorway at seven in the morning, and didn’t come back for a good twelve hours. To count them as ‘residents’ hardly seemed accurate.
    But the one approaching her now was surely an exception. Not that he had straw in his hair or string tied round the knees of his trousers, but he certainly wasn’t in the clean shirt and slacks of the typical tourist. He was wearing a khaki flannel garment that looked rather warm for August, crumpled at the collar and bunchily tucked into his jeans – which had a narrow tear across one knee, exposing pale-coloured threads. He met her eyes from a distance of several yards, his head slightly cocked in a friendly question. Why, she wondered later, had he singled her out for curiosity when she was surely indistinguishable from any other self-catering visitor? But during the encounter, the only thing she wondered was how anybody could have such a vivid shade of blue to their eyes. They were gentian blue, the colour glowing in a tanned face. As she held their gaze, the blueness seemed to outshine every other hue in their surroundings. There was red on thebuildings, yellow and purple in the gardens and hanging baskets, green above and below – but the man’s eyes were impossibly, inhumanly, blue.
    He was about her own age, not particularly tall or slim or muscular. He smiled lightly, and nodded a greeting. ‘Morning,’ he said, as they passed. His voice was deep and rich.
    ‘Hello,’ she answered. Hepzie tugged at the lead, wanting to contribute to the exchange. The man took no notice of the dog.
    It was over in seconds. Thea walked on slowly, blinking at the momentary dazzlement. So he had blue eyes – what of it? Phil Hollis had blue eyes as well, come to that. Phil would hold her gaze and bare his soul and invite her attention and love. There was no space in her life for sudden startling corneal intimacy with a scruffy stranger.
    She increased her pace, letting the dog have more freedom on the extendable lead. The pretty river did its rivery thing, twinkling tidily between trim stone embankments and beneath charming little bridges. The slough after which the villages had been named was firmly channelled and drained and long forgotten. The essence of the Cotswolds was thriving here, everything safe and predictable and lovely.
    She bought an ice cream at the shop, wishing it sold wine and olives as well, and turned back to Schloss Angell, alias Hawkhill Farm. The firstthing she did on arriving was to go to the utility area beyond the kitchen and open the chest freezer. Two plucked and prepared pheasants caught her eye. She would cook them for her sister. Somehow they seemed just right for the occasion.

CHAPTER THREE
    Emily arrived at three, pausing in the gateway as if unsure that she’d come to the right place. Thea was on a rickety garden bench, which had small patches of lichen growing on it to give witness to its extreme age. She sat outside because it was August, and she wanted to watch out for Emily, but it was a chilly vigil, with clouds gathering in the west and a spiteful little breeze blowing.
    Along with the Angells’ bored dogs, she watched her sister park the shiny