By Rebecca Tope
Undertaker Drew Slocombe isn't having a great day. His company is failing, the automobile wishes an MOT (safety inspection) and he’s using one hundred twenty miles to the Cotswolds to hold out the overdue Greta Simmonds’ ultimate needs. regrettably, while he will get there, a string of bureaucratic error implies that he’s now the manager suspect of a homicide inquiry. He’s commencing to want he had by no means heard of Greta Simmonds. Thea Osborne and her dependable spaniel Hepzie are nonetheless pursuing their career as house-sitters, regardless of the disastrous incidents of the prior. for the time being they're staying in Greta Simmonds’ apartment, that is presently among possession. Thea is torn among relocating again domestic or looking ahead to the execution of the desire. in any case, she does have awesome funds due. Then the invention of a physique in a close-by box takes the choice out of Thea’s arms, and he or she unearths herself embroiled in a homicide research once more. Having befriended the police’s purely suspect, Drew Slocombe, Thea believes him to be blameless. As Thea and Drew interact to transparent his identify, it slowly dawns on them that during a village simmering with secrets and techniques, a way and a purpose should be laid at anybody’s door.
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Additional resources for A Grave in the Cotswolds
You are so patently in the wrong that words fail me,’ he sneered. ‘I can see we’re getting nowhere here. ’ ‘It won’t do you any good,’ I retorted hotly. ‘Do what you like, you won’t get any money out of me. You might try Mrs Simmonds’ family, although I very much doubt that you’d have much luck. Give it up, Mr Maynard. ’ A new thought occurred to me. ’ I was on doubtful ground here, but knew vaguely there was some such rule. ‘Twelve,’ he snapped. ‘It’s twelve. And she would have to be able to prove constant usage throughout that time.
Nothing vital had been destroyed, and at first the doctors had assured us that her periods of blankness and problems with eating and sleeping were the result of trauma, rather than physical damage. The very fact of her still being alive had carried us through several euphoric weeks. And she did slowly get better, although the lack of appetite persisted and the resultant loss of weight alarmed me. She had always had lovely creamy shoulders and neck, well padded for a child’s head to rest on. She had been strong and nurturing, a perfect wife and mother.
The children had no plans for the weekend. They would watch too much television, but also play with the chaotic jumble of toys in their bedroom, Stephanie herding her Playmobil figures on and off the brick trains that Timothy fashioned for them. Karen might read to them or organise some cutting and sticking, or drawing. Or she might not. They were unlikely to go outside, any of them. Karen had once grown most of our vegetables, but somehow that had all withered away since her injury. If I had been at home, I might have taken them on a walk by the old canal, watching the nesting birds and pointing out the new spring flowers.