Death in the Cotswolds Read Online Free

climbed a flight of steep brick steps which followed the tapering line of the chimney itself. Then you turned tightly, to step onto the boarded floor of a largespace which ran the entire length and breadth of the house.
    Phil and his Thea pressed right behind me, making daft jokes about the secret stairway and wondering what they’d find under the roof.
    But they had to wait. As I turned, ready to climb the last few inches into the attic itself, I stopped. The light was quite good, streaming in through the roof window. It showed a transformation that made no sense at all to me.
    ‘Why’ve you stopped?’ demanded Phil. ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Somebody’s been here,’ I said, my heart pounding at the strangeness of what I was seeing.
    ‘What?’ He couldn’t hear me, stuck halfway up the narrow stairway.
    I tried to bend towards him, but it was difficult. I couldn’t bring myself to take the final step. ‘It’s all different,’ I said, a bit louder.
    ‘Well, move then,’ he snapped at me. ‘Let me see.’
    I crawled clumsily onto the boards and sat close to the top of the stairs. I felt cold and scared.
    Phil’s head appeared, and he swivelled, trying to find me. ‘Look!’ I told him. ‘Look at it.’
    He came up higher, turned and hopped up to my side. Only then did he inspect the attic, spread before us like – well, like a film set, perhaps. Or the scene of a very peculiar crime.
    It wasn’t so much a crime scene, I correctedmyself, as a clinically organised hideout. As Phil and I slowly shuffled over, to make space for Thea, the three of us obviously had very diverse reactions to what we were seeing. For myself, I was quite simply stunned. What lay before me was impossible. It was a joke, a cleverly constructed display designed to confuse. For Phil the policeman, it was deeply suspicious. He moved first, walking with head bowed to avoid the low beams of the roof, hands clasped behind his back, giving everything a forensic inspection, careful not to touch. Thea inhaled loudly, excitedly. ‘It’s so clean ,’ she said. ‘Surely…? I mean…?’
    She was right. Everything sparkled in the morning light. None of the dust and cobwebs that even Helen had permitted up there, and which would inevitably have accumulated in the year since her death without a human hand to remove them. The clutter that I had expected to see had all disappeared. ‘Where are her things ?’ I demanded. ‘They’ve all been stolen.’ I thought about the stamp collection, the photo albums and boxes of letters.
    Phil was halfway towards the far wall. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There’s a whole lot of stuff behind this curtain.’ He tweaked at a huge dark blue swathe of chenille. Then he started to enumerate the objects that were carefully arranged on the clean floor in full view. ‘Cushions, lots of them. Silver candlesticks. Tins of food. Paper andpens. Books. China plates. Folding table. My God, look here!’ His hands had become unclasped, and he was using a ballpoint pen, with its cap still on, to flip things open or nudge something aside for a better view. I stared into a neat cardboard box containing objects that I immediately realised had a particular significance. Phil, too, had understood what they were and our eyes met in a startle of memory and apprehension.
    I rubbed my toe on the two-by-eight boards on the floor, which I remembered as having been covered with fine dust the last time I saw them. Now they were insanely clean. I peered down for a closer look. ‘They’ve been sealed ,’ I realised. ‘Or varnished. Why would anybody do that?’
    ‘And when?’ Phil added. We both stared at the floor, until I spotted faint lines in the varnish. When I looked at Phil, it was plain that he’d seen them already.
    ‘What are they?’ I asked.
    ‘Something’s been marked out,’ was all he would say.
    Thea was standing under the Velux, scanning the whole space. She moved to a Tesco carrier bag,