A Village Murder Read online

  A Village Murder

  A Ham Hill Murder Mystery

  Frances Evesham

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  More from Frances Evesham

  Also by Frances Evesham

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  The Plough

  Adam Hennessy rose early; he had beer taps to polish, a bar to wipe clean and optics to fill. He yawned. He needed to find another barman, fast. The Plough had heaved with thirsty locals last night, and he’d been run off his feet.

  He leaned on a windowsill, as he did every morning, to view Ham Hill above the village, still visible through pouring April rain cascading down the uneven glass of the sixteenth century window.

  He yawned again. Sleep. That’s what he needed. He’d be at The Streamside Hotel all afternoon, for Councillor Jones’ wake; Lower Hembrow’s biggest social event this year. Pity he would be there to serve, not on the guest list.

  Still, if you can’t do a favour for your neighbours, don’t live in an English village.

  Was there time for a nap before lunch?

  He walked through to the private rooms at one end of the long, low building. An easel leaned against the wall of the sitting room, inviting Adam to pick up a brush, but the desire for sleep trumped everything, just now.

  A muffled thump shook the back door. What was that?

  ‘Come in,’ Adam called, heart sinking at the interruption. ‘It’s not locked.’

  No one entered, so he cracked the door open an inch. Ex-detectives know better than to casually throw their doors wide at every knock.

  With an ear-splitting crunch, the safety chain zinged from the door frame and a whirlwind of fur punched Adam in the chest.

  He staggered back, grabbing the door for support. The guided missile, a shaggy brown dog, thudded two muddy paws on his shoulders and washed his face with sticky dribble.

  ‘Get down,’ Adam spluttered. ‘You’ve broken my door.’

  The dog, representing no recognisable breed, took a step back, head on one side, watching Adam’s every move from a pair of huge brown eyes. Apparently satisfied, it slurped water from a puddle on the path.

  It was thin, just skin and bone, and wore no collar.

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  The dog came closer, water dripping from its muzzle.

  Adam hesitated. He didn’t understand dogs. Cats, he liked, but dogs made him nervous.

  He waved an arm towards the garden gate, hoping the dog would leave as suddenly as it had arrived.

  Instead, it settled on its haunches, one paw in the air.

  So much for that nap.

  ‘I suppose you’re hungry.’ Adam strode through the sitting room into the bar, the dog at his heels. ‘You can’t come in the kitchen, though, I’ll lose my licence.’

  He shooed the creature back, kicked the kitchen door shut and pulled a can of corned beef from a shelf. Why on earth had The Plough’s chef ordered it? Adam hated corned beef; had done since childhood. His mother hadn’t been much of a cook.

  He emptied the beef into an old dish and took it outside to his little courtyard garden. The dog, feathery tail swishing, whimpered with delight, buried its head deep in the bowl and hoovered up every scrap of food, as though perfectly at home in The Plough.

  Adam rubbed his chin. Where could this creature have come from, and why had he chosen The Plough for his new home?

  Imogen Bishop floored the accelerator. Her long-suffering Land Rover, gardening equipment clanking in the back, sped through Lower Hembrow. On two wheels, it squealed through the entrance to The Streamside Hotel, narrowly missing one of the Georgian pillars.

  Late for her own father’s funeral? What kind of daughter was she?

  She winced and slowed a fraction, racketing past the hotel’s half-filled car park.

  The Land Rover screeched to a halt at the back of the building. Imogen hauled herself from the driver’s seat, slammed the door, checked her watch for the twentieth time and made a dash for the entrance, calculating. She had just enough time for a quick shower.

  What had possessed her to spend the entire morning pricking out lettuces and tomatoes? Designing the gardens at Haselbury House was her biggest, most prestigious project ever, but she had no need to be there every day. That was the project manager’s job.

  It was too wet for outdoor work today, anyway. Planting potatoes would have to wait for another day, when her father’s funeral was over, the weather had cleared, and Imogen’s head was no longer spinning.

  She leapt up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. She’d been procrastinating all morning, dreading the thought of her father’s burial next to her beloved mother, and she’d almost left it too late.

  She looked away as she passed the door to her father’s bedroom. He’d owned The Streamside Hotel since Imogen was eleven, living in these rooms the whole time, although she’d moved away from the village as soon as she’d left school.

  Before long, she’d have to pluck up the courage to sort his books, collect his reading glasses from the bedside drawer and send his clothes to charity. Those were jobs for another day, when she felt stronger. She’d been in limbo, in a state of shock, ever since that day two weeks ago when the police arrived at her flat with the news of her father’s sudden death.

  The coroner had blamed slippery roads, fly-tipped rubbish and thinning tyres for the accident. One of her father’s oldest friends, he’d made only a brief reference to the level of alcohol in the councillor’s bloodstream.

  Imogen pushed the thought away. No time for that now. She hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with her father for years, but there was no excuse for arriving late at his funeral.

  She showered, scrubbing mud stained hands, knowing she’d never get them properly clean. Finally, dressed in sober black, she piled her wayward red hair precariously on top of her head, crammed a black hat on top, took a deep breath and walked down the stairs at the front of the hotel with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Emily, the hotel manager, stood in the entrance hall.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bishop.’ Emily looked pointedly at her watch. ‘The funeral’s due to start in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Just as well it’s only a hundred yards down the lane.’

  2

  The funeral

  ‘Champagne and mushroom vol-au-vents. Perfect.’ The vicar, Helen Pickles, towered over every other woman, and most men, in the hotel lounge. She patted her substantial stomach. ‘Hardly any calories at all.’ She selected another morsel. ‘Doctor to
ld me to lose twenty pounds or my blood pressure would go through the roof. I told him I didn’t mind meeting my maker sooner rather than later, and if he thought I was going to give up chocolate cake, except for Lent, he could think again.’ She chuckled. ‘And Lent has finished at last. I ate three Easter Eggs on Easter Sunday – thought I might not make it to Evensong.’

  Imogen sipped soda water. ‘Thank you for the funeral, today. It was… lovely.’ That sounded inadequate. How should you describe a funeral?

  The vicar smiled. ‘All part of the service. Pity about the rain, but the hymns went down well, didn’t they?’ She selected another canapé. ‘If you need a sympathetic ear while you find your feet in Lower Hembrow, I have two. Although one doesn’t work as well as before.’ She pulled at her left earlobe. ‘What with the deafness and the blood pressure, and needing reading glasses, I’m falling apart.’

  Imogen hesitated. ‘I’m not sure about staying here, yet. I know nothing about running a hotel. I’m a gardener.’

  Helen swallowed the vol-au-vent. ‘A bit more than just a gardener. I saw that piece about you in Somerset Life last month. Celebrity landscaper, that’s you.’ She wafted a hand in the direction of the young hotel manager. ‘Emily is the most efficient manager I’ve ever known, and I’ve met a few in my line of work. She’ll keep The Streamside Hotel going while you decide what to do.’ Her eyes were kind. ‘I hope you stay, but, of course, it’s your choice. Now, is that a plate of brownies I see over there? How can I possibly resist?’

  Imogen moved from one group of her father’s friends and business acquaintances to another, accepting condolences and making small talk. She tried to eat a canapé but couldn’t swallow. Her throat ached with emotion and tension, but it wasn’t just her father’s sudden death that hurt. Money worries nagged at her. Why hadn’t he told her he was broke?

  He’d left the hotel to her, but it hadn’t made a profit for years, so far as she could see. She hoped she’d misunderstood the accounts. She could barely afford the funeral director’s bills, even with the commission from Haselbury House.

  She joined Councillor Smith, her father’s best friend, his bulbous nose even redder than usual as he mopped his eyes with a giant snowy handkerchief.

  His short, plump wife stroked his hand and peered round the room with beady eyes that registered every guest. ‘Lovely service,’ she remarked to Imogen. ‘I don’t see your husband here. Your father spoke so well of him.’

  Imogen stitched a smile on her face. ‘I’m afraid Greg couldn’t come. Work commitments, you know.’ It sounded lame. She hadn’t contacted Greg, not since they split up, but surely he’d known about the funeral – it had been a headline in the local paper. She’d expected him.

  Mrs Smith sniffed. ‘Such a pity. Still, a lovely service, don’t you think, Eddie?’

  Councillor Smith nodded. ‘Aye, he deserved a good send-off, did Horace.’

  Smith and Jones, Imogen’s late mother had called the two men. Their sixty year friendship ended abruptly when her father’s car skidded, landing in a shattered pile of glass, steel and chrome, upside down on the road just outside Camilton.

  Should Imogen have visited her father more often, checking he was safe to drive at his age? It would have been a waste of time. When had her father ever listened to his daughter’s opinion?

  In recent years, she’d only visited the hotel at Christmas, to exchange wine and chocolates.

  A discreet cough sounded close by. Imogen smiled politely at Councillor Smith and excused herself.

  The man from the pub over the road – Hennessy, that was the name, Adam Hennessy – grinned and held out a laden serving tray.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She stopped. That was rude. ‘Sorry. I thought the hotel staff were serving, today.’

  ‘I’m helping out. Your manager begged me to. She sounded desperate.’

  And somehow forgot to mention the arrangement to Imogen.

  Emily hadn’t exactly welcomed her recent arrival with open arms.

  Adam Hennessy’s round, cheerful face beamed. ‘I come free of charge.’

  A hot blush started at the back of Imogen’s neck and spread across her face.

  ‘Not the right thing to say at a funeral. Come now, we’re both in business. Weddings and funerals, all good for trade. Christenings and bar mitzvahs, not so much. Religion seems to be dying out, although our vicar seems to thrive.’

  It was hard to resist the man’s nonsense. He was… well, the word that sprang to mind was merry. The top of his head barely reached to Imogen’s chin and his eyebrows sloped, like an imp’s. Pale blue eyes twinkled behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair, white and sparse, stood in tufts, as though surprised to find themselves still attached to his scalp.

  He could be a leprechaun, although a very English one. The idea made Imogen smile.

  ‘Now, that’s better.’ He beamed. ‘I always think a funeral should be a celebration of life, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose it should.’

  She added, ‘Councillor Smith was in excellent voice in church. He’s Welsh, of course.’

  ‘And one of the local choir’s best tenors. Not that I know much about singing – I have a sandpaper voice – but the choir’s thriving. They drink in The Plough after rehearsals, and what a thirst they bring – they’ll keep me from going bust.’

  Imogen’s self-control gave way with a crack of laughter.

  Across the room, the mayor glanced her way, eyebrows raised. ‘Lovely service,’ he boomed, repressively.

  ‘Lovely,’ she muttered, choking back another chuckle. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told Adam, embarrassed. ‘It’s not funny. I mean, my father’s dead. I think I’m getting a bit, you know…’

  ‘Hysterical? Nonsense. You’re having a normal human reaction to the funeral. That’s why a wake’s important – to lighten the load after the burial.’ He looked closely at Imogen; eyes bright. ‘Your father was famous around here. Quite the businessman.’

  Was that a compliment? The glint in Adam Hennessy’s eyes didn’t entirely match his words.

  ‘Anyway,’ Imogen regained her dignity, ‘thank you for helping out. It’s much appreciated.’

  He raised one of his peculiar eyebrows. ‘The great and good of Camilton are here in force.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the mayor, who stood four-square in the centre of the room, legs akimbo, telling his usual jokes to an appreciative audience of councillors.

  ‘So I see. And enjoying themselves enormously.’

  At last, stomachs full, heads awhirl with gossip, and cheeks glowing from the effects of wine, the guests raised a final toast to their old colleague and drifted away.

  The sole female councillor, a rising star with hopes of moving into national politics, had allowed herself only one small glass of white wine. She kissed Imogen warmly on the cheek and patted her arm, but their eyes didn’t meet.

  ‘Your dear father set an example to us all. Let’s do lunch. I’ll ring you.’

  Imogen smiled, hiding a twinge of cynicism. She doubted that phone call would ever materialise, for she had none of her father’s clout in the area.

  Adam Hennessy passed close by, winked, and whisked a tray of glasses off to the kitchen. Imogen followed.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said as he loaded the monstrous dishwasher. ‘I should have said that, earlier.’

  She tried not to squirm. He’d lived in Lower Hembrow for a year. He must know she’d hardly ever visited. The village grapevine would make sure of that.

  ‘Mr Hennessy, please don’t do any more work. You’ve already done far too much.’

  ‘Call me Adam.’ The grin transformed his face. He’d make a wonderful Santa Claus at the next Christmas party. If Imogen hadn’t sold the hotel by then…

  She nodded towards the grounds. ‘Come and have a drink in the garden. It’s stopped raining and the sun’s come out at last. I could use some fresh air. Let’s take some of my father’s champagne t
o the orangery.’

  ‘Do you grow oranges? Or maybe pineapples, like wealthy Victorians?’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Oranges, pineapples, limes – you name it and my father’s grown it. He had green fingers and the grounds were his pride and joy. He loved gardening.’

  ‘And you’ve inherited his passion?’

  ‘That and his fear of spiders.’

  Adam swept his arm over the view. ‘You’ll need a team of gardeners for a place like this.’

  ‘Oswald, the head gardener, worked for my father for years. He’s still here, though he must be in his late seventies. I hoped he’d come to the wake – he was invited, and I saw him in church…’ Imogen led the way along the path that wound through her father’s specimen trees.

  The break in weather had not held, and rain set in again as they made their way to the orangery; that cold, driving rain that runs inside coats, soaks trousers and plasters hair to foreheads.

  Imogen fumbled in a pocket. ‘I keep the building locked. I’ve hidden my secret supply of cake here, to keep it safe from the hotel guests. My mother used to keep some in a corner cupboard behind the orange tree and I stocked up as soon as I moved in last week. Do you like fruit cake?’ She twisted the key until the lock clicked, turned the door handle and pushed. ‘It’s stuck,’ she grumbled, glancing at Adam. ‘And I’m afraid you’re soaked.’