A Village Murder Page 6

  And there they were.

  Her heart sank. The pictures confirmed her worst suspicions. The golden beauty, Gold of Kinabalu, was protected, and found only in Malaysia’s Kinabalu National Park. For her father to have an example, it must have been stolen. Surely, he knew that.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘What were you up to?’

  She found others, too. An intensely rare pygmy Rwandan water lily, the smallest water lily in the world, growing in hot mud at Kew Gardens, had been stolen years ago. It was tiny, but after squinting until her eyes hurt, she discovered one in the painting.

  If an example had existed at the hotel, it incriminated her father. She hoped he’d done nothing more sinister than spend ridiculous amounts of money on rare plants, simply for the love of them. That would be understandable, if illegal – handling stolen goods was a crime. She sighed. Even if he’d paid for them, he’d surely know the plants had been stolen.

  She sat back, face creased in thought, as she searched for another explanation, re-reading the conditions needed for growing the water lily. The grounds at The Streamside Hotel featured plenty of mud, especially today, but it certainly wasn’t heated to the seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit the plant needed.

  A different thought struck her. Perhaps the artist – Daniel – had added plants to the painting that could never have been there?

  The seed of hope grew. Her father may have been innocent. Perhaps he’d asked Daniel to include flowers he’d love to own.

  The next step had to be his desk. If she found a legitimate invoice or receipt, she could relax. It would prove her father had bought the plants through legal channels.

  She’d already glanced through it once, soon after he died. In the first trawl, she’d found one or two private letters amongst the Christmas cards from friends, acquaintances and other councillors.

  Once again, she read the letter from Imogen’s mother to her father, before their wedding. ‘The man I can’t wait to marry,’ her mother had called him.

  Imogen set it aside, stroking the paper with one finger. She’d keep it safe. It helped to know her parents had been truly in love. Her father couldn’t have been all bad, if someone like her mother had loved him.

  She searched again, for any trace of buying or selling plants, but found none.

  Once more, she skimmed through the hotel’s accounts. The place was definitely in trouble. Well, she’d discovered a possible reason. Perhaps her father’s money had disappeared into the pockets of unscrupulous plant thieves.

  Suddenly light-headed, she could hardly remember what she was trying to prove.

  She neatened the piles of paper and slipped them into a fat filing box. Her father was dead, and safe from prosecution, whatever he’d done. But Imogen knew she couldn’t leave it there. She had to know more.

  11

  Bills

  What should Adam do with this dog? He knew so little about the creatures. They leapt and bounced, knocking things off tables with their tails, tongues hanging out, dribbling.

  Cats were so much easier to deal with. Augustus, Adam’s ancient tabby, had been self-sufficient, his only demands a ready supply of food and water and easy access to the outdoor world. The truth, Adam had to admit, was that he missed Augustus. Maybe that was why he’d let this dog into his life – in the vain hope of filling an Augustus shaped hole.

  This dog had a few good points, it was true. He was friendly, for one thing, and his big, brown eyes gazed at Adam with a heart-warming expression. On the other hand, he’d ruined Adam’s sofa, peed on the carpet and shed rough hairs everywhere. And no matter how often Adam attached a lead to the brand new collar, and let the dog drag him round the village, the creature showed no sign of tiring. At this rate, Adam would be walking for hours every day – and he was longing to paint.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he sighed.

  The dog galloped to the door.

  Maria Rostropova’s car drew up outside as they left. She leaned, waving, from the window.

  ‘May I walk with you?’

  ‘I was taking this creature across to the hotel. Mrs Bishop knows about dogs. I planned to ask the vet to find him a home, but I weakened.’

  Maria jumped from the car, her face a picture of horror. ‘Nonsense. You can’t possibly do that. He’s come to you. It’s karma. It means he’s chosen you and he’s your responsibility now. Come, both of you, walk with me.’

  Adam had no choice, for the dog trotted behind Maria, eyes fixed on her as though on a goddess. He gave the lead one last, hopeless twitch, trying to persuade the animal to cross the road to the hotel, but the dog was determined. Adam, with no intention of staging a tug of war in the middle of the village, gave in as gracefully as possible.

  Maria chattered in her charming, broken English, waving at every passer-by and stopping to plant a kiss on the cheek of one lucky man. ‘My gardener,’ she confided to Adam, fluttering her fingers in the air. ‘He charges me so little…’

  Adam tried to imagine Imogen Bishop kissing one of her staff in lieu of payment.

  ‘Now, my darling Adam,’ Maria had taken his arm. ‘Let’s make the arrangements for our wonderful concert in your, er, what do you call your garden?’

  ‘A beer garden.’

  ‘Ah.’ Maria patted his hand. ‘Perhaps we could call it something else. A musical space, perhaps. You do not…’ She stopped and turned to look Adam in the eye. ‘You do not have those horrid gnomes in your garden, do you?’

  With a straight face, Adam shook his head. ‘No gnomes.’

  ‘Good.’ Maria walked on.

  ‘When were you thinking of staging the concert?’

  ‘Shh.’ Maria held up a finger. ‘Wait. A wonderful idea has come to me.’ She shrugged. ‘Now, this Mrs Bishop from the hotel. Perhaps she would like to be part of the event? After all, she has lost her father and husband. I feel we should be kind to her – make her welcome in the village. Don’t you agree?’

  She turned her radiant smile on Adam. ‘Perhaps she could supply a little food from her kitchens. The publicity would be wonderful, and she will be worried about the business.’

  ‘She will?’

  ‘Of course, she will. Who would want to come to a hotel where people die?’

  The last word, delivered in a deep contralto, was accompanied by a dramatic sweep of the arm.

  ‘Still, if you think it a bad plan, I will forget it. I always listen to you, my dear Adam.’

  He rather doubted that. Maria’s head always seemed full of her own plans, leaving little space for the opinions of other people. Did she make use of Adam? Of course, she did, but he could forgive her everything when she smiled at him.

  They walked on in companionable silence, until they turned a corner and a black-clad figure appeared. Maria gave a sharp intake of breath, her grip on Adam’s arm tight.

  ‘Councillor Smith,’ she hissed.

  Adam recognised one of Councillor Jones’ old friends. The man had thoroughly enjoyed his old friend’s funeral, so much so that he’d been forced to lean on his wife’s arm as he left, cheeks purple-blotched from his champagne intake.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Rostropova.’ The councillor nodded briefly at Adam, but his gaze remained fixed on Maria. ‘How good to see you again.’

  Ice sharpened Maria’s voice. ‘Good afternoon.’

  She tried to walk past the man, but he stepped sideways, blocking her path. ‘I believe we have some business to attend to. I was expecting to see you in my office, yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Councillor,’ Maria, her tone warming, fluttered her eyelashes. ‘It completely went out of my head. So many dreadful things have happened, lately. The funeral of poor dear Horace upset me dreadfully.’

  ‘Poor Horace indeed,’ the councillor nodded, briskly, ‘but business is business, dear lady. I will tell my staff to send another appointment. I look forward to seeing you then.’ He shot a sharp glance at Adam, commented, ‘Nice dog,’ and walked away.

  Hair on the
back of the dog’s neck had risen.

  ‘Well,’ Maria fanned herself with one hand. ‘That one is not – how do you say it – not gentlemanly. Not at all.’

  Adam licked his lips. ‘Are you in trouble, Maria?’ he began, but she waved away his concern.

  ‘Poof. The man cares only for business. Horace found him quite impossible.’

  Horace? How close had Maria Rostropova been to Imogen’s father? Was there some relationship between the two?

  Adam said, ‘Councillor Jones – Horace – was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Maria had regained much of her self-control. ‘A friend. Nothing more, of course.’ Her cheeks bore a delicate pink flush. ‘Now, dear Adam, let us discuss our wonderful musical evening.’

  ‘In a moment. First, I need you to tell me a little about Horace Jones.’

  She tossed her head. ‘What do you want to know? We had a wonderful rapport. We shared a few projects…’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  Her tinkling laugh sounded strained.

  ‘Come, Maria. If you are in difficulty, let me help.’

  She walked in silence for a few yards. ‘Very well, I will tell you. My old friend, Horace, helped me out with a small loan. You see, I had, perhaps, extended myself a little too far. My cottage is so beautiful. So English. But the roof – oh, I had no idea how much a thatched roof would cost. I bought the cottage with money left to me by my dear departed second husband, but then the bills began to come in.’ She sighed. ‘How can I, a poor immigrant widow, be expected to understand English ways? The thatcher was a villain. A villain – he told me the job would cost this much,’ she held up her hand, thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. ‘Then, when the work was under way, he told me it would cost this much.’ Her hands moved a few inches away from each other. ‘Finally, he refused to finish the work unless I paid a bill – a ridiculous bill, for this much.’ Her voice rose in a wail, her arms held a full yard apart.

  She leaned her face close to Adam, brilliant blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. ‘He is a crook, that workman. And what is worse, I discover he works for that man.’ She pointed to the corner around which the councillor had disappeared. ‘Yes, Adam, I owe that man money. Luckily, my friend Horace Jones helped me out. He was a gentleman. He loaned me enough to pay some of the bill, but that terrible man—’

  ‘Councillor Smith?’

  ‘Yes, the beast, he still wants more money.’

  ‘That you owe him. For the building work?’

  Maria slipped an elegant hand into her clutch bag and extracted a delicate lace handkerchief, with which she dabbed at her eyes. ‘A little. I owe a little, but if I cannot pay, he will sue me for so much I will have to sell the house.’ She sighed tragically. ‘And then, I will be homeless.’

  Adam nodded. ‘And this musical evening – which you want me to hold on my land – will be used to pay off your debts?’

  Maria shot him a glance under her lashes.

  He sighed. She was very beautiful, despite the lack of moral scruples.

  ‘Only a little. Most of the money will go to charity, of course.’

  He interrupted. ‘All of it, my dear. If I let you use my land, I will handle the receipts.’

  Her face fell. She shrugged. ‘Very well, dear Adam. I will give everything,’ she waved one arm in a dramatic, sweeping gesture, ‘everything to my charity.’ She dabbed again. ‘I will have to leave my home, unless I can raise the funds.’

  ‘Have you tried a mortgage?’

  ‘How can I? I have so little income of my own.’ She placed one hand on her heart and whispered, ‘I will be destitute, Adam.’

  Fear shone in her eyes.

  He took her hand. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But I won’t break the law. Let me think about it.’

  They turned and retraced their steps. As they reached The Plough, Maria planted a soft kiss on his cheek and Adam inhaled a gust of intoxicating perfume.

  She drove away, anxiety wiped from her features. Her troubles were over now she’d found another man to solve her problems.

  Adam shook his head. If only she were less beautiful, the tilt of her head less charming, her figure less enticing. His pension was enough for his needs, now the pub was thriving. If he chose to lend money to a lovely, feckless woman who enchanted him and let him pretend she cared for him – well, who could blame him; even if he never saw it again.

  12

  Water lily

  Adam was on his knees in the back room, grimly mopping up a trail of water left across the floor, when Imogen knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in.’ He beckoned with one hand, still gripping a wet tea towel in the other. ‘This dog is nothing but trouble.’

  The animal greeted Imogen with a rush of open-mouthed enthusiasm. Rising on his hind legs, he planted his paws on her shoulders, almost sending her flying.

  ‘Down.’ Adam’s voice was stern. He glared, as fiercely as he could, and the dog subsided. ‘Get back,’ Adam went on, waving the damp tea towel towards the tiny back porch. ‘Get in your bed.’

  Adam fiddled about with coffee while Imogen sank into one of his chairs.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘this is more comfortable than any in the hotel. They were chosen for appearances. They look squashy, but once you’re in, it’s a struggle to get out.’

  ‘It stops the patrons leaving. Good for business.’

  She gave a peal of laughter. Adam liked the sound. She hadn’t laughed much, so far. Not surprising, really. Finding your husband dead in the garden would knock anyone off balance.

  Adam allowed the dog to return from banishment, ‘So long as you sit quietly.’

  The animal settled on Adam’s feet, and he felt a sudden rush of affection. It was nice to be liked.

  ‘You didn’t come to see me to ask after the dog, did you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wanted to ask about your gallery owner. And…’ she paused, as if hesitant to go on. ‘I need your advice.’

  She picked up her bag, and pulled out one of her textbooks. It flipped open and she took out a scrap of paper. Adam glanced over her shoulder at the list of scribbled plant names. They meant nothing to him.

  ‘These are some of the flowers I saw in the painting. They’re rare – and stolen.’

  Another long pause. He waited until she took a deep breath and finished in a rush of words.

  ‘I think my father might have been involved in the thefts.’

  Adam took a moment to think. He’d expected her to talk about her husband. Instead, she seemed obsessed with her father and these plants. Was that because the subject of Greg’s death was too painful, or was there another reason?

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve seen some of the hotel accounts. The place is in debt. I think my father used hotel funds to buy illegal plants.’ She told him how she’d tracked down the orchid and water lily. ‘They shouldn’t be in my father’s possession at all.’ She held out the list. ‘Can you find out more? Like,’ she seemed to find it hard to continue, ‘did my father have stolen property, or maybe Daniel just added the flowers into the painting?’

  Adam took the list, leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking. Daniel. She’d mentioned him before, and there was an odd, self-conscious look on her face when she said the name.

  ‘Tell me more about Daniel,’ he asked. ‘Did you have a relationship?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘I suppose I should expect that from a detective,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing. ‘It’s not really any of your business.’

  ‘Ex-detective,’ Adam corrected her. ‘And it’s not my business, but you asked for my help. Please, don’t take me for a fool.’

  She looked down, examining her fingernails. ‘I suppose you think I might have been having a secret affair with Daniel, and that’s why I killed my husband.’

  ‘That’s a leap.’ Adam almost laughed. ‘Not everyone who has an affair is a murderer, and I know better than to make assum
ptions without evidence.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t. I told you, I haven’t seen or heard from Daniel for years.’ She was blushing.

  Adam folded her list and tucked it in his pocket. ‘Very well, I’ll look into the plant thefts, if you like, but since we’re being honest with each other, I think you should know the police think Greg was poisoned.’

  She gasped, suddenly pale. ‘I thought it was an accident, or suicide…’

  ‘Did you?’ Adam looked into her face, trying to read her emotions, watching for – what? Horror? Guilt? ‘If I were working on your case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m in a privileged position, with no responsibility for solving the murder. Still, I’m curious.’

  She chewed on her lower lip. ‘I don’t know what I can say.’

  Another silence stretched out until Adam was sure she had nothing else to offer. At least she wasn’t coming up with bluster or bluff, alibis or theories, or accusations against anyone else. He really couldn’t see her as a ruthless killer.

  He said, ‘Let’s consider the facts. You invited me into your garden, where we discovered the body. It hadn’t been there long. The location must have been part of a plan, but whether it was your plan, or someone else’s, I can’t know.’

  Imogen’s face remained impassive, so he moved on.

  ‘You had a quarrel with your husband.’

  She made a tiny noise.

  He shot a sharp look at her face. ‘Did you tell the police about it?’

  She fiddled with the hem of her jumper, not meeting his eye.

  ‘Right, I’ll take that for a no. That could be a big mistake. As soon as the police find out, and they will, you’ll look guilty.’

  ‘And they already think I did it?’

  ‘You’re the most obvious suspect.’

  ‘So, what can I do?’

  Adam considered, and finally, with a feeling of burning his boats, he said, ‘We’ll find the murderer ourselves. Which means you have to be completely honest with me.’

  Her face lit up. ‘You’ll help?’