A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

23

  Sketches

  ‘Well, what is it you want to know, exactly?’ Daniel settled in a chair; long legs stretched out.

  The manufactured calm didn’t fool Adam.

  ‘I’m happy to show you my work,’ Daniel went on, ‘but let’s not pretend you’re here to admire the paintings, Inspector.’ Barely veiled hostility grated in his voice.

  Adam kept his notebook in his pocket, pushed his spectacles an inch further up his nose, ducked his head and spread his hands in the age-old gesture designed to show he had no weapon. ‘On the contrary, one of your paintings intrigues me; a watercolour of the hotel garden. You did a good job. I love your vivid colours, but the work struck me as unfinished…’

  A brief smile lit Daniel’s face. ‘It was my first commission. The councillor contacted me when I graduated from St Martin’s—’

  ‘The art school?’

  Daniel nodded; eyes bright with pride. St Martin’s was a respected school of Art, now known as Central St Martin’s. He cleared his throat. ‘Councillor Jones asked me to paint the hotel grounds. He wanted to display the work on the walls of the building, but—’ He broke off.

  Adam waited, but Daniel had fallen silent. Something to pick up later.

  ‘I was wondering whether you had any sketches or photos you used for the painting?’ he asked, in the meantime.

  Daniel frowned. ‘I make dozens of quick sketches. They help with the final painting. Like many landscape artists, I don’t paint exactly what I see.’

  ‘A mixture of reality and fantasy? I noticed the painting is almost impressionist in style.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘Except, of course, true impressionists work fast and directly, aiming to put the essence of a scene on the canvas, like Monet’s famous haystack paintings. He tried to catch the light as it changed over time.’ His enthusiasm overflowed. ‘If you’re interested, I’ll show you some of the preliminary drawings.’

  He leapt up and opened one of a set of narrow drawers in a nearby chest. He’d labelled each drawer neatly, with the place and date. He tugged out a file, dropped it on the table and slid out a handful of drawings, fanning them out on the table in front of Adam.

  ‘See, here’s a sketch of the garden, with all the different areas. Then, here are a couple that focus on a single area. Then these,’ he shuffled a few single sheets to the top of the spread, ‘these are individual plants. Here’s a peony and a rose, and a couple of irises. Very satisfactory to paint, irises. Are you interested in botany, Inspector?’ There was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he sat down.

  ‘Not really. At least, not unless it’s linked to crime.’

  A muscle in Daniel’s jaw twitched. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Adam, pleased at the effect of his surprise attack, abandoned the ‘eager customer’ pretence – he’d been rumbled before he arrived, anyway. He leaned forward until his face was close to the other man’s. ‘Why did you stop your work at the hotel? Are commissions so easy to come by that you could afford to abandon one half finished?’

  Daniel swallowed. ‘No, of course not. That job meant a great deal to me, but…’ He looked away, avoiding Adam’s eyes.

  Adam waited.

  At last, Daniel took a long breath. ‘There was something going on at the hotel. You see, some plants are so rare and difficult to grow that they fetch enormous amounts of money. They’re restricted – they only grow in certain conditions. Collectors pay thousands – tens of thousands – of pounds, to get their hands on these rarities. They don’t care whether the plants are obtained legally or not.’

  Adam nodded, as though hearing this for the first time, and pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘And you discovered…?’

  The other man grunted. ‘Councillor Jones took me for a fool. You see that orangery?’ He pointed to one of his sketches. ‘That’s where he kept his most precious plants.’ He hesitated. ‘Oswald, his gardener, kept them alive and propagated them. I don’t think he had anything to do with smuggling them in, but I reckon the councillor was in it up to his neck.’

  Adam wrote fast in his notebook. The orangery, where Greg was found. Was that significant?

  Daniel’s words tumbled over each other. He looked relieved to be telling someone the story. ‘I made a stupid mistake.’ He grimaced. ‘I got talking to Oswald and he showed me what he called “the specials” at the back of the orangery, told me how rare they were. I sketched them and put them in the picture, thinking the councillor would be pleased.’

  His laugh was bitter. ‘The innocence of youth. I’ve learned over the years, Inspector, that a man who gives you a commission knows what he wants, and doesn’t need a rooky straight from college making additions to the picture.’ He smiled. ‘In short, he threw me out. He didn’t tell me why, and I left at once. I needed to get as far away as possible. I was mortified. I’d boasted to all my friends about this wonderful commission, and I’d fallen flat on my face.’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘My youthful ego couldn’t cope with the shame. I moved to the Lake District to start again on my own. The councillor kept the painting, paying me a fraction of what it was worth.’

  ‘He can’t have hated it that much.’

  Daniel chuckled. ‘Councillor Jones didn’t like to waste money.’

  Adam considered. ‘I suppose he hung on to it until he’d sold the stolen plants on, made a profit and turned his attention to other ways of making money.’

  ‘I was proud of it, though – still am, to tell the truth. It was pretty good work. A bit derivative, but not bad as an apprentice piece.’ Daniel chuckled. ‘At least I still have the sketches – he didn’t know about those. Once I calmed down, I wondered why he’d lost his cool over a picture. I started to ponder why, if he’d lost interest in the project, he kept the painting. That’s when I looked a bit closer at the sketches. I did a little research, found the names of the plants, and realised what was going on.’

  ‘But you didn’t go to the police?’

  ‘I should have, I know, but Jones was Imogen’s father. I couldn’t do that to her. I’d known her for years, at school and—’ Again, that sharp cut-off, as though he’d said too much.

  ‘While you were painting the hotel garden?’

  ‘We grew close, but she was already engaged to Greg Bishop.’ He almost spat the name. ‘He was a bigger loser, even, than I was, but he’d seen her first. I hadn’t spoken to her much when we were at school. Actually,’ he gave a glimmer of a smile, ‘I was a bit scared of her. She was very dignified. Tall and quiet, cleverer than me. She didn’t chatter and giggle like some of the other girls. I could never think what to say when she was around, so I kept out of her way.’

  Adam recognised the feeling; most teenage boys found girls terrifying.

  ‘I found it easier to talk while I was painting. She was… well, lovely. She seemed to like me, too. If she hadn’t been with Greg, maybe we’d have got together. Who knows where that might have led?’ He looked into the distance; the sharp angles of his cheekbones softened. ‘What a missed opportunity. Her dad sacked me, and I was too mortified to hang around. I just packed up and left without saying goodbye. I mean, it wasn’t as though we’d been an item, or anything…’

  ‘You’d made no promises.’ Adam heard the sarcastic edge in his own voice, but Daniel just shrugged.

  ‘That’s right.’ He bundled the sketches together. ‘Immature doesn’t begin to describe me, does it?’ He paused, looking from the drawings to Adam. ‘You didn’t tell me why you’re so interested?’

  Adam chose his words with care. ‘Imogen Bishop is a friend. As you know, she’s taken a couple of hard knocks lately – her father dying, and then her husband. I’m looking into her husband’s death.’

  ‘Are you, now? Not leaving it to the police?’

  ‘Maybe I can move things on a little faster.’

  Daniel dropped the bundle of sketches on the table. ‘You think I had something to do with it? That’s why you turned up here. Jealousy of Imogen’s hu
sband as a motive for murder.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Seriously? You think I’d kill her husband in the hope of winning her, after all these years? That’s just daft. Anyway,’ his fist banged the table, ‘I didn’t need to kill Greg because they’d already split up.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr Freeman. As I said on the phone, I saw your painting and I was curious about the plants. Imogen recognised them.’

  Daniel grunted. ‘Well, if you’re so interested, you can borrow these, but I’ll want them back. And, for the record,’ his voice rose again as he shot a glance at Adam’s notebook, ‘I had nothing to do with any shady business the councillor might have been involved with. I was an innocent lad, trying to make a living out of art.’

  ‘You’ve succeeded. You’re selling pictures.’

  ‘You looked me up?’ A hint of pride.

  Adam inclined his head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I keep my head above water. I’m no genius, but I sell to rich London bankers who want landscapes full of picturesque trees, painted with exactly the right colours to set off the carpets in their oversized houses. Fortunately for my sanity, and my bank balance, I never tire of laying paint on canvas.’

  Adam took the drawings. ‘And, I’m a retired policeman wishing I had your talent.’

  At the door, he turned. ‘Don’t fret about the plant business. It’s a minor affair, and in the past. The councillor’s not around to answer for his, shall we say, misdemeanours. No need to drag his reputation into the mud.’ Unless strictly necessary, he added silently, recognising that both of them wanted to protect Imogen. ‘By the way, were you part of that unfortunate picnic in the tunnel that ended with the death of one of your schoolmates?’

  ‘You’ve heard about that, have you? It was a dreadful business. I was there, I’m sorry to say. We were all thoughtless idiots and Julian paid the price. You know the saddest part?’

  ‘No. Enlighten me.’

  ‘None of us really cared about Julian. We only worried about whether we’d get into trouble.’ He laughed, harshly. ‘You have every right to be disgusted.’

  Adam spoke with care. ‘You didn’t keep in touch with anyone from those days?’

  Daniel took his time to reply. ‘Mrs Hall kept in touch. She was one of the teachers – well, my art teacher, as a matter of fact. She turned up at one of my exhibitions. I think she organised the reunion.’

  24

  Coffee morning

  ‘So pleased you could make it.’ Helen Pickles ushered Imogen through the vicarage door. ‘No Harley?’

  ‘He can’t be trusted around food, yet.’

  ‘You could say the same for me.’ At Helen’s deep, throaty chuckle, the locals in her room looked up. ‘Now, who do you know?’

  The first gathering of local people since Imogen had returned to the village; she’d been tempted to send her apologies. Helen had arrived at the hotel one morning in Imogen’s absence, and left a note inviting her to meet ‘a few friends for coffee – strictly nothing religious’.

  Was she ready for the scrutiny of the locals?

  Don’t be such a coward, she’d told herself. You survived that dreadful reunion.

  Stitching a cheerful smile on her face, she accepted coffee and cake, and tried to remember names.

  Mrs Croft – Barbara, that was her first name. Adam had mentioned her. Alfie, her son, had fallen from his bike.

  ‘Sit beside me, dear,’ Barbara grinned. ‘It’s so nice to have a new face in the village. I live up the lane, the other side of the church. Do you by any chance ring bells?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Oh.’ Barbara’s face fell. ‘It’s so hard to find ringers. We have to use Alfie sometimes, and he’s hopeless – can’t seem to count.’

  ‘Bless his cotton socks.’ That was Jenny Trevillian, the farmer’s wife. ‘They grow up far too fast, you know. Before you can blink, he’ll have left home.’ She focused on Imogen. ‘How many do you have, Imogen?’

  ‘Children? None.’ She stopped a breath away from an apology.

  ‘Ah, shame. I have six,’ Jenny said. ‘Would have gone for more, but,’ she dropped her voice to a stage whisper, ‘I had a bit of trouble with the last one – got stuck…’

  Helen cleared her throat and bustled across to refill Imogen’s cup. ‘I don’t know how you manage,’ she told Jenny. ‘You put us all to shame.’

  Satisfied, the farmer’s wife changed the subject. ‘I’ll bring you a few eggs, Imogen. All our hens are laying at the same time and I can’t keep track of them. Free range, you see, leave their eggs everywhere. Our Jack Russell, Bob, he’ll crawl into the hayrick and back out, holding an egg in his mouth, gentle as anything. Who would have believed it? Never breaks a single one.’ She rocked with laughter, tears squeezing onto her cheeks.

  Edwina Topsham, from the village shop, rolled her eyes. ‘Now, then, Jenny, stop touting for business for five minutes. I want to know more about our new neighbour. What do you do when you’re not running your lovely hotel?’

  Imogen smiled, took a scone and cut it in half. ‘I’m a gardener. I’m currently landscaping the gardens at Haselbury House.’

  Barbara Croft said, ‘I wish I had green fingers. I kill everything I touch.’

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  ‘No, no, I mean in the garden…’

  Helen smoothed over the moment. ‘Since I have you captive here, Imogen, can you tell me when to prune my clematis? I’ve looked it up, and all the books talk about Type One or Two or Three, and tell me to prune them in different months, until my head spins.’

  ‘I’m afraid it depends on the clematis. Maybe I could come over and take a look one day?’ Imogen suggested.

  In the hubbub of bids for her advice, Imogen ladled cream on the cut sides of her scone and heaped jam on top.

  Edwina chortled. ‘Knew you were one of us. Jam on top every time. Good to have you in Lower Hembrow.’ What had pleased Edwina Topsham most – free gardening advice or the way she ate a cream tea?

  Jenny objected. ‘Jam first, every time – that’s how the Queen does it.’

  In the fierce ensuing argument, Helen sat beside Imogen and murmured, ‘Everyone wanted so much to meet you. We’re going to miss your father, here. He was quite a celebrity in South Somerset.’

  ‘Really? Because he was a councillor?’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, much more than that.’ She raised her voice. ‘Edwina, Imogen doesn’t know about the time the shop almost closed.’

  ‘Your father didn’t tell you? Well,’ Edwina settled herself more comfortably on the vicar’s sofa. ‘It’s hard to keep a shop going in a village like this, especially now people read their newspapers online, or get their news from the telly. We were almost broke when your father stepped in. Started fundraising, pulled in enough to set the shop up as a… Now, what do they call it, Barbara?’

  ‘A community enterprise.’

  ‘That’s right – can’t get my old tongue around the words. Still, that’s what he did, and put a big wedge of his own money in the fund.’

  Jenny Trevillion added, ‘And then there was the village hall. Falling down, it was, and nowhere for the teenagers to go, to keep them out of mischief, until the councillor rounded up a few of his mates in the building trade. Pulled down the place and rebuilt it for a song. Quite an asset to the village, was Councillor Jones.’

  Barbara Croft’s mouth was pursed, as though she was eating a lime. ‘Hmm.’ She muttered, ‘Time I was off. Plenty to do. Nice to meet you.’ She sounded lukewarm.

  The vicar whispered in Imogen’s ear, ‘Can’t please everyone. She had a run-in with your dad over planning permission for the hotel spa. Don’t let her bother you. Your father talked about you all the time. She’s a little jealous, I think.’

  Afterwards, Imogen strolled back to the hotel, puzzling over the mystery that was her father. Who was he: saviour of the village community or greedy fat cat? Saint or villain?

  A weight settled in
her chest. It was too late now. She’d never know the real Horace Jones.

  25

  Cider

  There was Kate, at the entrance to Sheppy’s Cider Museum, looking at her watch.

  Imogen waved, ‘Sorry I’m late. I was at a coffee morning.’

  ‘A coffee morning? You? Who would have thought it? But you were always late.’

  ‘Was I?’ They hugged and Imogen, breathless, laughed. ‘I think I’ve been inducted into the village grapevine, now.’ She took a long look at her friend. ‘I’m glad you texted. I meant to get your number at the reunion, but…’

  ‘You left early. We hardly had time to talk. Was something wrong?’

  ‘No, not really. It was just – seeing everyone brought that evening back – you know, the picnic in the tunnel. I’m still trying to decide whether meeting again was a good thing or not.’

  Kate heaved an explosive sigh. ‘I thought we should have some time together, away from everyone else. To talk about old times.’

  They paid their entrance fee and strolled through the museum. Within minutes, they were giggling like schoolgirls.

  ‘Do you remember,’ Kate said, ‘when Steph brought a pint of cider into school and we drank it in the Common Room…’

  ‘And Mrs Hall arrived just as we finished. We’d probably have been expelled if she’d seen what we were doing.’

  ‘You think she didn’t know?’ Kate snorted. ‘She knew everything we did. She’d been the sixth form tutor for years. After all, it was only a pint…’

  ‘And there were four of us. We weren’t exactly drunk, were we?’

  ‘She gave me a right telling-off when she caught me smoking behind the hockey shed.’

  ‘I think she was more worried that you were with one of the boys.’

  Lost in their reminiscences and catching up with their current lives – the hotel, Harley, Kate’s work as an architect – they wandered round the museum, barely glancing at the seed drills, ploughs and other farm implements on display.