A Village Murder

by Frances Evesham

  ‘Haselbury House. I know. I saw the photo spread in This Somerset.’

  Imogen remembered. Steph had studied English at university and gone on to work on a local newspaper. In fact, hadn’t she moved on to one of the national papers? ‘Are you back in Somerset permanently?’

  Steph nodded. ‘I came back to write my own books. I was tired of journalism; working on one story after another for the paper. They gave me the female jobs, like interviewing women of achievement, and I realised I hadn’t achieved any of my own goals. I always wanted to write fiction, but I kept putting it on the back burner. Then, I was sent to interview Daniel about his work, and he convinced me to… well, it sounds corny, but to follow my own dreams. Like he had. So, that’s what I did. I came back—’

  ‘To your parents’ old house?’

  ‘They died a few years ago, and it’s mine, now.’

  ‘That’s great. I’m very pleased for you, but I really have to go. Let’s get together for a drink. Are you free tomorrow night?’ What was she doing? Why had she said that? It was like picking a scab, wanting to see the two of them together. She’d only torture herself with jealousy.

  It was too late. Steph beamed. ‘I’d love to. Shall we go over the road, or do you avoid the rival establishment?’

  ‘Not at all. Adam Hennessy and I are friends.’

  No harm in taking Steph to The Plough. Adam might pick up useful information from her.

  As Imogen approached the stately home in all its shabby grandeur, she wondered why Steph had called. Was she scratching around for information about Greg? Or perhaps, Imogen thought as she heaved gardening kit from the boot of her car, she was innocently looking for characters for her novel. In which case, Imogen hoped she would look elsewhere.

  Still, the evening should prove interesting. She’d take the earring along.

  ‘Mrs Bishop, you’re a welcome sight.’ The new owner of Haselbury House, a stout, burly man with a red drinkers’ nose, brought his top-of-the-range Range Rover to a halt at her side. ‘Bit of a prob with the fountain, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Fountain? There isn’t one.’

  ‘Sure, there is – twenty feet tall, cascading down a wall—’

  ‘It’s a waterfall.’

  This man had far too much money and precious little common sense.

  He introduced the lead contractor organising the heavy digging.

  ‘It’s that there woodland,’ the contractor pointed. ‘We chopped down a few of them lovely old trees.’ He shot a black look at the owner. ‘Beauties, they were. Oak and ash. Mind you, the ash had a touch of dieback, so it would have had to go—’

  ‘Yes, yes. Let’s get to the point,’ the owner interrupted.

  ‘Ah, fair enough. Once the trees had gone, and we’d pulled down the old cottage that had been there for centuries…’ The owner was brushing mud from his car. The contractor glowered at his back. ‘We found a lot of little crosses and suchlike in the ground. Seems the family used to bury their pets in the clearing. Can’t put the waterfall there, can we? Would have all the locals up in arms.’

  He grunted. ‘Pity no one bothered to tell us about them earlier. No cooperation. You’d think local people didn’t want a visitor attraction in the area to pull in the crowds.’

  Perhaps the neighbours enjoyed a quiet life.

  Imogen let it pass.

  Harley had found an interesting scent. Imogen called him away and held up a warning finger. ‘If you dig anything up here, you’ll be sent straight off to the kennels. Understand?’

  She spent an hour with the contractor, Jim, staring at maps, drawing lines, and shading areas, until they’d designed a new configuration for the water feature that avoided the pet cemetery.

  ‘That owner, he’s a townie, through and through,’ the contractor complained. ‘Still, he’s not tight with the cash, I’ll grant him that. Made his fortune in one of those computer start-ups and sold the business before the latest stock market crash. Lucky beggar. Money coming out of his ears. Anything we suggest is OK with him.’ He winked and stomped off on foot to explain the new plans to his team.

  The owner treated Imogen to a sumptuous lunch. Harley was banned from the dining room. He stood at the door, doing his best to look ill-treated, until certain Imogen had no intention of letting him in.

  ‘Sorry about that business with the site,’ the owner said. ‘We’ve dug up so much of the ground, I lost track. Had no idea what was buried there, but when we knocked down the old cottage in the woods, we found a couple of bits of wood with names on: Spot, Blaze, and some others. Pets, you see. I rang a mate of mine, Jonathan, who knew the original owners, and he confirmed it. The whole area was an animal cemetery—’ He stopped, abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, that must be painful for you to hear – with your husband dying in the grounds of your hotel.’

  Was that his idea of tact?

  Imogen took a breath and changed the subject. ‘We can work around it.’ She showed him the revised design.

  Something the new owner had said clicked in her brain. ‘Did you say Jonathan?’ she queried. ‘Do you mean Jonathan Hampton? Whose family owned Streamside Manor before my father bought it?’

  ‘That’s the man. Jonathan’s father was big buddies with the Jenkins that owned this place.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘Not really. These rural hunting and shooting families all know each other; half of them have inter-married. The Jenkins and the Hamptons used to be thick as thieves.’

  Imogen flinched at the phrase.

  ‘In fact, your father, the councillor—’ He stopped talking, His mouth hung open. What had he been about to say?

  ‘Go on.’ Imogen gave a rueful chuckle. ‘My father…?’

  ‘Well,’ the owner tugged at his beard, avoiding her eye. ‘I heard some local gossip, going back thirty years or so, about the deal he made when he bought the hotel. Folk say other buyers were frozen out, had their planning permission refused, that sort of thing. All a long time ago. Nothing in it, I’m sure. Perfectly normal transactions.’ He pulled out his iPhone. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get on. I’ll leave you to give instructions about the new position for the fountain.’

  ‘Waterfall,’ Imogen corrected automatically.

  The owner was gone in a moment. Imogen followed him out and sought out Harley. He was helping the contractors dig foundations.

  ‘I reckon the owner of this place has been mixed up in whatever financial hanky panky my father cooked up with all these Jenkins and Hamptons.’ She told him. ‘I’m starting to wonder if everyone in this part of Somerset is on the take.’

  30

  Compost

  ‘Harley, the garden’s beginning to wake up.’

  Harley bounded into the garden the next day, ever hopeful of catching rabbits. The sun had barely risen above the row of hawthorns lining the stream as Imogen, in jeans, jumper and a gilet, hair bundled into a rough ponytail under a straw hat, pulled on her wellies and chased the dog into the soft morning air.

  ‘Wait for me.’

  Harley bounded towards the orangery. Imogen’s throat tightened. When would she be ready to go back in there? Would she ever forget Greg’s body, slumped on the floor?

  If she couldn’t enjoy the orangery, she’d get on with planting out summer flowering perennials. They wouldn’t flower much in the next few months, but they’d put down roots and flourish next year.

  The potting shed smelled of earth. Imogen breathed deeply. Oswald was already there.

  ‘Do you ever sleep?’ she asked.

  Harley, recognising the gardener as a soft touch, sat at his feet and raised a paw.

  ‘He’s getting fat,’ Imogen pointed out, as Oswald fed treats to Harley.

  ‘I reckon he can carry a few extra pounds. Such a skinny creature he was, before he came to the hotel. You’ve worked wonders, miss. That Adam Hennessy, he knows nothing about dogs.’

  ‘He’s a cat person.’

  ‘I
s he now?’ Oswald stroked his chin with earth stained fingers. ‘That gives me an idea.’

  ‘Spill the beans.’

  ‘The man needs a companion.’

  ‘Given the choice, I think he’d go for Maria Rostropova.’

  Oswald chuckled so hard, Imogen feared he would choke. ‘That woman – she knows how to get her way. Young Adam should steer clear of her.’

  ‘Young?’

  ‘Aye, the man’s young compared with me and the missus.’

  ‘Tell me more about Maria. She’s persuaded me to hold her concert here.’

  ‘Yes, the woman’s got her claws into you, too. Mind you, local folk think the concert’s a grand idea. I popped in for milk at the shop and I heard Mrs Croft tell Edwina Topsham she thought you’d fitted nicely into the village.’

  ‘She did?’ Imogen tried not to beam. People didn’t hate her, then. Why had she assumed they would?

  ‘Better than that husband of yours – rest his soul,’ Oswald added as an afterthought.

  ‘Greg?’

  ‘Came here too often, if you ask me,’ Oswald grumbled.

  Imogen raised herself to her full height. ‘He was only buried a few days ago. We should be—’

  ‘Respectful?’ The old man cackled, ending with fit of productive, pipe smoker’s coughing. ‘When you get to my age, you’ve no time for pretending. Your husband was a bad lot, my girl, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Did she really want to know? Imogen braced herself.

  ‘Why’d he come here every few weeks without you? Business with your dad?’ Oswald huffed. ‘I reckon it were that hotel manager he came to see.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘That’s right. What those two got up to – well, I wouldn’t like to say.’

  Emily and Greg? Why hadn’t Imogen realised? Greg had told her they were business trips. She’d long known he was unfaithful, but with Emily?

  She didn’t want to hear any more. ‘We’d better get on,’ she muttered.

  ‘Aye, he’s gone, now, your Greg. Best you look elsewhere.’

  Something tickled Imogen’s ear. She brushed it away with one hand and screamed.

  ‘Oswald – it’s a spider – get it away from me.’

  ‘Just a little one. Won’t hurt you.’ He picked it off her shoulder and held out his clenched hand.

  ‘Get rid of it, please,’ she pleaded.

  The old man cackled and coughed. ‘You and your old dad – both of you gardeners, and both scared of a little spider.’ He threw it outside, crossed the shed to a row of shelves and pulled down a bag of fertiliser.

  A line of bags occupied the highest shelf, each one bearing the bright yellow symbol for poison. ‘What are those?’ Imogen pointed.

  ‘Just a spot of rat poison and a few traps. Nasty creatures, rats. Get everywhere. Come in the shed, they do, after my seeds.’ He grunted. ‘I just leave a few granules of the stuff in a trap. That finishes off the little beasts.’

  Imogen squinted at the ingredients on the back of a packet. She wasn’t about to touch it. One word caught her attention. ‘Brodifacoum? Oswald, this is the poison that killed my husband. Did the police see it?’

  He shrugged. ‘They took a bag away and gave me the third degree. Did I follow the health and safety guidelines? Do I ever – I keep the shed locked. I showed them where I keep the key, in the cupboard up in the hotel. It’s more than my job’s worth to break the rules – your father would have fired me on the spot.’

  He went back to sifting compost into an array of pots. As she watched; a cloud of depression settled on Imogen. The police had found poison on her property – yet another reason to suspect her of murder.

  31

  Choir

  Adam pulled pints in The Plough as Imogen arrived. ‘The choir are in. They’ll be singing soon,’ he said. ‘It’s likely to get rowdy. Those baritones can drink me under the table any time. Not to mention Benjamin Bunny.’

  ‘Sorry? Who?’

  ‘Their conductor – or musical director, as he likes to be known. His name’s Benjamin Boniface, but he hops around like a rabbit. All enthusiasm. Look at him, now.’

  The conductor, a man of around forty, with a substantial girth, a pink face and a pair of glasses that constantly slipped down his nose, bounded from one singer to another. He pulled on their sleeves, hurrying them towards the piano. ‘Let’s get started. No time to waste,’ he urged.

  Imogen surveyed the drinkers in the corner. ‘I can’t imagine you’re much of a drinker, Adam. More of an observer.’

  ‘Dead right. Never could manage more than a pint or two. I see you’ve left Harley behind. Has he been misbehaving?’

  ‘Actually, no. I took him to work with me yesterday and I had an interesting talk with the owner at Haselbury. I’ll tell you about it sometime. I can see you’re busy, now. Oh, and here’s Steph.’

  ‘Steph?’ Adam followed Imogen’s gaze.

  Steph Aldred made her way to the bar. ‘Hello, good to see you again.’ She looked more attractive than ever, and at least ten years younger than her age.

  Imogen raised an eyebrow. ‘You two know each other?’

  Steph said, ‘We only met once. Mr Hennessy called round about something.’

  ‘Did he?’ Imogen frowned. He hadn’t mentioned it.

  She shared a glance with Adam and he gave a little shake of the head.

  She wouldn’t mention the earring yet. If Steph had left it in the garden, she’d have a story ready – and Imogen wanted to think more about why Steph, or anyone else, would leave it beside the orangery.

  She was learning to trust nobody.

  Helen, the vicar, seated at the piano, played a few stirring chords and the choir launched into a cheerful rendition of ‘It’s Raining Men’.

  The Plough patrons joined in with gusto.

  As they finished, Adam served more beer and set a plate of salty cheese snacks on the piano.

  ‘Thirsty work,’ the conductor enthused, holding his pint glass aloft.

  ‘And builds up an appetite,’ the vicar agreed.

  Once everyone was served, the choir sang a quieter number. The crowd at the bar thinned, leaving Imogen and Steph within Adam’s earshot. He kept his ears open. If he happened to overhear their conversation, that was simply coincidence. Wasn’t it?

  ‘It’s about that night at school.’ Steph’s head was close to Imogen. She spoke softly.

  Adam kept his eyes on the glasses he was polishing, and the counter that needed wiping down, and concentrated. He could just make out what the two women said.

  He recognised Imogen’s cool tone, the one she used when holding people at arm’s length.

  ‘It was a stupid prank,’ she was saying, ‘and it ended badly for poor Julian.’

  ‘Exactly. It was terrible. We all went our separate ways, and nobody talked about what happened.’

  ‘It was just an accident…’

  Steph’s eyes flashed. ‘Come on, Imogen. You’re not that naive. Maybe then, we wanted to believe it was an accident, but I’ve been a journalist for years. I can sniff out secrets, and I know when someone’s pulling the wool over my eyes.’ She looked directly at Adam and pointed to her glass. ‘Perhaps you’d kindly pour us each another glass of wine, Mr Hennessy, since you happen to be close by. Mine’s a Pinot Grigio.’

  Adam, chastened at having been so easily caught eavesdropping, poured wine. ‘It’s on the house.’

  ‘Well, you won’t make your fortune that way,’ Steph said, tartly.

  Steph nodded her thanks as he set the glasses on the bar.

  Imogen said, ‘It’s all right, Steph. Adam knows what’s going on. He’s been helping me get to the bottom of Greg’s murder. Although, we haven’t got very far.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I can help with that, as I told you, Mr Hennessy, when you visited.’ Steph turned to Imogen. ‘We should have talked about Julian. How could his death have been an accident? We had lights, and no one was
running or pushing. Why would Julian fall and hit his head so hard it killed him? I think the police let it go because we were all so young and Julian’s parents didn’t make a fuss. They were far too timid. I thought it was time we cleared the air.’

  Imogen bit her lip.

  ‘You mean, it was you who set up that evening?’

  ‘Afraid so. I wanted to rattle a few cages and talk about what happened. I got in touch with Mrs Hall and suggested a reunion for the whole of our year. You know how teachers enjoy that kind of thing. She tracked people down. I think she’s lonely and living in the past. Kate and I had been in touch a few times over the years, so I knew where she was. If you hadn’t thrown a wobbly and left early, we might have got further.’

  Imogen gazed at the floor, cheeks aflame.

  Steph either did not see or did not care. ‘Anyway, I talked to a few of the others, that evening, and found out a few things.’

  Imogen’s head jerked up. ‘You did?’

  ‘I discovered Julian and David were an item.’

  ‘What?’ Imogen’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide. ‘You mean…’

  ‘Kate saw them in the cinema, sitting together and holding hands.’

  Imogen was shaking her head. ‘But… but Julian asked me out.’

  ‘Trying to prove he wasn’t gay. Although, we didn’t call it that in those days. You were the prettiest girl in the class, so he asked you out to cover his tracks.’

  Just at that moment of peak revelation, Adam was called away. The beer barrel needed changing. Disappointed, he dragged himself down to the cellar. As he went, he heard Steph say, ‘And that’s why he died. David was jealous and they had a fight. Julian wasn’t much of a fighter and David gave him a few hard punches. I reckon that fight killed him.’

  32