Adam planned a morning away from The Plough. For a few hours, he’d forget about Imogen Bishop, the crazy nameless dog that had adopted him, and Gregory Bishop’s murder.

      The sun shone and he had an appointment with his old friend, Henry, the owner of a Yeovil art gallery.

      His own work would never merit gallery space, but Adam found relaxation wandering through Henry’s finds. Occasional paintings touched a chord with their beauty. More often, he shook his head in wonder at the weird art people bought. Where did they hang these things? Could they stare at vast slabs of colour while they ate without indigestion?

      Give me a Turner or a Constable, any day.

      Henry, ruthless with his buying mistakes, had told Adam he wanted to unload a job lot of unsaleable canvases currently cluttering up his storeroom.

      ‘I need the space. You can have ’em for peanuts. Cheaper than new canvases.’

      Adam doubted that. Henry’s haggling was legendary.

      There was one obstacle to Adam’s plan to visit the gallery. What should he do with this dog? He could hardly let it loose among Henry’s canvases. He cringed at the chaos his new friend could wreak.

      What did proper dog owners do when they went to work? Wasn’t it cruel to leave an animal alone?

      Racked with guilt, he ushered the dog into his sitting room, placing a bowlful of dog food on layers of old towels. ‘Twice the price of corned beef,’ he muttered. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’ He added a larger bowl of water. ‘You be good,’ he warned, without much hope. ‘I’ll be home soon.’

      It was a mistake to look behind as he left. The dog’s tail twitched, his huge brown eyes pleaded, but Adam hardened his heart.

      ‘Stay,’ he commanded, closing the door.

      Throughout his drive to the town, a new doggy smell filled Adam’s car, adding to the guilt. Amazing how fast a dog can infiltrate your life.

      The hour in the gallery was meant to be an oasis of calm, far away from dead bodies, snooty police colleagues, and stray animals. The gallery owner, however, had other ideas.

      Henry, corpulent, irrepressibly cheerful and expensively dressed, had heard of the ‘Murder in the Hotel’, as the newspapers had dubbed the death of Gregory Bishop. ‘Don’t you live in Lower Hembrow?’ he accused as Adam walked in. ‘Where people die in conservatories?’

      Adam hesitated.

      ‘Come on, spill the beans. Any theories?’

      ‘Not yet. Probably an accident – drink and drugs, maybe. I’m retired, remember. It’s none of my business. I’m enjoying a quiet life.’

      Henry peered into Adam’s face. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said. ‘In that little backwater? I’ll give you six months and you’ll be longing for the city life. You’ll go stir crazy in that part of the world, where nothing ever happens.’

      ‘Apart from the occasional unexplained death?’

      Henry laughed, jowls wobbling. ‘Apart from that. You never know, it could be a murder.’

      ‘Unlikely.’

      Henry’s face fell. ‘Pity. I was hoping for some decent gossip to give the wife this evening. Otherwise, what are we going to talk about after forty years? EastEnders?’ He gave a theatrical shiver. ‘At least that Poldark’s finished. All the wife could talk about was the guy’s six-pack. At her age! And me with my party seven. Ha, ha.’ Henry slapped his stomach. ‘Now, I was going to sell you a few canvases at mates’ rates, that’s right, isn’t it?’

      Adam scratched his head. ‘You tried the mates’ rates thing on me once before. I ended up paying over the odds. Let’s set a fair price, shall we?’

      They haggled for a while, finally agreeing a price, toasting their success with a bottle of Wilkins cider.

      ‘Any masterpieces amongst this lot?’ Adam flicked through a dozen leaning against the wall. ‘Seriously, you couldn’t sell this?’ He picked up a canvas with two red squares set at jaunty angles.

      ‘Funnily enough, no. Here, wait a minute,’ Henry yanked out a large painting from the back of the pile. ‘I’d forgotten about this one. It’ll interest you.’

      The painting was stylised. The bird’s-eye view, as though painted from the air, showed a series of small gardens, formally laid out in the Tudor style, with box hedges marking out geometric rectangles and circles. A straight, placid rill of water cut through from top to bottom, ending in a fountain.

      ‘It looks familiar,’ Adam leaned closer. ‘I wonder if I’ve seen the setting. It’s hard to tell – places look different from above. Is it a stately home?’

      Henry guffawed. ‘Nope. It’s the garden where they found that chap. What’s it called – the River Something Hotel?’

      ‘Streamside.’ Adam considered. ‘So it is. I should have recognised it; I’ve tried to paint it myself. Any idea whose work it is?’

      Henry shook his head. ‘I picked it up for pennies, just for the canvas.’

      ‘To sell on and make a killing out of saps like me…’ Adam twisted his head to one side until he understood the angles. He squinted at the signature, but it was smudged and almost unreadable. ‘Is that an F?’ It was dated 1975. ‘Painted a while ago. The place looks different, now.’

      ‘There’s another like it, in the back. Give me a minute…’ Henry wandered away, puffing and panting out of sight. ‘Got it,’ he called, emerging with a red face and a smaller painting. ‘This isn’t oils. It’s a watercolour, by the same chap, whoever he is. I took it on years ago, from another gallery.’ He named a price, holding the painting out as Adam nodded. ‘Mind you,’ he mused, ‘maybe I should hang on to it. The value’s about to go through the roof, now the hotel’s notorious.’

      ‘Too late,’ Adam grabbed it from his friend’s hands. ‘It’s mine.’

      This canvas was small and square, and seemed unfinished. The artist had sketched in the geometry of the garden, but focused, with vivid, lively brushstrokes, on the central flowerbed.

      ‘Nice little work, a bit Monet in feel,’ Henry said. ‘Pity the artist never finished it.’

      ‘Any more like this?’

      Henry grunted. ‘No. I’d forgotten about this one, to be honest.’ He glanced at Adam’s face and grumbled. ‘Can’t believe I’m letting you have it at that price. More fool me.’