A Village Murder. Frances Evesham
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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 to 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.’
Adam seemed unaware, his attention fixed, staring through the glass.
Imogen followed his gaze.
‘There’s something heavy there, stopping the door from opening. A tall box, or a bag…’
She pushed again at the door. It moved an inch.
Adam grabbed her arm. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘You’ll hurt your shoulder. Let me.’ He kicked, hard, and the door inched further open, the gap just wide enough to let him through.
Imogen followed close behind.
The bag moved, slid sideways, and collapsed on the tiled floor with a dull thud.
She gasped. ‘It’s not a bag. It’s…’ She took a step forward, but Adam threw out his hand.
‘Don’t touch anything.’
The man lay, fully clothed, slumped on the floor. His face was blank, eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed.
Adam crouched low, his fingers against the neck. ‘We’re too late.’ He turned his head. ‘Don’t disturb the scene. Leave it for the police.’
Imogen’s knuckles, pressed against her mouth in horror, muffled her voice. ‘The police?’
Adam stood up, jabbing at his phone.
He talked, but Imogen did not hear a word. She was deafened by the roaring in her head.
‘Greg,’ she muttered. ‘It’s Greg.’
3
Tea
Adam