A Village Murder - Frances Evesham The Ham-Hill Murder Mysteries

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      So much for that nap.

      ‘I suppose you’re hungry.’ Adam strode through the sitting room into the bar, the dog at his heels. ‘You can’t come in the kitchen, though, I’ll lose my licence.’

      He shooed the creature back, kicked the kitchen door shut and pulled a can of corned beef from a shelf. Why on earth had The Plough’s chef ordered it? Adam hated corned beef; had done since childhood. His mother hadn’t been much of a cook.

      He emptied the beef into an old dish and took it outside to his little courtyard garden. The dog, feathery tail swishing, whimpered with delight, buried its head deep in the bowl and hoovered up every scrap of food, as though perfectly at home in The Plough.

      Adam rubbed his chin. Where could this creature have come from, and why had he chosen The Plough for his new home?

      Imogen Bishop floored the accelerator. Her long-suffering Land Rover, gardening equipment clanking in the back, sped through Lower Hembrow. On two wheels, it squealed through the entrance to The Streamside Hotel, narrowly missing one of the Georgian pillars.

      Late for her own father’s funeral? What kind of daughter was she?

      She winced and slowed a fraction, racketing past the hotel’s half-filled car park.

      The Land Rover screeched to a halt at the back of the building. Imogen hauled herself from the driver’s seat, slammed the door, checked her watch for the twentieth time and made a dash for the entrance, calculating. She had just enough time for a quick shower.

      What had possessed her to spend the entire morning pricking out lettuces and tomatoes? Designing the gardens at Haselbury House was her biggest, most prestigious project ever, but she had no need to be there every day. That was the project manager’s job.

      It was too wet for outdoor work today, anyway. Planting potatoes would have to wait for another day, when her father’s funeral was over, the weather had cleared, and Imogen’s head was no longer spinning.

      She leapt up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. She’d been procrastinating all morning, dreading the thought of her father’s burial next to her beloved mother, and she’d almost left it too late.

      She looked away as she passed the door to her father’s bedroom. He’d owned The Streamside Hotel since Imogen was eleven, living in these rooms the whole time, although she’d moved away from the village as soon as she’d left school.

      Before long, she’d have to pluck up the courage to sort his books, collect his reading glasses from the bedside drawer and send his clothes to charity. Those were jobs for another day, when she felt stronger. She’d been in limbo, in a state of shock, ever since that day two weeks ago when the police arrived at her flat with the news of her father’s sudden death.

      The coroner had blamed slippery roads, fly-tipped rubbish and thinning tyres for the accident. One of her father’s oldest friends, he’d made only a brief reference to the level of alcohol in the councillor’s bloodstream.

      Imogen pushed the thought away. No time for that now. She hadn’t seen eye-to-eye with her father for years, but there was no excuse for arriving late at his funeral.

      She showered, scrubbing mud stained hands, knowing she’d never get them properly clean. Finally, dressed in sober black, she piled her wayward red hair precariously on top of her head, crammed a black hat on top, took a deep breath and walked down the stairs at the front of the hotel with as much dignity as she could muster.

      Emily, the hotel manager, stood in the entrance hall.

      ‘Is everything ready?’ Imogen asked.

      ‘Yes, Mrs Bishop.’ Emily looked pointedly at her watch. ‘The funeral’s due to start in fifteen minutes.’

      ‘I’ll be there. Just as well it’s only a hundred yards down the lane.’

      2

      The funeral

      ‘Champagne and mushroom vol-au-vents. Perfect.’ The vicar, Helen Pickles, towered over every other woman, and most men, in the hotel lounge. She patted her substantial stomach. ‘Hardly any calories at all.’ She selected another morsel. ‘Doctor told me to lose twenty pounds or my blood pressure would go through the roof. I told him I didn’t mind meeting my maker sooner rather than later, and if he thought I was going to give up chocolate cake, except for Lent, he could think again.’ She chuckled. ‘And Lent has finished at last. I ate three Easter Eggs on Easter Sunday – thought I might not make it to Evensong.’

      Imogen sipped soda water. ‘Thank you for the funeral, today. It was… lovely.’ That sounded inadequate. How should you describe a funeral?

      The vicar smiled. ‘All part of the service. Pity about the rain, but the hymns went down well, didn’t they?’ She selected another canapé. ‘If you need a sympathetic ear while you find your feet in Lower Hembrow, I have two. Although one doesn’t work as well as before.’ She pulled at her left earlobe. ‘What with the deafness and the blood pressure, and needing reading glasses, I’m falling apart.’

      Imogen hesitated. ‘I’m not sure about staying here, yet. I know nothing about running a hotel. I’m a gardener.’

      Helen swallowed the vol-au-vent. ‘A bit more than just a gardener. I saw that piece about you in Somerset Life last month. Celebrity landscaper, that’s you.’ She wafted a hand in the direction of the young hotel manager. ‘Emily is the most efficient manager I’ve ever known, and I’ve met a few in my line of work. She’ll keep The Streamside Hotel going while you decide what to do.’ Her eyes were kind. ‘I hope you stay, but, of course, it’s your choice. Now, is that a plate of brownies I see over there? How can I possibly resist?’

      Imogen moved from one group of her father’s friends and business acquaintances to another, accepting condolences and making small talk. She tried to eat a canapé but couldn’t swallow. Her throat ached with emotion and tension, but it wasn’t just her father’s sudden death that hurt. Money worries nagged at her. Why hadn’t he told her he was broke?

      He’d left the hotel to her, but it hadn’t made a profit for years, so far as she could see. She hoped she’d misunderstood the accounts. She could barely afford the funeral director’s bills, even with the commission from Haselbury House.

      She joined Councillor Smith, her father’s best friend, his bulbous nose even redder than usual as he mopped his eyes with a giant snowy handkerchief.

      His short, plump wife stroked his hand and peered round the room with beady eyes that registered every guest. ‘Lovely service,’ she remarked to Imogen. ‘I don’t see your husband here. Your father spoke so well of him.’

      Imogen stitched a smile on her face. ‘I’m afraid Greg couldn’t come. Work commitments, you know.’ It sounded lame. She hadn’t contacted Greg, not since they split up, but surely he’d known about the funeral – it had been a headline in the local paper. She’d expected him.

      Mrs Smith sniffed. ‘Such a pity. Still, a lovely service, don’t you think, Eddie?’

      Councillor Smith nodded. ‘Aye, he deserved a good send-off, did Horace.’

      Smith and Jones, Imogen’s late mother had called the two men. Their sixty year friendship ended abruptly when her father’s car skidded, landing in a shattered pile of glass, steel and chrome, upside down on the road just outside Camilton.

      Should Imogen have visited her father more often, checking he was safe to drive at his age? It would have been a waste of time. When had her father ever listened to his daughter’s opinion?

      In recent years, she’d only visited the hotel at Christmas, to exchange wine and chocolates.

      A discreet cough sounded close by. Imogen smiled politely at Councillor

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