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

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Hennessy.’

       Why the sudden formality?

      ‘Adam.’

      ‘Of course. Such a delightful English name. I came to beg you for help, Adam. You see, as you know, I sing in our choir.’

      Adam nodded.

      ‘I also chair the committee. We plan to give a charity concert in June, and we had this wonderful idea – why not play outside, with nature all around. In a field.’

      ‘Why not?’ Adam chuckled. He could see where this was leading.

      ‘We were hoping to use the field behind the church, but there’s been a little – how shall I say – difficulty. An objection. By the farmer. Something about trampling the crops. Poof!’ Maria dismissed the farmer with a wave of the hand. ‘We have to find an alternative, and we thought of your dear little beer garden. Would it not be perfect?’ She smiled that adorable smile.

      Adam was not fooled. Maria must have singled out the beer garden the first time she saw it. ‘You’ll be very welcome.’

      ‘Adam, my darling. You are so wonderful and sweet.’

      Adam had rarely been called sweet. He rather liked it.

      ‘Now.’ She clapped her hands again. ‘Let’s visit the vet. The dog will fit easily in your car, no? Mine has only just returned from the valet, and it would be such a shame to make it all dirty again, wouldn’t it?’

      The dog had no chip. The vet shook his head. ‘He’s a stray, I’m sure,’ he decided. ‘He looks as though he’s travelled a long way. That makes me wonder…’

      ‘Wonder what?’ Adam asked.

      ‘There’s been a spate of dog thefts recently. Mostly high-end, working dogs – sheepdogs, show animals and such. Not scruffy mutts like this one.’ He scratched the dog’s chest and the animal leaned against him, hypnotised, eyes half closed in bliss. ‘They were hidden in one of the farms north of here, up Hereford way, until it closed down a few weeks ago. Someone searching for a Carpathian sheepdog found them and the police closed the place down.’

      Maria shrieked with delight. ‘I know Carpathians. They come from Romania, my home country. My uncle bred them on his farm.’

      The vet laughed. ‘I don’t fancy you’ll get your hands on that one – the owner was besotted by all accounts. Anyway, if they stole this fellow by mistake, they probably kicked him off the farm. They wouldn’t want a mutt like him.’

      Maria gasped; her hands clapped against the dog’s ears. ‘No, no. Stop saying that. You’ll upset the poor creature. Won’t he, darling?’ She kissed the top of the dog’s head.

      The vet raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s most likely been wandering ever since. He’s very young, hardly more than a puppy, and he’s come a long way, but he seems in good health. Is he eating?’

      ‘He could outdo a weightlifter,’ Adam put in.

      The vet looked at his watch. ‘I must get on, I’m afraid. You should put a collar on this chap, if you’re going to keep him, and a lead – this string won’t last long. My nurse will show you.’ He pulled out his phone to photograph the dog. ‘I’ll print this out and stick it up on the wall. It’s a long shot, though.’

      As they left, Adam had a brainwave. ‘He might not be a Carpathian, but he’s taken to you. Would you like to keep him?’

      ‘Oh, I would love to,’ Maria trilled, ‘but I’m far too busy. I could never look after him as he deserves…’

      Nice try. Adam shrugged. Maybe someone else in the village might adopt him.

      He bought a selection of collars, leads, bowls, rubber bones, beds, and dog blankets from the vet’s nurse, gasping at the range of items a single dog needed – and the price. He slipped the collar round the dog’s neck, replacing the garden twine, and attached the lead.

      ‘Looks like you’re staying with me for a while, my friend,’ he said, stroking the rough brown coat. ‘Try not to shed hair all over the car seats.’

      Back at The Plough, Maria slid from Adam’s car, wiggled her fingers, and disappeared.

      Adam heaved his new companion out of the back door, checked the lead was properly attached and retrieved the bag of canine essentials. He scratched his head. ‘After all that, I forgot to buy your food. Fancy a walk to the shop?’

      He didn’t need to ask twice. The dog hauled him at speed along the lane and around the corner to the village post office, the Hembrow Stores.

      Adam elbowed the door open and hovered. What about the dog? In or out?

      ‘Come in, come in,’ boomed Mrs Topsham, breaking into a loud belly laugh. ‘What a super dog. Bring him in, do.’ She squeezed round the counter, bounced across the room, bent over as far as her girth would allow, and threw her arms round the dog. ‘Just what you need, Mr Hennessy, in my humble opinion. A bit of company.’

      Panting with the effort, she straightened up and punched Adam heartily on the shoulder.

      ‘As I was saying to Mrs Croft, only the other day,’ she hooted, ‘you need a companion. Not good for a man, living all alone.’ She rocked with laughter. ‘I wasn’t thinking of a dog, mind you, but there aren’t many ladies to choose from, not in Lower Hembrow, are there?’ She kicked the door shut and trotted back to the counter, wheezing. ‘Not unless you count Mrs Bishop.’ One eye closed in a wink.

      Better knock that rumour on the head. He opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Topsham was on a roll.

      ‘Not your type, I expect. A bit on the thin side, but that’s what girls are like, these days.’

      To Mrs Topsham, anyone younger than her was a girl.

      ‘Poor thing,’ she added, in a loud whisper. ‘First, her father dies and then, on the day of the funeral – the very day, would you believe,’ her voice rose to an excited squeak, ‘there’s a dead body found in the garden. Oh—’

      The door opened, halting her in mid-sentence.

      She recovered fast. ‘Oswald, what can I do for you?’

      Adam’s dog almost pulled Adam over in his haste to get to the newcomer.

      In her stage whisper, Mrs Topsham announced, ‘Oswald’s the gardener from the hotel. Bet he knows all about that body. Don’t worry,’ she put a finger to her lip. ‘He’s deaf as a post – can’t hear a word.’

      ‘Oswald and I are old friends,’ Adam announced.

      ‘Really?’ sounding disappointed. ‘Drinks in the pub, I suppose.’

      The gardener looked up. ‘What’s that you say, Edwina? A tin of my usual, please.’

      Puffing hard, she reached into a cupboard behind the counter. ‘Time you gave up that old pipe of yours before it kills you,’ she scolded. ‘That or the beer. One of them will see you off, you mark my words.’ She slapped a pack of tobacco on the counter. ‘Come on, now. Spill the beans. We’re dying to know about that body in the garden.’

      ‘Aye, well, I wasn’t there, was I?’ the gardener said, with a sharp look at Adam. ‘My day off yesterday, you see. I went to the church, to see the councillor off to his last resting place. Mrs Bishop asked me to that posh affair in the hotel, but affairs like that aren’t for the likes of me – too many bigwigs from the town. I drank a pint or two to toast the councillor’s memory at home with the wife.’

      ‘Well, I heard,’ Mrs Topsham piled cans of beans in a neat pyramid, ‘the body was Mrs Bishop’s husband.’ Her

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