A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

‘I notice a distinct lack of concern about me being out on my own and minus a saucepan.’

‘Well, I’m going in now, so you can take it with you if you want.’

The dog, in the meantime, was continuing to gaze up adoringly at Kate, his tail wagging.

‘OK, Barney,’ Kate said, ‘I’ll just change into my boots and then we’ll be off.’

As Kate climbed the hill to the top of Penhallion Cliff and along the coastal path, she paused for a moment, as always, to listen to the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks beneath and the noise of the seagulls circling overhead.

From here she could look down to Lower Tinworthy and to the river meandering its way to the sea past the little parade of shops and tea rooms, which would be opening up again shortly for the season, whilst admiring Lavender Cottage on the hillside opposite. Directly across and further inland was Middle Tinworthy. She glimpsed a roof that might have been the medical centre, but she couldn’t be sure. And there, at the top of the hill, was Higher Tinworthy, with Pendorian Manor and its neighbours looming over the scattering of new-build luxury houses and the lower villages.

‘It’ll be swarming with tourists,’ she’d been warned by an old lady who lived further up the lane. ‘They’ll be looking in your windows like you’re some sort of tourist attraction and taking photos left right and centre. Just you wait!’

Easter was now only a few weeks away, so Kate guessed they’d soon be arriving. In fact, she’d already spotted some early visitors bravely tackling the wind as they strolled along the beach, looking around hopefully for a café or something that might be open. Only The Locker Café opened in the early spring for a few hours. ‘Somebody’s got to look after them poor emmets!’ Polly Lock said.

As Kate turned to continue her walk, she saw Barney, now off the lead, wild with excitement and jumping around with a couple of black Labradors who’d suddenly appeared. They were followed by a tall, slim, grey-haired, clean-shaven man, ruddy-cheeked and clad in a Barbour jacket and tweed cap, with his trousers tucked into long leather boots. He looked to be in his mid-sixties.

As he neared, Kate said cheerfully, ‘Good afternoon! Rather windy today, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ he agreed politely, but he looked solemn.

Kate retrieved Barney by the collar. ‘Sorry about him; he loves the company of other dogs.’

‘Of course he does,’ the stranger said. ‘Dogs are very sociable. Are you a visitor?’ He had that clipped speech so typical of the gentry.

‘Oh no,’ Kate said. ‘But we haven’t been here very long. We’ve bought a cottage down there.’ She pointed down to Lower Tinworthy.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy here.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Seymour Barker-Jones.’

Kate gulped. Had she heard correctly? Fenella’s husband?

‘Kate Palmer,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Did you say Sey––’

‘Yes,’ he interrupted, ‘Seymour Barker-Jones. I have a feeling you may have heard the name.’

Kate didn’t quite know what to say. She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I’m very sorry about your wife.’

Seymour Barker-Jones was shouting at one of his Labradors. ‘Come here, Meg!’ Meg reluctantly obeyed and he turned back towards Kate. ‘Thank you,’ he said before walking off hurriedly in the opposite direction.

Another suspect! He certainly didn’t look like the bread-knife-wielding type, but then neither did Maureen.

Kate watched him for a moment. The famous – or was he infamous? – Seymour. He fitted perfectly Kate’s preconceptions of what a senior civil servant would look like on his days off – pleasant, polite but not in the least bit exciting. Kate could well imagine why somebody with Fenella’s reputation would need a more scintillating lifestyle. And Seymour looked like the type of man who would be happy to leave her to her own devices, his marriage having been, according to rumour, unconventional to say the least.

Five

When she got home Angie was pouring herself ‘the first gin of the evening’, which Kate doubted as she observed the couple of empty tonic cans on the work surface.

‘Enjoy your walk?’ she asked as she bent to stroke the dog’s head.

‘You’ll never guess who I met,’ Kate said as she collapsed onto the sofa.

‘Daniel Craig? George Clooney?’

‘Just as interesting: Seymour Barker-Jones!’

Angie stared at her. ‘You’re kidding! Where?’

‘Up on Penhallion, walking his dogs. Introduced himself. Seemed nice.’

‘Kate, he might be the murderer!’ Angie’s eyes widened in horror.

‘I thought I told you that Kevin Barry had been arrested? Anyway, he didn’t look like a murderer to me; he was very pleasant and quite attractive. Posh accent. Typical English country gentleman, you know: tweed cap, Barbour, Labradors.’

‘You sound quite smitten and, hey, you’re in luck because he’s a free man now, isn’t he!’

Kate sighed. ‘Of course I’m not smitten! We only spoke for a couple of minutes and when I said how sorry I was about his wife, he headed off in the opposite direction.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t fancy you. Or maybe so you couldn’t see the guilty look on his face.’

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘OK, next time I go I’ll take the saucepan with me just in case I run into him again.’

After supper – during which Angie had imbibed more than her share of a bottle of wine – she said, ‘I might just take a stroll along to The Greedy Gull in a minute. Feel like coming? There’s not much on the telly tonight.’

Kate had rather fancied watching a re-run of Midsomer Murders, but she didn’t think she should leave Angie to follow her own urges. She would most likely hit the gin and come home at all hours, much the worse for wear. Sighing, she wondered again if it had been such a brilliant idea to buy this place with her sister. She’d hoped that, in beautiful Cornwall, somehow or other their problems would disappear, or at least be diminished. She’d visualised Angie going for long walks with the dog and getting involved with local