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

‘It was. He ended up marrying this woman, but that didn’t last long. You know what they say: when you marry your mistress you create a vacancy. Anyway, he bought us a house in West London, near Isleworth, appeared briefly on high days and holidays to say hello to the boys, and paid as little as he could get away with for their upkeep. As soon as I could get them into school and childcare I went back to full-time nursing at the local health centre.’

‘And you’re still working?’

‘Well, I had ideas about retiring when we came down here but, by the time we got the house more or less the way we wanted it, I realised I’d still have to work, part-time though. But I enjoy it and it’s a great way to meet the locals, because they’re usually pleased to see me! What about you, Woody?’

‘Me? Well, I was born and raised in Santa Monica. My dad was English, my mom was Italian.’

Ah, she thought, hence the olive skin and these lovely brown eyes.

‘I was the youngest of three,’ he went on, ‘and from the time I was a little kid, I was fascinated by the law. I watched all the detective stuff on TV and the movies, did well at college and won this amazing prize – to study criminology at Oxford University in England. My dad was over the moon, particularly as he had a sister living about five miles out of Oxford.’

‘Oxford!’ Kate lay down her knife and fork. ‘My goodness, you must have been bright!’

He smiled modestly. ‘I guess I was just lucky and there wasn’t too much competition around that year. Well, I got myself a degree, I got myself an English wife and then I got myself a job with the Metropolitan Police in London. We lived in Kent, had two girls and then, damnit, around fifteen years ago, Liz was diagnosed with breast cancer. She got the full treatment, we thought it was under control and that she was in remission or whatever. But then we discovered that it had spread all over the place and she died on the very day of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’

‘Oh, Woody.’ Kate instinctively placed her hand over his, which was resting on the table. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He turned his hand and squeezed hers. ‘At least the girls were grown-up and independent. Carol was married and living up in Yorkshire; still is for that matter. And Donna’s a drama teacher, recently broken up with her partner and now doesn’t ever plan on wedded bliss or motherhood, she says. Values her independence too much.’

‘And how about you?’

‘Well, I got as far as I could go with the Met. The only promotions were going to Brits, and younger ones at that. So as I said, I’d been coming down to Cornwall to surf for several years, heard they needed a DI for the CID in this area, saw the cottage in Lower Tinworthy, and here I am!’

‘You don’t ever hanker to go back to California?’

‘Not really. I left when I was young and my life is over here now. But I love going back on holiday. Dad died some years back, but I like to see my sister and brother, and Mom, who, would you believe, is ninety-one and still makes her own pasta every day!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Now, that’s enough about me. Would you like a dessert?’

Kate patted her tummy. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing!’

‘You like it here?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I love it here,’ she replied truthfully.

‘Then we’ll come again,’ he said, still holding her hand.

He’d been the perfect gentleman, driven her home, refused her offer of coffee because he was on duty early the following morning and suggested that they might go out somewhere else in the coming weeks. ‘But I can’t promise when because there’s so much going on right now,’ he said, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘We’ve had to release Maureen Grey due to lack of evidence. She’s got to remain at home and we’ll be questioning her again as and when it’s necessary, but there are no definite leads yet. When that happens, or someone else gets murdered – God forbid! – then I’m not going to be able to go anywhere. And for the moment I don’t want to run the risk of us being seen together. You OK with that, Kate?’

‘I’m OK with that,’ Kate replied as he gave her a clandestine kiss on the cheek. It was the first time he’d referred to his work; she was pleased they’d talked about so many other things. And she sincerely hoped they would be able to go out together openly once this case was solved.

Because she was not a little smitten.

Eleven

The following day her first patient was Mrs Ida Tilley, the cook-cum-housekeeper at Pendorian Manor. Kate had heard from several sources that she ruled the house with a rod of iron.

‘It’s me finger,’ said Mrs Tilley, unwinding a pristine bandage from the length of her forefinger to reveal a row of neat stitches. ‘They has to come out.’

‘When did you do this?’ Kate asked.

‘The night the mistress died!’ exclaimed Mrs Tilley. ‘Ten days ago. Yes, ten days ago now.’

‘How did you do it? It looks like a nasty cut.’

‘I’m havin’ to chop up vegetables for the next day’s soup, and then I hear them police bangin’ on the door. Bangin’ away they are. And I hear Mr Seymour answerin’ it, and then there’s this kerfuffle and I’m hearin’ the poor man cry out. Cried out, he did. Cried out like a banshee. Like a banshee, whatever that is.’

‘But what about this cut, Mrs Tilley? How did you do it?’

‘That’s when I did it, of course! It was such a terrible sound, pierce your very heart, it would, and it made me slip with the knife, and that’s somethin’ I never does.’ She looked at Kate as if she was simple. ‘That’s