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

‘But no boats on the horizon.’

‘No,’ she agreed.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I’d like to get on a boat and sail away myself. Never touch base, just sail on and on. Escapism, I suppose.’

‘And what do you feel you have to escape from?’ Kate said.

‘The horror of my wife’s death,’ he said, turning to look at her. There was a sadness and loneliness about the man that intrigued Kate.

‘It was horrific,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t imagine how someone could do that to another human being. It’s such a terrible thing. Do you really believe Billy Grey is the killer?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’ He continued gazing out to sea.

Kate wasn’t sure she believed him. ‘Now they’ve made an arrest you’ll be able to get away. It must be important for you to get back to your work in London,’ she said.

‘Yes, it is.’ He turned to look at her. ‘But it’s more important to me that this whole horrible business is finally wrapped up.’

‘It must have been heartbreaking for you,’ Kate said, ‘and frustrating.’

‘Did you know my wife?’ he asked.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Kate admitted. ‘But I do feel involved. You see, I was at the meeting when she was killed and because I’m a nurse I was called to check on her. Then, six days later I found Kevin Barry’s body washed up on the beach.’

Seymour looked horrified. ‘My God! How awful for you! You have become involved, haven’t you?’

Kate felt the need to confide. ‘It was awful, but it’s galvanised me into finding out who committed these awful crimes.’

Seymour gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, you see, I’ve made a list of suspects…’ Kate trailed off, immediately wondering if it had been wise to tell him that.

‘And am I on it?’ he asked.

She most definitely should not have started this conversation.

‘Because I should be,’ he went on, ‘if you’re being thorough.’ He was studying her intently. ‘But don’t you think you can tear up your list now?’

Kate hesitated. ‘I suppose I should,’ she said.

‘You don’t sound altogether convinced?’

‘I just think there’s a bit more to this than meets the eye. Perhaps I watch too many detective dramas.’ Kate wondered again if she was saying too much.

‘So why are you not convinced?’

Kate shrugged. ‘Just a feeling I have. And my feelings are usually correct – more by luck than judgement probably. Let’s just say that I can’t say for certain that it’s all wrapped up. I shall keep my list for the moment.’

‘And yet the police are satisfied that this man Grey is the killer, aren’t they?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Good,’ he said. He looked sad again as he gazed back out to sea. ‘But nothing can bring her back.’

As he stood up to go he said, ‘Everyone will tell you that we lived separate lives and that, of course, is true. Fenella hated London and unfortunately I have to be there most of the time. Alas, I was not the husband she was hoping for. I was unable to fulfil all her needs, but I loved my wife and I miss her.’ He looked round and whistled for his dogs. ‘Good day, Mrs Palmer.’

And, with that, he was gone, the dogs running ahead.

Kate mulled over her meeting with Seymour as she walked back home. He was indeed an enigmatic character but nevertheless she found herself drawn to him a little. What did he mean when he said he wasn’t the husband Fenella was hoping for? Rumour had it that he was bisexual, gay, impotent even, so perhaps he’d been unable to satisfy her in that department? Perhaps Fenella needed to prove to herself that she was attractive to men and that was why she took so many lovers? Then again she may well have been unashamedly voracious, and she and Seymour might well have had an open marriage. Kate was tempted to erase Seymour – along with Maureen and Jess – from The List, but she didn’t. She would erase him once it was proved beyond doubt who the killer was.

But she was none too sure that killer was Billy Grey.

The very next day all roads heading to the South West were gridlocked with Easter tourists who’d managed to begin their weekend a day early. And Kate finally realised that what the old girl up the lane had forecast was true: there was a constant stream of visitors walking up the lane and peering into the back garden. Fortunately, the little garden at the front – overlooking the valley and the sea – was reasonably private unless you walked along the side of the house and looked over the gate which was set in the hedge.

‘Luke says there are far more visitors than usual,’ Angie informed Kate as she ran her fingers through her topknot to accentuate the arty look, prior to her stint in The Gallery. ‘He says it’s because the village is now notorious! Word’s got round that a body was found on the beach, and a murder took place in the dreary old village hall, and they’re arriving in droves and asking who lives where. I bet someone’ll come knocking on the door before long!’

Someone did.

Shortly after Angie departed, Kate was tidying up the kitchen when there was a knock at the back door. And there – clad in anoraks and bobble hats – stood a group of around twenty people, cameras poised at the ready.

‘Are you Mrs Palmer?’ asked their bespectacled leader. ‘I’m Wally. Forgive us for coming to your door like this, but we’re the Agatha Christie Commemoration Association from Little Widdlington – that’s near Cheltenham – and we love to visit crime scenes. We understand you found the body of’ – he consulted a scrap of paper – ‘er, Mr Kevin Barry, recently released from prison, who’d come back, according to rumour, to murder his former employer?’

Kate was dumbstruck for a few moments while they all continued to gawp at her