‘Well, I never did,’ an anonymous local resident told the Gazette. ‘And we live in such a quiet part of the world. Who would have thought it?’
Imogen suspected the journalist had restricted his research to a quick visit to Edwina Topsham’s shop, for very few of the quotes were attributed to named people. The locals always had opinions, and loved to share them, but they wouldn't want to see their names in the papers. In a village like Lower Hembrow, you could find yourself ostracised for months if you were seen as a troublemaker.
The journalist who’d written the piece had little information to add, apart from the news that Belinda Sandford was a local girl, her mother had been Diane Webber, and several of Butterfly Charm’s syndicate members had also spent their formative years in Somerset.
Adam had phoned to tell Imogen about his interview with DCI Andrews. ‘There’s precious little evidence, but it seems Andrews’ sixth sense is telling him there might be something sinister in Alex’s death.’
‘So,’ Imogen said, ‘we can go on investigating, but we’re doing it for Diane and Belinda?’
‘Exactly. Andrews thinks we might be right to be suspicious. Of course, he couldn’t say that, but he didn’t warn us off.’
‘If anyone asks, we believe it was an accident?’
‘Exactly.’
As a result of this conversation, Imogen made one of her regular trips to the village shop, the source of all local knowledge. Harley was delighted. He'd learned that a visit to Edwina’s emporium was likely to lead to a supply of biscuits and a few tummy tickles.
As it was a school day, Alfie Croft, Harley's main admirer, was absent, but Edwina was on full, bouncing form. ‘So, you've had some excitement up at the hotel, m’dear,’ she said. ‘It's almost as though you’re a magnet for murder.’
Imogen shot her a sideways look. She was never sure whether or not Edwina was joking.
‘Now don't you go spreading that around, or our bookings will plummet.’
Edwina chuckled, her chins wobbling merrily. ‘Don't you believe it. That last business didn't cause you too much trouble, did it? Not so far as the hotel was concerned anyway.’ She blushed and her voice tailed away, for ‘that last business’ had included the death of not only Imogen's husband but also her father.
She laid a warm, motherly hand on Imogen's arm. ‘Now, don't you take any notice. My mouth runs away with me, I'm afraid, but I don't mean any harm. We like having you up there at the big hotel, and I know you send your guests down to pop into the shop.’
She treated Imogen to a conspiratorial grin.
Imogen said, ‘Plenty of the guests come down from the city, and there's nothing they like more than dropping into a proper corner shop. Especially since you started serving all those old-fashioned sweets.’ She pointed at the long neat row of jars lined up on shelves behind the counter. ‘I find little bowls full of them everywhere in the hotel. The staff are as bad as the guests.’
Edwina chuckled. ‘That's right, folk remember those sweeties from when they were little. Why, back along when I were a lass, I used to buy a quarter of milk bottles every week.’ She nodded towards a jar half full of the small, rubbery, milk bottle-shaped sweets. ‘Unless, now and then, I'd have those sherbet pips. Not that my mother liked me eating those. Not since my little sister stuck some up her nose. Had to take her to the doctor, we did, to find out why she wasn't talking properly. The doctor poked around, looking up her nose, and she gave a great big sneeze. The sherbet pip popped out, just missed the doctor and shot right across the room. That’s what my Mum said, anyway.’
Imogen laughed. ‘Well, since I'm here, I'll have some of your bonbons, please, but only if you'll weigh them out on your proper brass scales.’
The two women traded grins. Imogen felt a surge of affection for Edwina. She meant well, and she was highly influential in Lower Hembrow.
As bonbons rattled into the scales, Imogen said, ‘The paper tells me that one of our guests eating in the hotel the other weekend was a local girl. Laura Wilson. Does the name mean much to you?’
‘Laura Wilson?’ Edwina nodded. ‘She used to be Laura Collins before she married that stuck-up doctor of hers. The Collins family have a farm over towards Haselbury Plucknett. Five daughters in that family, can you imagine? As bad as the Trevillians. Must be something in the water, I reckon.’
Still shaking with mirth, she went on, ‘Martha Collins, their mother, said her husband wanted to keep going until they had a boy, but after Laura was born, she told him that if he wanted a boy, he'd have to get a divorce and remarry, because she'd had enough of the whole business. And who can blame her?’
She transferred the bonbons into a white paper bag. ‘But you were asking about Laura, m’dear, weren’t you? She was the youngest of the girls. She didn't want to stay buried down here on her parents’ farm and off she went to the city for a while. Mind you, she came back. Married Magnus Wilson, and they live in South Petherton. You can take a girl out of Somerset but…’
Imogen nodded. ’You can’t take Somerset out of the girl. Very true, I’d say. Look at me, back here after all these years. I don’t remember any of the Collins girls. Younger than me, of course, and I didn’t ride.’
Edwina paused, her face screwed up in thought. ‘The beauty of the family was Laura. She looked like an angel, but there was nothing stuck-up about her. A good, down-to-earth Somerset girl, she was, but my goodness me she had a mouth on her could turn a pig blue. She would outswear any of the boys working on the farm, and didn’t they love it? Like flies around a honeypot, those lads.’
To Imogen’s disappointment, Jenny Trevillian’s arrival with two of her children put paid to any more revelations. Imogen held the door open as Jenny guided a toddler in a stroller inside, another child, of about four in age, in tow. ‘Just come from the playschool,’ Jenny said. ‘Jack does enjoy it so, but he gets tired and fights with his little sister for the rest of the day. So, I said he could come and choose something for his lunch.’
Edwina turned her attention to Jack. His coat was wet through and his trousers muddy from the knees down. There was a scab on his nose and scratches down the side of his face. ‘You look like you've been in the wars, young man. What do you fancy for lunch. Sausages?’
Jack made a face. ‘Pizza,’ he lisped, and grabbed one of Harley’s ears. Harley grunted and heaved a resigned sigh.
Edwina bustled about, collecting different types of pizza for Jack’s inspection. ‘And what did you do to your face, young man?’
‘Tree,’ said Jack. He pointed at an ancient oak across the road, in the grounds of the village hall. The playgroup operated in the hall, three days a week, the adults forced to set buckets on the floor when it rained to catch water from the ailing roof. Many generations of village children had climbed that tree and swung from the rope swing attached to its sturdy branches. Jack was far from the first to fall.
As Jack’s mother paid for the pizza, Imogen seized the opportunity. ‘Are your children friendly with the Collins family?’
‘Laura used to babysit for us,’ Jenny said, ‘and she got my eldest interested in riding. The Collinses were always mad about horses, and all their girls spent most of their lives down at the pony club.’
Jack’s sister, up until now sleeping peacefully in the pushchair, suddenly woke and set about gaining her mother’s attention. Her wails could probably be heard inside Imogen’s hotel.
‘Oh, and she’s off. She needs her lunch,’ Jenny Trevillian thrust the pizza in her bag, grabbed Jack's hand, shouldered the door open, and set off up the hill at a cracking pace towards the village’s only car park.
Edwina swung the paper bag full of Imogen’s bonbons energetically over and over, holding the corners until they stuck out like cat’s ears. ‘How she copes with all those children and a farm as well, I’ll never know.’
‘There’s Joe to help.’
Edwina snorted. ‘Much help that one is. Like having another child around the place,
Jenny says. He’s been in trouble with the police, more than once, for fly-tipping and what-not.’
No wonder Joe had a grudge against Adam, an ex-police officer.
Imogen took the package, paid, and left, Harley trotting happily at her heels.
17
Farm
Back at the hotel, Imogen sucked bonbons and took a shower. Her stomach churned. She was going with Dan to Leo Murphy’s yard, to discuss the commissioned painting of the trainer’s top horses.
Her pulse raced with all the confusion, anxiety, and excitement of her tentative, unsuccessful relationship with Dan, that began and ended over thirty years ago.
They’d seen a lot of each other lately, but a quick peck on the cheek after lunch or an evening meal in The Plough was the nearest they'd come to any kind of physical intimacy. They were like magnets with their poles together, preventing them from drawing close.
Imogen knew the fault was largely hers. Since her marriage went sour, she’d been terrified of commitment.
Newly independent, she’d tried to convince herself she was satisfied by the challenge of the hotel and its gardens. She needed no kind of dependent partnership. Harley was a more reliable, warm-hearted, and non-judgmental companion than any man.
But in her heart she knew their problem was confusion and, perhaps, fear of the unknown. What did Dan want from her? Just friendship? Was he the perfectly behaved, old-fashioned soul he seemed, too polite to press her for more, or had he lost interest?
She told herself she would be happy with a simple companionship, like the one she shared with Adam. And yet, and yet…
The prospect of time with Dan knotted her stomach. She spent ten minutes coaxing her hair into a French pleat, viewing it from all angles and employing a chipped hand mirror to get a close-up of the back.
Impatient, and desperate to avoid appearing to try too hard, she tugged out the pins, replaced them with a simple elastic band at the nape of her neck, and twisted the ponytail into a loose bun. That was better. Casual. As though she hadn’t thought much about it.
A dollop of tinted moisturiser failed, as always, to conceal the crow’s feet around her eyes, or those two pesky parallel, vertical indents that had taken up residence between her eyebrows.
A smudge of blusher – what Emily insisted on calling ‘a pop of colour’ –brightened her face a little. She tried a new mascara that, as expected, failed, as so many other mascaras had done, to make her sparse lashes appear long, thick, and glamorous.
She spent a ridiculous amount of time wondering what to wear.
This was a trip to a racing stables. What was appropriate? Trousers, of course, but perhaps not those old brown cords she used for gardening. No, something newer, tighter fitting, that showed off the length of her legs, her secret vanity.
Finally, she chose a moss green cashmere jumper that she hoped combined restrained glamour with robust warmth –that was how it had been advertised in the catalogue, anyway. She hid a warm thermal vest underneath the cashmere, slipped a suede jacket on top, and zipped on a pair of her sturdiest boots, a kind of cross between wellies and Doc Martens.
She left the hotel, after putting her head round the door of the office to warn Emily she'd be away for the afternoon.
She felt, smugly, that Emily had betrayed her interest in Wyatt when The Plough needed to borrow beef, but she said nothing. She just hoped Wyatt wouldn’t let Emily down. Imogen didn’t want to lose her.
While Imogen was out, Harley would stay at The Streamside. There was no shortage of staff or guests for him to entertain.
The route to Leo Murphy’s yard took Imogen past the farmhouse Edwina had described as the one occupied by Martha and Ed Collins, Laura Wilson’s parents. Nervous restlessness at the prospect of being with Dan had brought Imogen out far too early for their meeting. She had half an hour to spare.
Giving in to curiosity, she drove through the open gate, up the winding track through fields bounded by hedges and fences, past a coppice of woodland. A network of branches, mostly bare but showing early traces of the year’s green buds, left visible gaps where ancient elm trees had died and been removed.
She pulled up in a neat yard. As she got out of the car, the sights, sounds and smells of a busy farm surrounded her. Over to one side was a barn full of cattle, who lowed contentedly through mouthfuls of hay. On the opposite side of the yard was another brick building. As Imogen watched, the door flew open and a woman emerged, carrying a bundle in her arms. Surprised, Imogen recognised Laura Wilson from dinner on the evening of Alex Deacon’s death.
Laura trotted past Imogen. ‘Sorry, can't stop, got to get this little fellow in the warm.’
Through the open door of the barn, Imogen heard sheep. The barn door swung shut, cutting off the plaintive noise, and Imogen followed the younger woman towards the long, low stone-built farmhouse.
Laura, her hair invisible under a woolly hat, her bare hands red with cold, glanced behind her. ‘Come inside, in the warm. I'll be with you in a minute.’
Imogen looked around the cosy farmhouse kitchen. A huge table almost filled the room, its surface white from many years of scrubbing.
As Laura opened the door of the Aga, heat spilled out, wrapping itself luxuriously around Imogen. She moved closer as Laura lowered her burden into a cardboard box lined with sheepskin. A puny, bedraggled lamb lay limply in the box. It kicked out weakly with one leg.
‘This little fellow's been rejected by his mum. We haven't got a foster mother for him at the moment – we’ve only lambed one or two ewes so far – but I thought I’d try him in here. My father’s out in the barn with the others.’
Laura, now warming a milk bottle in a bowl of hot water , smiled again, showing perfect teeth with the white gleam that suggested professional polishing.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You’re from the hotel.’ Her brow creased with effort. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember…’
‘Imogen Bishop.’
Laura wiped her hand on her jeans and extended it towards Imogen. ‘Of course. I've come back to help my parents out with the lambing for a week or two. They're getting on a bit now and it's all too much for them.’
She lifted the tiny lamb onto her lap and used the dropper to get milk into its mouth. ‘I remember your father, the Councillor. He was quite the celebrity around here.’
Imogen smiled and nodded at the lamb. ‘Can I help?’ Once or twice, as a schoolgirl, she’d helped out at local farms during lambing, although she'd never known the Collinses.
With a grin, Laura handed over the bundle. ‘Dad tells me I'm wasting my time with the weakest lambs. We try to put them in with a foster mother who’s lost her own baby, if we can, but this one’s too weak to suckle. He needs a lot more TLC.’
She raised her well-groomed eyebrows at Imogen, who remembered she hadn't given an explanation yet for her unannounced arrival, and hadn’t thought to construct one.
While she racked her brains for a good excuse, Laura said, ‘I expect you've come about that terrible business at the racecourse. Was it me you were looking for?’
Her directness took Imogen by surprise. ‘Well, this morning, in the local shop, they said they thought you were around.’ She was stammering. She never could tell lies. She ploughed on. ‘You see, I'm worried about Belinda. Her mother’s convinced she's going to be accused of killing Alex Deacon.’ That was true, at least.
‘And you thought you'd like to help.’
Was that a hint of sarcasm in the other woman's voice? Imogen decided to take the words at face value. ‘That's right. Belinda Sandford seems to be the newspapers’ favourite suspect, and her mother’s desperate, as I expect you know.’
Laura smiled. ‘Diane’s very fragile, since her husband died. That was a terrible time. We all tried to help out – Ling was especially kind. Magnus and I visited whenever we could. Now Belinda’s all Diane has left. So if I can help, I will.’
Imogen thought she caught the gleam of unshed tears in Laura’s
eyes. Despite her wealth and beauty, and her reputation as a trophy wife, it seemed she had a soft heart.
At that moment, the lamb latched on to the bottle in Imogen's hands and set about sucking vigorously. Laura smiled. ‘If he gets that down he'll be doing well. It's colostrum, you see. The first ewe’s milk, full of all sorts of great stuff. We keep some handy during lambing.’
Imogen felt a warm glow, as though she'd single-handedly saved the lamb’s life. It must have shown in her face, for Laura chuckled. ‘That feeling never fades,’ she said. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’
Suddenly, the door burst open with a crash. Startled, the lamb jerked violently. Imogen clutched him to her chest just in time to stop him falling from her arms.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. ‘Laura, come quick. it’s your father. I don’t know what – I mean, I think – he’s – come with me—’
Without another word to Imogen, Laura dashed after her mother. ‘What is it? Wait? What’s happened?’
Imogen left the lamb in its box and followed them across the yard to the lambing shed.
‘I found him like that,’ Mrs Collins was gasping for breath, clinging on to one of the lambing pens for support.
Laura and Imogen knelt on either side of the elderly man who lay curled in the hay, one hand limp against his chest. Laura felt for a pulse. She shook her head at Imogen, turned her father on his back, loosened his scarf and leaned over his face. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she said, and set about alternately breathing into his mouth and thumping his chest.
Imogen called 999, while Laura worked on her father. The minutes ticked by, seeming like hours, and still he lay, not breathing.
A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries) Page 11
