A harvest murder, p.9
A Harvest Murder, page 9
‘And, if that offer of coffee’s still standing,’ he said, ‘we can talk more about your ideas. If you have time, that is?’
Emily looked at her watch. ‘Sorry, I have to check that afternoon tea’s all organised.’ With a regretful smile, she was gone, leaving Imogen alone with the consultant.
They spent a long time sketching out ideas on paper. That was the way Imogen approached her own design work and her spirits rose even higher.
Finally, they’d agreed on a series of possible adaptations to the folly, ensuring they’d keep the character of the building.
‘With any luck, we can use the builders that were let down over Haselbury House. I’ll talk to my firm about that. They’ll be looking for a good project to take its place. We might even get a special deal from them,’ he said. ‘But you need to think it all over and be quite sure about what you want. I’ll send in my bid in the next few days, once I’ve agreed it with the partners.’
Imogen stole a glance at the business card Brian had given her. Newbury, Smith and Harnsworth. She realised she knew a little about the company. She’d seen one of their designs on a TV programme. It was a London-based firm with branches in the West Country and a good reputation for clever renovations. Second-home owners adored their innovative work and knack for providing the light, airy spaces and modern touches city dwellers treasured, within rural, chocolate-box locations.
Brian was still talking. ‘You need the new buildings to be an asset to the gardens and not spoil the hotel’s ambience. It’s such a fabulous place. You must get plenty of business from celebrities who come down here to be incognito for a while.’
‘We’re doing okay,’ Imogen said. It would be bad business practice to boast about the small group of actors who’d begun to make the hotel their home from home, especially in the winter. ‘People love the big fireplaces and the grounds, and we have one rather grand suite that we use.’ On the spur of the moment, she said, ‘Would you like to see it? It’s not booked until the end of next week. We often upgrade people when the room’s free, but there’s no one in there at the moment.’
What on earth had come over her? she wondered. But she was enjoying talking to this man. After Dan’s distant behaviour, the attention from someone like Brian was intensely flattering.
Not, of course, that they would be having any more than a professional relationship. The man was probably married.
The lift took them to the fourth floor, to the Oak Suite.
‘Here we are.’ She unlocked the door and showed Brian inside.
‘Very, very nice,’ he said. ‘I wish I could afford to stay here.’ He stood for a moment, his eyes ranging around the room. ‘I love the paintings. Is that one of The Streamside Hotel garden?’
Imogen turned away to hide a blush. Brian was looking at the painting Dan had started for her father but not completed. Adam had given it to her, having bought it for a song from Henry, the gallery owner in Camilton. Dan had painted it years before he’d gained his current reputation and Imogen thought it was beautiful, even without the finishing touches. Dan winced whenever he saw it but she’ d refused to let him change it.
She would take it down, later. It reminded her too much of its artist.
Brian squinted at the signature. ‘D Freeman? I don’t know the name, but painting’s not my thing. I’m just a businessman, I’m afraid.’ He smiled that lopsided smile. ‘Boring, I know.’
‘Not at all. I’m in business, too.’
‘But you’re very creative, I can see that. Your gardens are beautiful. Haselbury House was in the county magazine, wasn’t it? The owner showed me.’
Imogen said nothing. She didn’t want to spread gossip, but even when she was working there she’d been aware that the owner was cutting corners, and she’d had a strong feeling he was involved in the financial scam that had shocked the area, although the police had never charged him.
‘At least, with your craft studios, you’re planning for the future,’ Brian said. ‘Good for you.’
Imogen’s spirits soared. There are plenty more fish in the sea than Daniel Freeman, she told herself.
‘I’ll send over a quote in the next few days.’
It took all Imogen’s determination not to offer him the contract, there and then.
17
PIERRE
By Tuesday evening, Dan had a set of new cameras installed, at huge cost, to cover the shelter, the gate and various areas of the paddock, as well as the front of the house. He could paint alone to his heart’s content, confident that the donkeys were safe. He’d forget about Smash’s adventure. It had just been a local lad or two, playing a stupid practical joke. And the note? A childish attempt to scare him. He wouldn’t waste more time on it.
Except, he discovered, he couldn’t paint at all. He set up the easel and sorted out sketches he’d already made of an assortment of horses, donkeys, trees and lakes, for he would be happy never to paint another stately home. The upcoming exhibition had drained his interest in overblown architecture quite dry.
Failing to find inspiration in the sketches, however, he turned to photos he’d taken of Somerset scenes. Glastonbury, Dunster, Exmoor, Watchet; all lovely places, but too familiar, too often photographed or painted, to inspire him. He had nothing new to offer on any of them.
He flipped open a sketch pad and idly doodled faces. But he could only remember Imogen’s. The way she turned her head on that long neck; the involuntary lift of one eyebrow when she pretended not to mind that Dan had arrived late to a meal; the width of her sudden smile, in that expression of trust and openness that crossed her face occasionally. He’d encountered it most often when she’d been working in the hotel garden, cheeks flushed with digging and Harley at her feet, scrabbling at the disturbed earth in a search for old bones.
Imogen smiled too rarely. Was that his fault? He knew he’d been a disappointment to her. He turned his attention to the sketch but couldn’t capture the expression properly. It was easier to draw the frequent wariness in her face, the other smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He threw his pencil down. What was the point, anyway? There was unlikely to be any future for him with Imogen. He should have known better than to expect it.
He hid the sketch pad in the bottom drawer of a cabinet. It was time to stop the self-pity and move on.
Coffee, that was what he needed, and plenty of it. He wouldn’t sleep until he’d broken his duck and found something – anything – to paint.
He returned from the kitchen bearing a steaming mug and half a packet of chocolate digestives. The sudden thud on his front door startled him into dropping his mug on the floor.
‘Coming,’ he called, sweeping the broken shards under the table and mopping up the coffee with a painting rag. He remembered his new, expensive entry camera. Time to try it out. He peered at the screen. ‘Pierre?’
His son waved, mouthing, ‘Let me in.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Dan ran to the door and threw it open. Pierre lurched inside, dropped his backpack in the middle of the floor and, towering over his father, enveloped him in a hug that threatened to choke him within an inch of his life.
Dan searched his memory. Had Pierre warned him he was coming? Surely he hadn’t forgotten? Pierre had completed his university course in photography and disappeared across the world taking pictures, but he hadn’t mentioned an autumn trip to England.
Dan felt his smile expand into every muscle of his face.
‘How long can you stay?’ he asked.
‘Long as you like,’ Pierre said. ‘I’ve had it with France, to be honest. Oh, good timing.’ He helped himself to a handful of biscuits. ‘Anything stronger than coffee around here?’
‘Red wine?’
‘Of course. I’d have brought you some decent stuff from over there, but…’
‘But you would have drunk it before you arrived.’ Dan laughed and led the way into the kitchen. He pointed at his prized, self-indulgent, temperature-controlled wine ‘cellar’. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Pierre took his time to choose, squinting at labels and rejecting most of the bottles with a Gallic sigh, finally selecting one and pouring generous measures into two large glasses. They returned to the studio and he swirled the wine, sniffed appreciatively, his nose deep in the glass, and took a mouthful. ‘Works with the biscuits, anyway,’ he pronounced, taking another. His grin teased his father, as it always had. ‘I saw your last exhibition did well. I get the online versions of the newspapers.’
‘You texted me. I think you were in Colombia at the time. Your mother emailed, by the way. She thought you were dealing drugs or being trapped into acting as a mule for one of the gangs. I think she wanted me to rush over and rescue you.’
Pierre snorted. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ he said, draining the glass. ‘But now,’ he nodded towards Dan’s remaining few canvases around the walls, ‘What are you painting at the moment? There aren’t many pictures here. Where are they? Another exhibition?’
As Dan filled him in on the Camilton gallery plans, Pierre stopped to admire the portraits of Smash and Grab on the wall. ‘Glad to see the donkeys are still around,’ he said.
Dan grunted. ‘Come on, let’s see your work. You must have some in that huge rucksack.’
Pierre rummaged in the bag and pulled out a lever-arch file. He opened it up and waited, tapping one finger nervously on the table.
Dan took his time examining his son’s work, his heart beating faster. Pierre liked to photograph people. Old and young, poor and rich, some in national costumes, most in work clothes.
Dan sighed with relief. ‘They’re good – some of them are brilliant.’ What would he have said if they’d been no good? He noticed a brown envelope from the bottom of the file. ‘What are these?’
Pierre shifted on his chair. ‘I managed to photograph some war zones…’
‘What?’ Dan stopped, horrified, the envelope half-opened.
‘I got an internship in a newspaper and went out to a couple of smaller wars – if you can call any war, small,’ Pierre said, calmly.
Dan swallowed. The images showed children running, panicking, desperate.
‘These make quite a statement,’ he managed. ‘Does your mother know what you’ve been doing?’
Pierre shook his head. ‘Not yet. She was bothered enough about Colombia.’
Dan cleared his throat and grinned at Pierre. ‘If I wasn’t a reserved, middle-aged Englishman I’d give you a big—’ But Pierre had already thrown his arms around his father and hugged him tight.
‘A good job I’m half-French, then,’ Pierre said. ‘Oh,’ he went on, releasing Dan from the hug. ‘I had one photo published in a local paper.’ He burrowed into his backpack and brought out a sheet of newsprint, folded into a small square. ‘I went with some volunteers from Somerset, handing out food parcels in Africa.’
Impressed, Dan asked, ‘Have you framed a copy?’
‘Not yet. The photos are all on my laptop. It’s all done digitally, these days. I thought, maybe I could stay a while in your studio and frame this and some other photos.’
Dan said, ‘It will be a pleasure. When was it published?’
‘Yesterday.’
Dan peered at the paper. ‘I see you just call yourself Freeman.’
‘It’s a great name for a roving photographer.’
‘So it is.’
‘By the way, according to the paper, there’s been another murder nearby. It’s getting to be a habit around here,’ Pierre said. ‘Did you know this man?’
‘I’ve met him once or twice. But I’m innocent,’ Dan said. ‘Now, while I sort out bed linen, like a good father, you can pour us both a nightcap.’
18
VILLAGE SHOP
Imogen set off with Harley for their usual walk to the village shop the next day. Preoccupied with the proposed craft workshop idea, she’d spent many hours closeted in the office with Emily, working on their plans.
‘It’s as well we can diversify,’ Emily had said. ‘It’s hard to make a hotel do more than break even. The running costs are enormous.’
Imogen had agreed. ‘If we can make the folly work for its keep, I think we should be okay, and, luckily, the bank seems to agree.’
The village shop was busy that day with a constant stream of customers, still swapping theories about Joe’s death.
Barbara Croft, checking the prices of sausages, paused. ‘I reckon it was stress made Joe keel over. Money worries – it’s the same for everyone, these days. I was only saying so to my old man the other day—’
Edwina, sitting in state behind the counter at the rear of the shop, interrupted, ‘Harley,’ she cried, ‘my favourite customer.’ She poured dog biscuits into a bowl and lowered it to the floor, grunting with the effort, ‘I expect you’ve been busy, what with poor Joe and then this new business venture of yours.’
‘You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you, dear?’ Barbara said. ‘My Rex heard all about it in The Plough.’ The village grapevine never failed.
‘I’d love you to spread the word,’ Imogen said. ‘We think we have room for three workshops, although they’ll be quite small. We thought of woodturning and perhaps a potter. If you know any likely candidates?’
‘And a space for that artist of yours,’ Edwina said with a wink.
Imogen swallowed. ‘I’m… I’m not sure about that,’ she mumbled.
She would decide who was allowed to use the studios, and she certainly wouldn’t be approaching Dan. Besides, he had his own purpose-built place in Ford.
‘You look after that Dan,’ Edwina was saying, to nods of approval from her customers. ‘He’s a good man. A bit artistic, if you know what I mean, all distracted and absent-minded, but none the worse for that. His heart’s in the right place. I was sorry to hear about his donkey. One of those that came out to the Spring Fair.’
Imogen’s head jerked up. ‘His donkey?’
‘He must have told you. I heard it from Peter Hammond, who had it from his sister, her that cleans Mr Freeman’s house, so I know it’s true. Someone stole one of those donkeys – the big grey, Peter said – out of its field and hid it for a couple of days and then took it back safe and sound. Some stupid practical joke, I suppose, but your Mr Freeman was beside himself. Still, all’s well that ends well, I always say, and the animal’s none the worse for its adventure.’
Imogen bit her lip. How could she not have heard? Why hadn’t Dan told her?
She winced. He’d tried, hadn’t he? At Apple Day. And she’d taken no notice.
The shop’s customers had moved on and were discussing the donkey rides at the Fair.
‘They were the highlight of the day for my youngest, Amy,’ said Barbara. ‘First time she’d been on horseback – well, donkey-back. Now she’s begging for a horse for Christmas, but who can afford to keep a horse, these days? Even Jenny Trevillian was talking about selling that old bay pony her Shona used to ride.’ She leaned her elbow on Edwina’s counter, inches away from a precarious jar of tomato puree, preparing for a good chinwag.
Edwina moved the jar out of danger. ‘She won’t be letting the horse go. Not now Joe’s dead,’ she said. ‘What a tragedy that is. I don’t know what that poor family will do now.’
‘Especially,’ added Barbara, ‘with Jenny’s…’ she hesitated, delicately, ‘her little bit of trouble,’ she finished.
Two other shoppers nodded, knowingly.
‘What a life she’s had,’ Freda Marchmont, Oswald’s wife, said. ‘At least her mother’s still around to help out. I hear Joe was trying to sell some of the farmland back to her—’
The clatter of the bell above the shop door stopped her in mid-sentence. Maria Rostropova had entered. As always, she paused just long enough to be sure all eyes had turned her way. Then she wafted across the room and smothered Harley in a mix of affectionate kisses and strong perfume.
Barbara wrinkled her nose.
Edwina, her voice cool, said, ‘And how can we help you today, Mrs Rostropova? Another jar of caviar, perhaps?’
Imogen winced at the sarcasm, but Maria said, ‘I still have a little left from the one I bought here. I’m afraid it’s not the very best caviar, but I think Harley may like it. Perhaps I’ll send it over to your hotel, Imogen.’
The atmosphere in the shop dropped to zero.
‘My word, is that the time?’ Barbara paid Edwina, shoved her sausages hurriedly into her shopping bag and bolted for the door, almost colliding with Shona Trevillian.
Freda Marchmont hugged Shona. ‘How are you, my dear? Is there anything we can do to help?’
Shona shook her head. ‘Thank you. That cake you sent over was lovely. We’re really grateful.’ She smiled briefly at Edwina and Imogen. ‘Everyone’s being so kind.’
‘Of course, they are,’ said Edwina. ‘Your dad was a pillar of the community. And your mum too, of course.’
Shona gave a shaky laugh. ‘I just came in to buy more pizza. You know what Jack’s like – he won’t eat anything else. Oh, and more tomato ketchup, please.’
‘Do you have a date for the funeral?’ Imogen ventured. ‘We’ll all want to be there.’
Shona shook her head. ‘Not for a while. The police are still investigating. There are some forensic things…’ She pulled a packet of Rice Krispies off the shelf, her hands trembling, and dropped it. It split, cereal spilling across the floor. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’ she hiccupped, bursting into tears.
‘Never you mind, my dear.’ Edwina bustled across and led Shona to the wooden chair at the side of the counter. ‘Just you sit down and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Mrs Bishop and Harley will clear up. Won’t you?’
Maria slipped silently out of the shop.
