A Village Murder by Frances Evesham (The Ham-Hill Murder Mysteries Book 1)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.8 MB
An English village can be deadly, when your past catches up with you…
In the beautiful rural Somerset village of Lower Hembrow, crammed full with English eccentrics, something is amiss…
Landscape gardener Imogen Bishop has spent the last thirty years trying to forget one fateful school night but when her estranged husband Greg Bishop is found dead in the grounds of her fathers’ Georgian hotel, danger threatens to overwhelm her.
Retired police officer Adam Hennessey, hoping for a peaceful life running his traditional Somerset country pub, finds himself drawn into the unfolding drama in the hotel across the road.
Imogen, Adam and Harley the stray dog form an unlikely partnership as they try to untangle a knot of secrets, solve a murder mystery, and bring a killer to justice.
Should Imogen have visited her father more often, checking he was safe to drive at his age? It would have been a waste of time. When had her father ever listened to his daughter’s opinion?
In recent years, she’d only visited the hotel at Christmas, to exchange wine and chocolates.
A discreet cough sounded close by. Imogen smiled politely at Councillor Smith and excused herself.
The man from the pub over the road – Hennessy, that was the name, Adam Hennessy – grinned and held out a laden serving tray.
‘What are you doing here?’ She stopped. That was rude. ‘Sorry. I thought the hotel staff were serving, today.’
‘I’m helping out. Your manager begged me to. She sounded desperate.’
And somehow forgot to mention the arrangement to Imogen.
Emily hadn’t exactly welcomed her recent arrival with open arms.
Adam Hennessy’s round, cheerful face beamed. ‘I come free of charge.’
A hot blush started at the back of Imogen’s neck and spread across her face.
‘Not the right thing to say at a funeral. Come now, we’re both in business. Weddings and funerals, all good for trade. Christenings and bar mitzvahs, not so much. Religion seems to be dying out, although our vicar seems to thrive.’
It was hard to resist the man’s nonsense. He was… well, the word that sprang to mind was merry. The top of his head barely reached to Imogen’s chin and his eyebrows sloped, like an imp’s. Pale blue eyes twinkled behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair, white and sparse, stood in tufts, as though surprised to find themselves still attached to his scalp.
He could be a leprechaun, although a very English one. The idea made Imogen smile.
‘Now, that’s better.’ He beamed. ‘I always think a funeral should be a celebration of life, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose it should.’
She added, ‘Councillor Smith was in excellent voice in church. He’s Welsh, of course.’
‘And one of the local choir’s best tenors. Not that I know much about singing – I have a sandpaper voice – but the choir’s thriving. They drink in The Plough after rehearsals, and what a thirst they bring – they’ll keep me from going bust.’
Imogen’s self-control gave way with a crack of laughter.
Across the room, the mayor glanced her way, eyebrows raised. ‘Lovely service,’ he boomed, repressively.