Frances Evesham

A Village Murder


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      A Village Murder

      FRANCES EVESHAM

       Boldwood Books

      Contents

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Chapter 36

       Chapter 37

       Chapter 38

       Chapter 39

       Chapter 40

       Chapter 41

       Acknowledgments

       More from Frances Evesham

       About the Author

       About Boldwood Books

      1

      The Plough

      Adam Hennessy rose early; he had beer taps to polish, a bar to wipe clean and optics to fill. He yawned. He needed to find another barman, fast. The Plough had heaved with thirsty locals last night, and he’d been run off his feet.

      He leaned on a windowsill, as he did every morning, to view Ham Hill above the village, still visible through pouring April rain cascading down the uneven glass of the sixteenth century window.

      He yawned again. Sleep. That’s what he needed. He’d be at The Streamside Hotel all afternoon, for Councillor Jones’ wake; Lower Hembrow’s biggest social event this year. Pity he would be there to serve, not on the guest list.

      Still, if you can’t do a favour for your neighbours, don’t live in an English village.

      Was there time for a nap before lunch?

      He walked through to the private rooms at one end of the long, low building. An easel leaned against the wall of the sitting room, inviting Adam to pick up a brush, but the desire for sleep trumped everything, just now.

      A muffled thump shook the back door. What was that?

      ‘Come in,’ Adam called, heart sinking at the interruption. ‘It’s not locked.’

      No one entered, so he cracked the door open an inch. Ex-detectives know better than to casually throw their doors wide at every knock.

      With an ear-splitting crunch, the safety chain zinged from the door frame and a whirlwind of fur punched Adam in the chest.

      He staggered back, grabbing the door for support. The guided missile, a shaggy brown dog, thudded two muddy paws on his shoulders and washed his face with sticky dribble.

      ‘Get down,’ Adam spluttered. ‘You’ve broken my door.’

      The dog, representing no recognisable breed, took a step back, head on one side, watching Adam’s every move from a pair of huge brown eyes. Apparently satisfied, it slurped water from a puddle on the path.

      It was thin, just skin and bone, and wore no collar.

      ‘Where did you come from?’

      The dog came closer, water dripping from its muzzle.

      Adam hesitated. He didn’t understand dogs. Cats, he liked, but dogs made him nervous.

      He