A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (best business books of all time .txt) 📗

how I did it! I sliced right down me finger, I did, instead of the bleedin’ onion. Now I comes to think of it, it was a bleedin’ onion cos there was blood all over it. My finger was pourin’ blood it was, pourin’. It was everywhere! Everywhere! But I’m not one to make a fuss, nurse, I never does. I don’t go worryin’ about myself cos I’m dedicated to that family, you know. Dedicated, I am. And poor Mr Seymour! I’ve never seen a man so distressed, never. So I just sort of wrapped me finger up as best as I could and took a couple of paracetamols cos it weren’t half sore.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Kate said, snipping away.

‘Got it stitched the next mornin’, I did. Poor Mistress Fenella – what a tragedy! And poor Mr Seymour, he ain’t been the same since.’

‘Has he gone back to London yet?’ Kate asked.

‘Oh no, Mr Seymour’s still at home. Still at home, he is. Don’t know why they won’t let him go back. It’s them police again. Them police. Why do they want him stayin’ here – tell me that?’

‘I really don’t know, Mrs Tilley. But I suppose the police will want all the suspects to stay in the area until an arrest has been made.’

‘Suspect!’ Mrs Tilley exploded. ‘He ain’t no suspect! He were only out for an hour or so and everyone in The Tinners seen him, so how can he be a suspect?’

‘Well, perhaps they want him to be here when they finally arrest someone,’ Kate soothed.

‘He’s not even allowed to bury her, he ain’t. Got to wait. That poor woman’s stuck in a drawer somewhere! A drawer! That’s where they put them, isn’t it? In a drawer in a fridge? I’ve seen it on the telly. Poor Mistress Fenella! She didn’t like the cold.’ She paused for breath. ‘Have you done?’

‘Yes, I have but I’ve only taken out every other stitch because it’s jagged and hasn’t knitted as well as I’d like. If you come back to me in another week I’ll take the rest out then. Just be careful next time you’re chopping vegetables.’

‘Well, I don’t normally have people screaming like banshees when I’m chopping me onions, and let me tell you I’ve been chopping vegetables for forty years without as much as a scratch. Forty years! And that knife was sharp! But poor Mistress Fenella had a sharper one go right through her! And to think she was probably only using it to cut that lovely cake I made. She always asked me to make them cakes for the Women’s Institute. She won prizes for them you know. Prizes.’ Mrs Tilley contemplated this for a moment. ‘What was it called? The night of the long knives? Was that a film now? I didn’t see it if it was.’ She didn’t seem to require an answer. ‘Well, I’d best be goin’. I’ve better things to do that hang about round here.’

And off she went.

As Kate updated Mrs Tilley’s notes she mulled over the new information she’d been given. From the little she knew of Seymour Barker-Jones he didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d lose control, never mind scream like a banshee. Was he genuinely distraught or was he just a good actor?

Kate’s next chance to get to know another of the suspects on her list came on the following Monday morning when she reported for duty.

‘Kate, would you be prepared to pay a visit to the Paynes, in Higher Tee?’ the receptionist asked as Kate checked in. ‘Mrs Payne is the wife of the old senior partner who’s retired now. She’s quite frail and needs a dressing changed on her leg ulcer. Dr Payne’s her main carer and looks after her well, but he’s never keen on doing the dressings.’

‘Of course,’ Kate said, glancing at her schedule for the day. ‘Looks like I’ve got a fairly quiet period between eleven and twelve.’

The Paynes lived in a large detached Victorian house in Higher Tinworthy, not far from Pendorian Manor, the home of the Barker-Joneses. Kate had only been up here a couple of times before and had been impressed by the area and the views.

The Paynes’ front door was painted pillar-box red. As Kate rang the bell she looked at the pristine front garden where the dying daffodils, with their withering leaves, had been pleated and folded into neat little pyramids.

The door was opened by a tall, very thin man, slightly stooped and with a shock of white hair. He wore a checked shirt and a tie with some crest or other on it, a grey V-necked pullover, and grey trousers with a tweed sports jacket. The ensemble was offset with some tartan ‘old-man type’ slippers. He was the epitome of respectable British elderly middle-class manhood in the 1950s.

‘Ah, good morning, nurse! I’m Richard Payne,’ he said brightly and it was then that Kate noticed his appealing – if steely – blue eyes and winning smile. He looked like he’d been an attractive man; still was, for that matter.

He led her into the hallway and then into a very large, well-proportioned sitting room. The interior of the house was exactly as Kate expected it to be, with well-polished parquet flooring, mahogany furniture and heavily swagged curtains. There was an absence of rugs on the floor except for the one in front of the fireplace, presumably to clear the way for the wheelchair-bound Mrs Payne,

Kate knew from the files that Mrs Payne suffered from multiple sclerosis, asthma and a variety of other complaints, and so expected to see a washed-out, frail little lady. But when she propelled herself into the room, Mrs Payne turned out to be an attractive woman with nicely coiffured iron-grey hair, smartly dressed in a pink jumper and navy trousers.

‘This is my wife,’ Dr Payne said unnecessarily.

She shook hands with Kate before saying, ‘Go and make some coffee, Dickie, while I get to know our new friend here.’ Then, as the