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

her shoes and poured herself a glass of Merlot. She leaned back in her chair, trying to relax and empty her mind but instead she found herself wondering how to meet Sandra Miller and Jess Davey. She’d had a peek at their old files in the surgery that afternoon. Medical records could provide clues not only to a person’s general health but to their history, as had been the case with Maureen Grey. But there was very little on Jess Davey and not much more on Sandra Miller. The only medical problem Sandra appeared to have was a mild form of contact dermatitis, which was brought on by the latex gloves she had to wear for catering purposes.

While she was thinking about Dickie Payne’s steely blue eyes, Barney rested his head on Kate’s knee, looking up with that sad, hopeful expression that all dogs have. There was no sign of Angie in the house or the ‘studio’ and so there was nothing for it but to put on her walking shoes, attach the lead to the dog and set off. She hadn’t walked up on the cliffs for several days and was keen to have a close look at the house Woody had bought. On the Up, it was called, which it certainly was geographically. It was one in a row of similar cottages adjoining the coastal path up to Penhallion.

The fourth house along, it was a double-fronted cottage similar to their own, with a slated roof and porch, a green-painted front door and a wall covering of what looked like Virginia creeper. It was bordering on chocolate-box twee-ness, apart from the fact it had no front garden and had very dirty windows. Kate didn’t like window-cleaning but, nevertheless, if he lived a little nearer she’d have been tempted to soap them down, then hose them or something.

Deep in thought, she and Barney continued their climb to the coastal path. The sea was choppy today with white horses lining the waves against the grey-blue colour of the water. In spite of the cloud the coastal view was as impressive as ever, stretching from Hartland Point in Devon to the north, as far as Trevose Head in the south; miles of cliffs and jagged rocks and pounding surf. There was a magic about the north coast of Cornwall and, looking west, Kate couldn’t quite decide whether she was on a latitude with New York, Nova Scotia, or somewhere in between. In all its moods the Atlantic Ocean pounded on, year after year, century after century, making you realise how very insignificant you were in the scheme of things.

She’d only walk for five or ten minutes up here, Kate decided as she let Barney off the lead, and then retrace her steps before it got too dark. The sky was already darkening and gloom was descending on the clifftop. It took her a few moments to decipher the darker shape of someone emerging from the gloom.

Here he was again: Seymour Barker-Jones!

Did this man walk the coastal path every single evening? He must surely have had to ferry his dogs down from Higher Tinworthy in his Land Rover, and why would he do that when surely there were lots of walks to be had up on the moors?

‘Here you are again, Mrs Palmer,’ he said. He gave a brief wave when he saw her.

‘I was just thinking the same thing, Mr Barker-Jones. I was wondering why you never seem to walk up on the moors.’

‘The moors are too hazardous for my liking. Hidden mine shafts and areas of bog; I lost a dog there once.’

‘How dreadful.’ Kate paused. ‘Incidentally, I met your housekeeper recently. She seems very loyal.’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘She mentioned how distraught she was when she heard of your wife’s death. And how distraught you were. I felt terribly sorry for you.’

Kate noticed him stiffen and then stand up.

‘Are you in the habit of sharing patients’ confidences, Mrs Palmer?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time I went back. Good evening to you.’

He was right; perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned that.

It was becoming dark very quickly now so Kate headed for home.

‘I don’t suppose you fancy making up a foursome for a pub quiz at The Tinners Arms tomorrow night?’ Sue asked when Kate arrived for work the following morning. ‘The couple we were sharing a table with have cancelled so we need two more.’

‘Well…’ Kate began, desperately trying to dream up an excuse.

‘Perhaps you could bring your sister or someone?’ Sue persisted. ‘I don’t want to let Sandra down.’

‘Sandra?’ Kate suddenly became alert.

‘Yes, Sandra Miller from The Atlantic Hotel. She and I often do pub quizzes.’

‘Yes, great, I’d like that. I’m sure my sister will come along.’

This was an ideal opportunity to meet Sandra Miller. Kate reckoned Angie might be persuaded to take part so long as her gin glass was kept topped up.

Angie was quite agreeable. ‘It’ll make a change from The Greedy Gull,’ she said.

‘You’ll have to use your brain, you know,’ Kate said, ‘but it gives us a chance to get to know a few more of the locals.’

‘The last time you said that was when you dragged me to the WI, and look what happened there!’ Angie sniffed. ‘Could there be yet another killing on pub-quiz night? Hey, that sounds like an Agatha Christie title, doesn’t it? The Killing at the Pub Quiz?’

‘I’m not too sure that Agatha was into pubs and quizzes,’ Kate remarked.

Nevertheless, she and Angie duly presented themselves at The Tinners the following evening. The entire pub was laid out with tables for four, each with a notepad and pencil with which to write the answers, plus the predictable bowls of peanuts and crisps.

Kate had a look around as Angie squeezed her way up through the crowds to the bar to get their drinks. The Tinners Arms, unlike The Greedy Gull, had not been subjected to a lick of paint in many a year. There was no wall art in here, the nicotine-stained finishes a