Murder On Bwytheney by Elizabeth. Newby (phonics story books TXT) 📗

for a bit. Kept saying he wanted to talk about a business proposition.” Melissa rolled her eyes. “I mean, what business could he and I ever be involved with together? Anyway, I finally caved and agreed to hear him out. Turns out he wants to buy my land. I mean…really?”

“He what?”

“I know. What would he want with my land? I can’t see him running a campsite and cleaning toilets, can you? And he’s right on the other side of town.  Well, I told him where he can stick it.”

"Didn't his family used to own a lot of land around here?"

"Well, they were the landed gentry, weren't they. But then there was some bother with his father, Kenneth Albright; I don't think anyone ever found out what. Before you know it, his father sold off a load of their land and some of the houses. You know the Fisherman cottages just up the road?"

“Yeah…”

“They were owned by Albright’s until then. And a couple of the shops in town.”

“But what could he want with your campsite?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care because he isn’t ever getting his hands on it. Seven generations of my family were born on this land…more maybe. Hey, you’re into that family tree thing, aren’t you? Maybe you can help me discover how far back we’ve been here.”

“Genealogy? Yeah. I dabble in it. It satisfies my itch for researching stuff. So, Gregory didn’t take it too well then?”

“Typical spoilt brat, that man. Thinks he can get whatever he wants. He kept upping the price, but I soon saw him out.”

"Strange. Anyway, I best get going. I need to write up a blog post about what happened at the beach. Hey, maybe we could put our heads together sometime and come up with something about the weather in these islands. If people know before they come not to rely on forecasts, they might take more notice of your blackboard."

“Sounds like an idea. Well, I best get back to the shower block – the sinks keep backing up. Fun.”

As I strolled back to my own two-bed terrace, tucked away on one of Islethorpe's side streets, I thought about how lucky I was to live here on Bwytheney.  When I'd lived in London, every day was filled with drama and death. But here on this island, it was much more of a rarity, and I fully expected island life to just continue peacefully bumbling along. I reached my door and pushed it open just as the first fat raindrops began to fall. I should have known it was a sign of what was to come.

Chapter 3

I pressed publish. Everyone would be talking about what had happened at the beach this morning, and all kinds of rumours would be circling, especially in the other villages of Bwytheney where news spread from third or even fourth-hand sources.

But my blog would set the record straight with a simple story of what happened and how easily it can happen to any family. I’d also mentioned the differences in The Nord Isles currents and weather which can catch visitors out, and promised a follow up on Bwytheney’s weather peculiarities. At the top of the article was the photo of Matthew carrying the boy out of the sea with a link to Bronwen and Matthew’s B&B website. I knew the opportunity to holiday with a real-life hero would be too tempting for some to miss.  More trade for the B&B also meant more business for others on the islands.

The clock on the mantlepiece told me it was a little after two. I grabbed my coat and started out on the walk to Pete's place with Shadow strolling alongside me. Pete lived out at the fishermen cottages just beyond Melissa's home. They sat hunkered into the hillside between the Islethorpe beach and the harbour.

A few years ago, one of the fishermen had died in a storm at sea, and his wife and child had packed up and moved to the mainland, unable to look at the rolling waves without each bringing in new pain. Since then, their cottage had been rented out. Usually, it was tourists wanting a second home to escape or a change of scenery. But six months ago, Peter Langley had moved in and was slowly becoming a part of island life.

From the little I knew, Peter was a carpenter by trade. He'd already built me a beautiful, rustic wooden table. It was smaller than the sort you found in homes like Melissa's, but I hoped that it too would be around for decades to come and would gather its own stories to tell future generations. On the island, Pete was more of a handyman as there wasn't a huge demand for furniture.  If you had a squeaky floorboard or a leaking tap, Peter was your man. At only 27, he was already turning the heads of some of the younger women on the island too.

I had been trying to pin him down to an interview for the blog for a few months, but Peter was a quiet man who tended to keep to himself. Eventually, he gave in, and I was now armed with my trusty notepad and pen as well as my phone.

As I approached the cottage, I could already picture the photograph I would take – Peter leaning on the tiny stone cottage's doorway, arms crossed. But before I could knock, Peter opened the door. He bent down and said, "Hello Shadow, old buddy," and promptly gave him an affectionate hug before ruffling his head and around his ears. "Come on in," he said to me.

“How are you? Keeping busy?” I asked. As I took the photos I needed, we continued to chat.

“Yeah, not bad. Heard a whisper that you and Shadow here had a bit of excitement this morning.”

"I'm not sure I'd call it excitement, exactly. Eventful is probably a better word, but all ended well."

“Well, you’re the word person,” he smiled, “talking of which, when are we