Kate had fallen in love with the pretty seaside village with its ancient bridge across the River Pol, the beach, the cliffs and the pastel-coloured houses clustered up the steep slopes on either side. There was a pub, several cafés, a small convenience store, a gallery and a few tourist shops. Kate had found Lavender Cottage on the internet while she was still up in West London. It was actually painted a pale-yellow colour, but it did have a whole hedge of lavender. It was also well above the river and the tourists, had sea views and was just about affordable. Kate had been divorced for twenty-eight years, Angie had been widowed for five years, and so they had decided to pool their resources, and head south-west. And now here they were.
A further half mile inwards and upwards was Higher Tinworthy with its farms, distant sea views and large houses, including Pendorian Manor where Fenella and her illustrious husband had resided. Kate had heard a lot about Fenella since she’d arrived in Lower Tinworthy. ‘She liked the men’ they said; she ‘put it about a bit’. Her husband, Seymour, was a senior civil servant who spent most of his time in London. He was very important, everyone said, tapping their noses, and had apparently been invited to join the government. He appeared in Upper Tinworthy only for the occasional weekend and for Christmas, she was told. ‘They say he’s bisexual,’ Sue, one of the other practice nurses, had informed her with some glee. ‘They reckon he only married Fenella to appear respectable. Not that Fenella cares; she’s got that whacking great house, and her horse and everything. And half the men around,’ she added darkly. ‘Anyway, Seymour’s got pots of money; his grandfather, great-grandfather or somebody made a fortune out of tin-mining and they’ve been investing their dosh in all the right places ever since. Pendorian Manor’s been in the family for generations.’
Kate had seen stab victims before when she’d nursed in London, but hadn’t expected to come across much crime down here. She’d thought briefly that she might be able to retire when she and Angie decided to buy the cottage, described by the agent as ‘picture-postcard perfect, on the hillside, 100 yards from the sea in a picturesque Cornish village’. They’d both fallen in love with its quirky nooks and crannies, its beams, its two steps down to the kitchen and three steps up to the sitting room, which came complete with inglenook and sea view. The spacious kitchen had been added on to the rear of the cottage at some point, and was separated from the sitting room by a large archway, which gave an attractive open-plan effect. The only problem had been the steps from one room to the other, which had taken a bit of getting used to, particularly with a cup of coffee in each hand. The agent hadn’t of course mentioned the rotten floorboards, the lack of central heating or the bedroom windows that needed replacing, one of which didn’t close properly. Fortunately, it was then Kate heard that the local medical centre was looking for a part-time practice nurse and decided to apply. But now she rather wished that tomorrow wasn’t a working day.
It was almost 2 a.m. before Kate finally drifted off to sleep.
Two
Next morning Kate studied herself with a critical eye in the full-length mirror. She looked as weary as she felt. People frequently told her she didn’t look fifty-seven but that was probably because of her still lustrous mop of auburn hair, which had very little grey in it yet. This morning she was trying to tie it up tidily but without much success.
She was on duty at eight thirty at the medical centre and, although her car was parked less than fifty yards from the house, she still looked around nervously as she locked the door behind her. She knew that regardless of what problems the patients presented with today, the conversation was liable to be all about Fenella Barker-Jones. She was almost certain there had never been a murder in any of the Tinworthy villages before, at least not in recent years. Kate felt an almost personal responsibility to find out as much as she could about Fenella, probably because she had been the first professional on the scene.
‘Good morning, Kate!’ Dr Ross, the senior partner who’d been on duty last night, was making himself a cup of coffee in the tiny staff kitchen-cum-restroom with its sagging brown leather sofa where old Dr Payne used to like taking a nap between surgeries. Andrew Ross was a tall, rangy Glaswegian of fifty-five who’d married a Cornish lady and been persuaded to move south. Since his hobby was mountain-climbing this had involved a certain amount of sacrifice on his part.
He stirred his coffee. ‘What a to-do, eh?’
‘Good morning, Andrew. I don’t imagine you’ve had much sleep either.’
He tasted his coffee, made a face and added a spoonful of sugar. ‘Not much,’ he said, ‘by the time I confirmed her death, waited for the ambulance to arrive and explained as well as I could to the husband why one thrust of a kitchen knife could do such an effective job, it was midnight. Then countless photos had to be taken before poor old Fenella was carted away.’
‘So you got hold of the husband?’
‘Yes, eventually, on his mobile. No reply on his London landline but that’s because he got back here a couple of days ago.’
Kate had heard quite a lot about Seymour Barker-Jones. He was well liked and respected in the Tinworthys from being the main source of the funds for most of the village’s community amenities.
