A Village Murder. Frances Evesham

      The paintings rested, side by side, on two chairs, the watercolour glowing in the sunshine. ‘The light’s good in here.’

      ‘It’s even better in the orangery. You could paint in there, if you like. Not yet, perhaps. Soon.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘You’re right. These are both paintings of the hotel garden. Artists often came when I was younger. It made my father feel like a proper landowner, I think. Sometimes, whole groups of amateur painters spent the day in the garden, and I would sit and watch. They gave me a little board – you know, one you can put your thumb through to hold it. What are they called?’

      ‘Palettes?’

      ‘That’s it. I’d try to paint on an old bit of canvas. I used to make a wonderful mess. No talent at all.’ She laughed, a proper hoot, the first Adam had heard from her. ‘I used to know a real artist,’ she mused. ‘Daniel Freeman, that was his name. He didn’t always use oils. Sometimes, he used to paint the flowers in watercolour, like in that painting…’

      She fell silent, a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. Adam waited.

      She muttered, half under her breath, ‘In fact, I wonder if that’s one of his?’ She picked up the smaller canvas and scrutinised it, talking almost to herself. ‘He’d just left school. He was only a couple of years older than me, but he seemed grown-up, like a proper artist.’ A touch of pink lit her face.

      Was Daniel important to her? ‘Did you keep in touch?’ Adam asked.

      ‘What? With Daniel?’ She looked up and the happiness faded away. ‘He came that last summer, just after I left school, before I went off to university. He was a student, at St Martin’s in London, I think. When I… Well, he fell out with my father and left without saying goodbye. I never heard from him again. Then, I married Greg. He’d been at the same school.’