his arm over the view. ‘You’ll need a team of gardeners for a place like this.’
‘Oswald, the head gardener, worked for my father for years. He’s still here, though he must be in his late seventies. I hoped he’d come to the wake – he was invited, and I saw him in church…’ Imogen led the way along the path that wound through her father’s specimen trees.
The break in weather had not held, and rain set in again as they made their way to the orangery; that cold, driving rain that runs inside coats, soaks trousers and plasters hair to foreheads.
Imogen fumbled in a pocket. ‘I keep the building locked. I’ve hidden my secret supply of cake here, to keep it safe from the hotel guests. My mother used to keep some in a corner cupboard behind the orange tree and I stocked up as soon as I moved in last week. Do you like fruit cake?’ She twisted the key until the lock clicked, turned the door handle and pushed. ‘It’s stuck,’ she grumbled, glancing at Adam. ‘And I’m afraid you’re soaked.’
Adam seemed unaware, his attention fixed, staring through the glass.
Imogen followed his gaze.
‘There’s something heavy there, stopping the door from opening. A tall box, or a bag…’
She pushed again at the door. It moved an inch.
Adam grabbed her arm. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘You’ll hurt your shoulder. Let me.’ He kicked, hard, and the door inched further open, the gap just wide enough to let him through.
Imogen followed close behind.
The bag moved, slid sideways, and collapsed on the tiled floor with a dull thud.
She gasped. ‘It’s not a bag. It’s…’ She took a step forward, but Adam threw out his hand.
‘Don’t touch anything.’
The man lay, fully clothed, slumped on the floor. His face was blank, eyes rolled back into his head until only the whites showed.
Adam crouched low, his fingers against the neck. ‘We’re too late.’ He turned his head. ‘Don’t disturb the scene. Leave it for the police.’
Imogen’s knuckles, pressed against her mouth in horror, muffled her voice. ‘The police?’
Adam stood up, jabbing at his phone.
He talked, but Imogen did not hear a word. She was deafened by the roaring in her head.
‘Greg,’ she muttered. ‘It’s Greg.’
3
Tea
Adam mentally catalogued the scene, his senses on high alert. He’d seen many scenes of death in his thirty year police career, and he’d hoped never to see another, now he’d retired.
The sight would be fixed in Adam’s head forever, taking its place with so many others. The orangery, crowded with plants, loomed over the slumped body, shielding it from the fading light. Adam could see no sign of a struggle, or an obvious weapon.
Questions queued in his head. Whose body was this? Why was it here, and why today? Was this suicide, an accident, or something more sinister?
The first was the easiest to answer. ‘Greg,’ Imogen had said. One of the guests had mentioned the name. Greg had been Imogen’s husband.
Adam considered Greg’s clothes; that leather jacket must have been expensive once. Underneath, a smart charcoal-coloured suit and a pair of shoes, claggy from the garden’s red mud.
Greg had come dressed for the funeral. That suggested he’d died today, but Adam knew better than to jump to conclusions. He’d wait for the post-mortem.
But this isn’t your case, he remembered. He could leave the investigation to the Avon and Somerset police. That was why he’d moved out here; to get away from police work.
It was impossible to switch off his instincts, though. Without moving, touching nothing, he let his gaze roam through the orangery, observing everything, determined to miss nothing. This would be his only chance.
The sun was fading fast, but light glinted from a nearby plant pot. Adam shone his phone on the spot. A bottle stuffed by its neck into the pot.
Champagne? Had Greg been drinking, plucking up courage to kill himself? Or maybe there were pills dissolved in the liquid?
Too much speculation. Stick to the facts.
A pang of guilt. He should be looking after Greg’s wife.
Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he took a closer look at Imogen. One hand still clamped to her mouth, her cheeks paper white, she leaned against the orangery door, apparently close to collapse.
He took her arm. ‘Come back to the hotel.’
Emily, with an efficient air and a smart, dark grey suit, her ash-blonde hair still neat, circled the hotel lounge, switching on table lamps.
The mourners had gone, at last.
A young waitress, hair escaping from a bun at the back of her head, stacked debris from the wake on a trolley: used plates, smeared glasses and empty cups.
Emily’s eyes widened as Adam and Imogen lurched into the hotel lounge through the French doors, soaking wet and shivering.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Adam said. ‘The police are on their way, and no one is to leave the hotel.’
Emily’s red-lipsticked mouth dropped open. ‘The police?’
‘There’s a body,’ he explained, ‘in the orangery.’
‘My husband,’ Imogen whispered.
The waitress dropped a bowl of sugar. With a sharp crack, it hit the edge of a table and fractured into three pieces. Grains of sugar flew into the air and fell, shimmering, on the hotel’s best Turkish rug.
Adam said, ‘Mrs Bishop has had a shock.’
Emily sprang into action. She shooed the waitress towards the kitchens. ‘Fetch a dustpan, clear up the mess, and don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘Yes. I won’t. I mean, I will… Sorry.’
‘And leave the teapot.’
Emily recovered fast, retrieved clean cups from an oak sideboard, and poured tea with well-trained composure, only trembling fingers betraying her shock. ‘Stewed, I’m afraid.’
Adam took a cup and helped himself to two large sugars. After one sip, he winced, laid it aside and explained where they’d found the body.
‘We’d better get the staff and guests together. The police will want
