A Fatal Affair Faith Martin (read dune .TXT) 📖

an attractive building, with a Virginia creeper growing up its ironstone walls, and a cheerfully painted pub sign depicting a grinning lad and a very large chestnut horse. The low, single-storey building next to it was built of red brick, had guttering that needed fixing, and too many uniform windows. All in all, it looked like a cheerless place to meet up and hold a village dance.

‘I wonder where the village shop and post office is,’ Trudy mused, looking around. ‘It might be a good idea to start there.’ In her experience, most villagers tended to have certain places whether they congregated to gossip – and whilst the pub was probably the chosen spot for men, she had a shrewd idea that the village shop was the domain of the housewives.

Clement glanced around, spotted the church tower and waved his hazel stick vaguely in that direction. ‘Down Church Lane perhaps?’ he mused, setting off.

Church Lane was a short, no-through lane that produced no sign of any shops. Back-tracking, they set off back up Freehold Street, turning off down the first lane they came to, and striking lucky within a few hundred yards or so.

The shop, which at one time had probably been a fairly large family home for someone not quite top-drawer, but fairly affluent by village standards, stood proudly in the middle of the lane. Its two large front windows displayed jars of tempting sweets and confectionery for children in one, and a more mundane selection of newspapers, packets of detergent and tinned goods for their parents in the other. No doubt the top floor had been turned into a cosy apartment for whoever was running it.

‘I could do with some tobacco for my pipe,’ Clement said, whilst Trudy tried to pretend she hadn’t spotted the sherbet dabs. She’d always loved sherbet, but she could hardly buy some in the presence of Dr Ryder!

They pushed open the door, and the babble of female voices that greeted them fell momentarily silent as three pairs of eyes turned in their direction, all three registering, if not hostility exactly, then certainly hard-eyed speculation.

Trudy, feeling a bit odd out of uniform – and therefore not receiving the usual deference or belligerence it evoked – felt momentarily wrong-footed. But Dr Ryder, looking every inch the learned, handsome man of ‘a certain age’ came in for far more speculation anyway. And as if playing to the gallery, he moved confidently forward down the middle of two aisles consisting mostly of toiletries, boxes of cereal, packets of tea and loaves of sliced bread, smiling urbanely at the three women standing at the counter as he did so.

‘Ladies,’ he said, wishing he’d worn his Trilby, so that he could doff it.

The oldest of the women, standing behind the counter at the till and undoubtedly the proprietor, was a large, round woman, wearing a floral apron, the kind that tied behind the back of the neck and behind the waist, and covered a multitude of sins. She had short, grey, curly hair (almost certainly permed) and wore an unexpectedly vivid shade of scarlet lipstick. She could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy.

She eyed him speculatively as he approached. In front of her and to her left, was a woman of about forty-five or so, not quite so plump, with short, blonde, curly (almost certainly permed) hair. To her right was a woman of about thirty or so, taller and thinner, with dark curly hair (probably not permed) and slightly bulbous brown eyes.

‘Sorry, don’t let me interrupt. I was wondering if you had any shag?’ Clement said, fixing his eyes on the shopkeeper.

This opening gambit earned him a winning smile and she reached behind her to take down several colourful tins of shag tobacco from the shelves, all of which claimed to give the smoker the best smoking experience he could wish for.

‘Certainly sir. Would any of these suit?’

Trudy hid a smile and made a show of checking out a jar of chicory coffee as she watched and observed a maestro at work.

Clement began by asking the proprietor’s advice which – naturally – inclined towards the most expensive tin. Luckily, it was a brand that Clement knew and had smoked before, and within moments he had his hand in his trouser pocket, scattering half-crowns and sixpences and other assorted change onto the countertop.

The tall thin woman spoke first. ‘Don’t I know you?’ she demanded abruptly.

Clement, surprised, turned to look at her. In his lifetime he’d probably met thousands of people – but this woman’s visage rang no bells. Before he could answer, she spoke again, nodding.

‘Yes, I saw you once. At the Radcliffe Infirmary. You’re a doctor, right? A surgeon?’ She turned to the blonde woman and said obliquely, ‘You remember our Brenda’s bit of trouble all those years ago?’

Clement bowed acknowledgement and made no effort, at this stage, to explain his change of career.

Trudy could see all the women look at him even more eagerly now – not only a handsome stranger, but a doctor no less! She wondered how long it would be before one or other of them managed to worm some interesting details out of him – primarily, his married status. She only hoped Dr Ryder wasn’t rash enough to admit to being a widower.

‘Can I get you some matches to go with that, sir? Or a refill for your lighter?’ the woman behind the till wheedled, and Clement obligingly bought a box of matches.

‘We’re here to pay our respects to Keith,’ Clement said, then added, knowing it was unnecessary, ‘Superintendent Finch, that is. I’m a friend of his.’ He was only stretching the truth a bit. He was sure that the police officer would indeed regard him a friend if he could prove his son hadn’t committed suicide – or had anything to do with his girlfriend’s murder.

The ladies gave a collective sharply drawn breath at this, and shot each other quick, questioning glances, as if mentally debating who should go first.

‘We’ve had