A Body in the Village Hall Dee MacDonald (the best e book reader .txt) 📖

reckoned must be around an acre of gardens, and with panoramic views of the sea and coastline. It was known to some of the locals as Gwel Teg, its original title being the Cornish for ‘beautiful view’ but since so many of the residents were incomers that had been watered down accordingly. There were neat little windblown flower beds and garden seats dotted here and there with no one sitting on them. Kate wondered briefly what the maintenance charges might be. High, undoubtedly.

The large oak-panelled front door was ajar and led into a spacious hallway, stone-flagged and with a large royal blue centrally placed carpet. There was an impressive stone central staircase, also carpeted up the middle. An ornately carved mahogany table was situated on the right, on top of which were some bundles of mail, which the postman obviously left there for the residents to collect. What caught Kate’s attention, however, was the pair of stone figures on either end: a lighthouse and a tin-mine, both intricately carved out of what appeared to be serpentine. The Cornish serpentine, found on The Lizard peninsula, was normally green or multicoloured, but these items were predominantly red, which was more unusual.

To the left was Flat 1, in the middle behind the staircase was Flat 2, and immediately on the right was Flat 3. Kate assumed Flat 4 was upstairs and, as she climbed up, she ran her fingers along the highly polished wooden bannister. Everything was immaculate: not a speck on the floor and an aroma of polish permeated the air. Didn’t people walk about in here? How come it was so spotless?

When she rang the bell of Flat 4 the door was opened by a tall, slim elderly woman on elbow crutches. She was fully made up, her white hair piled on her head in an elegant chignon, and she was clad in a colourful, full-length kaftan. She wore several heavy gold chains, drop earrings (could they be real sapphires?) a collection of bracelets and rings galore. None of it looked cheap.

‘Mrs Martinelli? I’m Kate, the practice nurse, who’s taken over from Elaine. I’ve come to have a look at your ankle.’

‘I’m Miss Martinelli,’ the woman corrected. ‘I’ve always retained my professional name. Do come in.’ She hobbled ahead into the large open-plan room, furnished in traditional mahogany. What struck Kate more than the velvet sofas and elaborately draped curtains was the number of framed operatic posters on every wall: Aida; La traviata; Carmen; Il trovatore, and more.

‘Oh, I see you’re an opera fan,’ Kate said, laying her less-than-pristine bag down on the very pristine cream carpet and hoping it wasn’t going to leave a mark.

‘Fan!’ Edina Martinelli clutched her heaving bosom in horror, the left crutch dangling in the air. ‘I’m not a fan, darling, I’m a soprano!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were a professional singer,’ Kate said.

‘Well, I’ve retired now of course but, in my time I sang with all the major opera companies, including D’Oyly Carte, English Opera, Covent Garden.’ She stopped for breath. ‘Fan, indeed!’

‘My apologies,’ Kate murmured again, ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Well, you know now. And if you were any kind of opera aficionado you’d be well aware of the roles I sang. Anyway, you’re not here to discuss my career, you’re here to look at my poor ankle.’ She lowered herself onto a pink velvet chair and propped the ankle up on a matching footstool.

Kate bent down and examined the plaster thoroughly. ‘To be honest, Miss Martinelli, it seems absolutely fine. It’s exactly as it should be and I’m sure you’ll get used to it.’

The woman snorted. ‘Six weeks, they said. I shall be a prisoner in here for six weeks with a plaster cast that’s far too tight!’

‘Miss Martinelli,’ Kate began, ‘I know it might feel tight but it really isn’t—’

‘I’m wearing it and I say it is,’ Edina Martinelli interrupted. Then, in a change of tone, ‘Would you like a coffee?’ With that, she hobbled into the kitchen, jewellery jangling. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll warm up the pot. But you’ll have to pour it and carry it through.’

‘That’s fine,’ Kate said. ‘Now tell me, is there anyone who can help you get down the stairs? It might cheer you up to sit in the garden and get some fresh air. It’s still very warm.’

‘I’m not going down any stairs until I am completely healed,’ Edina Martinelli snapped, ‘not after what happened to me.’ She sighed loudly and plonked herself down on the pink chair again. ‘You go and get the coffee. No milk or sugar for me.’

Kate did as she was told. ‘What was the problem with the stairs?’ she asked.

‘What happened was that somebody – who could only have been Sharon the cleaner, although of course she denies all knowledge of it – somebody left the flex of the vacuum cleaner right across the top of the stairs and I did not see it. That’s the problem, of course, I walk tall and look straight ahead, always conscious of my deportment. And the next thing I know I’m tumbling down the stairs – and there’s a lot of them. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my neck because, you see, somebody wanted to kill me. I’m so lucky to have got away with just a broken ankle, and massive bruising, of course, but that was not the intention of my would-be killer. Somebody wishes to kill me, Nurse, mark my words!’

‘It must surely have been an accident?’ Kate said.

‘It was not an accident! It certainly would appear to be Sharon but, unlike some of the others round here, she had no real reason to wish me dead and she would be a convenient scapegoat. I can’t begin to tell you what some of these people are like.’

‘But surely none of them would want you dead?’ Kate said soothingly as she poured the coffee.

‘There are several who’d want me dead! I told the police, of course, but they didn’t listen. I know