Small Town Suspicions (Some Very English Murders Book 3) by Issy Brooke Page A

Penny’s knee. “Why don’t you go out and look at
his bulb business. It’s not far away, is it?”
    “What would I learn from that?”
    “You learn a lot from seeing where people live, and how. I
did …”
    “When? What are you talking about?”
    Francine bit her lip but she smiled slightly. “Well, I went
to see this famous, reclusive artist myself, you know.”
    “When?”
    “Oh, ages ago now. Well, last Thursday.”
    “The Thursday before the weekend that he died?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh my goodness. What was he like? Did he show any signs of
stress or strain? What did he say?”
    “Don’t get excited,” Francine said. “Nothing. None of that.
I didn’t see him at all. It was evening. I walked down and I was just going to
look at his house from the outside. But when I got there, I thought, well, I
might as well go and knock on the door. Maybe he’d show me his paintings.”
    “Oh my…”
    “He didn’t answer. So I went around the side of the house.
I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I saw there was a conservatory or something along
the back, and I peeped through a window. I could see his easels and clay work
and everything, and I was sure I saw him disappear through a door, so I knocked
on the glass, but he didn’t come out. And then some dogs started barking behind
me and I was afraid, so I left pretty quickly. And that’s all.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Penny asked.
    “It wasn’t relevant. Okay, I felt a bit like I shouldn’t
have gone there. And then I wondered if he was already dead when I went around,
and I was sort of afraid I’d be a suspect.”
    “Oh, Francine. Anyway, Reg Bailey saw him on Friday, don’t
forget.”
    “Thank goodness!”
    Penny laughed. “You ninny. No, you’re not a suspect.”
    “The thing is, though,” Francine said. “Those dogs of his.
They were barking like mad and one of them started to run towards me over the
garden. So if he was really killed, the dogs would have been barking, wouldn’t
they? So that would have alerted Barry Neville, who lives next door.”
    “I think they are Barry’s dogs, too.”
    “They were in Alec’s garden,” Francine pointed out.
    Barry Neville was coming up too often in conversation and
Penny’s suspicions were growing. “Interesting,” she said. “And maybe you’re right.
I think a trip out to see Carl Fredericks in on the cards. And Barry
Neville.”
    “I knew it,” Francine said.
     
     

Chapter Eleven
     
     
     
    “Hi Drew. How are you?”
Penny said on the phone on Sunday morning.
    “I’m doing okay. How’s your
hangover?”
    “How did you know I had a
hangover?”
    “Intuition. Also, you drank
a bottle of wine on Friday night and you sang a song about fairies and elves.”
    “Oh, yeah, that. It was a
lovely meal, by the way. Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. But that’s
not why you’re calling me, is it? Out with it, Penny.”
    “Okay. Well, you know how I
said I wouldn’t go off following people any more?”
    Drew sighed. “Yes.”
    “So, I want to go and look
at where Carl Fredericks lives. And I’m doing this the sensible way – by asking
you if you would like to come?”
    “Hang on,” Drew said. “The
sensible way is by dragging me into it as well?”
    “Yes. And you did say, ages
ago, that you’d take me out on the Fens and tell me about them.”
    “I seem to remember you
poo-pooing the idea, though. You said you couldn’t imagine anything worse than
a guided tour of a sluice.”
    “A woman may change her
mind,” Penny said with exaggerated aloofness. “Are you free today?”
    “From midday, I am. Okay
then. I’ll pick you up, shall I?”
     
    * * * *
     
    “Flat” seemed like the
understatement of the year. The Fens weren’t landscape. It was the total
absence of landscape that disorientated and confused Penny as she stared out of
the window. The oppressive weather had broken overnight, and the day was bright
and clear and fresher than it had previously