The Body on the Beach (The Weymouth Trilogy) by Lizzie Church Page B

making and mending curtains, sheets, blankets and visitors’ spoiled clothes, when she had been used, until only a very few months ago, to living if not exactly in luxury then at least in security and some semblance of comfort.
    Kathryn, however, was never one to shirk what she saw as her duty so she took her usual route down the trackway from Preston towards the Esplanade – a route which formed one of her favourite walks. It took her first down a small valley and then up the other side, from the summit of which she could stand and take in the magnificent, shimmering view of Weymouth as it gently curved its way ahead of her. It then took her past the streams and grazing marshlands of Lod Moor, bounded on one side by spectacular wooded hills just starting to reveal their first faint tinge of green, and on the other the pebbles that marked the start of a beach which grew more and more sandy the closer in to Weymouth that she went. Weymouth had expanded greatly in recent years, with the King ’s visits to the town , and though there was still building work going on, creating unwonted noise and dust, the symmetrical, elegant terraces with their black ironwork balconies looking out to sea, the brightly painted bathing machines lined up en masse on the sandy part of the beach, and the stately, impressive shrubbery adjoining Gloster Lodge – the King’s own holiday home – never failed to fill her with delight. Bearing away from the sea-front at last she duly arrived at her aunt’s one-roomed apartment . This was at the rear of a narrow passage way off a road known as Maiden Street (an unexceptionable situation, to be sure, apart from its inconvenient proximity to the fish quay, which duly infused the apartment with its own inimitable odour whenever the wind was blowing in the wrong direction) . The bell from the nearby church was just ringing out noon as she pushed open the front door and mounted the stairs to the apartment at the back.
    Her aunt, as usual, was at home and greeted Kathryn most tenderly as she poked her head around the door. She was scarcely ever not at home, except when collecting or delivering her sewing. This afternoon the apartment felt more constrained, and smelt fishier, than ever. Ignoring the smell, Kathryn shared her nuncheon with her – a rather delicious-looking, albeit somewhat small, fidget pie from the pastry cook’s across the way – as they settled down to a bit of companionable sewing together.
    Aunt Shepherd had not heard any of the news – of Giles’ sudden disappearance, Mr Berkeley’s equally sudden appearance, and Kathryn’s new acquaintance with Mrs Wright . S o once the usual exchange of health and welfare issues had been made (during which Kathryn learned of her aunt’s revived chilblains, brought on, no doubt, by the effects of the cold easterly winds which had buffeted the coastline of late, and of her no-less painful arthritis in the knee) the visit passed somewhat more entertainingly than usual. A lthough she was a little old, Mis s Shepherd was definitely no dullard. She picked up on the significance of all these events immediately - indeed, perhaps even more perceptively than Kathryn herself had done. She expressed the hope that Giles would soon return from Town (whilst secretly wishing that he might go to the devil) and that her acquaintance with Mr Berkeley might prove beneficial to her (whilst wondering whether it might turn out to be exactly the opposite). She was certainly pleased that little Bob was experiencing some joy for a change.
    ‘Oh, he is indeed, Aunt – I have never known him to be so happy. Mr Berkeley has taken quite a shine to him, I think and – indeed – to tell you the truth I think he takes as much pleasure in their games as Bob does himself. You should have seen them together on the beach. All the children from the cottages were there as well. They were all having a whale of a time. And Bob’s pleasure when he opened his present. His little