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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Autumn clouds are drawing in over the village of Askham, at the edge of the picturesque Lake District, and mourners, including Simmy Henderson, are heading to the funeral of Humphrey Craig. Taking a quiet moment later to visit the grave and admire the flowers with her florist's eye, Simmy meets two women: academic Lindsay Wilson and ninety-year-old matriarch Pauline Parsons. Just twenty-four hours later, Mrs Parsons is found dead on Askham Fell, and Simmy faces questioning at Penrith police station. An accusation has been made, but if Simmy is to avoid arrest for a murder she did not commit, she will have to uncover the killer herself.
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3
The Askham Accusation
REBECCA TOPE
5
Dedicated to all five of my grandchildren, Morgan, Leia, Luke, Leonie and Caitlin
Contents
Author’s Note
As with other titles in this series, the action is set in a real village. The pub, church and Askham Hall are actual places, but the other properties have been changed or invented.
Chapter One
‘Well don’t expect me to come,’ said Angie crossly. ‘I never even knew the man. He was Persimmon’s friend, not ours.’
‘I rather like a funeral,’ said Russell mildly. ‘And the church has such lovely windows.’
His wife tutted impatiently and the matter remained unresolved. There were still three days to go before the funeral of the late Humphrey Craig in St Peter’s Church, Askham. Humphrey had been a builder, his death the result of a shocking and ludicrous accident involving a chainsaw. He had been instrumental in converting a barn belonging to their daughter, Persimmon Henderson, into a handsome house in Hartsop over the previous winter and his death had left her deeply saddened.
‘Besides,’ said Russell, ten minutes later, ‘Simmy could do with some company.’
‘What?’ said Angie, who had forgotten all about the dead builder by then. Her attention had been diverted by a very black cloud looming over Blencathra. ‘Surely it can’t be going to snow? It’s only October.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Russell. ‘The forecast is for gales at the end of the week.’
‘Could be a blizzard.’
‘I doubt it. We haven’t had a good blizzard for decades now. I’m not sure there’s ever been one in October.’
‘We missed the one in the eighties. People are still talking about it. There was a woman in the shop only yesterday—’
‘You’ll be able to mind the baby, then. When I go to the funeral,’ he interrupted. ‘Simmy and I, that is.’
‘So I will,’ Angie agreed with neither enthusiasm nor reluctance. Baby Robin was not yet able to crawl or engage in conversation or clearly express his wishes. Angie was not-very-patiently waiting for him to grow up a bit. She did, however, like the sense of being an influence in his development and there were activities the two of them enjoyed very much. Singing and playing with water were top of the list.
‘It’s a terrible thing about poor Humphrey, though.’ Russell heaved a deep sigh. ‘All that blood.’
The accident had made headline news in the local media, and earned a mention nationally. The man had been lopping a large branch off a dying ash tree, twelve feet above the ground, when he had somehow inadvertently leant over the whizzing blades and cut his own chest open. ‘Just as if he was doing his own post-mortem,’ said Angie. Nobody did black humour like Mrs Straw. Humphrey had no qualifications as a tree surgeon, but as some tooth-sucking wise-after-the-event commentators remarked, there were no restrictions on who could buy and wield a chainsaw.
He left a wife and two teenaged daughters. It was a genuine tragedy, everybody said.
Russell was upset not only by the ghastly accident, but by words he had just had with a local woman. She had heard him saying ‘Threkkled’ as the correct pronunciation of Threlkeld, where he and Angie now lived. ‘It’s not said like that,’ she accused him. ‘You’re obviously an incomer. It should be “Threlkkled”. You have to say the first L.’
‘Really?’ He had not been able to believe her. ‘Are you sure?’
She had merely given him a withering look and walked away. For the following hour he had rehearsed both pronunciations and wished the darn place had been called something else.
Christopher Henderson, son-in-law to Angie and Russell, felt the death far more acutely than anyone might have anticipated, including himself. It literally made him shake. When nobody was looking, he permitted himself to shed tears about it. Humphrey had been so full of life – a capable, plain-speaking, hard-working human being. He and Christopher had argued a few times, got in each other’s way, caused a degree of mutual irritation, in the process of turning a barn into a house where the Hendersons could live. But all that had been perfectly normal; part of the process where each man knew his role. With a new baby to worry about, Humphrey had been a reassuring presence for the Hendersons. Merely visualising his open smiling face made Christopher cry again.
Simmy, his wife, was equally affected. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said, after four days. ‘I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. I can’t persuade myself there’s a world going on without Humphrey.’
‘Yeah,’ sniffed Christopher. ‘You know the way you can usually find something to hang on to. I mean, you dredge up little memories that make it less awful that they’re dead. All a sort of magical thinking, I suppose, or self-delusion, but it helps. This time, it’s not working at all. Sorry, that sounds like gibberish, doesn’t it.’
‘I think you’re saying there are sometimes signs, when you look back. Or the person had it coming in some way. Or they had a miserable future ahead of them and they’re better off out of it.’
‘Sort of. Not as definite as that. All unconscious, really. But this time …’
‘I know,’ said Simmy. She was careful not to voice her relief that her husband’s feelings chimed so well with hers. There had been moments over the past months when she had not been sure that they were as well matched as they’d thought. Now his grief was making him a better person in her eyes. The old Christopher, who she’d known all her life, was still there. But what a pity it took a truly tragic death to expose it to view.
The funeral was likely to be extremely well attended. ‘How big is the church?’ Simmy wondered.
Christopher shrugged. ‘No idea. But I’m told the pub is just next door. Good business for them.’
‘Askham won’t know what’s hit it – where’s everyone going to park?’
He shrugged again. ‘We’d better offer your father a lift, if he’s serious about coming.’
‘Good idea,’ she sighed. Until that day she had assumed that baby Robin would also go to the funeral, which had been a worry, but his grandmother’s offer to mind him had come as a welcome surprise.
‘Any excuse to get out of the funeral,’ said Angie with a frown. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be mawkish.’
‘And we all know you wouldn’t like that,’ said Simmy.
Angie opened her mouth to defend herself, but then shut it again and nodded. ‘Ought to by now,’ she agreed.
The church was down a hill, outside the centre of the village, with a river running close by. The Punchbowl Inn was slightly further up the hill. Across the road was the entrance to Askham Hall, which was all Simmy had known about the village until today. The pub’s car park had been given over to the use of mourners, and a steady stream of people were walking from it to the church, as well as appearing from other points in the village. The Hendersons parked in the roadway alongside a grassy bank, under a massive tree. All normal rules had evidently been suspended, and vehicles were crammed into every available space.
‘What a lovely spot,’ said Russell, admiringly. ‘It must be ten years since I was last here. I’d rather like to be buried in this churchyard myself.’
‘You’d have to move into the Askham parish, then,’ said Christopher.
‘I doubt that,’ said Russell airily. ‘There are ways and means.’
‘We’re late,’ said Simmy for the third time. ‘We’ll never find anywhere to sit.’
They were met by two men belonging to the undertaker, who asked them to sign their names on the list of mourners and pointed out a scattering of spare seats. ‘Sorry there aren’t three together anywhere,’ said one of the men.
Inside, the organ was softly playing, and the distinctive church windows were admitting more daylight than one found in most churches. Plain glass was arranged in regular lozenge-shaped panes, bounded by dark pewter fixings. The panes were small and looked ancient. Simmy found them soothing, with none of the puzzling or threatening depictions of biblical scenes in bright stained glass that often assailed her when visiting a church. There was no distraction in these simple designs. If anything, they seemed to invite a quiet meditation – entirely suitable for a funeral. She sat with her father, while Christopher gallantly took himself to the end of a pew two rows back. Was it gallantry, though, she wondered. Perhaps he just wanted to be amongst strangers, who would ignore him if he wept.
Simmy sat quietly, wondering what it was that made this death so special. The waste; the suddenness; the fact that Humphrey had been such a thoroughly nice man? There were none of the softening veils that usually blurred the worst of the grief and shock. If it was like this for her, she thought, what must the poor wife and daughters be suffering? It was impossible to imagine, or contemplate.
As the hymns and eulogies and prayers rolled by, the usual comforting detachment began to make itself felt. The service was doing its necessary work far better than could have been reasonably hoped. Perhaps it was merely achieved through the sheer numbers present. People were standing at the back; some were even outside. When it was over, a lengthy line of mourners waited to speak to the widow, as she took up a place near the church door, once the interment was accomplished.
When everybody began to drift out of the churchyard, having expressed their condolences or decided to head straight for the pub without doing that, Simmy saw that there was a knot of villagers in the road beyond. People who felt they might be intruding, or who had noisy toddlers with them, or simply wanted to be where the big event was happening – they gathered and watched and witnessed the disappearance of a man they perhaps only knew by reputation, or casual recognition due to living near him. A man who had wantonly ended his own life by a momentary lapse of good sense. It could happen to anybody, they decided. Simmy had not heard a word of criticism of Humphrey’s own carelessness – not even from her mother.
‘Come on,’ said Christopher. ‘I think we can go now.’
‘Aren’t we staying for the bunfight?’ asked Russell. ‘It feels a bit previous to go so soon.’
‘It’ll be bedlam,’ said Simmy. ‘And we really don’t know any of these people. We ought to get back to Cornelia soon, as well. She still can’t be left on her own for long.’
‘Your mother would have had her, along with the baby,’ said Russell unconvincingly. Angie could see the merits of the new member of the Henderson family in theory – indeed she had acquired the animal – but she preferred to keep it at arm’s length.
‘Too late now,’ said Simmy. ‘Though it does seem a bit bad to leave so early.’ She lingered on the pavement outside the church where there were numerous other people, watching mourners talk to Humphrey’s widow and daughters, wishing she had not let Christopher hustle her away from the long line of sympathisers. ‘Poor woman,’ she said. ‘And what must it be like for those girls? They’re so young.’ Humphrey had spoken of his children a few times when working in Simmy’s house. The older one had a few problems, she remembered. Usual teenage stuff,the baffled father had shrugged. The girl had apparently fallen out with all her friends and stopped going to Girl Guides, which she had always loved. Looking at her now, seeing a tall adolescent wearing a black jacket slightly too tight for her, brown hair tied back severely, Simmy thought how wrong it all was. Without her father, the girl was bound to take life even harder than before.
Christopher had also been keeping an eye on the family, especially Sophie. ‘She looks so young and lost. Don’t you think she’s a bit like Bonnie? Same pale frizzy hair,’ he said. ‘Her girls aren’t anything like her, either of them. How old are they, do we know?’
Simmy shrugged. ‘Teens. Thirteen and fifteen, something like that. They’re tall, like Humphrey, aren’t they? And you’re right – Sophie’s hair is just like Bonnie’s.’
Bonnie Lawson’s parentage was no great mystery, but neither was it ever discussed. Whether she looked like her mother or father was of no apparent interest. Both had let her down disastrously, leaving the Social Services to patch her up as best they could. To Bonnie’s great good fortune, they had found her a woman who was quite possibly the best foster parent in the country.
Bonnie’s biological mother was now and then mentioned, but never her father. Simmy could not remember ever having given him a thought. But now it occurred to her that he could be living somewhere in the area, with siblings, other offspring, the whole works. Perhaps Sophie Craig was connected somehow.
Russell snorted at this remark. ‘You sound like your mother,’ he told Christopher. ‘She was always looking for likenesses. It’ll get you into trouble one of these days.’ Christopher’s late mother had been a close friend to the Straws in years gone by. Russell especially remembered her fondly and often talked about her. How was it that funerals always seemed to direct one’s thoughts to earlier generations and remote family connections, wondered Simmy.
She tapped her father’s arm and laughed. ‘That’s true,’ she said and followed her menfolk as they started up the hill to where they’d left the car. There were other people all around, going the same way. ‘I might come back tomorrow for a proper look at the flowers, if they’re still here,’ she said. ‘It’ll be nice to see the grave when it’s gone quiet.’
‘It’s a wake, not a bunfight,’ said Christopher pedantically, referring to Russell’s remark three minutes ago.
Russell raised his chin. ‘Technically, you’re wrong. I grant you the definition has shifted in recent times, but the wake was always before the burial and prayers and so forth. Not afterwards. But in the absence of a word for the food and chatter that follows the main event, it became usual to call it the wake. Erroneously, in my opinion.’
‘Trust you, Dad,’ said Simmy. ‘Pedantic to the end.’
‘It’s always been the wake in my experience,’ Christopher insisted.
‘Well, you’re only young,’ said his father-in-law tolerantly.
A young woman was walking just behind them. She leant forward and said, ‘It’s right, though. The wake was always a vigil, held before the funeral, sitting around the coffin to keep the dead person safe. Not many people seem to know that these days.’
Russell stopped and turned, his face beaming. ‘Well said, my dear. How refreshing to have your support.’
The newcomer gave a fleeting smile. She was short, with spectacles and a long face. ‘I shouldn’t have intruded, but I just couldn’t resist. They get it right in America, oddly enough. Most of the time, anyway.’
Simmy was examining the face, wondering who this might be. There was nothing distinctive or memorable about it. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
The reply was diffident, uttered with a small shrug. ‘I don’t think so. My name’s Lindsay. I live just up the road. Are you local?’
‘Not very. I live in Hartsop, and my father’s in Threlkeld, near Keswick.’
‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ said Lindsay, with a special nod at Russell. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.’
‘And perhaps not,’ said Russell in a whisper, as they parted company with the woman. ‘That was a very funny look she just gave us.’
Chapter Two
There were a hundred things in the house to remind them of Humphrey. Every door had been hung by him; the staircase and several walls had been his handiwork. Simmy vividly remembered the way she had colluded with him to hide the slight bodge on the bottom stair from Christopher, who could be picky about small things. There had been a few millimetres of empty space where the floor dipped under the riser. ‘I could just pop a bit of filler in?’ Humphrey had suggested. ‘Otherwise, I’ll have to take the whole section out and start again.’
‘Do it,’ Simmy had advised with a smile.
Humphrey had first met them when Simmy was seven months pregnant, following the arrival and early months of little Robin with keen interest. More than once he had offered comforting words when the baby was unsettled. He had even acted as unofficial babysitter once or twice when Simmy dashed off to a shop.
But it was irrational to miss him, because he had finished the building work and gone, months ago. ‘We never invited him to the wedding,’ Simmy said now, in deep remorse. ‘Why didn’t we?’
‘It was a working day.’
‘We forgot about him.’
‘We probably did,’ Christopher conceded. ‘Let’s hope he didn’t notice.’
And so it went on, all over the weekend following the funeral. Neither of them could shake the man and his untimely death out of their minds, despite the major distractions provided by their son – and their new pet.
Cornelia had arrived only three weeks earlier, her acquisition finally orchestrated by Angie Straw, who had had enough of talk and took unilateral action. ‘A boy should have a dog,’ she said, looking at the infant Robin. ‘A man should have a dog. The dog has been too long coming. So I’ve found one. She’s four months old, and completely perfect for you.’
It took everyone by surprise, including the dog, who had been born in a house on a busy street in Workington. ‘By rights, she would have been drowned at birth,’ said Angie. ‘That’s what my mother would have done. She’s the unplanned offspring of a pedigree golden retriever and a springer spaniel. As far as I can understand, both breeds are excellent with children, but she might grow rather large.’
‘How did you find her?’ wondered Simmy.
‘There’s a website called Pets Are Us, or something. I was browsing and there she was.’
‘You should have consulted us first. You can’t just go and get a dog for other people and dump it on them like this.’ Despite its yellow parent, the animal was jet-black. It was sitting in the middle of their kitchen floor looking from face to face, but reserving a special smile for Christopher. The tongue lolled; the tail wagged; the ears flickered every time he caught its eye. Simmy pretended not to notice.
But Angie was implacable. ‘Look at that! You know that dogs smile with their ears, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mum. You’ve told me that a thousand times.’ Angie and Russell had an ageing Patterdale terrier with expressive ears and minimal personality. Simmy sighed, knowing she had little ground for objection. She had actually promised Christopher a dog as a wedding present, and then disgracefully defaulted.
‘Cornelia,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’ll call her.’
‘Too many syllables,’ said Angie firmly. ‘You’ll sound ridiculous, calling her across the fells.’
‘Cor-NEE-lia,’ Christopher warbled at the puppy. ‘Come here!’ Nothing happened, apart from another tentative ear-smile. He picked it up and rubbed his chin across the top of the soft black head. ‘I actually wanted a yellow dog,’ he said, as if it didn’t matter a bit.
‘Her mother was yellow,’ said Angie daftly. ‘She might have yellow puppies if you ever bred from her.’
Simmy yelped, sounding rather like a dog herself. ‘No way! They’d be mongrels.’
Everyone looked at her, even little Robin.
‘I don’t think that word is allowed these days,’ said Angie. ‘They’re designer dogs, and the wilder the mix the better. This is a mongrel already, come to that. And all the better for it. Widens the gene pool and so forth.’
Simmy found herself in shameful isolation. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she muttered. It was a rare experience to be chastised by her outspoken mother for using a forbidden word. In general, Angie fought hard for freedom of speech. ‘I haven’t got used to the idea yet.’
Her husband was clearly in love. The puppy licked his face, and he accepted the gesture as his rightful due. He murmured into the floppy spaniel ears. He held the robust little body high in the air and laughed. ‘She’s beautiful. I can never thank you enough,’ he told his mother-in-law. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’
‘Except for the colour,’ growled Simmy.
‘Look, Robin!’ Christopher lowered the dog to his son’s level – which was a blanket on the floor. ‘See your new friend. She’ll be like your sister. You’ll grow up together. It’ll be like something out of a story.’
‘Famous Five,’ Angie suggested. ‘That dog was a retriever, I think.’
‘Where did “Cornelia” come from?’ asked Simmy. ‘What’s wrong with Hetty or Buffy or even Sally? Cornelia’s awfully pretentious.’
‘It just came,’ said Christopher airily. ‘The moment I looked at her. Although I did also toy with “Zenobia” for a minute.’ Again he sang out the name: ‘Cor-NEEL-ia,’ giving it a warm inviting tone that made everyone smile.
The puppy settled in with minimal fuss, although bedtime was never easy. ‘It seems so mean,’ said Christopher, as he shut his new darling into the kitchen. ‘Leaving her all by herself.’
‘What’s the alternative?’ asked Simmy darkly, knowing she was going to have to stand her ground unwaveringly if the dog was not to spend every night on her bed. ‘We could get one of those cages that people seem to favour nowadays.’
‘Perish the thought,’ exclaimed Christopher. ‘That’s a horrible idea.’
‘Apparently most dogs like them,’ she said mildly. ‘Makes them feel secure.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Christopher.
Robin wasted no time in taking his father’s side. On the first day he grabbed the puppy’s ears and pulled. He then seized hold of her tail. They rolled over together and squealed in unison. Simmy was paralysed with horror. ‘She’ll bite him!’ she cried.
‘She won’t,’ Christopher argued. And she didn’t. Instead, she licked him lavishly and Simmy winced. It was one thing to be relaxed about ordinary household germs and quite another to see her infant exchanging saliva with a dog.
‘She’s got to stop licking his mouth,’ she protested. ‘It can’t be healthy.’
‘It’s fantastically healthy,’ came the implausible reply. ‘It’ll boost his immunity brilliantly.’ And he proceeded to recount some memories of his time in Central America where children and animals played gloriously together with no ill effects at all. There were moments when Simmy wished her husband had remained in Bowness-on-Windermere all his life and shared the same perfectly reasonable attitude to viruses and bacteria that most British people adopted.
To Simmy’s relief, Cornelia soon learnt that licking the baby’s mouth earned disapproval, and she stopped of her own accord. It became apparent, a week after the pup arrived, that both she and Robin were cutting teeth – a second lot in the canine case, and first for the little human. Neither seemed unduly perturbed by the process, but Simmy rather liked the coincidence. The dog was also growing at an amazing rate. ‘She gets taller every day,’ said Simmy. ‘And heavier.’ Christopher pointed out the large paws, which suggested there was still a lot of growing to come.
The day after Humphrey’s funeral was one of Christopher’s working Saturdays. He performed as an auctioneer of assorted antiques and collectables every other weekend, taking a day off midweek as compensation. Simmy was left in charge on a blustery autumn day, unsure what to do with the time. Her Windermere florist shop was amply covered by Bonnie Lawson, her young colleague-cum-employee, assisted by an even younger girl, Tanya Harkness. Simmy’s parents had very recently moved to a bungalow near Keswick, having spent twenty years or more running a busy bed and breakfast in Windermere. The whole family had shifted northwards, ostensibly because of Christopher Henderson’s workplace. Even Bonnie’s boyfriend Ben had temporary lodgings in the area, so he could continue working for the auction house. Something that had begun as a fill-in summer job was rapidly becoming permanent, to widespread adult concern. Ben was only nineteen, officially genius-level in his intelligence quotient and still reeling from having failed as an undergraduate. The university ethos had defeated him, as he repeatedly fell foul of the plethora of rules as to what it was permissible to say or think. The no-nonsense vigour of the auction business fitted much better with his nature.
‘Surely it can’t have been as bad as all that?’ his parents kept saying, perpetually distressed and baffled by his failure.
‘It was,’ Ben assured them. ‘Worse, if anything.’
And still Simmy’s thoughts returned to Humphrey. She and Christopher and Russell had hung back from the interment, with the majority of the mourners. They had not spoken to Mrs Craig or her daughters. At the time it had felt like enough to hear the eulogies and register their names on the undertaker’s list. They had dropped a ten-pound note into the collecting box, destined for the Air Ambulance people. Just such a rescue had been attempted following the man’s ghastly accident, summoned by the owner of the tree he was lopping in the village of Tirril. It arrived too late, albeit faster than a motor vehicle obstructed by stone walls, crowds of tourists and a ploughed field would have managed.
By a rather opaque process, she made the decision to go back to Askham for another look. It was no great distance from her home in Hartsop. In essence they were at opposite ends of Ullswater, in the same north-east corner of the Lake District. But there was no direct connecting route and the drive could easily take half an hour. Longer on a Saturday that was still on British Summer Time – just. The clocks would go back the following weekend. The sudden urge to go and look at the grave felt unreliable, as if her instincts were leading in quite the wrong direction. There would be no headstone for many months yet; the pile of raw earth would look violent and unnatural. But there would be flowers and Simmy was a florist and she had acquired an eye for nuance when it came to funeral tributes. Humphrey’s wife had stipulated family flowers only, but there would always be those who insisted on sending them, either from an adherence to tradition or a failure to find any other satisfactory way of expressing their sympathy. Simmy knew a lot about these motives and the force with which they were manifested. She had learnt from hard experience just how central a simple bunch of flowers could be to some of life’s largest moments.
The arrival of the dog had greatly increased the sense of pent-up energy in the house if there was no outdoor activity that day. The favourite option for some time had been a short walk through the little village to the end of the road and up the nearest fell, which was Hartsop Dodd. From the car park it was a mile to the top. With a baby in a back carrier it was possible but not especially enjoyable to do it in an hour or so. The first part was uncomfortably steep and whoever had Robin was in constant fear of slipping over or getting the centre of gravity wrong. The child would wobble or cry and the whole exercise had soon been set aside for a time when Robin could scramble up the path by himself. Now the habit was to stroll along beside the little river that flowed into Ullswater – officially entitled the Goldrill Beck – ending up in Patterdale and one of its pubs.
But that felt too strenuous as well. Cornelia had to be kept on a lead until Christopher could convince her that sheep were not to be chased and orders were to be obeyed. Simmy had rejected any suggestion that she should share in this training, but she could not realistically avoid frequent outings for the creature. Christopher was at work all day, and she was already committed to giving their child fresh air and stimulation. The dog was inevitably included. ‘Surely it’s no hardship?’ said Christopher and it wasn’t, exactly. It was just one more thing to be factored in, along with giving the pup its food, washing its bedding, tidying up its toys and monitoring its toilet arrangements.
Cornelia very much liked the car. She associated it with days out in interesting places, encounters with other dogs, and the company on the back seat of her young master. Simmy felt bad at not inviting her father and his dog to join her on this return trip to Askham, especially as he would know the best places to walk – as well as all the local points of interest. Russell Straw had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the whole region, and never tired of exploring. But, Simmy reminded herself, she was really only planning to visit the church again, and perhaps a short stroll along the river if there was a handy path.
There was a very small parking area across the road from St Peter’s, with a sign insisting that it was exclusive to people on church business. ‘That’s us,’ Simmy muttered, feeling unsure. She spent two long minutes extracting child and dog from the back seat, putting Robin in a buggy and keeping firm hold of Cornelia’s lead. The outing was not going to be of much interest to either of them, she feared.
Before crossing the road, she paused to assess the immediate setting. A large square house was perched on rising ground above the church, intriguing in the way it both dominated and yet remained detached. It looked old and slightly weather-beaten and had probably once been the vicarage. Perhaps it still was, come to that. The church had clung on to at least a few handsome old mansions for their clergy to inhabit, where the temptation to sell them off had been resisted.
To her left the river flowed serenely under a bridge and away to the north. She had a feeling it must be the River Lowther, which meandered all across the north-east Lakes, past Penrith and off to join the Eden, which was a really serious waterway. Lowther was a name to be found all over Askham and its surroundings. There was a Lowther Castle, Lowther Park as well as a tiny Lowther village. Simmy had heard the word uttered with something like reverence by local people, but she was very hazy as to the history and origins of it all. Another reason to have included her father in the outing.
The church claimed her attention, at last. Its unusual windows were as effective from the outside as they were to worshippers inside, unlike stained glass. There was something plain and Quakerish about them, despite the obvious skill required in their construction. Again, there had to be a history behind the decision to choose such a distinctive design. There was a lively breeze, flicking at the few dead leaves and toying with Simmy’s hair.
Humphrey’s grave was at the back, easily located. Simmy pushed the buggy along the path, with Cornelia twisting and dragging at the lead, still refusing to conform to the usual procedure demanded of dogs. ‘Come on, you fool,’ Simmy told her crossly. ‘If you can’t behave, you’ll have to stay in the car.’ She was already wishing she’d thought of that before.
There were two other people examining the funeral flowers, which almost made Simmy turn back. But one of them looked familiar and she hesitated. Cornelia uttered a wholly unnecessary squeal, which drew two pairs of eyes her way. One pair was old, behind glasses, bordered with wrinkles. The other belonged to a young woman who had introduced herself as ‘Lindsay’ the previous day.
‘Oh, hello!’ the latter chirped. ‘We meet again. What an adorable puppy!’
‘She’s a pest,’ said Simmy, offended that the dog had elicited more admiration than her beautiful little son. ‘And she’s actually my husband’s, not mine,’ she added treacherously.
‘Got enough on your hands already, I dare say,’ chimed in the other woman, with a quick laugh that was more of a cackle. ‘Is this your first?’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Simmy, not quite truthfully. There was no way she was going to explain that her first child had been stillborn. ‘And he’s really not much trouble.’
‘Come to look at the grave, have you?’ the old woman went on. ‘They’ve left the flowers on it for once. I’ve no patience with the way they whisk them off to some old folks’ home these days. Everything always in such a rush.’
Simmy smiled. Here was a living embodiment of what her own mother would be like in another thirty years or so, any residual inhibitions long dispersed to the winds, prejudices aired with impunity. Or would the thought police have gained so much ground that even ancient crones would be silenced by them?
‘Did you send flowers?’ the younger woman asked Simmy.
‘No. Did you?’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘I’m only a cousin-in-law. I didn’t think I’d qualify as family. Sophie and I are good enough friends, all the same. Or I thought we were.’ Her expression turned wistful for a moment.
‘Daft business that,’ came the aged commentator. ‘People ought to be free to send what they want to. There were never all these requests and such in my time. Specially when it was such a tragedy as this. We’re all going to miss ’im and no mistake.’
‘That’s very true,’ said Simmy, with a sigh. She looked from one to the other, wondering about the connection. Lindsay seemed to be under thirty, her companion well over eighty. Grandmother and granddaughter perhaps? ‘Do you both live here in Askham?’
‘Practically next door to each other,’ said the old woman. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh – I live in Hartsop, actually. Humphrey did our barn conversion. We got to know him quite well.’
‘Hartsop – fair way off, that’ll be. Must have time on your hands, coming all over here like this.’
‘Not really.’ Simmy was growing tired of having to defend herself against something that felt at best disapproving. She looked to the other woman for rescue.
‘You’d best be getting back,’ Lindsay said to her aged companion. ‘Unless you want me to come with you? Wait for me over the road, if so. I’m staying here a bit longer yet.’
‘Nay, I won’t keep you. I’m not helpless yet. You youngsters can have a bit of baby talk without me chipping in. Never did like babies much, to tell you the truth.’ She turned away and began trudging through the graveyard to the road. She seemed fairly steady on her feet, her legs somewhat swollen but perfectly vigorous. In Simmy’s experience, old women were generally too fat or too thin, but this one seemed a reasonable shape on the whole. Her shoulders were very slightly bowed and her face extremely wrinkled; her knees bowed outwards and her hair was white. She turned left when she reached the road and began to walk up the long incline towards the village centre.
‘Will she be all right?’ Simmy asked.
‘Not my problem if she isn’t – but yes, she’ll be fine. She’s at least ninety and never known a day’s illness, or so she says. Awful old bat. Nobody likes her. You saw the best of her just now. She’s a JW, you know.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Jehovah’s Witness. A dying breed, these days. That’s why she wasn’t at the funeral – wouldn’t set foot inside a Christian church.’
‘Are they not Christians, then?’ Simmy inwardly acknowledged her ignorance of the matter.
‘Very much not. No Christmas or Easter for them. No birthday parties, either. They’ve got their own skewed version of the Bible. Though I have to admit she doesn’t push it down people’s throats like some do. I sometimes wonder if she’s a bit lapsed these days. And she’s the only one in the village, which must be lonely.’
‘Hasn’t she got a family to share it?’
‘She’s got a family all right, but hardly any of them are really signed up to it. One or two of them still stick to the basic rules, apparently. As I say, the whole thing is fizzling out in this country.’
‘She’s rather like my mother,’ said Simmy thoughtfully. ‘Doesn’t seem to notice when she’s being rude.’
‘Oh, she notices all right. She just doesn’t care. She’s like something out of Grimm. A nasty old witch.’
‘And you live next door to her?’
‘Not quite, but close enough.’ The young woman sighed, and then gave a little laugh. ‘As neighbours go, she could be a lot worse.’
Chapter Three
The two of them stayed in the churchyard for another fifteen minutes, talking about Humphrey and debating whether or not Cornelia would be safe off the lead. Lindsay trotted down and closed the gate onto the road, and then offered to take the dog for a romp at the top part of the modest graveyard while Simmy wheeled Robin up and down behind her. They talked in snatches, managing to convey all the usual basics.
Lindsay lived on the left-hand stalk of the Y-shaped rows of houses at the upper end of Askham. She was renting it while she completed a doctorate. She had a cousin whose husband was related to Humphrey Craig, who had worked regularly for the owner of the rented house. ‘He spent weeks shoring up the chimney only recently. That’s how I know him,’ she explained. ‘They all know each other in these villages, of course. The cousin connection only occurred to me recently. And I’ve seen Sophie once or twice to chat to.’
Simmy shared items of her own information – the florist shop and Christopher’s auction house. Then she asked, ‘What’s the subject of your doctorate? Do you have to write a thesis?’
‘Very much so. It’s on cruelty in Dombey and Son, believe it or not.’
‘Gosh!’ said Simmy weakly.
‘I’m not the first, of course. But I’m looking at how typical of the time his characters are in the way they behave, which is harder than you might think. It’s slow going.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’ Simmy had never been a big reader, and had avoided Dickens since she’d done A Tale of Two Cities at school. ‘What happens after you’ve finished? You’ll be a PhD – is that right?’
‘Right. I’ll be Doctor Lindsay Wilson. I like the discipline and the challenge and the “thought experiments”, as my supervisor calls them. I have to do some teaching as well, mostly in Lancaster. I cram all that into one day a week – Fridays, would you believe? It’s murder. When I finally get the doctorate I’ll go full-time there, I suppose. I must admit I shudder a bit at the prospect of a life spent on campus.’
Simmy thought of Ben Harkness and his failure to integrate into university life, and wondered what he would make of this person. She made a bigger effort to listen, wondering if she should ask more about contemporary university life. ‘You said “mostly in Lancaster”?’
‘Oh, well, I do a bit of ad hoc tutoring locally. School kids falling behind with English. Just a few hours in the evenings here and there.’
Something clicked in Simmy’s head. ‘Fridays are in Lancaster, are they? But you were here yesterday. That was a Friday.’
Lindsay raised her eyebrows at the stream of questions, but answered readily enough. ‘By the skin of my teeth. I juggled the timetable mercilessly to be here. I had to go back for two more sessions in the afternoon.’
But why? Simmy wanted to ask. Lindsay had appeared entirely peripheral to the funeral. But perhaps that was a wrong impression. For all Simmy knew, the woman had been down at the front of the church, actively engaged in consoling poor Sophie Craig. And she must have skipped the socialising afterwards in order to rush back to her students. ‘Very noble of you,’ she said.
‘You only get one chance with a funeral,’ was the slightly obscure response.
Simmy changed the subject, in a vague attempt to offer up some personal information. She said a few sentences about her shop and the need to get back to it and what a wrench it would be to leave her baby. ‘He still seems so tiny,’ she sighed. ‘And my mother’s not terribly good with them when they’re small. Actually, she’s not great with kids of any age. It’s mostly down to my poor old dad.’
‘Mm,’ said Lindsay, still devoting the bulk of her attention to the dog. Simmy watched her, with only the mildest of interest. She had no reason to think she would have any reason to meet this woman again. She had grey-blue eyes behind a pair of serious-looking spectacles and light brown hair. She was of short stature and had no noticeable accent. Her skin glowed with a nice tan that had to be recent. She wore a short coat in a colour that Angie would term ‘camel’. It looked expensive.
‘So she’s not your granny, then? The old lady.’ It was spoken idly, simply for something to say, the answer already obvious. But she was sure to be somebody’s granny, if not Lindsay’s.
‘Who? Pauline? Perish the thought! I told you – she’s an old witch. Loves a funeral more than anything. Gossips mercilessly. She knows absolutely everyone for miles around. I must admit some of her stories are pretty amazing. She’s over ninety, you know. I said that before, didn’t I? Remembers the war as if it was last week.’ The woman grinned. ‘In fact, you could say she’s straight out of the pages of Dickens. The only way I can cope with her is to hold that thought. I’ve been trying to work out a way of putting her into my thesis. She could be Good Mrs Brown. And I keep wondering what Dickens would have made of the JWs. He didn’t have a lot of time for anything churchy. He seldom mentions religion, you know.’
The reference to Good Mrs Brown was lost on Simmy, who had begun to admit to herself that she really didn’t like this Lindsay person very much. Despite being in need of a local friend or two, this was clearly not a candidate for the post. Too young. Too clever. And oddly unpleasant in the way she ignored poor Robin. And not really very local, come to that. ‘I actually came to see the flowers,’ she said, rather late in the proceedings. ‘And to have a little moment with Humphrey. There were too many people here yesterday.’
‘Is that a hint for me to get out of your way?’ Lindsay uttered a very forced laugh.
‘Not at all. I was assuming you were here for much the same reason.’
‘I suppose I was, in a way. I generally go out for an hour or so at some point. Mostly I walk up to the Cockpit, but it’s very blowy up there today. Wind gives me a headache.’
‘The Cockpit?’
‘It’s right up on the fell – all very ancient and mysterious, if you get it to yourself. A good place for thinking – but not today.’
‘It seems quite sheltered down here, anyway. Just a nice little breeze.’
‘Right,’ said Lindsay vaguely. ‘That’s why I came this way.’
There was a pause in which Simmy looked up at the solid pale-coloured house standing sentinel over the church. ‘Is that the vicarage?’ she asked after a long moment.
‘What? Oh, no, not any more. It was originally, of course. Now it’s famous for being the most valuable property in the village. Not counting Askham Hall, obviously.’
‘It’s very … distinctive,’ said Simmy, feeling slightly ashamed of her interest. She was staring hungrily at somebody’s house, imagining herself living there and wondering about its history. ‘I must ask my father if he knows anything about it. He’s full of local stories about places like that.’
Lindsay cleared her throat. ‘Actually, you can find out quite a lot online. There are photos of the interior – painted blue and all terribly tasteful.’
‘Do you know the people?’
‘No, not at all. I suspect they don’t live in it much of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them. There’s a lot of that sort of thing round here, obviously.’
The way she kept repeating the word obviously was irritating. It made Simmy feel dim, which led to a growing resentment. ‘Well …’ she said, spinning the buggy around rather violently. ‘Come on, Cornelia. We’d better get moving. Soon be time for lunch.’
Robin had been showing an intent interest in the skittering leaves and the swaying branches, as well as a pair of fearless sparrows hopping around on the grass. The excursion had been worthwhile if only for this new bit of stimulation. The child was smiling and chirruping, gladdening his mother’s soft heart. The dog was still pulling at the lead, wanting to chase the birds and probably run across the road and dive into the river for good measure. This was much less gratifying. ‘Dratted dog,’ Simmy muttered.
‘She’s adorable,’ Lindsay corrected her. ‘All she wants is to run free.’
‘Which is out of the question here – obviously,’ said Simmy.
Simmy put the child and dog back into the car and sat for a moment, trying to settle her thoughts onto Humphrey, as originally intended. But Robin was hungry and Cornelia confused and their needs were impossibly distracting. There was little choice but to drive home and rustle up something to eat. She had vaguely assumed there would be an alternative route back to Hartsop, but a glance at the tattered road atlas she kept in the car showed that there was little option but to follow the wiggly roads to Pooley Bridge and straight down the A592, which bordered Ullswater the whole way. She gave a thought to Pauline, the old lady who would be hard-pressed to get out of her home village without a car. No wonder she thought Hartsop was such a distance away.
It was unknown territory and she had left her phone at home deliberately. Even if she got slightly lost, she knew the main points along the way and trusted to the signposts to keep her on track. Once at the pub and shop in the middle of Askham, she simply had to turn right and then follow her nose – or preferably fingerposts saying ‘Pooley Bridge’.
It worked, more or less, although it seemed to take longer than the outward trip had done. She passed through a fair-sized village called Tirril, which she was sure had not featured the first time. The name rang a bell, and she recalled that it was the place where Humphrey Craig had died. The twists and turns had quickly obscured any sense of east or west, and the overhead sun was no help. ‘We’re not lost,’ she told her passengers, who seemed prepared to trust her. ‘But I think we missed a turn somewhere.’
It was twenty past one when they got back to the house, which still very much resembled a barn on the outside. Simmy was every bit as hungry as Robin, so she mashed two bananas instead of one, and shared his lunch with him. ‘You’ll sleep well this afternoon,’ she told him. He had been too hungry to fall asleep in the car. Only by the means of some loud singing had Simmy managed to keep him from screaming. Cornelia had been no help at all.
