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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
Summer has come to the Lake District town of Windermere, where Persimmon 'Simmy' Brown runs her own florist shop. But there's no time for her to stop and smell the roses with the shop struggling for money, so a contract to provide floral displays for a hotel in Hawkshead couldn't have arrived at a better moment. However, Simmy's association with the hotel soon turns sinister when she finds a body in the lake. To make matters worse, her friend, Ben Harkness - responsible for calling and alerting her of the discovered body - is now missing and thought to be kidnapped. Caught up in both a murder and kidnapping investigation, Simmy begins chasing clues left by the missing Ben. With many suspicious characters bustling in and out of the hotel, while simultaneously trying to cope with her father's encroaching dementia, solving the puzzle seems a grueling challenge, but Simmy is compelled to uncover the truth...
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The Hawkshead Hostage
REBECCA TOPE
For Margaret Aitchison, Katherine Knight and Diana Palmer, with thanks for your abiding interest and support
Author’s Note
The Hawkshead Hotel does not exist in reality. Ann Tyson’s B&B is real, and recommended. Some minor liberties have been taken with the structure of actual buildings in Hawkshead to serve the purposes of the story.
Contents
Chapter One
The tourist season had been in full swing for some weeks by mid July, bringing a strong sense of not quite keeping up with all the opportunities that came with it. Persimmon Petals, the Windermere florist shop, was not an obvious destination for any of those who came to the Lake District for their holidays. Where any outlet providing food, sweets, clothes, games or maps was kept fully occupied, the flower shop was doing rather badly. For various reasons, many of the ideas for additional profitable sidelines that had floated up during the spring had not been followed through. Simmy (officially Persimmon) Brown had been distracted by her father’s abrupt decline into a worrying loss of capacity, along with her own mild depression induced by the departure of her more than capable assistant for a proper job in a hotel. Melanie Todd now had her foot on the first rung of a real career, often working fifty hours a week and loving every minute of it. Another of Simmy’s young friends, Ben Harkness, had been immersed in exams for many weeks, and had then gone off on a fell-walking holiday with his brother and some friends.
Which only left Bonnie Lawson. And Bonnie was a distraction all by herself.
It was a Monday, cloudy and cool, with a threat of rain. ‘Great weather for shops,’ said Bonnie. ‘All except ours, of course.’
‘There are still quite a few weddings and funerals,’ Simmy argued. ‘Not to mention birthdays.’
‘Yeah. Shall I have another go at the window? It needs more red in it.’
‘If you like.’ Bonnie had created one of her trademark displays in the shop window only two days ago and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it as it was.
Bonnie was missing Ben even more than Simmy was. The two youngsters had established a bond a few months earlier, when Bonnie first arrived at the shop, and were now well known around town as an item. It was either a highly improbable or completely predictable relationship, depending on the level of understanding in the observer. A specialist in couplehood might demur that they were too alike for it to succeed. Casual acquaintances might conclude that they were ludicrously different. The truth was a complicated amalgam of the two.
‘How’s your dad now?’ Bonnie called from the cramped window space. ‘Did you see him yesterday?’
‘He’s not too bad, really. If you stick to conversations about the correct use of English and quirky aspects of local history, he’s just the same as always. But underneath, he’s still scared. He thinks people are conspiring to attack or rob him. He hates to let my mother out of his sight. She’s convinced it’s a weird form of Alzheimer’s, but can’t find anyone who agrees with her.’
‘Sad. Not much you can do about it, either.’
‘I did go there yesterday, even though they were terribly busy. There was a family with three children under five, and a yappy Jack Russell. My mother’s thinking she won’t let people bring their dogs any more.’
‘Does she still let them smoke?’
‘In theory, yes. But hardly anybody wants to these days. They automatically go outside, without even being asked.’
Angie Straw, Simmy’s mother, ran a B&B that was almost the last of its kind. She kept rules to a minimum, enforced no schedules on her visitors and gave them a generous amount of space both upstairs and down. When it was raining, people might stay all day, playing games, chatting and smoking. Word of mouth ensured a healthy stream of customers who knew what to expect. Those unwary enough to call in on the off chance, with no pre-knowledge of what was on offer, could find themselves shocked by the many deviations from the usual. Angie had at one time compared herself to the famous Baron Hotel in Aleppo, which visitors either loved for its nostalgic lack of luxuries or hated for the same reasons. Now Aleppo lay in ruins and she could hardly bear to think of it.
It was half past ten when the shop door flew open and a whirlwind figure came in.
‘Hey, Mel,’ said Bonnie, who was idly arranging gerberas according to height. The excitement on the older girl’s face elicited little reaction. Bonnie was used to drama.
Melanie threw a grin at her, but headed purposefully for Simmy in the back room of the shop. ‘Sim! Quick – I’ve only got a few minutes. I was going to phone, but came instead. Listen – I’ve got you a job. Lots of work. A contract for the summer. And I’m not even going to ask for commission.’
Simmy pulled off her rubber gloves and made calming motions. ‘Slow down,’ she begged.
Melanie took a breath and leant her solid body against the doorpost. ‘The hotel wants you to do their flowers, right through to the end of September. They should have thought of it months ago, but they never got around to it. I’ve been nagging them for weeks. Now they’ve decided to give it a try. You have to take enough for big displays in all the main rooms – that’s three or four, and two more for the upstairs places. Change them twice a week. That’s good, isn’t it?’ She fixed Simmy with her distinctive stare, enhanced by an artificial eye. ‘Tell me I did good.’
‘That’s a lot of flowers. How much are they paying?’
‘That’s for you to negotiate, not me. I can’t do everything.’ She threw out a hand in a sweep of exaggerated impatience. ‘They’ll pay the going rate. Business is booming out there. You’d be amazed.’
‘Thanks, Mel.’ Simmy’s smile was slightly forced. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘You are doing without me. This is just a little bit of networking. If it works out, I’ll get a star for putting you together.’
Simmy tried to see the positives, but mostly failed. Melanie’s hotel was in Hawkshead – a tortuous drive from Windermere, unless you took the ferry, and that was still not entirely straightforward. The new commission would consume almost half a day, twice a week. Bonnie would be left in charge of the shop rather more than Simmy would like. ‘When do I start?’ she asked.
‘Soon as you can. Go and see them today, if you’ve got time. They’ve not got much idea what they want, so you can do whatever you like. Tell them it’ll have a subliminal effect on the guests and raise their TripAdvisor ranking considerably. They’re obsessed with that.’
‘Who should I speak to?’
‘Dan. He’s the under-manager. Next up from me. Sort of. He’s mostly okay, anyway, if a bit smarmy sometimes.’ She flushed slightly.
‘Goes with the job,’ said Bonnie, who had listened quietly up to then. ‘Bet you’re not smarmy, are you, Mel?’
‘Can’t seem to manage it,’ laughed the girl.
It had been of some concern to Simmy that Melanie’s outspoken attitude might not fit too well with hotel work. Suffering fools was not her strong point. But she had been astutely accommodated in the less public aspects of the job, as an administrator. Taking bookings, ordering food, making sure the laundry was done and the carpets kept clean – a multitude of tasks that fell well within her capabilities. ‘I don’t have to be. Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I can be perfectly polite when I need to. I was all right here, wasn’t I, Sim? Nobody complained.’
‘You were great,’ Simmy assured her. ‘It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you.’
‘But Bonnie’s okay, right?’
‘Bonnie’s amazing,’ said Simmy with a smile. Bonnie was like a puppy, blooming under approval.
‘That’s good.’ Mel hurried to the street door. ‘I have to go. Pop in and see me when you bring the flowers. Take samples – pictures – give them the hard sell. They can afford it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Simmy. ‘Thank you very much. It’s brilliant of you to organise it.’
‘I know,’ said the girl and disappeared.
‘Wow. That’ll do the finances some good,’ said Bonnie, watching the place where Melanie had been. ‘She’s really something, isn’t she?’
Simmy was looking thoughtfully at the same empty space. ‘That was so kind of her,’ she murmured. She looked at Bonnie, who had been introduced to her by Melanie. ‘I owe her a lot.’
‘She does it instinctively. She likes to bring people together and sort things out.’
‘I’d better follow it up, then.’
‘Don’t you want to?’ Bonnie’s small face, surrounded by a halo of fair hair that was almost white, looked up at her, eyes wide.
‘I do, of course. It’s just such a commitment. It’s going to change all our routines and squeeze other things out. What if we get a funeral and a wedding in one week? And three or four anniversaries? It’ll be bedlam.’
‘I can do loads more than you’ve been letting me. When Ben comes back, he’s going to get Wilf to teach me to drive. That’ll make me more useful.’
‘Isn’t that against the law? Wilf’s not old enough to be an instructor. Besides, I wouldn’t let you use the van. I only let Melanie do it for a couple of weeks, and then cancelled the insurance again. It costs too much to keep up permanently.’
‘Oh. Well, anyway, I can do all sorts of other things.And it’s only for a few months. Once the tourists slow down, the hotel won’t want you any more.’
‘They might. The season never completely stops. And that would be just as difficult, in a way. All that money for three months, and then it just isn’t there. It’ll cause havoc with the books.’
‘Worry about that when it happens,’ said Bonnie, with an air of having said this before, a few too many times.
The hotel was on the outskirts of Hawkshead, barely half a mile to the south. It had been a sixteenth-century manor house, on elevated ground above Esthwaite Water, remaining in the same family for centuries. It had grounds that sloped down to the very edge of the gentle little lake. After a period of decline and neglect it had been sold and gradually transformed into a hotel. The story was only sketchily understood by Simmy, gleaned from brief conversations with Melanie since she started working there. The first attempt at providing accommodation had fallen foul of bad plumbing and a curmudgeonly proprietor. The next people cleaned it up but gained a reputation for poor food and high prices. Finally, the third attempt struck lucky, with a flair for characterful furnishings and inventive promotions. Added value was provided in the quieter seasons in the form of ghost walks, local history talks, writing workshops, painting classes and bridge weekends. It accommodated twenty-five guests, thanks to the conversion of stables and barns. The presence of a chef capable of working miracles with locally caught fish ensured a high level of success. Bookings were healthy for the next several months, according to Melanie. And well deserved it was too, thought Simmy, recalling all the efforts that were being made to capitalise on the building and its beautiful surroundings.
As she approached it, Simmy’s first impression was of a modest building of considerable age, comfortable in its setting. White-painted, two-storey, with a stone wall marking out the extent of its grounds, the sign announcing The Hawkshead Hotel was of unpretentious lettering and size. No mention of weddings, banquets or conferences. A shrubbery on the left and a car park on the right. On a sunny day, it would look lovely. Even under clouds, it was more than attractive. She might enjoy coming here after all, she decided. The contact was a precious one, with a variety of opportunities leading from it, if she could only be clever enough to exploit them.
Inside, the reception desk was angled across one corner of a good-sized hallway. Already, she could see a place for a floral display, a few feet inside the door. Something subtly scented, in warm colours. She paused, peering round a solid-looking door into a lounge with a bay window, where another arrangement of flowers might be positioned to catch the sunlight, when it came. The window faced south-east, she calculated, with a view of the lake. Any flowers should be muted, to avoid distracting attention from the outside vista, but rather bringing echoes of it into the room.
She should make notes, she realised. Ideas were erupting faster than she could register them. Would Dan, the hotel man, want to provide some input as well, or would it all be left to her?
There was nobody on the desk. It was four o’clock in the afternoon – a time when guests might be expected to start to arrive. But perhaps everyone was already in, or had given later times. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of hotel where a girl sat idly waiting twenty-four hours a day just in case she was needed. There were voices not far away; quite loud voices, Simmy noticed. A woman was audibly shrill, a murmur of men joining in.
Simmy decided to investigate. There was a door beside the desk, leading into a short corridor with toilets on one side. Opposite them a staircase led to the upper floors. At the end were three further doors, left, right and straight ahead. The last was standing open and people were to be seen on a paved area just outside it. There were tubs containing lobelia and pansies and other unimaginative things.
‘We have to call the police,’ the shrill woman was saying as Simmy approached.
Chapter Two
Her first instinct was to turn and run. No more police involvement for her, not after the miserable events of a few months earlier and the consequences they had had for her father. How was it possible that she had innocently walked into another scene of crime and mayhem? She stood halfway down the corridor, unnoticed and indecisive.
‘No need for that,’ a man said in a shaky voice. ‘She’s only been gone a few minutes.’
‘But where is she?’ the woman demanded. ‘Where can she have got to?’
‘She can’t have come to any harm,’ the man said. ‘She can’t get down to the lake, and there are no ponds, or roads, or … How old did you say she is? Has she done this before?’
‘Six. And yes, she does have a tendency to run off,’ the woman admitted. ‘But this is a strange place. She’ll get utterly lost.’
Even Simmy, lingering in the background, heaved a sigh of relief. A child of six was hardly going to stumble into a pond or under a passing car. And besides, neither of those hazards existed. A child of six was inquisitive, drawn to explore hidden corners and make dens under laurel bushes. As if her sigh had been a signal, three people turned towards her at the same moment. ‘Who are you?’ the woman asked.
‘Um … I came to see Dan about some flowers,’ she said weakly. ‘I’ve obviously chosen a bad time.’
‘Did you drive down from Hawkshead?’ another man asked. He was young and good-looking and less agitated than any of the others in the group. In addition there were two young women hovering some distance away who Simmy guessed might be Polish or Ukrainian, working as chambermaids. Where was Melanie, she wondered. Melanie would be a welcome addition to this unsettled gathering.
‘Yes, I did. Has something happened?’
‘My little girl’s lost. She was here half an hour ago. I left her on the parterre while I popped up to the room, and when I came back she was gone.’ She threw accusing looks liberally around the members of the hotel staff. ‘And nobody even noticed her.’
‘Well, we should look for her,’ said Simmy briskly. ‘I expect she’s just hiding somewhere – there’s obviously plenty of scope for that. What’s her name?’
‘Gentian.’
Simmy closed her eyes in a moment of fellow feeling for the child. Another botanical name to be endured for a lifetime. Parents could be so cruel, she thought ruefully.
‘There are people searching the grounds,’ said the older man. ‘They’re not very extensive. This isn’t Storrs, you know.’
Simmy shuddered, eliciting puzzled looks. ‘Sorry – you reminded me of something that happened at Storrs last year.’
‘A young man was drowned,’ he nodded irritably. ‘It was stupid of me to mention that place.’ He turned to the woman who was casting her gaze all around like a shepherd searching for a lost lamb. ‘Mrs Appleyard, please don’t worry. Your daughter can’t have gone far. If this lady came along the road just now, we can be sure there’s no chance that the child went off that way.’
‘I would definitely have seen her,’ Simmy confirmed. She tried to think. ‘What was she playing with – when you left her?’
Expecting the answer to involve some electronic gadget, she was foolishly glad to be told, ‘She was making a daisy chain, as it happens. We picked the flowers when we went for a little walk. She’d got the hang of it very nicely.’
‘Which one of you is Dan?’ asked Simmy, thinking that she should go back to Windermere if her purpose was to be thwarted by a hunt for a lost child.
‘None of us. I’m the hotel manager, and this is Jake Bunting, the chef. Dan’s gone to have a look around the annexe buildings. Penny – she’s the receptionist – went with him.’
‘Oh.’
‘We’re not getting anywhere just standing here,’ complained Gentian’s mother. ‘I think we should call the police.’
This is where I came in, thought Simmy. ‘I should get out of your way, then,’ she said, feeling heartless. ‘I don’t think there’s much I can usefully do. I don’t know this place at all.’
The woman reached out and gripped her arm. Her blue eyes stared pleadingly into Simmy’s. She was of a similar age, and similar height. Her hair was mid brown, and her clothes barely smart enough for a mid-range English hotel. ‘You seem so sensible,’ she said. ‘Please don’t go.’
With an effort, Simmy tolerated the appeal without shaking the woman off. I’ve lost a daughter too, she wanted to say. Mine was born dead. You’ve had six years with yours. Think yourself lucky. ‘Let’s go in separate directions and call her, then,’ she suggested.
As if only waiting for a voice of authority, the group dispersed and seconds later voices of all tones and types were shouting ‘Gentian!’ across the grass and gravel of the hotel’s rear. Simmy saw the manager’s face as it dawned on him that other guests would be disturbed in a most undesirable fashion. This, she supposed, was the main reason why so little had been done to instigate a proper search thus far. Hotel managers were likely to be paralysed by any hint of trouble that might reflect badly on their establishment.
His fears were quickly realised. Three more people materialised from the back door, their expressions betraying a readiness to manifest annoyance and complaint at the disruption. There were two men and a woman, the men in their sixties or thereabouts, the woman slightly younger. One of the men was tall, lightly bearded, wearing a yellow straw hat and carrying a newspaper. He showed every sign of having wandered outside in search of fresh Lakeland air, only incidentally finding himself embroiled in a crisis of some sort. The others were clearly a couple, the woman glancing repeatedly at the man with little nervous jerks, as if to check that she retained his approval at every turn. ‘Is there something wrong?’ asked the husband.
‘We’re looking for a little girl,’ said Simmy. ‘She seems to have gone missing.’
Gentian’s mother had vanished towards the shrubbery; the chambermaids were also no longer in sight. The manager was standing on a patch of grass, his head stretched upwards as he scanned his domain with an exaggerated alertness.
‘She’s sure to turn up,’ said the tall man confidently. ‘Always getting into mischief, children. I had some myself.’ He sounded slightly puzzled, as if his own offspring had been mislaid for the past few decades without causing him undue concern.
The child’s name continued to resound, the calling slowly moving further off. Then two more people came down the corridor and all was resolved. ‘Here she is!’ called Simmy, without thinking. How did she know this was the child in question? The answer quickly came to her. Who else would Melanie be holding so firmly by the shoulder, with such a look of triumph? Who else but Melanie, when it came to it, would be the one to find the brat?
Only the manager heard Simmy’s cry. He turned and came trotting back, arms outstretched. ‘Thank heavens!’ he panted. ‘Miss Todd – where did you find her?’
‘She was under the table in the lounge,’ said Melanie, giving the child a little shake. ‘Enjoying all the fuss, the little beast.’
Most of the brownie points that Melanie had just earned for herself fell away at this lack of proper disquiet at all the might-have-beens. The child, by definition, was an innocent little angel, potential victim to the evil that lurked behind every wall and hedge. It could not possibly be a little beast.
But it was. Simmy could see this right away. A sly satisfaction sat on the young face. It was a very prepossessing little person, with thick black hair, dark skin and startlingly blue eyes. Gentian blue, thought Simmy. ‘Your mother’s going frantic,’ she said crossly.
‘I was all right. She always makes such a fuss.’ She glared at Melanie in defiance. ‘And I don’t like it at all.’
‘Why? Do you do this often?’ asked Melanie.
Gentian shrugged. ‘Not really. I just like to be by myself, and she won’t let me.’
Word had been passed across the grounds, and now the little girl’s mother came scrambling along and grabbed her offspring. She was an awkward person, Simmy observed, wearing high-heeled shoes, at odds with the baggy top and cut-off slacks. Nobody would have ever guessed her to be related to the beautiful child clutched to her breast. Perhaps it had been an adoption, Simmy thought idly.
‘I was all right,’ Gentian repeated loudly. ‘Get off me.’
She was dropped like a kitten turned hostile. ‘Oh, darling, don’t be beastly.’
‘I’m not. It’s you. There’s nothing to do here. Why can’t we go on a boat or something? There’s just a lot of old people here.’ She swept the group with a critical eye. ‘Except her. She’s all right.’ She indicated Simmy.
‘I’m not old,’ said Melanie.
‘You don’t count,’ said Simmy with a laugh. ‘She’ll never forgive you for finding her.’
Melanie came from a large family and had no illusions about innocent little angels. She grinned in agreement and changed the subject. ‘You came, then,’ she said. ‘You’d better go and find Dan.’
‘He must be the only person I haven’t met in the past twenty minutes.’ But that wasn’t true at all, she corrected herself. There had to be numerous guests as well as some additional staff she hadn’t yet encountered. The place was full of people – or would be at the end of the day.
‘He said he was going to look for the kid round the stable block, but I think he’s having a quick fag somewhere. He’s as bad as young Gentian, if you ask me – hiding away so’s to get a bit of peace.’ She spoke in a whisper, with a glance at the manager. ‘He’ll get a bollocking from old Bodgett if he’s not careful.’
‘The receptionist went with him, apparently.’
‘What? Penny? Not likely. They loathe each other. She’ll have gone for a fag as well – or whatever her thing is. Wait till you see her.’
The kid was being hauled away by an increasingly irate and embarrassed mother. ‘I was going to call the police,’ she said in a loud hiss.
‘That’s stupid,’ argued Gentian. ‘I was perfectly all right.’
‘Well, if you do it again, I’m going to keep you shut in the room for the rest of the week. Just you see if I don’t.’
‘He’s not really called Bodgett, is he?’ asked Simmy.
The manager had gone back inside, leaving Simmy and Melanie alone under the grey skies. A foolish little drama had come to an end with no harm done. The relief was still reverberating somewhere inside Simmy. She had almost forgotten what she had come for.
‘Boddington-hyphen-Webster, would you believe? What is it with people and their double barrels these days? They all think they’re descended from earls or something.’
‘I know.’ Simmy recalled a recent rant from young Ben Harkness on the subject. Computers, it seemed, disliked long hyphenated surnames, with ticket bookings and online registrations choking on them. ‘It’s all very silly.’
‘Anyway, come with me and we’ll find Dan. He must be around here somewhere. Oh – did you see Jake? He’s the only normal person here. Funny, that. Usually the chef is the most bonkers of them all in a place like this. But he’s all right, is Jake. Never gets in a tizz. Loves his work.’ She sighed.
‘Good-looking, as well,’ Simmy observed.
‘Yeah, and the rest. But he ticks one of the boxes for the stereotype.’ She sighed again. ‘Seems such a waste, though I know I’m not meant to say that. Don’t tell him I said so, but really, it’s very unfair.’
‘What?’ Simmy was still thinking slowly.
‘He’s gay, of course. Wouldn’t you know it? Lives with a chap from Belgium or somewhere, in the village.’
‘Oh.’
‘And here’s the last one in the set. Look at her.’
Simmy looked. A very thin woman was coming towards them, wiping her nose with a tissue and feeling the back of her neck with the other hand. She appeared to be around fifty, with careful make-up and smart clothes that looked rather warm for the season. Her hair was a glossy artificial black, which highlighted the pallor of her skin. Her midsection was actually concave, reminding Simmy of the runner Paula Radcliffe, whose body had always caused her great fascination. How did all those organs and countless yards of intestine fit in there, she wondered.
‘Hi, Penny,’ said Melanie. ‘They found the missing kid.’
‘Right. Where was she?’ The woman’s voice was high and forced. Every move she made appeared to take an almost insuperable effort.
‘In the lounge. Panic over.’
‘Good. Better get back to my post, then.’ She laughed, but Simmy could detect no hint of a joke. ‘Who’s this?’ Penny asked, as an afterthought.
‘Persimmon Brown, the florist,’ Melanie said.
Simmy realised that Melanie was being extremely careful with Penny-the-receptionist. Making no claims for herself, adding no embellishing information, answering questions with the shortest of sentences – all decidedly out of character.
‘Right. Fine.’ Penny glanced at a small sparkly watch. ‘Only another hour to go, thank God.’
They watched her go back into the foyer, and then Melanie led the way along a gravel path towards the annexe, past an arrangement of ornamental trees in large pots on one side, and a row of windows on the other.
‘Is she ill?’ Simmy asked, thinking about Penny.
‘Physically or mentally?’ Melanie laughed. ‘Actually, I think she might have some sort of health issue. She works short days. Lord knows how she ever got this job. She knocks off at four o’clock, and the manager’s wife does evenings and weekends, including Fridays. But I think Penny’s tougher than she looks. And she’s good with the guests, amazingly. Smiles and simpers at the men, sympathises with the women. She’s a great actor. All the staff leave her alone as much as they can.’
‘She’s scary, then?’
Melanie paused. ‘There’s just something about her. Like a time bomb. You get the feeling if you crossed her, she’d explode all over you. Or else drop down dead in front of you. She goes to the gym a lot. It’s obviously killing her.’
Simmy snorted agreement, while thinking there might be rather more to the odd creature she had just met than an addiction to weight training or whatever else people did in a gym.
‘That’s the dining room in there,’ Melanie pointed out, continuing her tour. ‘Then there’s the kitchen, look. It’s all very well organised. Dan lives in. He’s got a couple of rooms round the corner. Bodgett’s in residence as well, of course. They share the old servants’ quarters. He’s the butler and Dan’s the housekeeper. Funny, eh?’
‘It’s a whole little world,’ said Simmy, thinking there was a sort of magic to hotel life. The core of permanent staff on one hand and the constantly shifting procession of guests on the other. ‘I presume there’s a gardener and kitchen hands and waiters as well.’
‘Pretty much. The dining room staff are mostly foreign, same as the cleaners.’
‘And you’re always full, right? Twenty-five people to look after, day and night. Very weird, when you think about it.’
‘Hospitality,’ said Melanie. ‘One of the oldest professions.’
Simmy thought again of her father. ‘I suppose so. If my dad was here, he’d talk about pilgrimages and ancient customs, or Victorian dosshouses with four to a bed.’
Melanie laughed. ‘He would, too. Now come on. I’m meant to be working. Before all this nonsense with the lost kid blew up, I was trying to track down a missing pillowcase. I mean – people steal towels, but you don’t often lose a pillowcase.’
‘Makes a useful extra bag, I suppose.’
‘Right,’ said Melanie inattentively. ‘There’s Dan, look. Now, make sure you give me proper credit for putting you in touch with him. I need to keep on his right side.’ She indicated a figure still too far off to hear what they were saying.
Simmy gave her a surprised look. ‘You sound scared of him, same as you are of Penny.’
‘No, I’m not a bit scared of him. But Dan’s the real power here. Does just what he likes and nobody dares challenge him. It pays to stay on the right side of him.’ Again, she flushed, as she’d done that morning. ‘But he’s perfectly nice.’ It sounded defensive to Simmy.
She watched the man approaching them. He walked with a loose easy gait, unselfconscious and unhurried. Aged about thirty-five, she guessed, with dark colouring. His hair had been cut carefully, to capitalise on its thickness and slight wave. In another age, he might have been mistaken for Clark Gable without the moustache and with an additional three inches of height. ‘He should grow a moustache,’ she murmured to Melanie. ‘Then he’d be perfect.’
Melanie snickered, quickly putting a hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up – he’ll hear you.’
And that, Simmy suspected, would be a very bad thing.
Chapter Three
Men who worked in hotels ought to be handsome, as a general rule. It endeared them to the guests and made complaints less frequent. Dan fitted the bill in a way, but the veneer of insincerity was almost palpable. ‘I’m Persimmon Brown,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I came to talk to you about flowers. I gather Melanie told you about me.’
‘Oh, right. Pleased to meet you. Dan Yates.’ He smiled at a point some inches from her left ear and added, ‘Thank you, Melanie. I think I can take it from here.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ said the girl, using her uncanny skill at conveying insolence, scepticism or plain disapproval in words that nobody could find objectionable.
‘Let’s go to my office, then. Follow me.’ He set off briskly in the direction of the converted stables, Simmy following like a schoolgirl. Power politics of some kind, she judged. She could easily have walked by his side. She had never worked in an environment where such games were played; all she knew of them came from TV sitcoms and stories told by her former husband. She was aware that there were plenty of people in the outside world who enjoyed throwing their weight around, using tricks like this. And yet Melanie had said he was ‘okay’, so she should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was basically insecure or merely amusing himself by toying with her to make life more interesting. Perhaps he had no idea what he was doing and just wanted them to get on as quickly as possible.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘They gave me the tack room.’ He opened the door into a small boxy addition to the main stable block. An earlier door into the horses’ living quarters had apparently been sealed off, and the resulting new wall used for a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves. Simmy looked around, trying to work out the details of the conversion, with a faint idea of describing it all to her father at some point. He took considerable interest in such things.
‘Sit down,’ Dan Yates invited. ‘And tell me what you think of Melanie’s ideas.’
‘Well … I’m not sure how much she’s discussed with you. We should probably start from scratch, to be sure it’s all clear.’
‘Quite right. As it happens, the manager and I had been thinking we needed something decorative, something distinctive, but subtle – to improve the atmosphere. It’s all about perception, you see. We want people to remember us as having just that extra hint of luxury. The food is our main appeal at the moment, and the views.’
‘Right,’ said Simmy. ‘I see.’
‘Yes, but we need another dimension. We’re acutely aware of the history here. There have been serious failures in the past. There’s a fragility, a vulnerability, to the whole industry these days. We want to consolidate what we have, build on it slowly, without making too many mistakes.’
Simmy nodded. So far, she did at least understand the words he used. He hadn’t said ‘iterative’ or ‘quantum’ or ‘logistics’, which was a relief, if only because she might have laughed at the wrong moment if he had.
‘So we would like you to supply enough flowers for displays in the main ground-floor rooms and in the solar upstairs. That would be four positions. We’d like scented blooms, nothing too flamboyant. Perhaps you could share any ideas you have at this point?’
‘Well … I did have a few thoughts about your reception area and the lounge. I haven’t seen the other places. That big bay window in the lounge – an arrangement just to one side of it, with a lot of greens, would have the effect of bringing the view right into the room. For the reception, I thought lilies and foliage in the blue or mauve spectrum, with some scent, as you say. Nothing that would intimidate or distract, but be welcoming, like coming into someone’s house.’
‘Perfect,’ he approved with a wide smile.
Again, Simmy found herself wishing he had a moustache. His upper lip looked weak and naked without one. She liked facial hair, reminding her as it did of a grandfather who had sported a full beard. She had loved to play with it as a child, and ever after associated beards with warmth and humour and manly strength. Her father had taken to going unshaven at times, but never allowed it to develop as nature ordained.
‘Is this just for the summer season?’ she asked.
‘Initially, perhaps. We’ll see how it goes, shall we? We are open all the year round, except for the middle of January. We close for two weeks then and give the whole staff a well-earned holiday. Now, then, we need to discuss money. What do you think?’
She took a breath. Her price lists didn’t extend to such a large and regular commission, and every time during the day that she’d tried to work it out, the answer came out different. ‘Are you thinking two visits a week? Perhaps Mondays and Fridays? I don’t think it could be less than that. Some flowers do fade and droop after three or four days, although there are lots that would last a week if the water was topped up and the temperature wasn’t too hot.’
‘Twice a week is fine.’
‘Well, to cover my travel and time spent here as well as all materials, I would want five hundred pounds a week.’ She waited for the explosion at such an outrageous demand. If they paid that, she would find herself able to afford all sorts of things she’d been depriving herself of.
‘No problem,’ he said, so quickly that she knew she could have gone higher. After all, they charged their guests a hundred and fifty a night. Anyone staying a whole week was already more than paying for the flowers. ‘Now, let’s give you a guided tour.’
Again, he trotted ahead of her, skirting around the side of the main building and in through the front entrance. They paused on the spot where Simmy had already mentally planned her welcoming exhibit, and then progressed to the lounge where a scattering of guests were on sofas drinking tea. Simmy recognised only one of them – the tall man with the straw hat and a rather appealing beard. ‘Afternoon, Mr Ferguson,’ Dan addressed him with a smile. ‘Had a good day?’
The man nodded coolly and turned a page of his newspaper. Dan showed no sign of offence, but returned to his quiet discussion with Simmy. Again a subtle scent was decided upon, with colours in a very discreet and muted palette. The dining room was inspected, and a position next to the sideboard selected as the best place for flowers. These could be more dramatically cheerful, encouraging diners to take a risk with their fish.
The solar was a fabulous upstairs space, full of light and height. ‘Tall spiky things,’ said Simmy. ‘Fanned out in the shape of a rising sun. Oranges and yellows.’ She was transported by the opportunity the job was creating for her. ‘Which I’d vary, of course. It would never be the same two weeks running. But still along that sort of line.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dan Yates. ‘That’s all good, then. Can you start this week?’
‘Friday?’
He pouted teasingly. ‘Is tomorrow too soon, then?’
‘Well, yes, it is, really. I need to order everything, and …’ she stopped, fully aware that if she put the order in that evening the flowers would arrive next morning, with nothing to stop her from coming back and arranging them in the middle of the day. Was it not a deplorable laziness that made her pause? ‘I suppose it would be possible. Will you supply the pots, or should I?’
‘We’ve got a whole lot in a pantry at the back. I’ll show you.’
‘Good.’
‘The thing is, we’ve got people coming on Wednesday, who we’d rather like to impress. Americans. A little bird has whispered that they might be rather useful to us, with reviews and all that. Even if you just did the foyer and the solar, that would be a big help. Then come back on Friday for the full monty.’
They were descending the stairs, emerging into the corridor that Simmy had found nearly an hour earlier. Standing there, waiting for the stairs to be clear, was the couple who had reacted badly to the sounds of the hunt for Gentian. It occurred to Simmy that they might occupy a ground-floor room, perhaps accessed through one of the doors at the end of the corridor? She gave herself a mental shake. Too much contact with Ben Harkness, she chided. Always trying to read clues and make deductions, was Ben. She had hoped the habit wasn’t catching, but apparently it was. There was no imaginable relevance to the location of guest rooms.
‘Hello there,’ said Dan heartily. ‘Mr and Mrs Lillywhite,’ he introduced them to Simmy. ‘This lady is going to be supplying us with flowers,’ he explained.
The woman smiled tightly, and the man merely inclined his head. ‘The lost child is restored then,’ he said. ‘No more panic.’
‘There was never any panic, sir,’ said Dan. ‘But her mother was understandably alarmed. I’m sorry if you found it disturbing.’
‘It was right outside our window,’ the man went on, the rumble of discontent hard to ignore.
‘My apologies,’ repeated Dan. ‘I can assure you it won’t happen again. As a gesture, permit me to offer you a complimentary aperitif before dinner. I’ll give Charles a note now, to be sure it won’t be overlooked.’
Simmy thought that Mr Lillywhite might also benefit from a moustache. He could have bristled it and harumphed at being wrong-footed so effortlessly. As it was, his clean, pink face adopted a gracious expression, and he ushered his compliant wife upstairs ahead of him, to Simmy’s mild surprise. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled. ‘Come along, Rosemary.’
Well done! thought Simmy. All her preconceptions about the need for unwavering sycophancy in the world of hotels had been confirmed. This man had to set aside any thought of his own self-respect, for the greater good of satisfied customers. It was done with dignity, and the slenderest hint that he was, after all, in the right of it. The complaining guest would be left at best with mixed emotions. Free drinkies – hooray! But offered so glibly, so willingly – didn’t that leave a suspicion that he, the guest, was being humoured like a sulky child? The suggestion that his objections had been foolish, excessive, somehow betraying unfortunate origins, would make him uneasy. Especially as, in this case, something about his wife’s chin made the suspicion all the stronger.
Nothing could be further from Simmy’s mother’s plain-speaking to her B&B guests. If they complained, she cross-questioned them as to precisely what they had expected. She might ask them if such a requirement, whatever it might be, had ever in their experience been met. She might even point out that she did her best in the circumstances, but was only human and had never promised a weekend in paradise. The people almost always apologised for their importunate demands.
Dan took her to a gloomy room that must have been the dairy originally. There were slate slabs for keeping milk, butter and cheese cool, a stone floor and very small windows. On a shelf stood at least a dozen assorted containers, from metal buckets to fancy terracotta plant pots with ornate handles. None seemed quite right for the purpose to Simmy. But there were also three large rose bowls with their own pedestals, tucked against the wall. Made of fine-quality china, it seemed odd to find them discarded so carelessly. ‘What are they doing here?’ she asked.
‘The manager had them taken out of harm’s way, a while ago now. He was worried that guests’ children might knock them over. Plus he thought they looked wrong with no flowers in them. And until now, we haven’t found anyone capable of filling them regularly.’ He smiled at her, showing perfect white teeth.
‘Can we risk using them, then?’
‘If you think they’ll do.’
‘They’ll be fine. But there’s only three. What else can we use?’ She scanned the room, assessing the options. ‘That’s interesting.’ She went to a large black vase, tall and narrow, with a gold-etched design down the front that looked like Chinese lettering. ‘It would be good in the lounge.’
‘Isn’t it a bit low?’
‘We’d have to find something to stand it on. Any little table will do.’
‘Okay. Shall we take them in now? Or what?’
She hesitated, wondering how best to organise things. ‘If I can take the black one back with me, I can have at least one display ready in advance. The bowls can stay here until tomorrow, and I’ll do the arrangements in situ.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She had the impression that he was tiring of the whole subject of flowers, and eager to see her off. He must have things to do, she realised. The end of the afternoon would see people returning from their day out, dinner to be prepared, plans to be made.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Thank you for spending so much time on this. I won’t let you down.’
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he said. ‘I have complete faith in you.’
She parted from Dan Yates thinking it would be interesting to get to know him over the summer. Not only him, but also the rest of the staff. And it would be a bonus to see Melanie more often. With a light step, she returned to her car, and navigated the twisting route back to Windermere. Bonnie would have gone home and locked the street door of the shop, but there were all those flowers to be ordered, and some tidying to do. She was busy, she realised. Very busy.
But there might also be time to more thoroughly explore Hawkshead itself. The fact that very few cars were permitted in the centre of the village had deterred her from ever going there other than to deliver flowers from time to time. Now she might find an hour or so to walk there from the hotel, and even have a drink in one of the cafés. Fridays might be organised accordingly. Arrive at the hotel mid afternoon, and award herself a nice summer evening in the fells of Furness, or the edge of Esthwaite. If she had somebody to go with her, it would be all the nicer, of course – but that was unlikely.
It all meant change, anyway, and that was a good thing. Her gratitude towards Melanie burgeoned as she realised just what a big thing the girl had done for her. There was, after all, a florist in Coniston and several in Ambleside, any of which might have got the commission instead of her. She would have to do a good job, if only to justify Mel’s recommendation.
Back in the shop she spent twenty minutes ordering a careful selection of flowers, making sketches of the displays she intended to install at the hotel. Ideas thronged her mind, subtle touches that would enhance the impression she hoped to make. The additional work on Friday was even more exciting and she jotted notes for the solar and dining room as well. Only then did she remember that Melanie had said there might be another site upstairs where flowers could be needed. Dan hadn’t mentioned it, but it set her to wondering whether there actually was a large meeting room up there. All the winter events offered by the hotel must need something of the sort. She remembered her curiosity about the Lillywhites’ reason for going upstairs. Perhaps they’d rented the room for some purpose?
It was sheer greed, she accused herself, wanting to provide yet more flowers. The work would be onerous as it was, and anything more would have to be renegotiated payment-wise. But the more she thought of the lovely old building and all the hidden areas she hadn’t seen, the more she wanted to discover. Apart from her own fascination with it, she wanted to be able to describe it to her father and play their favourite game of imagining how things must have been centuries ago.
The original owners were very probably a large Victorian family with servants and regular social events. Dancing in the current dining room; conversing in the lounge; eating in a darker area to the rear, close to the kitchens. There would be eight or nine bedrooms on the upper two storeys, with dressing rooms and large closets now transformed into bathrooms. Alterations would have been considerable. Walls would have to be moved, staircases enlarged or even added. There had to be a lift somewhere. In a combination of preservation and modern vandalism, the building’s new incarnation would be unrecognisable to those long-age residents. She looked forward to gradually finding out more, during her regular summer visits.
She had to accept that four large displays was plenty. As she listed her requirements for the wholesaler, she discovered that her five hundred pounds would not yield as big a profit as she’d thought. What a fool, she reproached herself. She should have done detailed costings, instead of plucking a figure out of the air as she had. There would in effect be eight lots of flowers to be specially purchased every week – although some might be carried over from one visit to the next. She would have to be very clever with design and colour, using cheaper blossoms to maximum effect, if she were to benefit as originally hoped.
