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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
Simmy Brown had hoped that her autumn would be less frantic than usual to give her a chance to enjoy her pregnancy, her upcoming nuptials, and some time looking for a new house in the Patterdale area of the Lake District. But it is not to be . When one of the lodgers at her parents' Bed & Breakfast dies in her arms after seemingly being poisoned, she becomes embroiled in a complex investigation, headed up by her friend D I Moxon. It is clear the victim had some connection to a controversial new building project near Patterdale and Simmy's ideas of a quiet run up to Christmas are cruelly dashed.
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The Patterdale Plot
REBECCA TOPE
5
Dedicated to the memories of Lizzie Earl and Hilton Hughes
6
Author’s Note
As with other titles in this series, the settings are real places. There is a Hartsop and a Crookabeck, and a Kendal Road in Bowness. But the actual houses and the characters in the story are products of my imagination. 8
Contents
Chapter One
‘Still nothing for sale in Patterdale, then?’ said Russell Straw to his daughter, Persimmon, generally known as Simmy. ‘I told you it would never work.’
‘You did,’ she agreed. ‘But we haven’t given up hope yet.’
‘The way I see it, there’s a deadline.’ He looked at her steadily expanding midriff. ‘Another four months or so, in fact.’
‘Five, nearly.’
‘Except you hardly want to be moving house a week before giving birth, do you?’ put in Angie, Simmy’s mother. ‘That’s a recipe for total chaos.’
Simmy sighed. They were only thinking of her welfare, she reminded herself. And they were just as terrified as she was, below the surface. The quest for a house somewhere within reach of both Keswick and Windermere had been going on since June and was no closer to fulfilment now that they were into October. Simmy and Christopher were going to live together and have a baby and get married, 10probably in that order. The decisions had all been made four months ago, but putting them into practice turned out to be a whole other thing.
‘We’re going to have a look at Hartsop as well, probably on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘Somebody told Christopher it’s lovely there and neither of us has ever seen it.’
‘Oh – Hartsop!’ Russell was suddenly enthused. ‘On the banks of Brothers Water, very nearly. Easy walking distance from Hayeswater, which everyone confuses with Hawes.’ He grinned happily. ‘That would be like living in paradise, at least in the summer.’
‘I didn’t think there were more than about four houses there,’ said Angie. ‘Just those rather nasty holiday lodges. At least they look nasty on the Internet. I can’t pretend to have seen them in person.’
‘Christopher thinks they’re quite tasteful, actually,’ said Simmy. ‘He says he’s heard that they’re almost invisible from most places.’ But she knew there was almost no chance of buying property in what was termed a ‘conservation village’. If Patterdale was difficult, Hartsop was likely to be impossible. She said as much to her concerned parents. Neither of them gave any reassurances, so she dredged some up for herself. ‘At least it helps that Chris knows some of the estate agents personally. We do get early warning of anything coming onto the market. Especially Robin, of course. He’s the one in Keswick who’s making real efforts to find us something.’
Angie got up from the kitchen chair and started tidying the surfaces. ‘Seven for breakfast tomorrow,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got an awful feeling we’re almost out of tea bags.’ 11
‘They look like coffee drinkers to me,’ said her husband. ‘I can always tell.’
‘You mean you’re right fifty per cent of the time – like predicting the sex of a baby,’ Angie retorted. ‘You always conveniently forget the times you get it wrong.’
He ignored her. ‘You shouldn’t forget Glenridding,’ he told Simmy. ‘Nicer views, in my opinion. Right over Ullswater to the mountains.’
Simmy nodded. ‘We’ve been looking there as well.’
The weekend had been scheduled for some time as a chance for updating her parents on the house-hunting, as well as other things. The Windermere flower shop had enjoyed a reasonably good summer, with September especially buoyant. Bonnie Lawson, Simmy’s young assistant, had survived the departure of her boyfriend to university without trailing devotedly after him as many people had expected. Ben had gently diverted her, saying he would be very poor company at least for the first term and she would be better off staying where she was. With Simmy’s dramatic change of direction, Bonnie believed herself to be a stabilising factor, taking more responsibility at the shop and listening to worries. She also found the physical details of pregnancy endlessly fascinating, so long as they didn’t become too graphic.
‘How are your bookings at the moment?’ Simmy asked her mother. The B&B had been in high demand all through the summer, but an embarrassing complaint on TripAdvisor had caused a degree of concern. Angie made a virtue of her relaxed approach to rules and cleanliness, allowing dogs in the bedrooms and crumbs on the floor. The big rumpus room on the ground floor was an untidy 12space for families to enjoy on rainy days, with half-done jigsaws and muddy shoes all part of the decor. When one neurotic mother found a half-eaten meat pie under a chair, she raised a great fuss and vowed to blacklist Beck View in perpetuity. Luckily for Angie, there was still a hard core of loyal clients who valued the freedom she provided, and returned faithfully, often three or four times a year.
‘The writing’s on the wall,’ she sighed. ‘I haven’t had so many new people lately. And I can’t afford to offend anybody else, so the cleaning’s had to go up a notch.’
Angie was in her mid sixties, and Russell’s seventieth birthday was looming. Having had one or two health scares over the past year, he was much less reliable than he had been as host, bedmaker, cook or cleaner. Angie found herself doing it all, with sporadic help from her daughter. The three available bedrooms meant a full house could total eight with children and nine or ten if there were babies. And a lot of people brought their dogs as well. Anyone could see that such a workload would crush even the stalwart Angie Straw before very much longer.
‘You could pay someone to come in and clean,’ said Simmy, for the fiftieth time.
Angie made no attempt to present the same tired arguments against this idea. The essence of her resistance was that she feared the critical judgement of another woman. A paid cleaner would want to make changes and introduce new rules. Simmy could see that the whole enterprise would be spoilt if that happened. Angie would grow defensive and irritable, and there would be no fun left at all. 13
Russell changed the subject with a touch of his old sensitivity. ‘Time for a walk?’ he suggested. ‘The dog hasn’t been anywhere for a while. We’ve got an hour or so before lunch.’
The dog was a long-suffering Lakeland terrier, who tolerated the procession of visiting canines with gritted teeth. He was quite well aware that his own life was unfairly restricted by Angie’s liberal standards, with much of it spent shut in the kitchen to avoid confrontation. He was firmly Russell’s responsibility, with the result that he showed little affection towards either Angie or Simmy.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Simmy asked, with a questioning glance at her mother.
‘I can’t go anywhere, can I? The meal isn’t going to cook itself. You two can pop down to Bowness and back, if you like. But be sure you’re here for one. That gives you time, doesn’t it?’
Beck View was on the southern edge of Windermere, shortly before it morphed into Bowness. A ten-minute walk took you within sight of the lake, and in another ten minutes you could be on the Esplanade, feeding swans and watching the cruise boats coming and going. Even in October, business was brisk, despite the disappearance of school-age children. The day was breezy but fairly mild.
‘We can maybe have a quick aperitif on the way back,’ said Russell, with a twinkle in his eye.
‘All right for some,’ grumbled Angie, but Simmy could see she was relieved to have the house to herself for a while.
Her father’s legs were as functional as ever, after half a lifetime spent tramping the fells of the Lake District, 14and he set a brisk pace down to the lakeside. ‘Hang on,’ complained Simmy. ‘You’re going too fast.’
‘The dog doesn’t feel he’s had a walk if he can’t go at a trot. He really needs to be up your way, where he can run free.’ Simmy lived in Troutbeck, where there were fells just outside her door. From Windermere there were few suitable walks where a dog could be safely liberated.
‘You’re welcome any time,’ she said.
‘Until you move, that is,’ he reminded her.
‘Will you mind? You hardly ever do come up to me these days, do you? We had that big walk, ages ago, when there was that dog business, but we never did it again. And now …’ She trailed off, thinking that pregnancy, motherhood, commuting and marriage would all curtail her time with her parents, and that this would be a deprivation more for Russell than for Angie.
‘I like Patterdale,’ he reassured her. ‘And Ullswater has always been my favourite of all the meres.’
They reached a point from which the lake could be seen between buildings. ‘The cruise boat’s looking nice,’ said Russell. ‘I always think of postcards when I see it. Must have picked up the Bowness contingent not many minutes ago.’
Simmy had never taken one of the tourist trips around the lake, considering herself too much of a permanent resident for such a thing. She had, however, allowed herself to be ferried across once or twice, with her car. ‘Oh, look!’ She was pointing to a group of people causing an obstruction on the pedestrianised area beside Lake Windermere. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘Protest of some sort,’ he observed cheerfully. ‘It’s a wonder your mother isn’t part of it.’ But they both knew 15that Angie’s demonstrating days were long past. She hadn’t been on a march since 2003.
‘Not another zipwire?’ She was trying to read the placards, but they were still too far away. The Friends of the Lake District, or some similar organisation, had gone overboard in repelling an attempt to erect a very long zipwire through Grizedale Forest. A year or two previously, the plan had come close enough to success to worry all concerned locals that it would come back in a modified form and be waved through on the second attempt.
‘Looks like another tourist village,’ said Russell, squinting at the slogans. ‘That one says “Enough is Enough”. Very informative. And there’s “Nothing’s More Precious than Our Landscape”. Bit wordy, don’t you think?’
‘Your eyesight’s better than mine,’ she noted ruefully.
‘Oh, I like that one. “Keep Tourism in Proportion”. That’s almost clever. I mean – there’s a logic in there somewhere. If you let too many millions come, they’ll just ruin it for themselves and everybody else. Like wind farms,’ he finished obscurely.
‘Mm,’ mumbled Simmy, heading across the road. ‘I can see someone I know.’
‘So can I. Three, in fact, at the last count.’ He followed her to the lakeside and accosted a man in a bright-green zipped-up anorak. ‘Tristan! What brings you out onto the campaign trail?’
‘Russell. Good to see you. I’m not campaigning, exactly. It’s this business at Patterdale that’s got us agitated. Another whacking great chalet park, would you believe? Here, have a leaflet.’ He thrust a sheet of A5 into Russell’s hand. 16
‘Impossible. Where would they put it? Don’t they know the place floods almost every year, so they can’t be thinking of that level area between the road and the fells?’ Russell’s knowledge of the entire Lake District was legendary. ‘And anywhere else is far too steep and rocky to be practical.’
‘That’s not true at all, I’m afraid. Read the leaflet.’
Russell stood obediently scanning the page, while the other man chatted to him. Simmy turned away, watching the people and wondering how much any of them really cared if a new chalet park appeared in remote little Patterdale. ‘Can’t see much wrong with it, personally,’ said Russell.
‘You should,’ his friend informed him. ‘There’s dirty work afoot, you see if there isn’t.’
‘And he should know,’ Russell muttered to Simmy, a minute later. ‘Finger in every pie, has old Tristan.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Leading light in the Lib Dems for a while. Now he’s something environmental. Or do I mean ecological? He grows things in a glasshouse. He’s started talking about removing all the sheep from the fells, so the trees can grow back. I think he calls himself a consultant, which we all know means nothing in the real world.’
‘Sounds as if he’s one of the good guys, all the same.’ Simmy rather fancied the idea of forest-covered hilltops.
‘That’s what he’d like you to think,’ said her father darkly.
They each had a leaflet, printed on both sides, with a map, and a quote from Caroline Lucas. The point was made that there were empty slopes on the western side of Patterdale that were apparently vulnerable to 17development unless strenuously protected. The threatened proposal was for a ‘modest’ two-acre site, with ten small chalets specifically designed for ‘low-tech’ tourist use. The protesters made their sarcasm unambiguous by repeating the words ‘modest’ and ‘low-tech’ in a second paragraph, with acid commentary. Simmy read it with a sinking heart. While she did not agree that the ‘lodges’ made of timber and discreetly positioned were particularly intrusive, it did seem a pity to keep on adding more of them to the landscape. Her own home village of Troutbeck, above Ambleside, was host to a very large number of the things, which had become grudgingly accepted by local people, over a period of time. The visitors brought cash with them, after all. But nobody pretended that the park in any way enhanced the landscape.
Another of the people Russell had recognised came up to them. ‘Coming to join us?’ she asked him with an air of challenge. Simmy watched her, noting the wispy hair and unhealthy skin. The woman was somewhere in her mid fifties, thin and tired-looking. Probably very hard-working, Simmy thought charitably.
‘Candy,’ Russell greeted her, with far less bonhomie than he had shown Tristan. ‘This is my daughter, Persimmon. You might have seen her in her shop. Simmy, this is Candy Proctor. She’s got a B&B two doors along from us.’
‘Answer the question,’ the woman insisted, having barely glanced at Simmy. ‘Can we count on your support?’
‘Let me think about it,’ he said evasively. ‘We’ve got to get back now. Angie’s doing a Sunday roast.’
‘Still eating meat, then?’ 18
The voice came from behind Simmy’s right shoulder, soft and unthreatening. She turned and smiled. ‘Ninian! I saw you just now. Yes, I still eat meat. My mother would disown me otherwise. How are you? It’s ages since I saw you.’
He bowed vaguely, his gaze on her rounded shape. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
She laughed. ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ Ninian and she had been in a relationship not so long ago, which had petered out with no recriminations. Ninian Tripp the potter lacked the energy for recriminations.
‘Not in so many words. I assumed it was on the cards, that’s all. Please accept my congratulations. And I forgive you for eating our fellow creatures, under the circumstances.’
‘Thank you. You’re not part of this protest, are you? Just about everybody we know seems to be here.’
He shuddered melodramatically. ‘Perish the thought! Although I admire their spirit. They’ve been at this since before eleven this morning. I saw them when I came down into town earlier on. They’ve got right completely on their side, but they’ll lose, of course. What’s another handful of tasteful little chalets, more or less, in the great scheme of things? That’s what the planners will say, mark my words.’
Russell and his near-neighbour were arguing in a desultory fashion, without any real conviction on his part, and an air of weariness on hers. The dog stood patiently at Russell’s heel, well accustomed to such slow perambulations, where its master repeatedly paused to converse. Eventually, her father reached out a hand to Simmy. ‘Come on. We’re going 19to be late,’ he urged, as if the delay had been all her doing.
Candy Proctor raised her chin and addressed Ninian. ‘I heard what you said just now,’ she accused. ‘And I’ll have you know we will not be beaten. The whole population of Patterdale is with us.’
‘All twenty-seven of them,’ muttered Russell, as they walked away.
‘It’s more than that,’ Simmy corrected him. ‘But what I don’t understand is why are they protesting in Bowness? Patterdale’s nearly fifteen miles from here.’
‘And that’s a very good question,’ said her father.
Chapter Two
They had got as far as the Baddeley clock tower when yet more familiar faces came into view. ‘Uh-oh,’ said Russell softly. ‘Here’s the people from the back room.’
‘What?’
But it was too late for elaboration. ‘Well, hello!’ crowed the family patriarch, putting a restraining hand on his wife’s shoulder. Their seven-year-old son kept walking until called back. ‘Look who it isn’t – mine host, Mr Straw. Taking a constitutional, is it?’
‘Mr …’ said Russell weakly. ‘This is my daughter.’
It gave Simmy a pang to realise he had forgotten the man’s name. Less than two years ago, that would never have happened. She sighed and tried to form a polite smile for the little family. Meeting guests in the street was a horror for both her parents. Once the house had emptied for the day, they both liked to pretend that their lives were their own until the people began to trail back in the late afternoon. Such encounters as this risked more 21interaction, questions, observations and even complaints than they felt were reasonable.
But it seemed they were to be spared. ‘Sorry, can’t stop,’ said the man. ‘Lunch down in the fleshpots of Bowness, and then up on the fells. We’ll be back around five, I should think.’
‘Lovely,’ said Russell, and pushed on up the hill to Beck View.
‘Shouldn’t that boy be at school?’ Simmy wondered. ‘How long are they staying?’
‘Most of the week, I think. They’re not bothered about the lad missing school as far as I can tell.’
When Angie asked after their walk, they regaled her with a list of people encountered. ‘A mad social whirl, in fact,’ Russell summarised. ‘And there was that ginger-haired chap from Ambleside as well, holding a placard. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him.’
‘What ginger-haired chap?’ Angie waited impatiently for enlightenment.
‘You know. Great mane of orange down his back and wears bright pink shirts. Looks like something from a 1970s sci-fi film.’
‘You mean Stuart Carstairs,’ said Angie. ‘You can’t have forgotten his name.’
‘I hardly know the man. He’s more your friend than mine. Anyway, he’s objecting to holiday chalets near Patterdale, along with the rest of them, for some reason.’
‘He forgot the name of your people in the back room, as well,’ said Simmy treacherously. ‘We saw them just now.’ 22
Angie merely nodded, and Simmy realised how tired her mother was, just as poor Candy Proctor had been. It was a weariness that came to all B&B proprietors after a hectic summer, and which was compounded, in Angie’s case, by a sense that the valiant struggle to keep going was inexorably heading for failure.
‘Are you going to be full all week?’ Simmy asked.
‘The man in the little room is staying until Friday. The Watsons in the front, with the little boy, are here till Wednesday. They’re nice. They’ve been before. The ones with the seven-year-old are called Tomkin. They’ve got three more nights as well.’
‘I think you should close down right through November and give yourselves a proper rest. I know I keep saying it, but you’ll never get through the winter if you don’t recharge your batteries while you get the chance.’
‘Easier said than done,’ argued Angie.
‘Much easier,’ confirmed Russell. ‘Although if we took a break we could go to Patterdale every day and sabotage the new buildings. We could do all sorts of things if we didn’t have all these beds to make.’
‘At least you’re not insisting we go on a cruise.’
‘I know better than that.’ He twinkled at Simmy, with a flash of his old mischief, but far from reassuring her, this reminder of former times only depressed her further. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would make quips, puns, wry observations and criticisms of contemporary lack of grammar, several times an hour. Now the quips were feeble and infrequent, and even his impatience with poor English was blunted.
Lunch was a roast chicken, which was consumed with 23a slightly forced relish. It seemed to them all that every viable topic of conversation had been covered during the morning. So rather than endure an awkward silence, Simmy enquired further about the current guests. ‘Who’s the man in the small room? Is he a walker?’
‘Probably.’ Angie was clearly not very interested. ‘I’ve hardly seen him, to be honest. He went out early this morning, without breakfast. I think he might have come back while you two were out, but it could have been somebody leaving that flyer about pizza delivery. I actually don’t know whether he’s in or not. Without the dog to alert me, I don’t always hear the door. It would be odd for him to be here in the middle of the day, but I can’t forbid it. He’s got a laptop with him, so maybe he’s a writer or something. The good news is that he asked me not to clean his room today.’
‘Maybe he was being thoughtful, given that it’s a Sunday,’ Simmy suggested.
‘Possibly. More likely he just wants the room to himself.’
‘Unusual not to want breakfast, as well. Isn’t that the whole point of a B&B?’
‘Not these days. Do you know – we had four different vegans last month?’ Angie took veganism as a personal insult, since she made a feature of her local sausages and eggs, and insisted on using butter and full-cream milk unless actively prevented.
‘Yes, you said,’ Simmy nodded. ‘Sign of the times.’
‘Anyway, we do only about half as many full Englishes now. Quite a few go without completely. I always expect them to ask for a discount, but hardly anybody ever does.’ 24
‘I should hope not.’
‘I think I would. I mean – most hotels charge extra for breakfast. It’s usually quite a lot, as well.’
‘Ten quid,’ said Russell, clearly proud of his knowledge. ‘Each.’
There followed another silence, while the food was finished, and plates cleared away. Then Russell spoke again. ‘So we don’t know for sure whether or not he’s up there now. That’s unsettling. I do like to know exactly who’s in the house.’
Angie had to think hard. ‘I think the stairs squeaked. It was about half an hour after you two went out. Didn’t you meet him in the street? Wherever he went was on foot, because his car hasn’t moved.’
Russell frowned. ‘I doubt if I’d recognise him. I barely saw him when he arrived.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I really don’t like not knowing if he’s in or out.’
Wife and daughter both gave him looks that said Now he’s really losing it. ‘Well, if we haven’t found out for sure by the time it gets dark, I’ll go and tap at the door,’ said Angie. ‘There’s no law that says he has to go out, after all.’
‘It does seem rather odd, though,’ said Simmy, experiencing a very faint flicker of alarm. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’
‘Looked perfectly fit yesterday. Forget about him. It really doesn’t matter where he is. Who else did you see in Bowness?’
‘A few vaguely familiar faces, from the shop,’ said Simmy. ‘It was a lot busier than I thought it would be. The weather’s mild, of course. That must be it.’
‘Isn’t it nice to think,’ Angie burst out, ‘that just as the winter’s ending, we’ll have the baby. Spring babies are special, somehow.’ 25
It was brave of her, Simmy had to admit. The many minefields had been trodden a few times already – the date, the first scan, the countless uncertainties – but they never got safer. ‘Edith was a spring baby,’ she said firmly. ‘Pity I didn’t keep the maternity clothes. They’d be just the right thickness for this time as well.’
‘This one won’t come on the same date,’ said Russell with unwarranted confidence. ‘You’d have to be ten days late.’
‘Yes, I know, Dad,’ said Simmy. Discussing the strange behaviour of the man in the little upstairs room would have been a lot easier than this. Almost anything would have been – which impelled her to return to the subject. ‘He can’t still be in his room, can he? He’ll be hungry.’
‘I told you he had a laptop with him. Maybe he’s writing a book,’ said Angie again. Neither parent seemed the least bit worried about their guest, so Simmy did her best to suppress the flickering concern she was feeling.
‘What did you say Christopher was doing?’ Russell asked. ‘It would have been nice to have him join us.’
‘He’s covering for Josephine. She’s got shingles, and the results of yesterday’s sale haven’t been logged on the website. He’s in the office for most of the day.’ The language and procedures of the auction house had gradually become familiar to Simmy. ‘There’s a backlog of queries to deal with, as well. Everything’s got to be cleared by Wednesday, when stuff starts coming in for the next sale. It’s relentless, and they can’t let it fall behind.’
‘I see,’ nodded Russell, slowly absorbing the information. ‘But he’s happy in his work, is he?’
‘Oh yes. He’s found his vocation well and truly. He gets really excited – and he’s learning such a lot.’ 26
‘Lucrative, too,’ said Angie. ‘Or so I understand.’
‘It’s amazing what people will pay,’ Simmy agreed. ‘With all the talk of decluttering and peak stuff, there’s still an insatiable appetite for it all. A box of old postcards can go for eighty pounds, easily. And anything Chinese. They bid online from China and pay fortunes. The commission’s amazing sometimes.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Russell, with a flash of anger. ‘Charging the vendor and the buyer is scandalous.’
‘I think it’s a stroke of genius,’ said Angie.
Russell was adamant. ‘It’s daylight robbery. I couldn’t believe it when I first realised.’
‘They’ve got to live,’ said Simmy calmly. ‘And nobody seems to object.’ She had come to terms with the occasional greyness of auction ethics, and its consequences for Christopher. There were times when he had to compromise with standards of absolute probity, in order to protect the business and keep the right people happy. He had assured her that deviations were minor and infrequent, and little more than normal imperfect business life.
‘Well, at least it means you can afford a decent house on the banks of Ullswater,’ smiled Russell, suddenly relenting. ‘That’s my girl.’
‘That’s all very well—’ Simmy began, when a strange unearthly voice coming from the floor above interrupted her.
‘Help!’ it screeched. ‘Somebody help me!’ And then there was a series of thumps followed by an even more unearthly silence.
Chapter Three
Angie was first on the scene by a wide margin. Russell had to disentangle himself from his dog, and then pause to ask himself just what was afoot. Simmy was doing nothing in a hurry, permanently aware of the precious little life inside her, which must not be jeopardised by falls or shocks or careless moments.
‘Good God!’ they heard from the top of the stairs.
They joined Angie to find her kneeling beside the prostrate body of a man, who had froth coming out of his mouth and nose, and was curled up in evident agony. ‘Poison!’ he gasped. ‘They’ve poisoned me.’ His body spasmed, the knees pulling up to the chest, hands opening and closing. Through a clenched jaw, he uttered one final word: ‘Why?’
‘Great Scott, woman, what have we been feeding him?’ said Russell. ‘He looks as if he’s just taken strychnine.’
‘Call an ambulance,’ Angie ordered. ‘He’ll die otherwise.’ She bent over the man, her whole body taut with strain. 28Simmy watched her as she reached out a hand and took hold of the man’s shoulder in an effort to calm him. His eyes flickered and his teeth clattered.
Russell skittered obediently down the stairs, while Simmy held tightly to the bannisters and tried to subdue a rising hysteria. Long seconds passed. The man had rolled over, despite Angie’s efforts to restrain him, and his face was in shadow, but his fists were visible, tightly clenched and pressed into his middle. As she watched, the hands relaxed and flopped away, the acute tension throughout the body softened, and the head lolled sideways, to face her. ‘Mum,’ she faltered. ‘I think …’
‘Too late for the ambulance,’ Angie confirmed, her own body loosening as well. Simmy’s thoughts ran wildly from one black joke to the next. At least we won’t have to perform mouth-to-mouth was one. And What are we going to tell the ambulance people? And Won’t Ben and Bonnie love this one!
‘Poor man,’ she said aloud. ‘He must have been lying in bed all day feeling awful, and left it until now to call for help.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Angie looked up. ‘I’m sure he went out earlier this morning, and I was obviously right that I heard him come in again. And this doesn’t look like something that’s built up gradually to me. Didn’t you hear what he said?’
To Simmy’s certain knowledge her mother had never witnessed a death before. She had seen a few bodies lying tidily in their coffins, but she hadn’t seen the stark brutality of the transition from animation to wholesale inertia, in a single irreversible second. Simmy herself had seen a man 29shot in the street, and had been confronted by an untidy body or two in recent years. But nothing like this. ‘He looks ghastly,’ she murmured. ‘What’s that froth?’
‘Lung damage, I would guess. Your detective friend is going to be up to his eyes, if I’m right in what I’m thinking.’
‘What?’ Simmy stared at this calm woman who seemed to have leapt many miles ahead already. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Your father said strychnine. He might not be very far wrong. It has to be poisoning – that’s for sure. Even if he hadn’t said what he did, it would be pretty obvious.’ She looked around, as if wary of being overheard. ‘Here on my landing, damn it. This is going to finish us – you see if it doesn’t.’
‘For heaven’s sake! You’re rushing ahead much too fast. If it is poison, he must have taken it by himself, as a deliberate act. That makes it suicide. I can’t see any need for Moxon to be involved. We needn’t repeat what he said, especially as he can’t have really meant it.’
‘Don’t be so stupid. Didn’t you hear what he said?’ demanded Angie. ‘His very last word was “Why?”. Nobody who’d decided to kill himself would ask that, would he? It’s probably the absolutely most unlikely thing a suicide would say. And he clearly accused somebody of poisoning him. There’s no chance that he did it himself. Any fool can see that.’
Simmy stuck doggedly to her point. ‘He could just have been confused. Delirious.’
‘Russell!’ Angie called down the stairs, ignoring her foolish daughter. ‘Is that ambulance on its way yet?’
There was no reply, and Simmy realised her father 30was still on the phone. ‘Shush,’ she told her mother. ‘He’s talking to them.’
There was a sound from the man on the floor, as if he was heaving a long sigh. ‘Hey, Mum – he’s still alive!’ Simmy was aghast. They had been far too quick to write him off, failing to administer first aid of some sort. ‘What should we do?’
Angie leant over the body. ‘I don’t think he is,’ she said. ‘He’s not breathing, look.’
‘Can you feel a pulse? In his neck – that’s what they do, isn’t it? This is terrible. We’re being totally pathetic, just letting him die without even trying to help him.’
Angie laid a tentative finger against the side of the man’s neck. Simmy instinctively felt the same area of her own body, trying to establish the correct spot. ‘I can’t feel my own pulse,’ she said, after a few seconds. ‘What about his wrist?’
‘There’s nothing. That sigh was just an escape of air. I remember we had a dog die on us, when I was young. That did the same thing.’
Then Russell was beside them, looking from face to face in wonderment. ‘Did he die?’
‘Before you started calling 999, probably,’ said his wife. ‘He just went limp and stopped breathing.’
‘Poor man,’ he said, just as Simmy had done. ‘What a thing!’
‘How long will the ambulance be?’ asked Angie.
‘I don’t know. They’re not terribly busy. Ten minutes or so, I think. It’s all very strange. Nobody poisons anybody these days. It’s the stuff of the 1930s. Not like this, anyway. Could have done it to himself, of course, but you’d expect 31something nice and gentle like codeine – this looked alarmingly painful.’
‘Stop it, Dad,’ begged Simmy. ‘You’re making me feel ill.’
Russell grimaced. ‘Distraction strategy,’ he muttered.
‘More like the exact opposite,’ Angie accused him. ‘Why don’t you two go downstairs and leave it to me? You’ll have to let the ambulance people in, and tell them we need the police.’
Simmy was more than happy to follow this suggestion, but her legs evidently had other ideas. She had been kneeling a foot or two away from the body, and standing up proved beyond her. ‘Help me up,’ she ordered her father.
Awkwardly, he pulled her to her feet. They were on a good-sized landing, with doors on two sides, and the open stairway at the end. The dead man’s room was the closest, its door standing open. Glancing in, it seemed that there was considerable mess in there. ‘He’s been throwing things about,’ she observed. ‘That must have been the thumps we heard.’
‘Isn’t that what happens when people eat poisonous mushrooms?’ Angie spoke distractedly, her eyes focused on empty space.
Simmy stood still, breathing heavily. The sheer horror of the situation swept over her. ‘Mum …’ she faltered. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Me? Of course I will. What do you mean?’
‘This is just so horrible. Look at him! What was his name? Where did he live? Why …?’ The unfinished question seemed to cover just about everything that had taken place.
‘Hush, girl. Time enough for all that when the police show 32up. This isn’t your problem. Let me and your father handle it.’
Somehow she got downstairs and into the kitchen. Russell was soon summoned to the front door, and there were voices, heavy footsteps, and short, ominous silences. Simmy sat at the cluttered table, reliving the last half-hour, struggling to make sense of it. The man himself had claimed to have been poisoned – but wasn’t that just something anybody might say, if suddenly taken ill? There were surely some medical conditions that could explain what had happened. What about an aortic aneurysm? Or a burst ulcer? Internal bleeding, peritonitis, sepsis – the terms flittered around her head, with little underlying knowledge to confirm their relevance. Her ignorance made it easier to cling to the notion that it had been a natural death, with no sinister implications.
The doorbell rang again, and she waited to hear whether Russell would come down to answer it. He didn’t, so she got up and went to do it herself.
The familiar face on the doorstep gave rise to a slew of emotions. Disappointment, reassurance, admiration for his promptness, and a sense of warm friendship. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Where is he? This is Detective Sergeant Emily Gibson, by the way. Mrs Brown, daughter of the homeowners,’ he completed the introductions.
‘Upstairs. On the landing,’ she told Detective Inspector Nolan Moxon.
The next thing she knew, it was half past three. She had phoned Christopher with the news that a man had died in 33Beck View and there was a crowd of police people in the house. The plan to spend the early evening in Patterdale, visiting the bar of the hotel to check, for the fifth time, whether anyone knew of property coming onto the market, was postponed. ‘I don’t know when I’ll get away,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave Mum and Dad until things have settled down. The other guests will be back before long, wanting to know what’s been going on.’
‘Sounds like a nightmare,’ her fiancé sympathised. ‘Should I come and help?’
‘That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think Mum would welcome yet another person here. They haven’t even removed the body yet.’
‘Where is it exactly?’
‘On the landing, outside the back bedroom. They’ve got police people stripping the room and none of us is allowed up there. The real worry is what happens when the other guests come in. Nobody seems to know what we’re meant to do with them.’
Christopher’s mind was evidently working well. ‘Will they be suspects, then, if it’s murder? Is it murder?’
‘Who knows? They’re taking it all very seriously, because my dad told them the man said he’d been poisoned, just before he died. So I assume they think it could be, or at least have to give it serious consideration. I don’t know why they don’t rush him to a pathology lab somewhere and do a post-mortem to see what killed him.’
‘What about his family?’
‘Mum’s got an address for him, so the police will send somebody there and see if there’s a wife or something – I suppose.’ Then there were new voices in the hall, and 34she finished the call, promising to let Christopher know as soon as she felt able to leave.
At four o’clock all the Straws were in the kitchen, as well as their dog, drinking tea and listening to the many heavy footsteps above their heads. ‘I think I’m in shock,’ said Angie. ‘I’m going to put two sugars in this tea.’
‘You’ve been very calm so far,’ said Simmy. ‘We all have, really. I wonder what they’re thinking about us.’
‘Your Moxon man is a godsend. It’s so lucky he knows you. I’ve never met such a nice policeman. I remember in the seventies …’
‘Yes, Mum, all right. Don’t get started on police brutality now. He might hear you.’
Angie drank her sweet tea with uncharacteristic meekness. Russell was restless, shifting in his chair and irritating the dog. ‘We must be suspects,’ he said. ‘At best, they’ll think we fed him rancid sausages.’
‘He hasn’t eaten anything from this kitchen since he got here,’ Angie retorted. ‘So that’s not something we need to worry about.’
‘It could still easily be suicide,’ said Simmy. ‘In fact, that’s much more likely, it seems to me.’
‘We’ve been through all that,’ sighed Angie. ‘They obviously think the worst, or why are they bothering with all this forensic business?’
‘Because of what Dad told them he said.’ Simmy couldn’t quite refrain from throwing an accusing look at her father. It would all be so much easier if that detail had never been reported.
‘You’d rather a murderer got away with his crime, would you?’ Russell enquired, as if he really wanted to know her 35response. ‘I can see that might be tempting in the short run. But it won’t do, will it? You know it won’t.’
Simmy sighed, knowing he was right.
Two hours passed, during which the body of Mr Grant Childers of Halesowen near Birmingham was taken in a special vehicle to the mortuary at Barrow Hospital. DI Moxon spent twenty minutes explaining procedure to the Straws, showing them the G5 form that had to be filled in for a sudden death. He commiserated briefly and apologised for the disruption. The other guests would be permitted to continue with their existing plans, after being questioned. ‘Just their names and addresses, basically,’ he reassured Angie. ‘Until we know the precise cause of death, we won’t have much idea of what to ask them. As far as you’re aware, they didn’t know Mr Childers, I presume?’
‘I’m sure they didn’t,’ said Angie. ‘They were all here before he arrived.’
‘It still might have been suicide, don’t you think?’ Simmy asked.
Moxon scratched his head. ‘The whole picture indicates otherwise, I’m afraid. Whatever he took caused considerable pain, which very few suicides would opt for. Then his cries for help – and even the timing doesn’t fit the usual pattern. He’d have known you were all downstairs enjoying a family Sunday. Only the most extraordinarily self-obsessed person would wilfully blight that by killing himself at that particular point in time.’
‘Aren’t all suicides self-obsessed?’ said Angie sourly.
Nobody argued with her, but nor did they agree. Moxon met Simmy’s gaze, with the slightest eye roll to 36indicate he knew better than to engage with one of Angie’s many dogmatisms.
Angie had been questioned more exhaustively than the others, concerning any food she might have carelessly provided for the man. ‘Nothing at all,’ she insisted. ‘He arrived quite late on Friday and went straight to bed, as far as I could tell. No breakfast yesterday or today.’
‘But he could make a drink in his room?’
‘There’s a kettle and tea and coffee. But I give them proper milk in a jug, if they want it – and he didn’t ask for anything. The kettle was exactly as I left it, so I’m pretty sure he never even made a drink. He was out the whole of yesterday.’
‘It could have been an accident,’ Simmy went on, still clinging to the hope that this was not another murder. ‘Something he brought with him – berries or mushrooms, perhaps. It is the season for that sort of thing. Or he could easily have picked something up this morning, when he went out.’
‘That’s possible,’ Moxon agreed, with hardly a hint of scepticism. ‘But if so, he ate every morsel, because there’s no sign of any food or drink in his room.’
‘So the same goes for if somebody gave him poison,’ Simmy pointed out. ‘He ate the whole thing, whatever it was, without leaving any evidence. Isn’t that terribly odd?’
‘It’s all terribly odd,’ said Moxon darkly. ‘If ever you wanted a mystery, this is it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘And your young Ben Harkness is going to miss the whole thing.’
Next morning, in the shop, Simmy had to break the news to Bonnie. ‘A man died at Beck View yesterday and it looks 37like murder,’ she began, without preamble. ‘And Ben’s not going to have any chance to play detective.’
The girl stared at her. ‘At Beck View?’ she repeated. ‘How can that be? Who died? How? When?’
Simmy gave as detailed a description as she could, knowing that anything she left out now would be held against her later. ‘I still think it could easily have been suicide or an accident,’ she concluded.
‘No.’ Bonnie shook her head decisively. ‘Not a chance. He’ll have been trying to hide from somebody who was out to get him, but they were too clever for him. Gave him a bottle of something laced with poison, or a doctored bar of chocolate, or …’
‘There’s no trace of anything like that in the room.’
‘Didn’t he go out at all?’
‘Well, yes. He was out all Saturday, as well as yesterday morning. Mum heard him come back while I was out with my dad walking the dog.’
‘There you are, then!’ Bonnie waved a triumphant hand. ‘That’s when it happened. He came home with stomach ache, lay down for a bit, then when it got bad he shouted for help. Simple.’
Simmy had to admit that the hypothesis fitted the known facts with almost embarrassing tidiness. She was going on to enumerate her reasons for nonetheless continuing to doubt these conclusions, but Bonnie interrupted her.
‘It’ll be brilliant for your mum’s business,’ she enthused. ‘Everyone’s going to want to see the place where a murder happened.’
Simmy gulped at this. ‘My dad thinks the exact opposite. He thinks it’ll finish them completely.’ 38
‘He’s wrong,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘People are going to love it.’ Then she changed tack again. ‘So I’m guessing you didn’t get to Patterdale yesterday?’
Simmy shook her head. ‘I didn’t leave Beck View till seven. I didn’t see Chris at all over the weekend. Saturday was an auction day and he was logging all the results yesterday. Josephine’s off sick.’
‘That’s not good.’ Bonnie’s mouth turned down. ‘But I know the feeling. I won’t see Ben for a month.’
‘We’re both abandoned by our menfolk. It was ever thus, as my dad would say.’
‘Yeah … well,’ said the girl vaguely. ‘First customer incoming, look.’ She nodded towards the street door, where a man was hovering on the pavement outside. ‘We haven’t got the pots out yet.’
‘Too much chatter. Is he anyone we know?’ Simmy was standing at an angle that made the man’s face hard to see.
‘Don’t think so.’ But then the door opened, and there was a clear view. Simmy recognised the man her father had addressed the previous day as Tristan.
Chapter Four
It could not be a coincidence. Hazy memories of protests over holiday chalets near Patterdale and local politics filled her head, along with her father’s acquaintance with this man. Wilkins was his surname, she remembered. And his first name carried implications of good breeding and horses, for some reason.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Didn’t I see you yesterday?’
‘You’re Russell Straw’s daughter, if I’m not mistaken. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I saw some of the commotion outside Beck View yesterday and thought I should check that all’s well. I know poor old Russ has had a few problems lately, so I didn’t like to intrude if there was anything … you know. And I’m not so well acquainted with your mother.’
‘Everything’s absolutely fine, thanks,’ she breezed, with unwarranted confidence.
‘Oh good. That’s good. So – what happened, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Simmy calculated that the story would be public 40knowledge before the end of the day, making it futile to try to keep it quiet. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that a man died in the house. One of the guests. It was very sudden.’
‘Good Lord! That must have been dreadfully shocking. Were you there at the time?’
‘I was, yes. But everything’s settled down now. These things happen, I suppose.’
