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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Simmy Brown has a lot on her mind. Not just keeping her florist business afloat, her father's failing health, the challenge of developing a long-term relationship with Christopher, but also the approach of Mother's Day, a busy and painful day for her. But in taking an order for a retirement party in Staveley, she is pulled into her most challenging investigation. When a daughter starts accusing her own mother of murder, Simmy, Ben and Bonnie find themselves taking different sides of the investigation. With her relationships under strain, Simmy is tried on all fronts. However, she has to learn to leave her own concerns behind to discover just who the killer is.
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The Staveley Suspect
REBECCA TOPE
This one’s for Gary – a very welcome new member of the family
Contents
Author’s Note
As in previous stories, the village settings are authentic, but individual properties have been invented.
Chapter One
Bonnie had a cold, which turned her eyes and nose bright pink. ‘You look like a white rabbit,’ said Simmy. ‘A very poorly white rabbit at that.’
‘Urggh,’ said the girl. ‘Am I going to put the customers off, do you think?’
‘Very likely. They’ll think I’m a cruel employer, forcing you to work when you’re ill. You ought to go home for a couple of days.’
‘The house is freezing. It’ll make me worse. Corinne let the oil tank run dry and a man has to come and do something complicated to get the boiler working again.’
‘It can’t be worse than here.’ The florist shop was never very warm, since the blooms lasted much better in cool temperatures. The humidity caused by the watering increased the feeling of being in a rather inhospitable northern forest.
‘It’s all right,’ said Bonnie with a sniff. Before Simmy could reply, the phone pealed imperiously, and she was distracted.
‘Hello – is that the flower shop?’ The voice was female, and instantly likeable.
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. I’ve got a commission for you, if you’re interested.’
Simmy picked up a pen, and swept through a mess of junk mail and delivery notes for the notepad she used for taking telephone orders. The system still hadn’t reached the level of efficiency that she had aimed for when she first opened the shop. The fact that the majority of orders came through the computer reduced the urgency. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘It’s a party. A retirement party. I want to make it a bit special, with lots of flowers everywhere.’
‘When?’ asked Simmy, having written retirement party on the pad.
‘Rather short notice, I’m afraid. We were hoping for the weekend after next.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Simmy confidently. ‘Though it’s a bit close to Mother’s Day.’ Her silent inward sigh marked her customary reaction to that particular cultural atrocity. However she looked at it, she could only see it as cynical, commercial and sometimes even cruel.
‘Oh, God, Mother’s Day,’ said the woman on the phone, with a heartfelt groan that more than echoed Simmy’s little sigh. ‘It seems to come round every few weeks. I suppose it’s a big day for a florist.’
‘Right,’ said Simmy.
‘Anyway. The party. It’s going to be in Staveley.’
Simmy wrote Staveley on her pad. ‘Can I take your name?’ she said.
‘Oh – sorry. Yes, I’m Gillian Townsend. It’s my colleague who’s retiring. We’re solicitors. Things have been so busy lately, we didn’t get around to organising the do until now.’
‘Is it in a hall, or somebody’s house?’
‘That’s been quite a burning question. We did think of using the party barn at Askham Hall, but it’s a long way away, and somehow it doesn’t strike the right note. So now we’ve finally decided to have it at my mother’s house here in Staveley.’
Gillian Townsend sounded to be at least sixty, which gave Simmy a startled moment to think she had a mother living. But this was a regular experience in recent times. People in their seventies quite often had an ancient parent still surviving.
‘Is the party to be a surprise?’
‘God, no. What a horrible thought! Anita is quite central to the whole business. She’s right here beside me now, listening to us on the speakerphone. She has the final say on everything. But she’s a good delegator, so I get to do flowers, food and invitations.’
Simmy gave a polite laugh, while wondering what else was required. Drink; car parking; music, she supposed. ‘How many rooms do you want decorated? With flowers, I mean.’
‘Oh, gosh. Only two or three, I suppose. There’s a big hallway, two reception rooms, the kitchen … we won’t do the kitchen. And we’ll be using the conservatory, so we should do that as well. Can you come and look at it with me, do you think? We can plan it together, then.’ The voice had become breathless towards the end of this little speech, causing Simmy to wonder whether it was due to excitement or defective lungs.
Simmy was thinking about money, and lessons learnt over the past year or two. Charge for your time. Charge for wastage. Charge for use of containers and clearing up afterwards, if required. She was entitled to make a decent profit from the job, she reminded herself. Solicitors were generally well-heeled, after all. ‘Yes, of course. When?’
‘Well, the sooner the better.’
‘This evening? I could come on the way home, after I’ve taken some flowers to someone in Crook.’ Only then did Simmy notice that Bonnie wasn’t listening in with her usual avidity. Her young assistant had a habit of standing two feet away and mouthing comments on the conversation. Instead, she was drooping at the front of the shop, like a melting wax statue. Her head was bowed and shoulders slumped. Simmy took the phone away from her ear. ‘Bonnie? What’s the matter?’
‘I feel funny. My head hurts.’
Simmy went back to the phone. ‘Sorry. Did you say something? I was distracted for a minute. Can you tell me where to come, and I’ll see you at about a quarter to six.’ Her eyes were on Bonnie, who had straightened up slightly.
‘If you’re coming from Crook, you can most easily meet us at the lay-by by the bus stop in the middle of the village and we can lead you to the house. It’s a bit difficult to find, especially in the dark.’ It got dark by six, Simmy remembered, with her persistent nervousness about roaming the Cumbrian wilderness at night. Just a mile or two off the main roads, you could be lost forever if you took a careless turn somewhere, either on foot or in a car.
‘Actually, I’m not sure I can find the lay-by. Is there an obvious landmark?’
‘It’s across the road from the fish and chip shop, and the bus stop is part of the public lavatories. You can’t really miss it, when you come out from the Crook road. It’s just across from the turning to Kentmere.’
‘It sounds fairly foolproof. I’m sure I’ll find it. Thanks. I’ll see you later.’
‘Take my phone number, in case you get delayed – or lost.’ The last words were added with a laugh that sounded mildly scornful to Simmy. She had delivered flowers to addresses in Staveley perhaps half a dozen times in the past year, but had no recollection of a bus stop. She remembered a network of small streets, many of them cul-de-sacs, a defunct bridge that was slowly being rebuilt and a beautiful winding road out to Kentmere, running alongside a cheerful little river.
With a flicker of resentment, she jotted down the digits and hoped she would remember to put them into her mobile. The need to attend to Bonnie was the prime concern of the moment. ‘Hey,’ she said, as soon as the phone call ended. ‘Come and sit down. You must have got flu.’
‘I hope not,’ said Bonnie waveringly. ‘That would be a real pain.’
‘I’d better take you home. You look rather awful.’
‘Oh, no. You can’t close the shop on a Friday. Mrs Hyacinth hasn’t been in yet. And isn’t that man coming for his roses at eleven?’
Mrs Hyacinth was in fact an affluent local businesswoman who had, the previous Christmas, ordered eight bowls of hyacinths on the brink of bursting into flower. Simmy and Bonnie had agonised over the things and cast many slanderous aspersions on the woman. In the event it worked perfectly, and earned a surprising gratuity on top of the inflated price Simmy had permitted herself to charge.
Now Mrs Hyacinth materialised every Friday lunchtime for more highly scented weekend flowers.
‘I’ll be back in time for both of them if we go now.’
‘No,’ Bonnie almost whined. ‘I don’t want to go home. I’ll make myself a Lemsip and I’ll be okay. It’s not flu. Corinne would tell you that flu’s a lot more serious than this.’
Outside the weather was dithering between winter and spring. The fells had snow on their heads, and the becks had fringes of ice. Snowdrops nodded cheerily in gardens and on mossy banks, but most of the trees were still playing dead. Nobody had very high expectations of March, with its tendency towards biting easterly winds. The majority of customers coming into the shops had the same pink noses and clogged throats as Bonnie had.
‘I bet Spike would be glad to see you,’ Simmy cajoled. Spike was Bonnie’s dog, whose welfare and general happiness had suffered some neglect over the past half-year or so. Not only had his beloved young mistress taken a job, causing her wholesale removal from his life during the day, but she had also taken a swain, who occupied her during evenings and Sundays.
‘Spike’s fine,’ said the girl defensively. ‘Corinne takes him everywhere with her these days.’
‘All right, then. But try to avoid fainting on me, will you? You look awfully cold to me. That jumper’s not much use, is it?’ Bonnie was wearing a thin garment with a low neck, leaving her bronchial region exposed to the cool air. ‘There’s a fleece in the back room that might fit you. Put it on.’
The fact that the girl didn’t argue was proof enough of her illness. ‘And Lemsip’s a good idea,’ Simmy added.
Fridays had, in recent months, acquired new levels of significance. Since the rekindling of a relationship from her teenage years, Simmy had begun to expect more of weekends than hitherto. But because both she and Christopher were often busier on Saturdays than any other day, the expectations had to be modified. It was worse for her, with every Saturday morning relatively hectic in the shop, while her boyfriend only worked every other weekend. He was the auctioneer at an operation near Keswick. For six or seven hours on sale days he sold antiques, collectables and general items to dealers and housewives and auction junkies of all kinds.
The arrival of the man for the roses meant leaving Bonnie to wrestle with her germs unassisted. The order had been for two dozen mixed blooms, scented, still in bud, and embellished with wispy ferns and other greenery. An anniversary, he said, without any further explanation. When he’d gone, the usual speculations as to the length of the marriage, the ages of the parties involved and the nature of their celebration did not take place. Bonnie sat down in front of the shop computer, and started making notes on the prices of various flowers, in a half-hearted attempt to educate herself. In the process, she tidied Simmy’s messy heap on the table. ‘Retirement in Staveley?’ she said, looking at the notes on the pad. ‘That’s a bit different. You haven’t put the date.’
Simmy was picking out faded blooms from the displays at the front of the shop. ‘It’s the weekend before Mother’s Day. I’ve got to go and meet the woman this evening. She’s taking me to see the house where the party’s going to be. Oh, and I should put her number into my phone. I nearly forgot.’
‘I’ll do it if you like,’ Bonnie offered. ‘Is this it here?’
‘Thanks.’ Simmy willingly handed over her mobile, grateful for the skill of the young.
Bonnie changed the subject as she handed back the phone. ‘Has Chris got a sale tomorrow?’
‘He has. I won’t see him until Sunday. I’ll go over to Beck View after we close up tomorrow and give my mum a hand. Last time I was there, the place was looking very grubby. There’ll be complaints if she’s not careful.’
‘Is she bothered?’
‘Not very. But she’s got to stick to at least some of the rules. They’ll close her down if they think she’s a health hazard.’
Bonnie gave a choked little laugh. ‘That’s not going to happen, is it? What does a bit of dust matter?’
‘It’s more than that. The bathrooms have to be spotless, for a start.’
‘Was that your dad’s job before he – you know?’
‘Before his wits started to go. Don’t worry, you can say it.’ They exchanged smiles. ‘He did quite a lot of that sort of thing, yes. He still polishes all the mirrors every week. That’s always been his speciality. And some people do leave the loos in a pretty bad state. My mother hates anything like that. Always leaves it till last and then it doesn’t get done.’
‘Yuck,’ said Bonnie.
The demands of the Lakeland B&B run by Simmy’s parents were quickly becoming more than they could easily cope with. Her father’s sudden plunge into a mild variety of dementia had thrown the entire operation into confusion. His chief symptom was anxiety, causing him to lock doors and make excessive demands on the guests’ patience. While his memory and general capacity to function remained unimpaired, he was unpredictable and increasingly uninhibited in what he said.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ Simmy asked, at lunchtime. ‘Have you got plenty to eat? They say you should feed a cold, you know.’
‘I’m okay. Mrs Hyacinth’s late. I might have another Lemsip.’ Bonnie was distracted by the warbling of her phone. Simmy had no doubt that it denoted a text from Ben Harkness. He invariably phoned or texted in the middle of the day. Still at school, he was in the final stretch of his A-level studies, trying to make light of an almost intolerable workload.
‘You have to wait four hours,’ said Simmy. ‘It says on the box.’
‘Duh,’ said Bonnie.
They were diverted by the arrival of a small fistful of post coming through the door. The general procedure was for the postman to come in, and put the letters on whatever clear surface he could find, if Simmy didn’t rush forward to take them from him. But this was a different man, and he simply threw them down without taking a step off the pavement outside. The absence of a letter box was clearly an annoyance to him. A long way down Simmy’s to-do list was to attach a box of some sort to the outside wall for the purpose.
Bonnie went to collect the scattered envelopes. The mere fact of old-fashioned letters intrigued her. People paid their bills with cheques to a surprising extent. Once in a while they included handwritten letters of appreciation. Two or three had enclosed photos of the wedding or birthday party showing how handsomely the flowers had enhanced the occasion. ‘This one looks like it’s from a satisfied customer,’ Bonnie observed, pulling out a white envelope with a handwritten address on the front.
Simmy took it. ‘Not likely. The postmark’s Birmingham, look.’
Bonnie peered at it. ‘Postmark?’ she said with a frown.
‘Good God, girl. Don’t you know about postmarks?’
Bonnie grimaced. ‘Not really,’ she admitted.
‘I’ll report you to Ben. He’ll be disgusted with you. Postmarks are often crucial clues in a criminal investigation. Agatha Christie must be full of them.’
The letter was giving Simmy some early pangs of apprehension. She knew the handwriting, but could not believe her own eyes. Surely it wasn’t from the woman who made large capital letters and then bunched the rest of the word together after it? ‘Windermere’ followed this familiar pattern. And the person in question lived in Birmingham.
She opened it, took out the single page, and turned it over to see the signature. ‘Bloody hell. It is her.’ She looked at Bonnie, as if for an explanation. ‘It’s from my mother-in-law.’
Chapter Two
‘Who?’ said Bonnie.
‘My husband’s mother. She’s called Pamela.’
‘Oh. Did you get along okay with her?’
‘Pretty well,’ said Simmy vaguely, having begun to read the letter. ‘This is incredible.’
Dear Simmy,
I hope you will forgive this intrusion, but I feel you should know what has been happening to Tony. You will have perhaps been aware that he suffered a violent attack last year, and spent several days in hospital. Although I realise that you might well not have known about that, because neither he nor I have told you. I suppose we just assumed that somebody in authority would have sent notification, since there is at least an indirect connection with you, and the loss of your baby.
Anyway, be that as it may, I must tell you that your former husband is now under prosecution for the crime (if crime it be) of stalking the woman who delivered your little girl. It is a sorry tale, I’m afraid. The woman claims that Tony developed an irrational feeling for her, and would not accept her refusal to reciprocate. Eventually she felt forced to take extreme action, and she stabbed him in the back. When the police investigated, she said it was self-defence, and she made a counter-accusation against him. Needless to say, there have been months of rather low-level legal wrangling, while the woman lost her job, and Tony recovered from a punctured lung. But now it is due shortly to come to trial, and there will be unsavoury publicity, which might even reach the wilderness where you currently live. And given that this whole business began at the time of your distressing experience in the Worcester hospital, I fear you will be drawn into it – if you haven’t been already.
I have no way of knowing whether or not any of this has already been conveyed to you. The trial is to be in April. Tony is very much reduced, and it is a source of great sadness to the whole family. He has never even begun to recover from the loss of the baby, and his defence will focus very much on that. I cannot say for sure whether you will be asked to give testimony to the effect that his very sanity was disturbed by it.
I hope that you are well and happy in your new life. I remember you fondly, and am very much the poorer for the cessation of our relationship – the reasons for which I shall never fully understand.
In friendship,
Pamela Brown
‘Can I see it?’ asked Bonnie, having jigged impatiently throughout Simmy’s perusal of the letter.
‘I suppose so.’ Simmy handed the paper over. Before the girl could finish, the shop doorbell pinged and the woman they had nicknamed Mrs Hyacinth came in, brisk as ever.
‘Are those freesias in?’ she asked, less than a second after the door closed behind her. ‘And the jasmine you were going to get for me?’
‘All ready and waiting,’ said Simmy. ‘As well as some very nice winter honeysuckle. I thought we could get some forsythia next week, and possibly mahonia.’
‘No, not mahonia. I hate their smell. I’ve got one in the garden, and every year I remember how vile it is.’
‘Okay,’ said Simmy, thinking the woman must have a defective nose, if that was what she thought. ‘Well, the choice is going to get wider from here on, of course.’
‘I can’t wait for sweetpeas,’ said the customer, with wide-eyed enthusiasm. ‘I’m growing my own, but I’m still hoping you can get me some special ones as well.’
‘I’ll try.’ Simmy was watching Bonnie as she put Pamela’s letter down on the table beside the computer. ‘Let me get this week’s offerings.’
She wrapped the flowers that had been sitting in the cool back room, and took the woman’s money with a smile. ‘Have a good weekend,’ she said. ‘See you next week?’
‘Oh, yes. I must say you’ve improved our lives tremendously. The house is always so full of wonderful scents now. And freesias are so marvellous, aren’t they? Whatever you find for me next week, I still want plenty of freesias.’
‘Right,’ said Simmy.
‘Wow!’ said Bonnie, almost before the door had closed. ‘Your ex is quite a case, from the sound of it. Did you know anything about all this – him being a stalker or whatever?’
‘Not a hint. I haven’t heard from him for a year or more. Once the divorce came through, I assumed that was the end of it. We’d got no reason to bother with each other ever again. I do miss Pamela sometimes, though. She was always quite nice to me.’
‘Was she very upset about the baby?’
‘I don’t really know. Isn’t that awful? She’s got five grandchildren already, so I suppose it wasn’t a huge loss for her. She was sorry for us, of course, but kept saying we could try again and these things happen. She’s very old-fashioned.’
‘Yeah. That letter – it sounds like something Wordsworth could have written.’
Simmy laughed. ‘She must be eighty-five by now, and she was a civil servant much of her life. I think she was old-fashioned even as a girl.’
‘She was pretty old when she had Tony, then?’
‘Not a lot older than I am now,’ said Simmy, with a pang. ‘He was an after-thought, as they called it then. He’s got two older brothers – much older. She’d been back at work for ages when she got pregnant again with Tony. She got a nanny for him and went right back to the Department of Trade, or whatever it was called.’
‘How old is he, then?’
‘Forty-four, I suppose, or thereabouts. Old enough to know better than to go stalking some wretched nurse.’ She picked up the letter. ‘It’s a strange sort of story, don’t you think? I had no idea he’d been in hospital. Why would anybody tell me, anyway? They won’t want me to be a witness at the trial, surely?’
‘We can ask Ben. I expect he’ll know. You might be able to send them something in writing, or get old Moxon to ask you some questions and send the answers. It’s miles to Birmingham.’
‘I don’t think it’ll be in Birmingham. That’s just where his mother lives. He still lives in Worcester, so it’s most likely to be there.’ The strangeness of the whole business was increasing, the more she thought about it. The Tony she knew had been as sane as the next man, albeit undemonstrative and unreflective. The shock of the stillborn child had rendered him silent for weeks, dividing him from his wife to the point of no return. She suspected that it was the first time anything had gone wrong for him, and his lack of preparedness had been catastrophic. He had also refused to hold or even really look at the dead baby, while Simmy had cradled her for twenty minutes of acute but cathartic agony.
She could barely remember a midwife. Women had come and gone. Some had held her hand, some had looked away. They had known from before the labour began that the baby had died, which gave the whole experience an unearthly sort of futility. Afterwards, countless people had queried the lack of intervention. ‘Couldn’t they have saved her with a Caesarian?’ they all asked.
The reply was never entirely satisfactory. ‘By the time I got to the hospital, it was too late. There was no trace of a heartbeat. She probably died a day or two before I went into labour.’ The truth was that Simmy could not reliably recall the series of events, the people who spoke to her, coloured as they were by the grey of Tony’s face, and the endless waves of pain and panic that accompanied her contractions.
With an effort she did remember a woman leading Tony into another room. A large buxom nurse or midwife, who put an arm around his shoulders and said something about a cup of tea. Could he have somehow insanely fallen for her, as a kind of rescuing angel? There had been another encounter with her later in the day, as Simmy was waiting to go home. Papers had to be filled in, reports made, counselling offered. Somewhere on the ward Tony had also waited, sitting beside this woman who apparently had nothing else to do for a while but console the shattered father.
It all felt long ago and far away. She was a new person now – a florist, with a house and a boyfriend and increasingly dependent parents. She didn’t have time for Tony any more. And if he had provoked that kind professional woman into attacking him with a knife, he probably didn’t deserve any assistance she might be able to provide. Not that she could see the slightest chance of doing that. ‘Yes, there was a kind midwife,’ was the most she could say. That was the sum total of any testimony she could produce.
‘That’s a clever idea,’ she told Bonnie. ‘Using Moxon as a go-between might be all it needs.’
There ensued a Friday flurry of customers, including a pair of teenagers wanting to place advance orders for Mother’s Day. Simmy sighed at the prospect of the busiest day in the florist’s year, which had distressing personal associations, and which she passionately wished did not exist.
‘Three new orders on the computer,’ Bonnie reported at half past one.
‘Great,’ said Simmy, with more sincerity than it sounded. ‘How’s your cold now?’
‘I’ll survive. Time for another Lemsip. It’s been four hours now.’
‘You don’t sound quite so bunged up. Has Ben got it as well?’ It had been three days since Ben had visited the shop, thanks to his packed schedule. Course work, revision, additional subjects to those provided by the school, and his own personal pursuits – it all kept him fully occupied. Simmy sometimes wondered when he managed to give Bonnie any attention.
‘No, he’s okay so far. He said he’d come in today, after he’s finished the biochemistry test.’
‘Biochemistry? Surely that’s not one of his A-levels, is it?’
‘Biology is. He’s applied for an aptitude test, to see if he can fit biochem into his first year at uni.’
Simmy shook her head. The complexities of the boy’s studies were impossible to keep track of. His central ambition was to become a forensic archaeologist, which apparently called for Latin, geology, criminology and half a dozen other subjects. The local comprehensive was doing its best to fuel his needs, but inevitably left him to a certain amount of private study of subjects they didn’t cover. In particular, he was teaching himself Latin, as well as instructing Bonnie in the basics.
‘I’m hoping to close a bit early, so I can get to Staveley in good time,’ she said.
‘We’ve been busy, haven’t we?’ said Bonnie. ‘New orders, plenty of customers. You must be pleased.’
‘No deliveries today, though. That’s unusual.’
‘They’ll be saving themselves for Mother’s Day.’ Bonnie was almost as hostile to the whole idea as Simmy was, for very different reasons. Her own mother had been damagingly deficient in her relations with her daughter, with Bonnie taken into care at the age of nine. Quickly scooped up by a foster mother named Corinne, she had endured many rocky years of dysfunction before attaining something resembling normality. The idea of sending cards or flowers to the woman who gave birth to her made her tense and rancorous.
Simmy had been raised to sneer at the blatant commercial cynicism of the whole business. Her mother refused any observance of the day intended to celebrate her unselfishness in producing a child and keeping it alive. ‘The whole thing stinks,’ said Angie reliably every year.
Now, not only could Simmy not ignore it, but a large portion of her annual income was derived from that single day, all on its own. Advance planning meant filling the storeroom with ribbons and cellophane, cards and wires, before the actual flowers could be acquired. It was exhausting, but undeniably exhilarating as well. This would be her second year of it, and she was determined to increase turnover, range and reputation, ignoring the emotional fallout.
‘Here he is,’ called Bonnie, ten seconds before her beloved came through the door. The repeat dose of Lemsip had already begun to take effect, her colour improved and nose less stuffed.
Ben actually looked rather worse than his girlfriend. Dark rings under his eyes, lank hair and chewed lips betrayed the weight of work he was carrying. Three more months of this, worried Simmy, would surely see him crumble under the strain. At eighteen, it seemed very hard to be devoting so much time and effort to his studies. ‘Couldn’t you spread it over an extra year?’ she’d asked him. ‘Instead of doing everything at once.’
The answer hadn’t been entirely clear, but it seemed the idea was ludicrous.
Bonnie brought mugs of tea and a bucketful of tender female sympathy. ‘Simmy’s got to go to Staveley,’ she told him. ‘So we’re closing up a bit early. I’ll come back with you for a bit. I can carry some of the books.’
In fact, the bag of books was of modest proportions, since much of his study material existed in cyberspace and weighed nothing at all. ‘Is your cold better?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much,’ Bonnie lied.
‘Good. There was something about Staveley last night.’ He thumbed his phone-cum-computer and nodded. ‘That’s right. Man found dead, possible foul play. That was this morning. Nothing else since then, that I can see.’
His careless words struck alarm through Simmy’s upper body. If somebody was unaccountably dead in Staveley, she very much didn’t want to go there, for any reason, until the matter was safely resolved. Past experience had taught her that apparently irrelevant murders had a very nasty habit of turning out to be all too unpleasantly close to her and those she loved.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Not another one.’
Chapter Three
The delivery of a bouquet to a large house in Crook was a mild adventure in itself. The village comprised little more than a pub and a church, and was approached along an undulating road that carried as many tractors as other vehicles – at least on this particular afternoon. Overtaking was compromised not only by frequent blind bends, but dips and rises that concealed oncoming traffic. Simmy opted to wait patiently, enjoying the ancient fields on either side, with granite outcrops and moorland heathers here and there. One sheep she noticed had a lamb already. Spring must definitely be on its way, she thought gladly.
The road was wide enough for two vehicles, but there was no pavement, and the grass verge looked muddy in places. A pedestrian was barely visible in the fading light and Simmy had to swerve around her at the last moment. An oncoming car was going much too fast. It was all successfully negotiated, but Simmy’s heart rate took a while to return to normal.
The flowers were for a pleasant woman with a small brown dog, living in a handsome property standing well back from the road. Simmy had some trouble finding its entrance, overshooting it and having to turn around in a gateway and go back. But it was all well within a normal day’s work, and she forgot most of it as she carried on to Staveley, emerging almost like magic at the precise spot where Gillian Townsend had arranged to meet her.
Two women were awaiting her, standing in clear view on the pavement. One was unusually tall and the other noticeably short. There had to be ten or eleven inches difference in height, and the tableau they presented made Simmy smile. She drew up beside them, leaving the engine running. The shorter one twirled a hand to indicate that she should turn it off, which she did. Simmy opened the car door and the woman leant in.
‘Hello. I’m Gillian. This is Anita. We thought I could drive ahead and you and Anita could follow on foot. You can leave your car here. Is that all right?’
Simmy could see no grounds for objection, despite the slightly peculiar arrangement. ‘Fine,’ she said.
‘It sounds worse than it is,’ said the taller woman. ‘It’s only two minutes away. Gillian doesn’t walk if she can help it, that’s all.’ She had a musical voice and the immobile face that had become familiar on women in late middle age.
Botox, thought Simmy as she hesitated, looking from one face to the other. ‘No problem,’ she smiled. They set off as arranged, and after a few moments Simmy asked Anita whether she lived in Staveley.
‘Just a little way over there,’ she said, waving back towards the main road. A large area of green was ringed by substantial houses, and Simmy assumed one of those was the woman’s home.
‘Nice,’ she said.
‘Staveley’s an oasis of normality, all the better for its lack of fame amongst visitors.’ Anita took them only a very short way along the unassuming main street with a scattering of very ordinary shops, before turning right into the residential part of the village. Two more turns, and Simmy had no idea where they were when they stopped in front of a large stone house with a splendid garden between itself and the road. The light had almost gone during the past few minutes, and Simmy had to peer at the carpet of scilla and miniature cyclamen that replaced the usual lawn. A large mahonia reminded her of Mrs Hyacinth and her perverse dislike of it. She paused for a sniff of its yellow flowers that were just starting to fade and fall. The scent was perhaps a trifle sickly, she conceded.
‘Taking a professional interest?’ laughed Gillian Townsend, who was waiting for them by the front door.
‘You could say that.’
‘Well, you’ll get plenty more chances, if this works out as we hope. Now come in and meet my mother. She’s expecting us.’
They trooped up the path and through the front door, which Gillian opened with a loud ‘Hello! We’re here!’ She led them across a good-sized hallway and into a front room where an elderly woman was standing beside an oak settle.
‘You’re very prompt,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got the kettle on yet.’
Simmy was already envisaging swags of honeysuckle slung between the pictures, and large displays of spiky delphiniums on either side of the window. ‘What a fabulous room!’ she sighed.
Anita made a sound that suggested agreement, while her face carried a rueful expression.
Gillian made the introduction. ‘Mrs Brown, this is my mother, Barbara Percival. Mum, this is the lady who runs Persimmon Petals in Windermere.’
‘Yes, dear, I know,’ smiled their hostess. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She held out a hand for Simmy to shake. Her grip was firm and muscular. All that gardening, Simmy thought. ‘I’m so glad you like the house. It is rather splendid, I must admit.’ She looked up into Simmy’s face with a mixture of admiration and friendliness. ‘I really am very glad to meet you,’ she said again.
‘Have you always lived here?’ Simmy asked, unsure as to how to respond to such obvious liking.
‘Oh, no. Not at all. It came to my husband from his older brother, through a series of very sad events. That was sixteen years ago now. Then poor Stuart died only a year later, and here I am, rattling around in it all on my own.’
Simmy was still gazing around in rapture. ‘But you’ve made it so lovely.’
‘Thank you, dear. I felt I owed it to the place to keep it nice. And I turned out to be surprisingly good at it.’ She laughed. ‘Silly to waste one’s time on a house, I suppose, but there it is.’
‘It’s perfect for a party,’ Simmy went on with enthusiasm.
‘Yes. Well, let’s have some tea, shall we?’ said Gillian briskly. ‘I know it’s officially cocktail time, but …’
‘Don’t be silly, Gill,’ said Anita. ‘Can we get on with it?’
It wasn’t until they were seated around the room with cups of tea that there was any chance of assessing at least the basics of the three new characters before her. Gillian was cheerfully breathless, a natural organiser and problem-solver. But there was something amiss with her, Simmy realised. Poor skin, restricted movement, and the difficulty with breathing all pointed to some kind of chronic physical malaise. But it evidently did not impede her competence. She produced a notepad from her bag, as well as a phone that she consulted at frequent intervals. As they started to discuss specific flowers, she would bring up an image, which she showed to the rather silent Anita.
Mrs Percival bustled about, equally focused as her daughter, but more gracious, as if aware of her status as senior person as well as owner of the party venue. She repeatedly smiled warmly at Simmy, treating her as the most important person present. She also inserted routine remarks concerning the safety of her porcelain and carpets. ‘It won’t be that sort of party,’ said Gillian.
But it was Anita who drew Simmy’s attention, time and again. The subtle power of silence was making itself felt across the whole room. Gillian and her mother both glanced repeatedly at the woman, who smiled bravely every time she met a pair of eyes. After twenty minutes or so, Gillian had had enough. ‘Oh, Neet, come on. I know you’re worried, but honestly, there’s nothing more you can do about it now. This party’s for you, remember. You need to tell us what you’d like.’
Simmy looked at Mrs Percival, wondering whether she knew what her daughter was talking about. Apparently she did, since she looked less bemused than Simmy felt. ‘Darling, poor Mrs Brown doesn’t want to hear all that sort of thing, now does she? She has no idea what’s been going on. Keep it for later.’
‘Sorry.’ Gillian adopted an expression of deep contrition. ‘The thing is, you see, Anita’s son-in-law has been causing some concern, and now there’s been some sort of discovery and the police won’t tell the family anything. You can understand how worrying it is for everybody.’
With a sense of the inevitable, Simmy instantly connected this disclosure with Ben’s report of a body found in Staveley. She looked round at the three women, marvelling at the realisation that somehow she had once again been dropped into the middle of a family catastrophe.
‘Oh, Gillian,’ snapped the old lady.
‘What?’
‘I asked you not to talk about that sort of thing. Never mind, my dear,’ she said to Simmy. ‘There’s no need for you to bother yourself over it. Once we’ve given you the order for the flowers, there’ll be no going back on it, whatever happens.’
Simmy was impressed, insulted and alarmed all at the same time. Impressed that the implications of the situation for the florist were so clear to the old lady; insulted because there was an assumption that all she cared about was her commission; alarmed because she actually was fearful of cancellation. If the son-in-law turned up dead, there was scant chance of a carefree party only a week or two later.
Anita finally spoke. ‘That’s not really true, Mrs Percival,’ she said in a low voice. ‘In fact, I think it’s a mistake to be ploughing on with it as if everything was going to be all right. Debbie would see it as heartless and use it as further ammunition against me. Matthew would be just as angry, too. I can’t bear to risk that for something so frivolous.’
She had a pleasant accent, sounding the ‘r’s like an American and the ‘t’s like a BBC announcer. It made her sound definite and unambiguous. Her height added further authority. Gillian looked at her with something close to sycophancy. ‘Well, I suppose that’s true,’ she sighed. ‘But we have to assume that Declan is perfectly all right. I know it’s awful for poor Debbie – and it probably isn’t anything good – but he can’t possibly be dead.’
The word echoed ominously. Simmy experienced a fleeting moment of scorn towards the woman. Wasn’t it deeply foolish to say such a thing? The others appeared to feel something similar.
‘You can’t know that,’ said Anita. ‘Unless you’re not telling us something, of course.’
Gillian laughed so wildly that Simmy wondered if the accusation might be true, or close to the truth. At the same time, there was a lightness to the conversation, as if everyone liked everyone else and wished no harm or hurt whatever.
‘Girls, girls,’ said Mrs Percival, with deliberate humour that increased the sense of goodwill. ‘Settle down now. I suggest we proceed on the assumption that the party will take place as planned, but make no secret of the fact that there’s a provisional element to it. Mrs Brown – is that acceptable to you? We’d obviously pay you for any inconvenience. We’re very aware that this is a busy time of year for you.’
Nobody had to say the words Mother’s Day; the meaning was plain. ‘Well …’ Simmy was reluctant to give any firm commitment. An irritation was developing as she considered her options. ‘I think we’d have to agree a deadline. I mean, a date for a final decision.’ She knew there were rules and protocols for cancellations. Weddings were aborted, celebrations abandoned, minds changed, but she had never suffered such a disruption personally. In this case, if she was reading the situation correctly, the chances of the party going ahead were worryingly slim. How many candidates could there be for turning out to be the mysterious body found by the police? It seemed to her almost inevitable that it would prove to be the unfortunate Declan, given that his family already had the idea that it must be, and arrangements for his funeral would obliterate all thoughts of a retirement party.
‘She’s right,’ said Anita, as if reading Simmy’s mind. ‘And realistically that moment is now, not sometime next week.’ Simmy gave her a grateful smile, which was returned threefold.
‘No, no,’ wailed Gillian. ‘We’re being much too pessimistic. By tomorrow the police are sure to know who it is they’ve found, and then we’ll know exactly what we have to do. One more day won’t hurt, will it? Oh, and before we forget, can you give me your mobile number? Then I can send you a text if there’s any news.’
There was something peculiar about this little woman, Simmy concluded. The lack of sensitivity towards her colleague was remarkable. And yet Anita did not appear to mind. Perhaps they knew each other so well that it was not even noticeable. Perhaps it revealed a genuine friendship, so deep that there was no need for caution or evasion. And, she remembered, they were solicitors. They knew about crime and evidence and law and extremely bad behaviour. They had to be pragmatic and businesslike and decisive. If Gillian was peculiar, it could be because she wasn’t in good health. There was nothing malign about her and she seemed intensely fond of Anita.
Barbara Percival was listening intently, but remained silent. One of the privileges of old age was that you could be excused from awkward or complicated judgements if you so chose. Perhaps rightly, she seemed to think that anything she said would be overruled in any case. Despite being the hostess for the proposed party in her highly desirable house, she was not the prime mover, and little was being demanded of her. Simmy almost envied her. She was sitting regally above the fray, paying attention and making suggestions, but not viscerally involved. Everything she said focused minds and forced good sense onto the others. Clever, thought Simmy. All she has to do now is sit there and wait.
‘Tomorrow is fine,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t do anything before Monday, anyway. Now I’ve seen the house, I’ve got a few ideas as to what I could do. The colours in this room, for example, will work well with pinks and the paler yellows. Some mauve as well. And the hall needs some whites, I think. If I could have a look at any other rooms …?’
‘I’d like some red in here,’ said Gillian. ‘That won’t clash, will it?’
Two walls of the room were papered with a William Morris design in green and pink, depicting fruit that Simmy suspected were pomegranates. If she could pick up the tones, and then add some rich reds, she might make something quite spectacular, she realised. ‘It would be great,’ she told Gillian. ‘Red instead of yellow – much better.’
All three women laughed indulgently, refraining from any hint that Gillian might be doing Simmy’s job for her.
‘Oh, I do hope we can go ahead,’ Gillian said. ‘Anita deserves a good send-off. She’s worked in the business for thirty-five years, all told.’ She gave her colleague a fond smile. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.’
‘It’s no good, Gillie. You can’t change things by wishing – you know that.’
‘Trust Declan,’ sighed Gillian. ‘He’s been a trouble to you from the start, one way or another.’
Anita forced a smile, and then sighed. ‘But Debbie has always loved him, despite everything. She’ll be desperately worried, poor girl.’
‘Yes, well …’ Even Gillian seemed at a loss for something to say to that. She glanced at her mother, as if waiting for her to speak. Simmy’s instinct was to leave them all to it, and make no further investment in the uncertain commission. If the son-in-law was dead, that would be an end to it. She wouldn’t have any reason to see these people again.
Not until she was driving away at seven-fifteen did she allow herself to fully consider the fact that Ben had heard or read that foul play was suspected, and would therefore be drawn as if magnetically to every detail of the story. She had repressed any awareness of that aspect of the business during her visit to Staveley, but now it returned with spikes on. And yet, she still saw no reason to involve herself with whatever had been going on. Gillian Townsend would phone and tell her the party was at best postponed, that there would be a period of recovery for the shattered family of her friend, and no more need be said.
Ben was too busy anyway to pay attention to even the most compelling crime. Bonnie had a cold, and Simmy had to give some consideration to the unwelcome re-emergence of her one-time husband. Staveley could get along perfectly well without any of them.
She went home on a road she seldom used, aware of a recently increased level of confidence when it came to driving after dark on the deserted little lanes that connected the various settlements. This time, she was happy to turn off the main road to follow Moorhowe Road as it climbed up to Troutbeck. It was half the distance she would otherwise have to travel, and in the dark it had a pleasing romance to it. Clumps of late snowdrops gleamed luminously in the headlights. Not a single vehicle could be seen, leaving her to imagine herself alone in the world. Where once that would have terrified her, she now found it almost enjoyable. She knew where she was, and that her home was barely three miles away. If her car broke down, she could walk, without any ill effects. There was a new sense of being where she belonged, amongst people of great friendliness and goodwill, in a landscape of utter beauty. She dismissed all thoughts of the missing Declan, as well as the beleaguered Tony, and gave herself up to the mysterious evening shadows of South Cumbria.
Back in her little house, she found herself humming gently as she prepared a modest meal. She had taken more interest in cooking since Christopher had started coming over regularly. Although they often ate at the local pub, she was eager to demonstrate a level of competence that she hoped she still possessed. She had cooked for herself and Tony as a matter of course – real food from fresh ingredients. Christopher appeared to find this a highly entertaining novelty, acting up accordingly. ‘What’s for supper?’ he would demand, the moment he was in the house.
But without him, she reverted to the much more boring scrambled eggs, sausages, baked potatoes and cheese on toast. As she ate, she made a phone call.
‘Busy?’ she asked him. ‘Any treasures in the sale tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Spring cleaning seems to be upon us, and there’s a woman from Penrith getting rid of an attic full of stuff. Lovely things, most of them. I was up there with her two weeks ago, and we’ve been valuing and cataloguing it all right up to three days ago.’
‘Anything I might like?’
