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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Lake District Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
A wedding day turns into a far darker affair in the idyllic Lake District. On a glorious July morning in the pretty Lake District village of Threlkeld, Simmy Brown and Christopher Henderson celebrate their wedding day. While the event passes off without undue calamity, when most of the guests have departed a severely injured young man is found nearby. Pressure on police resources compromises the investigation and speculation is rife. Was it an accident or something more sinister? What was just a chilling suspicion develops into an altogether more disturbing theory.
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Seitenzahl: 404
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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The Threlkeld Theory
REBECCA TOPE
Another one for Esther
Contents
Author’s Note
As with other titles in this series, the action is set in real villages. Threlkeld is generally pronounced as ‘Threkkled’. A few minor liberties have been taken with its layout, as they have with Hartsop.
Chapter One
It happened barely ten minutes before they were due to leave and Angie Straw blamed Russell for it entirely.
‘Better have something to eat,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a while before we get anything, otherwise.’ So she bit down on a crunchy Hobnob and broke a tooth.
It was the small molar next to the eye tooth on the upper left-hand side. It had been mostly composed of filling and when she spat the debris into her hand, it was more black metal than white tooth. Half-chewed biscuit added more colour. She squealed and ran upstairs to the bathroom mirror. Unlike previous occasions, this time it looked worse than it felt. There was a jagged stump, dark brown in colour, the front wall of the tooth having disappeared completely. Even the smallest smile revealed it in all its horror.
‘Does it hurt?’ asked Russell when she went downstairs again.
She shook her head, unable to speak. If she made the attempt she feared she might cry. The day was already destined for high emotion – and now everything was condensed into this sudden calamity, which felt not far off the end of the world.
‘Just keep your mouth shut and carry on,’ her husband quipped, aware of an urgent need to defuse the situation. ‘Nobody’s going to look at us, are they?’
‘Photos,’ she mumbled, trying to speak through closed lips.
‘It’ll be fine. We’ll phone the dentist in a quiet moment and get you seen to, probably tomorrow. Come on now, we mustn’t be late. I’ll drive,’ he added heroically.
She found herself partially consoled, despite his culpability in giving her the fatal biscuit. Russell was solidly on her side at all times. After forty-four years, this was more true than it had ever been. Through sheer good fortune and with no special effort, they continued to like each other.
‘All right,’ she said thickly.
They were going to Keswick, twenty miles north of their home in Windermere, to witness the marriage of their daughter, Persimmon, to Christopher Henderson. It was late July, and the ceremony had been postponed from its original scheduled date in June. Robin, their baby, was now nearly four months old and the light of all their lives. The event had expanded, as such things did, and moved from one town to another as registry offices made difficulties and available bookings turned out to be in short supply.
Christopher had relatives in and around Penrith; he and Simmy lived in Hartsop, which was a lot closer to Keswick than Kendal, which was where they had originally proposed to get married. The Straws lived in Windermere, running a popular B&B business. Logistics and timings had mutated from basic and simple to convoluted and frustrating. All the original arrangements had been changed since April, when the decision to make themselves official had been cemented.
Now the post-wedding party was to be held in Threlkeld, a village close to Keswick, where Christopher’s sister, Hannah, had ordained they assemble at the pub for a meal confusingly known (but with perfectly rational historical origins) as ‘the wedding breakfast’. Nobody seriously challenged the choice of venue. Parking and navigating would both be easier than in the jumbled, tourist-thronged streets of Keswick and the place had a good garden. They could stay all afternoon. It was a Wednesday and none of the usual evening drunkenness was to be expected. Some people would fit the whole thing into a long lunch hour.
‘It’s only a tooth,’ Angie insisted to herself repeatedly during the drive. It did not exactly hurt, although she was aware that every time she opened her mouth the stump reacted to the incoming air. Russell strove to distract her by pointing out various features along the road. Once they had passed Ambleside, the A591 ran unimpeded northwards all the way to Keswick. The unassuming little Thirlmere on Angie’s side of the car was only sparsely dotted with visitors in the scanty parking areas that mostly had to be paid for. The day was dry with hazy cloud.
‘Bicuspid,’ she said suddenly.
‘Excuse me?’ This was a recent affectation on Russell’s part, copied from an American B&B guest. He relished ridiculous idioms wherever he found them, and adopted them as his own in some cases.
‘The tooth. It’s a bicuspid. I’ve been trying to remember the word for the past seven miles.’
‘I thought that was something to do with one’s heart.’
‘Oh. Is it? Now I’m confused.’
‘We can ask Ben to google it,’ said Russell, automatically.
‘Don’t let me smile,’ she begged him. ‘Can we arrange a signal for you to stop me?’
‘I’ll scratch my nose,’ he said. ‘Although I think you can risk a bit of a smirk, if not a fully-fledged grin.’
‘As if a wedding on its own wasn’t bad enough,’ she grumbled. ‘I’ll be remembered forever as the crone at the feast. The wicked godmother at the christening party. There’s one in every fairy tale.’
‘Charlotte Rampling in Melancholia,’ agreed Russell with a happy sigh. ‘How I do love that film. It’s so outrageously true.’
‘Nobody remembers the groom,’ said Angie randomly. ‘I wonder if Christopher is feeling a bit left out.’
‘It comes with the package – the groom being in the shadows, so to speak. But I’ve been wondering the same thing, now you mention it. Where did those boyish smiles go? I haven’t seen him look really unworried for a while now.’
‘It’ll be the job. And the baby.’
‘And getting married. He never was very good with responsibility. Not that I mean to criticise.’
The Straws had known Christopher Henderson from the day he was born. They remembered the little boy and the teenager he had been, before he took off on a prolonged spate of travelling, acquiring and discarding a wife along the way. Now he was back at the centre of their lives, they were enjoying getting to know him again. ‘He might be worrying that he’ll mess up this marriage like the first one,’ mused Angie. ‘Do you think?’
‘I hope not. This time he’s got our girl’s happiness in his hands. He’d better get it right.’
Angie was watching the picture-book scenery and wishing the day was over already and her tooth fixed. ‘I’d actually rather it would hurt more. Then I could demand a bit of sympathy. As it is, nobody’s going to be remotely interested.’
‘Nor should they be. This is not our day, old girl. Just remember that.’
Their daughter was wearing a garment that Angie thought of as a ‘midi-dress’. It went a few inches below her knees and appeared a trifle heavy for high summer, but it made her look tall and slim and carefree. It was a shade of light brown that Angie could find no name for, with flashes of white here and there. Very short sleeves and a low neck gave Simmy a subtly virginal look, which Angie found disconcertingly moving. At forty, it was no longer correct to think of Simmy as a girl, but Angie and Russell were not even trying to shake the habit.
Christopher Henderson, the groom, was an inch taller than his bride, almost as slender and exactly the same age. The two had met on the day they were born. Nobody would dream of using the word ‘incestuous’ about their relationship, but it was undeniable that they had a great deal of background in common. He wore a pale grey suit and a pink tie, which made him stand out amongst the small crowd of guests who, on the whole, had not taken a lot of trouble over their clothes. His hair had been cut shorter than quite suited him, but the subtle flashes of auburn were still there.
Angie remembered her envy at the newborn baby’s impressive quiff that glinted red in certain lights. Now here he was, waiting with the registrar for the business to begin. His gaze returned repeatedly to the window at the back of the room and the fells beyond, as if he needed to steady himself for a coming ordeal. Angie watched him closely, trying to assess his emotional state. Nervous, she concluded, and uncomfortable. As an auctioneer he was well used to being the centre of attention, so it couldn’t be that. No – this was an anxiety about becoming a husband and a parent all at the same time. She sighed impatiently, remembering Christopher’s father and how he had fallen short in so many ways. Was his eldest son doomed to follow the same road? Not if Angie Straw could help it, she decided, squaring her shoulders.
Everyone sat down, looking for Russell to bring his daughter into the room. It’s a parody, Angie thought, to her own surprise. The ceremony struck her as a mangled mashup of the age-old church service with its careful symbolism that fitted so uncomfortably with modern life. The father giving his girl away; the pre-adolescent female children clustering uncomprehendingly around the skirts of the bride; the ribald remarks of the groomsman; the food and drink; the flowers and the music and the dancing. Simmy and Christopher had avoided the worst of it, but with nothing of equal gravitas to take its place, they were forced to comply with the basic pattern. They had selected much of the wording, consistent with the minimal requirements of the law, and let Bonnie go overboard on the flowers. Simmy carried a spectacular bouquet, and every man in sight wore a buttonhole.
The registrar gave a few introductory remarks, which included the word ‘contract’ more than once. He was a man of about thirty in a nondescript suit who smiled relentlessly. His nose was peeling as if he’d recently been outside a lot without suncream.
Angie explored her tooth with her tongue every few seconds.
‘Stop it,’ hissed Russell, when he came to sit beside her, having delivered Simmy as required by tradition. ‘Leave it alone.’
Angie tried to distract herself by watching her grandson on the lap of his Auntie Hannah in a row full of Henderson relations. Robin was dressed in an outfit that looked vaguely Edwardian – a sailor suit, perhaps. Nobody had consulted Angie about what the infant ought to wear. He was placid by nature and more than happy to be passed from person to person, grabbing at hair or earrings as he went.
The next stage, which appeared to have no time limit to it, involved a lot of standing about in a courtyard while everybody took photos and chatted. Russell dutifully shook hands with everyone, posed for his picture and beamed indiscriminately at Christopher’s four siblings whom he had known their whole lives. George Henderson looked unwell and mumbled about having to get home for something important. Eddie, the middle son, stood square and respectable, uttering vague phrases about the day being a long time coming. Hannah and Lynn, the two sisters, bustled and bossed and took almost all the photos.
It was Angie who said, ‘Shouldn’t we be getting on? The pub’s going to wonder where we are.’ Which worked rather well, and started a drift to the car park, followed by a procession through the eastern side of Keswick and on to Threlkeld where the Horse and Farrier pub awaited them.
Several people were already there, sitting around tables outside. A hasty welcoming committee was assembled, the couple cheered and more photos were taken. There was an almost indecent haste to get on with the planned proceedings. It was half past one and they had asked for food to be available from one o’clock.
‘Sorry,’ Angie heard Simmy saying to the man in charge. ‘Everything took longer than we thought.’
Sandwiches, cold meat, salads and crisps were laid out on a long table under a gazebo and everybody got a free drink. Guests lined up and filled their plates. Angie had vetoed the making of speeches as one of her very few contributions to the event. But Christopher’s brother, Eddie, would take no advice or admonition and stood up on a chair at the end of the buffet table, as people were milling about collecting the food, and spoke a few words. Red-faced and unoriginal, he uttered the usual platitudes and Angie groaned. Louder than intended, as it turned out, and also badly timed, coming at a pause in the speech, so that everyone heard her.
‘Hush, woman!’ hissed her husband.
Eddie glared and raised a beer glass in a toast.
Simmy went over to her parents. ‘We should have had champagne,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Look at them!’
‘It is rather informal,’ said Russell carefully. ‘But none the worse for that. It’s lucky we chose this pub, with all this parking space.’ He smiled vaguely at all the cars that had fitted themselves into the two areas on either side of the road. His attempt at cheering his daughter was unsuccessful. ‘And the weather’s just what we ordered,’ he tried again.
‘Mum thinks it’s a shambles,’ Simmy accused. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I think no such thing,’ Angie replied. ‘But if the man had to make a speech, why couldn’t he choose a better moment?’
‘He meant well. He’s got a good heart, as Granny used to say.’
‘That’s another thing. I’m the oldest woman here – and I don’t like it. Everyone else is under fifty.’
‘Nonsense. Corinne’s nearly sixty, for a start. And Helen.’
‘Helen’s barely over fifty,’ snapped Angie. ‘She must have been well under forty when she had those twins.’
Simmy gave the special little frown she used when she wanted to imply that her mother was badly awry in her logic. ‘What does that have to do with it?’ she wondered.
‘Take no notice, pet,’ said Russell. ‘Your mother broke a tooth. Show her,’ he ordered Angie, who bared the stump.
Simmy peered into the mouth a few inches from her face. ‘When? How? Have you phoned the dentist?’
‘About two hours ago on a Hobnob. And no, there wasn’t time to phone anybody. We were practically in the car when it happened. It would have made us late.’
‘Does it hurt? Phone them now.’
‘How can I? I don’t go around with the dentist’s phone number in my head.’
Simmy gave her a long look.
‘She wants us to google it,’ Russell explained. ‘Like normal people.’
Angie heaved a sigh. ‘Let’s go and ask Ben to do it,’ she said, having observed young Ben Harkness and his beloved Bonnie sitting together at a table under a tree. A sunbeam had found them, sneaking between two branches and picking them out as the golden couple, rather than the newlyweds. ‘Look at them!’ she breathed with a sudden fond smile. ‘Like something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘Hardly,’ said Russell. ‘That play is pure cynicism from first to last. Especially the wedding scene.’
‘Stop it,’ said Simmy, turning back to look for her new husband. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And she strode down a little brick pathway to where Christopher was talking to both his brothers.
Angie gave herself a shake and set about the task of circulating, taking Russell with her. All the Hendersons were there, and they knew the Straws well, thanks to many shared holidays when they were small. There were also several grandchildren, whose names Angie made no attempt to remember. Eddie had a son they always referred to as ‘Jonty’, she reminded herself, and George had a daughter of about ten whose hair was alarmingly ginger. Lynn and Hannah had three little ones between them, with expectations of one or two more yet to come.
‘Auntie Angie!’ beamed Lynn, the youngest and the only one who applied the technically inaccurate Auntie to Angie’s name. ‘Isn’t this amazing. They’ve really done it. Don’t you think it feels like destiny, somehow? Just such a shame Mum’s not here to see it. You’ve got to be mother to both of them. And father,’ she added, looking at Russell.
The faint suggestion of incest was not lost on Angie, chiming as it did with her own thoughts. Everybody was aware of it – the fact that Simmy and Christopher had been virtually siblings in their earliest years. When they developed romantic feelings for each other in their teens, both sets of parents had been concerned; in Angie’s case because she felt strongly that her daughter should cast her net much wider. As it turned out, both youngsters cast unwisely as well as widely, with collapsed marriages behind them.
‘We should have let them do it twenty years ago,’ sighed Russell.
‘Wrong,’ Angie disagreed. ‘They’d have been constantly wondering whether they’d missed something. And now it’s the best of all worlds, with the baby and everything.’ Everything included Simmy’s florist shop, Christopher’s responsible and lucrative work and a highly desirable house in the northern reaches of the Lake District. ‘I don’t want anyone to think I disapprove. I just hate weddings.’ She sighed yet again, hearing its echo and resolving to stop doing it.
‘Maybe two,’ said Russell with incorrigible optimism.
‘Two what?’
‘Babies, of course.’
Angie allowed herself to relax into cosy reminiscences with Lynn about the vagaries of weather on the North Wales coast where the two families had spent their innumerable family holidays, recounting Christopher’s valiant efforts to barbecue sausages for ten people when he was barely into his teens. But she was also eyeing the wedding guests, with persistent echoes of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ running foolishly through her head. It occurred to Angie decades ago that her whole attitude towards weddings had been coloured by that poem. She found herself uneasily waiting to be collared by a stranger with a long tale to tell.
Afterwards she accused herself of making that very thing happen.
A man holding a full pint glass of beer approached her with a determined smile. ‘Mrs Straw!’ he proclaimed. ‘Mother of the bride.’
‘Guilty,’ she admitted. ‘A role I was never going to be suited for.’
He laughed excessively and sat down beside her, ignoring Lynn. ‘No, no – I congratulate you on the informal tone. It’s considerably better than any wedding I’ve been to. Not a photographer in sight. And the flowers are spectacular.’
‘I can take no credit for it,’ said Angie, waiting for him to introduce himself.
He got there eventually. ‘Derek Smythe,’ he said, patting himself on the chest. ‘Newbie at the auction house. Learning the ropes. New start and so forth. A real stroke of luck, the way it’s turned out.’
‘Ah,’ said Angie, who was dimly aware that a potential second auctioneer had been taken on to be trained up at the saleroom. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She scrutinised him closely. Younger than she had first thought – probably only mid-thirties. Brash, loud, but essentially insecure, she decided. At least two stone heavier than was good for him, and going in very much the wrong direction as far as that was concerned. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, thinking the occasion of the wedding made the question relevant.
‘Oh yes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘With a fine stepson for good measure.’
‘Any other children?’
‘Two little ones. The stepson is Bruno. He’s best mates with Jonty and I believe he knows your husband.’
Angie frowned. ‘Really? Is he here?’
‘Seems not. He might feel he doesn’t know you well enough; he only met Chris once, I think. He wouldn’t regard that enough of an acquaintance to intrude. He’s very shy. I’ve been trying to talk him into doing a bit of casual work for the saleroom, as it happens, but he says he wants space and freedom for a few weeks – whatever that means. I’m not in a position to force him, although we always need another pair of hands at weekends. Fetching and carrying. Gets on well with the clever lad, Ben. They’ve taken on a little house right here in Threlkeld for the rest of the summer, the three of them. It’s all one big happy family around here, let me tell you. It’s been a big relief to me, finding everyone at the auction house so friendly.’ He smiled contentedly and waved towards Ben and Bonnie. ‘You know Ben, of course. You probably know about the house, as well.’
‘Of course I know Ben,’ said Angie, who had mixed feelings about auctions, antiques and Ben Harkness’s new job. ‘But I hadn’t heard he was moving house. He’s supposed to be at university, not messing about with old pictures.’
‘Ah,’ said Derek Smythe cautiously. ‘But he wouldn’t be at uni now, would he? And he’s getting great experience. I understood he was having a year out, or something of the sort.’
Angie had never properly mastered the art of discretion, and saw no reason to withhold her views about Ben and his career. ‘His parents are very anxious for him to resume his studies,’ she said pompously. ‘This time last year he was destined for great things at Newcastle. Now he’s thrown all that away – or will do if he’s not careful.’
‘He’s young yet,’ said the man, with a worried look. ‘And with his feel for history, he’s always going to have plenty of options. My stepson thinks he’s a genius.’
‘He is,’ sighed Angie. ‘That’s most of the trouble.’
By four o’clock, the whole thing was almost over. Angie had a dental appointment for the coming Friday, thanks to Ben and his phone, and the newlyweds had departed with their baby for a token honeymoon night in a hotel in Carlisle.
‘Why Carlisle?’ Angie had demanded in bewilderment.
‘No reason. We just fancied it. It seemed to tick all the right boxes,’ said Simmy. ‘We’ll be back by supper time tomorrow, so Robin can go to bed as normal.’
Ben’s mother and sister, Helen and Tanya Harkness, had taken themselves home some time before, leaving the young couple to make their own arrangements. Ben had been working in Keswick at Christopher’s auction house for a month or so, and had found himself a temporary room in town. ‘It’s what used to be called “digs”,’ he told everyone. Bonnie still lived in Windermere with her foster mother, Corinne, and the logistics of meeting up with her beloved consumed much of her attention. Buses were generally involved, and lifts from willing people, whether friends or strangers.
The Straws were loitering.
‘We ought to wait until everyone’s gone,’ worried Russell. ‘Traditionally, we’re responsible, aren’t we?’
‘There’s nothing very traditional about all this,’ muttered Angie. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
‘I have a feeling it’s come to something very much like what we wanted it to, back in the seventies. We wanted to throw out all those fusty Victorianisms – church, uniforms, hypocrisies of every sort. Remember?’
‘We succeeded beyond our wildest dreams.’
Ben and Bonnie were listening. ‘Didn’t you like it, then?’ asked Bonnie worriedly. ‘I thought it was lovely.’
Angie gazed at her. ‘Did you? Really? Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘It was so real,’ the girl said. ‘They’re such a perfect match, with the baby and everything. And they love each other like proper grown-ups, nothing mushy or pretend about it.’
‘No hypocrisy,’ summarised Ben with a look at Russell. ‘It was what it was.’
‘Hm,’ said Angie, thinking again about Christopher. ‘Well at least they were lucky with the weather, after all that rain. It’s been perfect all day. Not too hot for comfort.’
‘And Threlkeld’s really sweet,’ Bonnie went on. ‘I’ve never been here before. It’s the absolute right place for the wedding party. No touristy stuff, everything nice and simple. Just a mountain and nice, ordinary people with proper jobs.’
‘Not so much as a lake,’ said Russell with a laugh. ‘It’s like Coniston with all the embellishments removed.’
‘How do you know about people’s jobs?’ wondered Angie.
Bonnie laughed. ‘It’s just a feeling, really. When we came here earlier on, we didn’t see any signs of tourist stuff.’
‘I have a theory,’ said Ben, pausing to make sure they were all listening. ‘I was thinking about it just now. It’s something Bruno and I came up with. We don’t think this place is nearly as simple and innocent as it looks. Nowhere could be. I just bet there’s a whole alternate reality just below the surface. Nowhere with a name like Threlkeld could fail to have layers – dimensions.’
‘He’s been reading Philip Pullman,’ Bonnie explained. ‘It’s made him go all whimsical.’
Everybody laughed.
‘So, where is Bruno?’ Russell wanted to know. ‘I’ve been expecting him all afternoon. I wanted to talk to him about our man.’
Even Ben was bemused. ‘Who’s “our man”?’
‘Come on. You’ve got to have heard him going on about the glorious EBL.’ Russell gazed at the blank faces. ‘Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Great man of the nineteenth century. Spent some months up here in his youth, married the impossible Rosina. Bruno’s read all his novels. Or nearly all. I’m still revelling in Alice, which is a real joy.’
‘Oh. Right,’ said Ben. ‘The “dark and stormy night” man.’
Russell grimaced. ‘If you must, but it’s galling to have him remembered for nothing else other than that. He was great, I tell you. He’ll have his revival any minute now.’
Ben also grimaced. ‘Bruno hasn’t mentioned an interest in him to me.’
Russell shrugged. ‘I get the impression that lad keeps his interests in separate compartments, so to speak.’
Angie was still puzzling. ‘When do you see Bruno?’ she asked. ‘Where does he live? Who is he?’
‘You never pay proper attention,’ Russell grumbled. ‘Remember my little history group, and the course of talks we attended last winter? Well, Bruno did a paper, but he was too timid to read it. It was about Bulwer coming up here after his first girlfriend died. She’s buried at Ullswater somewhere. He’d done very impressive research. I read the paper for him, and we got friendly.’
‘He’s that man’s stepson,’ Angie remembered. ‘Smythe.’
‘And he’s Jonty’s very good friend,’ said Bonnie. ‘The two of them are going to move into a house with Ben right here, next week. It’s all happening,’ she said with a slightly unhappy look.
‘Without you, poor girl,’ said Russell with excessive sympathy.
‘She can come and see us any time,’ said Ben, with a hint of irritation.
‘How?’ wondered Angie.
‘Good question,’ said Bonnie, making every effort to be stoical. ‘Oh – and can you give me a lift home, please?’ she added. ‘Corinne isn’t going to be able to take me. She’s going to Penrith for some reason. She could drop me at the station, and I could get a train, but …’
‘You don’t wanna do that,’ quipped Russell.
Chapter Two
Bonnie chattered incessantly from the back of the car on the drive back to Windermere. She had been comprehensively congratulated on the flowers that had not only adorned almost all the people at the marriage ceremony, but had also decorated parts of the Threlkeld pub. A table centrepiece, a summery garland draped over the main doorway and three large, free-standing vases outside all proclaimed her skill. ‘So imaginative!’ people had marvelled, and Bonnie had glowed. The pub agreed that everything could stay for a day or so, after which point Simmy or Christopher were expected to remove it all.
‘I quite liked Eddie,’ she burbled. ‘He talked to me for a bit and said I should have been a bridesmaid and he was calling himself the best man, even if Christopher didn’t want him to. He tried to be jokey about it, but I think his feelings were a bit hurt. Did you know his son was called Jonty? That’s a good name, don’t you think? Jonty’s nearly nineteen – Eddie was only twenty when he was born, and they got married when he was three. And they’ve never had any more children.’
‘We know all that,’ said Angie. ‘We’ve known the whole family since Christopher was born.’
‘Oh, yes. So you have. I forgot. I mean – not exactly forgot, but nobody’s ever mentioned Jonty as being one of the Hendersons, so he doesn’t really feel like part of the family. When Ben got friendly with him last summer, he didn’t seem connected to Christopher or Simmy at all. It was quite a big coincidence, when you think about it. If you see what I mean.’
‘Sort of,’ said Angie wearily. ‘It’s a coincidence I hadn’t been aware of, to be honest. Ben knowing Jonty, I mean.’
Bonnie was in full flow, eager to explore every connection and observation that had arisen during the day, knowing she would get very little opportunity to speak to the main players again for some time. ‘Did you go to Eddie and George’s weddings, then? What about Hannah and Lynn? I talked to all of them a bit. But I’m still not sure which is which of the sisters.’
‘Hannah’s the one with the long, frizzy hair,’ said Russell. ‘And yes, we went to all but one of their weddings. We could hardly avoid it, once we’d moved up here. Kit and Frances would have been very upset with us if we hadn’t shown up.’
‘Isn’t it sad that they’re both dead? It seems to me that that’s why this wedding was so small and quiet. Don’t you think?’
Angie turned round, making a great effort to be patient. ‘They’ve both been married before,’ she pointed out. ‘That makes an enormous difference, whatever people might pretend to themselves. And weddings are a terrible waste of money. I’m just thankful it’s all over.’
‘Take no notice,’ said Russell. ‘She’s tired and she’s got a broken tooth.’
‘It’s OK,’ Bonnie assured him. ‘I like hearing what people really think.’ She smiled at Angie. ‘Does the tooth hurt?’
‘Not really – but it’s there, if you know what I mean. It niggles me.’
‘Robin was good, wasn’t he? Fancy him having such an old cousin, though. Jonty, I mean. It was good that they all came – clever to leave it till the school holidays, so they’d be able to.’
‘Bonnie …’ said Angie tiredly. ‘Do you think you could just sit quietly for a bit?’
‘Oh! Sorry. Have you got a headache?’
‘Sort of. It’s more that I can’t properly hear you in the back without turning round, and that gives me a sore neck. Your flowers were fabulous. The best part of the whole thing, by miles.’
‘Thanks.’ Bonnie subsided, and Angie caught Russell casting worried looks in the rear mirror, checking that she wasn’t wounded. Angie had no such concern. The girl was irrepressible. Five minutes later, Bonnie was bobbing up again, her head hovering between the two front seats.
‘I saw you talking to Mr Smythe,’ she said to Angie. ‘Ben’s been telling me about him. I suppose that’s another coincidence – I mean that Bruno’s going to share the bungalow and his dad’s working at the saleroom. I’m not sure what came first, if you see what I mean.’
‘Bruno is Derek’s stepson, is that right? I keep forgetting their names.’ Angie’s head really was beginning to throb.
‘Yes, that’s right. His mother’s older than her husband, and it’s her son but not his. There are little ones as well. I can’t remember how many. Bruno’s almost nineteen and waiting for the results of his A-levels. They live in Penrith … and now Jonty’s working at the auction house as well, Mr Smythe drives him there. Actually, I suppose it all connects rather neatly. Jonty and Bruno have been friends for ages, and Ben knows Jonty because of Christopher. So I expect that’s how Mr Smythe got the job.’
‘Bonnie, you have to stop,’ Angie interrupted. ‘You’ve said most of that already.’
‘OK, but …’
‘It’s no good,’ said Russell. ‘It’s all too much fun to just drop, I know. The coincidences are legion, with me knowing Bruno as well.’
‘Did he tell you about the boys finding the house in Threlkeld?’ asked Bonnie.
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Russell. ‘In fact I had no idea he was matey with Jonty until today. To be honest, it’s been quite a while since I last saw him. Everything stopped for the holidays.’
‘Please!’ begged Angie. ‘This is getting ridiculous. You sound like two old men in a pub reminiscing about everybody you’ve ever known. None of it matters, does it?’
There was no answer to that. They were entering the centre of Ambleside, which was the only actual town the route went through, and which could be slow and annoying. It was also interesting, because you quite often saw someone you knew on the pavement.
Not today, though. Angie leaned back and closed her eyes and Russell pulled faces at Bonnie in the rear-view mirror.
They were half a mile from Beck View when Bonnie started again, returning to the subject of the bungalow in Threlkeld. ‘It’s going to be great when they’ve got their own place. The rent’s really low, so Ben’s only paying a bit more than for the room he’s got now. Jonty’s earning money at the auction house and I think Bruno’s got some that an old aunt left him when he was twelve. They’ve only signed up for two months. Apparently the owner might want to sell the house after that.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ said Russell heartily. ‘Like in the olden days where groups of youngsters took over a house to squat in. Remember that?’ he asked his wife.
‘Vividly,’ she said, and Bonnie laughed.
Then Angie, who was feeling better now she was nearly home, went on, ‘But there’s not much of the summer left now. Haven’t they been a bit slow off the mark? Another month and they’ll have to get back to school or whatever.’
‘They’ve all left school. Bruno’s got a place at Bristol, if his results are good enough. They will be – he’s a bit of a prodigy, like Ben. Youngest in the year and all that.’ Bonnie sighed wistfully, apparently thinking about her own inglorious academic career. ‘Jonty only did two A-levels, and doesn’t have a place anywhere. He might try for some sort of apprenticeship. His mum and dad don’t seem in any hurry for him to leave home – or the area, anyway. Mr Smythe drives him to work every day, you know. I said that before, didn’t I? He won’t have to do that now, because he can easily cycle to Keswick from Threlkeld. And Bruno’s got a car,’ she finished irrelevantly.
‘And there’s you stuck in the shop and missing all the fun,’ said Russell with real sympathy. ‘That must be frustrating for you.’
‘It is a bit,’ Bonnie agreed candidly. ‘It’s such a long way from here to Keswick. Even though Bruno’s got a car, it’s a lot to ask him to come and get me and then take me home again. And the buses take such a long time.’
‘You’ll work something out,’ said Angie carelessly. ‘After all, they’re not even living there yet, are they? And I expect there’s a lot to do in the shop, after all this wedding business. I don’t imagine Persimmon’s been much use to you these past few weeks.’
‘She’s coming in on Saturday to help us catch up.’
The girl’s voice was flat; much of the exuberance dispersed by the prospect of going back to the old routines and seeing much less of her boyfriend than she would like. ‘It feels like the day after Boxing Day,’ she said. ‘Nothing to look forward to for ages.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Angie, suddenly confronted by visions of B&B guests with their demands and complaints and fussy requirements for breakfast. ‘We should probably all go for a good holiday.’
‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Russell.
In Threlkeld, Ben was still at the pub, sitting with Jonty Henderson and Derek Smythe, talking about the auction house and the recent changes there.
‘Pity we can’t persuade Bruno to work there as well,’ said Jonty, who was as solidly built as the older man and who enjoyed a good game of rugby. His position as the boss’s nephew had not given him any special privileges, much to his relief. Hefting crates of old books and rolling up precious Persian carpets were pleasantly mindless jobs that he was more than willing to perform.
Every time Ben saw Jonty and Bruno together, he was inescapably reminded of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Bruno was tall, thin and intelligent, his gaze fixed on some distant point, while his capable but unambitious friend ran round him smoothing his path. Which meant, on reflection, that where brains were concerned, the roles were somewhat reversed.
At work, Ben was shadowing a woman called Fiona who was the chief valuer for the business, as well as performing other roles. She advised vendors on where to pitch the reserve on their items, warned against inflated expectations and knew exactly where to look for expert confirmation of her estimates. She directed Ben to websites that would educate him about hallmarks and the scrawls on the bases of pieces of china. He was learning at his usual lightning pace and excitedly realising that a career in the antique business was not to be sniffed at. His parents, who clung to the hope that he would somehow, somewhere, acquire a first-class degree, were not happy.
Fiona had been at the post-wedding party, looking rather detached and friendless. Ben had resolved to go and talk to her, but as he approached he was overtaken by a man he didn’t recognise. ‘Who’s he?’ he asked Simmy, who was close by.
‘That’s George – you must have seen him before. He did say he wouldn’t be here – just the ceremony itself. He’s barely said a word to me. He looks rather ill, don’t you think?’
Ben nodded and Simmy moved away. As he watched, Ben had the impression that George and Fiona were already acquainted, which struck him as surprising. George was the least sociable of the Hendersons. Ben remembered that he had seen George once before – at his father’s funeral. The rest of the family habitually made disparaging remarks about him. But Ben had discovered that the auction business was a meeting point for all kinds of people from all over the region – and beyond. Well-dressed women with money to spare sat alongside unkempt dealers with sharp eyes and sharper wits. The most unlikely relationships would be formed over a mutual love of old cameras or Rosenthal porcelain. Competition could evolve into subtle deals and favours, nods and winks and a united front against the auctioneer.
Which left the auctioneer’s employees caught in the middle. It was entirely permissible for them to bid for objects they might want, but it often sent a frisson through the room when that happened. Ben watched it all with fascination, at the same time as monitoring online bids and keeping track of buyer numbers. His quick mind had soon led to his being given much more responsibility than his youth might indicate.
Christopher had not even tried to hide his admiration. ‘You could really make a career out of this,’ he said, more than once.
‘Tell that to my parents,’ Ben would reply glumly. ‘Without a degree I’m nothing, in their eyes.’
‘In that case, they can’t think much of me, either,’ laughed Christopher. ‘I went off on a gap year after school and didn’t come back for a decade or so.’
They both knew that this was an oversimplification of the man’s CV, but the point was made and Ben felt more conflicted than ever. ‘I expect it’ll work out somehow,’ he said with a shrug.
Now, at his boss’s wedding, he was determined not to think about his future. Bonnie had been his main focus, until the Straws had whisked her away – at her own request, he had to admit. With her magnificent flowers she had personally elevated the undeniably low-key event into something memorable. Colour, exuberance, scent and a sense of something special would all have been lacking without her contribution. The people running the pub had laughed and admired and only rolled their eyes at it all when they thought no one was looking.
Somehow, Ben had assumed the celebrations would last considerably longer, with more food as they lingered till sunset. But once the happy couple had disappeared much earlier than Ben had expected everything seemed to just fizzle out. Which was why he ended up with Smythe and Jonty, neither of whom seemed eager to leave.
‘Where’s Bruno now?’ Ben asked. ‘He could have come if he’d wanted, you know. It was open house, no proper invitations or anything.’
‘He’s never met Simmy and hardly knows Chris,’ said Derek Smythe. ‘It wouldn’t seem right. The only people he does know are Jonty, you and me – and I don’t count, being a mere stepdad. I couldn’t have introduced him to anyone, either. They were mostly strangers to me, as well. I never even managed to talk to Jonty’s Uncle George. He seemed to disappear quite early.’
‘He’s like that, apparently,’ said Ben. ‘You probably know that the last time the Hendersons all got together like this was when their parents died. Two funerals within a month or so of each other was pretty traumatic for them. I think George was the one who took it all the hardest. But he seems to know Fiona. Maybe he comes to the auctions now and then.’
Jonty spoke up, reminding Ben that he was related to the people they were discussing. ‘Uncle George is OK when you get to know him. He takes a long time to trust people. My dad makes it worse, as I see it. Always teasing him, as if they were about ten. He misses Willow since the divorce. That makes him sad.’ He raised his big head and gave Ben a look that felt like defiance. ‘Divorce is pants. It should never be allowed. Not if there are kids, anyhow. I guess it’s good that Uncle Chris is divorced, so he can marry Simmy.’
‘Willow?’ echoed Smythe, making a very obvious effort to keep track.
‘My cousin. She’s ten and she’s got ginger hair. She’s very shy. I used to play with her when she was about four. She worshipped me,’ he added, with no false modesty.
‘Where does she live?’ asked Smythe.
Ben and Jonty exchanged a glance, unsure about the reasons for this interrogation. It felt like something more than idle chatter. Ben paid heed to his position as close friend of the boss’s wife, which Smythe was perhaps trying to exploit in some way.
Jonty answered briefly. ‘She lives with her mother, somewhere not far away. I think Uncle George sees her at weekends.’
‘Willow.’ Smythe nodded, as if committing the name to memory.
Jonty was folding a paper napkin with extreme care, tweaking and turning it one way and then another, until he produced a perfect little sailing boat, which he placed in front of Ben with a smile.
‘Hey!’ said Smythe admiringly. ‘That’s brilliant. I’d have thought the paper was too floppy for something like that.’
‘Don’t try sailing it,’ said Jonty. ‘The paper’s too absorbent. It holds its shape, though.’
‘Can you do anything else?’
Ben laughed. ‘Only about a thousand things,’ he said. ‘It’s his party piece. He’s been doing it since he was about three, apparently.’
‘Why don’t we call Bruno and tell him we’re still here,’ Derek suggested. ‘It’s not too late.’
‘I tried, actually,’ said Jonty. ‘He’s not picking up his phone, which isn’t unusual. The only person he seems to want to talk to is Patsy.’
‘Who?’ Ben frowned in puzzlement.
‘You know – Patsy, his girlfriend. At least, I think that’s what she wants to be. They do a lot of online gaming together. She’s quite old, like twenty-four, and she’s a social worker.’
‘I’ve never even heard him say her name.’ Ben was bemused. ‘Not once.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s typical. I was surprised, actually, when he said it’d be OK for the three of us to share the house. He likes to deal with people one at a time.’ Jonty looked at Derek. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Derek Smythe shrugged. ‘Now you mention it, that sounds about right, yes. We’ve seen Patsy a time or two, but she doesn’t say a lot. I’d guess it’s putting it a bit strong to call her a girlfriend. She’s just one of his clever friends. He knows Simmy’s dad as well. I bet he never told you that, either.’
‘Lord Lytton.’ Ben nodded. ‘He told us. Russell, I mean – not Bruno. It sounds interesting, actually. I didn’t know there was a Lake District connection.’
Smythe and Jonty were both now looking as bewildered as Ben had just done.
Ben sighed. He was missing Bonnie, finding the all-male group rather heavy going. In a family with three sisters – not exactly mirroring the Hendersons, but close enough – he felt odd without a female in the mix. In the two terms he had spent at university, the only significant friends he had managed to make had been two girls. He liked Simmy enormously. Bonnie was a miraculous soulmate and at least one of his sisters was turning into excellent company as she grew up.
He looked from Derek to Jonty, wondering why he felt awkward. Perhaps, he told himself, it was simply that he was unsure about how they regarded Christopher and where the balance of power might lie. They all saw each other every day at work, but Smythe seldom chatted to the boys. The auction house had seen recent upheavals and a few fairly serious mistakes had been made since Ben had joined the workforce. One at least had been the fault of Derek Smythe, though the man had never fully admitted this; instead he had tried to shift the blame onto Ben. The sour feelings around that still hadn’t gone away for Ben, although the older man seemed oblivious of any lurking resentment. There was something untrustworthy about him, which made Ben wonder about his relationship with Bruno. A stepfather was probably intrinsically unreliable anyway, but in Bruno’s case, there was a major discrepancy in their intelligence levels, which had to be uncomfortable.
He realised he’d had enough of the wedding party and tried to weigh up whether or not he would feel better going back to his airless little room in a Keswick terrace, where he would have to provide his own evening meal and entertainment. He knew he had been rash in taking it on in such a hurry, as soon as he got the job with Christopher. The only upside to it was that it was a five minute walk from the saleroom, and that after Henderson had paid him, he could manage the modest room rental with plenty to spare. One of the many downsides was that he watched families enjoying their self-catering holidays in neighbouring houses, and the busy B&Bs offering large rooms with magnificent breakfasts, while he sweltered in a south-facing second-floor attic with only a microwave and a kettle to shield him from starvation.
His parents were sulking because of his shocking abandonment of his degree course. ‘You’re a dropout!’ his father had exclaimed in horror. ‘Of all people, I never thought that would be you.’ As a result, they were in no mood to subsidise his current lifestyle. ‘You’re on your own,’ said David Harkness, flatly.
At least the time in the Keswick digs was almost at an end, much to his relief; the suggestion from Bruno and Jonty about a place in Threlkeld had come at just the right moment. The all-male aspect of the arrangement could be diluted with regular visits from Bonnie – and perhaps Simmy sometimes as well. She had reached the point where the days with a baby were growing tedious and regular outings essential.
