The Ambleside Alibi: 2

by Rebecca Tope

  Chapter Seven

  The woman looked older and sadder than she had on Wednesday. Then she had shown an animated array of emotions, one of them being a kind of excitement. She had permitted Simmy to share some of her personal details, at least at first. Now she stood pathetically just inside the door and blinked as if unsure of where she was, or why.

  ‘This is Persimmon Petals?’ she quavered. ‘I came on the bus, you see.’

  ‘Is there something the matter?’ She wanted to add with the flowers, but stopped herself. That would be too defensive, as well as much too trivial. Mrs Joseph was worrying about something far deeper than the condition of a bunch of flowers. And yet they had been substandard. Comprised of week-old carnations and dahlias, with lacklustre greenery, she had known from the start they were unworthy. Just because the Candida girl had insisted on spending less than twenty pounds, Simmy had lowered her own standards unforgivably.

  ‘Well, in a way.’ The old lady lifted her chin in a valiant attempt to be dignified. ‘The flowers – do you remember? From my granddaughter, it said.’

  ‘And you thought they were from the one who was adopted? Yes, I remember.’

  ‘It seems I was wrong. That girl died. My daughter has known for years, but never told me. My granddaughter got breast cancer and died, when she was thirty-six. She’d be forty-two now. Imagine that!’

  Again, Simmy wrestled with the mental arithmetic. Mrs Joseph’s daughters were likely to be mid to late fifties at most. If one of them had a daughter forty-two years ago, she’d have been about sixteen at the time. Not so terribly unusual, of course, but highly likely to carry elements of real tragedy hidden in the detail. ‘How old are your daughters?’ she found herself asking. Any more of these calculations, and she’d give herself a headache.

  ‘Davy is fifty-nine and Nicola is fifty-three. Davy had the baby when she was seventeen. Nobody forced her to give it up. I wouldn’t like you to think that. It was not especially shameful or secret. Her father was upset, of course – what man wouldn’t be, even now? She was so young, still his baby girl, in his eyes. The boy wasn’t much older. He’d nothing to say for himself. Davy saw right through him, and knew he’d never be any use. She wanted to be a radiographer. She’d wanted it ever since she broke her leg when she was ten, and got so fascinated by the x-ray machines. The baby went to a good home, and nothing more was ever said about her.’

  ‘Did Davy have more children?’

  ‘A boy, when she was thirty-one. Stephen.’

  ‘And Nicola?’

  The old lady’s face tightened, her mouth a thin line. ‘I don’t see a lot of her. She’s opted for a very unsavoury way of life. I’m afraid I no longer know what to say to her.’

  Simmy could think of no constructive answer to this. ‘Oh dear,’ she mumbled.

  ‘The thing is, dear, I’ve come to ask for your help. Davy says there’s been a mistake somewhere and the flowers came to the wrong person. She says there’s no way in the world that I can have an unknown granddaughter. She vows black and blue that it has nothing to do with her – quite cross about it, she was. And Nicola – well, let’s just say she’d never have come close to getting herself in the family way. The idea is simply ludicrous, as Davy said.’

  ‘A mistake?’ Simmy shook her head. ‘I really can’t see … I mean, couldn’t it be that Nicola was, well – forced, somehow?’

  ‘Raped, you mean? And made pregnant? I did think of that. But I would have known. I would have been told. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, and there really isn’t any way that she could have gone through a pregnancy. She only lives in Keswick and my brother lives a few streets away. She gets on well with his wife – always has. She’s a real peacemaker, is Sally. A very dear woman. She’d have let me know if there’d been anything … I phoned her yesterday, just to make sure. She vowed there’d never been any hint of a baby. They’ve seen Nicola at least once a month since she left home. Sally laughed at the very idea.’

  ‘All the same …’ Simmy floundered. ‘I suppose it could have been some awful kind of joke.’

  Mrs Joseph seized on this eagerly. ‘Yes! It could, couldn’t it? People do horrible things like that sometimes, don’t they? Will you tell me, then, who it was that ordered the flowers? You must have a name, or phone number or something. How did they pay? You have to tell me something. It’s driving me mad, you see. I can’t sleep. And they weren’t even very nice flowers,’ she added, with the long-expected note of reproach.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything. I’m really sorry, but it would be the most outrageous breach of confidence.’

  ‘I do understand that. But, you see, I’ve been thinking about it. Surely she wanted me to trace her? Why would she make such a gesture in the first place? And how did she know it was my birthday? It’s all so mysterious. I had an idea. Do you think you could forward a letter to her, from me? That’s what the adoption people do, you know. Then she can reply to me directly, if she wants to.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got her address,’ lied Simmy, feeling terrible.

  ‘But you could get it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Besides – she’s got your address,’ Simmy remembered, in relief. ‘I think she’ll approach you herself, if she’s genuine, and it’s not just a trick or a joke.’

  ‘But her name. You know her name.’

  ‘I can’t give it to you.’ It was anguish to be so unaccommodating. She felt like a stiff public servant brushing off an importunate applicant for extra funds. ‘I really am very sorry. I can understand how you must feel, but if you’re absolutely sure that it isn’t possible that you’ve got a granddaughter, then you should try to forget all about it. There is a chance, I suppose, that it’s part of a confidence trick – that she’s out to get your money or something. You probably ought to be careful.’

  This wasn’t helpful, she realised. ‘You mean, I should tell the police about it?’ Disbelief made Mrs Joseph’s jaw go slack. ‘Surely not!’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. Perhaps not unless something else happens.’

  ‘If I did, and they took it seriously, they’d question you about it and you’d have to give the person’s name to the police, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably,’ Simmy said, impressed at the clarity of the old woman’s thinking. She wondered whether she herself would have been so competent under the same circumstances. ‘But I’m not sure they would take it very seriously, as it stands. After all, the only thing that’s happened is that you’ve been sent some flowers. I’m just saying you might be wise to watch out for anything else that might happen.’

  Mrs Joseph went very pale. ‘Like being murdered, you mean,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I heard what happened to Nancy Clark.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Not really. I think there was some vague connection between my husband and her sister Penny. Nancy sent a rambling letter of condolence when he died. Something about a school reunion in the 1970s. I had no idea what she was talking about. It almost sounded as if she was hinting at an affair between them.’

  ‘How very nasty.’

  ‘She never married. I think she must have got bitter and twisted. Some women do, you know.’

  Simmy made a mental resolve that it wouldn’t happen to her. Mrs Joseph went on, ‘Perhaps that explains why she got herself murdered, don’t you think? She must have been rude to somebody and they lost all control. If that was what happened, there’d be no need for anyone else to worry, would there? No need to keep looking over our shoulders, waiting for a madman to attack.’

  ‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ said Simmy confidently. ‘I didn’t mean that, anyway. The flowers can’t have anything at all to do with Miss Clark, can they?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the woman agreed. ‘I don’t know why I brought the subject up. It’s just all those policemen in town, you can’t get away from it.’

  If anything, Simmy was quite glad of the diversion. She had managed to fend off Mrs Joseph’s de
mands for information, while letting her speak freely about her situation. The old lady had grown in stature and confidence during the conversation, showing herself to be fully functional mentally, and quite robust physically. She had been landed with a major mystery, and had tackled it intelligently. Simmy decided that she liked Mrs Joseph and she suspected the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. You’ve made a lovely job of this shop, haven’t you?’ She looked around with little nods of approval. ‘And if you do change your mind about giving me that person’s name – well, you know where I am.’

  ‘Right.’

  Simmy watched her go with a sense of having allowed principles to dominate normal human decency. She wasn’t sure what she might have lost by giving Candida Hawkins’ name to the woman she claimed was her grandmother. It might even have been what the girl wanted and expected – a devious way of making contact, for which she could subsequently disclaim responsibility. If so, then Simmy had no wish to act as go-between, without knowing a lot more of the implications.

  All the same, it was a preferable mystery to that of who had killed Nancy Clark, and why. Even if it was a scam of some kind, it had the merit of originality. And she had no serious qualms that Mrs Joseph ran any risk of becoming the next murder victim.

  Ben called in again that afternoon, talking almost before he was inside the door. ‘That adoption business,’ he began. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

  ‘Well don’t. I’ve had the granny lady in today, and she says there’s no chance whatever that it’s really a grandchild of hers. One daughter swears blind that it’s not hers, and the other apparently never had anything to do with men, and couldn’t possibly have got pregnant.’

  Ben blushed briefly, but was undeterred. ‘But what if it’s her husband’s grandchild? I mean – that would more or less make her the grandma, wouldn’t it? He’s quite likely to have unknown children somewhere.’

  ‘He’s dead, Ben. He’s been dead for years and years.’

  ‘All the more reason they’d go to her, then. They’ll be after the inheritance. She’ll have got his money, won’t she?’

  ‘If there was any. It’s only a small house. She doesn’t look very rich to me. Plus there are two daughters who’ll get everything when she goes. Although she might have left Nicola out of her will, by the sound of it. She doesn’t seem very fond of Nicola.’

  ‘Well, it’s still a good theory,’ he insisted.

  ‘I don’t think it is. Why now?’

  ‘Maybe the old girl’s been ill lately.’

  Simmy did her best to give the matter her full consideration. For one thing, she had no wish to hurt Ben’s feelings by dismissing his ideas, and for another, she found herself intrigued by the whole experience. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it might have some mileage to it. Mrs J said there was something between that Penny Clark Melanie told us about, and Mr Joseph. Something about a school reunion in the seventies, and a card that came after he died.’

  ‘There you are, then!’ he triumphed. ‘So this is a secret love child, coming to claim its rightful dues.’

  ‘It has to be the child of the love child,’ Simmy corrected him. ‘Which seems rather remote to me.’

  ‘No, no,’ he argued. ‘Think about it. If you suddenly discovered that your parent – mother, probably – had been adopted, after a lifetime of secrecy, you’d want to know who the original parents were, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Um … Would I? I’d probably think it was none of my business. And where’s the adopted mother in all this, anyway?’

  ‘She could be dead, or emigrated or something. Plus,’ he added with great emphasis, ‘it leads straight to a connection with the murder! You’ll have to tell the Moxo man about it.’

  ‘No, wait. What if the daughter that was adopted – that is, Mrs J’s granddaughter, child of Davida – had a child? That would be possible. It would fit quite easily, in fact. Then this would be a great-granddaughter.’

  ‘Hey – that’s brilliant! I bet the cops would never think of that.’

  ‘They would, if they thought it was important. But it’s not, Ben. It’s our own private little mystery, nothing to do with the police. I mean, what would I say if I did go to the inspector with it? You think I should tell him about the message on the flowers, I get that. But there isn’t anything else, is there?’

  ‘I suppose the rest of it is all hearsay,’ he agreed thoughtfully. Ben was especially interested in the nuances of evidence and the delicate game the law required police prosecutors to play. ‘But they can check most of it,’ he concluded.

  ‘How can they? The only hard fact is Mrs Joseph’s name and address. I think it would be mean to bring her to their attention. Poor old thing – she’s obviously got nothing at all to do with the murder.’

  Ben ignored her. ‘I wonder whether she knows your Mr Kitchener?’ he mused. ‘That would connect everything up beautifully.’

  ‘How would it? We already decided, with Melanie, that in a small town everybody’s going to be connected, anyway. None of it helps catch a murderer. If you go back fifty years, you’ll probably find that everybody in Ambleside has got some sort of motive for killing everybody else in town.’

  ‘We’re not interested in everybody. Just a few. After all,’ he said patiently, ‘somebody really did kill the old girl. They must have had a reason.’

  In spite of herself, Simmy knew she was hooked. She admired her young friend’s cleverness; even his unemotional approach to events that she found wrenching helped her to get some perspective. But a dash of compassion would not have gone amiss, all the same. Ben was clearly destined for a great career as a forensic pathologist or something of the sort – no doubt achieving brilliant results, thanks to his great intellect. It would just be nice if he acknowledged that there was pain and fear, disgust and despair somewhere in the story as well.

  ‘We shouldn’t be getting ahead of ourselves without Melanie,’ she decided. ‘She’ll never forgive us if we leave her out. Besides, we need her for all the background stuff. That’s where her real strength lies. She knows everybody.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, same as she has.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s actually related to most of them.’ And she’s much more interested in the personal stuff, she could have added, but didn’t. Instead she said, ‘Wilf was here this morning, you know. He was looking for her.’

  Ben groaned. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he pleaded, in a poor attempt at adult cynicism. Then he performed another change of subject. ‘I got you that ticket. For the play on Saturday, remember?’ He rooted in his school bag for some time, before producing a crumpled scrap of paper.

  ‘Oh, thanks. How much is it?’

  ‘Have it on the house,’ he said. ‘You’re in the second row.’

  ‘Great. I’m looking forward to it. It’s the only thing I’ve got booked between now and Christmas.’ She remembered DI Moxon’s joke about the undertakers’ ball, and thought whimsically of a florists’ party, with everyone in fancy dress representing some kind of flower.

  ‘My parents are throwing a big bash next week,’ he said gloomily. ‘With about fifty friends and neighbours. It’ll be madness.’

  ‘Do they make you serve the canapés?’

  ‘No way. They make me talk to people. And all anyone does is ask me about school, and which universities I’ve applied to and what career I’ve chosen. Then they glaze over when I tell them.’

  ‘Why? What do you tell them?’

  He looked at her. ‘Don’t you know?’

  She frowned. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever asked you for details. I just assumed you’d applied for various science courses.’ She had a faint recollection of some sort of enquiry when she first met him, but had no memory of the reply.

  ‘I’ve got a firm place at UCL to do forensic archaeology, from next October. Got the letter this week.’

  ‘Blimey! And you never said anything.
Isn’t that very early to get accepted? I seem to remember it all happens in February and March. Has it all changed since my day?’

  He shrugged self-effacingly. ‘It’s a sort of fast-track thing. I did all the paperwork last year, and … well, sidestepped a few of the procedures. It’s complicated.’

  She cocked her head at him. ‘You’re telling me you’re so darn clever they’ve accepted you a year earlier than anyone else. Does Melanie know about this?’

  ‘More or less. I keep telling you about Bones, remember? Well, I wanted to go and study in the States, so I wrote to a couple of places. They said I should at least do the first degree here.’

  ‘I see,’ said Simmy, not entirely truthfully. ‘All this is because of a TV series? What do your parents think about that?’

  ‘They’re cool about it. Why wouldn’t they be?’

  She knew when she was beaten. ‘Home time,’ she announced. ‘Have a nice weekend.’

  Chapter Eight

  On Saturday morning Melanie was waiting outside the shop when Simmy arrived to open up. So was Mr Kitchener. ‘Am I late?’ she asked, already quite sure she was not.

  ‘Not really,’ said her assistant. ‘I got a lift from my dad, because Pete’s got the car, and Dad wanted to get somewhere.’

  Mr Kitchener had evidently shaved carefully and chosen a clean set of clothes. He smiled nervously at her, and stood back while she unlocked the door and deactivated the alarm.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Simmy asked him briskly. The word stalker had whispered itself into her mind’s ear, at the sight of him. Melanie plainly had something of the same suspicion.

  ‘Miss Clark’s funeral,’ he said. ‘I should send some flowers.’

  ‘Okay. But there won’t be a date set for it yet, surely? Don’t they delay it for months after a murder?’

  ‘Not if it’s a burial,’ he mumbled. ‘As far as I know, they generally release the body soon after the post-mortem. That’s if they feel sure there won’t be any further need for examination. I think that’s right.’