The Ambleside Alibi: 2

by Rebecca Tope

Despite what, Simmy wondered? The flowers, she realised – the cheap bouquet that had started it all off. ‘No, it wasn’t my fault,’ she said. ‘I’ve done nothing at all wrong – except it was daft of me to go up to Ambleside on Sunday. I knew at the time, really.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘I’m not sure now. Something about warning your mother. After talking to Mrs Ellis, it felt as if she might be at risk. And I was toying with the idea of telling her the name of the girl who sent the flowers, after all. But she wasn’t there, so I needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘You have no reason to worry about my mother.’ The stiffness was back. ‘But I would be extremely grateful if you would tell me the person’s name now. Then your part will be finished. You’ll have no reason to concern yourself about any of us, for another second, but just get on with your own life. That’s really what I came to say. Just concentrate on getting better, and stay out of it. You’ll be doing everybody a favour, then. Including yourself.’

  ‘I would if I could,’ said Simmy. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name.’

  Simmy tried, but found her tongue had frozen up. ‘I can’t,’ she discovered. ‘I daren’t. I don’t know where it might lead. I don’t think I would have been able to tell your mother, either. It just seems wrong. Dangerous. I’m sorry. Perhaps you need to follow your own advice, and just forget it all. Leave everything to the police. You said yourself, there’s no reason for your family to be involved. Go home and have a happy Christmas.’

  Davy made no further attempt to persuade her. She muttered something about being on duty at the hospital for most of the Christmas holiday, and made her departure.

  Lunch was a frosty affair, with Angie making no attempt to conceal her feelings. Even Russell, normally so unflappable, was quiet and unsmiling. Simmy could hardly blame them. She had turned their lives upside down, losing them business, and then disappeared for half the morning without a backward glance. They had expected a helpless invalid, quietly recovering with a book or DVD – not an unpredictable figure at the centre of a murder investigation. Whatever next? was the question circling the dining table as they ate the carelessly assembled meal.

  ‘Is that detective coming back?’ Angie asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was Moxon who had done most to upset her mother, Simmy supposed. ‘He’s not a bad chap, you know. He’s doing a difficult job, after all.’

  ‘I understand that. I have nothing against him personally. He’s not interested in me, thank goodness. I just wish …’ She gave a dramatic sigh and left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘So do I,’ said Simmy. ‘None of this was my choosing.’

  ‘You say that,’ Angie burst out. ‘But it’s not entirely true, is it? I still don’t have the slightest idea why you went back to Ambleside on Sunday. What were you thinking of? If it had nothing to do with you, why not just stay out of it altogether?’

  ‘Because I’d met the granddaughter by then,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s as simple as that. I couldn’t just leave it there.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. I never met Nancy Clark, so why should I care what happened to her? I think I cared more about Mr Kitchener. He seems so pathetic – he has done since I first met him. And vulnerable. You should have seen him sitting there in the police station. He’s such a sad little man.’

  ‘And you thought you could save him?’ asked her father, with a frown. ‘I don’t think I’m following that train of thought very well.’

  ‘No. It’s not logical. I can’t actually explain why I went up there on Sunday, except it seemed to be right, somehow. I wasn’t even going to see Mr K. It was Mrs Joseph I was looking for. I felt bad about her, and wanted to put things straight. Or something.’

  ‘You might have died,’ Russell shivered. It was the first time this had been spoken aloud between them. ‘Most people would have died.’

  ‘I was lucky.’

  ‘So why push your luck by going off again?’ Angie demanded. ‘Somebody out there intends to harm you. You should stay here out of the way.’

  ‘I can’t do that for ever, can I? I can’t just put my life on hold indefinitely. I’ve got to open the shop, go back to Troutbeck, rescue my car, get on with things.’

  ‘So you’re confronting the faceless killer,’ said Russell, smiling at last. ‘Brave girl.’

  Angie just tutted in frustration, but the air was clearer than it had been.

  Undeniably drained by the events of the day so far, Simmy agreed to stretch out on the sofa after lunch, and have a proper rest. She had actually fallen into a doze when the doorbell rang again, and she started awake with a great thump of her heart. Was Moxon back? What had he been doing, anyway, when he had rushed off leaving her with Melanie? His mysterious team and professional discretion made his activities deeply opaque to her.

  Voices came through from the hallway, neither of them Moxon’s. There seemed to be two callers, both female. Listening intently, Simmy recognised one of them and rolled herself awkwardly off the sofa to go and investigate.

  Before she could find her crutches and get herself upright, a little group came into the room. Her father pushed the door wider, and admitted Candida Hawkins and another woman. They stood looking at her, without speaking. ‘Hello,’ said Simmy.

  ‘You poor thing!’ cried the girl. ‘I was so appalled when I heard what had happened to you. I had to come and see how you were getting on.’

  ‘You said you were going home on Sunday. Didn’t you go?’

  ‘I was going, but I changed my mind. Things got a bit difficult. This is my mother.’

  ‘Jane Hawkins,’ the woman introduced herself. She seemed to be around sixty, well dressed and expensively groomed. Her hair was cut like a helmet, a very natural-looking mid-brown colour. ‘Candy and I have an apology to make to you. It appears that we might have got you into trouble with the Josephs. We wondered whether you’d be well enough to accept a little treat from us in recompense?’

  Simmy’s eyes stretched wide. She wondered whether she might be dreaming. ‘Treat?’ she repeated.

  ‘Dinner at the Belsfield, perhaps? We can explain everything to you, as we eat. I always think that’s the most civilised way of doing things.’

  Her daughter laughed. ‘That’s definitely true. She always thinks people won’t escape if they’re sitting at the dinner table when she starts telling them what’s what. Mind you, my father has been known to make a run for it, even then.’

  The original alarm that Simmy had felt came back. Who were these people, anyway? The idea of going off with them into the dark night was not reassuring. ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you owe me anything.’ Then she had a thought. ‘Except I gather your credit card doesn’t work, so you probably do still owe me for those flowers.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ squealed the girl. ‘That’s so embarrassing. I forgot it had been cancelled. Let me give you the cash instead.’ She pulled a wallet from a shoulder bag and took out a twenty-pound note. ‘Is this enough?’

  Simmy took it awkwardly. ‘Thanks,’ she said, remembering the disappointing quality of the flowers.

  ‘You really can trust us,’ said Mrs Hawkins, with an amused smile. ‘I promise you. We’ll drive you home again afterwards, obviously.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Russell Straw asked, speaking for the first time. Simmy could see that he was trying to hide his bewilderment with a sensible pragmatic question.

  ‘Not the Belsfield,’ Jane laughed. ‘But I gather they do a good dinner, and they still had a table to spare. Most places are completely booked.’

  ‘We’re staying at the Elleray,’ Candida answered the question. ‘We’ve been there two days already. We’re going home tomorrow.’

  Simmy visualised Gwen and Nicola sitting in the bar that morning. Had they known the Hawkins women were there? Had they already met and settled the m
ystery of Candy’s birth? Was everything amicably resolved by now, with the injured florist the only remaining loose end?

  ‘Think about it,’ Jane urged her. ‘The table’s booked for seven. We’ll come for you here at six-thirty. You can tell anyone you like, if you’re worried about trusting us. There’s no secrets, nothing sinister. I can understand you’d be nervous, after what happened to you, but we aim to convince you that it had nothing whatever to do with us.’

  ‘Who said I thought it did?’

  ‘We’ll explain all that, as well. We’ve got something else to do this afternoon. Here’s my phone number …’ She held out a card. ‘Call us if you really won’t come. Otherwise, we’ll see you at six-thirty.’

  Simmy took the card, knowing she would accept the invitation. Knowing that they knew she would, because what woman anywhere in the world could resist the lure of a mystery solved, an explanation made and a lavish free dinner into the bargain?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The afternoon drifted by slowly, with Simmy wondering what she ought to wear for her special treat. ‘You can’t hope to do better than that suit,’ said Angie. ‘You haven’t got it dirty this morning, have you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Simmy looked down at herself. ‘But it’ll feel strange not changing into something else.’

  ‘Add a scarf, earrings, smart shoes …’

  ‘All of which are up at Troutbeck,’ Simmy reminded her.

  ‘Dad can drive you there to fetch them.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The prospect was unappealing. She felt instinctively that she should conserve her energy for the evening to come. Just getting in and out of a car was a challenge, and risked aggravating her fragile bones. ‘And what about my head? I look terrible like this. My hair needs washing – what’s left of it.’

  ‘We can do that, at least.’

  ‘Only if we take the dressing off. And what about the stitches? Are they allowed to get wet?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. We’ll use that baby shampoo I’ve got for guests. It’s been tested on rabbits’ eyes, so your skull should cope with it.’

  ‘Oh, hush, Angie,’ scolded Russell. ‘You know they don’t do that any more.’

  ‘I bet they do,’ said Angie darkly.

  ‘I don’t think she ought to go, anyway.’ Russell folded his arms and attempted a demeanour of authority. ‘The idea’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Simmy told him. ‘But I’m going anyway. I can’t resist it. And when you think about it, there’s really no chance at all that they’ll do anything to hurt me. Not now we know who they are and where they’re staying. If I’m not back by half past nine, you just call the police.’

  ‘Three hours after they’ve spirited you away and done their worst with you.’

  ‘That sort of thing only happens in stories, Dad. I know – we can call the Elleray now and check that they really are staying there. Would that help?’

  He mulled it over and shook his head. ‘They could have used false names – to us as well. How would we ever find them if they just disappeared with you?’

  ‘Take the registration number of their car when they come to fetch me. Even if it’s a hired one, they’ll have had to give ID to get it.’

  ‘What if they come in a taxi?’

  She had no reply to that.

  ‘See?’ he said, like a child.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Dad,’ she insisted. They both recognised that the scene rightly belonged to a time in their lives over twenty years earlier, except that now there was a genuine reason to be anxious. Something awful really had happened to Simmy, and her father was more than justified in reacting as he did. ‘Mum’s not worried, is she?’ Simmy pointed out.

  ‘She’s confused, the same as me. Listen – I want you to send me a text message every hour, on the hour. Just put “OK” or something. What are these damned gadgets good for if not to set a parent’s mind at rest?’

  ‘All right, then,’ she agreed, almost liking the idea. ‘Should I start at seven or eight?’

  ‘Seven, of course.’

  Angie washed her daughter’s hair with extreme care, having picked away the hospital dressing and examined the wound. ‘It’s quite small, considering,’ she remarked. ‘And looks clean. No pus or angry red swelling.’

  ‘It feels all right.’ Simmy ran delicate exploratory fingers over the place, which was at the back of her head. ‘Except for the shorn area.’

  ‘If I remember rightly, that’s the toughest part of your skull. Did you land on it, do you think?’

  Together they described somersaults and arcs that Simmy might have performed as she flew off the bridge head first. It was both insensitive and therapeutic of her mother, she discovered. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, but I think it’s more likely it got bashed on the way downstream. There’s another sore area here.’ She put her fingers to a spot above her left ear. ‘And in plenty of other places.’ The bruising on her chest still couldn’t bear any pressure.

  ‘I’m not at all sure you ought to go out,’ said Angie. ‘Didn’t the hospital say anything?’

  ‘I’ve already been out,’ Simmy reminded her. ‘And that was fine.’

  The hair was dried, and an ordinary sticking plaster applied to the stitches on her scalp. It took the biggest one Angie could find. ‘I thought you said the wound was small,’ Simmy objected. ‘That patch is enormous.’

  ‘Relatively small. It’s still a good two inches long. More than the average cut finger or grazed knee. Which is what these things are intended for. Besides, I need to allow plenty of margin, so the sticky bits don’t pull at the stitches.’

  They had tea and scones, and talked about nothing much until six. At that point, Simmy began to feel agitated. Her stomach was churning. She tried to analyse the reasons, prioritising her fears as methodically as she could without revealing a hint of the process to her parents. Angie was rummaging through her jumbled jewellery box in search of earrings or necklace, and Russell had returned to the kitchen to listen to the radio, leaving Simmy alone in the living room for a few minutes.

  With no great certainty, she concluded that it was more a worry about going out into the cold, dark night, where there would be icy surfaces, than any apprehension of attack by Candida or Jane Hawkins. Or it could have been nothing more than a generalised loss of confidence in a reliable world. Unknown things might happen. Everything was a risk and there could be no guarantees.

  The car arrived precisely at six-thirty. Jane Hawkins came to the door as Simmy made her way down the hall. Russell had announced a sighting from the living room window.

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he called from the doorway. ‘At least it’s not snowing!’ On the contrary, it was a clear starry night, with every chance of a hard frost.

  The car was small and appeared to be red, under the street lights. Jane opened the passenger door, and swung the seat forward so she could climb into the back next to Candida – which she promptly did. Simmy was left on the pavement to get in unaided. She bent down to look at the driver and was astonished to meet the gaze of Nicola Joseph. ‘Oh!’ she said.

  ‘Hello again. Do you need any help?’

  ‘Well – can you take the crutches?’ She tried to hang onto the top of the car door while passing the metal poles to the woman. ‘Sorry – no, I can’t do it by myself. I need somebody to hold onto.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ The tinge of impatience was uncalled for, Simmy thought. ‘Wait a minute.’ Nicola made a production of unclipping her seat belt and getting out of the car, walking round the back to Simmy’s side. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Just keep me balanced. I need to lower myself gently, that’s all.’ She put a hand on Nicola’s shoulder, and sank carefully onto the seat. ‘It’s more difficult in a small car,’ she said, as if needing to justify herself.

  ‘All set, then?’ Nicola asked, once back in her own seat. Simmy looked round at the pair in the back.

 
; ‘Okay,’ Jane and Candida both muttered.

  ‘You’ve met, then,’ Simmy said fatuously.

  ‘Eventually,’ said Jane in a tight voice that suggested tribulation and possible ill feeling. ‘I hope it’s all right with you that we’re a foursome? It seemed too good a chance to miss, when Nicola suggested we use this evening for a good long talk.’

  ‘I’m honoured,’ said Simmy, feeling that this was what she ought to say. The reality was something closer to trepidation. ‘After all, it’s none of my business, is it?’

  ‘As we said earlier on, we feel guilty at the way you’ve suffered. Don’t we, Candy?’

  The girl murmured a wordless agreement.

  The distance down to the Belsfield Hotel was less than a mile. In normal circumstances it would be a very easy walk, downhill all the way. Nicola drove quickly and they were in sight of the large floodlit building on the left before they knew it. Simmy was already wondering whether she would be willingly helped out of the car, when they suddenly veered to the right, and onto the hard area where people waited to board lake cruisers. A small green and white building loomed ahead, with a sign offering boat hire, and Simmy shouted, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘This is where I always park,’ said Nicola, sounding annoyed. She drove past two jetties where swans congregated during the daytime and rowing boats were generally waiting in rows for people to hire them. Now it was all quiet and deserted.

  ‘But—’ Something was terribly wrong. The strangeness of driving over an area intended for pedestrians was compounded by a horrified realisation that they had accelerated dramatically, then veered right again, careered down a shallow step and were now facing the black waters of Lake Windermere only four or five feet away. The abrupt swing to the right, accompanied by the increased speed, sent the car tilting onto two wheels, so that it began to slide sideways down the slope into the water.

  Simmy watched uncomprehendingly as Nicola somehow opened her door and jumped out, leaving one foot to kick down on the accelerator. ‘I can’t help it,’ she said wildly. ‘I need this to happen. It’ll look like an accident.’