The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  But it seemed they were to be spared. ‘Sorry, can’t stop,’ said the man. ‘Lunch down in the fleshpots of Bowness, and then up on the fells. We’ll be back around five, I should think.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Russell, and pushed on up the hill to Beck View.

  ‘Shouldn’t that boy be at school?’ Simmy wondered. ‘How long are they staying?’

  ‘Most of the week, I think. They’re not bothered about the lad missing school as far as I can tell.’

  When Angie asked after their walk, they regaled her with a list of people encountered. ‘A mad social whirl, in fact,’ Russell summarised. ‘And there was that ginger-haired chap from Ambleside as well, holding a placard. I didn’t get a chance to speak to him.’

  ‘What ginger-haired chap?’ Angie waited impatiently for enlightenment.

  ‘You know. Great mane of orange down his back and wears bright pink shirts. Looks like something from a 1970s sci-fi film.’

  ‘You mean Stuart Carstairs,’ said Angie. ‘You can’t have forgotten his name.’

  ‘I hardly know the man. He’s more your friend than mine. Anyway, he’s objecting to holiday chalets near Patterdale, along with the rest of them, for some reason.’

  ‘He forgot the name of your people in the back room, as well,’ said Simmy treacherously. ‘We saw them just now.’

  Angie merely nodded, and Simmy realised how tired her mother was, just as poor Candy Proctor had been. It was a weariness that came to all B&B proprietors after a hectic summer, and which was compounded, in Angie’s case, by a sense that the valiant struggle to keep going was inexorably heading for failure.

  ‘Are you going to be full all week?’ Simmy asked.

  ‘The man in the little room is staying until Friday. The Watsons in the front, with the little boy, are here till Wednesday. They’re nice. They’ve been before. The ones with the seven-year-old are called Tomkin. They’ve got three more nights as well.’

  ‘I think you should close down right through November and give yourselves a proper rest. I know I keep saying it, but you’ll never get through the winter if you don’t recharge your batteries while you get the chance.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ argued Angie.

  ‘Much easier,’ confirmed Russell. ‘Although if we took a break we could go to Patterdale every day and sabotage the new buildings. We could do all sorts of things if we didn’t have all these beds to make.’

  ‘At least you’re not insisting we go on a cruise.’

  ‘I know better than that.’ He twinkled at Simmy, with a flash of his old mischief, but far from reassuring her, this reminder of former times only depressed her further. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would make quips, puns, wry observations and criticisms of contemporary lack of grammar, several times an hour. Now the quips were feeble and infrequent, and even his impatience with poor English was blunted.

  Lunch was a roast chicken, which was consumed with a slightly forced relish. It seemed to them all that every viable topic of conversation had been covered during the morning. So rather than endure an awkward silence, Simmy enquired further about the current guests. ‘Who’s the man in the small room? Is he a walker?’

  ‘Probably.’ Angie was clearly not very interested. ‘I’ve hardly seen him, to be honest. He went out early this morning, without breakfast. I think he might have come back while you two were out, but it could have been somebody leaving that flyer about pizza delivery. I actually don’t know whether he’s in or not. Without the dog to alert me, I don’t always hear the door. It would be odd for him to be here in the middle of the day, but I can’t forbid it. He’s got a laptop with him, so maybe he’s a writer or something. The good news is that he asked me not to clean his room today.’

  ‘Maybe he was being thoughtful, given that it’s a Sunday,’ Simmy suggested.

  ‘Possibly. More likely he just wants the room to himself.’

  ‘Unusual not to want breakfast, as well. Isn’t that the whole point of a B&B?’

  ‘Not these days. Do you know – we had four different vegans last month?’ Angie took veganism as a personal insult, since she made a feature of her local sausages and eggs, and insisted on using butter and full-cream milk unless actively prevented.

  ‘Yes, you said,’ Simmy nodded. ‘Sign of the times.’

  ‘Anyway, we do only about half as many full Englishes now. Quite a few go without completely. I always expect them to ask for a discount, but hardly anybody ever does.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘I think I would. I mean – most hotels charge extra for breakfast. It’s usually quite a lot, as well.’

  ‘Ten quid,’ said Russell, clearly proud of his knowledge. ‘Each.’

  There followed another silence, while the food was finished, and plates cleared away. Then Russell spoke again. ‘So we don’t know for sure whether or not he’s up there now. That’s unsettling. I do like to know exactly who’s in the house.’

  Angie had to think hard. ‘I think the stairs squeaked. It was about half an hour after you two went out. Didn’t you meet him in the street? Wherever he went was on foot, because his car hasn’t moved.’

  Russell frowned. ‘I doubt if I’d recognise him. I barely saw him when he arrived.’ He wriggled his shoulders. ‘I really don’t like not knowing if he’s in or out.’

  Wife and daughter both gave him looks that said Now he’s really losing it. ‘Well, if we haven’t found out for sure by the time it gets dark, I’ll go and tap at the door,’ said Angie. ‘There’s no law that says he has to go out, after all.’

  ‘It does seem rather odd, though,’ said Simmy, experiencing a very faint flicker of alarm. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’

  ‘Looked perfectly fit yesterday. Forget about him. It really doesn’t matter where he is. Who else did you see in Bowness?’

  ‘A few vaguely familiar faces, from the shop,’ said Simmy. ‘It was a lot busier than I thought it would be. The weather’s mild, of course. That must be it.’

  ‘Isn’t it nice to think,’ Angie burst out, ‘that just as the winter’s ending, we’ll have the baby. Spring babies are special, somehow.’

  It was brave of her, Simmy had to admit. The many minefields had been trodden a few times already – the date, the first scan, the countless uncertainties – but they never got safer. ‘Edith was a spring baby,’ she said firmly. ‘Pity I didn’t keep the maternity clothes. They’d be just the right thickness for this time as well.’

  ‘This one won’t come on the same date,’ said Russell with unwarranted confidence. ‘You’d have to be ten days late.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Dad,’ said Simmy. Discussing the strange behaviour of the man in the little upstairs room would have been a lot easier than this. Almost anything would have been – which impelled her to return to the subject. ‘He can’t still be in his room, can he? He’ll be hungry.’

  ‘I told you he had a laptop with him. Maybe he’s writing a book,’ said Angie again. Neither parent seemed the least bit worried about their guest, so Simmy did her best to suppress the flickering concern she was feeling.

  ‘What did you say Christopher was doing?’ Russell asked. ‘It would have been nice to have him join us.’

  ‘He’s covering for Josephine. She’s got shingles, and the results of yesterday’s sale haven’t been logged on the website. He’s in the office for most of the day.’ The language and procedures of the auction house had gradually become familiar to Simmy. ‘There’s a backlog of queries to deal with, as well. Everything’s got to be cleared by Wednesday, when stuff starts coming in for the next sale. It’s relentless, and they can’t let it fall behind.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Russell, slowly absorbing the information. ‘But he’s happy in his work, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s found his vocation well and truly. He gets really excited – and he’s learning such a lot.’

  ‘Lucrative, too,’ said Angie. ‘Or so I understand.’

  ‘It’s
amazing what people will pay,’ Simmy agreed. ‘With all the talk of decluttering and peak stuff, there’s still an insatiable appetite for it all. A box of old postcards can go for eighty pounds, easily. And anything Chinese. They bid online from China and pay fortunes. The commission’s amazing sometimes.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ said Russell, with a flash of anger. ‘Charging the vendor and the buyer is scandalous.’

  ‘I think it’s a stroke of genius,’ said Angie.

  Russell was adamant. ‘It’s daylight robbery. I couldn’t believe it when I first realised.’

  ‘They’ve got to live,’ said Simmy calmly. ‘And nobody seems to object.’ She had come to terms with the occasional greyness of auction ethics, and its consequences for Christopher. There were times when he had to compromise with standards of absolute probity, in order to protect the business and keep the right people happy. He had assured her that deviations were minor and infrequent, and little more than normal imperfect business life.

  ‘Well, at least it means you can afford a decent house on the banks of Ullswater,’ smiled Russell, suddenly relenting. ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘That’s all very well—’ Simmy began, when a strange unearthly voice coming from the floor above interrupted her.

  ‘Help!’ it screeched. ‘Somebody help me!’ And then there was a series of thumps followed by an even more unearthly silence.

  Chapter Three

  Angie was first on the scene by a wide margin. Russell had to disentangle himself from his dog, and then pause to ask himself just what was afoot. Simmy was doing nothing in a hurry, permanently aware of the precious little life inside her, which must not be jeopardised by falls or shocks or careless moments.

  ‘Good God!’ they heard from the top of the stairs.

  They joined Angie to find her kneeling beside the prostrate body of a man, who had froth coming out of his mouth and nose, and was curled up in evident agony. ‘Poison!’ he gasped. ‘They’ve poisoned me.’ His body spasmed, the knees pulling up to the chest, hands opening and closing. Through a clenched jaw, he uttered one final word: ‘Why?’

  ‘Great Scott, woman, what have we been feeding him?’ said Russell. ‘He looks as if he’s just taken strychnine.’

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ Angie ordered. ‘He’ll die otherwise.’ She bent over the man, her whole body taut with strain. Simmy watched her as she reached out a hand and took hold of the man’s shoulder in an effort to calm him. His eyes flickered and his teeth clattered.

  Russell skittered obediently down the stairs, while Simmy held tightly to the bannisters and tried to subdue a rising hysteria. Long seconds passed. The man had rolled over, despite Angie’s efforts to restrain him, and his face was in shadow, but his fists were visible, tightly clenched and pressed into his middle. As she watched, the hands relaxed and flopped away, the acute tension throughout the body softened, and the head lolled sideways, to face her. ‘Mum,’ she faltered. ‘I think …’

  ‘Too late for the ambulance,’ Angie confirmed, her own body loosening as well. Simmy’s thoughts ran wildly from one black joke to the next. At least we won’t have to perform mouth-to-mouth was one. And What are we going to tell the ambulance people? And Won’t Ben and Bonnie love this one!

  ‘Poor man,’ she said aloud. ‘He must have been lying in bed all day feeling awful, and left it until now to call for help.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Angie looked up. ‘I’m sure he went out earlier this morning, and I was obviously right that I heard him come in again. And this doesn’t look like something that’s built up gradually to me. Didn’t you hear what he said?’

  To Simmy’s certain knowledge her mother had never witnessed a death before. She had seen a few bodies lying tidily in their coffins, but she hadn’t seen the stark brutality of the transition from animation to wholesale inertia, in a single irreversible second. Simmy herself had seen a man shot in the street, and had been confronted by an untidy body or two in recent years. But nothing like this. ‘He looks ghastly,’ she murmured. ‘What’s that froth?’

  ‘Lung damage, I would guess. Your detective friend is going to be up to his eyes, if I’m right in what I’m thinking.’

  ‘What?’ Simmy stared at this calm woman who seemed to have leapt many miles ahead already. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Your father said strychnine. He might not be very far wrong. It has to be poisoning – that’s for sure. Even if he hadn’t said what he did, it would be pretty obvious.’ She looked around, as if wary of being overheard. ‘Here on my landing, damn it. This is going to finish us – you see if it doesn’t.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! You’re rushing ahead much too fast. If it is poison, he must have taken it by himself, as a deliberate act. That makes it suicide. I can’t see any need for Moxon to be involved. We needn’t repeat what he said, especially as he can’t have really meant it.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. Didn’t you hear what he said?’ demanded Angie. ‘His very last word was “Why?”. Nobody who’d decided to kill himself would ask that, would he? It’s probably the absolutely most unlikely thing a suicide would say. And he clearly accused somebody of poisoning him. There’s no chance that he did it himself. Any fool can see that.’

  Simmy stuck doggedly to her point. ‘He could just have been confused. Delirious.’

  ‘Russell!’ Angie called down the stairs, ignoring her foolish daughter. ‘Is that ambulance on its way yet?’

  There was no reply, and Simmy realised her father was still on the phone. ‘Shush,’ she told her mother. ‘He’s talking to them.’

  There was a sound from the man on the floor, as if he was heaving a long sigh. ‘Hey, Mum – he’s still alive!’ Simmy was aghast. They had been far too quick to write him off, failing to administer first aid of some sort. ‘What should we do?’

  Angie leant over the body. ‘I don’t think he is,’ she said. ‘He’s not breathing, look.’

  ‘Can you feel a pulse? In his neck – that’s what they do, isn’t it? This is terrible. We’re being totally pathetic, just letting him die without even trying to help him.’

  Angie laid a tentative finger against the side of the man’s neck. Simmy instinctively felt the same area of her own body, trying to establish the correct spot. ‘I can’t feel my own pulse,’ she said, after a few seconds. ‘What about his wrist?’

  ‘There’s nothing. That sigh was just an escape of air. I remember we had a dog die on us, when I was young. That did the same thing.’

  Then Russell was beside them, looking from face to face in wonderment. ‘Did he die?’

  ‘Before you started calling 999, probably,’ said his wife. ‘He just went limp and stopped breathing.’

  ‘Poor man,’ he said, just as Simmy had done. ‘What a thing!’

  ‘How long will the ambulance be?’ asked Angie.

  ‘I don’t know. They’re not terribly busy. Ten minutes or so, I think. It’s all very strange. Nobody poisons anybody these days. It’s the stuff of the 1930s. Not like this, anyway. Could have done it to himself, of course, but you’d expect something nice and gentle like codeine – this looked alarmingly painful.’

  ‘Stop it, Dad,’ begged Simmy. ‘You’re making me feel ill.’

  Russell grimaced. ‘Distraction strategy,’ he muttered.

  ‘More like the exact opposite,’ Angie accused him. ‘Why don’t you two go downstairs and leave it to me? You’ll have to let the ambulance people in, and tell them we need the police.’

  Simmy was more than happy to follow this suggestion, but her legs evidently had other ideas. She had been kneeling a foot or two away from the body, and standing up proved beyond her. ‘Help me up,’ she ordered her father.

  Awkwardly, he pulled her to her feet. They were on a good-sized landing, with doors on two sides, and the open stairway at the end. The dead man’s room was the closest, its door standing open. Glancing in, it seemed that there was considerable mess in there. ‘He’s been throwin
g things about,’ she observed. ‘That must have been the thumps we heard.’

  ‘Isn’t that what happens when people eat poisonous mushrooms?’ Angie spoke distractedly, her eyes focused on empty space.

  Simmy stood still, breathing heavily. The sheer horror of the situation swept over her. ‘Mum …’ she faltered. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Me? Of course I will. What do you mean?’

  ‘This is just so horrible. Look at him! What was his name? Where did he live? Why …?’ The unfinished question seemed to cover just about everything that had just taken place.

  ‘Hush, girl. Time enough for all that when the police show up. This isn’t your problem. Let me and your father handle it.’

  Somehow she got downstairs and into the kitchen. Russell was soon summoned to the front door, and there were voices, heavy footsteps, and short, ominous silences. Simmy sat at the cluttered table, reliving the last half-hour, struggling to make sense of it. The man himself had claimed to have been poisoned – but wasn’t that just something anybody might say, if suddenly taken ill? There were surely some medical conditions that could explain what had happened. What about an aortic aneurysm? Or a burst ulcer? Internal bleeding, peritonitis, sepsis – the terms flittered around her head, with little underlying knowledge to confirm their relevance. Her ignorance made it easier to cling to the notion that it had been a natural death, with no sinister implications.

  The doorbell rang again, and she waited to hear whether Russell would come down to answer it. He didn’t, so she got up and went to do it herself.

  The familiar face on the doorstep gave rise to a slew of emotions. Disappointment, reassurance, admiration for his promptness, and a sense of warm friendship. ‘Hello,’ she said.