The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Somebody was killed, at Beck View – and I’ve only just heard about it this afternoon. In your parents’ B&B, which is only two doors up from mine. What’s this going to do to our reputation? The whole town’s going to be tainted by it. And it would be Angie Straw, wouldn’t it? As if she hasn’t caused enough trouble already with her sloppy ways. And you were there – I saw you with your father, just before. It must have been soon after that, from what I’ve heard. I want you to tell them from me—’

  Simmy put up a hand to stop the flow. ‘Mrs Proctor – is that right? I remember you were handing out those leaflets about Patterdale. You had a little chat with my father. I thought you were his friend, actually, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop shouting at me. If you’ve got something to say, perhaps you can do it more quietly.’

  The woman almost visibly subsided. ‘It’s Miss, not Mrs.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Simmy. ‘So what is it you want to say?’

  She swallowed and her eyes grew moist. ‘The man who died. They’re saying it was Grant Childers. Grant Childers, of all people.’

  ‘Why? Do you know him?’ It was Bonnie, bursting in, wide-eyed.

  ‘I should think I do know him. He’s stayed with me four or five times over the past three years. He only went to Beck View this time because I was full. And then he goes and gets himself killed.’ She turned her distraught gaze onto Bonnie for a moment, before returning to her attack on Simmy. ‘And I want to know why.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t anything my mother did to him,’ Simmy defended. ‘Which is what you seem to be implying.’

  ‘Have you told the police you knew him?’ Bonnie asked.

  ‘Obviously I have. They came to me today, as it happens. They found my email on his computer, from September when I had to turn him away. They told me the whole story – about him collapsing on Sunday afternoon and test results showing it was not a natural death. I was so shocked. They said they were treating it as homicide, and anything I could tell them about him would be relevant to their enquiries. Honestly – I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. I really didn’t know what to say for myself.’

  She was almost calm now, talking herself into a much quieter frame of mind. Russell had greeted her warily on Sunday morning, Simmy recalled. She had been an active participant in the protest, arguing with Ninian and clearly passionate in her opposition to the proposed chalets.

  ‘You’re not really involved, though, are you?’ Simmy ventured to say. ‘The police will only be hoping for a bit of background on him. If he’s been here several times before, there are probably locals who know him as well. Has he got friends here? Or work contacts? Why does he keep coming back?’

  ‘Fell climbing? Birdwatching?’ Bonnie suggested, without giving Candy time to reply. ‘Lots of people come regularly for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Had you seen him this time?’ Simmy wondered. ‘Did he call in to say hello?’

  Candy Proctor looked from one to the other. ‘He comes here because he’s interested in wildlife and conservation. He counts red squirrels and the big birds. He’s told me a lot over the years. And I don’t know whether he tried to come and see me. If he did, I must have been out. Honestly, it’s been so hectic. I had three families arrive on Saturday, and the girl who helps me has got flu or something, so I was left doing it all myself. The breakfasts weren’t finished till after ten on Sunday. I nearly didn’t go out with the leaflets, but I’d promised, and I didn’t want to let Tristan and the others down. It was clever of him to think of tackling the tourists in Bowness. Right on the doorstep, and all the right sort of people. Nearly all of them agreed with us at the protest.’

  ‘But why, when it’s so far from Patterdale?’

  ‘It’s all down to human psychology,’ said Candy, who appeared to be quoting the sainted Tristan. ‘The point is, tourists never think of themselves as part of a problem. They’re always the virtuous ones, respecting the countryside and preserving the landscape. They want to keep others – who are exactly the same as them, in reality – away, so they can have it for themselves. So it makes sense to hand out the leaflets and gather support in places where there are lots of them, like Bowness. We go to Ambleside as well – or Waterhead, where there are always swarms of them.’

  ‘“Swarms”,’ Bonnie repeated softly. ‘That’s not a very nice word to use, is it?’

  ‘It’s perfectly accurate. Do you know how many millions of people visit the Lake District every year?’

  ‘A lot,’ said Simmy briskly. ‘But it seems to me there’s space enough for everyone.’

  ‘The entire population of the world could stand on the Isle of Wight,’ said Bonnie, with minimal relevance. ‘Or they could, a decade or two ago. It might have to be the Isle of Man now.’

  ‘Well, I can’t stay,’ said Candy, picking up on the briskness. ‘Must be closing time by now. My people will be coming back any minute.’

  ‘I’ll have to go and see my parents,’ said Simmy. ‘I haven’t heard from them today.’

  ‘They’ll have had to cancel all the bookings,’ said Candy with certainty. ‘You can’t have guests when there’s just been a murder in the house.’

  ‘You can, actually. There’s just the one room they can’t use.’ Simmy found herself still keen to reject the notion that there had been an actual murder at all. Were there not still several other reasonable explanations? Looking from Candy to Bonnie and back again, she realised she was alone in clinging to such a hope.

  ‘But – they must have to tell people,’ Candy said. ‘Give them the option.’

  ‘Maybe. I haven’t asked about that.’

  The woman left on a much less aggressive note than the one on which she’d arrived. It was five past five.

  Bonnie watched her go, her expression thoughtful. ‘Was she really as shocked as she said? Or was it all a big performance for our benefit?’

  ‘Pardon? You can’t be saying you think she could have poisoned him, can you?’

  ‘Why not? You don’t know her, do you? She might be a brilliant actor. She seems to be in the thick of all this protest business, as well as knowing the dead man.’

  ‘Nobody can act that well,’ Simmy asserted, with a feeling that she had said much the same about other people on previous occasions. ‘Or am I being too trusting again?’

  ‘She did seem genuine, I suppose.’ Bonnie sighed. ‘And not very clever. What Corinne would call “dull” – meaning “dim”.’

  ‘I think she’s just tired,’ said Simmy, with her own mother’s exhaustion in mind.

  ‘Could be,’ said Bonnie dubiously.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Simmy remembered to say. ‘Can you open up and see to everything until after lunch? Be sure to take exact details from people ordering flowers for that funeral.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bonnie firmly. ‘Do we know who died?’

  ‘Somebody in Troutbeck,’ said Simmy vaguely. ‘Janice gave me the name.’ She picked up the notepad. ‘Dorothea Entwhistle. Miss,’ she read. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Good God, Simmy, of course I do. Everybody knows the famous Miss Entwhistle.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to hear any more about her now. Leave it till I get back tomorrow.’

  Bonnie shrugged. ‘Fair enough. So – good luck with everything at the hospital. I’ll phone if there’s a problem.’

  Beck View was quiet as Simmy walked in at half past five. The door to the breakfast room was open, and she noted that two tables were laid ready for the morning. In the kitchen, she found her mother on her own, sitting beside the ever-warm Rayburn, just staring into space.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Out with the dog. He’s been gone half an hour already. I suppose he’ll be hungry when he gets back.’

  ‘Do you want me to do it? You look as if you’re half-asleep.’

  ‘You could find something in the freezer for me. There’s a thing of bolognese sauce I made a while
ago. Should be enough for three, if you’re staying.’

  Simmy went and rummaged in the big chest freezer and located a plastic box duly labelled ‘bol sauce’. A further search revealed a new packet of spaghetti. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘Ready in half an hour. He’ll be back by then, surely?’

  ‘Let’s hope so. If not, we can start without him.’

  ‘What’s made you so tired? Aren’t you sleeping?’

  ‘I drop off well enough, but then I keep having the most dreadful dreams, and they wake me up. There was one where the Childers man vomited all down the stairs, like a river of sick. Did you know that you can smell in dreams? I could, anyway. It smelt like cow muck. It got on my shoes and I screamed. Must have made a noise because I woke myself up.’

  ‘That sounds like PTSD to me.’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s called. I just want it to stop.’

  ‘They can probably give you pills for it.’

  ‘It might yet come to that,’ said Angie gloomily. To Simmy this was a startling admission. Her mother had, to her knowledge, not swallowed a pill for the past twenty years or more. Adamantly opposed to excessive medication, she had gone to the furthest extreme in resisting it wholesale. When Russell had his mini-stroke, he had been put on a low-level dose of blood thinner, which he was supposed to take indefinitely. To Angie, this was a personal affront, which she could only deal with by ignoring it. ‘As long as it’s only for a short time,’ she added.

  ‘That Proctor woman came to see me this afternoon,’ said Simmy. ‘The one with a B&B along here somewhere.’

  ‘She’s in Greenwell Haven. It’s next door but one. She disapproves of me.’

  ‘So I gather. Even more so, now you’ve let somebody die under your roof. She thinks it’ll taint the whole B&B industry in Windermere. We saw her on Sunday, actually. Did Dad tell you?’

  ‘He might have done – I don’t remember. I always felt a bit sorry for her, actually. She’s so thin and worn-out looking. But she’s very popular. I’ve had to take her overflow a few times.’

  ‘Mr Childers was one of them. Didn’t he tell you?’

  Angie looked hunted. ‘How am I supposed to remember what everybody says to me? She should be glad it was me that got him, in that case. Or does she think she’d have been able to keep him alive, and I let him down somehow?’

  ‘She didn’t say anything like that. But the main point is – he’s a regular visitor. He comes to the Lakes a lot. He knows people, and counts red squirrels for a hobby.’

  ‘Knew. He knew people. He is no more, remember.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Funny how hard that is sometimes. Even when I never even met the man. Or only for two minutes before he died,’ she amended ruefully. She was warming the sauce in a large pan on the Rayburn, stirring it every minute or two. ‘Is Dad usually this long when he goes for a walk?’

  ‘It varies. If he meets someone he knows, he might stay out for hours. He’s been known to walk down by the lake nearly as far as Storrs. Makes the dog happy, when he does that. But with things as they are this week, he probably won’t be very long.’

  ‘Well, he’s got another twenty minutes. Can we phone him?’

  Angie pursed her lips. ‘Best not. It’ll put him in a flap. He’s probably got it switched off, anyway.’

  ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘You’re not worried about him, are you? He might be a bit soft in the head these days, but he’s not going to come to any harm. What do you think might happen to him? I can’t stand it if you start getting all paranoid as well.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m cross with him, if anything. He knows it’s supper time.’

  And then, barely two minutes later, Russell was heard stamping his feet on the doormat, chirping at his dog, and generally making his presence felt. He came into the kitchen smiling broadly. ‘Wind blowing up out there,’ he announced. ‘Very bracing it is.’

  ‘You look like a shepherd, back from a night’s lambing on the fells,’ said Angie. ‘What happened to your hair?’

  He put a hand on top of his head and stirred his thin grey locks uncertainly. ‘It’s still there,’ he announced.

  ‘It needs cutting,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s sticking out over your ears. I’m making spaghetti bolognese for you. Ready at seven.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said her father with an even wider grin. Then he added, ‘You’ll never guess who I’ve been talking to.’

  Both women looked at him, and Angie sighed. ‘Just tell us,’ she instructed him.

  ‘Your red-haired chum, Stuart. Can’t get away from the fellow these days. He was very ancient-marinerish, I can tell you. Wouldn’t let me go until he’d told me all about this brother-in-law of his, lives near Patterdale, and wants to sell half his garden in Hartsop as a building plot. That’s more or less in Patterdale. He knows Sim and Chris want to live there – I imagine you must have told him – and now he’s practically got the foundations in without a by-your-leave. Thinks it would be absolutely ideal.’

  Simmy was dumbfounded. ‘Really?’ was all she could say.

  ‘They’d never get planning permission,’ said Angie.

  ‘They might. The brother-in-law’s got some sort of influence, apparently, and people don’t so much object to a one-off new-build, do they?’

  ‘What about those chalets?’ wondered Simmy, slowly assembling her thoughts. ‘They’ll have made everybody up there super-sensitive to any suggestion of a new property.’

  ‘That did occur to me,’ Russell agreed, with a satisfied little nod. ‘But it could go in your favour. If they reject the chalets, they’ll feel they’re in a sort of moral credit, which might make them more inclined to pass a modest new house for a local couple with a baby. If you follow me.’

  She did, with only minor difficulty, and was instantly reminded of Candy Proctor and her psychological analysis of public attitudes to new buildings. ‘Ninian says they’ll pass the chalets,’ she remembered.

  Angie made a scornful sound. ‘What does Ninian Tripp know about anything?’

  ‘Did Stuart give you any details? We’re going up there tomorrow. Maybe we could have a look, at least.’

  Russell produced a scrap of paper with the name and phone number of the brother-in-law. Simmy made no secret of her admiration for his efficiency. ‘That’s brilliant,’ she gushed. ‘And did I tell you that Tristan Wilkins said he might know of a place, as well? The grapevine seems to be working at last. We’ll be spoilt for choice if it goes on like this.’

  ‘You’ve your father to thank for that, as well,’ said Angie. ‘He asks everybody he meets if they can find you somewhere. He’s made it his mission. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘I like a man with a mission. Thanks, Dad.’ She gave him a quick hug. ‘For that you get extra bolognese.’

  She stayed until eight, chatting comfortably with her parents, as all three of them gradually relaxed. They veered away from the subject of the dead man, once Simmy had heard the story of the family’s visit, and indulged in local gossip, and vague plans for the future. Christmas was looming, with Simmy already invited to join the large Henderson family for the day. Christopher had two brothers and two sisters, who had all agreed to get together for the festivities, in honour of their deceased parents. Simmy had grown up knowing the whole family well. As an only child herself, she had learnt lessons, sometimes painfully, about the rough and tumble of a large litter of children.

  ‘So we’re to be left in the lurch,’ said Russell, half-seriously.

  ‘You could probably come as well. They’d be happy to have you. You’re like uncle and auntie to them, after all.’

  ‘Where is this vast gathering to take place?’ asked Angie.

  ‘Not yet decided. Probably a hotel – but they’re likely to be all booked up by now. Hannah’s supposed to be in charge.’

  ‘Ten weeks ’til Christmas Day,’ said Russell. ‘We’re closing for a fortnight, you know. Giving ourselves a nice break.’

  ‘Yes,
you said. I think you should go somewhere nice. Barbados or Dubai or Sri Lanka.’

  ‘I vote for Sri Lanka,’ said Russell, with a laugh that said he knew it was all fantasy.

  Then, with some reluctance, Simmy felt herself dragged back to the topic of the murder. ‘Just one question,’ she said. ‘Have the police examined Mr Childers’ car? Are we sure he didn’t bring something poisonous with him from home?’

  ‘Nice thought,’ Angie nodded. ‘But they took it away on Sunday night, and from what they’ve said since then, there’s absolutely nothing suspicious in it at all.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Simmy, with a sigh.

  Christopher arrived at Simmy’s cottage just before nine-thirty. They were to leave at eight-thirty next morning and drive down to the hospital at Barrow. They speculated about timings, and whether they’d have a chance to get to Patterdale and have a look at the putative building plot as well as check out any new information at the pub. ‘Bonnie won’t mind if I’m a bit late back,’ said Simmy confidently. ‘She’s been very capable lately, I must say.’

  ‘Compensating for the absence of young Ben.’

  ‘Probably.’ Somewhere deep down she noted a flicker of apprehension about leaving Bonnie to manage the shop all day on her own. Nobody could deny that there was an awful lot that could go wrong.

  At ten, they watched the television news, waiting for the local items at the end. Too often Simmy had neglected to keep track of what the media was saying about crimes she had personal involvement with. It was with a sinking sensation that she watched her parents’ house appear on the screen. In front of it was a man she had never seen, who was introduced as ‘Martin Tomkin, guest at the B&B where a man died on Sunday of an undisclosed poison.’ He was then interviewed about what he had seen or heard, which turned out to be almost nothing. ‘The chap was very ordinary. I only saw him for a minute, on Saturday. He didn’t come down to breakfast on Sunday. At least, not when the wife and I were there. It was a dreadful shock when we heard what had happened. We were due to stay until Friday, but with all this disruption and unpleasantness, we decided to cut it short. We might find somewhere else to go to.’ He looked straight at the camera as if inviting viewers to help him relocate to another bed and breakfast establishment.