The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  His contribution was worthless, Simmy concluded. The interviewer had extracted no information whatever that could possibly enhance the existing picture. Much as usual, in fact. Grab a person who had glimpsed the victim and make them say something, anything, on camera. Where, she wondered, was Mrs Tomkin? Had she resisted the blandishments of the news reporter? Had her husband elbowed her aside, so as to have all the limelight? Well, good luck to him. To Simmy’s eye, he didn’t look very nice.

  Chapter Nine

  The scan on Wednesday morning was oddly underwhelming, in the event. Having a very full bladder took some of the enjoyment away, but worse than that was the echo of earlier times, when her baby Edith waved at her, at twenty-one weeks’ gestation, and boasted a healthy heart and full set of organs all in the right places. In a fierce determination to overcome this, she had to damp down all emotions, and just lie there until it was over.

  ‘Don’t tell us the sex,’ said Christopher, at the outset.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman operating the machine. ‘We always ask first if you want to know.’

  Fortunately, the blurry picture made little sense to either parent, with only the outline of the plump little profile looking like something human.

  Christopher saw no reason to hold back on his excitement. ‘It’s a baby! A real baby!’ he trilled. ‘Isn’t that incredible! It’s like a miracle.’

  The women both treated him to tolerant smiles, the radiographer evidently aware of Simmy’s history. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘A perfectly normal pregnancy. Now you’ll be wanting to scoot along to the loo.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Simmy. ‘Thank you very much.’

  They were away ten minutes before eleven, the atmosphere in the car slightly uneasy. ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Christopher, after a few minutes.

  ‘Sorry. She was nice, wasn’t she? Very understanding.’

  ‘Hmm? What did she have to be understanding about?’

  ‘Chris – please don’t be thick about this. I’ve had scans before, remember? I’ve seen a baby at the same stage as this one, and I can’t just forget all about her. I know it’s different for you, and there’s no way you can get how it feels, but give me a bit of leeway. Cut me some slack, as they say. I’m happy and sad, scared and excited, all at the same time. I thought that seeing this one would help me move on, but I’m sorry to say it’s done the opposite. It’s sent me right back to where I was in my first pregnancy. And I can’t force myself to change that. It’ll come right eventually. I know enough about grief and denial and processing and all that jargonny stuff to trust that once this one’s born alive and well, I’ll be fine. But it’s risky. If I try to pack Edith away and pretend she never existed, that’ll rebound on us. People kept telling me that doing that leads to post-natal depression when you have another one. I even know somebody it happened to. A girl at school called Jackie, had a cot death and never really faced up to it. When her next baby was born, she was a complete mess, and spent weeks in a mental hospital.’

  ‘I do get it,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve known people crash into horrendous depression years after losing someone, because they didn’t grieve properly at the time. But you need to cut me some slack, as well. I’m allowed to be euphoric and proud and madly excited, aren’t I?’

  ‘Absolutely you are. The baby deserves that. It’s lucky to have you.’ And she wept for the next few miles, which seemed the only way the emotions could get themselves acknowledged.

  It took nearly an hour to get to Patterdale, passing through Bowness, then Troutbeck, before climbing up to much higher ground through the famous Kirkstone Pass. Even after some years in the area, Simmy still felt a strong sense of adventure every time she used this road. The landscape was bare and desolate and timeless. It was almost always windy, and when the wind dropped, mist replaced it, making any walkers seem crazily intrepid. If it was misty, sheep and oncoming vehicles would loom in front of the car like ghosts. Whatever the season, Kirkstone was alarming. In winter, it was liable to be impassable for several days, and even weeks. If they lived in Patterdale, Simmy would have to drive this way every day, on her commute down to Windermere.

  When they came to Brothers Water on their left, barely four miles distant from Simmy’s cottage in Troutbeck, it felt as if they’d entered a different land.

  She was aware of a shameful loss of nerve, perhaps induced by the poisoned man in Beck View, perhaps by the prospect of the oncoming winter. ‘Do we really want to live right out here?’

  ‘Don’t we? Should we consider the downside, while we still can? We’ll be snowed in a few times each year, even if I get a four-wheel drive. You’ll be stuck indoors with Junior when it’s raining, with nothing at all to do. It’s not too late to change our minds.’

  ‘I really hate changing my mind.’ She gazed out of the window at the fairy-tale scenery all around them. ‘And I do still think it’s fabulous here. Would we ever get tired of it, do you think? Would we crave bright lights and loud music? Ought we to think of my parents, getting older? Would they ever manage to drive up here to visit us?’

  ‘We’ve said all this before,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m fine with it, if you are. I feel the same as you do about it. Besides, it’s all in the lap of the gods anyway – we just have to hope that fate’s on our side. Otherwise I’ll be squeezed into your cottage, and we’ll be driving each other mad. I guess I could keep the flat on, just as somewhere to store all my stuff, but that’s pretty bonkers financially.’

  ‘At least we’ve got that as a backup. And my dad’s straining every nerve to find us something. He’s asking everyone he knows. That’s how I heard about the building plot in Hartsop. I’ve got the man’s phone number, if you think we should go and look at it now.’ She pointed away to the right, where the village of Hartsop nestled. ‘It’s over there somewhere.’

  ‘We haven’t got time to build a whole house from scratch. Besides, if we did it properly, with local stone, in keeping with the current kind of houses, it would cost a fortune. You don’t easily get a mortgage for a building plot, you know. And where would we live while it was being built? Who would build it? And above all else – we’d never even get planning permission.’

  ‘Okay. I get the picture. It’s a nice idea, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘If the timing was different, maybe.’

  ‘It would be feasible if we carried on where we are while it was being built. And it’s got to be cheaper than buying a house.’

  Christopher sighed. ‘The hassle, Sim. Haven’t you watched those building programmes on telly? The people end up exhausted, depressed, thin. Some of them have nervous breakdowns. And those are the ones who actually finish the thing. I know of at least three self-builds that still aren’t half-done after about five years.’

  She was grateful that he didn’t add, And all that with a baby as well. ‘You’re probably right,’ she conceded. ‘So let’s get to the pub. I’m starving.’

  They covered the short distance between Hartsop and Patterdale, rounding the final bend to see the village in its entirety. Dark slatey buildings to the left, open water meadows to the right, with a landmark white house nestling into the foot of the fell. A big white-painted hotel with a generous car park gave the village an air of solid respectability. Fells rose with their customary drama on both sides, creating a valley along which a little river ran into Ullswater. Water was everywhere, with a pretty bridge on their right crossing the small river.

  ‘Have you ever been over there?’ Simmy asked.

  He snatched a quick look. ‘No. Shall we go and see what’s there?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He veered off the road and over the bridge. There were several houses scattered ahead – many more than Simmy had expected. ‘They’ll all be holiday lets or second homes, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘Probably.’ Closer inspection revealed ‘Tourist Board’ stickers in one or two windows, and on
a gatepost. ‘But there’s a working farm or two, as well.’

  They followed the little road around another bend, where it soon dwindled to a track. ‘Crookabeck, look,’ said Christopher, pointing to a sign. ‘It’s got its own name.’

  ‘Never heard of it. It’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ From one moment to the next, Simmy had made a decision. This was where she wanted to live. She could see her toddling child fearlessly playing in the fields, climbing on the mossy tree trunks, mingling with the shaggy Herdwick sheep. There had to be a cottage for sale, by some miracle. There were other little tracks leading to further buildings. Perhaps there would be a barn they could convert.

  ‘Crookabeck,’ said Christopher again. ‘Do you think we’ve gone through a portal and this is all an alternative reality?’

  ‘Could be. That bridge is a bit magicky.’

  They laughed and turned the car around in a gateway. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing, though …?’ She sighed. ‘If we could only …’

  ‘Where there’s a will, as they say. Nothing’s impossible. Look, this track leads to Hartsop. Two miles of easy walking, fantastic views. Are you sure you won’t let me have a dog?’ It was a topic they’d discussed a few times already.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ she said. ‘Sorry. It would only chase the sheep and get itself shot.’ And it might eat the baby, she added silently and foolishly.

  ‘Time for the pub,’ he said.

  The landlady welcomed them like old friends, which Simmy assumed was the default response to everyone who came through the door. The thousands of visitors who must eat and drink there every year could not possibly all remain in the woman’s memory. But then she confounded these thoughts by cocking her head at Simmy’s bump, and saying, ‘I hear there’s been some trouble at your folks’ B&B.’

  Simmy was dumbstruck. ‘How? I mean – it was only three days ago. I didn’t think you knew who I was – that they were my parents, anyway. What have you heard?’

  ‘“Mysterious death of B&B guest. Man dies of suspected poisoning.” Headline news, duck. Looks as if somebody done the poor chap in, as they say.’

  ‘But it didn’t name Beck View, did it? How did you know it was us?’

  ‘Word of mouth. Police camped outside for half a day was the biggest giveaway. Not much about the victim, mind you. Keeping that a bit darker than usual, for some reason.’

  ‘They had to find his family,’ said Christopher, evidently not relishing this line of conversation. ‘And we haven’t come to talk about that. You might remember we’ve been a few times before, looking for somewhere to buy up here. Are we chasing a rainbow, do you think?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Hen’s teeth, lovey. Though there’s talk of a building plot going on the market, just this side of Hartsop.’

  ‘Yes, we know about that,’ said Simmy. ‘We don’t think that’s going to work. It’d take too long.’ She looked down at herself. ‘And we’re a bit short of time.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Simmy leant on the bar. ‘Do you think there’s anything in this plan to build a tourist chalet park somewhere right here in Patterdale? Do you know exactly where they want to put them?’

  The response was a blank stare. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘There was a protest about it on Sunday, down in Bowness. Leaflets and everything. And a public meeting on Thursday. A modest two-acre park, apparently, somewhere in Patterdale. Must be like the one with the chalets in Hartsop, I assume.’

  ‘You’ve got something wrong somewhere. I’ve not heard anything about any such plan.’

  A man spoke up from a table by the window. ‘Best hope it’s all in someone’s imagination. If something like that went through, there’d be ructions.’

  ‘There are already,’ said Simmy.

  ‘Did you say Bowness? Why would they care what goes on up here?’

  ‘That’s what some of us have been wondering,’ said Simmy. ‘They say it’s because people down there are very keen to keep everything just as it is up here. Or something.’

  The man at the table nodded sagely. ‘It’ll be a set-up. There’s wheels within wheels, backhanders, dirty tricks.’ He looked at Christopher. ‘You’ll know a bit about all that, in your business.’

  Christopher groaned softly and then forced a tight smile. In his role as auctioneer, his face was well known to anyone who had ever been to the saleroom. It was clear to Simmy that he had no idea who this man might be. ‘Nowhere near as much as you think,’ he said. ‘And nothing approaching the scale of a whole new estate of tourist chalets.’

  ‘Granted,’ said the man, turning back to his lasagne and chips.

  ‘Are you eating?’ asked the landlady, proffering the menu.

  Simmy was trying to decide how greedy to be, when a person came up to her from the other end of the bar. ‘Hey, remember me? You are the florist, aren’t you? You’ll have forgotten, but you delivered some flowers to me, near Coniston, ages ago now.’

  Simmy frowned. It seemed that she and Christopher were both uncomfortably famous in their own ways. ‘Sorry. Remind me.’

  ‘I grabbed them off you and threw them across the yard. Farmyard, to be exact.’

  ‘Oh gosh, yes. How could I forget?’

  ‘It was terrible of me. I felt so bad afterwards. What a thing to do! But you were the final straw. I’ve been wanting to apologise ever since, actually.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It was funny, really. It made a good story. I’ve learnt that you can never be sure what reaction a bunch of flowers might evoke. It’s often quite different from what you might expect.’

  ‘So what brings you all the way to Patterdale? Isn’t your shop in Windermere?’

  ‘We’re house-hunting.’ Simmy allowed a quick flash of hope – had this woman been sent by fate to solve their problem? ‘This is my fiancé, Christopher.’

  ‘Hi. You want to live up here, do you?’

  ‘Ideally, yes. It’s sort of midway between my shop and his auction house in Keswick. We don’t want to give either of them up, you see.’

  The woman blew out her cheeks. ‘Complicated! What about the winter? It gets a lot of snow here, you know. And you can still see the effects of the storm, back in 2015 and the flood the year after. Neither of you would be able to get to work, maybe for weeks at a time.’

  ‘Come on, Tina! It’s never as bad as that!’ The landlady was hovering, waiting for them to choose their food. ‘With a four-wheel drive you can mostly get out after a day or two.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Tina mulishly. Then she leant closer to Simmy. ‘I’ve moved up here myself, as it happens. Left bloody Martin and his farm. Living with this lady’s brother, now, just down the road.’ She nodded at the landlady with a complicated expression. Simmy detected a world of tangled relationships and wounded feelings. She thought she remembered a small child on the fringes of the farmyard drama.

  Christopher had had enough. ‘Pie and chips for me,’ he said loudly.

  ‘I’ll have the ploughman’s.’ Simmy quickly followed up. ‘We’re in a bit of a rush.’ Which wasn’t entirely true, but she sensed her fiancé’s impatience.

  A moment later the door burst open to admit a group of windswept walkers, who stamped their feet and tore off their woolly hats and generally made a great commotion. ‘Quick,’ said Christopher, ‘before they start ordering food.’

  Tina drifted away and the food order was processed with reasonable alacrity. They had been eating for a few minutes when Simmy’s phone warbled for attention.

  ‘It’s Bonnie,’ she discovered. ‘I hope she’s all right.’

  Bonnie was excited but not in any trouble. ‘Mr Moxon’s here,’ she said. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘He’s not Mr, he’s Detective Inspector,’ she corrected.

  ‘I can’t say all that, can I? Anyway, talk to him. He wants to ask you something.’

  Simmy’s first words were, ‘Sorry about Bonnie. She’s never very good at job titles.’

  ‘D
on’t worry. I’m not offended. I’m sorry to bother you on your morning off, but it’s just a quick question.’

  ‘Fire away.’ Forgetting that she was within earshot of half a dozen pub customers, she became entirely focused on what the detective was telling her.

  ‘Are you familiar with a plant called “datura”? Or thorn apple, I gather is its other name.’

  ‘Vaguely. Nice flowers, but I don’t think I’ve ever used them. I’ve heard it called the devil’s trumpet. Isn’t it poisonous? Oh!’ The implications dawned on her. ‘Are you saying …?’

  ‘It’s still only one of several possibilities. We’ve been scouring all sorts of websites and checking anything that looks likely. Another batch of lab results came back this morning, but it’s all a bit general, still. But there was toxic plant material in his system, definitely taken as a fluid. That’s as much as we’ve got to go on so far.’

  ‘I thought maybe it was mushrooms. The sort that make a person frenzied, with hallucinations and violence? There was some noise in those last few minutes and the room was in a mess.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it was mushrooms. He’d knocked a few things over, but I’ve heard reports of people clawing at the wallpaper and turning furniture upside down. And they’d have been ingested as a solid, not a liquid.’

  She understood that he was sharing more with her – again – than was usual. Nolan Moxon regarded Simmy as a friend, rather than a witness who regularly popped up when there was a murder investigation. He was concerned for her welfare and aware of her painful past. ‘I know he said he’d been poisoned, but it could have been accidental, surely? Don’t people often say things like that without meaning it? Maybe someone sprinkled the wrong seeds on a salad – something like that?’ She looked down at the little pile of chopped cucumber, lettuce and tomatoes on her plate. No seeds – but it wouldn’t have been unusual for there to be some. Then, as Moxon went on speaking, she realised that the whole pub had gone quiet and that Christopher was trying to catch her eye.