The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Tanya reckons it’s to do with conservation, somehow. She thinks there’s a conspiracy going on somewhere, and this Childers man got in the way. She says it could be several people all working together to make sure the murder worked as planned.’ Again Bonnie’s face fell. ‘And Ben would say that’s never a good idea, because somebody always gives the game away. It’s terribly difficult to keep a secret when more than one person knows it.’

  ‘Although there’d be a strong incentive in this case, wouldn’t there?’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Simmy put a halt to the conversation by diverting her attention to the computer, where it sat on the modest-sized table that served as shop counter. All the business had to be done on this barely adequate space, and it quickly became cluttered. The cash till was squashed in beside the laptop, along with a notepad, pen and landline phone. Orders came through online and by telephone, and had to be frequently monitored. There was a single high stool, meaning that only one person could sit down at a time. When business was slack, one of them would disappear into the back room, to tidy up, check stock or construct bouquets and wreaths. It was also Simmy’s workroom when there were orders to fulfil – as there were this morning.

  ‘That funeral,’ she said. ‘The one in Troutbeck tomorrow. Do you have any idea who Miss Entwhistle was?’

  ‘Oh – I meant to tell you. Corinne’s going. She’s calling in to order some flowers, any minute now. Dorothea Entwhistle was her best friend at school, or so she says. I think she must have had at least eight best friends. Anyway, she was only fifty-five. Some sort of cancer, I think. She lived up at the top end of Troutbeck. I’d have thought you’d know her. Everybody knows her.’

  ‘I might, by sight. Where did she work?’

  ‘She did all sorts of things. Had her own little farm, with some sheep and things. Took walkers over the fells. Little groups at a time. Painted a bit, as well. You really should have known her.’

  Simmy felt reproached for her lack of social involvement. ‘My father probably did,’ she said feebly. ‘Gosh, look!’ She was staring at her computer. ‘Three more wreaths wanted. Honestly, this is terribly short notice.’

  ‘The burial isn’t till three tomorrow. They want the flowers by one. You’ve got loads of time.’

  ‘Better get cracking, then. I’ll need an extra delivery first thing in the morning. There’s nothing like enough fresh flowers for all these.’

  ‘It’s good to be busy,’ said Bonnie absently. ‘Maybe Tanya can help a bit when she comes in.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Simmy stiffly. ‘You’re quite right – there is plenty of time. I’ve got to do six lots. Each one only takes twenty minutes or so. I was panicking for nothing.’

  ‘Depends what else happens,’ said Bonnie.

  Chapter Eleven

  Since nothing very much happened during the morning, Bonnie took the opportunity of researching everything she could find about the effects of the datura plant. As Simmy caught up with orders in the back room, Bonnie called the results of her Internet trawling through to Simmy, detail by detail. ‘It doesn’t say exactly how you prepare it,’ she reported. ‘No surprise there, I suppose. There are loads of different varieties, but they’re all poisonous.’

  ‘What does it taste like?’ asked Simmy.

  ‘Can’t find that, either. Most poisonous things are very bitter, aren’t they?’

  ‘That would make sense. But a lot of lethal mushrooms taste quite nice, apparently.’

  ‘And it’s the season for them now. Why not use them, I wonder?’

  ‘They wouldn’t keep for long, unless you dried them. They’d go mushy …’ Simmy trailed off, aware that she knew nothing about how to prepare a toxic drink from any kind of plant.

  ‘Very funny,’ laughed Bonnie. ‘Mushy mushrooms. Yuk!’

  Simmy emerged, drying her hands as she came. Since she’d been pregnant, she had made special efforts to avoid ingesting sap from the various blooms she worked with. All this talk of poison had made her even more careful. ‘We ought to phone Ninian and tell him we sold his pot,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just remembered.’

  ‘The money’s here, in a special envelope.’

  ‘I’ll do it now, before I forget again.’ Using the landline, she keyed the number that was still in her head, from when she and Ninian had been in frequent contact. There was no reply, so she left a message. ‘Good news – we sold that big pot we’ve had for ages. The money’s here, if you want to come and get it.’

  ‘He phoned a few days ago, didn’t he?’ Bonnie said.

  ‘Monday, I think. He’s showing a surprising interest in that Patterdale planning application. Usually, he wouldn’t care about a thing like that.’

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking of investing in tourist chalets. Probably a good idea, actually.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not for him, perhaps, but what about other people? Not everybody’s going to think it’s a terrible idea.’

  ‘What does Helen think? Do you know?’

  Bonnie gave her a blank look. ‘How would I? I haven’t seen Helen for weeks. I don’t imagine she cares one way or the other.’ Simmy had a profound admiration for Helen Harkness, Ben’s mother, busy architect and capable parent to her five offspring.

  ‘My father’s going to a public meeting down at the Belsfield about it this evening. I thought I might go with him, seeing as how Chris and I want to live in Patterdale. It seems silly not to. It would be good to hear the arguments on both sides.’

  ‘Is it a council meeting? Are they deciding whether to allow it?’

  ‘No, no. That wouldn’t be in Bowness – or in the evening. There might be a few council people there, I suppose. Actually, it still doesn’t make sense to me that they’re talking about it here, and not up there on the spot.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t want Patterdale people to know about it.’

  Simmy opened her mouth to scoff at this suggestion, when it suddenly seemed less ridiculous. It did feel as if there was something underhand about the whole business, when she thought about it. It was odd that the landlady of the Patterdale pub was unaware of the proposed new buildings, and even when informed of them, she seemed much less concerned than she should be. Had the locals really heard nothing at all? Or had they been assured the thing would never happen? Did Tristan and the Proctor woman know better? What had really been going on during Sunday morning, down beside Lake Windermere, when Simmy and her father had been blithely walking the dog? There’d been leaflets and placards. It was likely to be covered by local news outlets, and featured on Facebook. Lots of local people had been assembled in protest – ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it was intended to alert everybody from here to Patterdale and beyond.’

  Bonnie was thinking, voicing her ideas as they occurred. ‘I guess you can see the logic, sort of. Bowness is a centre for tourists, after all. It’s a good place to attract a crowd. And everybody’s going to be thinking that if it’s causing outrage down here, then it really must be important.’

  ‘Right,’ said Simmy. ‘Although it’s still peculiar. Why should Candy Proctor care what happens up there, for one thing?’

  ‘It’s not just her, though, is it?’

  They went on to brainstorm all the conceivable conspiracies that might lie behind the Sunday protest. Was the planning proposal some sort of Trojan Horse? A thin end of a wedge, a sleight of hand, which was meant to divert attention away from something closer to home? And had Tristan Wilkins got wind of something sinister, that could not be confronted directly? What could be his reason for not proclaiming the whole story to the general public? Or did he intend to do so that evening?

  All this took several minutes of quite enjoyable talk. Then Simmy tried to bring it back to earth. ‘It’ll all boil down to local politics,’ she said. ‘Wheels within wheels. Feelings running high in the committee rooms. Conflicts of personality.’

  ‘I bet it’ll be money at the bo
ttom of it,’ said Bonnie.

  ‘Maybe there’ll be some clues at the meeting. I’ll be sure to watch everybody closely.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  Simmy entertained a vision of a roomful of self-important local dignitaries, all over sixty, interspersed with anxious property owners and bearded conservationists, with the fair-headed fairy creature that was Bonnie Lawson sitting in their midst. ‘Of course you can. It’s a public meeting,’ she said.

  ‘Who’ll be there, I wonder? Who exactly is going to be bothered enough about Patterdale to turn out for something like that?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ said Simmy. ‘Won’t we?’

  It was half past eleven and Simmy was well ahead of schedule with the funeral flowers. They were keeping fresh in the cool back room, or so she hoped. They would have to wait for over twenty-four hours before being delivered. ‘I made those wreaths a bit early,’ she said ruefully. ‘I panicked.’

  ‘Not like you.’

  ‘I suppose I thought there might be more orders still to come in. And there’s still lots to do for the wedding, don’t forget. This rushed funeral is a bit odd, when you think about it – if she was such a prominent person, wouldn’t you think they’d make sure everyone had a chance to get the time off for the funeral? The end of next week would make more sense.’

  ‘Corinne says there’s some sort of maintenance work happening at the church for most of next week. They’re going to be putting scaffolding up around the door, and that wouldn’t do for a high-profile funeral. And all the mourners will be locals, so nobody’s got to make travel plans.’

  They were still chatting speculatively when the shop door opened to admit a large man with long orange hair and an eager expression. ‘Blimey, it’s Henry the Eighth,’ murmured Bonnie, making Simmy giggle.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘It’s Stuart, isn’t it? Sorry I can’t remember your surname.’

  ‘Carstairs, for my sins,’ he told her. ‘Your dad must have mentioned me to you?’

  ‘Yes, he did. You met him on Tuesday night and told him about a place in Patterdale. And he saw you on Sunday as well.’

  ‘Did he?’ The man frowned. ‘How come?’

  ‘You were part of the protest in Bowness. That’s where he saw you, holding a placard, in fact.’

  ‘Oh – right. Just showing solidarity with some old mates,’ he said vaguely, before briskly changing the subject. ‘So – how’s about that building plot idea, then? It’s genuine, you know. You should snap it up quick before somebody else bags it. Look – I was hoping you’d come and have lunch with me somewhere and we can talk about it.’

  Bonnie was performing her habitual little dance of frustrated curiosity, bobbing around Simmy in an unconvincing pretence at being busy, while clearly fixated on every word. Stuart Carstairs seemed entirely oblivious to her.

  ‘Lunch?’ faltered Simmy. ‘Well …’

  ‘Go on,’ Bonnie urged treacherously. ‘You’re all up to date here.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Simmy began again, determinedly, ‘Christopher and I went to Patterdale yesterday and talked over all our options, and we don’t think we can take on a new-build. Not with everything else we’ve got to deal with.’ She looked down at herself, wondering whether Stuart knew about the pregnancy.

  ‘I dare say it seems a bit daunting,’ he agreed. ‘But you’re young, and your dad says you’ve got plenty of flair for design and all that sort of thing. It would be a real legacy for the future – to pass down the family, so to speak.’

  ‘New-build?’ echoed Bonnie. ‘What’s this about, then?’

  Simmy made no attempt to keep the story from her young employee. ‘Mr Carstairs has a relative with a piece of land to sell. He thinks Chris and I could build a house on it. It’s more or less in Patterdale.’

  ‘Hartsop,’ said Stuart. ‘To be strictly accurate.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried the girl with rapturous enthusiasm. ‘Helen could be your architect.’ She paused. ‘But would you get permission for it? Isn’t that massively difficult?’

  ‘Massively,’ said Simmy.

  ‘There are ways,’ said Stuart, not quite putting a finger alongside his nose, but giving a quick wink instead. ‘Local couple. Nothing pretentious or intrusive. Keep it in the vernacular. I can help you with the jargon.’

  ‘So can Helen,’ insisted Bonnie.

  Simmy took a deep breath. ‘I’m touched that you thought of me. But I won’t take you up on lunch, all the same. Let me talk to my fiancé first. It’s a huge decision, and we’ve got all sorts of things to consider. We did discuss it yesterday, as I said. And we really would find the timing impossible. Where would we live while it was being built? How long would all the paperwork take, before we could even begin? We don’t know any builders, or how to supervise a job like that. Chris isn’t particularly handy. We wouldn’t be able to do any of the work ourselves. We’d have to get a bridging loan to cover the cost of it all.’ She ran out of breath, aware that the others were regarding her with disapprobation.

  ‘You’ve already talked yourselves out of it, then?’ Stuart sighed. ‘You’ll regret it, you know. If you do find a place to buy up there, you’ll drive past that new house, week after week, and wish you’d grabbed your chance when it was offered. Believe me – that’s how it’ll be.’

  ‘We’ll take the risk,’ said Simmy, made ever more resistant by his words. ‘At least, I think we will. I’ll phone Chris this evening and tell him what you’ve said. I’m sorry if we’re being disappointing.’

  Stuart Carstairs gave a tight little smile. ‘Just wanted to do your dad a favour, basically. And your mum. Good woman, your mum.’

  Simmy recalled that her father had described this man as Angie’s ‘red-haired chum’, implying that the real relationship was with her, and Russell much less so. Was all this essentially an attempt to ingratiate himself with a woman he held a fondness for? For all Simmy knew, he was single and intent on seducing the well-preserved and opinionated Mrs Straw by arranging a favour for her pregnant daughter.

  She declined his rather lukewarm repeated invitation to lunch, and he went away with considerably less of a flourish than when he had arrived.

  The afternoon saw the weather turn noticeably colder, and only one customer braved the sudden east wind to purchase a floral tribute for a female friend. Shortly after half past three, Tanya Harkness put in her promised appearance. Bonnie greeted her with a coolness that struck Simmy as uncalled for. Tanya herself did not seem to notice, being more than a little excited.

  ‘I’ve found somebody who was on the lake cruiser on Sunday,’ she burst out. ‘My friend Letty was with her aunt, who’s over from Australia, and it was the same boat as the man who got murdered was on.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Simmy demanded.

  ‘Because the police put out a call for anybody who took the lake cruise on the midday boat from Bowness, so that must be the one he booked on. The aunt went to the police station yesterday, and they asked her all sorts of questions, and showed her a picture of the man. She didn’t recognise him, though.’

  ‘They must think somebody on the boat gave him the poison,’ said Bonnie.

  ‘Right!’ said Tanya.

  But Simmy was unpersuaded. ‘Wouldn’t that be very odd? Do they give out refreshments on the cruise? And how would they be sure it was him? It doesn’t work. It’s a daft idea.’

  Tanya took up the argument. ‘Okay – well, maybe they followed him when he got off, and got chatting, and took him to a cafe or somewhere, and bought it for him then. I mean, slipped him something they’d already prepared.’ She drifted to a halt, hearing the several weaknesses in this scenario. ‘No actual proof, though,’ she sighed. ‘Ben would say there’s got to be proof, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bonnie. ‘But there obviously is something about the boat. The police must know that the Childers man was on it, and they think that’s important.’

  ‘We’re doing what we always
do,’ Simmy complained. ‘Just making wild guesses, with no idea what to do about any of them.’

  ‘We have to discuss it, though – don’t we?’ Tanya looked confused. ‘I mean – how else can we work anything out?’

  ‘They need to know every detail of the man’s last hours,’ Bonnie announced. ‘That’s why the boat matters. It’s obvious. They want to know everybody he spoke to, what he was doing, why he was here in the first place.’

  ‘And for most of that, their main informant has to be Candy Proctor,’ said Simmy. ‘We have to assume she didn’t tell us everything she told the police. After all, why would she?’

  ‘To make herself feel important?’ Bonnie suggested.

  Tanya was leaning against the wall next to the door into the back room. It was a habit her brother was also prone to. ‘She must be one of the suspects, don’t you think?’ she said slowly. ‘She’s the only person who actually knew him.’

  Simmy looked at Bonnie, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes, I told her all about it,’ she confessed, without shame. ‘Why not?’

  ‘For all we know, he had loads of friends up here,’ said Simmy, with the feeling that they were going round in circles. ‘Haven’t we said this already?’ She got up from the stool, which she had taken as by right of seniority, proprietorship and pregnancy. ‘There’s work to be done. No more chatter.’

  ‘And here’s somebody come to see us,’ said Bonnie, pointing through the big shop window to the street outside. A male face was peering in, waggling his fingers in a childish gesture of greeting.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘That was quick,’ laughed Simmy, as Ninian Tripp came delicately in, apparently wary of the female threesome. ‘Amazing the effect money can have.’

  He made a rueful face. ‘It comes at rather an opportune moment, as it happens. I was wondering where my next cappuccino was coming from.’

  She extracted the waiting envelope from its niche in the till and handed it to him. ‘It went to an elderly couple who found it impossible to resist.’