by Rebecca Tope
Helen looked from Simmy to Bonnie and back. ‘I knew you’d get onto the murder before long. Tanya won’t shut up about it. I’m terrified she won’t be able to keep it from Ben on Sunday. And that would be a disaster.’
‘Yes, we know,’ said Bonnie with a sigh.
‘It’s only because this is his first term, and he really does have to find his feet and keep focus. It’s a very hands-on course, apparently. He’s already got assignments and research projects that sound like overload to me. I didn’t think it could get any worse, after all those A-levels, but this seems just as bad.’
‘Yes, we know,’ said Bonnie again.
‘Of course you do. Sorry. It probably isn’t as bad as I think. We’ll find out more on Sunday.’
‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry about him,’ said Simmy.
‘I hope that’s true. The thing is, I’ve got a friend with a son at Oxford. Just started his second year, and they found him last week almost dead from an overdose of something. The pressure got too much for him, apparently. It all feels so scary.’ She shivered.
‘Ben won’t do that,’ said Bonnie with total confidence. ‘He likes pressure. If anybody can cope, it’s him. But you’ll have to warn Tanya not to talk. If he hears about it from her, he’ll be furious with me for not saying anything.’
Simmy and Helen both laughed at this flash of selfishness. ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Helen. ‘But she’s really full of it, you know. She thinks it all hinges on the lake cruiser. She’s getting awfully like Ben,’ she concluded woefully. ‘I’m not sure I can manage another one.’
This time she was the butt of the laughter. Simmy was sitting where she could see the screen of her computer, and noticed that a new order had just come through. ‘Um … I should look at this,’ she said apologetically.
‘That’s okay. But I did want to ask you how the house-hunting’s going. Have you got two more minutes?’
‘Of course. Nothing’s that urgent. Well, there are one or two hopeful developments. Do you know a man called Stuart Carstairs? Red hair. Runs a B&B down your way somewhere. Well, he’s got a brother or something who wants to sell half his garden in Hartsop as a building plot. We were going to consult you about it, anyway. But then we decided the timing wouldn’t work. We can’t possibly build a house in time for the baby, and once it’s born, I don’t think we’ll want to be bothered with builders and plumbers and council officials and all the rest of it. We found a lovely little place called Crookabeck, which would be absolutely perfect.’
‘I know Stuart,’ said Helen. ‘And I wouldn’t trust him with a dog kennel, let alone a relative trying to sell building land.’
‘Ah,’ said Simmy. ‘That’s a shame.’
The order was tagged As soon as possible. A last-minute bouquet for a couple who lived at Troutbeck Bridge. ‘No problem,’ muttered Simmy. ‘I can take it when I go up to Waterhead.’ She registered her acknowledgement on the computer and disappeared into the back room. Only when she had her gloves on and was deftly operating secateurs did she notice how hungry she was. She had her usual little lunch brought from home, comprising of a piece of cooked chicken, tomato, muesli bar, crisps and yoghurt. Randomly piled into a plastic box, it was only minimally appetising, but she bolted it all down as she worked.
It was just after one o’clock when she announced to Bonnie that she was making a second trip that day in the van, delivering flowers. ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ she said.
But then her mobile summoned her, the message on the screen informing her that the caller was ‘Chris’.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit busy. Can I call you back?’
‘Not really. I’ve just spoken to Robin again. He insists we go up to Glenridding this evening to see this house. It officially goes on the market tomorrow and there’ll be a rush, he reckons. We can’t waste any time.’
‘Oh.’ She felt oddly lukewarm about this suddenly available house. ‘Will it be worth the hassle, do you think? How many rooms are there?’
‘Three bedrooms, two reception downstairs. Decent garden. Spectacular views. I told you last night.’
‘How much is it? You didn’t tell me that little detail.’
‘The asking price is three ninety-five, but they might take less.’
‘Not at this stage they won’t. They’ll wait to see what the interest is. If people start fighting over it, they’ll probably put the price up, not down.’
‘What’s your problem, Sim? Why do you sound so negative about it? Robin’s gone out on a limb for us here, and the least we can do is go and look at the place. It could be perfect for us. It’ll be at least seven before I can get there, and then go for a meal somewhere afterwards.’
‘I know. I sound awful, don’t I? I just can’t believe it can really happen. It would all be so perfect, it’s too good to be true. That little Crookabeck place is like heaven. Imagine what it must look like in the spring.’ She sighed. ‘I daren’t let myself dream, because I can’t see how it could ever happen. Where exactly is this place Robin’s found?’
‘Not Crookabeck, I’m afraid. Further up towards the lake, in Glenridding. On the left, I think. It must be very close to Ullswater.’
She said nothing, trying to juggle all her fears and hopes and telling herself that compromise was going to be inevitable.
‘Sim? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. We’ve got to go and see it, of course. Robin’s been wonderful. He’s a good friend. It would be churlish not to go for a look.’
‘Precisely. And we can go down to Crookabeck any time we want to, if we live there. It’d be a five-minute walk.’
Can. He said ‘can’ as if the whole thing was already settled. ‘That’s true,’ she said, stifling a sigh.
She stowed the two bouquets carefully in the van and set out to make the deliveries. The road was so familiar she barely noticed it. Traffic was building up, as people began to arrive for a weekend in the Lakes. It often seemed that local workers knocked off halfway through a Friday in an effort to beat the rush. Ben Harkness had once remarked that the clever thing to do would be to stay on until six, by which time everyone would have gone.
The more recent order was for a guesthouse on the western side of the road, close to the junction with one of the roads up to Troutbeck. The lake came almost to the edge of the garden. Simmy drove down a short driveway between the house and its neighbour, and extracted the flowers from the back of the van. There were several beautiful Japanese acer trees displaying gorgeous autumn colours in the next-door garden, which also boasted a very large greenhouse. She paused to admire the trees and peer through the glass at what looked like a healthy crop of tomatoes. It made her feel hungry just to look at them.
A woman met her at the front door, with a familiarly harassed expression. ‘Gosh, that was quick!’ she said. ‘They’re for my sister. It’s her anniversary and we’re going round there later on. If I can ever get away, that is. We’ve just had a whole family turn up without a booking. Aren’t people stupid! Four of them, thinking they could just find rooms without any warning.’
‘Which it sounds as if they did,’ said Simmy, with a sympathetic smile.
‘Well, yes. Lucky for them. It would be a different matter next week, when nearly everybody’s got half-term. But I’ve had to call in our part-time girls to cope with it all.’
‘I know how it goes. My parents run a B&B.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ said the woman, rather snappily. ‘Whatever’s happened to us all, that the only thing we can think about is providing beds and food for millions of tourists? When you stop to think about it, it’s completely insane.’
In the road outside a car horn hooted. ‘Look at them!’ the woman went on. ‘Crawling up to Ambleside, nose to tail. Like sheep. Worse than sheep.’
‘They’re looking for open spaces, rugged fells, somewhere they can get a sense of the natural world,’ said Simmy.
‘Oh yes, I know all that. And I admit th
ere’s space enough once they get onto the uplands. It’s just such a nuisance that they all want somewhere to sleep when they come down again.’ She laughed ruefully, and Simmy laughed with her.
Then the woman looked back at the road, as the horn tooted again. ‘My God, how crass! Look – he’s hooting at a hearse.’
Simmy focused on the stationary cars, and realised it could only be the Entwhistle funeral. It had got entangled with the tourist traffic and would be late at the Troutbeck church if something wasn’t done. ‘I think it’s the hearse that hooted,’ she said. ‘Somebody must be in the way.’
‘Broken down, maybe.’
Simmy went closer for a better look. Two men were hurriedly pushing a white car to the side of the road, trying to clear a passage for the funeral entourage. The hearse was followed by two large black limousines, one of them filled with flowers on the back seat. It was two-fifteen and Kevin’s schedule was looking to be in jeopardy.
She went back to her van, knowing she would have to wait until the blockage was cleared. The woman remained on her doorstep, watching the action in the road. Again Simmy caught sight of the big glasshouse. ‘Lovely crop of tomatoes over there,’ she said. ‘Do you get any of them?’
‘What? Oh no. I don’t know what he does with them, but he’s never offered us any. That’s nothing to a few months back. He’s got all sorts of exotic things in there, down the far end. Nice flowers as well. You should see if you can have some – be useful in your line of business.’
Simmy nodded, thinking she really ought to make more effort to buy locally. As it was, almost all her stock was bought in bulk from a large nursery in Lincolnshire. ‘I’m afraid I’m not terribly responsible, environmentally speaking,’ she admitted.
‘We do what we can,’ said the woman vaguely, and began to close the door.
Simmy eventually made the second delivery to a house on the eastern side of the road, just south of Waterhead. The fact that it was an actual family home, with no sign outside about tourism or vacant rooms, made her think again about the possibility of living in Patterdale. She and Christopher would be almost freakishly unusual, using the house neither as a second home nor as a holiday let. No guests, no direct involvement at all with the ‘hospitality industry’ as everyone persisted in calling it. When they had briefly contemplated looking for a home in the little town of Grasmere, the overwhelming presence of holiday visitors had been enough to deter them. Patterdale was at least both smaller and quieter than that.
Even this house, where she was delivering the flowers, was probably home to a tour guide or a hotel manager living off site. But she was never to find out, because a man wearing a vest and boxer shorts grabbed the flowers from her with a self-conscious grin and disappeared without a word.
She was back at the shop just after three, ready to tell Bonnie about the funeral and the numerous flowers, and the agreeable feeling of having contributed to a handsome send-off for Miss Entwhistle. Instead, she was met by her old friend DI Moxon, who wasn’t looking very friendly.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him. ‘You don’t look very happy.’
He grimaced. ‘There are things you didn’t tell me.’
‘What? What things?’
‘Last night’s meeting, for one thing. Young Miss Harkness and her detective games for another. And now Dorothea Entwhistle.’
Simmy sank onto the stool beside the computer table. ‘None of those things have anything to do with me. What do you think I’ve done?’
Bonnie was standing in the middle of the shop, close to Moxon. They both moved towards Simmy. ‘Are you telling me you’re unaware that Dorothea was a keen amateur plant breeder? That she had a whole row of glasshouses where she propagated just the sort of things we’re convinced poisoned Mr Childers? As a florist, you would surely have known about that?’
She stared at him in bewilderment. ‘I had no idea. I’d never even heard of Dorothea Entwhistle until this week. Why would I?’
‘Because she lived about a hundred yards from your cottage in Troutbeck, with a very obvious array of greenhouses behind her house. You can see them from almost anywhere in the village, as well as from up on the fells. Everybody knew about her. The funeral’s the biggest Troutbeck’s seen for decades.’
‘Yes. I saw the traffic jam,’ said Simmy slowly. ‘And I saw another big greenhouse, on the main road. I don’t normally take a lot of notice of greenhouses,’ she finished, with some spirit. ‘Most people with a garden of any size must have one.’
‘Even Corinne’s got one,’ said Bonnie, clearly wanting to be included in the conversation.
‘Okay,’ said Moxon, scratching his cheek. ‘I got it wrong, then.’
‘So how do you know about Miss Entwhistle growing poisonous plants? Why would the police be interested in her?’
‘We weren’t, until somebody in the village asked us to keep an eye on the house during the funeral. You know, I expect, that there’s a certain type of criminal who takes advantage of an empty house at such moments. Watching out for them is something we often get asked to do.’
‘And the officer detailed to keep watch decided to have a snoop around her garden, did he?’ It was Bonnie who spoke. ‘Was it somebody who could identify every plant in her greenhouses?’
‘We’re all on alert for unusual plants at the moment. Obviously. And I was hoping you’d be helping us with that.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, then,’ said Simmy stiffly. She was smarting under his unjustified accusations. ‘And what’s all this about Tanya?’
‘She and some little friend of hers have been hanging around the jetty in Bowness, asking about the cruises and whether they provide food and where it comes from. They’ve annoyed quite a few people.’
‘They think the man was poisoned on the boat, on Sunday, because you and your mates have been all over the waterfront there,’ said Bonnie.
He exhaled, a long breath of exasperation. ‘So I gather. It’s what we might call jumping to conclusions. There is, I admit, reason to believe that Mr Childers did take the midday cruise, but if so, he must have made very good time to get back to Mr and Mrs Straw’s by ten to two, which is the time your father made the 999 call. The timing is causing a lot of trouble.’
‘So are there any other theories?’ Bonnie asked, with her usual boldness.
‘Plenty.’ He was plainly uncomfortable and Simmy felt compelled to rescue him.
‘That’s enough,’ she told Bonnie. ‘You must know the police aren’t going to share their investigation with you or me.’ She turned to Moxon. ‘So what’s your beef about the meeting last night?’
‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Firstly, I need to ask whether you noticed anybody selling food or drink during the protest in Bowness. We’ve had a few reports of some unofficial activity of that sort. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone to be handing out water or even snacks to people who’d travelled a distance to be there.’
Simmy frowned. ‘I didn’t see anything like that. They were just standing about with placards. But there easily could have been. We were busy talking to people, and might not have noticed. Those little green and white kiosks had people all round them. It was quite a crowd.’
‘Hm,’ he said. ‘What time did you leave?’
‘It must have been about half past twelve or a bit after. We stayed twenty minutes or so, then got back to Beck View for one.’
‘The boat had gone, then, when you arrived there?’
‘Oh yes. We saw it out on the lake, as we walked through Bowness. What time does it leave?’
‘Midday. And the cruise is ninety minutes.’
They all contemplated the implications. ‘So it came back to Bowness at one-thirty. He couldn’t have been feeling ill, then, if he got back up the hill so fast,’ said Simmy.
‘He must have been given whatever-it-was on the boat,’ Bonnie concluded. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘There’s no knowing,’ s
ighed Moxon. ‘There must be a dozen other ways it could have happened.’
‘Don’t you know yet exactly what the poison was, or how fast it works? Or if he took it all in one go, or a bit at a time? What would it have tasted like? Would he be able to walk after he’d drunk it?’ Bonnie’s questions poured out, all of them impressively relevant, to Simmy’s mind.
‘Still somewhat uncertain,’ he said regretfully. ‘The only thing we can say is that whoever gave it to him was extremely clever, and well prepared.’
‘Assuming he was the intended victim, of course,’ said Bonnie.
Both the adults blinked at her. ‘Had you even thought of that?’ Simmy asked the detective.
‘We’ve thought of everything,’ he said pompously, and unconvincingly.
Bonnie gave him a severe look. ‘I still think you must know how quickly the poison works, and what the known rates of absorption are, and all that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe in a television series that would be true. But the reality is that toxicology screening is slow and expensive. And there is still some disagreement at higher levels as to the expected benefit of doing that. Since we have found nothing in Mr Childers’ possession to indicate what he took, how it was taken, when it was taken, or who gave it to him, the precise nature of the toxin’s origin seems rather unlikely to answer those questions. We have of course kept samples, which can be sent to a laboratory if and when we decide it’s necessary.’
Simmy got off her stool. ‘Meanwhile, what happens?’
‘We learn everything we possibly can about him – who he knew, why he came here, where he went. We still don’t know what he did all day on Saturday.’
‘Which doesn’t matter much if he took the poison on Sunday,’ Simmy remarked.
