The Troutbeck Testimony

by Rebecca Tope

‘And there weren’t any dogs at the farm. In fact, nobody actually lives there. They just keep sheep on the land. The original house was sold decades ago and it’s used as a holiday home now. It’s not really a farm at all any more.’

  ‘Oh.’ She blinked a few times. ‘Then why do you think it has anything to do with me and my father and what happened yesterday?’

  ‘It’s all in Troutbeck,’ he said simply. ‘And Troutbeck is a very small place.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said for the third time.

  After that things seemed to drift. Moxon asked for descriptions of the men in the red car, which Simmy failed to provide in any detail. ‘I’ve forgotten,’ she said. ‘It all felt like a game at the time. I guessed their ages, and Dad took me seriously. They were very ordinary. I’d say the boy was about twelve, maybe a bit more. Tim – I think he’s called Tim.’

  ‘Yes – your father mentioned that. But he says he didn’t see the people in the car at all. That seems a bit strange.’

  ‘It all happened very quickly. He was writing down the registration number, or sorting out his dog, or something. Look – why does what we saw yesterday matter now? You’ve got a name for the man who’s died. You can find his son and ask him everything else you need to know. He can tell you who the other man was, and what they were planning to do.’ She wanted to force him to agree with her, to admit he had only shown up because he liked her and hadn’t seen her for ages. ‘I’m definitely not going to be a witness or anything. I can’t provide an alibi or give names of likely suspects. I refuse to get hurt again, either.’ She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘It feels as if you’re deliberately trying to drag me into something, with no good reason. And it really isn’t fair.’

  ‘All right,’ he nodded. ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll do what I can to leave you alone from now on. The trouble is …’ he paused and took a deep breath, ‘I can’t make any promises. We have to follow the evidence wherever it leads us. And just at the moment, it’s leading very directly to the conversation your father heard yesterday. I know you don’t like people worrying about you, but there are inevitably some concerns …’ He gave a weak smile, as if expecting a rebuff.

  ‘But the boy? Why can’t you just ask him?’

  ‘We will. But he’s just lost his father, and his mother lives in Scotland. She’ll be coming down tonight to collect him, but all that’s still up in the air. We can’t bombard him with questions until she’s here to chaperone him. Surely you can see I had no choice but to come and ask how much you can contribute that might help us. I’m sure you’re aware that the more quickly we can understand the story, the more likely we are to make an early arrest.’

  ‘I know you mean well,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it. And it’s not your fault. I just wish my dad hadn’t contacted you. Neither of us can be of any more help, as far as I can see. It’s just a waste of your time when you’ve got better things to do. I’m glad we gave you the link with the car, even if I’m not sure how relevant it’ll be.’

  ‘I hope you’re right about that,’ he said, with a sigh.

  She closed the door behind him with some force, knowing that she was being unreasonable. He had been very forbearing, resisting an obvious temptation to remind her that she had a legal duty to cooperate with all police enquiries. The ‘enquiry’ such as she could understand it, was a peculiar tangle that she might have followed better if she’d allowed Moxon to explain. More pressing, she discovered, was her father’s almost treacherous behaviour. If anybody had dragged her into this new police investigation, it was surely him.

  She picked up the phone, determined to demand what on earth he’d been thinking of to do such a thing.

  Her mother answered. ‘Beck View,’ she said with a carefully judged mixture of welcome and efficiency.

  ‘Mum? It’s me.’

  ‘P’simmon.’ Only Angie could pronounce the name in a way that made it sound a perfectly normal appellation for a daughter. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Ask Dad. Did you know he’d told the police about a silly little thing that happened yesterday?’

  ‘That dead dog on the fellside? He didn’t, did he? I never thought he would.’

  ‘Not so much that, as two men he heard talking at the pub. Now there’s been a murder practically next door and the police are trying to drag me into it. It’s all Dad’s fault. Whatever came over him?’

  ‘He came home in a funny mood yesterday. Didn’t say much, but I had the impression the walk wasn’t as much of a success as he’d expected. And poor old Bertie just collapsed into a heap and has barely moved since. You didn’t say “murder” just then, did you?’

  ‘I did, actually. Although Moxon tried to shield me from it, I think. He didn’t use the word, but it was clear enough what he meant. That’s very odd about Dad, though. I thought we had a wonderful time. The views were breathtaking, and we both managed a lot of steep terrain without any mishaps. He talked a bit about his showing as a parent, which was a bit disconcerting.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s what I mean. He’s gone very introspective, all of a sudden.’

  ‘He’s always been a bit like that. It still doesn’t explain why he talked to the police. I wondered whether he just wanted to bring me and Moxon together again for some reason.’

  ‘Matchmaking, you mean? Sounds unlikely. I think he’s happy with Ninian in that role.’

  ‘So … what?’

  Angie was silent for a few seconds. ‘He feels you need protection, perhaps. He’s been a lot more careful about locking doors and keeping a closer eye on the guests, these past few weeks. He worries about them coming into our rooms – didn’t we tell you he’s had signs made, saying “Private” for the doors? Jim-the-handyman came yesterday to screw them on. And he checks the car’s there two or three times a day.’

  Simmy felt the cold hand of anxiety clutching at her breast. ‘That’s awful. He was never like that. I haven’t seen any sign of it.’ She thought again of her apprehension that her father might invite the muddy bearded man into her cottage. Caution and nervousness were not remotely part of his character.

  ‘It is awful,’ Angie agreed. ‘And I think he knows it’s not right. He’s liable to be trying to hide it from you. But it’s driving me mad, to be honest. I’m starting to wonder if he’s getting that ACDC thing that little boys have.’

  ‘I think you mean ADD. Attention deficit disorder. And that doesn’t really cover what you’re describing.’ Simmy had a nasty suspicion that her father’s new persona was a direct result of the traumatic series of events over the winter. ‘I’ll try and come over after work tomorrow and see for myself. At least it explains why he spoke to the police, I suppose. And he’s going to feel completely vindicated when he finds out there’s been a horrible crime up here, isn’t he.’

  ‘So who died?’ Simmy could hear how reluctant her mother was to ask this central question.

  ‘A man. That’s all I know. Moxon didn’t tell me his name, or what was done to him. It was in a farmyard, which isn’t really a farmyard at all any more. I suppose it might have a barn or two for storing hay. I pass it nearly every day, but haven’t ever properly looked. I’ve never seen sheep or anything in the fields. Moxon didn’t tell me very much, but there’s something about dognapping that they’ve been investigating. Don’t tell Dad. He’ll start trying to stop Bertie from ever going outside.’

  Angie snorted. ‘Nobody’s going to steal that old mutt.’

  ‘Lucky for him he’s neutered, or they might. Lakeland terriers are pretty rare these days.’

  ‘Not only neutered, but far from pure-blooded. I sometimes think there’s a dash of beagle in his ancestry. Something about the head.’

  Simmy declined to discuss dog heredity, and found herself yawning. ‘I’ve got to go, Mum. I haven’t eaten yet, and then I’ll need to get an early night. I’ve got to go to Staveley before I open up tomorrow, then it’s a full day making wreaths for the funeral on Friday. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than
that.’

  ‘Off you go then, love. Call in tomorrow if you get a chance.’

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  For supper, she opened a tin of soup, and drank it from a large mug. Followed by a carton of yoghurt, it hardly comprised a wholesome meal. Her weight was gently dropping, month by month, as she grew decreasingly interested in food. I’ll be as bad as Bonnie, if I don’t watch out, she thought, with no sense of alarm. People who manifested too serious a commitment to eating were obviously living idle and unfulfilled lives. Or so Angie would say. Simmy did not doubt that it was more complicated than that.

  But she was aware of a certain emptiness in these routine evenings spent alone. There was the pub only five minutes’ walk away, where people would be chatting and laughing and generally being sociable. In the summer the garden would be full of tired and happy walkers with stories to tell. Simmy could go along and join in, making herself a part of the community, a familiar face which would be welcomed and included. Once in a while, the temptation was almost enough to persuade her to do just that. Melanie would approve, and Ninian might be nudged into a better level of involvement.

  It was only half past seven. She had two hours with nothing to do. It was mild outside, with birds singing and blossom blooming. The phone had dragged her indoors when there was still every reason to be in the open air. And perhaps instead of sitting quietly on her patio at the back, she could do a bit of weeding at the front, in the little patch of garden that she tried to keep presentable. Grass was growing rapidly amongst the shrubs and perennials, with buttercups and dandelions rudely intruding where they weren’t wanted.

  The other reason, of course, was to put herself in the way of anyone passing on foot. They would glance over the low wall and see her at work. Then they would pause and say, ‘Lovely evening,’ and she would agree with them. There were perhaps three local residents who knew her well enough to stop for a longer chat. And then, maybe, they’d casually invite her along for a drink at the Mortal Man, and all her dreams would come true.

  She smiled at her own imaginings, but was not deterred. She collected a trowel and positioned herself on the edge of the weediest area of the little garden. For ten minutes, she dug out the interlopers while nobody at all walked past.

  She had become so intent on her work, with its rewarding results, that she jumped when a male voice spoke a few feet away. ‘So this is where you live, then. I reckoned it was hereabouts.’

  She looked up, and met the gaze of the man whose features had returned to her several times over the past twenty-four hours. ‘Hello,’ she said, warily.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me whether I got all that mud off?’ he teased, making it plain that he understood her nervousness of him.

  ‘I assume you did.’ She wanted to ask – What did you have in that bag? Are you in a gang of dognappers?

  And more alarmingly, the question formed itself – And did you kill a man today in a yard near Town End?

  Chapter Seven

  Of course, the idea was ridiculous. If this bearded and unsettling individual had in fact just committed murder, he would scarcely be hanging around half a mile from the scene of the crime. There was no reason whatever to think he had any connection with burglary or stealing dogs or whatever else had been going on. But associations were inescapably forming in her mind, enough to render her speechless. She got to her feet, weighing the little trowel in her hand as if wondering if it could possibly defend her.

  The man seemed unsurprised by her silence. ‘Nice evening,’ he went on, in a parody of the fantasy she had just been entertaining. ‘Pity there’s been trouble down the way.’

  ‘Oh?’ she managed. Her thoughts were slowly unscrambling, enough for the idea to occur that her father might well have informed the police of this man’s presence in Troutbeck the day before, along with a description of him. Hadn’t Moxon said something about it not being helpful? That there might have been anything at all – and all of the possibilities innocent – inside the black bag.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard. It’s all round the place by now. Poor ol’ Travis McNaughton’s bought it, apparently. Terrible thing.’ He looked genuinely distressed, his eyes shrinking into his head, and his lips tight against the emotion. ‘And the woman who found ’im – she knew him, as well. She’s never going to be the same, after what she saw.’

  ‘So you knew him, did you?’

  ‘Sort of. Lived up Grasmere way until a little while ago. Did some work with his brother a few years back. Harmless as they come. No reason in the world for anyone to kill ’im.’

  Why was he telling her this? Was he simply splurging his feelings to anyone who would listen? Was the shock of sudden violence so great that he couldn’t keep it back? Or had he a cooler more malicious motive, specifically directed at her? She and her father had witnessed his presence in Troutbeck the day before, carrying a mysterious object having earlier been loitering outside the pub. All decidedly suspicious.

  But why would he continue to behave suspiciously now? She met his eyes directly, searching for an explanation, striving to appear fearless and even sympathetic. It was possible, she realised, that he had seen and recognised DI Moxon, leaving her house. It was all too horribly possible that this was why he was now talking to her, in an attempt to discover what she knew and what she had told the police.

  ‘Well, I …’ She was going to say can’t stop, but it sounded fatuous as well as blatantly untrue. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. I expect it was an accident – they happen a lot on farms, don’t they? I mean, I have no idea what happened, but I’m sure it’ll all be sorted out.’ She sighed. That really had sounded fatuous.

  ‘No accident,’ he glowered. ‘How does a chap get his throat torn out by accident?’

  ‘What?’ Her head spun and she felt sick. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The woman who found him told about a dozen people at Town End. Blood everywhere, she said. She’d got it on her hands. They’re all talking about it.’ He waved a vague hand towards the upper end of the village. ‘Especially at the pub.’

  ‘I’d much rather not know,’ she said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Nor me.’ The words were uttered forcefully. ‘Do you hear? It’s nothing to do with me, either. So don’t you go thinking it has.’

  She nodded timidly. It sounded like a threat. She took it as a threat. And yet there was an appeal in his eyes that softened his expression and made her less afraid of him. She glimpsed a life spent under suspicion simply because of the way he looked. Scruffy, thin, sly – he was nobody’s idea of trustworthy. Impatiently she thought: surely he could clean himself up without any great effort, if it mattered to him how people judged him. He didn’t really strike her as a murderer. But then, she had actually met three murderers since coming to Cumbria, and not one of them had shown any outward sign of their capabilities.

  The man walked away, uphill towards the Mortal Man. Simmy went into her house and tried not to think any more about him.

  Wednesday was a lot cooler than previous days had been, with grey skies over the lakes and fells. Determined to avoid any risk of getting embroiled in police activity at Town End, she took the alternative road out of Troutbeck down towards the church, turning left at the chestnut tree, which had the first hints of pink flowers that would cover it in another week or two. Making deliveries before opening the shop was efficient, but it meant an uncomfortably early start at times.

  She drove first to Staveley with the delivery of flowers, where Cynthia Mossop was in her dressing gown, bemused at the doorbell going before she was properly awake. The flowers were well received, and Simmy duly gratified. She sped back down to Windermere and her shop, catching glimpses of the lake where an early mist drifted above the water.

  She found her thoughts full of her mother’s account of her father’s startling change of character. Had it been coming on gradually, or was it as sudden as it seemed to Simmy? Was it all because of her experi
ences over recent months, into which he had also been drawn? Did he understand what was happening to him, or was it all unconscious? Would it help if she deliberately avoided all mention of the events of the Bank Holiday Monday, or make him even more paranoid? Perhaps it wasn’t paranoia anyway, but a purely rational response to situations that really were dangerous? People had died, after all, including a man in Troutbeck less than a day ago. DI Moxon had taken Russell’s report seriously, and had manifested concern for Simmy’s safety.

  It was all happening again – she had to face it. There had been another murder, close to where she lived. Ben Harkness would be avidly excited about it, and Melanie would probably admit to an intimate knowledge of the dead man’s family and all their doings. And it was not going to do Simmy or her father any good at all.

  The shop had a handy paved area in front, where plants could be positioned in a display that mostly had to be taken in at closing time every day. ‘Persimmon Petals’ was painted in fancy lettering above the window. When the handmade model of the well-known Baddeley clock tower had finally been removed after five months in situ, Ninian had promised to construct a more permanent attraction to include his trademark ceramic tiles, but nothing had yet materialised. Simmy and Melanie had both been remiss in failing to create a proper display in the meantime.

  Still thinking about her father, and wondering how worried or annoyed she should be, it took her a moment to register that another man was standing outside the shop, clearly waiting for her.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said, feeling moithered, or mithered, according to which north country dialect one adopted. In either case, it was a word Simmy found herself using a lot, when people approached her at an unsuitable hour.

  ‘I got up at sunrise, which was nearly three hours ago,’ said Ninian Tripp. ‘The best of the day is almost over.’

  ‘That might be true on a sunny day. As it is, it hardly feels as if the sun’s risen at all. What do you want?’