The Troutbeck Testimony Read online

  The Troutbeck Testimony

  REBECCA TOPE

  For Esther and her gang of devoted friends Izzy, Bev, Karen, Hannah, Gemma, Red, Debbie, Evie and all their babies

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  By Rebecca Tope

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  As with other titles in the series, the villages and public buildings in this story are all real. But Simmy’s shop and the B&B are invented.

  Chapter One

  The first anniversary of Persimmon Brown’s opening of her florist shop in the Lake District had almost coincided with Easter and an explosion of spring flowers and blossom. Wordsworth’s daffodils performed to their greatest strength and pussy willow attracted hosts of honey bees who had failed to notice that they were meant to be in terminal decline. A month later, on the first long weekend in May, walking along a sheltered footpath to the west of Troutbeck, Simmy – officially Ms Persimmon Brown – could hear an energetic buzzing and murmured ‘something something something in the bee-loud glade’ to herself. Not Wordsworth, she was sure, but somebody like Yeats or Hardy. She would ask her young friend Ben, who knew everything.

  The sun was warm on her shoulders; the light so clear that she could pick out numerous fast-growing lambs on the fells far above the village. Every weekend throughout the coming summer, she promised herself, she would get up at first light and go for an early walk. The anniversary had been a time for resolutions and one of them was to make much better use of the natural delights that surrounded her.

  She felt an almost pagan euphoria at the burgeoning landscape, vibrant with flora and fauna at the start of another cycle of life. Her mother would say it was a mark in Christianity’s favour that it had been clever enough to superimpose all its biggest rituals onto far more ancient moments in the natural year, with Easter an obvious example.

  There was now a bonus Spring Bank Holiday that Simmy was savouring with complete abandonment. The late morning, with a sunny afternoon still ahead of her, brought feelings of richness and privilege that were almost shameful. But she had earned it, she reminded herself. The winter had been grey and protracted, interspersed with a number of unpleasant adventures. She had been repeatedly drawn into events that demonstrated the darker side of human behaviour, forced to confront far too much reality.

  Now that spring had arrived with such a colourful crash, she was determined to shake all that off and concentrate on her flowers.

  The plan for the day was to meet her father, Russell Straw, for a long-promised fellside walk after a modest lunch at the Mortal Man. The full walk, along Nanny Lane and up to the summit of Wansfell Pike – and back – was easily four miles in total, with some steep sections of stony path. ‘By rights, we should go across to the Troutbeck Tongue at the same time, but that’s rather ambitious,’ Russell conceded.

  ‘I shall want some fortification first,’ Simmy had warned him. ‘And if there’s the slightest risk of rain, I’m cancelling the whole idea. Neither of us is fit enough to do anything rash.’

  There was no suggestion of rain, the sky a uniform blue in every direction. It was, in fact, the most perfect day for very many months and Simmy was duly thankful for it. Her father would bring water, map, and dog. She would provide a camera, mobile phone and two slabs of Kendal mint cake.

  The fells above Troutbeck were stark, dramatic and uncaring. There were barely any flowers or trees adorning them, other than the tiny resilient blooms that crouched underfoot. More than happy to accommodate her father’s wishes, Simmy nonetheless preferred the softer and more moderated lower levels. This explained her morning stroll, taking a zigzag route from her house to the hostelry along lanes that had been colonised by humanity, with gardens and houses taking their place in the picture. The bees at least agreed with her. Azaleas and rhododendrons were in bud, reminding her of her startled surprise at the vibrant colours, the year before. Not just the natural purples and pinks, but brilliant orange, deepest crimson and a wide array of other hues shouted from gardens all over the relatively balmy area around Windermere and Ambleside. Even the wilder reaches of Coniston boasted spectacular displays. Aware that it might be foolish to expend energy on this pre-walk stroll, she nonetheless felt the need to exploit the sunshine and the flamboyant floral displays. It was semi-professional, too – she ought to be apprised of the full range of seasonal blossoms in gardens, in order to echo and embellish them in the offerings she stocked at the shop. Flowers were her business, and any lateral information she could acquire would always come in useful.

  Her father was waiting for her at the pub, sitting at an outside table on a lower level, with his dog. She kissed the man and patted the animal. ‘Is he going to cope with such a long walk?’ she wondered. It was a rather ancient Lakeland terrier, officially named Bertie, but mostly just called ‘the dog’. His forebears had failed a purity test, it seemed, and poor Bertie had found himself rejected as breeding stock and consigned to a rescue centre until eventually rescued by kindly Russell Straw.

  ‘Oh yes. And if he doesn’t we’ll have to carry him.’

  ‘When did you last take him on a jaunt like this?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago. We’ve been waiting all this time for you.’

  ‘Dad! That’s ridiculous.’ In spite of herself, she laughed. ‘Poor old chap. He won’t know what’s hit him. His feet will be sore for weeks.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. He spends all his time digging up stones. His feet are as tough as iron. He could easily outwalk both of us. Now let’s get on with it. I want to set off by one at the latest.’

  That gave them forty-five minutes to eat a hearty pub lunch with beer to wash it down. ‘We shouldn’t walk on full stomachs,’ Simmy remarked. ‘We’ll get a stitch.’

  ‘Better than trying to do it empty. We need the food to give us stamina.’

  ‘At least we’ve got the weather for it. And listen to those birds!’ A pair of collared doves cooed at them from an overhead wire, the gentle three-note song a backdrop that Simmy always loved, despite the blatant lack of musical variety. Her habit of feeding garden birds had attracted another pair of doves to her own little patch, a few hundred yards from the pub, and she had grown used to waking to their call, imagining that they were deliberately asking her for some breakfast.

  Russell cocked his head. ‘They’re not native, you know. They’re quite recent immigrants. I mean recent. I was about ten years old when the first ones settled here. The BBC put them in a medieval radio play by mistake not long ago. Lots of people wrote in about it.’

  ‘Well, they’re very welcome as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I agree with you. I also like grey squirrels, even if I get lynched for saying so.’

  She laughed again, after a wary glance around. In Troutbeck, the red
squirrel was verging on the sacred and the grey accordingly considered devilish. Anyone overhearing Russell was liable to take exception to his views. But nobody at the neighbouring tables was reacting. Nothing could sully her delight at the carefree afternoon ahead with the best of all possible fathers. It took a lot to disturb Russell Straw – but then a lot had happened in recent times, and his daughter had certainly caused him some worry over the winter. His wife was the powerful half in the marriage, leaving him to contented pottering and sporadic researches into local history. They ran a somewhat eccentric bed-and-breakfast business in Windermere, in which Angie Straw broke a lot of rules and earned a lot of profound gratitude in the process. Her reviews on TripAdvisor veered from the horrified to the euphoric, depending on how much individuality her guests could stomach. She was a capricious mixture of old fashioned and hippy, refusing to use guests’ first names unless they insisted, and cheerfully producing full breakfasts at ten-thirty, if that’s what people wanted.

  ‘Let me just pop to the lav and then we can be off,’ Russell said. ‘Mind the dog, will you?’

  She took the lead attached to Bertie and nodded. The sun was as high as it was going to get, and the afternoon stretched ahead of them with no sense of urgency. The sky remained an unbroken blue. The views from the summit of Wansfell Pike would be spectacular. At least two lakes would be visible, and any number of fells on all sides. Russell knew the names of most of the main landmarks, and had a map with which to identify others. Simmy had only a rudimentary and theoretical knowledge of any of it.

  Bertie whined and pulled annoyingly. ‘He’ll be back in a minute,’ Simmy told him. ‘Don’t be silly.’ Dogs were generally annoying, to her way of thinking. So dreadfully dependent and needy all the time. It had come as a surprise when her parents rescued this little specimen, and even more so when Russell developed such a fondness for it. To Simmy’s eyes, the animal lacked character, which Russell insisted was a consequence of his harsh life, full of betrayal and confusion. ‘He just wants everything nice and peaceful from here on,’ he said.

  Which was generally what he got, apart from a never-ending procession of B&B guests, who mostly patted his head and then left him alone.

  ‘You were a long time,’ she told him, when her father eventually returned.

  ‘I know.’ He was frowning distractedly. ‘I overheard something, outside the gents, and I have no idea what to make of it. I kept out of sight for a minute, just in case they didn’t like the idea of anyone hearing them.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Two men talking. It sounds a bit wild, I know, but I think they were planning a burglary.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘What did they say, exactly?’ Simmy’s first reaction was impatience at the threat to interrupt their plans. ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘No, but one had a broad Cumbrian accent and the other sounded vaguely Scots.’ He recited with concentrated deliberation: ‘“We should come back here this time tomorrow. The old man’s always out on a Tuesday, so that’s our chance.” Then the other one said, “What about Tim?” And the first one said, “He can be the lookout. He’ll be perfect for that.” And then there was some more that I didn’t hear properly. I wonder who the old man is?’

  ‘Dad! They could have been talking about digging a ditch for him or cleaning his windows or delivering a surprise birthday present … or …’ Her imagination ran dry at that point.

  ‘What about the need for a lookout? That’s nothing innocent, is it? And there was something about the tone. It was furtive. Why hide away behind a pub to discuss something harmless?’ He rubbed his bushy hair. ‘But I can’t do anything, can I? You can’t report people just for talking.’

  ‘Actually, I expect you can, these days. But I wouldn’t like to hear Mum on the subject, if you try it.’

  Russell groaned. ‘Arresting people before they commit the crime. Anticipating what they might do. In a way, it does make sense. Like preventive medicine. But in practice, of course, it’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Besides, you can’t report them if you didn’t see them. You don’t know who they are.’

  He was staring at a red car turning round in the parking area. ‘That might be them, look. Two men in a car.’

  Simmy looked. ‘And there’s a boy in the back. Looks about twelve. I suppose they had to make their evil plans at the back of the loos because they didn’t want the kid to hear them?’

  ‘Good thinking. I’m noting the registration.’ He muttered the numbers to himself as he rummaged in his little rucksack for paper, but could only produce the Ordnance Survey map. ‘Have you got a pencil?’

  ‘I might have.’ Simmy had thoughtlessly brought her shoulder bag with her, instead of a more suitable receptacle for carrying hiking necessities. ‘Here’s a biro,’ she said after a short search.

  ‘Thanks.’ Russell took it and started writing on the edge of the map. ‘Red Renault Laguna … now what was the number?’

  Simmy blinked. ‘I don’t know. You’re the one playing the detective.’

  ‘Um … yes. VJ09 something, KB. I think it was CKB. There! That might come in handy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Description of the criminals,’ she suggested, half joking. ‘From what I could see, I’d say one man is about forty-five, very short dark hair, pale skin and fairly tall. The other – the one driving – is in his early thirties, thin and probably about five foot eight. You can’t really tell when they’re sitting down. He’s got ordinary hair. Mousy.’

  Russell kept writing, much to Simmy’s surprise. ‘How can you tell their ages?’ he asked. ‘I find that impossible, now I’m so old. Everybody looks twenty-five to me.’

  ‘I don’t know. I might be totally wrong. I couldn’t see them very clearly. You shouldn’t write that down as well. It’s … I don’t know … sneaky, I suppose.’ The red car was disappearing in a northerly direction, where it would emerge onto Kirkstone Pass in less than a minute. ‘Let’s just get going, Dad, and forget all about it. Bertie’s getting restless.’ He wasn’t, but it made a good argument.

  ‘It’s only a bit of fun, Sim,’ he said. ‘Like playing spies when I was a boy. A sort of Just William thing. I’ll tear the page out when I get home, if you like.’

  They gathered up their bags and walked out into the small road that ran through Troutbeck. A man with a beard and long untidy hair was standing by the entrance to the car park and nodded to them. Simmy had the impression that he had been watching the car as well. She even thought he might have given them a valedictory wave as they drove off. Bertie tried to go to him, wagging his short tail. Russell pulled him away and the man took no further notice of them.

  ‘Hopeless judge of character, this dog,’ he muttered, when they were out of earshot. ‘He’d run away with the gypsies, given half a chance.’

  The walk proved a ready distraction from boyish spy adventures, the uphill trajectory rendering conversation sporadic and limited to observations on the views and vegetation. Stone walls bordered the lane on each side, and trees had already become a rarity. On a welcome level stretch they paused and looked back.

  ‘Wow!’ breathed Simmy. ‘We can’t have come all this way already! You can see for miles.’

  Russell pointed out various landmarks, with the aid of his map. Indicating a high ridge beyond the village, he drew her attention to a large quarry sitting in the middle of Sour Howes. ‘Even up here, it’s nowhere near being a natural landscape,’ he said. ‘Walls, roads, quarries, dykes – they’ve all changed it. There was probably a great forest covering all this, before mankind turned up and chopped down all the trees. And that caravan park’s a bit of a blot, even if they have tried to keep it inconspicuous.’

  ‘Like Dartmoor,’ Simmy offered. It was a conversation they’d had more than once, with the usual inconclusive ending. Without the quarries there would be no buildings; without the stone walls all would be disorder. ‘You can’t really unwish the existence of human beings,’ Russell often said. ‘
There’s something impossibly illogical about that.’

  The philosophy of this sort of remark could quickly make Simmy’s head hurt, with its tendency to drift into Cartesian explorations as to the nature of reality and perception and whether the presence of Homo sapiens comprised an absolute necessity or an accidental aberration. ‘It’s a whole year since I moved here,’ she said, mindful that the walk had been intended as a kind of celebration of this anniversary.

  ‘Are you glad you did it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she began, automatically. ‘Of course … Although it hasn’t been quite as I expected,’ she finished, more slowly. ‘There’ve been a lot of surprises.’

  Her father had urged her from the start to be cautious. ‘It’s going to be a big change,’ he said when she proposed the move. ‘New career, new people, new everything.’

  ‘I’ll have you, though, won’t I?’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ he had replied. ‘You’re thirty-seven, Sim. That’s too old to see yourself as a daughter. You need to be sure you can create a whole autonomous life for yourself that doesn’t revolve around me and your mother.’

  Now she was thirty-eight and Russell had not changed his mind on the subject of individualism and independence, despite several instances in which Simmy had needed direct and urgent help.

  ‘Surprises?’ he echoed.

  ‘You know what I mean. I never dreamt that floristry would involve so much high emotion and extreme behaviour. It’s been much more eventful than I thought.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That was a surprise, I know. To me and your mother, as well. I’m not so much thinking about that side of things. I’m really wondering whether you feel we’ve got the balance right, between the three of us. I suppose it seems peculiar of me, but I worry about getting in your way. Sticking my oar in. Queering your pitch – if I’m allowed to say that.’

  ‘Dad! There’s nothing going on in my life that you could possibly disrupt. It is peculiar, you know, you talking like this. Other parents don’t go in for so much agonising about being too interfering. And you’re a million miles from anything like that – you always have been.’