The Bowness Bequest Read online

  The first few months after moving north had been devoted to establishing the shop, a process involving mountains of paperwork and rapid learning. By the end of the summer of the previous year, she had everything in place and a growing stream of people wanting her flowers. Assisted by Melanie Todd, a local girl of considerable ability, she had supplied weddings, funerals, birthdays and other momentous life events with suitable floral embellishment. And along the way – at a wedding, then a birthday and after that three other commissions – people had been violently killed. Simmy had been drawn into investigations and personal danger, merely by virtue of delivering flowers. The first occasion was just over a year ago now, and she profoundly hoped that the anniversary would mark a change of fortune, leaving the whole business of murder far behind her.

  The fact of an unexpected bequest seemed to add weight to this hope. It had never happened to her before. Even when her grandparents had died, they had left their meagre savings to the generation above Simmy. Not so much as a silver candlestick had come her way.

  Visions of jewellery, or a picture, or a handsome piece of china filled her head. Something that Frances had kept tucked out of sight – because Simmy could not remember ever seeing anything of the kind on display in the house. One thing she was sure of: it would not be money. How could it be, when the family had always been struggling to find cash for holidays or a new car, or a replacement television? Kit Henderson had worked as a carpet fitter for most of his life, earning little more than the basic retainer during the big recession nearly ten years earlier, without the added commission for jobs done, since few people saw a new carpet as a high priority. Although the situation improved, he had seemed glad to retire on a very modest pension at seventy, leaving his wife to keep them afloat with what she earned as an administrator in Barrow Hospital. ‘I’m really just an office clerk,’ she would say, ‘but everyone calls themselves administrators these days.’

  The hours finally passed until five, at which point Simmy hastily locked the shop and went to the van parked on a tiny paved area behind the shop. Her car was somewhere out on the eastern side of Windermere, where parking was free and unrestricted. She would leave it every morning, and have to try to recall exactly where in the afternoon. When she got back from Bowness, she would have to locate it in the dark, damp streets where all the cars looked the same.

  Eagerly, she turned the opposite way from usual, and headed southwards towards Bowness. I’ve got a beque-e-est, she sang softly to herself. It made her feel oddly blessed, as if an angel had brushed her with its wings. Within a very few minutes, she would discover exactly what it was that Frances Henderson had left her.

  Chapter Two

  Bowness was a linear little town, following the eastern edge of Lake Windermere for a mile or so. It had opted very early on for a particular brand of tourist appeal that had been sustained for well over a century. It boasted a promenade, manicured gardens, large and handsome hotels, and many more shops and restaurants than Windermere could offer. Boats could be hired and small lake cruises embarked upon. Just south of the town was the ferry across the lake. South again was Newby Bridge and a whole different kind of landscape.

  Traffic was comparatively light, but it was never a smooth business to drive through Bowness. Simmy’s destination lay past the promenade with its swans and kiosks and to the right into Glebe Road. A road that had been steadily colonised with a variety of houses over the years, it looped past a cemetery and a small park, and back into central Bowness. The Hendersons had probably the least attractive property in the street, deprived of a view of the lake and suffering all the noise and disruption of the substantial tourist trade, being close to the Ship Inn.

  ‘It was all they could afford,’ Angie had said. ‘And you have to admit they’ve made the most of it.’ The house was kept tidy outside, the woodwork painted regularly and the garden forbidden from escaping human control; with a large lawn, frequently mowed, and easy shrubs, which flowered on schedule. Simmy glanced all around, sighing at what she felt was a false image, created entirely to placate neighbours and town councillors. There was a soullessness to it that a florist could not fail to notice.

  Christopher had evidently been watching out for her, and was standing in the doorway as she approached. ‘Good timing,’ he said.

  She followed him into the small shadowy hallway, then through to the sitting room at the back, which had been chosen as the quietest and lightest room, by a small margin. It looked south-west, where tiny glimpses of water could be had between buildings and trees. To Simmy’s great surprise there were three people sitting there, all obviously waiting for her.

  She had seen them all only three days previously. She had spoken to them, and eaten cake with them, after Frances Henderson’s cremation. It felt strangely unsettling to see them again so soon. It had been as if the funeral of their wife and mother, with the release of tension that came after it, was the end of the story. Even though she knew that life had to go on, she had not expected to be part of it right away, if ever. She looked to Christopher for an explanation.

  ‘We’ve been going over the will this morning, you see,’ he said. ‘We knew what was in it – nothing very complicated – so now the funeral’s out of the way, we have to deal with the details. George and Eddie know what we’re doing. Hannah and Lynn came over this afternoon to help us get clothes and a few other things sorted.’

  ‘I see,’ said Simmy uncertainly. ‘Well, hello, everybody. Kit …’ she faltered. What did one say to a man still numb from the death of his wife? Could you even assume he was numb? Anything was possible. He could even be planning a Mediterranean cruise, for all she knew.

  ‘Simmy,’ he nodded, not even making a token effort to get up from his chair. There was none of the old-fashioned gentleman to Kit Henderson, and never had been. In that respect, he was altogether different from Russell Straw. But Kit didn’t need to make courteous gestures for a woman to see the twinkle in his eye. He had something roguish about him, with brown eyes and a skin tone darker than most Cumbrians. Once or twice Angie had likened him to a gypsy. Always a slight man, with thin limbs, he also had something of the monkey about him. He moved quickly, and it was easy to imagine him crawling across newly carpeted floors, nailing down the edges and ensuring all was neat. Frances had, since Kit’s retirement, complained that he was impossible to live with, telling Angie Straw how unreasonable and demanding he had become. ‘Expects me to wait on him hand and foot,’ was a recurrent theme. ‘And I swear his wits are going. He asks me the same question a hundred times.’

  The two sisters were together on a shabby sofa. With only fifteen months between them, they had frequently been taken for twins. Now in their early thirties, they had gone their separate ways, and Simmy had little idea of the pattern of their lives. It had been twenty years or more since she last saw them. Pausing to take proper note of their expressions, she found them to be singularly unfriendly.

  Again she turned to Christopher for reassurance. He gave her a weak smile, but said nothing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, slightly too loudly. ‘I’ve got no idea why Frances should have left me anything. If it’s a problem for you, I’ll be happy to give it back – whatever it is.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Hannah. She had bushy straw-coloured hair that dwarfed her face, which had similar small features to her father’s, creating a resemblance despite the very different colouring.

  ‘Wait till you see what it is,’ added Lynn. As if to break away from the likeness to her sister, she had cropped hair that sat springily on her skull like a reluctant wig. It was of a texture more often found in Africa, the colour of both it and her skin somehow wrong. She seemed less inclined towards hostility than Hannah, perhaps remembering how Simmy had babied her in the past, helping her with sandcastles and shell collections. There had been a close bond between them in those early years when Lynn had been little more than a toddler.

  ‘So tell me,’ Simmy begged. ‘The suspe
nse is awful.’

  ‘Come and see for yourself. It’s on the table,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s easier than trying to explain. I’m not even sure that any of us quite understands it, anyway.’

  There was a small round table in a corner of the room, covered with a cloth that someone had embroidered flowers on, many decades previously. An empty ashtray and a pair of woolly gloves shared it with a large book. ‘There,’ said Christopher.

  She was tempted to lighten the mood by pretending to think her legacy was the frayed gloves, but she restrained herself. The book was plainly the object in question. ‘This?’ she said, touching it lightly.

  ‘Right,’ said Christopher. He gave a deep sigh. ‘And I of all people ought to know if there’s something special about it. I can see it’s been carefully made by hand, but that doesn’t make it valuable. Look inside,’ he urged her.

  She picked it up and opened it at random. It was a substantial case-bound volume, quite heavy. The paper was far thicker than the pages of a normal book, and they were all interleaved with fine tissue. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she breathed. ‘Where did Frances get it from?’

  ‘Her mother did it,’ came Kit’s smoky old man’s voice. ‘She always kept it in the bottom of the wardrobe. I’ve only seen it once.’

  ‘There’s a letter with it,’ said Hannah, her tone still sulky. ‘Inside the front cover.’

  Balancing the book on her left forearm, Simmy extracted an envelope. Awkwardly, she put her new possession back on the table and opened the letter.

  ‘Are you sure you want to read it now – with all of us here?’ Christopher cautioned her.

  She frowned. ‘Why not? It can’t possibly be secret, can it? Even if it is, I wouldn’t keep it from you. You’re her family. I’m not important. I can’t think why …’ But she could, of course. The moment she had opened the book, she understood why it had been given to her. Because it was full of watercolour paintings of flowers, and flowers were her thing. The execution was competent rather than brilliant, the colours not quite natural. But she had already fallen in love with it, three seconds after realising what it was.

  Dear Simmy, the letter ran,

  I wanted you to have this because you understand and appreciate flowers. My mother made this when she was expecting me, in the 1950s, and a friend of hers bound it for her. She said it was to pass down the female line of the family, as long as there was a daughter to inherit it. And yes, I know I have two daughters, neither of them you. But they don’t care about this sort of thing, and quite honestly, Simmy, you’re the daughter I always wished I had. Awful thing to say, I know, but in my situation, it feels dangerous to avoid the truth. As if I might bring yet more calamity down on myself.

  So keep it nice, and get it out now and then and spare a thought for me, just as I did for my mother. And be nice to Christopher.

  With very much love, Frances

  ‘Well?’ demanded Hannah. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Leave her alone, will you,’ snapped Christopher.

  ‘She said it couldn’t possibly be secret. So why not read it out to us?’

  Simmy barely heard her. Tears were threatening, along with a burning wish to escape. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s rather personal. Listen – I’ll have to go. Thank you – all of you. I will come and see you, Kit, if you’d like me to. And my mum and dad will ask you over there when they’re not too busy with the B&B people.’

  She gathered up the beloved book, and turned to leave. Christopher stood in her way. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she assured him. ‘Don’t worry about me. You’re the ones who’ve lost a wife and mother. I’m just sorry this has all been a bit awkward.’ She felt desperate to escape and give herself time to process what had just happened. From feeling unexpectedly blessed, she was now consumed by a strange sense of guilty embarrassment. A woman she had only known as a child, who had no reason to think of her at all, had snubbed her own daughters by favouring Simmy. It felt more aggressive than generous, as she cast a last look at Hannah’s face. Its expression remained hostile and suspicious. ‘Thanks, everybody,’ she blurted. ‘I’ll be sure to take very good care of it.’ She held up the book, and then hugged it to her chest.

  Not even Christopher went with her to the door. She drove back through the town, heading for the only person she knew who might make sense of what had just happened.

  ‘P’simmon! I didn’t expect you this evening.’ Angie Straw was carrying a mug in one hand as she opened the front door to her daughter. She waved it expressively. ‘We haven’t got very much for supper,’ she said.

  ‘Never mind. I can have an apple or something, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Why are you here? Your father’s going to think it’s Wednesday. He’ll be all confused for the rest of the week now.’

  Simmy had developed the habit of calling in after work, midweek and again on Saturday afternoons. In the past few months, she had found herself being called upon to help with the B&B work, much more than before. Where Russell had changed duvet covers, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, gone shopping for the large quantities of food required, he now made little more than a token effort to share the load. The regularity of Simmy’s visits seemed to work best with her father, despite Angie’s dislike of predictable routines.

  ‘I’ve just come from the Hendersons’ house. Did you know Frances had left me this?’ She stepped into the hallway, pushed the door closed with a foot, and proffered the book. ‘Have you seen it before? And did she leave you anything?’

  Angie blinked, and headed for the kitchen. ‘Come and sit down, and tell me properly,’ she said.

  Russell was sitting by the Aga, his dog between his knees as always. ‘Good evening, daughter,’ he said solemnly, with a slow nod. ‘The nights are drawing in. Dark at five. Every year, I wonder how we bear it. But we do, of course.’

  ‘Pity the poor Icelanders,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s dark all day there.’

  ‘They should emigrate south,’ he said.

  ‘I think most of them did, didn’t they? A few centuries ago.’

  ‘Perhaps so. You might recall that I was reading a book by Halldór Laxness last week. I learnt a good deal about how the poor wretches lived until not so long ago.’

  ‘I do remember,’ said Simmy. ‘That’s why I mentioned Iceland just now.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ he said, nodding with satisfaction. ‘Good girl.’

  ‘P’simmon has come to show us something,’ said Angie. ‘It’s not her usual day.’

  The elderly man shrugged. ‘Who cares?’ he said crossly.

  Angie turned away from him. ‘Let’s see it, then,’ she invited Simmy, who laid the book on the table, which barely had space for it. Piles of crockery occupied most of it.

  ‘What are all these plates and things doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m checking them for chips and cracks. I thought I could try and get to the auction up in Keswick at the weekend and get some replacements. You can get lovely stuff for almost nothing. Christopher gave me the idea, when I was chatting to him at the funeral.’

  ‘It’s a long way,’ said Simmy doubtfully. ‘Would you have time?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Angie with a frustrated sigh.

  ‘Anyway – have a look at this. Have you ever seen it before?’

  Angie leant over the book and turned a few pages. ‘No – never. Flowers,’ she murmured. ‘Who did them?’

  ‘Her mother, in the 1950s. Isn’t it gorgeous!’

  ‘All hand done. Even the binding. So why have you got it? I don’t understand.’

  ‘She left it to me. There’s a letter. She said I was a more suitable person to have it than Hannah or Lynn. They’re not very pleased about it, understandably. So you didn’t know anything about it?’

  Angie shook her head. ‘She never talked about that sort of thing. I kept trying to make her say how she felt about everything – dying so young and all that. But she wouldn
’t. And no, she hasn’t left me anything, as far as I know.’

  ‘I’m not surprised she wouldn’t talk about dying. You are awful, Mum. From what I heard, Fran was actually very grown-up about it. She wrote that letter to me, for a start. She might have done them for everybody, for all we know. What did you expect her to say, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not awful at all. I was trying to help. Poor Kit didn’t know how to talk to her, so I thought I could make it easier for them both. All she would say was she’d had a good life and wasn’t scared at all.’

  ‘Well, what else was there to say, then? Doesn’t that cover it?’

  ‘Your mother likes to wallow,’ said Russell, unexpectedly. ‘She likes everything talked into submission. I’m sure you’ve noticed.’

  Simmy laughed. ‘Poor Frances. Look what she’s left me, Dad.’

  He barely glanced at the book. ‘I never felt I knew the woman very well,’ he said. ‘She was your mother’s friend, not mine. She didn’t really like me. They didn’t like each other’s husbands much at all. Perhaps that was a good thing – at least there was never any temptation to indulge in wife-swapping on all those infernal beach holidays.’ He chuckled happily. ‘Not like some people we knew, back in the bad old days.’

  ‘That’s rubbish!’ Angie snapped. ‘Total fantasy.’

  ‘Oh well, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead now. And that wretched husband of hers is having the last laugh.’ He gave his wife a very direct look. ‘I did hear you two, you know – bemoaning your witless menfolk. As if we were old dogs that couldn’t remember the rules any more.’

  Simmy flinched at this attack. Where her mother had always prided herself on straight talking and facing facts squarely, her father had been open and honest, but far less confrontational. Now the roles were reversed, Angie had to be feeling the ground shift beneath her. Her skin was considerably thinner than most people realised – perhaps including her husband. Angie seldom considered anybody’s sensibilities, but her own were as vulnerable as anyone else’s, when it came down to it.