The Patterdale Plot Read online

  ‘Well, if you promised, you’ll have to stick to it.’

  ‘I know. And I would anyway. But how was I to know something would happen so soon? And it’s such a good one.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Bonnie. A person being murdered is never good, is it?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It might yet turn out to be an accident,’ said Simmy, with forced optimism.

  Angie phoned at lunchtime, with the news that DI Moxon had been back to tell her and Russell that Grant Childers had died from ingesting a plant-based toxin more likely to have been in the form of a drink than anything solid. ‘They’ve got to do a whole lot more tests before they know exactly what it was,’ said Angie. ‘But it seems he didn’t eat anything much all day.’

  ‘Do they know how long it was between him taking it and dying?’ Simmy asked.

  ‘He didn’t say. He wasn’t supposed to tell us as much as he did, but he wanted to reassure us that we weren’t under suspicion.’

  ‘Oh? Why do they think that? You might have made him some herbal tea or something.’

  ‘Except we told them we didn’t and they believed us. It would be insane to accuse us. We’ve got no reason to want the man dead.’

  ‘It could have been an accident − in their minds, I mean. In fact, that’s surely still more likely than deliberate murder. Some horrible mistake in a cafe somewhere has got to be what happened.’

  ‘Not if there’s been absolutely no sign of anyone else in Bowness or Windermere or anywhere within twenty miles having the same thing.’

  ‘Oh. Well, perhaps there will be. It’s still a bit soon to say for sure. If there’s a contaminated batch of orange juice or something, it might be days or even weeks before it’s drunk.’

  ‘Clutching at straws,’ said Angie tiredly. ‘With all the checks and health and safety rules, it’s almost impossible for that to happen. And if it did, it would probably be deliberate, so that’s still murder. Believe me, your father and I have talked this through ad infinitum since you left yesterday.’

  ‘But Moxon didn’t say what sort of plant poison it was, exactly?’

  ‘No, they can’t tell that yet. He did say there’s quite a lot of Childers family, all wanting to come up here and find out for themselves what happened. Mother, father and two sisters, I think he said. No wife, luckily.’

  Simmy was trying to keep up with the poison theme. ‘So it could have been someone in town, who gave him something lethal to drink?’

  Angie sighed. ‘Presumably. But I can’t imagine they’d have done it by mistake. I keep trying to come up with a sensible story that doesn’t involve murder, but nothing seems very convincing.’

  ‘Well, Bonnie says that a murder would be great for the business. She thinks you’ll get flocks of guests wanting to see the room where a man was poisoned.’

  ‘She’s mad,’ said Angie, with real anger. ‘Any normal person would want to keep as far away as possible.’

  Privately, Simmy thought that many of her mother’s guests were quite a distance from ‘normal’ – but she didn’t say so. ‘Well, keep me posted,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go now. There’s a customer.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Angie said urgently. ‘I haven’t told you what the other guests are saying.’

  ‘Sorry. I really do have to go. I’ll phone you again this evening. I’ll have to do some shopping and catch up with Christopher. And we’re going to be busy here for most of the week.’ Suddenly she felt the pressure of it all. ‘And I’ve got an antenatal appointment on Wednesday,’ she remembered.

  She ended the call before her mother could say anything more. Her parents were quite capable of getting through the next few days without her holding their hands, she reminded herself. The most they could reasonably expect was a listening ear and reassurances that everything would settle down again eventually. If this crisis precipitated a decision to give up the B&B, then that could be dealt with too. It had been in the air for most of the year anyway. Christopher had gone so far as to hint that the sale of Beck View would release a great deal of equity, which Simmy might reasonably expect to benefit from, as the Straws’ only child.

  ‘Except they might need it all for their nursing homes when they lose their wits,’ Simmy had objected. That prospect did not seem so distant, or so improbable, as it had a year or two earlier.

  The customer was deftly satisfied, as was the one who came rapidly on her heels. People were anxious to fend off the oncoming winter with bright colours and summer scents. They wanted freesias and roses and lilies and dahlias. Simmy kept a generous stock of these and others, ordering more every second or third day. Bonnie kept the window display vibrant and fresh with primary colours and only the most subtle hints of autumn. Time enough for that after Halloween was over. Simmy was forced to sell pumpkins, but she resisted any other offerings. ‘The whole thing’s gone mad,’ she grumbled. ‘They can get their broomsticks somewhere else.’

  Bonnie, somewhat to Simmy’s surprise, did not argue the point. ‘I don’t like Halloween either,’ she confessed. ‘There’s something dark and nasty about it.’

  ‘Same as Bonfire Night, really,’ Simmy remarked. ‘That’s even nastier when you think about it. And it’s daft that they’re less than a week apart.’

  ‘That’s what Ben thinks. He says they’re basically the same pagan ritual, which got split up after Guy Fawkes and all that. The problem is the way the Americans have gone so overboard about Halloween, and sent it back here with bells and whistles on. Corinne says when she was young they just did apple bobbing and nothing else at all.’

  Corinne was Bonnie’s foster mother. Their relationship went back eight or nine years, after Bonnie was rescued from a non-functioning mother whose succession of unpleasant boyfriends had been very bad news for the little girl. Her school career had been blighted by anorexia and other problems. And yet here she was, bright and cheerful and the devoted girlfriend of the brilliant Ben Harkness, who had just gone off to university to study forensic archaeology.

  The afternoon proceeded with no hiccups, once Bonnie had been updated on the death of Grant Childers. She snatched some moments to learn about plant poisons on her phone and treated Simmy to a shortlist of likely culprits, along with their effects on the human body. ‘It’s unusual these days,’ she said, more than once. ‘Poisoning, I mean. Most things are very difficult to get hold of, for one thing. And hardly anybody understands plants any more.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Simmy agreed, thinking of the profound ignorance displayed by most of her customers.

  ‘Moxon might call in, do you think?’ Bonnie’s tone was hopeful. ‘You know how he likes to see you.’

  ‘He saw me yesterday. It’s really nothing to do with me. He’ll have enough with my parents, without adding me into the mix.’

  ‘You always say it’s nothing to do with you, and then you jump right in with both feet. And this one’s much closer to home than anything that’s happened before. You were right there when he died. Was he actually in your arms?’

  ‘Definitely not. Stop it – I don’t want to think about it. The poor man. He must have been so scared.’

  ‘Did he look scared?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She thought about it. ‘I didn’t see his face very clearly. He was all tensed up and then suddenly he went limp. Just like that.’

  ‘Awful,’ Bonnie murmured, obviously trying to imagine the whole scene.

  The last hour of the working day went slowly. Nobody came into the shop, and no new orders arrived, either by phone or computer. Simmy found herself unconsciously braced for the arrival of another person connected to the death of Mr Childers. One aspect of running a shop was that everybody knew where to find you. She couldn’t count the number of times she had been cornered by suspects, witnesses, bereaved relatives and police officers in the days following a violent death. Most times, Bonnie was there as well, eagerly vacuuming up all the information that got spilt in Persimmon Petals, and pa
ssing it on to Ben, the boy detective, who had, two years earlier, been on the street in Bowness when a man had been shot, while Simmy watched it all from her car. From that moment on, he had been addicted to the whole business of murder and was now putting his obsession into practice with the beginning of his degree course.

  ‘Home time,’ Simmy announced at last. ‘I’ll have to go to the supermarket first. There’s no food in the house.’

  But before either of them could make a move, the shop phone rang and somehow they both knew it was not going to be an order for flowers.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Simmy? It’s Ninian. Were you just leaving for the day?’

  ‘I was, actually. Why don’t you use my mobile?’

  ‘I can’t remember the number. Does it matter?’

  ‘I suppose not. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of you since we bumped into each other yesterday, and then I just heard on the radio that a man died at a Windermere B&B. I called someone I know, who told me it was at your mother’s. At least, she thinks that’s right, so I phoned to check.’ His voice was as languid as ever, wrapping everything he said in an easy, relaxed blanket, where no crisis could be serious enough to agitate him.

  ‘That’s right. I was there.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A B&B guest, from the Midlands somewhere. It’s a police matter.’

  Bonnie was hovering, trying to work out who was calling. Simmy flapped a hand at her, indicating that she should go home, and there was nothing to concern her. With a small shrug, the girl obeyed.

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘Yes, it was. But I’m trying not to let it bother me. You’d approve of that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Stay serene,’ he agreed. ‘Especially in your condition. I wanted to say something about that, actually, if I’m not crossing a line. I do remember that this isn’t the first time, you see. And maybe it’s all somewhat stressful and scary. And I know a bit about past traumas coming back to bite you. So – all I wanted to say, really, is that if you want to chat about it any time, I’m available. No strings, nothing ulterior. But we were good pals, Sim, for a bit, weren’t we? And good pals don’t grow on trees.’

  She laughed, feeling decidedly soothed by his individualistic way of putting things. ‘We were,’ she said. ‘And that’s very sweet of you. I’m not doing too badly so far, fingers crossed. It’s going to be at the end that everything gets tricky. I don’t know how I’m going to be, but I’ll have to tell them to stand by with the sedatives.’

  ‘Are you going to find out what sex it is?’

  ‘No.’ The word came out with real emphasis. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Good for you. Very wise.’

  ‘I’m not sure Chris thinks so, but somehow it helps not to know. If I persuade myself it’s a boy, that already makes it different from before.’ She stopped, hoping he would follow her tangled logic.

  It seemed that he did. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘So, I’d better let you get off now. I’ll pop in and see you sometime, then.’

  ‘You do that,’ she said warmly. ‘Thanks for phoning.’

  She spent the next hour in a small glow of satisfaction that she had managed to retain the friendship of such a gracious man. She still sold his pots in the shop, whenever he could stir himself to supply them, and thought fondly of their time together. It was hardly his fault if he hadn’t quite met her prerequisites for a long-term committed relationship. Ninian would never want children, and that for Simmy had been enough to disqualify him.

  She did not call her mother until she was safely back in her Troutbeck cottage, with a ready meal warming in the oven and a large mug of tea in her hand. It was a short conversation, because Angie was overwhelmed with the number of people in her house. ‘The Childers family are coming any minute, and the guests have all come back for the day. I didn’t think they’d stay on, but they all seem determined to carry on as usual, at least for another day or so.’

  ‘Is Moxon going to be there as well?’

  ‘What? Oh no, I don’t suppose so. There’ll be one of those liaison people, won’t there? They haven’t wasted much time, I must say. Three of them have dropped everything to come and see where their loved one died. Can’t quite see the point, personally.’

  ‘No,’ said Simmy, wondering how she would react under similar circumstances. ‘Remind me who they are.’

  ‘I think they said father, sister and sister’s husband. Too much for the old mum, presumably. There’s another sister somewhere, but she doesn’t seem to be coming.’

  ‘Well, good luck with it. Call me later, if you want to talk about it.’

  ‘Thanks, but I doubt if I’ll want to. What about you, anyway? You were there as well – are you getting flashbacks?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Simmy. By an obvious association, her mind filled with the memory of holding her dead baby daughter on her lap After that, she did not believe any dead body would have the power to traumatise her. ‘I don’t think I was unduly affected by it, actually.’

  ‘No. I don’t expect you were,’ said her mother.

  The October evening ended well before eight, as far as the sky outside was concerned. Simmy closed her curtains and eyed her woodburning stove with affection. Another week or two and she’d be using it for the cheerful glow and the pleasing warmth it threw across the room. The existence of the stove had been a strong selling point when she first bought this Troutbeck cottage. Now she would have to adopt a brave face and use it to woo prospective buyers. The whole business of selling and buying property was beyond difficult, she had quickly realised. Combining it with running the shop, keeping things going with Christopher, being pregnant and watching over her parents was proving almost impossible. Given that there were virtually no properties for sale in the chosen area, and that the restrictions resulting from living in a National Park could be draconian, she often came to the conclusion that it was never going to happen. She would live with her baby in Troutbeck, and Christopher would have to move in, squeezing himself, his possessions and his car into far too small a space. It would work financially, of course. And the commute to his Keswick auction house was probably less than the average distance that working people drove each day. There were no real plans as to the future of the shop in Windermere, but Simmy had assured Bonnie and others that she would not be giving it up, whatever happened.

  This assurance was both rash and pessimistic. The baby was due during one of the busiest times for floristry, for one thing. But there was a frightening sense of tempting fate in assuming there would really be a live baby at all. Underneath the brave face and words, Simmy had a dreadful certainty that this one would die as well. And if that happened, she would need the shop in a whole lot of ways.

  Christopher understood at least some of this, but was at a loss as to what to do about it. By nature he was an optimist, with more than a dash of the same laissez-faire approach to life as Ninian Tripp possessed. He had spent several years travelling, picking up casual work, enjoying brief relationships and then moving on again. The eldest of five siblings, he had been born on the same day as Simmy, their mothers bonding in the maternity ward. Summer holidays had been spent together for years. When they found each other again after a gap of twenty years, it was at his mother’s funeral. Sometimes Simmy found herself believing that this had been an omen, which she should have had the sense to observe.

  Now he was an auctioneer, selling objects that were beautiful, peculiar or simply old to avid collectors and slightly shady dealers every other Saturday. His work was controlled by this rigid fortnightly routine, with the necessity of producing a comprehensive catalogue two days before each sale a powerful taskmaster. Crises arose frequently, with lost purchases, challenged provenance, bewildered vendors and sudden breakages all demanding patient diligence on Christopher’s part. His full-time team of workers comprised of Josephine, who controlled the computer, three other women and four men. In addition, there we
re van drivers, house clearers, porters and cleaners who came when needed. The operation was growing, with Internet sales expanding dramatically and not a hint that the appetite for antiques, collectables and general junk was ever going to abate.

  Everything was perfectly doable, according to Chris. The important thing was that they remain united, them against the world, determined not to let anything divide them. The new house would happen in its own good time, whether in Patterdale, Ambleside, Rosthwaite or somewhere they had never even thought of. Their first idea had been to find a home in Grasmere, and that was still under consideration, too. But Simmy had perversely set her heart on Patterdale, for no logical reason other than that she found it magically beautiful. To bring up a child there seemed to her the most perfect piece of parenting she could imagine. And now Mr Tristan Wilkins had hinted that he might be able to help, which was a detail she should waste no time in conveying to her fiancé.

  So she phoned Christopher and told him she’d had a good day, and nothing had occurred to disturb her unduly. They made arrangements to go together to the antenatal check, and the twenty-week scan, which had slipped to almost twenty-two weeks, and agreed to close their eyes when it came to examination of the foetal genitalia. ‘And don’t you dare cheat!’ she ordered him.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said. ‘And I’ve come round to your way of thinking, anyway. I’m going to enjoy the suspense of not knowing.’

  The feeling of relief surprised her. Until that moment she had not realised how defensive and anxious she’d been feeling about this apparent conflict. She had anticipated reproach and argument from the baby’s father. ‘You lovely man!’ she told him. ‘I really don’t deserve you.’