The Bowness Bequest Page 5

  Simmy knew absolutely nothing about this Clarissa Edwards. The grandmother had never joined the family on their beach holidays. Frances had never mentioned her, so far as she could recall, and neither had her children. She had presumably died long ago – possibly even before Simmy (and therefore Christopher) had been born.

  The pictures really were very individualistic. As a florist, Simmy had paid attention to innumerable cards and prints depicting a wide variety of blooms. She was familiar with the lush work of Georgia O’Keeffe, the delicate botanical drawings of the eighteenth century, and the precision accuracy of many Victorian watercolourists. Clarissa Edwards was like none of these. For a start, she had been careless with colour, as well as proportion. Her flowers were huge, their leaves unnaturally tiny. There were some strangely pink bluebells, and even stranger orange buttercups. And yet there was a rightness and easy recognisability to them that made Simmy feel they were almost within her grasp. The artist had filled every sheet of paper almost to the very edge, bordering the blooms with interwoven leaves and stems that served to highlight the main element with considerable drama. The same effect was achieved on almost every page. Each picture must have occupied many hours. It was the sort of creation a Victorian lady of uncertain health might devote weeks and months to, for want of any other claim on her time. But in the 1950s, women were far from idle. They were expected to keep their houses spotlessly clean, their families in neat and well-pressed clothes, with all the buttons in place. They might read a book from time to time, or possibly even stitch a needlepoint picture in the evenings, but they didn’t paint exuberant pictures of flowers unless there was money in it.

  Or unless they happened to be in a state of uncertain health, perhaps, like their grandmothers so often were. Was Clarissa bedbound? Did she break her back in her twenties and spend the rest of her life on a sofa? How many children did she have? Where did she live and what did her husband do for a living?

  Angie would know. Angie probably assumed that Simmy had absorbed the story simply by being amongst the Hendersons so much as a child. There were times when Simmy’s mother took it for granted that her daughter knew everything that she knew herself, and remembered events in exactly the same detail. To some extent this was justified. As an only child, Simmy had listened more closely to her parents’ stories than other children might. She knew quite a lot about her own grandparents on both sides. She knew all her cousins, down to the second and third sets, if not personally, then by name and location. She had known Christopher well, for their first sixteen years, instinctively aware of his strengths and weaknesses, interests and frustrations. When the families dubbed them ‘the twins’ they did their best to live up to the label. But they never discussed relatives. They talked about TV programmes, books, rock pools and cliff climbs. They built hides and sandcastles, gathering materials obsessively. Thinking back on those years now, Simmy suddenly understood why Ben Harkness had felt so familiar when she first met him. In a few ways, he was Christopher Henderson reborn. But in other ways he was completely different, of course. They might both enjoy making things from sticks and leaves, but no way would Christopher ever take an interest in the minutiae of murder, as Ben so obsessively did.

  She was late. Bonnie would be wondering where she was. With a strong reluctance, she put on her warm coat and found the key to her car. And then, as she forced herself to confront the likely course of the day, she tucked the flower book under her arm, and took it out to the car with her. At some point, somebody was sure to ask to see it. Most likely, that someone would be DI Nolan Moxon.

  Bonnie arrived at the same moment as Simmy did – both of them ten minutes past the appointed hour. Neither made reference to this, by silent mutual consent. There were good reasons, after all. ‘Grim weather,’ said Simmy. ‘Are you warm enough?’ The girl was wearing a thin jersey under a leather jacket. As many times before, Simmy wondered at the consistently good quality of Bonnie’s clothes. She had never got round to asking about it.

  Bonnie said nothing, but shrugged off the jacket and stood waiting for instructions. There was a midweek delivery due at any moment, which meant a wholesale reorganising of stock. Tired blooms were thrown away and fresh displays arranged. It was this that made Wednesdays more interesting and enjoyable than most other days. ‘I don’t want to talk about what happened yesterday,’ said Bonnie, after a few minutes. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘It’s probably very sensible,’ said Simmy. ‘At least for now. We can’t avoid it for ever, of course. I dare say we’ll get a call from the police before long.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Bonnie, clearly determined to maintain silence on the subject. Simmy was impressed, and only slightly concerned. There were other people to act as counsellor or debriefer or whatever. Bonnie would not be left alone with her traumatic experience. Rather stronger than the concern was a sneaking sense of disappointment, even rejection. She had, she realised, assumed that she was the first person Bonnie would confide in, rather than almost the last.

  An hour later, the fun of arranging flowers was over and Simmy was thinking about coffee. Not a single customer had disturbed them. Normality was resuming – if indeed it had ever really been lost. If Bonnie hadn’t phoned her from the Bowness bungalow, she might never have known Kit Henderson was dead. And it was entirely possible that her parents still didn’t know. When that thought struck her, she knew she would have to tell them. The police might extend their enquiries to Angie, in any case, as a close family friend. Angie would have a comprehensive knowledge of the relationships and tensions going back over the decades. Simmy wondered whether she ought to make this clear to Moxon, or leave him to find it out from some other source.

  Ben would be at school – or college, as they called it once they reached his age. His ambitions demanded an unreasonable number of A-level passes, and every moment was filled with study, during the hours he spent there. Even at home he devoted himself to Latin translations, forensic researches and software development. Simmy had abandoned any attempt to keep up with him, but Bonnie cleverly got herself included in much of his work. She had even picked up a grounding in Latin, working through Gwynne’s Latin with an astonishing diligence. Ben’s admiration was all she needed to keep going, but the added thrill of recognising the origins of flower names, or working out the meaning of everyday phases made the whole business remarkably satisfying. ‘They never told us any of this at school,’ she marvelled, having reached Chapter Seven, which explained about verbs and tenses. ‘How could they be so neglectful?’

  Simmy herself had to think hard before she could define the first or third person, and was momentarily stumped when wondering what the second person must be. ‘Good question,’ she agreed, while privately thinking that ordinary life did not really require such information. She marvelled at Bonnie’s dedication, and hoped it was stretching her mind and opening new opportunities for her. But she did not regret her own ignorance.

  The familiar croak of the defective doorbell announced a customer at last. Somebody somewhere must want some flowers, surely, thought Simmy as she turned to see who it was.

  Not somebody wanting flowers, regrettably. It was her mother, looking confrontational. Standing tall, shoulders back, she made a striking figure. People did not mess with Angie Straw. The guests in her B&B did as she told them, without question. Luckily for them – and for her business – she was very relaxed about what they could and could not do. Laissez-faire was the order of the day at Beck View. Dogs, cigarettes and muddy children were all welcomed. It suited Angie to let standards slip, and she made a virtue of it. No useless embroidered cushions cluttering the beds, or fiddly little cartons of synthetic milk.

  ‘P’Simmon,’ she began. ‘What’s this I hear about Kit Henderson? Why did I have to be told about it by the postman, of all people? The postman,’ she repeated. ‘What sort of a cliché is that?’

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ said Simmy. ‘Bonnie and Ben found him last night. Eddie came here
yesterday and said Kit would appreciate a visit now and then. He was lonely and sad. He actually wanted you to go, and I said you’d be too busy. Bonnie volunteered, and Ben went as well. And they got there right after somebody had killed him.’

  Angie looked from her daughter to the fair-haired girl-child at her side. Angie was still trying to get a proper impression of Bonnie, as were most people. After a troubled start, she had been fostered by a local woman, with troubles slowly falling away, via anorexia and almost total failure at schoolwork. The final rescue and rehabilitation had been accomplished by young Ben Harkness.

  ‘Eddie wanted me to take his father on, as well as Russell and the business and the dog and—’

  ‘I told him you wouldn’t have time.’

  ‘Quite right. What an idea!’ Indignation bristled from her. ‘The man’s got five children, for goodness’ sake. Not to mention old girlfriends and workmates and God knows what. With Frances dead, some woman would snap him up within weeks, anyway. They always do, don’t they?’ It was a sour point with Angie, the way any useless man was regarded as a trophy by a certain sort of woman.

  ‘I doubt it, the way his wits were going,’ said Simmy.

  ‘He wasn’t so bad. Fran exaggerated it. Russell’s much worse.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s all I know about it. Bonnie doesn’t want to go over the whole thing again, so we decided to leave it until the police come to question us. They might want you, I suppose,’ she added, with a hint of malice. Her mother’s cool heart sometimes took things over a line.

  ‘Me? What does it have to do with me?’

  ‘Close family friend,’ said Simmy.

  ‘Rubbish. I wasn’t his friend. I kept away from him as much as I could.’

  ‘Did you?’ Simmy frowned. ‘I never noticed.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It was nothing important – just that I can’t be doing with the idea that couples can’t operate as individuals. They had almost nothing in common anyway, apart from the kids.’

  ‘Oh well. I’m sorry if you think I should have told you about it last night. Bad news can wait, though. You know it can. And with Dad so fragile, I didn’t want to upset him.’

  Angie’s indignation mutated into exasperation, and then frustration as the door opened again and another person came in. ‘And now look who’s here,’ she said. ‘Time for me to go.’ She glared at the newcomer, ‘And you know where to find me, if you want to,’ she snarled at the startled detective inspector.

  Chapter Six

  Simmy made coffee for herself and DI Moxon, and tea for Bonnie. ‘We’re never going to sell any flowers today, at this rate,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll go bust if it keeps on like this.’

  ‘There’ll be another funeral soon,’ said Bonnie softly. ‘Probably quite a few, actually. Isn’t November the month when everybody dies?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Simmy and Moxon in unison, laughing at each other in the new-found comfort of their friendship. Simmy thought about what her mother always said concerning men as trophies, and knew it was far from being a universal truth. Moxon had a wife who took him for what he was, and appeared relatively contented with it.

  ‘Mr Henderson,’ he said firmly. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simmy.

  ‘You knew him – is that right? All we’ve got so far is testimony from young Mr Harkness, and Mr Henderson junior.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The eldest. Christopher. The others are being interviewed today. I gather Mrs Henderson died very recently.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘That feels as if it must be relevant.’

  ‘You mean, because it was known that Kit would be in the house by himself?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘That’s not it, Simmy,’ Bonnie interrupted. ‘It’s more to do with the motive. Something about inheritance, could be.’

  Simmy’s heart lurched. She thought of the lovely book of paintings still on the passenger seat of her car. Had there been other bequests – precious objects left to all the wrong people, and causing murderous resentment as a result? ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’ she protested. ‘The family never had any money.’

  ‘Christopher told us about your inheritance,’ Moxon said. ‘Once we’d established that you were there on Monday evening, and that you and your parents’ – he sighed softly – ‘have known the Hendersons for nearly forty years.’ It was a delicate reference to her age, she noticed.

  ‘Thirty-eight years and two weeks, actually,’ she said. ‘As I expect he explained.’

  Bonnie’s head seemed to rise from her shoulders like an alert meerkat. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘You never told me about any inheritance.’

  ‘I told Ben last night. I assumed he’d tell you.’ Another detail occurred to her, and she turned back to Moxon. ‘He said Kit was holding a piece of paper with my name on it. Is that right?’

  Moxon closed his eyes briefly. ‘That boy sees a deal too much sometimes.’

  ‘Well – what was it?’

  With a funny little sideways look, as if checking he was not being observed, the detective produced a sheet of paper from a folder he was carrying. ‘The simplest thing is just to show it to you,’ he said, and handed it over.

  Simmy read it, as she had read the letter from Fran on Monday, with no idea what to expect.

  At the top it said, ‘Instructions to my husband’. Then came a list that covered barely half the page:

  Think again about getting a dog. It would be wholesome company

  Keep the car well maintained, or preferably buy a better one. Visit the children in it

  Plant trees in the garden as reminders. Cherry, juniper, hazel and even rowan. I leave the last to your own discretion

  Give Simmy Straw my mother’s flower book, and the letter with it

  Be a better grandfather than you were a father

  Simmy looked up at Moxon. ‘Blimey!’ she said. ‘Sounds as if she wanted what was best for him, even if the tone is a bit …’

  ‘Chilly,’ he supplied.

  ‘And this is what he was holding when he …’ She looked at the paper again. It was a photocopy, but there were tell-tale smudges across it. ‘Is that blood?’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘It is. Now, our question is – how did this get into his possession? It wasn’t with Mrs Henderson’s will. So where was it, and how did he get hold of it?’

  ‘Couldn’t she simply have given it to him?’ asked Simmy.

  Moxon pursed his lips. ‘I don’t think so. I mean – can you imagine it? It’s not the sort of thing you want someone to read while you’re alive. So she must have left it somewhere for him to find, or given it to someone to show him after she was dead. And that person might well be the same one who killed him. That’s the way the evidence looks at the moment, anyway.’

  Bonnie had been listening with interest, to the extent of trying to read the list upside down, as she sidled closer to Simmy. Moxon put out a restraining hand. ‘Now, I wonder if I could talk to Mrs Brown in peace? Could you perhaps go out and get yourself a bit of lunch or something? Just for ten minutes.’

  Bonnie gave him a defiant look. ‘I’ll go into the back and scrub plant pots,’ she announced. ‘I’ve already got some lunch in my bag.’

  They watched her go, like indulgent parents. ‘She got quite a nasty shock,’ murmured Simmy, once the door into the back room was closed. ‘Even through the window she could see too much.’

  ‘The wounds bled quite copiously,’ he nodded.

  Simmy winced. ‘Are you sure you should be telling me?’

  ‘I’m sure I shouldn’t, but I will anyway. If I don’t, your friend Ben will. It was a very violent business.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Ben told me already that it was done with a pair of scissors. That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. Much worse than anything that’s happened before. And it makes me feel very sick. My stomach hasn’t got any stronger over the past year, in spite of what you might think.’

&n
bsp; ‘There’s nothing wrong with your stomach,’ he said. ‘It’s your heart that’s soft.’

  She huffed a quick laugh, part amused relief, part recognition that he was complimenting her. Earlier in the year, she would have taken it as flirtation, or something even stronger. Now she was beyond making that sort of mistake about him.

  ‘So it was an intruder, then? A burglar,’ she said, ‘who grabbed the nearest thing that would work as a weapon, because he was disturbed.’

  Moxon shook his head. ‘I think not. The door was open and nothing was upset in the room.’

  ‘I don’t see how any of that proves it wasn’t an intruder. It’s quite possible that Kit never locked his door, for a start. Someone could just have walked in.’

  Again the detective shook his head. ‘Intruders do everything they can to avoid violence. If Mr Henderson was sitting peacefully reading, the robber would tiptoe round the house gathering what he could, and make a quiet getaway.’

  ‘What if he wanted something from the room Kit was in?’

  ‘Trust me, okay. It wasn’t a total stranger. It was somebody known to the victim. There were two teacups on the table. It looks as if the whole thing began amicably, and developed into a raging fight.’

  ‘Who, then? Aren’t his fingerprints on one of the cups?’

  ‘Regrettably not. Nor on the murder weapon. It looks as if the killer wore gloves during the whole period he was in the house.’

  ‘Well, it is November,’ said Simmy foolishly.

  Moxon did not dignify this with an answer, but simply cocked his head and smiled forbearingly.

  ‘No. Right. Silly me. But don’t you think you’re wasting your time coming to talk to me? I don’t know anything that could possibly be useful. I hate to say it, but you’d learn a lot more from my mother.’