The Bowness Bequest Read online

  He gave an unhappy smile of acknowledgement. ‘I expect you’re right,’ he said. ‘But the only significant fact I can get any purchase on so far is the recent death of Mrs Henderson. That obviously must have thrown up a whole lot of changes. The balance of power in the family shifts. There’s a sudden hole, which lets people express feelings they’ve been hiding for years. And that list’ – he indicated the paper that Simmy was still holding – ‘it seems to me it must be of central significance.’

  She looked at him. ‘Which is why you keep wanting to talk to me about it,’ she realised. ‘Because here I am, on it.’

  ‘There you are,’ he agreed.

  ‘But what’s all that about the balance of power?’ She wanted to add, that doesn’t sound like you. Since when, she wondered, had he learnt all this psychology?

  He laughed, as if he’d heard her thought. ‘They sent me on a course,’ he admitted. ‘I only finished it last week. I had to read about early influences and family dynamics and games people play. It was all very big in the eighties, but I wasn’t old enough at the time to take it on board.’

  ‘Isn’t it all terribly out of favour now, though? I thought we were into cognitive behaviour therapy and looking to the future, not the past.’

  ‘It seems there’s room for both. And I know from recent experience how bitterness can simmer under the surface for years, before it erupts.’

  She thought back to their shared adventures. ‘Well, yes, but more often it’s people trying to keep somebody quiet, to cover up shameful secrets, and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did Mr Henderson keep faithful to his wife, as far as you know?’

  The question was stark, abrupt and shocking. ‘What?’ He waited calmly, until she went on, ‘I never heard anything about an affair, if that’s what you mean. What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. It just helps to know who the main players are, so to speak. We’ve got five offspring, three in-laws, an ex-wife and a new girlfriend. I think that’s right.’ He scratched his upper lip, where a mole was beginning to make its presence felt. Simmy wondered how he managed to shave around it.

  ‘I’m impressed. I’ve never been quite sure whether Hannah was actually married to her chap, but otherwise that’s it. George’s new girlfriend is the main talking point. I don’t think anybody’s seen Sophie for ages. I doubt if even Christopher knows where she is now. And Eddie’s got the same wife he’s always had. They must have been married for about twelve years. They’ve got two girls, I think. Frances was very fond of them.’

  ‘Eddie – the middle son. Yes, tell me more about him. Ben Harkness said it was down to him that he and Bonnie were in Glebe Road yesterday, in the first place.’

  ‘Yes. He came here and asked if my mother would be kind enough to visit Kit from time to time. I said I didn’t think she’d be up for that, and Bonnie jumped in and said she’d do it.’

  ‘But Eddie lives practically on the doorstep, doesn’t he? Why did he need your mother, when he’s got a wife and daughters who could give the old man some company?’

  Simmy tried to salvage some shreds of information, gleaned at the funeral and over the years from her mother. ‘I have a feeling they didn’t get on,’ she managed, eventually. ‘The wife and Kit. She’s always been a bit of a snob, and I think she looked down on him. It’s only a vague impression. You’ll have to ask my mother,’ she concluded again. ‘Sorry, but there’s no dodging it. She’s your main source of background material on this one. I’m starting to discover just how much I missed over the years. I never even knew that Hannah and Lynn were adopted.’

  ‘Really? I mean – were they?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing that comes up, unless there’s a clear reason for asking. Was it kept a secret?’

  ‘Not at all. I just totally failed to notice. I was only about seven at the time, but apparently I was a singularly incurious child. Still am, I suppose.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘No more than most. In any case, they seem to be a reasonably united family. All still living in the area, taking good care of their mother in her last weeks. She must have been a brave lady, tying up all the loose ends like that. Leaving you that book was just something she wanted to be taken care of, as far as I can see. Like the other things.’

  ‘I never thought of her as especially organised,’ Simmy mused. ‘I suppose if you know you’re dying in a few weeks’ time, it concentrates the mind. Bit late to start planting trees, though, at Kit’s age.’

  ‘She was very specific.’ Again he indicated the paper. ‘Wanted a juniper and a cherry. I think they grow quite fast, don’t they?’

  ‘Cherries do, but I’m not sure about junipers. Let me think – conifers, often a bluey colour. Actually, I think they are quite fast-growing. And not very suitable for a small garden. Hazels and rowans are fairly sensible, though. But it won’t be happening now, I suppose.’ Implications began to occur to her. ‘The bungalow will be sold, and the proceeds divided five ways. That’s not a bad little inheritance, assuming the mortgage was paid off.’

  ‘I’m not going to comment.’

  ‘Just tell me I wasn’t going to get a share as well,’ she joked awkwardly. ‘Because that would probably make me a suspect, in your eyes.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, but as far as I’m aware, you’re safe. Although I suppose I can tell you that we haven’t found any sign of a will in Mr Henderson’s name. Early days, obviously, but we know he didn’t make one when his wife did. That’s unusual, actually.’

  Simmy was put in mind of detective stories by Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie where the will was at the heart of the whole case. ‘Uh-oh,’ she said. ‘You’d better focus on that, then.’

  He ignored the impertinence, and paused to put his thoughts in order. ‘Could I see the book Mrs Henderson left you? Have you got it here?’

  ‘It’s in the car. And the car’s in its usual place, a street or two from your house. Do I have to go and fetch it now?’ She looked optimistically out into the murky street, wishing for a customer to appear and keep her pinned to the shop. ‘It can’t possibly have anything to do with the murder.’

  ‘Hard to see how,’ he agreed. ‘But you never know. How about I meet you at your car after work? Five-thirty? Do you remember exactly where you left it?’

  ‘I think so.’ She told him as closely as she could, and hoped she wouldn’t forget the assignation. Five-thirty still seemed a long way ahead.

  ‘Can I come out yet?’ came Bonnie’s voice. She had opened the door a crack and was peeping through into the shop. ‘It’s been ages.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Sorry about that.’ Moxon rubbed his hands together, as if to announce the end of the interview, and drained the last of his coffee. ‘See you this evening, then.’ He nodded at them both and strode out into the street.

  ‘What a funny man he is,’ said Bonnie. ‘I don’t think he knows what he’s doing, half the time.’

  ‘He’s been on a course, and now he understands psychology a lot better.’

  ‘Hah!’ scorned Bonnie. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll surprise us for once. I think he’s got a few theories, anyway. And I can’t see him letting Ben get involved. He’s still getting over last time – and so is Ben’s poor mother.’

  ‘Too right. You should have heard her last night, when we went back to the house and told her what had happened. She went as white as snow with the shock. She knew the Henderson man, remember.’

  ‘So she did.’ Simmy paused. ‘Did she like him, then?’

  ‘As far as I can gather, most women liked him. She said he had a special way with him. It sounded as if she might have had a bit of a thing for him, ages ago.’

  Simmy was stunned. ‘Surely not! He’s nothing to look at. He’s got almost no sense of humour. Had no sense of humour, I mean. He hardly played with his kids when we were on holiday. What could anyone po
ssibly see in him?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Maybe your mum could explain it to you.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it any more,’ said Simmy, as firmly as she could.

  ‘I don’t see why you don’t want to. You’ve already said you didn’t like him much. It doesn’t affect you at all. So why not see if you can work out who did it? What’s wrong with that?’

  It was a familiar question, to which the answer was always feeble. ‘I just don’t want to,’ she said.

  And then at last there was a little run of customers. It almost amounted to a surge, given the quietness of the week so far. One after the other, three people came in search of flowers, to be wrapped and given a card. Two birthdays and an anniversary were all happening the following day, the bouquets to be kept secret and fresh overnight. ‘It’s like a conspiracy,’ said Simmy, when the last one had gone. ‘As if they planned it.’

  ‘It’s the lunch hour,’ Bonnie pointed out. ‘And every day is somebody’s birthday.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Simmy. ‘Well now we’ll have to get some more carnations, roses and lilies from the back room. That chap with the anniversary’s wiped them out, look.’

  ‘He did go a bit mad. Feeling guilty, I presume.’ It was a well-worn observation, no less true for that. Many such discoveries had marked Simmy’s first weeks as a florist. Motives for buying flowers turned out to be a lot darker than she had ever imagined. It could even be an act of malice, in extreme circumstances.

  Deftly, Bonnie refilled the buckets that held the stock, ranking them by shade and size in a fashion she had made her own, right from the start. Her flair for design was far beyond the ordinary, and she never ran out of ideas for the displays on the shop floor and in the window. In November, there was almost nothing on the pavement outside, but during the summer she had extended her skills by arranging enticingly scented and coloured blooms where passers-by couldn’t fail to notice them.

  Lunch was eaten carelessly, standing in their little area beside the till, watching the computer screen for new orders. Time passed slowly, with no further intrusions, and Simmy’s veto on discussing the Henderson affair holding good. ‘This is tedious,’ said Bonnie, at two o’clock. ‘Should we be making something happen? What about calling some of those hotels in Ambleside? Weren’t we going to do that this week?’

  ‘So we were. Why don’t you make me a list, with the phone numbers? You can find them on the tourist website.’

  ‘Or TripAdvisor, or about ten other places,’ nodded Bonnie. ‘Do you want me to make a real list, with a pen?’ She gazed with wide-eyed interest at her employer. ‘Like in the olden days.’

  ‘Yes, please. Just like Ben would tell you. Just like any sensible person would do.’

  They both giggled at the thought of their shared affection for the boy who possessed the skills and knowledge of every century since Roman times, as comfortable with Latin as he was with computer languages.

  ‘He should be here in another hour or so,’ said Bonnie, as if every intervening minute would be a torment.

  Chapter Seven

  Ben was late, and because things were so quiet, Simmy urged him and Bonnie to go home earlier than the usual five o’clock. ‘It’s so dark and horrible,’ she said. ‘You’d be best off in a nice warm house.’ Which house was up to them. Bonnie lived with her foster mother, Corinne, and Ben was one of a big family in a big Bowness house. There was a distance of roughly half a mile between the two.

  Her wish to see them go was partly born of her own appointment with DI Moxon. He hadn’t phoned her to change the arrangement, so she assumed he would knock off at around five, despite the fact of an ongoing murder investigation. Or would he be making a special trip to the street where her car was sitting, only to go back to the police station afterwards? Again, she let the question drop, as being irrelevant. Simmy Brown was no control freak; she let people do whatever seemed best to them, without either enquiry or interference. Now and then she wondered whether this was a virtue, or a selfish lack of genuine interest in other people. Her father would cross-examine the B&B guests as to the route they had taken from their homes in Essex or Lincolnshire, correcting any perceived errors, and then issue minute instructions as to how to get to Grasmere or Kirkstone, including every landmark along the way.

  ‘It’s as if you don’t trust them to live their own lives,’ his wife would accuse, from time to time.

  The daylight was completely gone by five, the streets of Windermere monochrome and deserted. She could smell woodsmoke on the air, from the stoves that everybody was suddenly using, burning trees in their thousands, with no apparent disquiet. Ben could present a five-minute dissertation on the subject, with only the slightest provocation. Whilst having no personal antagonism to the practice, he nonetheless dwelt scornfully on the complete absence of logic. ‘People cannot abide too much reality,’ said Simmy. ‘Or whatever the quote is. They just like the look of a real flame burning.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he patiently replied. ‘And it’s “humankind cannot bear very much reality”. You were almost right,’ he applauded. ‘It’s T. S. Eliot.’

  ‘I’m impressed by myself,’ she had laughed.

  Thoughts of Ben were much too often at the front of her mind, she decided. His firm opinions, infinite stock of quotes and facts, and intense interest in the world – all made him impossible to ignore. She often reran conversations with him, savouring the intelligence that he must have been born with, and which he exploited to the full. Nobody doubted that once he became an undergraduate, he would be a star of University Challenge as well as the favourite of all the tutors.

  She was at her car before she knew it. But Moxon was nowhere to be seen. Of course, he expected her to leave the shop twenty minutes later than she had actually done, which meant a chilly wait. What an idiot, she reproached herself. Somehow she had assumed he would know by telepathy that she was there, and would magically join her.

  Which did very nearly happen, as it turned out. She only had time to get into the driving seat, turn on the radio, and lift Frances Henderson’s book onto her lap, before there was a tap on the window beside her.

  Two men stood there, both of them welcome faces in different ways. It was a surprise to see them together, and she looked from one to the other in confusion, before opening the car door.

  ‘You’re early,’ said Moxon. ‘I guessed you might be.’

  ‘And Christopher,’ she said. ‘Hello.’

  ‘So this is the famous flower book, is it?’ The detective directed his gaze downwards. ‘Can I see?’

  She handed it to him, saying, ‘It’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Don’t drop it, will you? It’s a bit heavy.’

  He took it awkwardly, finding no level surface on which to put it down and examine it in the poor light shed by a nearby street lamp. ‘Use the bonnet,’ said Christopher. ‘I’ll hold it for you, to stop it sliding off.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Together the men solemnly turned the pages, while Simmy sat half in and half out of her car. There was something comical in the setting, and the intent interest in a book that could mean little or nothing to either of them. If Christopher had ever cared about his grandmother’s artistic efforts, he would surely have persuaded his mother to let him have them.

  A shade too late, Simmy remembered to say, ‘Oh, Christopher, I’m so terribly sorry about your father. Such a dreadful thing to happen.’

  He dipped his head to look at her. ‘It didn’t just happen,’ he snapped. ‘Somebody deliberately killed him. You can’t imagine what that feels like.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’ She tried to, managing to glimpse the outrage and fear and sheer numbing shock. The inescapable sense of victimisation and helplessness. If someone was prepared to break the strongest of all the commandments, then there was little chance of defending against that person. Again, words from Ben Harkness came to mind, to the effect that it was only the bonds of convention and social pressure that prevented wholesale slaughter of one aga
inst another. Everyone had the means to kill, he pointed out, adding something about a man called Hobbes.

  ‘Sorry, Simmy. I didn’t mean to snap. I don’t know what I’m doing today. I don’t know why I’m here, either.’ He looked to Moxon for an answer. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

  The inspector gave an uneasy glance towards Simmy. ‘Just whether you think it can have anything to do with your father’s death.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘The book. These pictures. Have they got some significance that I’m not seeing?’ He looked again at Simmy, with an apologetic grimace. ‘It’s only because of the letter Mr Henderson was holding, you see. As if it was an issue between him and the killer. Do you see?’

  ‘You think somebody else expected to inherit it, and was so angry they stabbed him to death?’ Christopher glared at Moxon. ‘That would be insane. Especially as it had nothing to do with my father – it was Mum who left it to Simmy, not Dad.’

  ‘I have to follow everything up,’ said the detective heavily. ‘However unlikely it might seem that it concerns the investigation.’

  ‘Well?’ interjected Simmy. ‘What do you think now you’ve seen it?’

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘It’s not worth anything,’ said Christopher. ‘And I should know. If it was a hundred years older, it might be. Or if my gran had been famous. As it is, it’s just a book of pretty flower pictures, with a good-quality binding.’

  ‘Well, I love it,’ said Simmy defensively.

  ‘My mum must have known you would. So now everybody’s happy.’

  It was entirely the wrong thing to say, twenty-four hours after the murder of one’s father, and the dense silence that followed made this clear. ‘Oh, Lord,’ Christopher groaned. ‘What an idiotic remark.’

  ‘We know what you meant,’ said Simmy, looking to Moxon for support. He had not missed the we, it seemed, and was trying to convey tolerance and understanding, while still maintaining his role as a detective investigating a murder. People who said they were happy might be regarded as suspicious. Again, Simmy thought of her lifelong friend as a ‘person of interest’, as the saying went. On a whim, she suddenly burst out, ‘Why don’t you come back to Troutbeck with me, and we can have a good long chat? Where’s your car?’