The Grasmere Grudge Page 6

  ‘And absolutely brilliant prospects,’ she reminded him. ‘Just a few more old embroideries going for fourteen thousand, and you’ll be rolling in money.’ She had a thought. ‘My mother read about it in the paper. She says your commission must have been substantial.’

  He groaned. ‘Which takes me right back to where we began. What do you think the police are going to make of that little detail, then?’

  She caught up in a couple of seconds. ‘They can’t think it was a motive for killing Jonathan, can they? What happens to the money, now he’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t know – but it sure as hell doesn’t stay in my bank account, whether he’s alive or dead.’

  The conversation ended with some rather forced endearments on both sides. Christopher didn’t do romance, as Simmy had already understood. In that respect, if no other, he resembled Angie. The theory beloved by couple counsellors recurred to her: everybody married their mother. She had first heard it ten or fifteen years ago and insisted vigorously that it did not apply to her and Tony. She had never found one trait in him that was like Angie. But Christopher was different from Tony, and therefore perhaps closer to her mother than she quite liked.

  Another realisation was gradually dawning, which caused her some distress: Christopher did not really like or understand Ben. The sharp remarks about him had increased over the months, so that Simmy had unconsciously reduced her references to him when talking to Chris. This instinctive avoidance of discomfort could not go on. She valued Ben enormously, even taking a tiny sliver of credit for the way he was turning out. She had watched him mature from a clever but unfocused seventeen-year-old to a brilliant and driven school-leaver. He knew what he wanted; he knew his own strengths. He had found Bonnie through Simmy and formed a bond that appeared to everyone as wholly positive. The unlikely pair filled each other’s gaps and protected each other’s vulnerabilities almost magically. They provided insights into worlds that would otherwise have been closed to them both. They had tremendous fun together, designing games and projects that absorbed every spare moment.

  The fact that Christopher failed to grasp what a glorious triumph this was made Simmy worry about his judgement. He saw Bonnie as a damaged rootless teenager, entertaining, certainly, but in no way of any real significance. And he saw Ben as a geek, blundering through life clutching a smartphone, dreaming of Latin quotes and biochemical analyses. The past adventures, where all three of them had come close to the most painfully real aspects of violent death, were dismissed as examples of mischance that meant little. Even when his own father was at the centre of just such an episode, Christopher had given minimal thought to the individuals who found themselves involved. All he had cared about was taking up with Simmy again and keeping himself clear of police interest.

  But Simmy was determined not to judge him and find him wanting. She accepted that her bond with Ben and Bonnie was unusual and difficult to understand. They were seen by some as surrogate children, given that she was easily old enough to be their mother. Others had the impression that Simmy was behaving childishly, joining in games that she should have grown out of. And DI Moxon swung between exasperation, concern and admiration as all four of them groped for the evidence and theories needed to solve the latest murder.

  The absence of Moxon from this incident in Grasmere was a source of regret. A new detective would be suspicious and resistant to any interventions from Ben Harkness. So, it seemed, would Christopher. If he had his way, the death of his friend would be ignored as far as possible. And here, Simmy was brought up against a brick wall of incomprehension. How was it possible that Chris seemed so unconcerned to identify and punish the heartless killer? Normal human curiosity should surely overcome all other feelings? Perhaps he was trying to protect her, she suddenly realised. He knew how reluctant she had been to be dragged into the two murder investigations that had occurred since he had met her again. In Staveley she had unwittingly walked right into the middle of a particularly unpleasant crime. And when Christopher’s own parents had died within weeks of each other, Simmy had again been immersed in the whole business.

  There were so many issues swirling round, apparently unconnected. Her visceral desire for a baby, somewhat tempered by the desperation of poor Flo; her parents’ increasing need of her help; the constant threat of the shop being either too busy or not busy enough. She felt again the warm weight of baby Lucy on her lap and knew her hormones had been stirred by it. She knew that she wanted Christopher as the father of her longed-for child – but perhaps only because he was willing and available, with nobody else in sight. She feared the complications and commitments that would be inevitable if they did start a baby. That, she admitted to herself, had been the case for a few months already. Instead of focusing on her assumed fertile days, and organising accordingly, she had let their usual weekly routine continue without protest, almost relieved when his visits coincided repeatedly with the wrong moments in her cycle. It was all too frightening, with the hand of fate hanging ominously above her head. If she could just have bundled up little Lucy May and taken her home to be her, Simmy’s, baby without further discussion, that would have been ideal. As it was, she was faced with nine months of terror that her body would fail again and stifle another helpless infant before it could see the light of day.

  How much easier, then, to be diverted into a puzzle as to who killed a man she’d never known, for reasons that were unlikely to arouse much emotion. Ben and Bonnie would delightedly throw themselves into searching for clues, reasons, timings – as far as the authorities would allow them access to such information. Ben’s facility with the Internet meant he would quickly discover a wealth of detail about the dead man’s life and work. He would spend a day at the auction rooms, chatting to anyone who seemed interesting.

  They were not such terrible problems to have, she reminded herself. She had never expected Christopher to be perfect, after all. And he did seem to be amenable to correction, which was a plus. She was aware that she favoured a certain ‘type’ of man: somebody light on commitment – especially when it came to work. A man who chafed under authority and liked to take charge of his own life. This was certainly true of Ninian Tripp and Chris, and partially so of Tony. All three were on a spectrum in that regard, with Christopher in the middle. None was given to high drama or heavy drinking. She pulled herself up at that point. Making comparisons felt invidious. Ninian had never been a serious candidate for marriage and family. Tony was firmly in the past. The only one she ought to be thinking about was Christopher Henderson, born on the same day as her, both familiar and unknowable, the love of her life and yet still testing the quality of her trust in him.

  There could be no guarantees, of course. It was cowardly to want them. All big decisions had an element of blind faith within them. You stepped into the void, unsure whether your foot would connect with solid ground or send you hurtling into an abyss. Either way, in the long run, both options were better than dithering on the edge, not moving at all.

  She woke on Wednesday, feeling slightly Groundhog-Day-ish, as the sun filtered through high cloud and she mentally ran through all the tasks awaiting her at the shop. There was also a sense of limbo, with very little scope for direct action on her own behalf. Other people had to make the next move. Although she could go and see Flo again. They had parted on an agreement to meet again, having made one of those connections that women are so prone to. She could even make enquiries about selling her house, as Christopher had urged. There was always something a person could do to make things happen, and Simmy Brown felt a certain obligation to do just that.

  The long days lent themselves to action. When the sun stayed in the sky until nine o’clock, there was no excuse for hiding away indoors and procrastinating. Equally, the mornings began so early that by seven you felt half the day was already wasted if you hadn’t got up and begun some task or project. You could not convincingly argue shortage of time in June. Perhaps this alone explained her father’s increased energy an
d interest in life. Always one to rise early and immerse himself in activity, the past year or so had seen him alarmingly lethargic. Now, there appeared to be grounds for hoping he might not, after all, have been on a one-way downhill slope to old age and dementia.

  So she left home before eight and was in the shop by twenty past. She propped the door open and took half her plants outside to decorate the patch of pavement in front of the shop. Colour and scent radiated across the street, brightening the heart of Windermere considerably. Concentrating on more exotic blooms that very few people could grow for themselves, she hoped to attract a better number of customers than in recent weeks.

  Bonnie was also early, standing in admiration of the pavement display before going into the shop. ‘Ben’s coming at twelve,’ she said. ‘Hope that’ll be okay.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing, is there? We might be knee-deep in orders by then. Even deeper than we are already, I mean.’

  ‘And Corinne says, do you want to go for a drink tomorrow? She wants to ask you about Lanzarote. It’s meant to be sunny for the rest of the week, and she says you could sit outside somewhere.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Simmy, somewhat lost for words. ‘We sat outside in Hawkshead last year – when Ben was … you know. I don’t think we’ve had a proper chat since then.’

  ‘That’s what she said. I just hope she doesn’t want to talk about me.’

  ‘Why would she?’

  ‘Who knows?’ the girl shrugged. ‘She sometimes thinks she’s being a bit slack, parent-wise. She was always forgetting to go to parents’ evenings at school and then feeling bad about it. Mind you, she was at the place enough as it was, with me being such a challenge for them.’

  ‘She won’t want to talk about you. Is she thinking of going to the Canaries, then?’

  ‘That’s what she says. Can’t think how she’d afford it. The state’s not paying her for me any more, which leaves a big hole. I give her a lot of what I earn here, but it’s not nearly as much as it was.’

  ‘Lanzarote isn’t cheap,’ said Simmy ruefully. ‘Last week cost serious money.’

  ‘Tell her that, then,’ said Bonnie. ‘She’ll probably phone you this evening with some ideas of where to go.’

  The morning was very much quieter than Tuesday had been. The sun never quite dispersed the cloud, and there was a breeze that must have made sailing on the various lakes quite a temptation. When Ben showed up, he was welcomed as a break from an hour of monotony. Simmy had constructed the funeral tributes and was waiting for the next day to make the displays for the hotel. Timing was everything with flowers, and as delivery was not required before Friday, it was too soon to start arranging them.

  ‘Sorry about the driving test,’ said Simmy, knowing better than to pretend the failure had never happened. ‘Better luck next time.’

  ‘It’s a lottery,’ said the boy with a scowl. ‘There’s no fairness to it at all.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘According to the thick-headed examiner, I didn’t slow down sufficiently for a potential hazard ahead. That’s the exact wording. In fact, there was no hazard. I could see quite clearly that the bloke was indicating to go left, before getting to where I was meant to turn off as well. So, I just carried on in a normal way. Wrong. You’re not supposed to believe people when they indicate. Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘Your instructor should have told you that,’ said Simmy.

  ‘He did, sort of, but every situation’s different, and I used my common sense. Never a good idea these days. And then there was this idiot who stopped to let me out, at a junction. I knew he had the right of way, so I waved him to keep going ahead of me. Wrong again. I ask you – the rules are perfectly clear about that. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s madness to penalise me for that. I still think that what I did was the safest option.’ He growled angrily. ‘The whole thing’s a lottery,’ he said again. ‘And a conspiracy to make you fork out twice for the test fee.’

  ‘Never mind,’ crooned Bonnie. ‘We can forget about it for a bit. What about this thing in Grasmere? We haven’t found anything online about it,’ she told Simmy. ‘Are you sure it really happened?’

  ‘I’ve only got Chris’s word for it,’ laughed Simmy, before the startling thought hit her that perhaps it had all been a mistake somehow. ‘But I don’t think he’d invent something like that. He saw the body for himself. He found it.’

  ‘In Grasmere, right?’ Ben said.

  ‘Yes. I’m not entirely clear about the whole story, but he was in an empty house, and Chris went to find him there. I mean, it’s not actually empty but nobody lives in it. An old lady died, leaving it full of her possessions. Jonathan – that’s the man who was killed – was going to clear it when the legal people said he could. At least – I think that’s right. But there’s something about her not wanting him to do it because he did something to upset her dog. But he knew where to find a key to the house, and went there for a look round, with Chris roped in as some sort of independent witness, to verify that he wasn’t stealing anything. The old lady was called Kathleen,’ she added, proud of herself for recalling that detail.

  Ben took a deep breath. ‘Can we go back to the beginning? This happened on Monday, did it? What time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Chris didn’t call me until five in the afternoon, but a lot had happened by then. I guess it must have been in the middle of the day sometime.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he have been at work?’

  ‘I got the impression this was work. The stuff from the house was meant to be going to the Keswick auction. Anyway, there’s a suspect called Nick, who had a grudge against Jonathan, because he thought he’d reported him to the tax people. But Chris says it wouldn’t have been him who did it. But he did give his name to the police. They took him all the way to Penrith for questioning.’

  ‘Christopher gave this man’s name to the police?’ Ben was incredulous. ‘Why? Does he hate him?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She bit back Christopher’s remark about feeling he could have been in Mexico, where she supposed the police were fairly brutal and out of control. Instead she said, ‘He was probably just being helpful. I imagine plenty of other people know about Nick as well.’

  ‘But he can’t be sure any of them would have dropped the poor bloke in it. Isn’t he scared that Nick’s going to kill him now, as well?’

  ‘As well as what?’ Bonnie interrupted. ‘Simmy just said Nick didn’t do the murder.’

  ‘Have you met any of these people?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No. Except there was an old man who Chris knows in Grasmere. We went to see him a little while ago. I think he was friendly with Kathleen who died, and Chris put Jonathan onto him when the house had to be cleared. Kathleen left a sort of unofficial will saying this old chap – he’s called Philip – should handle that side of things. But it’s not a proper will, so everything had to be frozen until some sort of important official solicitor did the probate and all that.’ She went over this garbled statement in her head. ‘Sorry that’s so vague.’

  Ben was rapidly thumbing his ever-present smartphone. ‘Treasury solicitor,’ he announced within seconds. ‘It’s all here. If she died intestate, there’ll be strenuous efforts to find her next of kin. There’s always somebody, of course. A fifth cousin in Tasmania, or a great-nephew in Kathmandu. The possibilities are endless.’

  ‘Are you reading that or making it up?’ asked Bonnie, trying to look over his arm at the device.

  ‘I’m embellishing,’ he said airily. ‘The law says there have to be genuine efforts made to trace relatives. When did she die?’ he asked Simmy.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. About a year ago, I think. I get the impression there was a bit of bother early on, with Jonathan falling out with Kathleen, but still really wanting to do the clearance.’ She frowned. ‘I might have got that wrong, but it does fit with everything Chris told me.’

  ‘So now they’ve had the go-ahead to clear the house, have th
ey? And that’s why the dead man was there on Monday, and Christopher was meeting him?’ He gave Simmy a careful look. ‘So the cops might be thinking your boyfriend has some explaining to do. Did he tell you how the deed was done? What was the murder weapon?’

  ‘Throttled with a belt,’ said Simmy faintly.

  ‘Hm.’

  Bonnie giggled. ‘This is where you should take a long draw on your pipe,’ she said. ‘The Sherlock Holmes act doesn’t work without it.’

  Ben ignored her. ‘Sounds as if it must have been a man who did it,’ he judged. ‘But can’t assume that. We need to go to Grasmere,’ he announced decisively, and even more Sherlock-Holmes-ily.

  ‘Why? How? They won’t let you anywhere near the house. You can’t go asking questions of people in the street. You haven’t got a car.’ Simmy reeled off objections in a panic. ‘And Chris’s annoyed that I told you about it in the first place,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘Christopher’s going to have to get used to me, if he’s sticking around.’

  Simmy took a deep breath. ‘He’s sticking around all right. We’re getting married – probably sometime this autumn.’

  Chapter Eight

  The stunned silence lasted three seconds at most. ‘Married? Why? Are you pregnant?’ Bonnie blurted.

  Simmy did not smile. ‘Don’t you start,’ she said. ‘My father asked the same thing.’

  ‘Sorry. But … I didn’t think … You never said …’

  ‘Stop digging, Bon,’ her boyfriend advised. ‘She’s old enough to know what she’s doing.’

  ‘This is not at all the reaction I was hoping for,’ sighed Simmy. ‘So far, nobody’s shown much enthusiasm. Although my mother did her best, I have to admit.’

  Bonnie pouted. ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Only my parents. Don’t worry – you’re next on the list. Even though you don’t deserve it.’

  ‘So – where will you live? Will you close down the shop? Are you selling the Troutbeck house?’ Ben’s mind was visibly sifting implications. ‘You’re not pregnant, I take it?’