by Rebecca Tope
‘Mind your own business. Besides, we’re not talking about me. You were saying you wanted to go to Grasmere. If you behave yourselves, I suppose I could take you this evening. As you’ll have worked out by now, it’s the most obvious place for me and Chris to live – halfway between here and Keswick. I want to have a look at the houses. I’ve only been there a couple of times.’
‘Will Christopher be there this evening as well?’ asked Bonnie.
‘We haven’t made any plans, but he knows you’ll be wanting to talk to him. I tried to warn him last night, in fact.’
‘Good – so phone now and tell him you want to meet up with him. Suggest a drink or meal or something. We need loads more information about this Nick person, and the man he might have killed.’
Simmy quailed at the prospect of the two youngsters bombarding Christopher with questions, theories, outrageous notions. For all his extensive travelling and multitude of offbeat jobs, she was beginning to wonder just how much he’d learnt about people. As the eldest of a family of five, he might be expected to be reasonably wise when it came to understanding human behaviour – but there had been little evidence of that so far in their adult relationship.
‘He won’t mind, will he?’ asked Bonnie innocently.
‘He might find it a bit … full on,’ said Simmy. ‘He won’t be offended or anything. He’s quite easy-going about most things. But he might take it the wrong way.’
‘You mean he won’t get why it’s any of our business,’ supplied Ben. ‘Which is very reasonable, because it’s not, if you look at it in one way. But doesn’t he realise by now that I’ve got very good professional reasons to get involved? I need to learn everything I can about how police investigations work, as near to first-hand as possible. You must have told him that, surely?’
‘I’ve tried. He knows you’re starting the degree course in forensics this year, and he thinks it’s very impressive. But it’s not so easy to explain why you want to interfere in real crimes, here in your home town.’
‘Interfere?’ Ben was outraged. ‘I’ve helped. So has Bonnie.’
‘I know. But you’ve also been in real danger. And most of the time, you were working from your room, making flowcharts and spreadsheets and all that theoretical stuff.’
‘Right!’ the boy almost shouted. ‘So what’s his problem, if I want to gather some notes about this thing in Grasmere? It’s no skin off his nose.’
‘As they say,’ put in Bonnie with a laugh.
‘I didn’t say there was a problem,’ defended Simmy. ‘I’ll phone him now and see if he can be there this evening. Satisfied?’
A well-timed customer saved her from further need to justify her man to these bright-eyed amateur detectives. She disliked having to speak for Chris, unsure as to what he would actually think or say.
Ben and Bonnie squashed themselves into the small room at the back and ate sandwiches while Simmy sold tulips to a woman who appeared regularly, full of whimsical ideas for centrepieces for the dinner parties she apparently gave every couple of weeks. This time, she was envisaging a flamboyant exhibition of tulips in every possible colour. ‘I can absolutely see it,’ she raved. ‘Yellow, orange, blue, purple, red, pink, white, black – what else? Have you got them in all those colours?’
‘Well, no,’ Simmy confessed. ‘Tulips have finished for this year, so they’ll nearly all be imported. Let’s have a look.’ Together they scanned the buckets of cut flowers arranged around the shop. ‘No purple or black,’ she noted. ‘But there’s enough for a really nice show, all the same.’
The woman sighed and took whatever was available. ‘Maybe I’ll try and get some more somewhere else,’ she muttered darkly.
‘And good luck to her,’ said Bonnie, half a minute later, having heard everything from the back room. ‘Stupid woman.’
‘I rather like her,’ said Simmy. ‘She’s got a wonderful imagination.’
‘You like everybody,’ said Bonnie, not for the first time.
‘I like most people,’ Simmy corrected. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘I should go,’ said Ben, wistfully. ‘Are we definite for Grasmere, then? I can be back here at five and we can go then.’
‘I don’t know,’ Simmy said. ‘There won’t be any point if Chris can’t make it.’ She thought of the time she’d spent with Flo and her baby only a mile from Grasmere and regretted that she wouldn’t have a chance to visit her again, with Ben and Bonnie alongside. If she and Chris were soon to live there, she could go and see the mother and child regularly. It suddenly seemed the most appealing prospect she could imagine. She would have a local friend – which she did not in Troutbeck.
‘Yes, there will. You can have a look round for houses for sale, and we can get some idea of what exactly happened on Monday. There’ll be police tape, or even an incident room. There’s no substitute for being on the spot,’ said Ben sententiously.
‘All right, then,’ said Simmy, remembering how she felt about summer evenings and the obligation to make proper use of them.
‘Great! You’re a star, Sim – you know that?’ It was Bonnie enthusing so loudly. Ben made sounds of agreement, smiling broadly.
‘It’s really nice up there,’ Simmy shrugged. ‘I’m happy to get to know it better. Now let’s get on with some work.’
Ben was on the doorstep several minutes before five o’clock. Simmy would not be rushed, despite his efforts to hurry her by bringing in the outside plants. Bonnie closed down the computer and locked the door leading to the small yard at the back. Simmy ushered them outside and pulled the shop door shut behind them. ‘The car’s up Broad Street today,’ she said. Every morning she had to seek out a parking space in one of the streets on the eastern side of town, and every afternoon she had to try to remember exactly where she’d left it.
They found it without difficulty and followed a number of other rush-hour drivers northwards. Ambleside was slow, with the added traffic caused by summer visitors, but the road through Rydal and on towards Grasmere was smooth and trouble-free. They were soon looping through the woods of Banerigg, where Simmy had been only two days earlier. ‘Isn’t it lovely!’ sighed Bonnie. She was in the back of the car, looking all round at the views. ‘This is where you brought those flowers, isn’t it? On Monday?’
‘Just up there,’ Simmy confirmed, ducking her head at a small side lane. ‘Pity there isn’t a cottage for sale here.’
‘How do you know there isn’t?’ said Ben.
‘The place is so tiny – there are almost no houses here. It would be too good to be true. Chris quite likes the little stone cottages a bit further along here, but I think they’re too close to Dove Cottage.’
‘Where are we meeting him?’ Ben asked.
‘In the car park at the top of the town. By a big white hotel.’
‘Top of the town,’ Ben repeated thoughtfully. ‘Does a town have a top?’
‘Shut up. I know how to find it, which is the main thing.’ And she did, with no difficulty. Ben and Bonnie looked around, pausing to laugh at a sign warning motorists that their satnavs could not be trusted past that point.
‘No way is this the top,’ said Ben. ‘I’d call it the middle.’
Simmy and Bonnie both ignored him, and he went on, ‘I can just imagine all those huge lorries getting wedged between stone walls. I presume that road just curves around the other side of the lake, without really leading anywhere.’ He squinted into the sun. ‘We’re east of the lake,’ he asserted. ‘And if I remember rightly, there’s another car park north of here, which could make a better claim to be at the top.’
‘Stop it,’ Bonnie ordered. ‘You’re just showing off.’
Ben’s knowledge of the Lake District was at least as extensive as Russell Straw’s. His parents had taken the family to virtually every town and village in Cumbria and beyond, including camping trips and weekend outings. Helen Harkness had instigated lengthy walks on the fells, until prevented from further trek
s by painful arthritis that struck her at far too early an age. ‘Too much sitting at the drawing board,’ she explained. Simmy had a lot of respect for Helen Harkness.
Christopher was ten minutes late, and when he finally arrived he looked drawn and ten years older. Ben gave a low whistle, and muttered to Simmy, ‘What have you done to him?’
The streets of the small town were generously filled with evening walkers, at least half of them with dogs. Most of the shops were still open, and people were sitting in the open air outside cafes and on low stone walls that bordered a small park. ‘It’s very like Hawkshead,’ Simmy remarked.
‘It’s not at all like Hawkshead,’ Ben argued. ‘Bigger, for a start, and much more open.’ He pointed to the park. ‘You don’t get grass in Hawkshead, either.’
They arranged themselves around a small table belonging to a cafe attached to The Inn at Grasmere, which was a substantial building occupying a prime position. The cafe was in a conservatory, with some tables outside. They settled at one of these, noting that the diners on either side of them each had a dog lying at their feet. Christopher smiled at the sight of them, and said, ‘Just like France. Or Argentina. There are dogs everywhere in Argentina.’ Nobody took him up on this, and they ordered a variety of meals, having agreed that Ben and Bonnie were paying for their own food. ‘You know – there’s only one proper pub in the whole town,’ said Ben. ‘So that’s different from Hawkshead as well.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ argued Christopher. ‘There are at least two on the main road, for a start.’
‘I meant in the town … village … whatever they call themselves. And you could argue that all the hotels have bars, which operate more or less the same as pubs – but even so, it’s not what some people expect. Now take Patterdale, for example—’
‘Why have we come here?’ Christopher cut across this prattling. ‘I mean to this precise eating place?’
‘Because we’ve never been here before and we like to try new places,’ said Ben.
Simmy laughed nervously, aware of an increasingly scratchy atmosphere. ‘Sorry, Chris. You’ll have to get used to these two, I’m afraid. They mean well. Ben’s at a loose end now his exams have finished. He doesn’t have to go to school much, apparently, even though it’s another month until the end of term for the rest of the school. There’s a Leaver’s Ball next week, and I think that’s about it. Awful, really, the way it all just fizzles out. But Ben always finds something to do.’
‘He’s going down to the Cotswolds at the beginning of August,’ said Bonnie, with a mournful look. ‘Some old uncle or third cousin. I can’t remember what. But he’s always had a soft spot for Ben and wants him to go and visit.’
‘Meanwhile Ben’s here, with time on his hands,’ said Simmy. She faced Christopher directly. ‘And he is very good at solving murders, you know.’
‘You make it sound like a game,’ said Christopher stiffly.
‘People say that,’ Bonnie nodded. ‘But we never forget how terrible it is – honestly. Killing another person is the worst thing you can do. We absolutely do know that. You look as if it’s been a pretty bad few days, actually.’
‘I found him. Hardly any distance from where we’re sitting now.’ Chris rubbed his forehead. ‘I keep seeing his face.’
‘Post-traumatic stress,’ said Ben. ‘Flashbacks. Probably perfectly healthy – your brain’s working to assimilate what happened. It shouldn’t last long, with any luck.’ He paused, clearly aware of being on thin ice. ‘Did you touch him? Was he still warm? I’m sorry if that’s making you feel worse, but it would be really helpful to know.’
‘Yes, and yes,’ said Christopher. ‘Now I really don’t want to talk any more about it. I only came because I wanted to see Simmy. We’re meant to be looking at houses, aren’t we?’ He gave her a pleading look.
‘Very much so,’ she assured him. ‘But now Ben and Bonnie are here, won’t you at least give them a bit to go on? I’ve tried to explain who Jonathan is, and Philip and Kathleen something. But I think I might have some of it wrong.’
At that, the food arrived. ‘Two omelettes, one cheese, one ham; one Caesar salad and a sausage egg and chips,’ rattled off the waitress. ‘Any sauces with that?’ They all shook their heads and waited for her to go.
Christopher spoke first. ‘What’s Philip got to do with anything? Why bring him into it?’
‘There you are, you see – I am getting it all wrong. Just because Philip lives in Grasmere I’ve got him involved.’ She frowned. ‘But he knew Kathleen, and it was in her house that you found Jonathan. So I guess he must have something to do with it. Didn’t you give him Jonathan’s name when he wanted somebody to clear the house?’
Christopher sighed. ‘You sound just like the police. Names, reasons, dates. Who was where when, and what did they know? It went on for hours.’
‘It takes hours to get the hang of a story, when you start from nothing,’ said Ben. ‘You generally have to go quite far into the past to get any sort of handle on it. This lady – Kathleen – for example. I mean, it sounds to me as if it really did start with her, and the stuff she had in her house. And it also sounds as if poor old Jonathan was just a shade too quick to start rummaging around with a view to clearing it. He probably made a few lists of what was worth something, and where he might get the best price for it. Then he’d wait for the all-clear from the treasury solicitor and whisk it all away in a flash. Right?’
‘Treasury solicitor?’ echoed Christopher.
‘Right. That’s the person who deals with estates when there’s no will. Surely you knew that?’
‘I know now. Not normally my area of expertise. I just sell the stuff.’
‘Philip,’ prompted Bonnie.
‘Philip has nothing to do with it,’ Christopher repeated. ‘He’s ninety-one and in a home. It must be twenty years ago or more that Kathleen asked him to be a sort of executor, but they never put it in a proper will. He could easily have washed his hands of the whole thing when she died, but he thought he had a duty to do what he could. It’s only a few months ago he asked me to have a look at his own possessions, before he went into the home.’
Ben held up a finger. ‘But Kathleen must have already been dead by then. This treasury solicitor business can take a year before they let you have the stuff.’
Christopher blinked and shook his head. ‘She must have been, I suppose. We didn’t mention her then, as far as I can remember. At least … I think I’d just forgotten all about her at that point. I can’t remember exactly when she died. Too much has happened in the meantime.’ He gave Simmy another look of appeal.
‘Hasn’t it just,’ she replied, in full co-operation.
‘It’s easily answered,’ said Ben blithely, eyes on his clever phone. ‘Except, I can’t find it.’ He sat back and concentrated on the little screen. ‘Let me think. There’s a place where they usually advertise for long-lost relatives … Yes! The London Gazette. Here it is. Deceased estates. Hey! This is great! It’s all here. Mrs Kathleen Leeson. Born 1926. It’s got her address and the details for the solicitor who’s taken it all on. They call it an administrator – look. She worked as a midwife. Did you know that? Date of death is 26th June last year.’ His excitement at the speed and ease of his discovery affected them all.
‘That’s amazing,’ said Christopher, admiringly. ‘I wonder whether anybody ever replied.’
‘You’ll get to hear if they do,’ said Bonnie. ‘Assuming they want to sell the house contents at your auction.’
‘Big assumption.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ll be tainted now by being involved in the murder.’
‘I went with you to look at Philip’s things,’ said Simmy, after a short silence. ‘Remember? He did seem very frail. He never mentioned being in charge of clearing a friend’s house. And surely he would have, because that was what we were talking about. What was to happen to his things, I mean. That seems a bit strange.’
Christopher’s face cleared. ‘I’ve got i
t now. It was last summer that Kathleen died. Both my parents were still alive. Philip’s actually some distant cousin by marriage, and my mother asked me to help him with her possessions. But I never actually went to the house. I don’t remember what stopped me.’ He looked remorseful.
‘He can’t have been too upset with you, if he got back to you about his own things,’ Simmy reassured him.
‘When was that?’ asked Ben.
‘In the spring sometime. Simmy and I went for a look. But he didn’t have anything worth more than a few quid, so I wasn’t much use to him.’
‘But did he already know Jonathan, from last year?’ Bonnie asked. ‘Didn’t the police want to know about all this?’
‘I didn’t say anything to them about Philip. Why would I?’
‘He’s part of the story,’ said Bonnie severely.
Ben had produced a medium-sized hard-backed notebook from the rucksack he always carried. It had been his schoolbag throughout his time in the sixth form and was now almost part of his body. Simmy could think of only a handful of occasions when she’d seen him without it. ‘Good thinking,’ he applauded his girlfriend.
‘He’s not, though,’ insisted Christopher. ‘I’ve no idea when he first met Jon. All I did was make one phone call last summer, when I think I gave Philip Jon’s name and number as a better person to help him than I could be. That’s why I can barely remember it. It didn’t come to anything, anyway, because of the lack of a will. For the Lord’s sake, this is going in circles, the same as it did in Penrith. For all I know Jon wasn’t even killed here. Whoever did it might have just dumped him in the house after he was dead.’
‘What difference would that make?’ Ben demanded. ‘It still makes the house and its contents part of the picture. Had he started clearing it, do you know? Did he bring a van? And why was it you who found him?’
Christopher again appealed silently to Simmy for rescue. She grimaced sympathetically, and said, ‘You’d better answer him, if you want this to stop. How were your sausages?’ However traumatised he might be, Christopher had polished off his food at high speed.