The Grasmere Grudge

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Woolley? Is that his surname? Did I know that?’ Her brain had gone into paralysis at these ghastly insinuations, leaving her nothing sensible to say.

  ‘Simmy,’ Bonnie reproached her. ‘You’ve got to focus. What DI Moxon says is obvious, really. Ben and I were just saying last night. It could look quite bad for your Christopher. That’ll be why they kept him so long in Penrith on Monday.’

  ‘But they let him go. They obviously don’t think he did anything.’

  ‘They know where to find him, though. They’ll have told him not to go anywhere outside the area.’

  Simmy eyed Moxon anxiously. ‘Is that what you came here to tell me?’

  ‘Partly. Look – I’m on your side, as far as I can be. I credit you with more sense than to take up with a murderer. You know enough by now to understand that the police have to follow the evidence, especially in the first days of an investigation. And up to now, there’s not a lot of it around. Fingerprints in the house, bits of other stuff for forensics to play with, issues about money and a few dodgy deals. There’s the wife, and the man who’d been making threats.’

  ‘Nick,’ nodded Simmy. ‘He’s got an alibi.’

  ‘Right. D’you know him?’

  She shook her head. ‘But Jonathan was worried about Nick on Sunday. He phoned Chris about it.’

  ‘Worried how?’

  ‘Scared for his own safety, apparently. Chris will have told the Penrith people all about that. You just said it yourself – Nick was making threats.’

  ‘Do you know what they were about?’

  ‘I gather Jonathan reported Nick to the Inland Revenue. Or somebody did, and Nick assumed it was Jonathan. He makes a lot of money from his dealing, according to Chris.’

  Moxon wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘Not as much as Mr Woolley did. He’s had one or two very nice sales lately.’

  ‘The stumpwork,’ Simmy said. ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘Oh, do you? That’s more than we do, then. Tell me – where did he get it in the first place?’

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Sorry. No idea. He wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Must have been stolen,’ said Bonnie, wide-eyed. ‘So, when it got in the news, the rightful owner tracked him down and killed him.’

  Moxon gave her another of his fatherly looks. ‘Hardly,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘I can think of at least five reasons. First, the auction house wouldn’t agree to sell it if there was any suggestion that it was stolen. Secondly, no halfway-sensible thief would sell it so publicly. Thirdly, the rightful owner would surely devote his efforts to getting it back, not killing the person who robbed him—’

  ‘All right,’ the girl interrupted him. ‘I get the point.’

  ‘Maybe he was brutal to somebody’s dog,’ Simmy suggested, more in an effort to calm the scratchy atmosphere than to offer any real contribution. ‘I gather he didn’t like them.’

  It worked. The others both stared at her in bemusement. ‘How do you know that?’ asked Moxon.

  ‘Chris told me last night. I can’t remember how it came up. The woman with the baby, perhaps. Her husband works for a dog charity. I saw one of their shops in Ambleside yesterday.’ She was prattling, still quivering from the impossible idea that the police suspected Christopher of murder. If she could sow suggestions that would lead attention elsewhere, that felt at least slightly positive. ‘It’s not entirely stupid, is it – to think somebody held a grudge against him because he did something awful to their pet?’

  ‘Nobody’s said a word to that effect,’ said Moxon. ‘Not as far as I know, anyway. I haven’t seen the whole file, I must admit.’

  ‘I’ll need to tell Ben about the dog thing,’ said Bonnie, importantly. ‘It’s new information.’

  ‘The thing is,’ said the detective heavily, ‘the Penrith people have a strong impression that Mr Henderson is concealing something. They’re very experienced interviewers up there, and their main man swears there’s some big factor he’s keeping to himself. I came here to ask you to try to persuade him to pass on to us the whole story. It’s in his own interest, even if it involves dropping himself in a bit of trouble in the process. No trouble’s as serious as murder, after all.’

  Simmy swallowed hard. ‘You’re saying that as things stand, he’s looking like a suspect, because he’s keeping something back? If he is, it’ll be to protect somebody else, not himself.’

  ‘Very possibly. I leave that with you. Lots of people hold things back from the police, of course. But when it’s a murder investigation, we can’t let it go. You’ll understand that. But he apparently doesn’t.’

  ‘All right,’ said Simmy faintly.

  Moxon looked at his watch and adopted a less serious expression. ‘You’re quiet for a Friday,’ he observed, glancing round the shop.

  Simmy made a matching effort to regain her composure. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock. It’ll get busier any minute now. I’ve got quite a lot to do, actually. I was away all last week, and I still have a few jobs to catch up with on the computer. Plus, there’s a funeral this afternoon. I’ve got less than an hour to get the flowers for that delivered.’ She glanced at the laptop. ‘And I think I said I’d go to one of the hotels on the Ambleside road to talk about flowers. I’m getting terribly forgetful. Bonnie says I ought to keep a notebook.’

  ‘For work, or life in general?’

  ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you say you’d been away? Where did you go? I thought you’d got a bit of a tan.’ He was looking at her bare forearms, which were a shade or two browner than usual.

  ‘Lanzarote. It’s got the perfect climate, all year round. Although Chris says Tangier is even more perfect. I’m not sure I’d agree with him. The food doesn’t sound my sort of thing, for a start.’

  The detective shook his head. ‘Never been to either, so I can’t comment.’

  ‘Customer,’ said Bonnie perkily, just before the doorbell pinged. ‘Mrs Hyacinth,’ she added in a whisper.

  Simmy rolled her eyes warningly and turned to greet their regular Friday purchaser of scented flowers for the weekend. It had been a while since she actually bought hyacinths, but the name had stuck.

  ‘Better go, then,’ said Moxon. ‘Nice to see you again.’

  Simmy forced a smile that was the palest shadow of the one she’d given him when he first arrived. He made a rueful grimace, clearly quite aware of the change he’d brought about with his words.

  The shop phone rang while Simmy was serving the customer and Bonnie took the call. ‘Newby Bridge?’ she said. ‘No problem. Any particular time?’ She jotted details on a pad. Half-watching her, Simmy hoped the scribble would be legible. For somebody with a flair for design and presentation, the girl’s writing was dreadful.

  Moxon’s departure was discreet and rapid. It was twenty minutes before Simmy and her assistant had a chance to talk about his visit. ‘It was nice to see him,’ said Simmy. ‘At first, anyway. I didn’t like being told they think Chris killed that man.’

  ‘He didn’t say that exactly. He wants you to get Chris to come clean about whatever he’s keeping back. I don’t think you need worry that it’s any worse than that. Remember how scared Ben and I were last year, because it was us who found the body. They never really thought we’d done it, but they’ve got to follow the evidence, like Moxo just said.’

  ‘But they knew you. They don’t know Chris. And when you hear about his life and what’s he’s done, it probably doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bonnie insisted. ‘He’s pretty respectable, really.’

  Simmy wanted to believe her. She assured herself she was being silly. But disobedient thoughts kept popping up to disturb her. Chris’s manner all week had been disconcerting. Of course he hadn’t killed his friend, but it was increasingly clear that he had been deeply affected by the death. That wasn’t surprising. It was a trauma, a great shock, and he woul
d take time to recover from it. His new role as Simmy’s fiancé came second to the horror of finding a strangled man. But there was more than that. Chris was scared. Perhaps also guilty and angry. There were perhaps implications for his business, cans of worms that the police were sure to open. Already there was the accusation of tax dodging. And a hint that the auctioneer might have sold an item whose provenance was suspicious. She could easily envisage the intent questioning and observation that Ben Harkness would indulge in the following day at the auction. Nothing would escape him. And she, Simmy, would be cast as his sidekick. Instead of the sweetly subtle tricks that Bonnie was so good at, there would be tall, awkward Simmy Brown, blundering into conversations and accidentally bidding for priceless Chinese vases.

  The day became busy as predicted, with three new deliveries to make, a trip down to Newby Bridge with the order taken by Bonnie, and a lengthy phone call from a guesthouse close to her parents’ B&B wanting a lavish floral display for a special group due to arrive shortly from Singapore. Quite why this required such excessive preparations never became clear, but Simmy had more sense than to argue.

  Bonnie had accessed the online auction catalogue, and repeatedly read out descriptions of some of the lots, as well as calling Simmy to look at the photographs of them. ‘Such lovely things!’ the girl marvelled. ‘Hundreds of lovely things. But who’s going to buy a “large collection of shells from the South Pacific”? Guide price thirty to fifty quid. I mean – I can understand someone wanting to collect the things for themselves, but who wants someone else’s collection? Where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘My guess would be somebody like the woman from the guesthouse I’ve just been talking to. She’d arrange them in the bathroom, for decoration. But think of the dust,’ Simmy sighed. ‘What a lot of work people give themselves.’

  ‘Mm. And how about this? “Carving in ivory of a tiger attacking a buffalo. Chinese. Possibly eighteenth century.” Are they allowed to sell ivory? Isn’t that just making it more desirable? All those poor elephants.’

  Simmy had only a moderate concern for elephants, and the picture of the carving looked quite appealing. ‘It’s okay if it’s antique, I think.’

  ‘So, people make fake antiques out of newly chopped-off tusks. Obviously. They’ll do anything for money. This one’s worth five hundred pounds!’

  ‘People can be very nasty,’ Simmy sighed in resigned agreement. The truth of this assertion had made itself more and more apparent since she had become a florist, discovering in the process that flowers could be used maliciously, and almost nobody could be trusted.

  ‘So – I forgot to ask – how did it go with Corinne last night? Did you talk about me?’ Despite the bouncy tone, there was a wary look in the girl’s eyes.

  ‘A bit. She wanted to know how secure your job is here.’

  ‘What? Why? You’re not going to fire me, are you?’

  Simmy laughed. ‘I wasn’t planning to, no. Actually, we got onto me and Chris almost from the start. She’s quite wise, isn’t she?’

  ‘Is she? I wouldn’t take too much notice of her advice where men are concerned. She’s made nearly as much of a mess in that department as my mother has.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You should. The difference is, that Corinne always kept her men right away from the kids. We never saw them. She put us first every time.’ She looked out of the window, her eyes unfocused. ‘She must have given up quite a lot for us, when you think about it.’

  ‘I don’t think she regrets it. She’s proud of all her foster kids.’

  ‘Not all – but we weren’t a bad bunch, on the whole. It never occurred to us that she could have had her own children. Most foster parents have some of their own, after all.’

  ‘Does she ever talk about that?’

  ‘Not to me. I suppose it might be that she knew from quite young that there was some reason she’d never manage a baby of her own, and that’s why she went in for fostering. If I ever thought about it, I more or less assumed that had to be the explanation.’

  Simmy said nothing, anxious not to disclose any confidences. Yet again, she was saved by a customer. When that was dealt with, it was almost four o’clock and the working day was winding down.

  ‘Doing anything this evening?’ Bonnie asked idly.

  ‘Nope. When do I ever do anything in the evenings? Although I have been out twice this week. That’s almost a record.’

  ‘Shame to waste the nice weather.’

  ‘I know. Although it’s not that nice, really. Not compared to the Canaries, anyway.’

  ‘At least it’s light.’

  Simmy was reminded of Melanie Todd, her previous assistant, who had tirelessly urged her to socialise. Mel seemed to be physically hurt by the thought of someone spending night after night alone in Troutbeck. When Simmy embarked on a lukewarm relationship with a potter called Ninian, Melanie was disproportionately delighted. But now Simmy had a real live fiancé, and nobody need worry about her any more.

  ‘Well, I’ll be out all day tomorrow, won’t I? And Chris’ll come over on Sunday and we’ll go somewhere.’

  ‘You should buy an engagement ring,’ Bonnie said solemnly. ‘Unless there’s a family heirloom somewhere?’

  This was a new thought. ‘Not that I know of,’ she said absently. ‘And if there was, I suppose his first wife would have got it. Or one of his brothers’ wives.’

  ‘Do they have jewellery at the auction?’

  ‘I think so. But there wouldn’t be anything I liked, or that would fit me.’ The idea of a second-hand ring of unknown origins repelled her slightly. ‘And he’s probably not allowed to keep anything back for himself.’

  ‘They do it all the time,’ said Bonnie with impressive confidence.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Ben and I have been watching that old series, Lovejoy on Netflix. We saw three episodes last night. They’re really good, in a funny way. If you can believe the stories, practically all the things sold at auctions are fakes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that’s very true to life, is it?’

  ‘That’s what Ben’s hoping to find out tomorrow.’

  Simmy inwardly quailed on behalf of Christopher, bombarded with questions about murky background deals and auctioneers creaming off the best things for themselves. Then she remembered that the mysterious Josephine was more likely to bear the brunt of it. She could explain her role to Ben during the drive to Keswick next morning. ‘I’m not at all sure I’m doing the right thing,’ she said. ‘It sounds as if Ben’s going to make a real nuisance of himself.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ breezed Bonnie. ‘Just let him get on with it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday evening turned out to be considerably more eventful than Simmy had anticipated. Staying half an hour late in the shop, trying to prepare for all eventualities next day, she found herself running through the hazy details of the Grasmere murder yet again. Moxon’s unexpected involvement made a significant difference, she discovered – although not altogether in a good way. He had come to tell her that her fiancé was a ‘person of interest’ in the investigation, having guessed that she would not have fully grasped this unsavoury fact. He had meant it kindly, and she would rather hear news like that from him than anybody else, but it was still unpleasant.

  She was also forced to confront the realisation that the antique business was fertile soil for crime. Fraud, tax evasion, theft – and even murder, it seemed – were all part of the picture. This concerned her, particularly after discovering that floristry was also not immune to malice and deception. Was there any sort of business that only saw the lighter, kinder side of human nature? Gardening, surely – despite the storylines in the television series Rosemary and Thyme. Midwifery came to mind. Pain, fear and occasional tragedy were part of it, but never any deliberate aggression or malevolence, that she could imagine. Even her ex-husband’s aberrant behaviour towards one of their midwives was n
ot actually malicious.

  But, she insisted to herself, there was no harm in Christopher. He was a good person, quick to make friends, slow to anger. He was as far from a cold-hearted killer as it was possible to be. Moxon’s words had firmed up Simmy’s determination to ensure that justice prevailed, and the real murderer was caught. And for that, Ben Harkness was likely to come in very useful.

  The phone interrupted her thoughts. It was close to six o’clock, which was an odd time for someone to call the shop. ‘Hello?’ she said, expecting some sort of recording or call centre asking to speak to the manager.

  ‘Oh, hello. You’re still there. I didn’t realise it was so late until just now.’

  ‘Flo? Are you all right?’

  ‘More or less. No worse than usual. It’s the low point of the day, like when you were here on Monday. I found a forum where everybody said babies are their most horrible at six o’clock. Just when their fathers come home and want everything to be peaches and cream. That’s why I was walking the streets on Wednesday. But I’ve turned my ankle this afternoon, stupidly, and can’t walk very far. Just one darn thing after another, as they say.’

  ‘Poor you. When does Scott get home?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. He wasn’t thrilled when we showed up on Wednesday and told me not to do it again.’ Her voice dropped, and Simmy detected something alarming in the tone.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she said indignantly. ‘Leaving you on your own so much.’

  ‘I think I prefer that to having him around, actually. He’s all dark looks and long sighs when he is here. There’s something wrong at work, I think. But he won’t talk about it. Just says it’s not me and I’m doing a great job with the baby.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘Not nearly enough. He’s changed precisely three nappies since she was born and taken her out to the lake once. That amounts to roughly one per cent of the work, by my calculations.’