The Grasmere Grudge

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Better than floristry?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Christopher reached over to her and laid a hand on her leg. ‘Don’t go overboard, pet. There’ve always been plenty of dodgy characters wheeler-dealing in the shadows. I’ve told you that. They’re not the least bit romantic. But they’re not murderers.’

  ‘Salt of the earth. Rough diamonds – that sort of thing,’ grinned Moxon. ‘Most of them are known to us, one way or another. Quite often they’re on our side, believe it or not.’

  Simmy clasped her fiancé’s hand. ‘Well, I still think the whole thing’s romantic. Don’t spoil my illusions.’

  Moxon glanced at his watch – an old-fashioned article that perfectly fitted his character. ‘I should go and leave you in peace. I know I haven’t brought anything like good news, and it could get worse. You’ll need to keep yourself available for further questioning, I’m afraid. There is still a strong feeling that you’re holding something back,’ he told Christopher. ‘And I’m not entirely sure I’m sufficiently confident that you’re not to correct them.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I can think of, that could possibly have any bearing on the subject. I’ve answered every question put to me. We’ll just have to trust that justice will be done, that’s all,’ said Christopher. ‘I dare say it’s my own fault. I should have realised it was stupid to go meeting Jon as I did.’ He looked from one face to another. ‘That’s why I can’t give a sensible explanation, you see. There really isn’t one. We’d all been getting excited about what there might be in that house, and what would come to us for auction. And we were all a bit worried about losing out.’

  ‘We still don’t know who the long-lost heir is,’ said Simmy. ‘Do we?’

  ‘I can answer that, as of two days ago,’ said Moxon, consulting his notebook. ‘It’s a Miss Jemima Hapgood. She lives in County Cork. Now, listen to this. Her grandfather, born in 1876, was the brother of Mrs Leeson’s grandmother, born in 1865. So, she’s a third cousin. There’s a researcher somewhere paid to figure out these things. The report that came back said there appeared to be no other blood relatives now alive. What about that?’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Seventy-nine. She made a statement to the effect that she simply wishes all the property to be disposed of in whatever way is usual, and the proceeds despatched to her in due course. Washes her hands of it, in other words.’

  ‘So she’s not the killer,’ said Simmy.

  ‘I think we can safely say she is not.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘We could go to the pub for a couple of beers,’ Christopher suggested, as they contemplated the evening ahead of them. ‘Otherwise we’ll drive each other mad.’

  ‘Will we? Are we that useless at being a couple?’

  ‘We won’t be, when this is all sorted out. But now we’re jangled and scared, and don’t know where we are with each other.’

  ‘How will it be better at the pub? People might be there who know about the murder and make the connection with us. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing!’

  ‘Unlikely. Who knows me in Troutbeck?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to go out again. It’s raining, look. And I’ve hardly been here all week. I just want to slump in front of the telly. We could watch Antiques Roadshow.’

  She had hoped to make him laugh. Several months ago, he had broken it to her that everybody in the antiques business loathed the programme with a vengeance. ‘The last thing we want is for Joe Public to recognise a piece of Rosenthal at a car boot sale, or an eighteenth-century Turkish rug in a junk shop,’ he had explained. ‘And it gives them an inflated idea of whatever old rubbish they own is worth. It’s taken a lot of the fun out of the business, according to Oliver. He can remember a time when nobody knew anything.’

  And now there were programmes about antiques on TV every day of the week, and everyone in the land could spot a piece of Moorcroft at a hundred paces – though Rosenthal was still pleasingly obscure. As was Jacobean stumpwork, she reminded herself.

  ‘Must we?’ he whined. ‘When are you going to get Netflix, so we can access practically any film we fancy?’

  ‘We’ll have it in our new house,’ she promised. ‘First thing we do, okay?’

  He got up and roamed restlessly around the room. It was not large enough for any serious pacing, so he began to fiddle with her few books, and then the ornaments on her mantelpiece. She watched him helplessly. When a knock came on the front door, she was startled at how relieved she felt.

  Before she could fully open the door, Moxon had pushed in. ‘Can you come?’ he panted.

  ‘What? Why? Oh God – is it my father? Has he had another stroke?’

  ‘No, no. Listen – it’s complicated. There’s an incident ongoing in Grasmere, which involves people you know. Your name has been mentioned. There’s a baby …’

  ‘You mean Flo? And Lucy May. But what’s happened? She was supposed to come to meet me in Ambleside earlier on. I meant to phone her, to see if she was all right.’ She put a hand to her cheek. ‘You can’t really want me to go with you now. I hardly know the woman.’

  Christopher was standing right behind her, but she ignored him. Moxon’s demand was still being processed, with no discernible implications penetrating her brain. ‘You don’t have to go,’ said Christopher. ‘Not without a proper explanation.’

  ‘She says she tried to call you.’ Moxon’s air of desperation had subsided slightly. ‘Is it on your voicemail?’

  Simmy located her phone and turned it on. There were three voicemails, to which she listened while still standing in the hall. The first was from her father. ‘Here is your peevish old dad, wondering when he’s likely to see you again,’ he dictated. ‘It seems that being engaged to be married is already taking you away from your fond parents. Perhaps you could call in after work tomorrow? That would be Monday.’ Simmy smiled at the excessive formality, which Russell often employed when leaving phone messages.

  ‘My dad’s okay,’ she reported.

  The second recording was from Ben. ‘Waiting for an update on what Moxo had to say. Why is your phone turned off? I’m leaving you a text as well.’

  The third was, as Moxon had predicted, from Flo, who spoke in a whisper. ‘Oh Simmy – I couldn’t make it after all. Scott came home just as I was leaving. He’s in a vile mood. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him, but no way can I go out. To be honest, it’s a bit scary. I know it’s an awful cheek, but if you could get up here and drop in, that would be brilliant. A visitor would probably calm him down.’

  She stared at the detective. ‘She wants me to go there,’ she said. ‘But that was an hour ago or more.’

  ‘And things have escalated since then. You know they live in a remote cottage at Banerigg, don’t you? No neighbours close enough to hear anything. But there were people walking in the woods, and they heard shouts and screams and called the police. The door’s locked, and Mr Penrose won’t allow his wife to leave the house.’

  ‘But—’ Simmy had a hundred questions. Her reluctance to go out had not abated, and somewhere she felt a lurking suspicion that there was a subtext that she was missing. Something wasn’t right. Police detectives did not scoop up peripheral witnesses and drive them to scenes of violence – did they? Had Scott taken his wife and child hostage? ‘Has he got a gun?’ she asked, with a sudden chill.

  ‘Not that we know of. It’s not like that. Everything’s very low key at the moment.’

  Simmy’s visions of loud hailers, police vehicles strewn across the little lane, summer visitors gawping from a safe distance – all receded. ‘So …?’ She still didn’t understand. ‘Why me? I’ve never even met the husband – unless he was the man I saw at the charity shop, which I think he probably was. All I did was take some flowers to the baby.’ This final wail of protest was one she had made before, on other occasions.

  Christopher, still behind her, with a hand on her shoulder, gave a snort. ‘Seems as if that’
s enough,’ he muttered.

  Then Moxon’s phone summoned him and he automatically took a step away to answer it. He had remained just inside the open front door, rain providing a blurry curtain behind him. ‘Yes? … Are you sure? … Well, that’s a relief. Thanks for letting me know. Keep me in the loop, will you? Thanks again.’ He killed the call and met Simmy’s enquiring gaze. ‘It’s all over. You can relax. Mrs Penrose has left the house with her baby, saying she intends to go down to Bristol to stay with a relative. Her husband has been located and has expressed profound regret for creating a disturbance and claims to be under great stress at work, exacerbated by sleepless nights at home, thanks to the baby. In other words, he’s backed off, and she’s had the sense to get away from him while she can.’

  ‘She’s gone to Great-Granny Sarah,’ nodded Simmy. ‘That’s a long drive at this time of night.’

  Moxon shrugged. Christopher let go of her shoulder. Apparently both men felt the whole thing was adequately resolved. ‘Sorry to alarm you,’ said the detective. ‘I’ll be off again, then.’

  Simmy lost no time in closing the door behind him. Then she almost ran into the sitting room and started keying her phone. ‘Hey, Flo, it’s me, Simmy. I hope you’ll hear this before you get too far down the motorway. I’ve just had the police here. Listen – don’t go to Bristol tonight. Come here instead. Troutbeck. Phone me when you get this.’ Then she texted a briefer version of the same message. She looked at Christopher. ‘She can’t drive all that way, can she? She won’t have packed properly. Great-Granny Sarah won’t have any baby equipment. Neither have I, I know, but Flo can pop back home for essentials from here.’ She frowned at all the implications running through her head. ‘Flo’s got a twisted ankle. She must be absolutely desperate. And the police have lost all interest in her, just because that bloody man said he was sorry.’

  ‘They never like a domestic,’ said Christopher feebly. ‘So, we’re to have company, then, are we?’

  ‘If I can get hold her in time. I have a feeling she’ll see my text before long. She’ll have to stop to feed the baby, or just catch her breath. Poor woman! Maybe I’ll try again, so she realises somebody’s trying to speak to her.’ She thumbed the phone again and left a shorter message to the same effect as the first.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this? What if you get lumbered with her indefinitely? If the husband’s calmed down, and she’s got some relative to go to, why not leave it at that?’

  ‘Because the relative is too far away, and that won’t solve anything. It must be sheer desperation that’s sent her rushing down there.’

  ‘But, Sim, you don’t know her. She might be a total leech. A real pain in the backside.’

  ‘She’s neither of those things, and she’s got a very small baby. It would be better to go to a refuge than drive all the way to Bristol.’

  ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘I should be pleased that I’m marrying someone with such a good heart. I am pleased. Bring them here if you want to. I can change nappies if need be.’

  ‘Anybody can change nappies, and I wasn’t actually asking your permission.’ She spoke softly but did not mince her words. It was something that had to be said. There were moments when Simmy Brown did her mother proud. Angie Straw would have welcomed Flo and Lucy May in without a second thought.

  ‘You’re right. And I didn’t mean to sound dictatorial. Perish the thought. I still wish we could go for a beer, all the same. I’m even willing to ask your permission.’

  ‘I can’t, Chris. I need to phone Ben and my parents. And I need to be here if Flo calls me. I don’t want to talk about all this stuff in a pub, where people can hear. I wouldn’t enjoy it at all. I’m sorry. It’s all going to be over in a few days, and then we can get back to normal.’

  ‘Whatever that might be.’ He had sunk into a sudden gloom. ‘Why do I feel so bad about everything, while you seem to be thriving on it?’

  ‘I know how you feel – honestly. That’s how I’ve been for most of these investigations, with Ben and Bonnie driving me mad. But somehow this one’s different. The business with Flo is nothing to do with the murder, anyway. It feels like a sort of respite, as well as something I might actually be able to help with. Right from the first moment I saw her, she’s seemed like someone needing to be rescued. She more or less said as much when she phoned me on Friday night.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to rescue me,’ he sulked.

  ‘From the gallows – right. I will if I can, but you’ve got to believe that Ben’s a far better bet when it comes to that. He’s going to have one of his brainwaves any time now. I can almost feel it. His mind works like a computer – you feed in all the information and out pops the answer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, sometimes. Actually, it’s never quite as straightforward as that. And last time, I think it was more me than him, in the end. Because he was so busy with his revision for the exams.’

  ‘And the time before that – when it was my father – my father – who was killed. Didn’t you wade right in and tackle your suspect, like a total lunatic?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that at all. I knew nothing was going to happen to me.’

  ‘Too dumb to live – isn’t that what they say about you?’

  ‘And haven’t I proved them wrong – whoever they are? It’s just a phrase people use, anyway. It doesn’t mean anything, especially when I’m definitely not dumb.’

  ‘So, nobody thinks I might be rescuing you by marrying you? That’s a shame. I’d like to be a rescuer.’

  ‘You are. In a whole lot of ways.’ She gave him a squeeze, somewhat awkwardly, as they sat side by side on her sofa. ‘This must be real life, as most people know it. Interruptions, panics, misunderstandings. And look at us – we’re coping brilliantly.’

  ‘You might be. I don’t feel as if I’m coping at all. All I can think about is a pint of Sally Birkett’s in the pub garden as the sun goes down. I know I’m whining, but that really would make me happy.’

  ‘Chris, it’s eight o’clock. Quarter past, actually. And it’s raining, you idiot.’

  ‘So what? Isn’t this the perfect time? And we can sit in the bar just as happily. I don’t see what’s stopping us. Your phone calls can wait an hour, surely? I bet Ben will be on the doorstep of the shop first thing tomorrow, anyway. You can update him then. And your parents aren’t expecting you to phone tonight, are they? You’re just making excuses.’ He lapsed into another sulk.

  ‘And what about Flo?’

  ‘It’s half an hour at least since you left those messages. She’ll be well out of Cumbria by now.’

  ‘All this fuss about a pint of beer,’ she tutted. ‘Anyone would think you were addicted to the stuff.’

  ‘It’s a craving, not an addiction. Humour me, please.’

  She knew she’d lost. His little-boy act was barely masking a more adult anxiety and stress. He wanted to be among people, with laughter and good cheer all around him. The beer was incidental. He wanted to avoid any more intense emotional discussions between the two of them, not because he was afraid of what might be said that could damage their relationship, but because he felt it had all been said already. She could feel his weariness with it all, his desire for normality. ‘All right, then,’ she said.

  It was much as expected. The rain had turned to a half-hearted drizzle, which had not deterred a committed number of drinkers. The three bars were all occupied, but there was space for more. The Sally Birkett’s Ale was readily available, and there were packets of Christopher’s favourite pork scratchings. At his insistence, Simmy had left her phone behind, with the promise that they would only be out for an hour.

  ‘But what if Flo calls?’ she protested.

  ‘She’ll leave a message. There’s no more you can do for her tonight.’

  The image of the distraught new mother driving blindly southwards in the darkening evening remained with her. The roads would be full of weekenders going home. The baby would be tightl
y strapped into a car seat, probably wailing with hunger or discomfort. ‘I wish I could believe she’ll be all right,’ she said wretchedly. ‘How could the police just let her go like that?’

  ‘How could they stop her? She’s probably been defending her husband and saying there’s really no problem. Isn’t that what wives usually do?’

  They were still talking about Flo as they arrived at the pub. Christopher had given up trying to reassure Simmy and attempted one or two unhelpful suggestions as to what might be done – but not until the following day. ‘She’ll have stopped at a Premier Inn or somewhere,’ he insisted.

  ‘It sounds like such a mess,’ Simmy said, more than once.

  But finally, they moved onto happier themes. ‘I’ll go and talk to an estate agent tomorrow, in the lunch hour,’ said Simmy. ‘See if I can get the house valued, and then put on the market. It seems silly to rent it out. Indecisive. Having my cake and eating it.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘You’re sure, aren’t you? It’ll be a wrench, selling it so soon. You might lose out financially, as well. And we still haven’t decided where we want to set up home together.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I want to get on with it quickly. We’re just treading water like this. I feel so lucky that we got together again – it’s our destiny. It has been for nearly forty years, if you listen to my mother. I’m so sorry that your parents aren’t here to see it, though. They’ll be horribly missed at the wedding.’

  ‘We’re not having an actual wedding, are we?’

  ‘What do you want to call it? Ceremony? What other words are there for it?’

  ‘Your father could probably think of something. What I meant was – can we keep it really simple? Just your parents and my sisters and brothers? And a meal in a pub somewhere afterwards?’

  ‘I’d want Ben and Bonnie,’ she warned him. ‘And probably Melanie.’