by Rebecca Tope
‘I have no natural curiosity,’ she thought to herself with a sigh. ‘Just as my mother said.’ The Hendersons could have provided a more observant child with a good deal of information about families, siblings, and the way they toughened each other up in preparation for the real world. Instead, Simmy had used Christopher as a shield from the turbulence of it all, begging him to take her off to distant rock pools, where Hannah’s screams could not be heard.
The logical progression of these musings brought her to the fact of Kit Henderson’s murder. It followed almost unsurprisingly from the memories of arguments and hair-pulling and wildly exaggerated threats. ‘I am really going to kill you,’ George had said repeatedly to his sister. And if Hannah had dismissed the words with a laugh, Simmy had more than once believed him. It all came back to her now, the vivid flashes of real terror she had felt at times, on the chilly Welsh beaches, where the adults mostly left them to entertain themselves.
By the time she had mentally re-enacted much of those summers, she had finished her porridge, as well as two thick slices of toast and marmalade, and was gathering bag and coat and car key. The drive down to Windermere was shrouded in November mist, the lake ahead of her entirely invisible. The twists in the road had engrained themselves on the part of her mind that controlled the car, but they could still bring surprises. A large vehicle coming the other way always made her brake excessively, so that objects flew off the seats behind and beside her. The unyielding stone walls on either side meant reversing to a wider section, or creeping past each other, with acute concern for wing mirrors. There were often sheep in the road, or dogs, and once even a collection of young pigs were cheerfully rooting in the verge, ignoring all traffic.
She arrived at the shop in an opaque and ill-defined mood. Kit Henderson had been violently killed by somebody who probably knew him and therefore must have passionately hated him. Christopher, his son, who might easily be high on the police list of suspects, had spent the night in her house. Kit’s daughters had suddenly become something rather different from Simmy’s lifelong assumptions. Adoption was not a subject Simmy had thought about in any depth. None of her friends or cousins had been adopted – as far as she knew. The word itself had a broken rhythm to it that reflected the dislocation of the child’s life. Something heavy and mechanical gathered around it. Behind that, there was the mystery of who the original parents might have been, and what must have gone so cataclysmically wrong for them to part with their baby. Did the mother not suffer at least as desperately as Simmy herself had done, with her arms so agonisingly empty? In the case of Lynn and Hannah, biological sisters, both removed from their mother, had this been doubly distressing?
Violence, distress, rage, mystery – everything that Simmy avoided as much as she could. All she wanted was her flowers and her sweet young friends and a day or two of sunshine. Instead, she was scheduled to spend another evening with Christopher Henderson and his sadness. Why on earth had she agreed to his invitation? What on earth were they going to talk about? Their joint past felt like a dangerous topic to broach: what if they remembered it all quite differently from each other?
She and Bonnie went through the usual opening-up routine without saying much. A few pots were taken outside, the computer activated and consulted, a token swipe with a duster over the fronts of shelves and they were ready to face the day.
‘Corinne says your mum must be in pieces over what happened to her friend’s husband,’ said Bonnie. ‘So soon after the funeral and everything.’
‘I’d have thought she’d be more worried about its effect on you,’ said Simmy, feeling oddly defensive. ‘Surely my mother doesn’t rank very highly in the list of people who’ll be upset?’
‘I’m just telling you what Corinne said. She usually knows about that sort of thing.’
Simmy had a qualified respect for the woman who had steered Bonnie through a very rocky adolescence, despite having few obviously respectable characteristics. Purple hair, facial piercings and scant regard for the law had initially made Simmy very wary. But Corinne was a stalwart member of Windermere’s community, as it turned out, effortlessly befriending DI Moxon, Ninian Tripp the potter and Simmy Brown’s own mother. ‘There’s not a malicious bone in her body,’ Ninian had said at one point. ‘A lot of very unhappy children have been given exactly the sort of relaxed affection they needed,’ Moxon had told Simmy. ‘The woman should get an OBE.’
And she probably would, one of these days, thought Simmy. But that didn’t entitle her to pass comment on Angie Straw’s emotional state, all the same. Where Corinne took life easily, retiring without apparent regret from the role of foster mother and turning to folk singing instead, Angie was showing increasing signs of exhausted frustration at the way her life was going. However hard she tried not to draw comparisons, Simmy could not deny that her mother made things worse for herself by being needlessly judgemental and critical of almost everyone she met. Only her B&B customers escaped censure, because in that department, Angie had only the lowest of expectations. She knew that people on holiday were demanding and messy, unpunctual and unrealistic. She was fully prepared for the worst, and when it didn’t happen, she would become positively cheerful.
‘She didn’t really like Kit much,’ Simmy told Bonnie in the shop. ‘I can’t imagine she’s going to miss him.’
‘That’s not it, though, is it? It’s the awful thing of wondering if she knows who killed him. I mean – it could have been one of the family. Don’t you think she might be thinking that, and getting upset about it? Them having always been such close friends, I mean.’
Bonnie’s wide blue gaze was impossible to take badly. Simmy smiled in spite of herself. ‘I suppose it’s possible she’s thinking that sort of thing. But it can’t have been one of the Hendersons. Why would any of them kill their father? He wasn’t perfect, but none of them had any reason to do that to him. How often does anybody kill their own father, anyway? It just doesn’t happen.’
‘It’s a taboo,’ Bonnie nodded sagely. ‘The worst sort of murder. In just about every society in the world.’
‘Right.’ Simmy gave this a few moments’ thought. ‘But that’s not likely to make much of an impression on the police, is it? They’ll just focus on the evidence, wherever it leads them.’
‘Yeah. Ben says it’s got to have something to do with that letter the man was holding.’
‘He’s just guessing.’ Again Simmy felt a need to protect herself. After all, the page in question partly concerned her and the book of flower pictures. ‘Now, let’s see what we need to order for the weekend.’
‘Ben never just guesses,’ said Bonnie calmly sticking to the subject. ‘He uses logic and observation.’
‘So he does. But I wonder sometimes …’
‘What? Wonder what?’
‘How come he always seems to be right there when something ghastly happens. How come you and he were right there, on Tuesday? It seems impossible that it was a coincidence.’
Bonnie treated her to another clear-eyed stare. ‘No, of course it wasn’t a coincidence. That man – Eddie is it? – he knew we’d be there, didn’t he? Maybe he arranged the whole thing. Didn’t that even occur to you?’
The patronising tone would have made her angry, if she wasn’t already so horrified at the idea of Eddie Henderson as a killer.
Chapter Nine
‘That doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense,’ Simmy argued loudly. ‘What reason could he have had to do that? Are you saying he wanted you to see his father being murdered? Or what?’ Her mind seized up, refusing to pursue any of the multitude of implications there might be to Bonnie’s suggestion.
‘I’m only saying he knew we’d be there. He could have told somebody, maybe. Somebody who didn’t want the old man to talk to someone like us.’
‘No – wait. Eddie didn’t know Ben would be there – only you. You offered to go, but you never mentioned Ben, did you? You’ve got the order of events all wrong.’
&nbs
p; Bonnie slumped for a few seconds. ‘You’re right. So this is about me – do you think?’
‘Of course it isn’t, Bonnie. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not remotely connected to the Henderson family, are you? Neither is Ben, come to that.’
‘I’m not, but he is. His mum knew the old man.’
‘That doesn’t count. Unless …’ Simmy flushed at the outrageous thought that had occurred to her despite her efforts to maintain a wall against any wild notions. ‘No, it definitely doesn’t count.’
‘Unless she had a fling with him. Is that what you were going to say?’ Bonnie, too, had gone pink at the very idea. ‘I’m fairly sure she didn’t. And I can hardly ask Ben, can I? Or her.’
‘We’re being silly. Let’s change the subject.’
‘A customer, look.’ Bonnie cocked her head at the door, which opened a second later. ‘A real live customer,’ she added in a whisper.
Simmy looked round with a smile. The newcomer responded with a matching grin. ‘Hiya!’ she chirped. ‘What a lovely shop! I’ve never been in here before.’
It was a woman in her early thirties, wearing a blue fleece jacket and muddy black boots. ‘Don’t you just hate November,’ she went on. ‘I thought I should leave the pushchair outside – it’s so bloody big it’ll knock all your pots over.’
They could see a large three-wheeled contraption on the pavement outside, with a miniature pair of boots like her mother’s kicking against the footrest. ‘That’s Cleo,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll have to be quick, or she’ll have the whole thing over. She’s more like a baby elephant than a human being.’
Bonnie and Simmy both laughed. ‘So what are you looking for?’ asked Simmy.
‘Have you got any roses? I need a whopping big bunch of them, with all the trimmings. Red, ideally, but pink would do.’
‘How many? A dozen?’
‘At least. How many have you got?’
‘Probably three dozen. There’s a delivery due tomorrow morning. I’d have to mix the colours if you wanted as many as that.’
‘I’m tempted, but I’d never carry them, would I? The car’s up by the church. Give me eighteen, nicely wrapped. Is that okay?’
‘No problem,’ said Simmy, wondering what the story was. ‘I’ll be three minutes.’ She disappeared into the back room for ribbon and foliage to add to the flowers.
‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ she heard Bonnie ask.
‘I wish it was. That’d be much easier than what I’ve got to do. No – they’re for my mother-in-law. A peace offering. I have a feeling it’ll take more than this, but at least it’s a start.’
‘What did you do?’ Bonnie’s voice was breathlessly amused.
‘Told her to stop getting ghastly frilly dresses for the kid. Honestly – is that so terrible? But she took it really badly, and screamed at poor Steve, saying I was the most ungrateful creature since … some ancient Roman woman, or something. Said she’d never buy us another thing, and then we’d realise how much she’d done for us. That it was Cleo who’d suffer, and she hoped we’d understand one day how rotten we’d been.’
‘Ancient Roman woman? Who’s that, then? I can’t think of anybody especially ungrateful.’
Simmy came back in time to see the customer’s slack jaw at this unexpected remark. ‘It might have been Medea – is that right? She’ll have got the whole thing back to front, anyway. She’s totally ignorant. Just wanted to intimidate me. I’m as ignorant as she is, to be honest.’
‘Medea was vengeful, not ungrateful,’ said Bonnie. ‘She killed her children, and some versions say she cooked them and fed them to her husband. That’s not actually in the original, but it’s how she’s been known in recent times. She’d caught the husband being unfaithful and was extremely annoyed.’
The customer was both fascinated and horrified. ‘My God! Then I hope Ma-in-law didn’t know that was the story. If she does, that’s telling me how much she really does hate me, isn’t it?’
‘You know – the same thing happened with a cousin of mine. I’ve got lots of cousins,’ Bonnie confided.
‘What? They were cooked and served up to their father?’
All three of them laughed, this time with a hint of hysteria. ‘No,’ Bonnie spluttered. ‘Fell out with the mother-in-law because she kept buying terrible clothes for the kids. I think it happens in a lot of families.’
‘Steve says I should just have quietly put them away and not said anything.’
‘Are these okay?’ asked Simmy, proffering a lavish bouquet of deep-red roses, surrounded by wispy fronds of maidenhair fern. ‘I’m afraid they’re quite expensive.’
‘It’ll be worth any money to smooth things over. We do need her on our side, especially when the next one arrives.’ She patted her abdomen, under the fleece, drawing attention to a large pregnant bump.
She departed, leaving behind an atmosphere of rueful female humour that Simmy realised she seldom experienced. ‘Wasn’t she nice,’ she sighed. ‘I wonder where she lives.’
‘Out on a farm somewhere, to judge by the mud on her boots. The accent wasn’t local. And they’re not short of cash, if she can buy all those roses.’
‘Melanie would probably know them.’ Simmy still missed her original assistant, despite the way Bonnie had made herself so useful. Bonnie was still too much of a child for real intimacy; there had been nothing childlike about Melanie, despite her being only two years older than Bonnie.
‘It makes you think if Kit Henderson had sent flowers to whoever was so upset with him, he might still be alive,’ said Bonnie.
Simmy never wanted to hear remarks like that. The power of flowers was something she felt uneasy about. ‘I don’t think “upset” quite covers it,’ she said. ‘If you want somebody dead, you’re a lot more than upset.’
‘I know. But even so … I still think you can talk a person down if you try.’
‘Not always. But I see your point.’ She looked out into the street, where Cleo and her mother were disappearing in the direction of the church, their progress somewhat crooked, thanks to the difficulty of guiding a buggy holding an armful of roses. ‘I hope it works for that woman, anyway.’
‘Has Moxo seen you yet?’ Bonnie asked in an abrupt change of subject. ‘About your legacy?’
‘Last night,’ Simmy nodded. ‘He didn’t find it very interesting.’ She was about to add the detail of Christopher spending the night in her house, when she swallowed back the words. Bonnie might be a lot less interested in Simmy’s love life than Melanie had been, but she would still read more into it than was there. ‘It can’t possibly have any connection to what happened to Kit.’
‘I still haven’t seen it. Where is it now?’
‘Still in the car. I forgot to take it back into the house.’
‘Why don’t you go and get it? It sounds nice.’
As always, Simmy wilted at the prospect of walking back through the chilly Windermere streets in search of her car. It would take barely ten minutes in total, but once inside the shop, she liked to stay there all day. Face it, she told herself, you’re just a lazy slob. It was surprising that she remained so slim, given how little exercise she took.
‘Go on,’ the girl urged her. ‘It might get nicked if you leave it out there.’
There was very little danger of that, as Bonnie well knew. But it would be better to have it with her. She could show it to Ben when he came, as well as one or two interested customers, perhaps. It could be propped up somewhere, and used as a feature. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘But I’ll need a plastic bag for it. It’s raining, look.’
There was the same fine drizzle there had been for the past few days, on and off. Classic November weather. And no more welcome for that. ‘Nasty,’ Bonnie agreed. ‘But at least it isn’t cold.’
For some reason, this made Simmy laugh. ‘You sound just like my father,’ she realised. ‘And you’re both wrong – it’s a lot colder than it looks. You can tell by the way people are all hun
ched up out there.’
‘What people?’
They both looked out of the big window on a scene that was almost devoid of life. One elderly woman was hurrying along on the opposite pavement, and a middle-aged man was about to meet her, going the other way. ‘I’ve been watching people in the street all morning,’ said Simmy. ‘They’re clemmed, if that’s the right word.’
‘Never heard it before.’
‘Surely you have? It’s North Country, I’m sure. It’s in The Water Babies. I think Mr Grimes says it.’
‘We can ask Ben,’ said Bonnie cheerfully. ‘He’s sure to know. Now go and get that book.’
Making a much bigger production of it than necessary, Simmy eventually did as suggested. The book did look abandoned, there on the back seat amongst an untidy assortment of debris. It was ungrateful of her to leave it like that. Frances Henderson would be sorry to see it treated so dismissively.
When she got back, Bonnie was pale and agitated. ‘What happened?’ demanded Simmy. ‘I was only gone a few minutes.’
‘Ben called. He’s got to go and answer more questions this afternoon. He won’t have time to come in here first. He says I can’t go with him. He sounded … well, scared.’
‘Why?’ It would be an exaggeration to say that the boy was never afraid of anything, but it was certainly rare.
‘You know we were saying it might not have been a coincidence that we were at the Henderson house just as he was being murdered? Well, it sounds as if Moxo’s got the same idea. He went to Ben’s house just now and talked to his mum, wanting to know exactly how well she knew the old man, and why she thought Ben was so eager to visit him, and stuff like that. Then he phoned Ben at college and said he needed to ask him about things all over again.’