by Rebecca Tope
Despite herself, Simmy was growing increasingly excited at the prospect of a new experience. Never inclined to watch the legions of television programmes about antiques and salerooms, she nonetheless carried a notion of their romance. Unrecognised treasures, fierce competition to acquire an item, the sheer beauty of well-made old objects, whether teapots or candlesticks – it all carried a special appeal.
‘All right, then,’ she said.
Ben came into the shop at three o’clock, much more hesitantly than usual. One glance at his face sent Simmy into a tizzy. He was pale, drawn and tousled. ‘Gosh, you look terrible,’ she cried, without thinking.
Bonnie flew to his side, and lifted one of his arms over her shoulders, huddling against him. If anything, the result was to make him look even worse. ‘I didn’t sleep,’ he said, with a lopsided smile.
‘Don’t give me that,’ said Simmy. ‘Since when has one wakeful night made a person your age look like death? Something else is going on.’
‘Nothing you don’t know about. Just stuff going round my head. My mum’s not helping. And it was grim yesterday. Taught me more than I needed to know about how the police work.’
‘Moxo was here this morning,’ said Bonnie. ‘He thinks you and Simmy should go to Keswick tomorrow.’
‘What? No, I can’t. I’ve got so much work.’ His head seemed to hang like a great weight on his neck, pulling his shoulders into a downward curve. ‘It’s all a bit much.’
‘It’s the auction. Christopher Henderson’s place. Moxon wants us to do some spying for him.’
‘I can’t,’ he insisted.
Simmy gave him a long look, calculating her anxiety levels. She was not his mother. He wasn’t going to die. But there had been damage done to him a few months earlier, as much psychological as physical, and nobody was quite sure how vulnerable he had become as a result. This was combined with a heavy burden of schoolwork, and a sudden growth spurt, so that his former energy was sadly depleted, and had been for a while. ‘I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go on my own,’ she said.
‘Brave? Why do you have to be brave?’
She felt foolish and pathetic, having to explain. But new situations frightened her, and always had. The prospect of walking into a crowded auction room where she understood nothing of the procedures, and was very unlikely to see a familiar face other than Christopher’s, was too daunting for comfort. ‘I won’t know what to do,’ she said weakly.
‘Neither would I. Why does that matter? Are you planning to buy something?’
‘Not at all. So – what? Do I just stand there doing nothing? Won’t that seem conspicuous?’
‘Not as much as if you started waving at your friend the auctioneer,’ chuckled Bonnie. ‘Then you might accidentally spend a thousand quid on a garden statue or something.’
‘I’m not that stupid.’
‘Good. Why not take your mum? I bet she’d think it was a big treat. Has she ever been to an auction?’
‘Not as far as I know. She did say she wants some new china, and an auction would be a good place to get it. But she could never get away at such short notice. She’ll be much too busy. Everybody’s too busy, aren’t they? Even me. It makes you wonder who’s got time to go and bid for antiques on a Saturday morning, in the first place.’
‘Well, you’ve got to go,’ Bonnie said flatly. ‘You told Moxo you would.’
‘I didn’t say for definite. He wouldn’t expect me to go on my own.’ Without it ever having been openly stated, she knew that the detective knew where she stood on the matter of unfamiliar places and people.
‘Anyway – I want to tell you about yesterday,’ Ben burst out. At the same time, he slid down onto the only seat in the shop. His usual practice was to half perch on a corner of the table that served as the shop counter. ‘I haven’t told either of you what happened.’
Bonnie leant against him like a loving dog. ‘Go on, then,’ she prompted.
‘I thought I knew all about how the police work. I thought I could just give them some pointers and timings and so forth, and it would be like the other times. Ambleside, Coniston – where they listened to me. Or I thought they did,’ he finished miserably.
‘They did, Ben. That dossier you constructed over the Ambleside business was really useful. Moxon wasn’t just pretending to humour you.’
‘Right. But I didn’t see anything then, did I? It was all theoretical.’
‘You saw more than enough in Windermere,’ she reminded him.
‘That’s the thing,’ he nodded, as if they’d finally got to a central point. ‘My mum says it must be PTSD, going right back to that. She wants me to go and see a psych person about it.’
Bonnie squeezed herself even closer, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. He patted her hand like an old man.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t tell us about yesterday, then,’ said Simmy. ‘Not if it’s going to dredge things up for you, and upset you.’
He shook his head. ‘Too late to worry about that. The problem was – it was some woman who interviewed me, and not Moxon. She’s another DI, brought in from Yorkshire or somewhere, for a few months. I don’t really understand why. They hadn’t briefed her at all about who I was, so she jumped right in, wanting to know exactly what I was doing in the bungalow, and whether I knew Mr Henderson, and how I could explain my fingerprints being all over the room, and why I’d waited so long before calling for help. Then she wouldn’t let me explain about Bonnie being outside, and me needing to keep her away. As it was, she saw more than I wanted her to. But the smell, and the look of him. She didn’t get that. Thank goodness.’
Simmy smiled at this old-fashioned male protectiveness, while thinking that Bonnie would very likely have been much more able to deal with it than Ben had turned out to be. Simmy knew from experience that women coped with the realities of death – and birth – rather better than men did.
Bonnie kept stroking him, almost purring. No shrill feminist objections from her to being protected by her young man. Wise girl, thought Simmy. There were plenty of other ways to skin the same cat. Meanwhile, Ben clearly needed all the reassurance and affirmation he could get. ‘It’s a huge thing,’ she said, ‘when somebody dies. Even if they’re ninety-nine and just pass away in their sleep – it still leaves a gap. When a person’s murdered, it’s much worse.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen dead people before.’
‘It’s not just seeing them, is it? It’s understanding what’s happened. And last time, you were distracted away from all that. You probably just pushed it all down and never went back to it.’ She found herself remembering elements from her own experience. ‘So now that there’s been another death, all your buried feelings about the earlier ones have come flooding out, and you’re having to cope with a double or triple dose. The point seems to be that you can’t dodge it for ever. I think a counsellor of some sort would be really helpful. All that would happen is that you could sort out your own reactions and get them under control.’
The boy grimaced, and shook his head. ‘I get the theory of all that, but what does it mean on a practical level? Am I going to be useless as a forensic archaeologist, after all? What if I can’t face the reality of the business? I mean – in Bones they have to deal with the most revolting gory stuff, and they never even flinch. What if I don’t manage it?’
Ben’s ambitions had been conceived through a combination of obsessive watching of the American TV series, an encounter with sudden death on his seventeenth birthday, and a genius-level showing in academic studies, which virtually ensured that he could walk into any course of study he chose. Until this moment, the stark physical reality of murder had somehow failed to impinge on him.
‘They’ll expect that. It’s bound to be a big part of the training.’
‘I feel a total mess,’ he said.
‘Join the club,’ said Bonnie. ‘It doesn’t last, though. You’ve just had too much going on all at once – like Simmy says. College work, all
that business in Hawkshead, your mum having a meltdown and now this with the Henderson man. It would flatten an elephant.’ She gave Simmy a straight look. ‘And then you wanting him to go to Keswick – there’s no way that’ll happen. Why don’t you take your father?’ she finished, on a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘I bet he’d love it.’
Simmy’s first reaction was strong resistance, before she caught herself up. What was she thinking, to dismiss Russell as no longer a feasible partner in any new venture? Had his recent lapse into anxiety and self-absorption been so great that it justified such a view? ‘You know – that might be a really good idea,’ she said. ‘We’ve been tiptoeing round him, coming close to writing him off as a demented old fool, when he’s actually not nearly as bad as we think.’
‘You’ve probably been making him worse,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’ve been thinking that for a while now.’
‘How?’ The automatic defensive response was half-hearted. Simmy already had a suspicion she knew the answer to her own question.
‘You said it yourself. Not letting him carry on as usual. He’s not really old, is he? He might live another twenty years. Do you want him to be a burden on your mum and you for all that time?’
‘My mother would kill him, long before that.’ It was only partly a joke. Angie’s patience quotient was famously low at the best of times.
‘So take him with you tomorrow. Don’t open the shop at all – it won’t matter much this time of year. Be there at the start, and just watch how it all works. It’ll be fun, Simmy. And you’ll see Christopher again, won’t you.’
‘And there was me thinking I would be the decisive one today,’ said Simmy with a rueful little laugh.
Chapter Fourteen
Simmy was on her parents’ doorstep at five-forty, exactly simultaneously with a family of four expecting bed and breakfast services. The coincidence was unfortunate in one sense, because her mother would be engaged with the routine settling in and explanations that happened numerous times each week. On the other hand, her father might be available for a quiet conversation without the interventions that would inevitably come from Angie. On a sudden whim, Simmy had tucked the inherited flower book under her arm before leaving the shop, and was carrying it now. It might help her to provide a reason for going to Christopher’s auction house in the first place, although the logic remained very shaky. Moxon’s hunches about family valuables felt decidedly tenuous, and a long way from anything Simmy had ever known about the Hendersons.
Russell was not in his usual place beside the Rayburn. Neither was his dog. Before she could ask Angie where they were, the whole party of new arrivals were being escorted upstairs, and Simmy had no chance of gaining any attention. So she went in search of her father, starting with the family sitting room, access to which was forbidden to the guests. It was empty, so she tried the dining room, where four tables were already laid for breakfast. While there were only three rooms used for visitors, Angie had made a point of offering a separate table for children, especially after their parents had spent a whole night in the same room with them. The family room was at the furthest end of the house, since midnight arguments and fruitless attempts at discipline could be disturbing for other guests.
The dining room was as empty as the sitting room had been. That left only the big downstairs room where people could play games, read, talk or otherwise escape. Either that or the bedroom that her parents shared upstairs must harbour Simmy’s father, and probably his dog.
He was doing a jigsaw in one corner of the room. Bertie, the Lakeland terrier, was lying across his feet. ‘Hey, Dad,’ said Simmy. ‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘Well, now you have,’ he said with a smile. ‘You can help me with this, if you like.’
She looked over his shoulder at the picture. It was a chaotic depiction of a domestic scene in which all the characters were cats. It was about three-quarters done. ‘How long has it taken you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I didn’t start it. There was a man here for a few days with his boy. The weather kept them in rather a lot, so they embarked on this foolish thing. They left without finishing it, and I couldn’t bring myself to put it all away until I’d done it. It’s much harder than it looks.’
‘It looks pretty hard.’
He laughed. ‘You never were very fond of jigsaws, were you?’
‘Not really. But I can see how they might appeal on a chilly winter evening. Except it’s not very warm in here, is it?’
‘It’s all right. Did you want to talk to me? It’ll be supper time soon. People have arrived. Why in the world they choose to come here in November passes my understanding. They’ll have to go out again and find something to eat. But it’s dry tomorrow, lucky for them.’
‘I did have something to suggest to you, actually. How would you fancy an expedition to Keswick tomorrow?’
‘Expedition? On camel back, or snowshoes?’
She laughed. ‘Neither. In my car. I’ve been asked to go to an auction, and I’m too shy to do it by myself.’
‘Auction? What sort? Flowers? Old farm implements? A country house sale?’ His eyes sparkled. ‘That would be interesting. I might find some fancy pots for the garden. Or a piece of old trellis. I decided I’d put up a trellis in the spring.’
‘It’s mostly antiques, I think.’
‘Who asked you to go?’
‘Christopher Henderson. He’s the auctioneer – or one of them. I said it sounded interesting, and he told me to come and see for myself. I’d like to, wouldn’t you? Mum says you need new plates and bowls and things – we could bid if there’s anything we like.’
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. What about your shop?’
She pulled a face. ‘I thought I’d give myself a weekend off. Awful of me, I know, but nobody’s wanting flowers at this time of year, so I’m risking it.’
‘Good for you. Wish we’d done the same. Fancy coming here on holiday in November,’ he repeated, with a shake of his head. ‘Some people are off their chumps, if you ask me.’
‘Off their chumps? Did you make that up?’
‘I don’t think so.’ he frowned. ‘Or did I? It sounds odd, now you mention it.’ He gave it some thought, before giving up the attempt. ‘But listen. I was thinking about words, just now. Have you ever thought about “nounce” and what it means?’
‘I can safely say I have not. Why?’
‘Because there are so many prefixes to it. Pronounce. Denounce. Announce. Renounce. I think there might even be enounce, although I’m not sure about that. They all mean something a bit different. Didn’t any of your teachers draw your attention to that at school?’
‘Not that I remember, Dad. It’s a while ago now.’
‘Hm.’
‘But Ben would agree with you that it’s really interesting. Must be Latin, presumably.’
‘Must be,’ Russell nodded. He greatly approved of Ben’s Latin studies, while regretting his own deficiency in the subject. Already, when Russell was at school in the 1950s, Latin had ceased to be a universally taught subject. He had done it for a year or two, remembering almost nothing apart from ‘amo, amas, amat’.
‘So what about the auction?’
‘Auction? Oh, yes.’ He slotted another jigsaw piece into place, causing Simmy to fear that he had lost the thread of the conversation. But then he looked up at her. ‘I don’t mind if I do. I’ve been cooped up indoors all week, and I could fancy a little outing. If your mother doesn’t object, that is.’
‘She won’t. She’ll be glad to get you out of the way.’
A flicker of pain crossed his face, and she instantly regretted her words. Where six months earlier, Russell would have laughingly agreed with her, now such a comment was liable to fuel his worries about security and nameless dangers. One peculiar effect of his condition was that he mistrusted sarcasm and irony. He had lost the ability to distinguish them from literal meaning, which often led to unhappy misunderstandings.
‘Joke, Dad,’ said Simmy qu
ickly. ‘She doesn’t really think you’re in her way. She’ll just be glad for you to have a change of scene. She’d come herself, I expect, if she didn’t have so much to do here.’
‘Kit and Frances are both dead,’ Russell said, with startling abruptness. ‘Our friends from the day you were born. I find that a terrible thing to absorb. Quite terrible. Someone killed Kit, in his own home. And you have been trying to keep it from me. You and your mother, of course.’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘I know why – of course I do. I might do the same thing myself in your place. But it makes me doubt you. Do you see that? It makes me think there are secrets everywhere, and nothing is what it seems. It makes my worries even larger.’
‘It’s hard to know what to do for the best. You’ve changed so much over the past months.’ She choked on her own guilt and concern. ‘It’s a natural instinct not to want to upset you any more.’
He pulled himself to his feet, and stood face-to-face with her. ‘P’simmon Straw, listen to me. I am fully aware of how I’ve changed. I don’t like it any more than you do. I’m even prepared to accept that something chemical in my brain is responsible for some of it. But there are hard facts of the matter, as well. A number of people close to you – and me, now – have been deliberately killed. I am aware that there have been sound reasons for this, which have no direct connection to our family, and that there is very little reason to think we will ever become murder victims ourselves. But that would have been Kit’s belief as well. That’s where all efforts at reassurance fall apart, do you see? Nobody can give me a guarantee, and without that, I can’t seem to get around my so-called neurosis. But hiding things from me is definitely not the right approach.’ He reached for her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. ‘Do you see?’
‘Of course I do, Dad. And I know it’s been my doing, even if unintentionally. I moved up here, disturbed your peace and dragged you into a lot of horrible happenings. It’s the flowers. I never dreamt how flowers can be at the heart of intense feelings, nasty as well as nice. But that’s how it is. They’re so engrained in the big moments, that’s the trouble.’ She paused, wondering whether he was hearing her. Each one was urgently trying to convey something of major importance to the other. Simmy could feel her father’s hands shaking on her shoulders, and knew that she was quivering in turn. It was a rare moment of shared revelation, digging down to the lower levels, where hardly anybody ever went.