by Rebecca Tope
‘Well, that’s what you get when someone promises you a rose garden,’ he smiled. ‘You know – like that lovely song. But rose gardens have lots of thorns and stinging things as well. That’s the way life goes, I guess.’
‘So are you coming to the auction with me? I haven’t been entirely honest about the reasons for going,’ she admitted. ‘There’s a bit more to it than what I said just now.’
‘Come on, then. Let’s go into the kitchen and start all over again.’
Which they did, and Simmy carefully filled in the gaps in what Russell knew so far about Kit’s death. It turned out to be very little fresh information, as they quickly realised. ‘And there was me getting so paranoid,’ he laughed. ‘Thinking I’d been excluded from all sorts of secrets. And you hardly know anything.’ He rubbed his brow. ‘Although I don’t see how going to an auction is even remotely relevant.’
‘Nor do I,’ she said. ‘I could easily get a bit paranoid myself, wondering about it. Who am I meant to be spying on, and who for?’
‘For whom,’ he corrected her mildly. ‘I’m tempted to think it’s a conspiracy to give you a weekend off, and nothing to do with the police investigations. After all – when did you last have a free Saturday?’
‘I left Melanie in charge a few times, back in the spring. But not at all since Bonnie started. It didn’t even occur to me.’ She frowned. ‘But Moxon wouldn’t know that. And I can’t imagine who he would be conspiring with.’
‘Christopher, presumably.’
‘But Christopher has to be under suspicion for the murder. The whole family must be, surely?’
‘Not if he’s got a proper alibi. Where does he say he was on Tuesday afternoon?’
‘I have no idea. I rely on Ben to find out that sort of thing, if the question arises. But Ben’s taking it all rather hard. He looks awful.’
‘Poor boy,’ said Russell absently. ‘I wonder why it’s worse this time?’
‘He says he hadn’t got so close to a dead body before and it was more upsetting than he realised.’
Her father appeared to find this puzzling. ‘That surprises me,’ he said. ‘Bodies are generally a lot less upsetting in reality than people expect them to be. And the lad’s seen them before.’
‘I know. But there’s definitely something the matter with him.’
‘Didn’t someone say his mother knew Kit and Fran? Where did I hear that?’
‘Mum, I expect. Although Helen didn’t go to Fran’s funeral. I think it was ages ago, and never much of a friendship.’
‘Hm,’ said Russell, so much like the father that Simmy had always known that she almost threw her arms round him in relief.
‘What does that mean?’
‘If Ben’s in a state, it might have more to do with things at home, and not so much what he saw at the Hendersons’.’
She thought about it for a minute. ‘Helen’s certainly worried about him being hurt, after that business in Hawkshead. She’s trying to stop him getting involved again – which is hopeless, of course. He was interviewed by the police yesterday – quite a heavy business, I gather. Bonnie was scared that they suspected that Ben was the killer.’ She smiled. ‘Can you imagine that? On the face of it, there was apparently some evidence that threw suspicion onto him. Silly, as it turned out.’
‘I always liked Christopher, you know.’ The abrupt change of subject threw her. Was Russell sliding back into the addle-headed state he’d often been in recently? ‘There was always something fearless about him that I admired.’
‘I know. He was very good company.’
‘He did you a lot of good. You were a timid little thing in those early years.’
‘I still am, Dad. That’s why I need you to go with me to the auction. I’m far too wimpy to go by myself.’
‘Can we really buy something? Do they have good china? We need new serving dishes for the breakfasts so we can change the system we use now. We should put the bacon and sausages out on the sideboard, so people can take what they want. It’s less wasteful that way.’
‘Is it? Aren’t you just as likely to do too much, and have it left over?’
‘Possibly. But if it hasn’t been on someone’s plate it can be warmed up again for the next day. Tricks of the trade,’ he grinned, tapping the side of his nose.
‘But it won’t work for eggs.’
‘True. The thing is, people have a habit of leaving meat, more than anything else. I don’t understand why. I remember my mother always telling us to eat the meat, even if we left other things. I could never abandon a sausage halfway through.’
‘I still don’t quite follow the logic of the serving dishes, but they probably have lots of china,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be more interesting if we try to bid for something.’
‘How does it work? I wonder. I really have no idea at all.’
‘Nor me. I expect someone will explain it to us. They’ll be happy to have new buyers, after all.’
Angie Straw found them sitting close together at the kitchen table, like conspirators. ‘What’s all this?’ she demanded.
‘We’re going out tomorrow morning. We might be some time,’ said Russell.
‘I see,’ said his wife. ‘And what happened to those potatoes I asked you to peel? There won’t be any supper for us tonight at this rate.’
Chapter Fifteen
Simmy collected her father at eight-thirty the next morning, callously leaving Angie with most of the breakfast work. All the guests had been served, so the worst was over. Angie was clearly unsure about how to react. Pleased to have Russell out of her way, but sorry to be missing the fun, was roughly how it went. ‘Have a nice time,’ she said. ‘Don’t be too late back. There’s that American couple arriving at five. You know how you like chatting to Americans.’
‘I do,’ said Russell. ‘They’re such fun to tease.’
Teasing had been in short supply for a while, thought Simmy. Perhaps it had all been a temporary aberration, and her father would return to his old self, after all.
The plan had been to take the drive slowly, savouring the numerous beauty spots and landmarks along the way. Simmy would encourage her father to expatiate on all the many snippets of history he had acquired since living in Cumbria.
It worked better than she had dared to hope. Even as they followed the one-way system through Ambleside, he was noting how full Stock Ghyll was, and making a resolution to go and look at the waterfall before winter set in. ‘It’s sure to be spectacular,’ he said. Then, as they passed through Rydal, he waved a hand to the left, where the land rose mistily. ‘That’s Loughrigg,’ he informed her. ‘And Elterwater’s over there. Poor little lake – nobody ever remembers its existence.’
‘Same as Esthwaite,’ said Simmy, with a nervous laugh. Bad things had happened not long ago on the edge of Esthwaite Water.
‘Not to mention Wastwater, Ennerdale, Haweswater and Bassenthwaite,’ he listed. ‘People are very unadventurous, you know. They think of Derwentwater, Windermere and Coniston, and leave all the others out.’
‘I suppose they all have their champions. They just haven’t established the same levels of fame. I must admit I’ve never seen Haweswater or Bassenthwaite.’
‘You should be ashamed,’ he said kindly. ‘Although I blame myself. I ought to have forced you to come on an excursion with me. Several excursions, in fact.’
‘We’ll do it next spring. First chance we get,’ she promised him.
‘And we’ll be passing Thirlmere in a minute. Perhaps we could stop for a bit and see how it’s behaving.’
‘That’s not it, is it?’ She ducked her chin at a stretch of water to their left.
‘No, silly. That’s Rydalmere, as they used to call it. Another lovely little lake – or mere, as I should be calling them. You’d better not look while you’re driving, but it’s quite delightful. Very small, and rather an odd shape.’
Traffic was irritatingly heavy, and proceeding too fast for Simmy to be able to
crawl past all the sights as Russell pointed them out. She knew nobody else who could name almost every peak and valley, often with a snippet of history to go with it. ‘Poetry country,’ he murmured. ‘You can see why, can’t you?’
‘So much water,’ she noted. ‘There’ll be floods again if it goes on raining.’ In fact, they had chosen a singularly dry day for their outing. The clouds had thinned after weeks of drizzle, but the light was still far from bright.
‘Nothing we haven’t all seen before,’ he said cheerfully, ignoring the repeated influxes of water in Cockermouth, Keswick and Carlisle which had caused considerable distress and loss. ‘In the olden days, the farmers were forever losing vital crops because of the weather. I suppose they might be still – but nobody worries about them any more.’
‘So that must be Thirlmere,’ Simmy said, five minutes later.
‘No, you numbskull. That’s Grasmere. How could you not know that?’
‘I do, really. I thought we were further on, that’s all.’
‘Fibber,’ he said. ‘You’ve got no idea. Those woods we’ve just passed are called White Moss Common. They’re lovely for walking from one mere to the other. I can’t think why we haven’t done it together. Your mother and I came here about a dozen times in our first year.’
‘We’ve all been hopelessly busy.’
‘Well, more fools us. And there’s the way into Dove Cottage, look.’
She realised how blinkered she generally was when driving around the region. Admittedly, she seldom had to deliver flowers any further north than Ambleside, but there had been a few times when she’d been sent to Rydal, and even Grasmere once or twice. The profusion of small lakes, filling every hollow on every side, was undeniably confusing, but she had not even taken the trouble to give them a long look. Given that they were still slightly early for the Keswick auction, she would make a point of stopping beside Thirlmere as Russell had requested, and let him savour it as long as he liked.
‘Young Ben’s doing a project on Wordsworth, isn’t he?’
‘He was. I don’t know if he’s kept it going. It was all to do with Hawkshead and Ann Tyson. I think it lapsed after everything that happened.’
‘He should come up here. The great man lived in any number of different properties in and around Grasmere. He’s buried here, of course.’
The village of Grasmere was similar to Hawkshead to the extent that it existed almost exclusively for the delectation of tourists. The main road ran close by in a similar fashion, but traffic was not as discouraged here as it was in Hawkshead. And Grasmere’s road was very much busier than the little meandering example further south. The A591 was a serious highway, with all the noise and danger and modern bustle that went with it.
‘It’s getting more and more mountainous,’ she observed. ‘Just look at them!’
‘Helm Crag,’ he nodded. ‘And Silver Howe. Not sure what the others are. Don’t the woods look wonderful!’ The trees were still hanging onto the last of their autumn leaves, giving a mottled colour scheme of browns and greys, at the foot of the great fells. ‘Soon be bare branches and dead bracken on all sides.’
And then, at last, the water on their left really was Thirlmere. ‘And that’s Helvellyn himself,’ Russell pointed out, on the other side of the road. ‘You can walk to the top from here.’
Simmy pulled off the road and turned off the engine. ‘Which is way up in the clouds,’ she observed. ‘Let’s sit here for a bit. Tell me some history.’
‘Well, you know, I hope, that this is more of a reservoir than a natural lake. There’s a dam just up there, at the northern end. It was constructed to supply the city of Manchester with water, in the early 1880s. There was passionate opposition to it, mainly because the little original lake had beautiful steep cliffs running down into it, and they’ve been submerged now.’
‘I did not know that,’ she confessed. ‘I had no idea.’
The water rippled placidly not far below the point where they were parked. No other vehicles were in the small off-road area, and they could sit admiring the crags on the western side of the mere, with the faintest of reflections in the ripples. The peace was palpable, despite traffic passing at their backs. Simmy could see a dozen places where a person might hide away from the world, even building a tiny shelter for themselves. Overhanging branches on the edge of woods, crumbling stone walls covered in moss, rocky outcrops – they could all offer sanctuary from the wicked world.
‘It’s so different from Windermere and Bowness,’ she sighed. ‘Don’t you wish you lived out here instead?’
‘Oh no.’ He was decisive. ‘I’d hate having to drive everywhere, for a start. Forty years ago, I might have tried it, but not now. This is no land for old men, as the saying goes.’
‘Just sheep, then?’
‘Even they get taken down to softer levels in the worst of the winter.’
They covered the last five or six miles without much additional comment, beyond the identification of Bassenthwaite in the distance like a sheet of lead. ‘So many of them,’ Simmy sighed, knowing how unoriginal she was being. ‘And most of us who live here just take them all for granted.’
‘There’s nothing intrinsically special about a lake,’ said Russell. ‘The geology is far from mysterious. A wet climate, combined with exceptionally uneven ground, forms collections of water as a matter of course. Rivers feed them, and rocky foundations prevent them draining away as they would do in chalk land. All significance has been applied by humankind, and its confounded imagination.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ said Simmy. ‘You absolutely love every inch of it.’
They found the auction house with only a little difficulty. It stood close to a housing estate, with scant provision for cars. Circling the cluttered parking area in vain, they were forced to go into a residential road and leave the car there.
‘Bad planning,’ Russell remarked.
‘Victims of their own success, probably,’ said Simmy. ‘All those television programmes about antiques have got everybody doing it. Come on – there probably won’t be anywhere to sit, either, at this rate. People obviously get here really early.’
Inside the main entrance was an office with people clustered around it. Simmy and Russell watched them, trying to grasp the process that was under way. It was quarter to ten. ‘We have to buy a catalogue,’ Simmy concluded. ‘See – everybody’s got one.’
‘Shouldn’t we have come to a preview, to see what’s for sale? Once they start bidding, we won’t be able to wander round looking at things.’
‘I expect we should, ideally. But we didn’t, so we’ll just have to catch up.’ She peered through a set of double doors into a large room containing rows of chairs with people on them, many settled comfortably, looking as if they’d been there for hours. Shelves and stacks of objects were densely arranged around all four walls. There were pictures hanging up, big pieces of furniture projecting into the room, rugs and carpets draped over a rail fixed halfway up one wall, and a few cabinets she assumed must contain the most valuable items. On a wall above a table was a large screen; below it was a bank of laptop computers and telephones.
‘Blimey!’ she said. ‘It all looks ever so efficient.’
‘Do you need a buyer’s number?’ asked the woman in the office, when they got to the front of the queue.
‘Oh yes,’ said Russell eagerly.
‘Have you bought here before?’
‘First time.’
‘We’ll need you to complete this form, then. The sale starts in ten minutes,’ she warned. ‘You’ll be lucky to get seats.’
They were given a boldly printed number on a card, and directed into the big saleroom. There were no empty chairs, but people were resting against the furniture around the walls, so Simmy and Russell gingerly perched on the arm of a big leather chesterfield, half expecting to be told to move.
‘What a load of riff-raff,’ whispered Russell. ‘Look at them!’
It was true th
at there were numerous men with sharp eyes and two-day stubble. One had a docile toddler perched on his shoulders. There were women only marginally better groomed. Long grey hair was common, framing lean, wrinkled faces. But there were also some sleekly prosperous individuals scattered around, amongst the majority of quite normal-looking people.
The screen was showing the lots, changing every few seconds – a compelling parade of figures, collectables, toys, ornaments, and all sorts of other objects. Simmy was watching it in delight, when it went blank and a crackle came over a public address system.
And there was Christopher, somehow unobserved until that moment. He was sitting on a raised rostrum, flanked by two women at a lower level, each with a laptop. Another woman hovered close by. With little fanfare, Christopher launched into an introductory spiel about commission rates, procedures for paying, estimated length of the auction and warning about parking in restricted areas. He seemed relaxed, comfortable in his situation. He was also unmistakably charismatic. Perhaps it was the way everything was set up – all eyes on him, including the team of subservient women, his easy manner and ready smile. And should he be smiling like that, less than a week after the death of his father, Simmy wondered. Wasn’t it rather heartless? She watched him with complete absorption, the rest of the room a vague sea of faces and antiques that mattered nothing to her.
‘Hello! There’s that man from Fran’s funeral,’ said Russell into her ear. Unlike his daughter, he had been scanning the room with interest, curious to know who came to such sales, and impatient for the real action to get started.