by Rebecca Tope
‘I’m not suggesting that the murder had anything whatsoever to do with religion,’ Ben said, just as they drew up outside his house. ‘Just to be clear.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘No – I think it must have been about something from the past. Something that got raised again when Mrs H died. And I think Moxo thinks that as well.’
‘Okay,’ said Simmy impatiently. ‘Well, it was nice to see you. Good luck with the essay, or whatever it is.’
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, with an air of disappointment. ‘See you in a bit.’
She drove back onto the main road, knowing that there was no way she could avoid calling in on her parents. Her father was liable to notice her car passing the gate, even on a dark November evening, and insist on knowing where she’d been and why she hadn’t stopped. Only one window in the whole house overlooked the road, but it would be just her luck that he’d be looking out of it at the exact moment she drove by.
So she found a space a few yards away and went to spend an hour with Angie and Russell Straw, who did, perhaps, know more than they realised about the reason Kit Henderson had died as he did.
Chapter Twenty
Russell had not seen the car. He was slow to come to the door and open it, making much of the double lock that he persistently applied, despite hopes that his neurosis was abating. ‘Daughter,’ he said with a weak smile. ‘Are we expecting you?’
‘No, no. I had to take Ben home, and thought I’d drop in for a minute.’
‘Your mother’s having a hard time with a duvet,’ he said. ‘A man vomited on it.’
‘The actual duvet? Not just the cover?’
‘Seemingly so. Soaked right in, she says. A minor calamity, in the great scheme of things, but enough to upset a number of plans.’
‘Duvets have to be dry-cleaned. Has she got a spare one? Was it a double bed?’ Simmy could not avoid an awareness that this could indeed be a major inconvenience, if not a calamity.
Russell shrugged and led the way back into the kitchen. ‘Simmy’s here,’ he shouted up the stairs, as he passed.
Angie came onto the landing above them and said, ‘Send her up. I could do with some help.’
Simmy joined her mother, who was flushed and flustered. Her sleeves had been pushed up her arms and her hair was in disarray. ‘Bloody people,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Demanding a whole new set of bedding at this time of night.’
‘Sounds awful. Have you got another double duvet?’
‘Of course not. Normally I’d just swop them around, but by some fluke, all the rooms are full tonight, so I can’t. I wouldn’t mind if it had been a child in one of the little beds, but this is the biggest double in the house. It’s a nightmare.’
‘Where are the people?’
‘They’ve gone out for a bit, but they’ll be back any second. The man’s too ill to want to eat anything. They ought to have gone home, but they live in Kent, so it’s a long drive. You don’t expect to have to be a nurse in this job, but that’s what I feel like. Who’s to say he won’t do the same thing again tonight, and then where will I be?’
‘What are you going to do with the bed?’
‘Give them sheets and blankets, instead. I never did like duvets, great unwieldy things. But I’ve got to get it into a bag for the cleaners, and wash the cover. The pillow’s covered in it as well. I never saw so much sick. Why couldn’t the bloody idiot make it to the lavatory? It’s only about six feet away from the bed, after all.’
Simmy took one side and they quickly had a whole new bed made up with pristine sheets and a handsome woollen blanket that she remembered from her childhood. It had covered her parents’ bed for years. ‘You’ve still got this,’ she said, fingering the honeycomb weave. ‘It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it.’
‘It is, and I’ll sue that man if he throws up on it.’
Downstairs again, Simmy was offered the customary leftovers from the day’s meals. ‘We had a really nice chicken cobbler,’ said Russell. ‘I ate more than usual. Not much of it left.’
Angie scraped the last morsels into a bowl and put it in the Rayburn. ‘Give it ten minutes,’ she said. ‘You can have bread with it.’
‘I was right about “enounce”,’ said Russell.
‘Pardon?’
‘You remember. I was going through all the “nounce” words. Pronounce. Renounce. Announce. Now I’ve discovered “enounce” is a real word. It’s not much used, and it doesn’t have a very interesting meaning, but it does exist. Funny how happy that makes me,’ he finished ruminatively.
Simmy gave him a fond look, thinking how she could never quite match his expectations at moments like this. A better daughter would have found ‘enounce’ for him, like a cat bringing a dead mouse to a beloved master.
‘I’ve had quite a day,’ she said. ‘Non-stop visitors.’ Only then did she pause to ask herself whether she was ready to disclose the escalation of her relationship with Christopher. It felt much too early to do so, and surely she was too old to share such matters with her parents. On the other hand, if and when they found out, they might feel wounded by her silence. Better to let it emerge casually, she felt, if that could be managed.
‘Oh?’ said Angie tiredly.
‘Moxon brought Ben over. Then George Henderson showed up out of the blue. Everybody’s fixated on that book Fran left me. Moxon seems to think it holds a clue to what happened to Kit. At least, Ben thinks he does. I’m not convinced. It’s much too far-fetched, surely.’ She cast an anxious glance at her father, unsure as to the wisdom of raising the subject of murder again. His unstable state of mind was a perpetual impediment to straight talking; something still so new that she kept forgetting.
‘That’s daft,’ said Angie shortly.
‘I know. But Mum … was there ever anything a bit … um … Jimmy Savile-ish about Kit? He didn’t go for young girls or anything, did he? There are weird hints going around that might be suggesting something like that. I mean – he never laid a finger on me. And now Christopher says his father warned him off me, when we were sixteen. But there’s definitely something fishy. You must know about it, if so. Has Moxon asked you? Or anyone else?’ She thought of Helen Harkness, and the continuing uncertainty about how she and Kit had really been connected.
‘Young girls?’ Angie shook her head slowly. ‘Lord, no. There was more to him than that. It’s only pathetic inadequates who go in for all that sort of thing. Kit wasn’t pathetic in the least. And he had far too much sense. He liked women. Although …’
‘What?’
‘Well, some of them were quite young. The older he got, the younger they were. But not really young. Well over the age of consent.’
‘And you knew?’
‘Only because Fran told me. He was never much bothered about covering his tracks. I know you never could see it, but he did have a sparkle to him, you know. Charisma. They couldn’t resist him, once he’d got his eye on them.’
‘You make it sound as if there were dozens of them.’
Angie laughed. ‘I’m only aware of three. And that’s over a period of at least twenty years. Bad, but not desperately so.’
‘You knew who they were?’
‘Vaguely. It was Fran’s problem, not mine. All I ever did was listen to her going on and on about it. Sometimes I told her she should take a stand, but she never did. Said she couldn’t face starting again on her own. To be honest, I don’t think she lost much by it. She thought he was making a fool of himself, so by association she got tainted, but nothing too ghastly.’ Angie heaved a sigh and glanced at her own husband. ‘You never know how it’s going to end up, after all.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Simmy. ‘I just thought Fran was getting bored with him.’
A hollow laugh came from the chair by the Rayburn where Russell sat. ‘Comes to us all,’ he said, with a spiteful look at his wife.
Simmy did what she could to change the subject, but everything was connected to the Henders
ons in one way or another. ‘Did he tell you all about the auction yesterday?’ she tried. ‘Wasn’t he clever to spot that lovely dish?’
‘It’s nice, but the fact is, it’s much too big to be of any use,’ said Angie. ‘We can display it somewhere instead.’
‘Christopher turned out well,’ said Russell. ‘I always did like the lad, but I never had much hope that he’d make a success of anything. Now he’s got all those people running around after him, and learning a whole lot about the business too, I suppose.’
‘Lots of shady characters, the way I hear it,’ said Angie. ‘And Christopher’s only an employee, isn’t he? He doesn’t own the place.’ She went to the Rayburn and extracted the bowl of reheated cobbler. Simmy took it and ate it with relish. ‘Lovely!’ she approved, before going back to the topic of conversation. ‘The auction is actually rather glamorous, in a funny way,’ she murmured. ‘Exciting, as well.’ She had a thought. ‘And we can call him “Chris” now. It seems to suit him better. “Christopher” is such a mouthful.’
‘Too late. After nearly forty years, I can’t think of him as a Chris. I always imagine a woman, anyway. Probably because of Chris in The Archers, or Chris Evert.’
‘Plenty of male Chrises,’ Russell said. ‘All those men on the telly. Half of them seem to be called Chris. Moyles. Evans. Tarrant …’
Simmy closed her eyes and wished she’d refrained from saying anything. For herself, she was more than happy to shorten the name. She said it silently to herself, with a little smile. ‘He’s the second in command, and the boss is close to retirement. He could easily be the top man before long. You should see him in action, Mum. It’s hypnotic. You can’t stop watching him.’
‘While people are swindling each other behind his back,’ said Angie. ‘I’d like to have seen it for myself, I must admit. Even though it all sounds a bit sleazy to me, if I’m honest. Far better to go to a car boot sale or a flea market, if you want something.’
‘I expect you’re right – but there’s a special romance to an auction. I can’t explain it. The auctioneer adds an extra dimension to the whole process, I suppose.’
‘He’s really just an agent, and you know how I hate agents,’ said Angie sourly.
‘That boy, Ben,’ said Russell, apparently running through various young men in his mind, wondering about their welfare. ‘Is he all right? Didn’t he intercept a killer? Or was that longer ago, in Hawkshead? Or what? I feel I ought to be worrying about him, for some reason.’
‘He’s fine, Dad. And we can’t go on calling him a boy. He’s eighteen now, and very grown up.’
‘Surely not entirely a man, though? Youth might be the word.’ Russell mused for a moment. ‘Or young man. What do people say these days?’
‘It’s “man” officially,’ said Angie. ‘That’s what they say on the news. And then, when they add that he’s only eighteen, I always think – that’s not a man, you fool. But it’s not really a boy, either,’ she concluded.
‘Another gap in the English vocabulary,’ sighed Russell, with some satisfaction. ‘I bet Shakespeare coined something that we’ve forgotten.’
‘I’ll ask Ben himself,’ said Simmy.
The modest meal was finished and Simmy could see that Angie was dropping on her feet. Guests were liable to demand an early breakfast on a Monday, all fresh and eager for their explorations, even in November. ‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the chat.’
‘Good to see you,’ said Russell with a slightly unfocused smile.
‘June!’ said Angie suddenly. ‘That was one of Kit’s women – or so Fran believed. She never had hard evidence, as far as I could see. But the name kept cropping up, mainly because we both thought it so awful.’
Here we go again with the business of names, thought Simmy. It had taken her many years to grasp that it was a central passion for her mother. Nobody escaped without some comment, generally unfavourable, about the appellation chosen for them by their parents. But something snagged her attention. ‘There was someone called June at Fran’s funeral,’ she remembered. ‘Probably the same person.’
Angie frowned. ‘Was there? How strange. Why would she go? I wonder. What was she like? Which one was she?’
‘I can’t remember what she said. I barely talked to her. She was in her forties. Pretty. Lots of make-up. Most likely she worked with Kit at the carpet place, and was just a friend.’
‘Not Fran’s friend,’ snapped Angie. ‘Probably gone to gloat. I don’t remember seeing anyone like that. Probably kept out of my way, knowing what I know about her. The same as that Cheryl did.’
‘Nasty, nasty,’ said Russell.
Simmy laughed uneasily and made her departure.
It was only half past eight when she got home. The house was full of phantom men, the primary one being Christopher Henderson. Not just the bed, but the bath – both full of haunting images that made her smile and then wince slightly at the unaccustomed abandon they had seen.
When the promised phone call came just before nine, she settled down on the sofa, hoping for a warming end to the day, rounding it off nicely. After all, it had begun with cuddles; it should end with something similar.
But Christopher was all business. ‘We had that meeting after all,’ he started. ‘All of us except for Eddie. George told us he saw you this afternoon.’
‘Yes. So how did it go?’
‘Oh – all right. Nobody could quite understand what it was for. We all kept interrupting each other, and Hannah wants me to phone the coroner’s officer and pressure him for the release of Dad’s body, so we can arrange the funeral. I can do that, I suppose. She issued us all with practical jobs, even Eddie in his absence. I also have to handle the sale of the bungalow, with appropriate consultation, of course.’
‘It should sell quite easily. People like bungalows.’
‘We’ll get a bit of cash, eventually, though not enough to get excited about.’
‘Chris …’ she began. ‘Last night …’
She heard a kind of splutter. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Sorry. I’m prattling, aren’t I? I hate doing that sort of stuff on the phone. It feels a bit … deviant. I mean …’
‘Yes, I know. But I did want to hear your voice, and know things are all right, and it wasn’t all completely stupid.’
‘Things are going to be all right,’ he said. ‘There is nothing in our way, but our own hang-ups. And I don’t think either of us is too badly afflicted in that respect.’
‘Your father’s murder is in the way,’ she said, loud and clear. ‘We can’t give ourselves any proper time or space until that’s all settled.’
‘Oh?’ There was a lengthy silence. ‘Is that because you’re worried I might be the murderer? Because I can’t see any other reasons for it being an obstacle.’
‘No! Not that. But whoever did it is likely to be somebody close to you. It’ll be like a poisoned thorn in my thumb – and yours. We’ll never be able to ignore it.’
‘Sounds a bit melodramatic.’
‘Well, isn’t murder melodramatic? If that’s not, I don’t know what is.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But I won’t let you go, Sim. I should have held onto you twenty years ago. I’m not making the same mistake again. Just you put that in your knicker drawer and keep it safe.’
She giggled. ‘All right then. We’d better go before it starts to get deviant.’
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he promised.
Chapter Twenty-One
She slept badly, and then had to be dragged into consciousness by the alarm clock, which she had sensibly set. The grey mornings could deceive a person into thinking it was still night at eight o’clock, and send you back to sleep for another hour.
The solitariness of her breakfast routine felt wrong. Despite being an only child, she did not regard the single state as natural. Over the past two years she had trained herself to accept it, but it had never suited her. The empty little house wait
ing at the end of the day was forlorn at best. It maintained a hollow place that should have another person in it. A place that was going to waste, more and more as time went by.
And yet she had laughed off all Melanie’s efforts to find her a mate. When Ninian Tripp had crossed her path, she had treated him with a tentative lukewarm affection. He had made it clear that he had no intention of joining her to live in Troutbeck, and there was no space for her in his tiny Brant Fell cottage. Ninian was a free spirit, incapable of making and keeping a promise, obscurely damaged by past events. Nobody could seriously consider him as a viable life partner.
And now a man had, in a single night, awakened all the old yearnings. It was pathetic, she told herself. Nothing could happen as quickly as that. The dangerous delusion that they knew each other because of their early years together had to be given full consideration. There was a vast stretch of intervening experience that had made them both quite different people. She was even starting to think of him by a different name: not Christopher any more, but Chris. A stranger, then, who might well turn out to be altogether impossible to trust.
Outside, Troutbeck was quiet as always. Wansfell rose to the west, shielding the village from Atlantic weather, with a range of mirroring pikes on the other side of the valley. Many a time had Simmy marvelled at the wisdom of those early settlers who created a village in the most perfect spot. Invisible from most points, comfortably nestled between the dramatic hills and fells, it dreamt its way through the centuries with nothing to disturb it. The motley population comprised self-sufficient natives, the latest of countless generations of workers on the land, starry-eyed escapees from more hectic realms and a variety of others. There was space for them all, as well as those who bought property and then only spent four weeks of the year actually in it. Other houses saw an endless succession of holidaymakers, perhaps forty different sets in a single year. The pub and the shop saw them come and go, and scarcely bothered to take note of who was who, tired of asking the same questions of them, no longer caring what the answers might be.