by Rebecca Tope
‘Even so – with Christmas coming, I very much doubt whether it’ll be before the New Year. And you know it’ll be a burial, do you?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know who’ll be arranging it, for sure. I thought – perhaps you could let me know, when you have the date? I discovered when my mother died that the undertakers tell the florists the date and time. Makes sense, when you think about it.’ He forced another uncertain smile.
‘It’ll be her sister, won’t it?’ said Melanie. Simmy tried in vain to flash her a warning look. It struck her as ill-advised to volunteer any information concerning the murder victim – especially to a man who had been under police investigation as the possible killer.
But it was too late. ‘Sister?’ he said quickly. ‘You mean Penny? But she’s practically bedridden with Parkinson’s. I doubt if she’d be up to it. She’s got plenty of children, of course. They could take some of the responsibility.’
Melanie raised her eyebrows, replying airily, ‘And for all we know, the Clark lady’s got a son or daughter somewhere. Who can say?’
‘She was unmarried and in her late seventies,’ he said. ‘I hardly think that’s very likely.’
‘Well somebody will make the arrangements, I’m sure,’ said Simmy. ‘I suggest you phone me during the first week of January, and see if I’ve heard anything. Of course, it’s quite common these days for funerals not to accept any flowers.’
‘And why do you want to send some anyway?’ Melanie blurted. ‘It sounds as if you barely knew her.’
‘I knew her very well, actually, several years ago.’
‘You were her lodger,’ Simmy remembered. ‘Of course!’
Melanie threw a furious glance at her boss, who grimaced in apology. She must remember later to tell the girl that Mr K himself had revealed this fact. Melanie hated to be left in ignorance. Mr Kitchener nodded vaguely. ‘Well … thank you,’ he mumbled. ‘If you’d just let me know, then?’
‘Yes, all right,’ Simmy agreed.
When he had gone, she and Melanie exchanged looks. ‘Was that a bit weird?’ asked Simmy. ‘He knows the family, so why ask us about the funeral?’
‘I don’t like him,’ said Melanie. ‘He’s creepy.’
‘I feel rather sorry for him, actually. I can’t believe there’s any harm to him. But I do wish people would stop coming here about Nancy Clark.’ She sighed. ‘It really isn’t any of our business. I’m more interested in Mrs Joseph, to be honest. I’m a lot more involved with her – and I like her. I want to help solve her mystery. It might actually have a happy ending, which makes a nice change.’
‘Okay,’ said Melanie, with surprising compliance. ‘Then we should try and find the daughters. The unmarried one should be possible to track down. Where does she live? How old is she?’
Simmy supplied answers to both questions, feeling rather pleased with herself, although the ‘tracking down’ remark worried her. ‘We can’t just follow people about and demand to know their personal details,’ she objected.
‘Obviously,’ scoffed Melanie, ‘but we can ask my gran what she knows about them.’
‘She sounds miraculous,’ Simmy marvelled. ‘How many people does she know?’
‘She can rattle off names, ages, jobs, offspring, place of residence for hundreds. I tried to add them all up, a little while ago, but it was hopeless. Everyone she was at school with or worked with; the entire WI membership; neighbours; all my mum’s friends’ families – and all the rest. People she meets in shops will tell her their life story while they wait at the checkout. And she remembers every detail. It’s what she does – a sort of life work. She’s just madly interested in everybody.’
‘I should meet her sometime.’
‘Oh, you have met her. She’s been in here a few times, for flowers. But she’d never have said who she was. She’s shy like that.’
‘But …’ Simmy was lost for words. Which old lady could it have been, she wondered? Various candidates flitted past her mind’s eye. ‘Well, just tell her to make sure she introduces herself another time.’
‘I can’t make her. She’ll worry that you’ll talk about me, and she wouldn’t like that.’
‘Why on earth not? What does she think I’ll say?’
‘She’d be embarrassed whatever it was.’ Melanie made an impatient gesture. ‘I don’t think I can explain it to you. She’s old-fashioned, that’s all. People around here don’t like to hear praise of their family. It’s like bad luck or boasting.’
Simmy knew when to give up. She had some grasp of Melanie’s family situation – the brightest child of a large brood, accustomed to having to fight for everything she had. The car she shared with an older brother; the clothes she had to hide from a predatory younger sister. Her mother barely functioned and her father, while nominally present, was actually away on building projects a lot of the time. Melanie had stuck at schoolwork to an unprecedented degree, and was now causing wholesale amazement in Todd circles by doggedly attending a course at a college that was so awkward to reach that she sometimes did the journey by bicycle.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Sort of.’ She cast around the shop for a new topic, hoping a customer might come in and divert them. Her gaze fell on the tiers of bright poinsettias near the door and she was reminded of something. ‘Hey! That Ninian chap never came back. He said he was bringing some vases, yesterday. He never showed.’
‘You told him he could, then?’
‘I couldn’t see why not. It sounded quite a nice idea. He was so keen. I wonder what happened to him.’
‘Unreliable,’ said Melanie succinctly.
Before Simmy could defend the man she had instantly liked, the shop doorbell pinged and three women walked in. They comprised a crowd in the narrow space between displays and Melanie automatically retreated towards the back room. ‘Good morning,’ Simmy greeted them, thinking they’d come for funeral flowers. There was that sort of air about them.
‘Are you the proprietor?’ asked the foremost one. She was slim, a faded blonde, wearing a black coat well covered with white hairs. Owner of a moulting dog or cat, Simmy concluded.
‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s about my mother. Mary Joseph.’
A suppressed giggle told Simmy that Melanie was still close by, listening eagerly. ‘Mary – her first name’s Mary?’ Perhaps it was only because of the season that the name seemed so laughable.
‘Yes it is. As if that had any bearing. We’ve come to ask you about those damned flowers.’
‘You must be Davy,’ said Simmy thoughtlessly. ‘Is that right?’
The woman clenched her jaw. ‘She’s been telling you all about us, then, has she? When will she ever learn?’
‘Too late now, Dave.’ A second woman had spoken up, and everyone looked at her. She was more substantial than the first, and darker. Her hair was curly and unkempt. ‘I’m Nicola,’ she explained. ‘And this is Gwen.’ Gwen was tall and smartly dressed, older than the other two. There was a look of intelligence about her, as if she were a legal advisor or impartial observer. She gave a generalised smile in Simmy’s direction.
‘Gwen’s my partner,’ Nicola went on, with a faint suggestion of challenge that told Simmy she meant life partner, rather than business.
‘Anyway,’ continued Davy, ‘we need you to tell us exactly who it was who sent those flowers. They’ve caused untold trouble in the family. Somebody’s making mischief for some reason, and you have a duty to disclose their identity.’
‘I don’t think I do.’ Simmy stood her ground. ‘It strikes me that that would only cause a lot more trouble. The best thing would be just to forget all about it.’
‘Not possible. The genie is out of the bottle. That baby I had adopted has come back to haunt us, after all these years. She died, you know. Can you imagine how that makes me feel?’
Simmy resisted the urge to tell her own tragic story, in direct response to the question. It was, after all, v
ery different. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Neither does it persuade me to break my customer’s confidentiality.’
‘You told my mother it was probably some kind of swindle. Somebody after her money – what there is of it. Or trying to get back at her for something in the past.’
‘If there’s no possibility of a granddaughter, then that’s the only explanation I can think of.’
Davy fell silent. Gwen stepped forward, a hand on Nicola’s shoulder. ‘How did this person know it was Mary’s birthday? How did they know her address? Why would they single her out? What possible reason could there be?’ She stared intently into Simmy’s face, as if willing the answers to fall from her lips.
‘What about your father? Mr Joseph? It occurred to us that it might be about him – a child he had without realising.’
‘You accuse my father of adultery,’ said Davy softly.
Simmy spread her hands in defeat. ‘It makes sense as a theory.’
‘Except he was the most dearly devoted husband any woman could ever wish for. And any suggestion like that could only upset my mother even more deeply than she is already.’
‘Poor old Mum,’ sighed Nicola. ‘She thinks I had a baby without telling her, somehow. She’s been imagining all sorts of nonsense about rape or drunken orgies when I was twenty. However she thinks I’d have found time to produce a sprog, I have no idea.’ She gave a choked sort of laugh. ‘It’s not funny, I know, but it certainly is ludicrous.’ Gwen patted her shoulder.
‘Well, I’m very sorry to have been part of this whole mess, but I’m still not prepared to give you the name.’ With a pang of guilt, Simmy thought about how close she and Melanie had come to googling the flower sender themselves. That now struck her as a very wrong thing to have done. ‘I honestly can’t see that it would do any good to anybody. If she’s genuine, surely she’ll get in touch again, anyway. The flowers might have just been a sort of advance warning.’
All three women pulled sceptical faces. Gwen gave a faint snort. ‘She’s not genuine,’ said Davy. ‘We’re certain of that. At best, it’s mistaken identity. You know how easy it is to get the wrong person these days, on those ancestry websites. It’s all so horribly public – you can apply for birth certificates and adoption information for absolutely anybody. This poor girl might have been given false facts at the outset. The central point is, she is not my mother’s grandchild, and she’s caused a lot of distress by claiming that she is.’
It was a long and forceful speech, which Simmy listened to carefully. Somewhere deep down, she was still grappling for a link between Mrs Joseph and Nancy Clark that would bring the two apparently distinct stories together. Melanie and Ben had both seized on this, almost automatically. And yet there didn’t seem any real logic to it. The two women only peripherally knew each other. The only present-day connection was Simmy, who had seen the former shortly before meeting the man suspected of killing the latter. That was ridiculously flimsy as a link – except that the mystery of the self-professed granddaughter carried so many sinister implications that it felt important.
She became aware of Melanie rustling something behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the conversation, but there was no doubt that she had heard it all, and would have plenty to say at some stage. When a new customer came in, Mel quickly moved forward to greet him. It was a man in his fifties, wanting a poinsettia, uninterested in any discussion about it. He edged past the group of women in the middle of the shop, and paid with cash. He left with his head down, as if embarrassed at having entered a florist shop at all. It was a far from unusual pattern. Men and flowers were an abidingly uneasy mixture, which Simmy mainly found amusing, but sometimes regarded with exasperation.
She returned her attention to Davy. ‘It is quite public,’ she agreed, picking up on the detail that seemed most likely to let her off the hook. ‘We’ll have to hope she’s gone back to her searches and realised her mistake.’
Again, a triple expression of scepticism greeted her, but she stood her ground. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t help you any further,’ she said.
‘It’s much as I expected,’ said Nicola. ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she addressed her sister. ‘At least we tried.’
‘Poor old Mum,’ Davy sighed. ‘Thank goodness there’s Christmas to take her mind off it. We’ll have to make a special effort this year.’
‘Of course, if we went to the police, they could force you to reveal the person’s identity,’ said Gwen.
‘Oh, no!’ Nicola protested, with a look at Simmy that was almost pleading. ‘We don’t want to start making threats like that, do we? Can’t we keep it all civilised?’
‘And without some very good grounds for suspicion, they wouldn’t do that anyway,’ said Simmy tightly. ‘Simply sending flowers to somebody isn’t a crime. The message carries no hint of a threat. I wouldn’t have agreed to deliver it, if it had.’
‘We’re not accusing you of anything,’ Davy snapped, losing patience. ‘We’d just really like to know what this whole fiasco is about. It’s a big thing, after all, being told you’ve got a close relative you knew nothing about.’
‘We’re not getting anywhere, Davy,’ Nicola said. ‘We’ve done all we can. Let’s leave it now, shall we?’
‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it? Nobody seriously imagines that you had a secret child. All attention’s on me, because everybody thinks if I could do it once, I could do it again. I can see Mum thinking exactly that. Bernie and Stephen are going to start acting all suspicious, if they get to hear about it. I can deny it until I’m black in the face, and they’ll never be entirely sure.’
‘So don’t tell them,’ said Gwen calmly. ‘Just let it all fade away naturally. If this pest doesn’t make any more approaches, then we’ll know it was either a stupid joke or a mistake, and we can forget the whole thing.’
Nicola put a hand on the older woman’s arm. ‘Thank you, love. You always say the most sensible things. She’s right, Davy, you know she is.’
‘Doesn’t look as if we’ve got much choice,’ grumbled Davy. She looked hard at Simmy. ‘Since we’ve not had any cooperation here.’
Simmy smiled weakly and said nothing. She kept reminding herself that she would probably behave in much the same way if the roles were reversed. She worried that if they stayed much longer, she would hand over the darned name just to see an end to the matter. She was trying not to repeat ‘Candida Hawkins’ to herself, for fear the words would slip out into the open air of their own accord.
But they were leaving. First Nicola made for the door, followed by Gwen and Davy. Not one of them looked back, until the first two were outside. Then Davy turned and nodded, in a wordless valediction that contained reproach, frustration and a smidgeon of respect.
‘Phew!’ sighed Melanie. ‘You were awesome, Sim. Really stuck to your guns. I don’t suppose they’ll be back any time soon.’
‘I hope not,’ said Simmy, feeling rather shaky. ‘I just wish that damned girl hadn’t chosen me to deliver those wretched flowers.’
Melanie gave a sympathetic grimace. Then she said, ‘And then Mr Kitchener wouldn’t have got his alibi, and we wouldn’t have given a thought to the murder. Ben wouldn’t like that. So one person is happy, anyway.’
‘It’s not really on for Ben to interfere with real murder investigations,’ Simmy worried. ‘I never should have told him about it.’
Melanie did a rare but unnerving trick of rolling her good eye, while the prosthetic one simply wobbled slightly. It left a person in no doubt that they were being treated to censure. ‘Come on, Sim! Ben’s in his element. He’s not interfering. The police have no idea he knows anything.’
‘I might believe you if he hadn’t marched into the middle of everything last time. As it is, I wouldn’t put it past him to go knocking on doors and asking questions.’
‘Whose doors? We don’t know anybody who was connected with Nancy Clark.’
‘What about her sister? An
d all her offspring?’
‘Yeah, but they all live miles away. And who else? There’s nobody else. And Ben doesn’t even know the precise cause of death.’
Something in her expression alerted Simmy. ‘But you do, right? Joe’s told you?’
‘Not really. It wasn’t anything as crude as a bash on the head, though. It was nastier than that. Something sneaky and clever. He’s dying to tell me, but they’ve told him not to.’
‘Oh dear. Why are we talking about it again? I don’t even want to think about Mrs Joseph and her annoying grandchild, either. I quite liked those daughters. I hate being part of something that’s got them so upset.’
Before Melanie could argue, a couple came in, wanting to order flowers for a spring wedding. For twenty minutes, Simmy was immersed in their wild ideas for a hundred lilac rosebuds and lavish sheaves of ripe corn, trying to explain that the former would be extremely expensive and the latter unobtainable in May. ‘I know that,’ said the bride, about the expense, but looked blank about the natural season for wheat and barley. ‘But I want it to symbolise fertility and abundance,’ she said without a blush.
‘We could probably find some grasses that had gone to seed,’ said Simmy doubtfully. ‘But they might have to be imported.’
The future bridegroom looked weary and bemused. ‘I think it’d look daft anyway,’ he muttered. ‘I keep telling her.’
‘All flowers symbolise fertility,’ Simmy tried to explain. ‘And a spring wedding is usually a time for blossom and buds, suggesting future fruitfulness.’
‘Well, I’ve got the buds,’ whined the bride. ‘But I want something unusual.’
Simmy ran a long list of suggestions past her, some of them even wilder than the out-of-season corn. They finally arrived at a shortlist, which the couple agreed to go away and consider. By the time they left it was half past three – later than the shop usually stayed open on a Saturday.
‘Go home,’ she told Melanie. ‘You’ve been here too long as it is.’
‘I’m in no rush. It’s even worse than usual at ours, with Christmas on the way. The little ones are crazy with excitement already, and that makes them fight. We’ve had the decorations up for weeks and Mum’s got a CD of carols she plays non-stop. It’s like being in Tesco all day long, only louder. Please God, let me be out of there by this time next year.’