by Rebecca Tope
The relief increased when she saw no apologetic police detective lurking outside her house, as she passed it again on the way out of the village. Perhaps she would be allowed to forget all about murder and malice, at least for the rest of the day.
Fridays were generally complicated, because Melanie had lectures and could very seldom assist in the shop. There were a few people who could be called on in a crisis, including Ben Harkness, who welcomed any excuse to duck out of school for a few hours. Simmy’s mother, however, was not on the list. ‘I’m a useless shopkeeper,’ she said and refused to take any responsibility of that sort. Russell had reluctantly lent a hand once or twice, rewarding himself for the service by seizing the chance to recount some of his local anecdotes to the customers, as a variation on the captive audience at breakfast time that the B&B guests comprised.
On this day, though, there was no option but to close for most of the morning. Thanks to Melanie’s logistical skills, a delivery route had been worked out that would probably not take more than two hours. The temperature was rising and traffic appeared to be moving fairly normally, once she was down on the main road.
The necessity of going back to Coniston was regrettable. If she’d known DI Moxon was going to summon her there the previous evening, she might have cheated by delivering the flowers early. As it was, she would have to do very much the same journey as the previous evening’s, down to Newby Bridge and several miles back up the western side of Lake Windermere to a house not far from the one she’d already visited twice. Then turn round and retrace her steps – or else carry on through Hawkshead and Ambleside as she had done with Kathy. That way was undoubtedly shorter, but the prospect of Hawkshead Hill was uninviting if there was any risk of ice.
The first two deliveries, in Bowness, were uneventful, but the one in Newby Bridge went badly. Nobody answered the door and there was no front porch or handy shed in which to leave the flowers. Kathy’s theories about neighbours made it seem risky to try the next house. There was a phone number provided with the order, so she went back to the van and called it.
It was answered just as she was giving up hope, with a breathy ‘Hello?’
‘Miss Drury? This is Persimmon Petals. I have some flowers for you.’
‘Oh! Gosh! Where are you?’
‘Outside your house, in Newby Bridge.’
‘But I live in Coniston. I sold my house a while ago and I haven’t got anywhere permanent yet. Who are they from?’
‘The message says “From a secret Valentine,” that’s all. They gave your phone number when they placed the order.’
Miss Drury remained silent for half a minute, then stammered, ‘Gosh! I have no idea who that might be. Surely you have the name of the person who ordered them?’
It was a question Simmy had begun to grow thoroughly tired of. ‘It’s confidential, I’m afraid.’ Wasn’t that obvious, she thought crossly. And come to think of it, this was yet another order that had been made in person, paid for in cash, and not logged on any computer apart from the daily tally of monies received. She had no recollection at all of the manner in which the order had been made, but she knew it hadn’t been online. ‘And – actually – I don’t have a name anyway.’
‘Why not?’
She explained.
‘So what did he look like?’
‘He had a long brown coat and a black scarf. That’s really all I remember. We might get a bit more from my assistant, but I doubt it. I’m sure she didn’t know him.’
Miss Drury tutted in frustration. ‘Well, can you bring the flowers here, do you think? Why would this man give you the wrong address, anyway? If he knows my mobile number, he must surely know where I live.’ A thought audibly struck her. ‘Um … where exactly are you?’
‘It’s a house called Primrose Paddock, just off the main road.’
‘Oh, God! That’s where my boyfriend lives. Someone’s trying to make trouble for me. Listen – don’t bring me the bloody things. Throw them away. And don’t let Solly see them, whatever you do.’
‘But—’ Wasn’t it possible that Solly had sent them, she wanted to ask, using his own address as a kind of proposal that she move in with him? ‘Couldn’t he be the one?’ she stammered.
‘Was your customer black?’
‘Um … no, I don’t think so.’
‘Then it wasn’t my boyfriend. He’s a Somali. Six foot two and very black. You would probably notice.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And he’d be devastated if he thought I was cheating on him. Thank God he’s not at home. Please – just get rid of those flowers, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Simmy. ‘But I’m coming to Coniston next, so I could just let you see them.’
‘No. Don’t. I’m at work out on the fells. It wouldn’t be worth your while.’
This was the second rejected bouquet in two days, and Simmy felt sore about it. She also felt used and exploited, part of some very nasty little game that she had hoped was all over and done with.
She also realised, with a sinking heart, that DI Moxon was going to want a description of the man in the coat and scarf.
Chapter Eight
She would call the police when she got back to Windermere, she told herself. First she had to make five more deliveries, three to the same address in Newby Bridge and two in Coniston. The three turned out to be for a trio of young sisters from their doting father. They were at school, but their mother took the flowers in with a slightly rueful smile. ‘He’s away in Saudi, you see,’ she explained.
Simmy bit back the question as to whether he had remembered his wife as well. It was definitely none of her business. At least it had been a very economical delivery. She went back to the van glad to have it almost emptied in so short a time.
The slow winding road up to Coniston gave her more than enough time to think about the latest puzzling bouquet for the disgruntled Miss Drury. She had not sounded particularly young, certainly over thirty. Why would anybody deliberately set out to cause trouble between her and her boyfriend? No former lover consumed by jealous rage had come to mind, it seemed; no racist parent furious at her choice of partner. She had sounded genuinely bewildered and not a little angry.
If it had not been for the fact of the murder of one of Simmy’s customers, these bizarre orders for flowers would be quite easily dismissed as an annoying but essentially harmless set of pranks. As it was, there was a real underlying threat, and the fact that Simmy had innocently taken three, if not four, orders from a seriously malign individual made her very uneasy.
The police would presumably devote their efforts to finding a link between all the people who had been sent sinister floral offerings. As far as Simmy could see, they were all very different. An elderly lady, a young farmer’s wife, a middle-aged man and another young woman, living in scattered villages roughly centred on Coniston. There would have to be probing questions as to their work, contacts, movements and activities, which even at first glance struck Simmy as horribly intrusive. They had all seemed perfectly nice people, undeserving of the disruption and distress that had befallen them and which was very likely to get worse.
The sight of the Old Man looming out of the frosty morning mist to her left made her shiver. It was an eerie mountain at the best of times, perhaps because of its name, which suggested consciousness of some kind. The people of Coniston probably felt protected as if by a guardian angel, but as a visitor, Simmy perceived it more as a watchful and mildly threatening presence. She remembered that Kathy’s daughter was performing some sort of experiment on its slopes, and wondered whether she was all right.
The mountain rose to a sharp point, dominating the smaller ones surrounding it. There was wispy cloud veiling it in horizontal bars, the whole scene drained of colour, leaving nothing but white and pale grey. She remembered that her first sight of it, in March of the previous year, had been all of brown and orange. In summer it blazed in a hundred shades of green. Her father had expounded on the coppe
r mining which killed all the fish in the lake, and the charcoal burning that went on until well into the twentieth century. Despite appearances, the western fells had been sites of some industry since Roman times – something that Kathy’s daughter was somehow focusing on, if Simmy had correctly understood the somewhat garbled story.
The two delivery addresses were at opposite ends of the village, neither of them close to the scene of the previous day’s murder. With any luck, she could avoid setting eyes on any police personnel, and postpone reporting the Newby Bridge puzzle until she got back to the shop. She wanted no further impediments to opening its doors to would-be customers.
She also very much wanted the deliveries to go smoothly. The first turned out to be blessedly straightforward. A woman with a small baby answered the door and took the flowers with a broad smile and effusive thanks. The second was to a much older woman who appeared to be rather unwell. She held a thick scarf across her throat, and opened the door a bare three inches. ‘Yes?’
‘Flowers for Mrs Thomas,’ said Simmy.
‘Really?’ A thin hand reached for them and took them through the gap. Simmy hovered, heart beating in apprehension. But all was well. ‘Oh, the silly boy! It’s my son, Robin. Sent me a Valentine. Isn’t that ridiculous! Any other son would wait for Mother’s Day.’
‘How nice,’ said Simmy.
‘Of course, we both know I might not be here that long. Now, if you don’t mind, I must close the door. The cold makes me catch my breath, you see.’
Mother’s Day was little over a month away. There was something very grim in the thought that the woman might not even have that long to live. She certainly did look extremely frail. But what a devoted son he must be, doing his best to cheer her, apparently with considerable success. The relief at having brought the hoped-for delight to all but one of the morning’s customers was considerable.
Yewdale Fells rose to the east as she turned back, planning to retrace her route southwards. A spectacular scene in its own right, it was generally overshadowed by the Old Man. The clouds had left a clear gap through which the rugged slopes could be clearly seen. The folds and gashes in the hillside threw odd shadows, some of them suggesting patterns in the brief moment of clarity. Simmy had heard that it was a difficult climb through gorse and bracken, with old mines and quarries to be negotiated along the way. This summer, she promised herself yet again, she really would get organised and do some serious exploring. But first she must concentrate on the day ahead. If she hurried, she might get back to the shop by half past eleven, in time for any lunchtime shoppers.
Before she had even passed the Coniston car park, however, she was intercepted. Not by DI Moxon lurking in wait for her, but by a distraught woman flagging her down on the pavement. The bright lettering on the side of the van plainly announced her identity, of course. It was intended to, after all. But now she very much wished she could become anonymous and unobtrusively slip back to work without attracting attention.
With a sigh, she braked. The woman ran out into the street and round to the driver’s window. ‘Oh, thank God! What a miracle, you being here!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve been so upset, thinking of poor Maggie taking my flowers the wrong way. And here you are, so I can explain it to you.’
Maggie? Which one was she, wondered Simmy. ‘Um …?’ she said.
‘Maggie Aston. On the farm. She says she threw them at you. I never dreamt she’d do that. I should have put my name, of course, but I assumed she’d understand. And all the time, she thought it was Trevor apologising for an affair or something. How embarrassing for you. I’m so sorry.’
‘No problem,’ said Simmy, feeling bemused. On first impression, it seemed that particular flower delivery could be removed from the case. ‘These things happen,’ she added meaninglessly.
‘But you must have felt so awful,’ the woman persisted. ‘What a dreadful waste of flowers.’
Simmy silently agreed, but could hardly say so aloud. ‘Is everything forgiven now, then?’ she asked.
The woman flushed violently. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot. I know I exaggerated in that message. The thing is, I did do something very bad and I wanted Maggie to forgive me. I thought she would hate me for ever and I couldn’t bear that. So flowers seemed a good way of admitting my fault. A confession, in a way.’
Again Simmy was inhibited in her desire to ask what the crime had been. ‘I see,’ she lied.
‘Well, I expect it’ll come right in the end. Things usually do.’
Simmy wasn’t sure she agreed with this. She gently revved the engine, having carefully not turned off the ignition. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘but—’
‘Oh, yes. It’ll be a busy day for you. My aunt was a florist and she nearly went mad on Valentine’s Day. Even worse for Mother’s Day, of course. That’s a nightmare.’
Thanks thought Simmy.
‘Off you go, then,’ the woman encouraged. ‘I’m a bit busy myself, actually. I do the cleaning for some of the holiday homes hereabouts. But I can’t go down there.’ She ducked her chin at the little road leading down to where Moxon had stood guard over a dead body the previous evening. ‘They won’t let anybody pass.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Something very nasty happened, apparently. It was on the news just a little while ago.’
Simmy had no intention of getting into that subject. Let Ben accuse her of a wicked lack of curiosity, if he wanted to – she was adamant. ‘Bye, then,’ she said and closed the window. Before the woman could say another word, she was off down the main street and southwards past Torver as the quickest way home. The sky was clearing, which was not entirely good news, because it lowered the temperature. But she saw no sign of ice on the roads and made reasonably good time. Her thoughts flitted from one unexplained event to another, hoping to arrive at a reassuring conclusion that nothing that was happening had anything to do with her.
So the murder was public knowledge, at least in a generalised way. The apologetic woman had called it ‘something nasty’, so perhaps it had not been disclosed that a man had been violently killed. Even so, there was little doubt that Ben and Melanie would quickly get to hear of it and approach her for more information. Their natures were both infinitely more inquisitive than Simmy’s was. Ben never wasted any time in drawing conclusions and connections, aided by Internet searches and an impressive intelligence.
She could not evade the fact that her morning drive had produced at least one new factor in the story, and probably two. Wherever she went, people forced knowledge on her against her will and completely unsolicited. She garnered names and links without the slightest effort. It was as if fate was conspiring against her, and yet she had learnt over the past four or five months that it was much more rational than that. A florist put herself in the line of fire simply by being associated with major life events where emotions were heightened and families forced to confront disagreeable truths. This forcing was occasionally violent, leading to further violence and even murder.
As for the real Mr Hayter, his daughter Daisy had reported him missing, which implied an absence of wife or girlfriend. Furthermore, the false Mr Hayter also known as Mr Braithwaite, had a son who was Moxon’s godchild, and who clearly did not live with his father. She entertained a picture of the two men living quietly together, separated or divorced from the mothers of their children, and enjoying a sparse social life. Into this calm oasis a bombshell must have been thrown, perhaps in the shape of an anonymous bunch of flowers. And now they were both dead. The mystery that brought Simmy nothing but pain and frustration would no doubt give rise to an excited curiosity in young Ben Harkness. He would do his best to drag details, facts, reported conversations out of Simmy. But he would be disappointed – all she could offer where the second body was concerned were impressions – that no wailing wife or daughter had been in evidence; no white-faced brother or son. The body had presented a neglected abandoned aura, with nobody but police officers attending it. Belatedly, Simmy felt sorry for the man. Until
then she had been aware only of her own reactions, her stoicism in confronting her first dead face full on. Only now did she experience a flush of sadness at the pain he must have endured and the sudden extinction of a life that should have run for another twenty or thirty years.
She reached the shop at eleven forty-five, and quickly turned the Closed sign to Open. Within minutes four people had crowded in. One of them was her mother. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I was hoping for a mug of coffee, an hour ago. I had to go to Julie’s instead.’
Julie ran a hairdressing salon in the centre of Windermere and was Simmy’s closest local friend. ‘Did you get your hair cut while you were there?’
‘Of course not. But I did make an appointment for next week. And we had a nice chat.’
Simmy winced at the thought of the interruption Angie had probably caused.
A couple in their thirties were hoping to discuss wedding flowers, which given the date struck Simmy as somewhat thoughtless. She gave them a stack of brochures and leaflets and made an appointment for the coming week. And a familiar elderly woman hovered meekly behind everyone else, obviously hoping for a quiet word with Simmy.
‘Mum, I can’t talk now. I’ll try and drop in over the weekend, but as I told you already, I’m more likely to just slob about on Sunday, getting over this week. It’s all every bit as chaotic today as I thought it’d be.’ And I should phone the police, she remembered. There was an ominous feeling that real chaos was on its way, especially if Ben showed up as he often did on a Friday afternoon.
Angie left with an impatient sigh and Simmy turned to the old lady. ‘Mrs Crabtree,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You remember me?’ It evidently came as a great surprise.
‘Of course. I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘The police came to my house this morning. Two women in uniform. I dread to think what the neighbours made of it.’