The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  He took it lightly. ‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘Now get your things and let’s be off.’

  He drove them back to Troutbeck without saying much. Their route took them through Ambleside, where the one-way system forced them through the centre of the town, which was a slow process. ‘Oh, there’s Stuart!’ Simmy said suddenly. ‘I keep seeing that man. He’s the one whose friend has got the building plot. We ought to stop and talk to him, really.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s nowhere to stop along here.’

  Stuart had not seen them, and soon disappeared into the estate agent’s on the main street. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked Chris. ‘You said you know him, didn’t you?’ She was in a constant haze as to who her fiancé knew, especially after his revelation about Dorothea Entwhistle. His parents had lived in Bowness for decades, and although their eldest son visited infrequently, he must have met at least some local residents over the years. His mother had been averagely sociable, and would doubtless have enjoyed showing off her adventurous offspring. All the other Hendersons remained stolidly in place, barely going anywhere.

  ‘Did I? When? I don’t think I did, you know. What does he do?’

  ‘He’s got quite pally with my mum for some reason. He’s about fifty, with ginger hair. He’s big and looks like Henry the Eighth. He’s got a B&B near Beck View, and a wife who does practically all the work. He’s quite nice, I think. Seems very keen for us to look at that building plot.’

  ‘We should, I guess. It’s all swirling round, not getting any closer to a decision. I keep wondering which of us is holding things up.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s more that neither of us is very good at this big stuff. When I moved up here, my dad did most of the work. He found the cottage and talked me through the finances. I brought some furniture with me, and my mum got some things as well. All I did was choose curtains and carpets. I was a baby – I see that now.’

  ‘Well, I might know your man by sight, but I can’t think of a Stuart, offhand. Who’s this friend of his, with the plot? He’s the one we should talk to.’

  ‘It’s his brother-in-law, actually. He must think I’m dreadfully ungrateful. Are you saying we should think again about building from scratch, then?’

  ‘Not really. The mere idea makes me feel weak. But people seem to think it would make sense.’

  She knew what was really going on. Christopher could see no convincing reason why he couldn’t simply move into her Troutbeck cottage and save themselves a whole lot of hassle and expense. His nomadic early life had persuaded him that he could live in a shoebox with perfect ease. All that was needed, to his mind, was a bigger bed. He pretended to understand when Simmy insisted that this was not a viable option, but she knew he was humouring her. As a result, his efforts to find a new home were muted. Yet when she voiced some of these observations, he strenuously denied it. ‘I’m just as keen as you are,’ he insisted. ‘But you can see for yourself that it isn’t going to be easy.’

  And being Simmy, she blamed herself for being awkward. The cottage had two bedrooms, a garden, lovely views and a sound roof. A lot more than most small families had to put up with these days. But there was only space for one car outside, only one room downstairs, apart from the kitchen. As an only child, she had taken solitude and silence for granted all her life. When married to Tony, she had arranged things so that they each had their own area of the house to escape to. Christopher came from a big, untidy family, and had no concept of privacy or the desire for a room of one’s own.

  ‘Nearly there now,’ he said superfluously. ‘We’ll grab a quick cup of tea then head off to Lynn’s, shall we?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, still wondering at the wasteful route they had taken so far that day, carving a wide circle through most of the southern part of the Lake District. But experience had taught her that men habitually used the long way, if it meant avoiding small, winding country lanes. Only her father diverged from this stereotype, choosing tiny dead-end tracks for his explorations, charting his progress on a map and adding yet another discovery to his collection. But that had been a while ago now. Russell Straw was a lot less adventurous than he once had been.

  ‘Have you ever been up the Struggle?’ she asked Christopher now. ‘If we live in Patterdale, we might be using it quite often.’

  ‘Once. It was a nightmare. I must have met six different vehicles, all on narrow bends. Not to mention the bikes. It’s only there to get the tourists excited. Half of them have no idea what they’re letting themselves in for when they decide to use it.’

  The Struggle linked Ambleside to the Kirkstone Pass, and was famously steep and winding. In icy conditions, it was unthinkable. The gradient was one in four, which numerous cyclists saw as a challenge. ‘I don’t think my little car would manage it,’ said Simmy. ‘Maybe I’ll have to get a Land Rover.’

  ‘Huh,’ was all he said to that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  While Simmy was being driven all around the area, Angie and Russell were walking down the hill to Bowness, setting out early in order to give themselves time to savour the unusual situation. ‘We hardly ever do this,’ she observed. ‘I feel as if I should take your arm and carry a parasol.’

  ‘Why a parasol?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something weirdly Edwardian about me today.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘I’ve felt that way myself a few times. We live in a town that had its heyday a century ago, after all. There must be hundreds of appalled Edwardian ghosts crowding the streets, if we could but see them.’

  It took them both back to their early years together, when they would banter and fantasise for hours on end. Angie had taken reluctantly to marriage, fearing it would stifle her ambitions and limit her freedom. Aware of this, Russell had done his best to at least liberate her imagination. Forty years later, he was sorely afraid that he had failed. His wife had never found her rightful place in the world, never concentrated on nurturing any particular talent. Before establishing their bed and breakfast business, she had worked in a day centre run by Social Services, before migrating to a hostel for the homeless. The pattern of offering support to other people was the only discernible theme. Although she had a degree (in English and geography) she had no actual qualifications. Her earnings had accordingly been minimal.

  Russell, ever optimistic, had thought that parenthood might become a vocation in itself, but that too had brought disappointment. Angie found the business of raising a child slow and frustrating. ‘You can’t begin to imagine how long a day with a two-year-old can be,’ she moaned. ‘There’s about twenty minutes of enjoyment and the rest is sheer tedium.’

  She had, however, been thrilled at the prospect of becoming a grandmother. She could have those twenty minutes and then pass the child back to its mother. A perfect arrangement, to her way of thinking. When little Edith had died, Angie’s world had tottered as much as anyone else’s. Now there was a second chance, and everybody was holding their breath.

  ‘I’ll be glad when this year is over,’ she said now. ‘It’s not been one of the best, has it? That complaint about us didn’t help. And all that business with the Hendersons was pretty grim. And I can’t stand the suspense over Persimmon’s house. Not to mention the baby.’

  ‘I know. And I can’t help feeling we’re letting her down. If we sold up and retired, we could let her have enough equity to buy something rather splendid. I don’t think she realises how much we’ve got salted away.’

  The income from Beck View had regularly exceeded a thousand pounds a week, and the Straws had spent very little of it. There had been no time for holidays, no taste for expensive cars or fancy toys. Their savings, ostensibly destined for their care in extreme old age, were very substantial as a result.

  ‘She wouldn’t take it,’ Angie objected. ‘She thinks we’ll need it in our dotage.’

  ‘I dare say she could be persuaded,’ he said mildly.


  And then they were at the Wilkinses’ residence, in Kendal Road, a short distance south of Helm Road, where the Harkness family lived. It had taken twenty minutes or so to walk there from Beck View. Walking back, uphill, would probably take longer. The house was detached, with a large, well-kept garden and a view of Brant Fell. ‘Must be worth well over half a million,’ murmured Russell.

  ‘Closer to three-quarters, I’d guess,’ said Angie. ‘The wife has some kind of business, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Russell.

  They were greeted by Tristan, who ushered them into a large conservatory at the back of the house. It looked out onto half an acre of shrubs, vegetables and a big greenhouse. There were also four wooden boxy objects, which turned out to be beehives. A small lawn provided rest for the eye, but no space for any running about. The Wilkinses did not have a dog and there was no sign of grandchildren.

  Candy Proctor was sitting in a cane chair with a glass in her hand. A low table with a mosaic design on its top held bowls of nibbles. She smiled feebly at the newcomers. To Russell’s eye, she looked even more wan and melancholy than she had two days before. ‘No Stuart?’ he said.

  ‘He’s cried off,’ said Tristan, with a frown. ‘Something urgent up in Ambleside, apparently. Daphne’s not happy about it. She likes an even number.’

  Daphne Wilkins then put in an appearance, wearing a long blue skirt and a string of pearls that reached almost to her waist. She moved smoothly to a trolley and asked the Straws what they’d like to drink. ‘There’s gin, Campari, Martini, sherry …’ she offered.

  ‘A nice, straightforward G&T for me, please,’ said Russell. ‘Don’t bother with lemon. I always find it makes no difference at all to the taste – don’t you?’

  Nobody answered at first. Then Candy said, ‘It does if you squeeze it.’

  ‘But that’s bad manners. You’d have to do it with your fingers, and they’d get sticky, so you’d have to lick them, and that way lies the end of civilisation.’

  ‘Oh, Russell,’ sighed Angie, but there was a twinkle of fun in her eye. ‘Trust you.’

  ‘Angie?’ Daphne prompted.

  ‘Oh – the same as Russell, thanks. We never seem to have any gin at home. It’ll be quite a treat.’

  The atmosphere was redolent with social effort. Tristan appeared to be at a loss, with his wife so efficient and brisk that there was nothing for him to do. He hovered close to Candy, who kept shooting looks at him that seemed to be saying I understand how you’re feeling. Angie found herself trying to decide whether the two of them were having an affair, finally concluding that there was no way Candy would be so obvious if that were the case. Instead, the poor woman was demonstrating her frustrated adoration with very little inhibition.

  ‘Pity about Stuart,’ she said. ‘He’s a good friend of ours.’

  ‘Yours,’ said Russell. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’

  Sipping her gin, Angie imagined how the pairings would have worked if there’d been an even number. Tristan and Candy, herself and Stuart, leaving Russell to schmooze the intimidating Daphne. He would probably quite enjoy that, she thought. Instead, both the Straws undertook to learn what they could about the woman they had barely met before. The cold collation was evidently looking after itself in the kitchen, because the hostess showed no sign of needing to be elsewhere. ‘I gather you run your own business,’ Angie ventured. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Candy Proctor, who seemed anxious to talk to someone. ‘Daphne’s the same as the rest of us, basically.’

  ‘What? You’re not running a B&B somewhere, are you?’ said Russell.

  ‘Self-catering, actually. I’ve got a couple of barn conversions that I use as holiday lets. Long-term, mostly. Less work that way.’

  ‘Well, blow me,’ said Russell. ‘Why didn’t we know that? You’ve kept it very quiet.’ He gave Tristan a reproachful look.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ said the host. ‘I’ve got enough to do here. As Daffers says, it’s not a great deal of work, and she’s quite capable of running the whole show on her own.’

  ‘Have the police been to see you again?’ Candy suddenly blurted. ‘Are they any closer to finding who killed poor Grant? It’s such a shame, you know. He was so inoffensive. I keep asking myself why anybody would want to kill the poor man. What possible harm could he have done anybody, to deserve something so awful?’

  ‘Hey, Candy,’ Tristan gently chided her. ‘I thought we agreed we wouldn’t bring that subject up. Poor Angie won’t want to be reminded of it, will she?’

  ‘It seems so long ago already,’ said Angie slowly. ‘And it’s not even a week yet. As far as we can tell, the police aren’t making much progress. They’re probably missing young Ben Harkness, although they’d never admit it. Mind you, my daughter tells me there’s a sister who’s almost as clever. She’s helping Bonnie at the shop today.’

  ‘They shouldn’t allow those youngsters to have anything to do with it. They could get themselves into real danger. It’s irresponsible.’ Tristan Wilkins was harrumphing like any good Edwardian, much to Russell’s amusement.

  ‘I don’t think they can stop them,’ he said. ‘And with police resources so stretched, they might be glad of the help.’

  ‘He sounds like such a nonentity,’ said Daphne. ‘The murdered man, I mean. As if he must have just been a pawn in a bigger game. Don’t you think?’ She looked round the little group. ‘Not that I know anything about it, really.’

  ‘Just what I was going to say,’ her husband told her, rather rudely. ‘The only person here who’d even met the man before is Candy – apart from Russ and Angie, obviously. I’m not sure Candy thinks he was a nonentity.’

  Candy shook her head. ‘It’s too complicated for me. However did somebody even manage to get him to take the poison? How would you do that, unless you lived in the same house? It could so easily go terribly wrong.’

  ‘Maybe it did,’ said Russell. ‘Maybe the lethal dose of whatever it was, was meant for somebody else.’

  Nobody made any response to that idea. Daphne tittered slightly, a sound that struck Angie and Russell as wildly incongruous in such a dignified woman. Russell pressed on. ‘Or perhaps one of his relatives packed him a nice lunch to bring here with him, and he ate it on Saturday afternoon. It doesn’t have to be anybody up here, does it?’

  Eyebrows wavered up and down, but still nobody joined in with the speculations. ‘We met his father and sister, and sister’s husband. They all seemed fairly upset, I suppose. But not exactly shattered.’

  Never would Russell Straw utter the word devastated unless he was referring to a patch of land ravaged by locusts or earthquake. The source of his objection was not so much inaccuracy as over-usage and cliché.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ urged Tristan. ‘Give it a break. We didn’t invite you here to talk about poison, did we?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘I told you. It’s this abomination in Patterdale we’re most concerned with. We think we might well have stopped it in its tracks, after the fuss we’ve been making. For a little while, at least. My contact at the council assures me there’ll be short shrift when the application goes in formally.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit … undemocratic?’ wondered Angie. ‘I mean, it’s not the right procedure, is it, to raise objections before there’s even an application? You only knew about it because you’ve got spies everywhere.’

  ‘Spies? Me?’ The protestation seemed deliberately melodramatic, displaying layers of insincerity, sarcasm, false modesty, bombast and a dash of anger. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The way you talk, for a start. You said yourself you’d got a contact on the council. That sounds like a spy to me.’ Angie faced him steadily, totally unintimidated. ‘You’re playing some game, with your leaflets and meetings, probably all designed to feather your own nest.’

  Candy and Daphne both gasped at this sudden accusation, while Russe
ll silently applauded. Tristan seemed almost glad to have a worthy adversary. His broad chest swelled and he grinned cheerfully at her. ‘We all do what we can to survive,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m at a loss to see how objecting to a parkful of new tourist lodges can be of any benefit to my own activities. After all, my attentions are mainly devoted to the garden these days. You really must come and see my roses, by the way. We thought that could be a postprandial treat for you.’

  ‘So why do it? Why worry about Patterdale at all? That’s what nobody can understand.’

  ‘Candy,’ said Tristan, adopting a weary air, ‘you explain it, will you? Again. I thought we’d dealt with that one weeks ago.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Daphne firmly. ‘Lunch is ready. It’s nearly half past one. We’ve been talking when we should have been eating. Come through, will you?’ Brooking no interruptions, she led the little party into a large square dining room, decorated in shades of brown, with solid oak furniture and a handsome Chinese carpet. Dishes and bowls containing salads, cooked meats, relishes and crusty bread were arranged on a Victorian sideboard. ‘Help yourselves, and take a seat,’ she instructed.

  ‘It’s like being at a conference,’ murmured Russell, who had at one time attended more than his share of weekend conferences.

  The food was lavish in quantity and quality. Daphne must have worked hard all morning, cutting tomatoes into fancy shapes, making her own coleslaw and arranging meats in patterns on the big central charger. Four bottles of wine also awaited them. ‘Nobody’s driving, are they?’ said Tristan. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘Lovely!’ said Candy. ‘It all looks too good to eat.’

  Everyone laughed, and Angie grabbed the top plate, not hesitating to be first in line.

  They sat at the handsome table and ate quietly for a while. Russell and Angie had both expected to feel unequal to a big meal, after eating more of their surplus breakfast stocks, but they proved themselves wrong. ‘Looks as if Stuart won’t be missed,’ said Tristan, eyeing the wreckage. ‘I said we should get another chicken,’ he told his wife.