by Rebecca Tope
‘It’s just so delicious,’ Candy said apologetically.
‘You needed feeding up,’ Tristan smiled at her. ‘You’ve been looking very peaky lately.’
‘It’s always the same after a busy summer. I never seem to have a minute to sit down and eat a proper meal.’
‘Victim of your own success,’ the man laughed. Which inevitably brought more thoughts of Grant Childers to the surface. Nobody had forgotten that Candy’s success had led to Angie Straw being the one holding the dying man. The unfairness of it was still rankling, as was the impression that Candy somehow held Angie to blame for what had happened to her pet visitor. The cancellations at Beck View added considerable insult to the injury.
‘Well, we’re not busy at all,’ said Russell. ‘Those who assumed that the scene of a murder would carry added value were altogether wrong.’
‘It’s just that it’s too soon,’ said Daphne, who was contentedly working through a large plateful of her own food. ‘Give them a few months for the dust to settle and they’ll be flocking back to you.’
‘I’d better start composing a new page for the website, then,’ said Angie. ‘House of Death. Or should it be Doom? See the spot where an innocent guest was foully poisoned, in Windermere’s own quiet streets. Enjoy a few nights in the very room where he drank the lethal mixture …’
‘Hush, woman,’ said Russell, watching the three horrified faces. ‘You’re forgetting yourself.’
Candy was frowning, her face pink. ‘You think it was something he drank?’ she whispered, fiddling with her wine glass.
‘That’s the general idea. I just got carried away for a minute. Sorry if I upset anybody.’
‘Huh!’ said Candy.
‘Exactly what is so important that Stuart couldn’t come?’ Angie asked, in a clumsy effort to change the subject. ‘I always enjoy a chat with him. He’s had an interesting life.’
‘He’s what they used to call a “wide boy”,’ said Tristan. ‘Finger in every pie. Always knows what’s going on before anyone else. Don’t know how he does it.’
‘Because he’s so interested, that’s why. And people like him, even when they know he’s probably not totally to be trusted. He’s funny and clever, and there’s no malice in him.’
‘Okay, Angie,’ said her husband. ‘We all know you’re in love with him. It’s a cross I try to bear with dignity.’
Again Candy flinched and flushed. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Ignore him,’ Angie advised. ‘He’s had too much wine.’
For dessert there was a huge bowl of chopped fruit in a juice made from sweet white wine and spices. Banana, pineapple, kiwi, figs, mango, apple, strawberries, pear and more. ‘What a lot of work!’ moaned Candy. ‘It looks fantastic.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ said Daphne, as if she meant it.
It was half past two, and Russell was looking purposeful. ‘We haven’t really talked about Simmy’s chances of finding a house in Patterdale,’ he said, looking at Tristan. ‘We’d appreciate any help you can offer.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ said Tristan. ‘The thing is, that was more Stuart’s territory than mine. All I know is that he’s got some interests up there and he’s a bit concerned that you’re going to let the chance slip through your fingers. That’s the main message, as I understand it.’
‘I see,’ said Russell doubtfully. ‘It’s not really up to us, you know. Our daughter’s a mature adult with a fiancé. It’s entirely up to them.’
‘Obviously. But Stu seemed to think there was rather a lot of dithering. Don’t quote me – it’s not my business, except as a go-between.’
‘If they don’t want to build something from scratch, I could maybe find them a barn with permission for conversion,’ said Daphne, from a point behind Russell’s shoulder. She spoke quietly, as if mentioning a small, casual detail that wasn’t really of any importance.
Russell turned. ‘In Patterdale?’
‘Hartsop, actually. Just a thought.’ She shrugged. ‘Permission’s applied for and pending. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
Russell met his wife’s gaze, a question passing between them. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll tell them.’
Then the house phone began to peal and Daphne went to answer it. ‘Yes, hang on,’ she said, before holding the receiver out to Angie. ‘Your daughter,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Hey, Mum,’ came Simmy’s voice. ‘Glad I found you.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing really. It’s just that Bonnie and Tanya are in a tizz about something, and want us all to meet at Beck View. What time will you be home?’
‘I don’t know. Not too much longer, I suppose. We’ve had a marvellous lunch.’
‘Good. I’m in Troutbeck, with Christopher, and we can come and collect you if you like. Did you walk to the Wilkinses’?’
‘We did. It takes at least twenty minutes. Is this urgent?’
‘It might be,’ said Simmy obscurely. ‘Are people listening?’
‘Very much so.’
‘I won’t say any more, then. I don’t know exactly what it’s about, anyway, but apparently Tanya’s found something out. It sounds fairly important. Oh – and I assume you left your mobile at home?’
‘I did. So did your father. You know how we feel about phones.’
‘Well, I remembered where you said you’d be, so no harm done.’
Angie sighed. ‘There’s no escape, it seems.’
Simmy laughed. ‘I’ll come for you, then. Give me fifteen minutes. Oh – and tell me the exact address.’
The Wilkinses and Candy Proctor all thought there was something strange about this conversation. ‘Is she all right?’ Candy asked.
‘Oh yes. Some nonsense about the shop, apparently. They just want us to provide a place in Windermere for everybody to get together to talk about it. She’s coming here to collect us and drive us home. She and Christopher are always busy at the weekend. They’ll want to get on with it.’ They began to gather themselves for departure, strenuously enthusing about the wonderful lunch.
‘But I wanted to show you my roses,’ protested Tristan. ‘If I’m lucky they’ll still be flowering in December.’
‘The garden’s a marvel,’ Angie assured him. ‘We’re hopelessly jealous.’
It was just after three when everyone assembled at Beck View, sitting around the kitchen table. Christopher was irritable and restless, showing signs of having lost an argument. ‘We were supposed to be visiting Lynn,’ whispered Simmy to her mother. ‘She’s not too pleased about it and has given Chris a bit of an earful.’
Angie knew Lynn from childhood, but had seldom seen her since then. ‘She always did like her own way,’ she said.
Tanya and Bonnie were sitting very straight, like much younger children finding themselves in formal adult company. Simmy was opposite them, interested and encouraging, but at the same time nervous. The atmosphere was brittle, nobody quite knowing what to expect, or what the script was going to be.
‘Why didn’t you just call the police if you’ve got something important to report?’ Christopher demanded. ‘Why go through this silly pantomime?’
Bonnie faced him squarely. ‘Because we can’t decide whether it’s really evidence or just guesswork.’
‘Not guesswork,’ Tanya corrected her. ‘Observation.’
‘Okay,’ Bonnie conceded.
‘So tell us, for heaven’s sake,’ Angie ordered.
Bonnie waved at the younger girl, who took a deep breath and then plunged in. ‘Right. Yes. Well – on Sunday morning I was sitting on the waterfront where they were doing that protest, watching what was going on, and taking a few pictures and a video on my phone. Mainly I wanted the swans, but I caught some of the people as well. There were people from school and then Ninian Tripp showed up and was talking to a woman.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Simmy.
‘About half past eleven until I had to go home for
dinner. Once the cruise boat had left, I just pottered about taking random shots as I went.’
‘We must have just missed you, then.’
‘I guess so. What time were you there?’
‘A bit later than that. So, get on with it – what exactly did you see?’
‘Okay. So – there was a sort of stall, giving out drinks to people who were protesting. There was a sign saying “Home-made ginger cordial – no charge”. It was being poured into paper cups. I thought it was a bit unusual, so I filmed it for a minute or so. I kept on seeing people I knew. That red-haired man from Ambleside – he’s called Stuart, I think. He came to our house a few times to see my mother a year or so ago, when he had some building done.’
Simmy and Russell both found this of interest, eyes widening. ‘Was he giving out the drinks?’ asked Angie.
‘No. As far as I could see, there wasn’t really anybody in charge of the stall. Nobody was standing behind it all the time, but it looked as if there was a woman keeping an eye on it, and then I realised there was a man who was topping up the cups from a cool box under the table, every few minutes. When I was filming, they were talking together. I don’t know who they are, but Bonnie thinks you might.’
‘Just show us,’ said Christopher wearily. ‘Cut to the chase.’
‘Right. I’ve put it on the laptop, so you can see better.’ She produced a slim computer and set it on the table facing Russell. Simmy got up so she could see it clearly over her father’s shoulder, and Angie leant sideways for a better look.
‘There’s Ninian,’ said Simmy. ‘Oh, and that’s Candy Proctor, by the table.’
Russell watched quietly for a few seconds, before saying, ‘There’s old Tristan, see. Chatting to Candy. They must be the two you mean. Tristan must have been the man topping up the drinks. Can’t see Stuart anywhere.’
‘We did see him holding a placard, early on,’ said Simmy. ‘There were so many people, you can’t hope to have got them all in one little video.’
‘Nothing’s happening,’ Angie complained. ‘Just people drifting about with placards, and some tourists – probably waiting for the lake cruise boat to dock.’
‘Right!’ said Tanya, with a surprising tone of triumph. ‘That’s the point, you see. Look – there it is.’ The film showed the prow of the cruiser appearing on the right-hand side of the screen. All the people on the screen turned to look the same way, drawn by the appearance of the boat. Then it finished abruptly.
‘That’s it?’ asked Christopher. ‘I can’t see anything remotely suspicious in any of that.’
‘It sets the scene,’ said Tanya stubbornly. ‘I took some still pictures of people waiting to get on the boat, mainly because they were casting some good shadows. The sun came out for a minute, and the water was all sparkly. And there’s a final bit of video, a few minutes later. Let me show you.’
She clicked through five or six pictures, most of them featuring swans walking among human legs. ‘That’s Grant Childers,’ said Angie suddenly. ‘Oh God – it’s Grant Childers.’
Simmy crouched over Russell’s shoulder, peering closely. She had never seen the man alive. ‘Is it?’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he look ordinary?’
It was true. A man of medium height, indeterminate age, holding a paper cup was standing with a faraway look on his face. ‘What happened next?’ asked Simmy, her imagination hard at work.
‘I’m not quite sure, but I have a feeling he didn’t get on the boat. Let’s look at the last bit.’
She tapped her keyboard and another scene came up. Tanya had scanned the street in front of the Belsfield Hotel, showing people walking in both directions, one or two carrying placards horizontally, the protest clearly tailing off. ‘This was at about one o’clock,’ she said. ‘They started going home for lunch, I suppose.’
‘That’s Childers,’ said Simmy, almost in a whisper. ‘Look – he’s walking up the hill. He definitely never went on the cruise. The boat doesn’t get back until half past one.’
‘I never heard him come in, then,’ said Angie. ‘I must have been busy with the lunch. He can only have been back about half an hour before she started shouting for help.’
‘But … but …’ Simmy was dumbfounded. ‘This is amazing.’ She stared at Tanya. ‘Did you have any idea how important all this was going to be?’ She flapped a hand at the laptop.
‘Not at first. But people were assuming Mr Childers went on the cruise, and I just went through my phone for all the pictures I’d taken, to see if I’d got anything relevant. Then there was that photo of the murder victim in the news on Thursday, and we linked it up with this chap. It’s all coincidence, basically.’
‘The problem is, we all know different bits of the story,’ said Simmy. ‘We’ve all talked to different people and picked up odd details that the others don’t know about. Just as an example, Chris and I met Moxon’s new detective sergeant earlier today, and she told us a few things. Bonnie’s been googling poisonous plants and probably hasn’t told us everything she’s found. Tanya’s got these pictures. It’s terribly chaotic.’
‘I don’t think it is, pet,’ said Russell. ‘There’s a perfectly clear picture here. That’s Tristan handing out drinks. There’s Childers holding one of his paper cups. Candy looks as if she might well be pointing him out so Tristan would know which one he was. Childers most likely told her he was booked onto the cruise. He drinks the ginger cordial, immediately feels peculiar and decides to skip the boat ride and come back here. Where he dies half an hour later.’
‘Longer than that,’ said Angie, looking very pale.
‘Not really,’ said Simmy. ‘If that’s how it was, then it was pretty fast-acting.’
‘You’re saying that Tristan and Candy plotted together to kill Grant Childers?’ said Bonnie. ‘Because that’s the conclusion Tanya and I reached, as well.’
‘Not Candy,’ said Russell. ‘Remember how startled she was just now when we said Childers had been poisoned by a drink, rather than something solid. It seemed to be a whole new idea to her. And it was only then that she probably made the connection with Tristan’s cordial. I dare say she’s in a pretty bad state at this moment.’
‘Slow down,’ ordered Simmy. ‘We need to go through it a step at a time. You’re making it seem much too simple.’
There was a lull as they all gazed at the frozen picture on Tanya’s screen, which she had brought up again. It showed Grant Childers’ full face, his expression unreadable. ‘Poor man,’ whispered Angie. ‘Why in the world would they want to poison him?’
‘There’s something connecting Dorothea Entwhistle to all this,’ said Simmy, with sudden clarity.
‘Pity none of you went to her funeral,’ said Christopher, rather startlingly. They all looked at him, registering the you, which ought surely to have been us.
‘He knew her,’ Simmy explained to everyone, aware of their bewilderment. ‘And I did too, just not by name. I saw the funeral flowers yesterday morning, and there was one that I think was made of datura. Devil’s trumpet, by another name.’
‘Closely related to something called angel’s trumpet,’ Bonnie interrupted. ‘And both of them very poisonous.’
‘And now that my mum and dad have just been to lunch with the very people we’re accusing of murdering Mr Childers,’ said Simmy. ‘That strikes me as very sinister.’
‘We only drank the wine – which both the Wilkinses drank as well,’ said Russell facetiously. ‘I think we’ve escaped with our lives.’
‘We need Ben,’ said Bonnie flatly. ‘He’d know how to organise it all, and select the parts that are real evidence. Do you think Tanya’s video is enough to take to the police? Is there anything else we need to work out first? Like motive. It’s only half a story without that.’
‘We need to be careful who we implicate,’ said Angie. ‘I’m still wondering where Stuart was today, that stopped him coming to lunch with the Wilkinses,’ said Angie. ‘They weren’t happy about it. Daphne likes an
even number, apparently.’
‘You think he might be in cahoots with Tristan?’ Russell asked.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she sighed. ‘Don’t forget that Daphne said she’d got property in Patterdale,’ said Angie. ‘Hartsop, I mean. She wants you, P’simmon, to buy a barn conversion off her.’
‘That’s not quite what she said,’ her husband corrected her mildly. ‘She said she might have a barn with planning permission for conversion. That’s almost as bad as being sold a building plot. An awful lot of work to be done before you actually have a place to live in.’
‘It keeps coming back to Patterdale, doesn’t it?’ said Christopher crossly. ‘And that’s what’s making it so personal for us. It’s as if somebody knew we wanted to live there and connected that with the Childers man for some reason. Surely it can’t be a complete coincidence that he was staying here when he died? It has to be connected, doesn’t it?’
‘Right,’ said Simmy, with relief and approval both evident in her voice. ‘Maybe we can start again from there.’
‘We need Ben,’ said Bonnie again. ‘He’d do one of his flow charts.’
‘I can do that. So can you,’ said Tanya. ‘Why are you being so wet about it?’
‘Shut up,’ snarled Bonnie.
Simmy tapped the table like a schoolteacher. ‘Come on, you two. Bonnie, you’re right that we’re struggling without Ben, but Tanya’s right as well. You’ve both done this before. Why don’t I find you a piece of paper and we can start writing some of it down?’
Tanya leant down and pulled an A4 pad from a patchwork bag. ‘I started, actually,’ she said shyly. ‘But I wasn’t sure what you’d think of it.’ She showed her preliminary workings, which comprised of little more than names placed around the page, and a few connecting lines.
Everybody craned their necks for a look and the next half-hour passed in a jumble of suggestions, hypotheses and sudden remembered details. Tanya did her best to keep her diagram clear, but by the end it was a hopeless mass of arrows and circles and question marks, with nothing in the way of clarity to show for their efforts. Dorothea Entwhistle had five underlinings and an asterisk, Candy Proctor was surrounded by question marks. Stuart Carstairs and Tristan Wilkins were linked to most of the others, and Ninian Tripp made a shadowy appearance in one corner. The datura plant had a big thick circle around it, along with a query about glasshouses and funeral tributes.