The Troutbeck Testimony

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘I’ve been wondering the same thing. Could be somebody mentioned it to him, and he went off to find it. It did seem to be the sort of dog a man like him would have.’

  ‘But you thought it had been deliberately killed. That might lead to a whole lot of trouble, if the man knows who did it. He looked as if he’d make a worrying enemy.’ Again she winced at the thought of the bearded individual being invited into her house. ‘I thought you might offer him my facilities to get himself cleaned up.’

  ‘I nearly did,’ Russell admitted. ‘I didn’t think there was anything objectionable about him.’

  ‘I’m probably being prejudiced,’ she said. ‘But I thought he was actually rather unsavoury.’

  ‘You could talk to your friendly local detective about him,’ her father suggested. ‘After all, it’s illegal to go around murdering dogs. It might be a useful clue in something they’re already working on.’

  ‘I can think of at least five reasons for not doing that. First, I don’t even know if he’s back at work after what happened at Coniston. It’s only about six weeks ago, after all. Second, he’s much too senior to take an interest. And he’s not mine in any sense at all. I don’t think I like him much, as I keep telling you.’

  ‘Like him or not, you’re connected. And he likes you. You shouldn’t upset him – he might come in useful one day.’

  DI Moxon had not yet proved useful to Simmy in any way she could think of. He had drawn her into no fewer than three murder investigations since her arrival in Cumbria, and however irrational it might be, she blamed him for the resulting unpleasantness. Her involvement had arisen each time from an innocent flower delivery – deliveries that frequently turned out to be considerably less innocent than first assumed. All the detective inspector had done was follow up leads, request witness statements and do his best to provide protection. But still the associations persisted, and Simmy failed to discern within herself a responding affection to that which he plainly felt for her.

  ‘He won’t,’ she told her father. ‘However could he, anyway? All he does is upset me and get me into trouble.’

  ‘Poor man,’ sighed Russell. ‘You’re a cruel woman.’

  ‘You could drop into the police station in Bowness on your way home, I suppose,’ she continued, ignoring the jibe. ‘You can describe the dog better than I can, anyway.’

  ‘And while I’m at it, I could tell them about the suspicious men at the pub.’

  She blinked. ‘I’d completely forgotten about them. Don’t, Dad. It probably wasn’t anything at all sinister. Leave it. And don’t forget to phone Mum.’

  He smiled patiently at her and took the phone that Simmy produced from the pocket of her weatherproof jacket hanging on the back of a chair.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday morning at Persimmon Petals in Windermere began as quietly as Simmy had expected it to. Melanie had important college assignments to finish and job applications to complete, which meant her attendance at the shop was more sporadic than usual. Simmy had little difficulty in coping unaided, with only one urgent order for flowers waiting on the computer when she opened the shop. A lady by the name of Cynthia Mossop living in Staveley was having a birthday the next day. It would be relatively simple to make up the bouquet last thing on Tuesday and deliver the flowers before work the next day. She had performed similar logistical miracles many times before. Other orders were for later in the week.

  And then, to her surprise, Melanie came into the shop at ten o’clock. Behind her, like a shy little dog, came a fair-haired girl about half Melanie’s size.

  ‘Come on, she won’t hurt you,’ Mel urged impatiently. ‘This is Bonnie,’ she told Simmy without preamble. ‘She wants my job after I leave.’

  Simmy eyed the newcomer with her characteristic goodwill. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you, Bonnie.’

  ‘She’s a friend of my sister’s, actually. She was thinking of going into hairdressing, but she’s allergic to the chemicals or something.’

  ‘How old are you?’ Simmy asked, thinking the girl couldn’t possibly be over fifteen.

  ‘Seventeen,’ came a breathy reply. ‘And a quarter.’

  ‘Are you still at school?’

  ‘Sort of. We finish this term. I’m not going in much at the moment. My aunt says I need to get a job for the summer.’

  ‘Just for the summer? What’s happening after that?’

  Bonnie shrugged. ‘Dunno, really. I might want to stay here – if you take me on, that is. I’m not good enough for college. Won’t get many GCSEs. Just art and English if I’m lucky.’ Her shoulders hunched again, in a forlorn demonstration of low self-esteem.

  Simmy looked at Melanie and raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you know about flowers?’

  Melanie answered for her protégée. ‘She knows more than I did when I started here. She’s very artistic. She just needs … you know, a bit of encouragement. You’ll get along fine together, trust me.’

  Simmy’s instincts were sending confusing messages. The girl was so small and colourless, so silent and somehow sad that any risk of hurting her feelings was terrifying. Such a little mouse would require constant care. But Melanie’s people skills were not to be dismissed. Her burgeoning loyalty to Simmy was such that she had repeatedly expressed an intention to find a successor for when she left. And it was a relief to be handed someone on a plate, without a string of interviews and hard decisions.

  ‘Bonnie’s an unusual name,’ she ventured. ‘Is it short for something?’

  The girl shook her head, with a very small sigh. ‘No – it’s from Gone with the Wind. You know – the little girl who dies. My mum and dad were mad about that film around the time I was born.’

  ‘I see.’ It struck Simmy as not a little macabre to choose the name of a dead child for their own baby. And lost babies were always going to be a very sensitive matter for Simmy, who had suffered a stillbirth herself and had no other offspring.

  Melanie was closely monitoring every word and nuance. ‘Give her a try, Sim. Why not? She can come in every day this week as a trial run, if you like.’

  ‘You’ll need to handle money and the computer, and write messages on the cards, and take orders,’ Simmy rattled off briskly. ‘Can you manage all that sort of thing?’

  Bonnie met her gaze with a sudden directness. ‘I can write, if that’s what you mean. And count,’ she added. ‘I pick things up quickly.’

  ‘She’s not stupid,’ Melanie summarised. ‘It’s just she’s not too good at exams and pressure and that stuff.’ She tilted her head and Simmy had the impression there was a lot more she needed to know, but that Melanie couldn’t disclose it in Bonnie’s presence.

  ‘I had anorexia,’ Bonnie supplied for herself. ‘It got really bad last year. I missed a lot of school. That’s why I’m older than the rest of Year Eleven. I’m all right now. It’s not been decided about A-levels yet. I might go to a college to do them.’

  The tiny figure suddenly made a lot more sense. She must weigh barely six stone, Simmy guessed. The translucent skin and wispy hair confirmed the story and compounded Simmy’s urge to take this little thing to her bosom. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘That must have been grim.’

  ‘She’ll tell you all about it, I expect,’ said Melanie, who seemed almost painfully robust in comparison to Bonnie. ‘She’s had loads of counselling and stuff, so she understands all about it now.’

  ‘I’m not going to pry,’ said Simmy, rather stiffly.

  ‘So you’ll take me, then?’ Again, the girl met Simmy’s eyes with none of the initial shyness. It was already becoming clear that there was more to Bonnie than might at first appear.

  ‘If Melanie recommends you, I wouldn’t dream of arguing.’

  All three exhaled, as if an important and difficult problem had been finally resolved. Which it had, Simmy supposed.

  ‘So, how was your Bank Holiday?’ Melanie asked, with an alert look that suggested she had something of her own to impart o
n the subject.

  ‘Restful, mostly,’ said Simmy. ‘I walked up to Wansfell Pike with my father. And then along a ridge to a pile of stones. We saw a dead dog,’ she added, for no discernible reason. ‘And my dad heard two men planning a crime.’ She laughed at their expressions. ‘Actually, I don’t suppose it was anything suspicious, but he got quite excited about it.’

  ‘Oh no! Had the dead dog been shot?’ The question came from Bonnie, whose blue eyes were wide with outrage. ‘Those farmers are much too quick to use their guns, if they think their sheep are going to be chased.’

  ‘No, no.’ She could hardly add strangled, actually, for fear of further alarming the girl. ‘There wasn’t any blood on it. But it was quite a nasty surprise. As my dad said, people don’t just abandon their dogs when they die. Some of them hold real funerals, apparently.’

  ‘Course they don’t,’ scoffed Melanie. ‘What a daft idea!’

  ‘They do,’ Bonnie assured her. Then she asked Simmy, ‘What sort was it?’

  ‘Some sort of terrier. Jack Russell, maybe.’ Simmy was vague about dog breeds. ‘White and brown, with shortish legs.’

  ‘What did your dad hear, then?’ asked Melanie. ‘Were these men crouching behind a rock on Wansfell?’

  ‘No, they were at the pub in Troutbeck, and then they drove away in a red car. There was a boy in the back, as well,’ she added, on a sudden thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They said he could be the lookout. That’s the bit that does sound rather suspicious.’

  Bonnie was shifting restlessly from foot to foot. ‘My aunt breeds dogs,’ she said. ‘Or she used to, until a little while ago. She absolutely adored them. But things have got difficult, lately. There’s a gang of dognappers working in this area.’ Her face tightened. ‘Sounds as if you might have got them in Troutbeck now.’

  ‘Lucky I haven’t got a dog, then,’ said Simmy lightly.

  ‘I didn’t know you weren’t breeding any more,’ Melanie said to Bonnie. ‘It was bringing in some useful cash, wasn’t it?’

  Simmy recalled hearing of a farmer near Coniston who was making thousands of pounds a year from Border terriers. ‘I gather it can be lucrative,’ she said.

  ‘When it works,’ Bonnie nodded. ‘A lot can go wrong.’

  ‘Like my father’s Lakeland terrier. He ended up in a rescue because he wasn’t right for breeding.’

  ‘Too right,’ Melanie said darkly. She was fighting a recurring battle with her mother over a rescue dog that had failed to come up to expectations. Mrs Todd wanted to send it back, and Melanie was trying to convince her that it was irresponsible to keep adopting dogs for a few months only to reject them in the end. It pained Melanie more every time it happened, but she was helpless to prevent it. ‘As far as I can see, there are already way too many dogs in the world.’

  ‘You can’t generalise,’ said Bonnie diffidently. ‘Some are in huge demand and some end up in rescues. There’s not much connection between the two.’

  Simmy had nothing more to contribute to the conversation. She wished she’d had the sense to stay off the subject. ‘What about you?’ she asked Melanie. ‘The Bank Holiday weekend, I mean.’

  Her assistant gave a satisfied little smile before replying, ‘I went out with Jasper, actually. On Saturday night. We had steak in a pub. It was great.’

  ‘Hey – that’s brilliant. He finally got his act together, then. After all these weeks.’

  ‘Yeah. Well …’ Melanie shrugged. ‘We’ve both been busy. Lambing and all that. He’s a vet, remember.’

  ‘And …’ Simmy prompted.

  ‘That’s it, really. He wants to do it again, so it must have been okay for him as well.’

  Melanie’s love life had provided Simmy with considerable interest in the time she’d known her. Jasper was the third man in her life during that period, and while it meant bad news for the besotted Wilf Harkness, brother of Ben, it was gratifying to have confirmation that the young vet was interested. Simmy had been there when the two first met, and noticed then that there had been sparks.

  ‘Anyway, I should go,’ the girl went on. ‘I only came to introduce Bonnie. She can do every day this week, if you want her to. After that, you’ll have to juggle with school for a bit. We can work it all out, next time I’m in. Tomorrow, with any luck.’

  ‘There’s the funeral on Friday,’ Simmy said. ‘I could do with your help for that. There were two more orders for it this morning when I got in. It’s going to be huge at this rate.’

  ‘Pays to be popular,’ muttered Melanie. The deceased was a woman in her sixties, who had been a prominent member of the community, with an OBE to show for it. Her death had been prolonged and public, the struggle against cancer documented all too visibly as she went in and out of hospital. Simmy’s mother, like almost everyone in the southern Lake District, knew her vaguely and fully intended to put in an appearance at the funeral. So far, there had been no fewer than fifteen orders for flowers received by Persimmon Petals of Windermere. The chief mourner was Valerie, a woman variously described as ‘friend’, ‘lover’, ‘companion’ and ‘distant cousin’. She had come to Simmy for her own flowers, which had been flattering but scary.

  ‘Valerie and Barbara were definitely not lovers,’ said Angie Straw emphatically.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Simmy.

  ‘I just do. You get a sense for these things in my line of business.’ Beck View Bed and Breakfast had undeniably seen more than its share of unorthodox relationships, Simmy supposed. But whatever the truth of it, the bereaved Valerie was very upset indeed at her loss.

  ‘I’ll never get all the flowers in the van at once,’ said Simmy. ‘Lucky it’s the local undertaker, so it won’t be too much of a pain to do two journeys.’ The need to avoid the slightest hint of a mistake where funeral flowers were concerned was acute. ‘It’s going to occupy my every waking thought tomorrow,’ she added.

  ‘Good luck, then,’ said Melanie. ‘At least you’ll have Bonnie to answer the phone for you.’

  ‘What time can you manage tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try to make it by three or thereabouts. Don’t bank on it, though.’

  ‘That’d be a big help.’ The unpredictable stop-start nature of the business made staffing tricky at any time. Aside from the obvious rush periods for Mother’s Day and Valentine’s, there was no knowing just when things would get busy. Mother’s Day had been less of a trauma than they’d feared, but it had still entailed a week of late nights and total concentration. Easter, by comparison, had been a breeze.

  Melanie was edging towards the door, apparently not eager to leave. ‘Your dad was the only man you saw over the weekend then, was he?’ she blurted. ‘What about Ninian?’

  ‘Ninian was his usual elusive self. It’s like trying to communicate with somebody in the Dark Ages. I’m wondering whether carrier pigeons might work. He’s given up using his phone since they put the costs up. And he still insists he doesn’t want a car.’

  ‘At least you’ve been to his cottage now. You can find him if you really want to.’

  ‘True. Except he’s often not there.’

  Bonnie was showing signs of curiosity during this exchange, and Simmy explained, ‘Ninian’s a friend. He’s a potter, living up on Brant Fell in an old stone cottage. We sell his stuff here, look.’ She pointed to a row of stoneware vases, as well as one on the floor containing a collection of lilies.

  ‘Oh yeah, I know who that is,’ said Bonnie unconcernedly. ‘Those lilies look a bit squashed like that, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re right – they do. I crammed them all in on Saturday, hoping somebody would buy the whole lot. They should have gone out to the back room, really. They won’t last much longer.’

  ‘There’s a lot of waste in this business,’ said Melanie regretfully.

  ‘I liked the model you had in the window,’ said Bonnie, as if trying to find something to admire. ‘It was unusual. I saw it at Christmas, and won
dered if somebody would buy it.’

  ‘It wasn’t for sale. Ben and I made it. It was always dreadfully fragile, though. I tried to move it last week and the whole thing fell to bits. I had to throw it away, which was an awful shame.’

  The model had been a representation of a local landmark, which was itself a kind of model, being a small tower only fit for fairies or elves to inhabit. Simmy had fallen in love with it on her first day in Windermere, and when Ben described seeing clever constructions made of dried seedpods, sticks, nutshells and other natural materials, in America they had been inspired to try one of their own.

  ‘Right. I gotta go,’ said Melanie. ‘Late already. See you.’ And she made a determined exit, leaving the other two like abandoned children to make the best of it.

  ‘Well …’ began Simmy, unsure as to what came next. ‘We’d better get cracking on those funeral orders, and see if we can work out a system for the week. I’ll show you the back room first.’

  But before she could act on her words, a customer appeared, wanting advice as to how to create an eye-catching centrepiece for her dining table. Whilst dealing with the questions, Simmy was half aware that Bonnie was talking into her mobile, near the front of the shop.

  When the woman had gone, Simmy cocked a questioning eye at the phone still in the girl’s hand. ‘Sorry – don’t you want me to make calls? It’s just I’m supposed to say where I am.’

  ‘No, that’s okay.’ It both was and wasn’t, she realised. Reassuring that Bonnie had someone keeping tabs on her, and annoying that there were likely to be constant distracting conversations as a result.

  Bonnie followed her into the back room and listened and asked a few questions and appeared to be coping with the new situation well enough. But Simmy found the need to go carefully something of a strain. Where Melanie had been big and capable and outspoken, she was almost afraid of breaking Bonnie if she accidentally trod on her.

  ‘I won’t be able to come on Monday,’ the girl said, at one point. ‘I’ve got a meeting with one of the teachers that day, and some sort of test to see what’s best for me to do next year. At least, I could do the afternoon here, if you like.’