The Ullswater Undertaking

by Rebecca Tope

  But survival wasn’t the goal. Simmy wanted her son to be perfectly happy; perfectly balanced and confident and clever and sociable. Perfectly undamaged, in fact. She supposed that every mother wanted the same things, and not a single one ever achieved them.

  The feed didn’t last long, and when she emerged from the chilly little room, Verity had returned. Without waiting to be invited, she almost snatched the baby from Simmy’s arms. ‘Doesn’t he look like his dad?’ she yodelled. ‘Same eyes and mouth.’ Here, it seemed, was yet another woman who found babies irresistible. Verity had two sons of her own, in their late teens and not much to be proud of, according to Bonnie.

  ‘When did you see Christopher?’ Simmy asked, trying to think of any encounter between them.

  ‘When he came in to tell us about the baby,’ was the reply. ‘The day he was born.’ She bent over Robin’s face, making exaggerated expressions and cooing. ‘Who’s a lovely boy, then?’ The sheer lack of self-consciousness made Simmy smile, even while hoping the woman didn’t have a cold.

  ‘Customer,’ said Bonnie, with a hint of relief in her tone. Verity’s blatherings were evidently causing irritation.

  The man who came in was vaguely familiar, but Simmy couldn’t put a name to him. Bonnie, however, was quicker. ‘Hiya, Mr Merryfield,’ she said warmly. ‘Bright and early again, I see.’

  It was well after ten. Merryfield? Simmy couldn’t place the name at all. Bonnie noticed her confusion and hastened to explain. ‘This is Corinne’s next-door neighbour. He works in Bowness, on an evening shift. This is like 5 a.m. to him.’

  Everyone laughed, and the man bought a bunch of spring flowers. When he’d gone, Bonnie embellished her explanation. ‘He’s rather a sad character. His wife and his mother both died last year and left him on his own. Corinne treats him like a charity case, making cakes and elderflower wine for him. I keep telling her she ought to be careful not to be too encouraging. I bet those flowers were for her. The last thing she needs is a man moving in.’

  Verity snorted. ‘Doesn’t know what’s good for her. He’ll have a nice big house, mortgage all paid up. Any woman would think she was in clover, landing him. Not bad-looking, either.’

  ‘He’s sixty,’ Bonnie protested. ‘And paralysingly boring. And Corinne’s got a house already, thank you very much.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Verity, and began bouncing Robin energetically up and down. Simmy felt enough was enough, and firmly retrieved him.

  By an unspoken agreement, Simmy and Bonnie refrained from any further discussion of the Keswick murder. Verity was not one of their little gang, and never would be. Bonnie was to be admired in the way she calmly put up with the mundane prattle and the predictable comments on the customers. ‘She’s like your mother, but with about a quarter of the brains,’ Bonnie told Simmy after a few days of the woman’s company. ‘At least Mrs Straw’s funny when she’s offending people. Verity’s just ignorant. And she gets people so wrong. She thinks Ninian Tripp is gay, you know.’

  Simmy laughed, remembering her brief liaison with the local potter. ‘Well, I can assure her he’s not. Although I think he’d be quite tickled to know he gives that impression.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s all good experience,’ said Bonnie philosophically. ‘And it won’t be for ever – I hope.’

  ‘Listen – I think I’ll go down to Helm Road,’ Simmy said. ‘If Helen’s working, I can talk to Ben for a bit.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Bonnie, with a rueful little smile. ‘What’re you doing after that?’

  ‘I’ll call in at Beck View. I’m making a day of it. The builders are still crashing about at home.’ This was an exaggeration, but it was still nice to get away from them when possible.

  ‘Chilly for the little one,’ said Verity. ‘That little suit doesn’t look too warm to me.’

  ‘It’s thirteen degrees out there and there’s no wind. He’ll be fine,’ defended Simmy. ‘And we’ll be indoors anyway.’

  Bonnie took a step backwards, so she was at Verity’s shoulder before she permitted herself to roll her eyes and pull a face to indicate her exasperation with her workmate. ‘Hey – don’t forget there’s another delivery before lunch. Troutbeck this time. And it’s still not finished. They want a sheaf of lilies and lots of greenery. Will you do it?’

  Verity squared her shoulders. Her skill at constructing floral arrangements was still hardly more than rudimentary, but Bonnie was making some headway in training her. ‘Lilies and greenery,’ she repeated. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You could add some of those white carnations, and something blue if you can find it. Keep it simple, okay?’

  With a last lingering gaze at the baby, the woman went off into the back room, where they could hear her rustling cellophane and snipping at tough flower stalks. ‘Can she do it?’ whispered Simmy.

  ‘More or less. I’ll probably have to tweak it a bit. At least she knows which flowers are which. And she’s very willing.’ Bonnie sighed.

  ‘You’re a saint,’ said Simmy. ‘What time’s she going to Troutbeck?’

  ‘About twelve.’

  ‘I’ll pop back then and let you know how I get on with Ben. It’s a shame you can’t be there as well.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Bonnie, suddenly seeming much more adult. She might look about twelve, but the new responsibility had obviously matured her dramatically. ‘Ben’s going to be really pleased to see you. And Helen’s dying to see the baby.’

  Ben must have seen her as she parked outside the Harkness house in Helm Road and unloaded the cumbersome baby seat yet again. He was standing on the doorstep to greet her when she finally got there. ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted help,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘No problem – it looks worse than it is. Is your mother in?’ she asked.

  ‘Never mind that – tell me all about this murder in Keswick. I’m assuming you and Christopher have some connection with it?’

  She wilted at the onslaught. ‘Yes, Ben,’ she acknowledged. ‘You’re assuming correctly.’

  Chapter Six

  They were met in the hallway by Helen Harkness, who commandeered the baby without hesitation and carried him off with infinite care, knowing Simmy was watching her. ‘He’s very unpredictable at the moment,’ Simmy warned her. ‘My mother says it’s a growth spurt.’

  ‘I’ll come and find you if he gets tetchy,’ Ben’s mother promised, and taking the stairs slowly, she disappeared up to her big first-floor studio, where she worked as an architect.

  ‘How much do you know?’ Simmy asked Ben, before he could voice the same question.

  ‘Violent death of a woman in Keswick, foul play suspected. Post-mortem probably already performed and neighbours questioned by police. It’s all out there for public consumption. One report said she worked locally, possibly at the auction house.’ He gave her a very straight look. ‘Which is where I guess you and Chris come in. Who was she?’

  Simmy answered succinctly. ‘Christopher’s right-hand woman, Josephine. Can we sit down before we get into it any further?’

  ‘Sorry. Come on into the dining room.’

  Simmy followed him into a handsome room with a large table in the centre. There were seven in the Harkness family, frequently eating together. The table was much used, not just for meals, but homework, card games, jigsaws – and the laying-out of spreadsheets, flowcharts and algorithms when Ben had a murder to contemplate. It had not been very many months since just such an activity had been conducted, with reference to a killing in Grasmere. ‘Here we are again,’ said Simmy, with very mixed feelings.

  Ben sat down and wasted no more time. ‘What’s her surname?’

  ‘Oh … Um … I don’t know. I don’t think I ever knew.’

  ‘Let’s see, then.’ He tapped the keyboard of a laptop sitting in front of him. ‘I’ve got the auction house website. Here she is – Josephine Trubshaw. Miss or Mrs?’

  ‘I always assumed she was Miss.’

  ‘Trubshaw’s a
good name – echoes of Concorde and all that.’

  Simmy waved this away, knowing better than to ask for her ignorance to be rectified. It was all too easy for Ben – or Bonnie, in recent times – to become badly sidetracked by irrelevancies. ‘There’s a whole lot more you need to know about, that seems to be connected, but might not be,’ she said, thinking of her baby upstairs and the realisation that she had never yet been so far removed from him. What if Helen dropped him? What if a meteor fell onto the roof and crushed everyone on the upper floor?

  ‘Shoot,’ Ben invited.

  She tried to keep her account brief and lucid, but nothing about Fabian Crick lent itself to brevity. She outlined the story about Aunt Hilda and Uncle Richmond, before pausing to think. ‘Fabian’s very strange. Unsettling. Untrustworthy. And quite pathetic at the same time. He uses a mobility scooter to get around because he’s not allowed to drive. Imagine that on the roads up there! We can’t really believe that he killed her – it wouldn’t be physically possible to get there, and he wouldn’t be very difficult to resist. Even Bonnie could probably push him over.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Ben, paying gratifyingly close attention. ‘Not very likely that he’d lie about the car. Too easy to disprove. How old is he?’

  ‘Around sixty, we think. Maybe a bit less.’

  ‘How old was Josephine?’

  Simmy flinched slightly at the ‘was’. ‘Mid fifties, I suppose. He said he knew her ages ago, when they were at school together. Must be forty years nearly. And they kept in touch ever since.’

  ‘That works age-wise, then, more or less.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘People do keep up with old friends, now more than ever,’ Ben said. ‘It’s so easy these days.’

  ‘Hm. I wouldn’t think either of them were natural Facebookers. They sent postcards, apparently.’

  Ben laughed. ‘I gather that’s a thing again. Good business for the post office. Have you heard of an outfit called Postcrossing?’

  ‘No. Is it relevant?’

  ‘Nope. But it’s a very interesting phenomenon. Zoe’s got well into it.’ Zoe was one of Ben’s three younger sisters, and the one Simmy had almost never met.

  ‘Anyway, Josephine told Fabian where he could find Christopher, and he phoned on Saturday then showed up the next day. Apparently Christopher made him a promise ten years ago and he’d come to make good in some way. There’s something horribly sneaky about him. He’s scared of the police, as well. And it doesn’t sound as if he’s got any money.’

  Ben was jotting down notes on a big writing pad. ‘So Aunt Hilda died, leaving a big house. Haven’t we been here before – in Grasmere?’

  ‘Sort of. There’s a lot of it about, according to Christopher. But the crucial thing is – she left it to Josephine!’ She sat back in triumph, watching his face.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So I wonder who gets it now she’s dead as well.’

  Simmy had not thought to ask herself this question, despite it now seeming glaringly obvious. ‘She’ll have a relative somewhere,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Hasn’t everybody?’

  ‘You’re saying you have no idea. Didn’t that strike you right away as the inescapable motive for killing her?’

  ‘Sadly no,’ she confessed. ‘I hadn’t got as far as wondering about a motive.’

  ‘The thing is …’ he tapped his teeth, as he always did when thinking. ‘Unless she made a will leaving it to this Fabian man and his family, they can’t possibly expect to inherit it, can they? And if she did make a will, they’d be such obvious suspects that they’d never dare murder her. We’re assuming it’s a highly desirable house, are we?’

  ‘Presumably. Can you find it online? She was called Hilda Armitage. I assume they’re all called Armitage except Fabian. He wrote some of it down for us when he was giving us some clues about Uncle Richmond.’

  ‘Leave that for a minute. When did Hilda die?’

  ‘Um … I think it must have been about six weeks ago, from what he said. The whole thing feels very recent. Ongoing, in fact. Josephine can hardly have had time to get used to the idea that the house was hers. She never said anything at work – Christopher had no idea.’

  ‘Josephine was probably intending to sell it, then. Make enough to feather a very nice nest in her old age. Did Fabian seem angry about her getting it?’

  ‘Sort of, yes. He blames Christopher, actually. They both believe that if Chris had done as he promised ten years ago, relations between Fabian and his aunt would be so good that she’d have left the house to him. I have my doubts about that. It feels very flimsy – like nearly everything he told us, in fact. It was amazing how little actual hard information he gave us. It was nearly all waffle and self-pity. He stayed for ages, but we still didn’t really know what he wanted by the end. Just find Uncle Richmond and see if he could be helpful in bringing them all back together. There’s got to be more to it than that – Uncle Richmond isn’t lost, just detached. Out on a limb, not having anything to do with the family, even his own sons. Didn’t sound very unusual or mysterious to me – although I think Fabian hoped it would. He’d heard about you, of course. I guess that’s really the heart of it, even if I can’t work out how.’

  ‘Ten years is a long time. Did Chris remember him?’

  ‘It’s not really so long,’ Simmy corrected him. ‘I can remember my thirtieth birthday as if it was just a few months ago.’ She chuckled. ‘That’s funny – I must ask Christopher what he was doing for his. We were born on the same day, you know.’

  ‘I know. You’ve told me at least twenty-nine times.’

  ‘Anyway, Christopher never expected to have to keep his promise to Fabian. He only made it because he was convinced the man was dying. He can’t remember exactly what it was he was supposed to do, except he said he’d go to Ullswater and see Aunt Hilda. Something about reassuring her that her nephew had been thinking of her right to the end. Christopher thought at the time that he’d easily manage it because his family were all living up here and it didn’t seem especially arduous. I think he thought he might get round to it if he had the time – but then his plans changed and he didn’t come back here for another year or two, and by then it was all forgotten.’

  ‘So the Crick man survived the sleeping sickness, checked things out in Ullswater and worked up a right old grudge against Henderson Esquire after a delay of ten years.’

  ‘More or less. But at the risk of contradicting myself, it does seem that quite a lot of years went by before he did anything about it. He didn’t say where he’d been in the meantime. Or if he did, I can’t remember. They thought Aunt Hilda would die ages before she finally did.’

  ‘Seems to be a family pattern – outliving all expectations. How old is Uncle Richmond?’

  ‘Seventy-something, I suppose. Fabian didn’t say exactly, but he was a lot younger than Hilda.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what we can find, then.’ He turned back to the laptop and fell silent. Simmy sat back in the dining chair and tried to recall anything more about Fabian Crick’s visit that might be relevant to the killing of poor Josephine. Nothing came to mind, and her thoughts immediately drifted to Christopher and how he would react to his interview with the police. Was there any danger that they might regard him as a suspect? Josephine had nursed a very obvious devotion to him, which some people might think was enough to drive him to lash out at her in frustration. Instead, Simmy had a feeling he had rather enjoyed it, while pretending to think it was all imaginary anyway, and he had always been careful never to wound Josephine’s feelings. He would miss her personally as well as an invaluable part of the team at work. The younger members of the staff treated her with wary respect on the whole, despite her schoolgirl yearnings. She was extremely good at her job – brisk, polite, knowledgeable. The more she thought about it, the more Simmy discovered she knew about the woman.

  ‘Here we are,’ Ben announced. ‘“Miss Hilda Armitage, long-time resident of Jasmine House, Ullswater, has died at th
e age of ninety-one. Well known as a keen collector of Victorian porcelain, memorabilia and other objects … a colourful life … da-da-da … acute business sense … a rare female entrepreneur in a male world … The deceased leaves two brothers and three nephews, and other more distant relatives. Measures have been taken to safeguard the valuable contents of the house, until issues of inheritance have been resolved.” The local paper, five weeks ago. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.’

  Simmy snorted. ‘I was a bit busy at the time, trying to organise hot and cold running water in the house, making sure Bonnie would be all right in the shop and a thousand other things. And that must have been just around Mother’s Day, which was even more of a palaver this year than usual.’

  ‘I wonder what Josephine did with the porcelain and memorabilia,’ mused Ben.

  ‘She hasn’t sold it, or Christopher would know about it.’

  ‘It’s rather vague. Doesn’t say what sort of entrepreneur Hilda was. Did Fabian tell you that?’

  Simmy shook her head, and Ben returned to his keyboard. ‘Must be here somewhere,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s try directorships …’ He fell quiet while the Internet worked its magic. ‘Got it! She was founder and CEO of an outfit called Avicat. Short for Aviation Catering. You’d never guess, would you? She supplied meals for long-haul flights.’ He scanned the screen. ‘High quality, aimed at business class and above, supplied to eighteen frontline airlines. Founded in 1982, when the market must have been expanding exponentially. Good for Aunt Hilda!’ He turned to Simmy. ‘Must have made a fortune.’ He looked again and discovered that the whole business had been sold nine years earlier, for a very handsome figure.