The Troutbeck Testimony (19 page)

Bonnie looked as if she’d been slapped. Corinne put a sheltering arm around her shoulders. ‘No need to be like that,’ she told Simmy.

‘I think there’s every need. You don’t seem to understand what you’ve done. It’s completely outrageous …’ she spluttered in speechless indignation, to be saved by Moxon coming into the shop.

‘If you two ladies would come with me,’ he began without preamble, ‘we can leave Mrs Brown in peace. I think she’s had enough disruption for one afternoon.’

Simmy threw him a grateful look. ‘I was just asking them to go,’ she said.

‘Are you arresting us?’ Corinne blustered.

‘Of course not. You can drop the melodrama. We need to ask you some questions – which must be obvious, even to you.’ He regarded her with an unsettlingly placid gaze, which plainly conveyed his lack of surprise or concern at anything she might say.

‘And me?’ said Bonnie. ‘Again?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Possibly not you,’ he conceded. ‘For now, anyway.’

They left in a group, to join Vic who was waiting like a patient horse on the pavement. Simmy wondered how Moxon would get them all down to the police station, half a mile away, and visualised a sort of small crocodile walking purposefully along, and attracting interested glances as they went.

Ben and Melanie came in, half a minute later, and suddenly everything felt familiar and normal again. ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ said Simmy.

By a small miracle – or so it felt – a customer came in moments later. Melanie stepped forward and helped with a choice of flowers for the weekend. Ben made himself useful straightening the two lines of pots and pails that comprised Bonnie’s arrangement.

‘Don’t talk,’ Simmy pleaded, when she came back with three mugs of tea. ‘At least, nothing that’s going to hurt my brain.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Melanie cheerfully. ‘He’s bursting with it. Look at him!’

It was true that Ben was in a state of great excitement.
His eyes sparkled and he couldn’t keep still. ‘That was so …
epic
!’ he marvelled. ‘All those people, right in the middle of things. Poor old Moxo didn’t know where to turn.’ He laughed. ‘He’s not the brightest of blokes, is he? I thought he’d never get to grips with it all.’

‘And you did, I suppose,’ said Simmy. ‘Honestly, Ben, you make me feel exhausted just to look at you. Besides, it really isn’t that exciting. Think of my poor father. And bloody Bonnie,’ she added furiously. ‘That girl …’

Both youngsters looked at her in astonishment. ‘What did Bonnie do?’ asked Melanie, at the same time as Ben demanded, ‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s always
there
. She’s like some supernatural creature, popping up and causing trouble. She was even at the funeral, at Valerie Rossiter’s side. That was weird enough. Then she’s upstairs tormenting my dad. She always looks as if she knows what’s going to happen next.’ She shook her head in confusion. ‘How
dare
she take them upstairs, like that? I
told
her I wouldn’t allow it. And nobody seems to see it but me,’ she finished helplessly. ‘Look at you, both of you, all ready to jump to her defence.’

She remembered how, only half an hour before, she’d thought it sweet that Ben and Bonnie were getting along so well together. Now she felt as if the boy was in grave danger. ‘And she’s such an innocent little thing, I know. That’s what people think. That’s what
I
thought. But now I see it in a different way. I think she’s malicious. And I don’t like that dog, either,’ she finished with a flourish. The bile was pouring out of her, and she felt better for it.

‘Blimey, Sim,’ said Melanie. ‘She’s really rattled your cage, hasn’t she?’

‘Whatever that means,’ snapped Simmy.

‘It’s only that she’s clever,’ said Ben quietly. ‘That’s all it is, you know. Clever people are annoying, for some reason. It’s not her fault.’

‘Like you annoy Moxon,’ nodded Melanie. ‘Let me say now, Ben, that you’re not to marry Bonnie. Two clever people together is a waste. You should spread the genes around a bit, and both marry thickoes. Besides, you’d be sure to annoy each other a million times more than other people.’

Ben flushed a deep red and scowled.

‘Stop it,’ said Simmy, like a mother. She looked at her watch. ‘Nearly four! Why’s business so slow today? Fridays are normally quite busy.’

‘Duh! Think about it,’ said Melanie, with a roll of her good eye. ‘What has everybody in the whole town been doing this afternoon?’

‘Oh, yes. Silly me. The funeral. I might as well shut up shop for the day, then, don’t you think?’

‘Up to you. The after-the-funeral business will have finished by now, so people might decide to do some shopping next. Is there something else you’d rather be doing? Have you got everything sorted for tomorrow’s wedding?’

Simmy hardly knew where to start. She wanted to be with her father, most of all. She also wanted to sit down with DI Nolan Moxon and try to discover just where she and Russell stood regarding their observations in Troutbeck. But he would be much too busy to go along with any such exercise. She also felt a lingering concern for Vic Corless, who might yet prove to be a murderer, but who had kind, sad eyes and a basic good nature, if she was
any judge. He wasn’t very bright, and that was working to his disadvantage. It seemed a shame.

‘I feel a bit sorry for that man Vic,’ she said, ducking Melanie’s questions.

‘Whatever for?’

‘I keep remembering how he fell over in the mud, and how he came to talk to me the next day. I thought he was being threatening, but now I wonder if I got it wrong. He might have just wanted to talk about his friend getting killed.’

‘I’m not sure we’ve heard the whole story. What time was it when you talked to him?’

‘Oh, Ben,’ she sighed. ‘Something like seven, I suppose. It was evening, and I was in the garden. Everything was lovely and peaceful. And then he came and told me there’d been a murder, down by Town End. He’s just explained all that to us. There’s nothing more to say about it.’

‘We can’t be sure. Do you know him?’ Ben asked Melanie.

‘I know the name. Never actually met him before. He’s got a brother they call Hank. I did see him a few times when I was about nine. He had a bit of a thing with my mum’s young sister, for a while. Had a kiddie with her – called it Madison, for some reason. He’ll be nine or ten by now. Lives with Vic’s mum most of the time.’

Simmy felt hopelessly beleaguered by the complexities of local relationships. ‘So he’s the father of your cousin. Good God, Mel! Is there
anybody
round here you’re not related to?’

‘Course there is. And I’m not actually
related
to Vic, am I? It’s no big deal.’

‘She is pretty much linked to almost everybody, all the same,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t forget Bonnie’s best friends with Chloe. That’s why Mel brought her along as her replacement.’

‘I realise that,’ said Simmy, with a sense of actually understanding very little of the connections and currents existing just below the surface. Windermere was small enough for everybody to know everybody, particularly those families who’d been there for generations. Remove the incomers and the visitors and you were left with a close-knit community with centuries of shared history. ‘It’s the reason I keep trying to give Bonnie the benefit of the doubt. But after today, I’m not managing too well. I never know what she’ll do next.’

‘Like bringing you face to face with Murray-the-stalker,’ laughed Melanie. ‘I bet that’s the first and last time he’s ever going to step inside a flower shop. Did he knock anything over?’

‘The dog did, when it flew at him.’

‘Wow – did it bite him?’

‘No. He wasn’t even scared of it. And nothing actually tipped over. I was exaggerating.’

Ben was ignoring much of this exchange, staring hard at a bucket of lilies, plainly lost in thought. ‘We need to get back to basics. I can’t get some of it straight at all – especially who knew what and when.’

‘Stop it,’ said Simmy again. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m giving it ten more minutes, and then I’m closing up and finishing the wedding flowers in peace. You two can go.’

‘You forgot something,’ said Melanie. ‘I’ve only just thought of it.’

‘What?’

‘You’re meant to deliver flowers to an address in Bowness. Didn’t they ask for Friday afternoon?’

Simmy stared in horror. Never once had she forgotten an order so completely. ‘I haven’t even chosen the flowers for it.’

‘Won’t take long. It’s still the afternoon. You won’t be very late.’ Melanie was briskly reassuring, but showed no sign of lending a hand. ‘Shut the shop and do it now,’ she advised. ‘We’re going.’

They went and eight minutes later Simmy was trotting out to her van with a handsome sheaf of spring flowers for a Miss Lucy Lacey on Longtail Hill. ‘Lucy Lacey,’ Simmy muttered. ‘Must remember to tell Dad that one.’

The delivery took half an hour, from leaving the shop to parking the van back in its customary spot. The drive had cleared Simmy’s head, and she felt reprieved from having to worry any more about murder or arson or convoluted theories. The wedding flowers were all completed over the next hour. It was to be a simple country ceremony, requiring nothing gaudy or complicated, which Simmy found very appealing.

It was a bright evening, and the prospect of simply going home as usual wasn’t very enticing. So she opted to do something she had done a few times before, and pay a quiet visit to the grave which would be piled high with floral tributes, many of them created by her. It was always satisfying to see the results of her labours, and it might give her a moment to say her own few words to the deceased. 

She walked up to St Mary’s and let herself into the graveyard. Only when she had rounded the corner, past the big dark church, did she see Valerie Rossiter kneeling by the fresh grave with a large yellow dog at her side.

Simmy had every intention of creeping away without disturbing the grieving woman. But the dog heard her and stood up, his tail slowly wagging. Valerie looked round and saw her. ‘Hello,’ she said flatly.

‘I’m terribly sorry. I really don’t want to disturb you. How awful of me.’

‘It’s all right. It’s sweet of you to come. I decided I had to retrieve this, after all.’ She held out her hand, the palm flat. In the middle of it sat the little porcelain flower. ‘After all – what would become of it otherwise?’

‘I’m glad you did. You’re feeling better, then?’

‘Pardon?’ The expression on her face was of sheer disbelief. ‘
Better
?’

Simmy shook her head. ‘Sorry. That was stupid question.’

‘Oh – you mean because of my ridiculous fainting fit at the funeral. Well, yes, I suppose I can walk and talk again now. I don’t know what came over me.’ She was still
kneeling on the grass, and put a hand on the dog’s stalwart back. ‘I suppose I’ve been rather short of sleep for a long time now. I’m planning to spend a week in bed, starting from tomorrow.’

‘Good idea.’

‘You know – I’ve just had enough of all those
people
. It’s a huge shock to the system for a recluse like me. I thought I was tougher than this,’ she finished miserably.

This time, Simmy thought of Ninian on his little fell, ignoring the phone and forgetting his friends.

‘I should go,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to. You’ve been great, you know. I’m always going to associate you with flowers and nice smells. Roddy likes you too.’

Simmy looked past the woman, wondering who she meant until the dog wagged again at his name. She felt hot and embarrassed at the words of approval.

‘Oh dear,’ said Valerie. ‘I’m sorry to discomfit you. You just seemed so kind and understanding when I came about the flowers. And then again today, after the funeral, there you were, all calm and collected. I suppose you just felt like a port in a storm, or something.’

Simmy looked at her more closely. She hadn’t changed, and the funeral clothes were now oddly dark and sinister. Black trousers and a tailored jacket, with a dark green shirt underneath had been perfect for the occasion, but now the jacket was losing its shape, the trousers scattered with dog hairs. ‘Well … I’m glad about that.’

Valerie finally got to her feet. She looked uncomfortable and warm. As if to confirm this impression, she began to fumble uninhibitedly at her chest, tweaking an invisible
undergarment impatiently. ‘This bloody bra!’ she complained. ‘How do women wear them all day, every day? This is the first time I’ve put one on for a good ten years. It’s too small for me. I can hardly breathe. It was probably that which made me faint.’

Simmy wished her mother were there, as an ally for Valerie. She too found bras intolerable.

‘Maybe you could slip into the church and take it off,’ she suggested, with a little laugh.

‘No, no,’ said Valerie with a small bitter laugh. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll go home in a minute.’

‘You live somewhere up past Cook’s Corner, is that right?’

‘Bit further than that, but we enjoy the walk.’ She flushed slightly, and Simmy wondered whether she was reproaching herself for using the word ‘enjoy’. She remembered in her own case that any hint of lightness or optimism brought waves of guilt with them, in the first days after losing baby Edith.

She instinctively sought to reduce the pain by keeping the conversation going, focusing on mundane details. ‘Have you got people staying?’

‘Actually, no.’ Valerie laughed again, more sadly than before. ‘And that’s even worse. I’m a mess, as you can tell. They did try to warn me. There was a lovely Macmillan nurse who told me I should make plans for when all the caring stopped. I did most of it, you know. Lifting Barb in and out of bed, taking her to the loo, pushing the wheelchair. Just being with her all day. It’s like losing half of my body with her gone.’

The silence was palpable, and she sighed. ‘Sorry. That
sounds like self-pity, doesn’t it? The great British taboo. And it’s not even entirely true. I should be thinking about getting my life back. All I’ve done for ten years is try to keep another woman happy. I’ve almost forgotten I’m a separate person.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Maybe I’m not, after all this time.’

‘Of course you are. But it’ll take a while before you believe it.’

‘You sound as if you know what you’re talking about.’

‘Sort of. I lost a baby.’ The words never came easily. She never knew how to arrange her face as she said them. ‘She was stillborn.’

‘You poor thing.’ The words were uttered with evident sincerity, and Simmy warmed to the woman as a result. ‘I’ve never been pregnant. It’s always struck me as terribly
dangerous
.’

‘It was for me, I suppose. I never thought of it like that.’

‘I grew up in Poland, you know. Even in the sixties, everything felt precarious. Life was cheap.’ She paused. ‘No, that’s not right. But life had to be
earned
. We all knew we were survivors, and that meant we had to justify ourselves. It was a huge relief to come here when I was twenty.’

‘Your English is perfect.’

‘Thank you. I don’t feel foreign any more. Barbara helped with that.’ Her face changed as she spoke, turning grey and pouchy. ‘God help me, whatever am I going to do now?’

‘Take it a day at a time,’ said Simmy. It was a platitude, but she knew it carried its own small wisdom. ‘Be nice to yourself.’

Valerie gave a brief rueful smile. ‘Easy to say.’

Simmy looked at her watch, letting the woman see what she was doing. ‘I’m sorry, but I should be going now. I really am sorry I disturbed you.’

‘You didn’t. It was just what I needed – a little chat with somebody so well balanced and understanding.’ She bent down to grasp the dog’s lead, her features still tragic. ‘Thanks for listening.’

They parted company with Simmy thinking how likeable the woman was, and how it might even be possible in the future to approach her again with a view to forging a friendship.

She should be finishing off the bouquets and table pieces for the wedding next day, but she felt too weary. She could find time next morning, if she got up half an hour early. The simple ceremony planned for the next day was a relief after the complicated funeral. The couple were realistic in their expenditure, and probably in their expectations. The sort of wedding, she fantasised, that she would have herself if there was ever to be a second time around. A few well-chosen guests, everything over with by suppertime, and on with the much more important business of living with another person.

She sighed. It felt so unlikely as to be the wildest of dreams. Even if matters progressed with Ninian, they were highly unlikely to lead to marriage. What would they do for money? How would he incorporate a wife into his ascetic lifestyle? And why, for heaven’s sake, was she thinking about marrying anybody anyway?

She made her way on foot down a small street towards Lake Road and her parents’ house. She hadn’t consciously
intended to go back there, but when she caught herself heading that way, she realised she was still worried about her father. Presumably she would have been told if he had been taken to hospital after all, but there was still a worry over his health. Besides, her car was somewhere near Beck View. For the moment, she couldn’t recall exactly where she’d left it so many hours before. Juggling the florist’s van and her own car regularly meant that neither vehicle was quite where she wanted it to be.

The front door was locked again when she tried the handle, so she rang the bell. Her mother appeared quickly, looking unflurried.

‘Is everything all right?’ Simmy asked.

‘Absolutely fine. Don’t worry about us. Get home and have a quiet evening. That’s what we’re going to do.’

‘Aren’t there any guests?’

‘Yes, but we’ve told them not to bother us unless the house is on fire. They thought we were joking,’ she added darkly. Simmy understood that matters were not entirely calm, after all. Her mother was doing her best to ensure that Russell had no further disturbances that day, including further discussions about murder with his daughter.

‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘I might call in tomorrow, after I close up. You can give me some lunch.’

Angie sighed. ‘If we must,’ she said, with characteristic lack of hospitality. Simmy sometimes wondered just how it had ever come about that this woman not only ran a bed-and-breakfast service, but that she had made such a massive success of it. When it came to visits from friends and family, she could often be decidedly unwelcoming.

‘Where did I leave my car, I wonder?’ she mumbled as she turned away. Her mother either didn’t hear her, or saw no reason to reveal her ignorance of the answer. Instead she closed the door with a snap.

Her vehicle was not visible in the road running past the house, and Simmy racked her brains as to where she’d parked earlier that day. She’d left it in some small street without any conscious thought, being so completely occupied by the funeral to come. It must be in one of the streets on either side of the library, she supposed, and set out to track it down, feeling a familiar panic that she might never find it. She even had dreams now and then, where she combed the streets, with their tree names, vainly searching for her car.

She had begun to wonder whether it could possibly have been stolen, when a man called her from behind. Surely it couldn’t be, she thought. Was he
never
going to leave her alone? She turned impatiently at the unmistakeable, ‘Mrs Brown. Hold on a minute.’

It was Detective Inspector Moxon, of course. He looked heavy and weary and at least as surprised to see her as she was to see him. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure it was you at first.’

‘I can’t find my car,’ she complained. ‘I left it here somewhere.’

‘It’s over there, look. Right behind mine.’ He pointed a few yards ahead. ‘I recognised it.’

She didn’t pause to ask how in the world he knew her vehicle. It was months since he’d last seen it, as far as she was aware. But he answered anyway. ‘The broken wing mirror. Someone’s done a good job with the duct tape.’

‘My dad,’ she nodded, with a pang. Would Russell ever again be competent to fix such problems? The very question brought a lump to her throat.

‘I’ve just popped out for a bit of shopping,’ he explained, waving a white plastic bag in the air. ‘I’m taking the evening off.’

‘Good for you. Thanks for pointing out the car. It’s daft of me to lose it.’

‘Come in for a minute,’ he invited, astonishingly. ‘This is where I live.’ He tilted his head at the house adjacent to them. ‘Have a cup of tea or something.’

‘What?’ The rudeness was unavoidable. Since when did senior police detectives invite women they’d been questioning on criminal matters in for tea? Although, she supposed, she wasn’t actually
accused
of anything criminal. She wasn’t even much of a witness. If any testimony was still regarded as meaningful, it was that of her father.

‘It’s all right. My wife’s at home. You’ll be perfectly safe.’ He smiled ruefully and all her assumptions about him fell to dust.