The Ambleside Alibi: 2 (20 page)

‘They came to see me yesterday,’ Simmy said. ‘I thought Gwen was nice. She brought me some bedsocks. Nicola says she often visits people in hospital.’

‘What if she does?’ Melanie dismissed. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘Isn’t it? What does she do for a job?’

‘College lecturer,’ said Melanie promptly. Unlike Simmy, Melanie always knew immediately what a person did for a living. The information seemed to arrive telepathically sometimes. ‘Psychology, at Carlisle.’

‘And Nicola?’ Simmy felt ashamed that she still had no idea of the answer.

‘Nothing much, as far as I know. She’s on the board of governors at the primary school where she lives, and she volunteers for things. Samaritans or something. And 
they’ve got a real showpiece of a house, so I guess she does a lot of dusting.’

Something about her impression of Nicola Joseph made this all too credible to Simmy. Angie Straw laughed scornfully and Ben cleared his throat.

‘This is third-hand material,’ he said. ‘It’s not really very useful.’

‘It’s a bit weird that somebody wanting to talk about her murdered sister should end up talking about the Joseph family,’ said Simmy slowly. ‘Even if your gran did steer the conversation that way. What about
Nancy
? She’s at the heart of all this. She’s the victim.’ The word tasted bitter in her mouth; bitter and spiky.

‘I get the idea there wasn’t actually much to say about her. Nasty Nancy has finally done something good by getting herself killed, according to Gran. Penny admits she didn’t like her much after they were sent to different schools. Nancy was always boasting and throwing her weight about. So now Penny feels guilty. But Gran wasn’t having any of that and told her she had nothing to feel bad about.’

‘Did that do any good?’ asked Russell, who had not appeared to be following the conversation very closely. ‘It’s bad when somebody you dislike dies. You can’t help feeling you did it, somehow.’

‘You and Gwen should get together,’ said Simmy. ‘You could talk psychology at each other.’ She said it lightly, with a smile, but the others took it as a sign that she was not her usual self. For her, it came over as rather a sharp remark.

‘Enough of this,’ said Angie. ‘You’ll be late, Ben. To be honest, I’m surprised they’re going ahead with the play, when there’s all this snow about.’

‘Too late to cancel,’ he shrugged. ‘And it’s not going to be so bad, after all. Latest I heard, it’s mostly to the east of here. Over the high ground, as usual.’

‘What about tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow’s going to be okay. Eight degrees and some sunshine. It’ll all melt by lunchtime.’

Simmy stared at him. ‘So I needn’t have come home today after all?’

Angie gave a muffled yelp. ‘Aren’t you
glad
you came today?’

‘Yes, of course. But all that panic and bustle for nothing. It seems stupid.’

Melanie fixed her single eye on her. ‘You’re in a funny mood,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt somewhere?’

‘Actually, no, not much. It’s not really very bad. Some of the bruises are sore, still. I suppose I’ve been lucky.’

‘What about the shop?’ Melanie asked. ‘Are you really staying closed until the new year?’

‘I’ll have to, I think.’ She paused, choosing her words slowly. ‘You know that potter chap – Ninian?’

Melanie nodded. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s offered to cover for me in the shop, if need be. Obviously I said I’d have to talk it over with you, and that you might be able to manage. I think I’ll be almost better by then anyway.’

She could see Melanie wrestling with conflicting reactions. ‘He’d have no
idea
,’ she began. ‘He’d be worse than useless.’ Then she frowned. ‘But I can’t miss any college work. Term starts on the 10th. I can’t be full-time after that.’

‘That gives us more than three weeks,’ said Simmy, with
confidence. ‘Plenty of time to work out what we’ll do.’

‘Well, I’ve coped so far, haven’t I? Since Sunday I’ve done everything required, without you even asking. I put a sign up saying we’re away until further notice. Told the delivery people, and put a stop on new orders. There’s a lot of wastage,’ she finished sadly. Melanie grieved for every flower they threw away. ‘I should go again tomorrow, and tidy up some more.’

‘Thanks, Mel. You’ve been really good.’

Melanie wriggled self-consciously. ‘No problem,’ she mumbled.

‘Tell the Moxo man, then – about Nancy Clark’s sister,’ Ben urged her. ‘He’s sure to come and see you sometime soon.’

‘I thought you had a direct line to him yourself,’ she said. ‘Why do I have to do it?’

‘Because you’re the adult. He takes more notice of you.’

‘No, Ben. That’s not true. He was hugely impressed by your dossier thing. He said so.’

‘Well he never told me.’

‘He will. He’s not too good at that sort of thing, probably.’

‘It’s all daughters and sisters, isn’t it,’ Ben changed the subject. ‘Have you noticed? People who know a whole lot about each other – or ought to. All those women, with barely a man in the story at all.’

‘Except Mr Kitchener. He’s about the only one I haven’t seen in the past week.’ She thought about the sad little man and the police suspicions around him. ‘I wonder if he’s all right.’

Ben snorted. ‘Lying low, if you ask me.’

Russell gave a soft clap. ‘Well done, my boy!’

They all looked at him in confusion. ‘What did I do?’ asked Ben.

‘Used the right word. I always want to scream whenever I hear someone say “laying low” or “lay of the land”. You got it right. Hallelujah!’

‘You’re just a pedant,’ Simmy told him fondly. Her spirits lifted like someone removing a damp smelly blanket and letting in the light and fresh air. ‘And I’m so pleased to be here with you.’

Ben was considering the grammatical point. ‘If you say “lay of the land”, does that suggest a creator – someone who laid it out? Is that why Americans use it, because they’re so religious?’

Russell responded with delight. ‘I think not. I think it’s wrong, even then. But it’s a most intriguing point you raise.’

‘Oh, you two,’ sighed Simmy with a smile. But she still retained a picture of Mr Kitchener, who had seemed so grateful to her for the alibi, but who then might have pitched her into the beck and tried to kill her.

The evening passed slowly, with a low-level tension affecting all three of them in different ways. Angie continued to ask questions sporadically. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to go outside? Should we tell the police that you’re home? Does anybody
really
think there’s a connection between the murder of that Clark woman and you being assaulted?’ Simmy did her best to answer, even though she and her father were trying to settle down with an old DVD of
On
Golden Pond
. It always made them both cry, which was something they enjoyed. The scratchy father-daughter relationship in the film made them feel complacent. Angie always made some comment about not being in the least like Katharine Hepburn, despite what people might think. She had lost count of the times, throughout her life, in which she had been compared to the film star. Russell made no secret of the fact that the likeness had been one of her major attractions for him, back in the 1970s.

‘I’d much rather remind you of Lauren Bacall,’ she would insist. ‘Or Faye Dunaway, even better.’

‘They’re all tall and wisecracking,’ he would concede. ‘You’re just a glorious mixture of all three.’

And all considerably older than Angie, Simmy would think. Stars from a time long gone, just as her father’s favourite music groups had either died or withered into unrecognisable old age. Christine McVie was over seventy, for heaven’s sake. It was becoming more apparent with every year that her father essentially lived in the past. His contributions to the running of the B&B centred largely on lengthy breakfast homilies about the history of the southern Lake District, and quite a lot of the shopping.

Which meant he took an oddly peripheral interest in Simmy and her activities. He almost never visited her shop. He had dodged the darker implications of her current injuries, and only listened to conversations for their accurate use of grammar. She thought about all this as they watched the movie, and realised how restful it made him. Russell Straw seldom asked questions. He let most things flow quietly past him without feeling that anything was being demanded of him. The kind of man that many women despaired of as a husband, but which made a surprisingly good father.

Bedtime involved some complications which did little for anybody’s temper. Russell made himself scarce, fussing over his cat and making milky drinks. Angie hovered irritatingly while Simmy went to the downstairs loo, washing minimally and cleaning her teeth in the small handbasin. The bed was a narrow fold-up affair, kept for emergencies in a cupboard. It sagged under Simmy’s modest weight, and squealed every time she moved. 

But in the end she slept soundly, worn out by the trials of the day. The padding around her pelvis sank into a hollow part of the ancient mattress as if it had been specially made to fit. Her damaged head was similarly cradled by a feather-filled pillow that Angie said had belonged to her grandmother – which made it well over a century old. Few things ever got thrown away in the Straw household.

In the morning, Angie brought her a substantial breakfast, with no prior consultation. The relief of this gave Simmy considerable optimism for the day to come. December 18th, a week before Christmas Day, was going to be lazy, warm, and full of simple tasks like helping to make mince pies or stringing up cards that had come in their dozens from friends and one-time B&B guests. ‘It’s amazing, the number of people who remember the address and send a card,’ said Angie. ‘I never know where to put them all.’

‘I’ll get up at ten,’ said Simmy, feeling virtuous. Some people in her situation would stay in bed all day. Except it wasn’t the sort of bed you could stay in, once you were awake. It had no headboard, for a start, so sitting up was impossible. And it was narrow, so you couldn’t spread sideways and strew newspapers across it. When her bladder demanded a trip to the lavatory at nine, with all the effort involved with the crutches, she realised she’d be better in the kitchen, rather than wallowing in the rickety old bed.

And that meant putting some clothes on. She didn’t want a repeat of the previous day, when she had entertained visitors in her pyjamas. For the first time in many days, she had to think properly about clothes. Only the baggiest of garments would be possible. Her usual jeans wouldn’t
fasten around the dressings and any sort of tight top would hurt her bruises. ‘Have you got a tracksuit or something that I could borrow?’ she asked her mother.

Angie considered. Accustomed to finding spare clothes for children, it was much less usual to have to provide them for adults. People did return from their fell walks covered in mud, from time to time, but they generally had something with them to change into. And if they didn’t, they were too self-conscious and fussy to accept anything Angie might have to offer. ‘I might find something,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and look.’

She came back with a shapeless jersey two-piece outfit, in a colour between grey and lilac. ‘I thought a skirt would be easier than trousers,’ she said. ‘It’s got a stretchy waistband.’

Simmy grimaced, before putting it on. ‘Where did it come from?’ she wondered. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’

‘I think I got it in a jumble sale ages ago. I quite like the top.’

The top was long and spacious, with full sleeves and a high neck. ‘It’s silk!’ Simmy realised. ‘Silk and wool, look.’ She showed Angie the label. ‘It must have cost a fortune when it was new.’

The skirt was full and reached almost to her ankles. ‘It’ll trip me up,’ she worried. But when she swung her way down the passage to the kitchen, the skirt simply adapted itself to her movements as if it knew what was required. It was a strangely feminine sensation that she had almost forgotten. ‘It must be a year or more since I last wore a skirt,’ she laughed.

‘You look fantastic in it,’ said Angie.

‘Don’t sound so surprised. Look at me, Dad.’

Russell was in the kitchen with the local paper, a mug of coffee at his elbow. He looked up, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘Of course not.’ Only then did she remember the snow. ‘How’s the weather?’

‘Just as your young friend predicted. Sunny spells. No more snow. All a flash in the pan.’

‘Good,’ said Simmy. ‘I might get you to take me up to Troutbeck later on, then. I need to get some clothes and things.’

‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

‘Much better than I should. I feel a real fraud. I’m going to take this stuff off my head, I think. It’s been on for ages.’

Angie gulped audibly. ‘Do you think you should? What’s underneath?’

‘A few stitches, and a big bald spot. How long does hair take to grow again?’

‘Better ask the cat,’ said Russell. ‘His is coming through a whole different colour.’

‘He’s got stripes. It’s not the same. Isn’t there something called “underfur”?’

‘Don’t ask me. I suppose yours will take a while. You could have it cut all over, to match. The Sinéad O’Connor look.’

‘Careful, Dad. She’s a bit recent for you. Can’t be much more than twenty-five years ago she first had a hit.’

‘I don’t care for the music, but I can recognise her by her head.’ He ran a hand over his own luxuriant grey covering. ‘I’ve often wondered what mine would look like if I went bald. We don’t know the shape of our own heads, do we?’

It
was
going to be a good day. She could feel it. Her
injuries were healing, her brief but dramatic collapse the day before almost forgotten. Ambleside seemed a long way off, and entirely different from the gentle lowlands of Windermere. ‘I think I’ll just wear a woolly hat for a few months,’ she decided.

‘Good idea,’ said Angie. ‘And don’t pull the dressing off, there’s a good girl. You might damage something.’

‘Somebody said there might be a nurse calling in to look at me,’ she remembered. ‘Will they phone first, I wonder?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. They’ll expect you to be here, won’t they?’

Conversation continued in a desultory way, Angie unnaturally idle, in the absence of any B&B people. Only gradually did Simmy grasp the reason for the difference in atmosphere. ‘Where are they?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t you have people coming?’

‘We put them off,’ said her mother easily. ‘It was only a few, and we’d intended to be closed for the next two weeks, anyway.’

‘But you had bookings for this weekend.’ Her own self-absorption seemed shameful to her. ‘I never even
thought
about it.’

‘No problem,’ said Russell emphatically. ‘We needed the break. It’s only brought it forward by a few days. You’re the priority now. And the cat,’ he added. ‘He’s much happier with all this peace and quiet.’

A quiet that was abruptly shattered by the pealing of the doorbell. ‘Damn!’ said Russell. ‘When will I learn not to tempt fate like that?’

He slapped his paper down, and made a big production of hauling himself to his feet and shambling down the
passage like a much older man. ‘Maybe it’s my nurse,’ Simmy called after him.

It wasn’t a nurse. It was Detective Inspector Moxon, freshly shaven, but not very thoroughly brushed. Her father escorted him into the kitchen, with eyes wide. ‘It’s the cops,’ he said.

‘I’ve only just heard about you being discharged,’ Moxon began accusingly. ‘It’s a wonder I didn’t waste half the morning driving down to Barrow. Luckily I called them first.’

She bit back an apology. Since when had she been expected to inform the police of her movements? She could feel her mother bristling with these and similar thoughts, as she leant back against the worktop by the sink and gave the detective a hostile stare. Simmy remembered that they had never met before. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

Her father indicated a wooden chair tucked under the big pine table; Moxon pulled it out and sat down. ‘We’re still trying to find that girl,’ he explained. ‘But we have far too little to go on.’

‘Didn’t the Troutbeck men help?’

‘Nobody knows who they are. It’s as if that whole incident never happened.’

‘Well, it did.’

‘I believe you. But we need more help.’

‘From me?’

‘I’m afraid so. How are you now? You look … fine.’ He smiled stiffly. ‘You look like a whole new person.’

‘I think it’s just that I’m forty years younger than most people the hospital has to deal with. My bones mend more quickly.’

‘So …’ He gave Angie and Russell a look that mixed authority with polite placation. ‘Would there be a chance of you riding with me up to Troutbeck to try and sort this out?’

Simmy was amazed at the leap of excitement the suggestion produced. She had believed herself to be quite content to spend a week reading and doing puzzles and watching old films. Now, it seemed, she was every bit as keen as Ben Harkness to get on the trail of a murderer. But she needed to think logically before responding.

‘Can’t you just ask at the shop for the name of a man who takes
The Independent
and lives at Town Head?’

Moxon grimaced. ‘We
could
, yes. But it’s not always a good idea to jump in like that, in a small community. What if the chap’s already got gossip going about him, over something else? It would unbalance things if word got out that the police were interested in him. And …’ he held up a silencing finger ‘don’t say we could do it under cover, anonymously. There’s no such thing as an undercover detective out here. We’re all much too well known. Especially in a place like Troutbeck, where there’s such a tight network of old friends and relations.’

‘You sound like Melanie,’ she said.

‘Miss Todd understands how it works, as well as anybody does.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You were ahead of us on that – getting her granny to talk like that was an inspiration.’

‘She wouldn’t have done it with you, though. She doesn’t really like the police.’

A quiet snort from Angie made it plain that Mrs Ellis wasn’t the only one.

‘Come on, then,’ said Simmy decisively. ‘You can take
me to my house at the same time. Can I go like this?’ She looked down at herself, in the elegant suit that had settled itself around her as if finally finding the exact right person to wear it. In Angie’s hands it had seemed baggy and old, to the point of embarrassment. Now it was rapidly establishing itself as the best thing she’d ever worn. ‘I don’t think there is anything else here, actually.’

‘You look splendid. But you’ll need a coat as well.’

Her mother made no difficulty about finding a fleecy jacket and a pair of gloves for good measure. ‘And a hat,’ Simmy reminded her. The hat turned out to be a floppy blue beret that hid the damaged area without pressing uncomfortably.

She made much of showing off her proficiency with the crutches, out on the pavement. Moxon’s car was thirty yards distant, and she swung along confidently, enjoying the chance of a clear straight course. The trick was not to think about it, she realised. Once problems of balance and weight distribution became conscious, the whole thing collapsed into wobbles and panics and a bent back. Elbow crutches only worked if they were long enough for the person to stand up straight. Simmy’s were extended to their maximum length, making her wonder how anybody taller than her might manage.

‘Your parents seem a bit thunderstruck,’ Moxon commented, once they were comfortably in the car.

‘No wonder. They expected to have to cosset and entertain me all day, not wave me off with a detective. They’ll think I’ve been malingering all along.’

‘They didn’t see you screaming, the way I did.’

‘True. I was much better by the time they turned up.’

The road northwards was bordered on both sides by a monochrome wintry landscape. The lake on the left reflected a looming mass of grey clouds, like a leaden mirror, Russell’s sunny periods proving to be very short-lived. On the right, the bare trees had a sprinkling of snow on the boughs, and the spaces between them were splotched with white patches. The road was clear, but a grubby few inches of splashed grit and old snow had banked up on either side. When they turned up towards Troutbeck, these edgings grew cleaner and deeper. Before long, a strip of snow remained down the middle of the road. Ahead of them, the fells were shapeless white mounds, merging into cloud with no discernible differentiation.