The Troutbeck Testimony (13 page)

She slept very badly; the main cause being a furious determination to locate and avenge herself on whoever had upset her parents so horribly. But she was at a total loss as to how that might be achieved. A man in a red car had died. A second man, in the same car, had perhaps killed him after being seen by Simmy and her father. Someone had let this fact become known to the murderer, who was now taking desperate measures to save his own skin. He couldn’t know how fleeting the glimpse had been, how inadequate the description Simmy could give. But that was hardly relevant now. The man had made his appalling threat, thereby incriminating himself, and revealing his handwriting and probably fingerprints. And that made him an idiot. The police would assuredly catch him.

Or so she trusted. In her half-awake state, she imagined him staring them down, defying them to match him up with the homicide, laughing in their faces. When she did
drift off into a shallow sleep, her mind presented images of a strangled terrier and a firebomb falling catastrophically through the roof of Beck View, consuming her parents in a ball of flame. Threaded through these calamities were funeral flowers in soft mournful colours, and the men at the undertaker’s criticising her efforts before hoisting a coffin high onto their shoulders.

She woke in a breathless panic, having missed the dawn chorus that normally roused her in May. She kept her windows open especially to catch the musical awakening. But she had only fallen properly asleep half an hour before first light, and was now gaspingly aware that it was after eight o’clock.

For the second time in twelve hours, she tumbled into clothes and out into her car in an impossibly short time. Only in the final half-mile did she collect her thoughts, and remind herself that there was plenty of time to fulfil her obligations to Barbara Hodge and her funeral. The deadline for the flowers was ten-thirty. Even with two journeys, that would be easily accomplished. If she was late opening the shop, that would hardly be a disaster. Then she remembered Bonnie, who might be left standing on the doorstep, if her arrival failed to coincide with Simmy being there.

At least it wasn’t raining. Thin cloud was sitting just above the tops of the fells, giving ground for hope that the sun might break through before long. Bonnie would have to make the best of it – although having her inside the shop and dealing with customers was clearly the preferable option. As she collected the van from its own lock-up garage and drove it to the back of the shop, she wondered what was the best thing to do. If she’d spent a few minutes
explaining the security system to Bonnie, everything would be easier. The girl could have let herself in and opened up the shop. As it was, Simmy didn’t even have her mobile number, so couldn’t call and explain the procedure.

It was ten to nine already. Perhaps the sensible option was to wait another ten minutes and simply let the girl in and leave her in charge, as originally planned. Then she remembered she’d told Bonnie not to turn up until nine-thirty, and everything suddenly felt much easier. The first delivery of flowers would already have been made by then.

She carefully loaded the main tributes onto the wooden shelves inside the van, and stepped back to check them for balance. There must be no risk of them sliding to the floor in transit. The sense of an imminent event of great significance was getting stronger. It was unnervingly akin to the feelings on the morning of a wedding – people to be assembled, ceremonies to be observed, food to be provided. Flowers, music, clothes all crucially important. Simmy had personal experience of both, and while the emotions had been very different, the tension was familiar.

She went through into the shop from the back, and peered out into the street, wondering whether Bonnie might turn up early, either deliberately or by mistake. She unlocked the door and stepped onto the pavement. Very few people were out and about. Tourists tended not to spend much time in Windermere anyway, other than at the several popular eateries in the evenings. Everyone else was either at work, or not yet ready to leave the house. So the fact of two men walking shoulder-to-shoulder towards her was impossible to miss.

There was something unavoidably threatening about
them, even though she fought this foolish response. Long hair, scruffy clothes, an earring and a shaggy dog all shouted
gypsies
. Even Simmy, born long after the time when large caravans of travelling folk criss-crossed the land, knew a gypsy when she saw one. And even Simmy, whose mother was romantically in favour of the free lifestyle and cavalier attitude to petty laws, felt an instinctive urge to avoid them.

Gypsies famously stole dogs, didn’t they? She reviewed the old stories, from carelessly rude times, in which gypsies were clever and reckless and inscrutable. They might even set fire to the homes of people who annoyed them. But then the men came within a yard or two of Simmy and one of them smiled broadly at her, and the other nodded, and even the dog raised its head and wagged its straggly tail at her. They were handsomely swarthy, with a glimmer of wry humour in their eyes. ‘Morning,’ said the smiling one. ‘Better today.’

Simmy said nothing, but gave a return smile and glanced at the sky to show she understood his meaning. Her mother would have been ashamed of her, she thought. Such prejudice, such unfounded fear! But the visceral associations were inescapable. They included an image of the man with a beard in Troutbeck, who could also be a gypsy. And hadn’t Travis McNaughton sounded rather like one, too? If not part of a Romany family, then likely to be connected in some way. The stereotypes refused to dissolve completely, rather to her regret. She still imagined men who lived by their wits, on the edge of society, ducking and diving and taking little notice of the law. Carrying heavy lumps of something in a black sack, and staring straight into the eyes of a nervous female who lived alone.

But not killing each other. That definitely did not enter the automatic list of characteristics of travellers. Drunkenness, loss of control, reckless violence – those were not how people thought of them. In the stereotypes that now occurred to Simmy, there was a dominant matriarch in a gorgeously decorated caravan, making sure the menfolk behaved according to a long-established code.

On the other hand, if they
did
get homicidal, they would probably use sharp knives as the weapon of choice, just as McNaughton’s killer had done.

At nine, still thinking that Bonnie might arrive early, she left the front of the shop unlocked, but the Closed sign still in place. The girl might have the sense to try the handle and find it open. She could then stand guard until Simmy returned from the undertaker. The risk was minimal, after all. Her father’s new-found paranoia about intruders could not be permitted to affect Simmy’s own attitude. Realistically, she was running virtually no risk at all. Even if someone did find the door giving under their hand, and went into an empty shop, what would they do? Steal a red rose or a begonia? As they left with their booty, they would be observed by people in the street and in neighbouring shops. Or might some madman take it into his head to wreak havoc, overturning Bonnie’s lovely displays and breaking Ninian’s pots? Anybody crazy enough for that might equally well decide to smash through a locked door in the first place. There was some money in the till, but it was protected by a key, which remained in Simmy’s pocket.

She drove the van gently out into the street behind the main centre of Windermere and headed for the undertaker.
It was a short distance. When she arrived, another florist, from Bowness, was just leaving. The two vans passed with cheery waves from both drivers. Simmy had never for a moment imagined herself to be the only business supplying tributes for the greatly missed Barbara.

In the flower bay, the great majority of the shelves had been allocated to this enormous funeral. At the far end, low down, she saw a label that read ‘Mr James Invermore, 3 p.m.’. On the shelf sat one modest sheaf of flowers. Poor man – probably an elderly widower, dying in a nursing home, friendless and forgotten. Overshadowed completely by Miss Hodge’s wreaths and cushions and sprays, and yet Simmy knew his funeral would be conducted with absolute care and respect.

She unloaded her precious cargo and settled it all onto the shelves. Nobody came to admire them, which was only to be expected. The woman from the office would doubtless come out at some point with a notepad and write down the names of all the people who’d sent flowers. That was usual for a burial, where there was no part of the proceedings set aside for the family to peruse all the cards, as they did after a cremation. And it meant Simmy should bustle back to collect the second load. Time was rushing by, and such a small task as listing the flowers was not meant to happen too late, for fear of getting forgotten.

Back at the shop, Bonnie had still not arrived. This caused Simmy a surge of unreasonable irritation that startled her. A final straw, she supposed. A sense of misplaced trust that was all the more infuriating because she knew it wasn’t fair. Even though it was only nine thirty-five, customers were liable to start showing up and she didn’t want to
lose any business. She had been a fool to tell the girl to delay her arrival, probably making it sound as if she could leave it as late as she liked. She had spoken thoughtlessly, assuming Bonnie understood the nuances around a large and stressful event such as this funeral. Now the dilemma about locking or unlocking the door became more acute. It would be ten or more before she got back again. Crossly, she decided to lock it, as much to teach Bonnie a lesson as any other motive.

There was barely enough space for the final flowers on the undertaker’s shelves. One sheaf had to be lightly laid on top of another, which was very far from ideal. When Bruce cleared his throat behind her, she jumped guiltily and started to defend herself.

‘No problem,’ he smiled. ‘Nothing’s going according to the rules today, as it is.’

There would have to be a second hearse, he told her, specifically for the flowers. Simmy had heard of such a thing, but never witnessed it. There would have to be two more men than usual in the team, solely dedicated to coping with flowers. It made Simmy feel important to know this and she said something to that effect.

‘Poor old Mr Invermore’s getting a bit neglected,’ said Bruce. ‘He was a nice old chap, too. Friend of my dad’s, for a bit.’

‘I noticed,’ Simmy nodded. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it.’

Bruce cocked his handsome head. ‘Does it?’

‘Well … I mean, the difference in the two funerals. It’s all a bit lopsided, it seems to me.’

‘It’s just the way it goes. You get somebody whose name’s known all over town, and this is what happens. Like that
McNaughton chap, getting himself murdered. There’ll be media people, snoopers, detectives – all sorts, when we come to do him.’

‘Not many of them sending flowers, though,’ said Simmy, once more eyeing the overflowing racks dedicated to Miss Hodge.

‘Likely not. Although I remember, twenty years ago, when I was new here, there was a murder, not so different from this one, and they caught the killer through the flowers.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘True as I’m standing here. Felt remorseful, they said. Sent a massive great wreath saying “I’m so sorry” and some bright cop thought it a bit odd, and bingo!’

‘But how? I mean – it’s not such an unusual thing to say.’ But even as she spoke, she realised it was. People said ‘With all my sympathy’ or ‘Thinking of you in your loss’. Their own sorrow was seldom, if ever, mentioned. ‘Gosh!’ she added faintly. The idea that the police might have yet more reason to investigate her role in violent deaths was highly unwelcome.

‘Lucky Miss Hodge died naturally, with all this lot,’ he quipped. ‘Poor Janice is going to have a real job making a list of them all. You’ve done well out of her, looks like. That cushion from the girlfriend’s quite something. We’ve all been out here for a look already.’

‘Thanks. I’ve got to get back. I hope it all goes to plan. I’ll hear all about it from my mum.’

‘It will,’ he said, with perfect confidence. None of his funerals ever went off plan, was the implication.

Mention of her mother sent Simmy’s thoughts back to the previous evening. Now that her obligations to the
funeral were all satisfied, she was almost painfully free to attend to other matters. Her father stood firmly at the top of the list, followed by Bonnie, and then the next day’s wedding. Associated with her father, of course, was the fact of a recent murder close to her home. A murder that had to be quickly solved, with the perpetrator imprisoned and punished with all diligence. Nothing less could be tolerated.

She felt a powerful need to talk to Ben, but he had classes on Friday mornings, and was unlikely to turn up before mid afternoon, if at all. The timetable was considerably relaxed in the run-up to exams, and his movements a lot less predictable as a result.

As she went to open the front door, she was faced with two figures – one human and one canine.

‘Sorry,’ said Bonnie breathlessly. ‘I had to bring Spike with me. I’ll explain. He won’t be any trouble.’

Spike was beautiful – even Simmy could see that. She realised that she had subconsciously expected something rather like the gypsy dog she had seen earlier that morning. Instead, he was sleek, gleaming and immaculate. Long, soft, white hair rippled from his back to fall in fringes along his sides. His tail was erect and plumy. His long nose had an aristocratic tilt to it, and his jaws were relaxed and friendly. He was of a manageable size, too – hardly taller than Bonnie’s knee.

‘Gosh!’ said Simmy. ‘That’s quite a dog.’

‘He’s lucky he turned out so well, being such an odd mixture. He’s famous, you know, for being so clever and wonderful.’ Bonnie dropped an unselfconscious kiss on the top of the dog’s head. ‘He’ll sit quietly at the back, and nobody’ll know he’s even there.’

There was no good reason to object. Dogs were not banned from florist shops. There was space behind the till where he could lie. If anybody made a fuss, he could be banished to the cool room for a while. ‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘But why are you so late?’