The Troutbeck Testimony (11 page)

‘He fancies you, I keep telling you. Poor bloke.’

‘I know. It’s one of life’s great tragedies.’

‘Come to that, I’m still not sure you treat Ninian as nicely as you should.’

‘Don’t start. He’s impossible at the moment. He says he’s not going to the funeral tomorrow, incidentally, although I’m not sure he’ll be able to resist, when it comes to the point. I must be the only person in Cumbria who didn’t know and love Barbara Hodge.’

‘No you’re not. There’s me as well. Although Chloe met her a few times. She volunteered to help with the school garden club, when Clo was doing it in Year Nine. A woman of the people, our Barb.’

‘As everyone keeps saying,’ Simmy agreed. ‘I’m just relieved she didn’t stipulate no flowers at her funeral.’

Melanie rolled her eye, while its artificial partner did its own special trick. The girl’s lack of embarrassment at the
strange effects her eyes could perform was one of many aspects of her personality that Simmy was going to miss.

‘You and Ninian don’t seem to be getting it together much these days,’ said Melanie boldly. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know. It’s probably the usual business of getting the right balance and being scared of commitment. I don’t like having to be the one to make all the moves. If I didn’t do anything, he wouldn’t either, and it would all just fizzle out.’

Melanie pondered this for a minute. ‘That’s no good,’ she concluded. ‘You want somebody with a lot more backbone. You can’t leave it forever to get a baby or two. I mean—’

‘I know. Body clocks wait for no woman and all that. Don’t remind me. Most of the time, I think it’s already too late.’

‘But it’s not. There’s a woman in Ambleside who had three after she married at forty-four.’

‘Triplets?’

‘No, no. One a year. All big bonny babies, too. Her husband’s a bit younger. He knows my dad.’

‘Ninian wouldn’t want babies.’ The certainty of this flooded through her for the first time. ‘He’s too … I don’t know.’

‘Limp,’ said Melanie brutally. ‘And they’d break his pots.’

Simmy sighed and changed the subject. ‘I’ll be glad when this week’s over. It’s always the same after a Bank Holiday. Nobody knows what day it is, and you never feel you’ve caught up properly.’

‘Go and do the funeral stuff and let me get the computer up to date for you. Then I’m off, right?’

‘Thanks.’

The appearance of another customer sent Simmy into the back room again for ten more minutes. Space was going to be reduced to a few square inches by the time the last tribute was done and laid out carefully on the remaining space on the shelving. Her thoughts centred on the next morning and the timing of her trips to the undertaker’s. There would be a buzz amongst the people there, preparing for the biggest funeral of the year. She had come to know Bruce, the conductor at most of the funerals, as well as Mr Manning, the boss of the whole establishment. Bruce was handsome, with a shock of dark, wavy hair and a charming smile. The rear of the building was a complex of mortuary, viewing chapel, flower bay, coffin workshop and a changing room for the men. She had dimly worked out that they were perpetually changing their clothes, according to the task ahead of them. Smart suits for funerals, smart-but-casual for collecting bodies, overalls for the coffin-making. Simmy could not imagine a working day in which dead bodies came and went all the time. She seldom saw one herself, despite coinciding with the vehicle they used for collection a few times, and witnessing the removal of an obvious receptacle containing one of their customers. She also saw coffins on wheeled gurneys, going in and out of the chapel.

Florists were privileged members of the whole team, permitted around the back when almost no one else was. They were expected to take the business of death in their stride. Simmy had been slow to understand this and had made a few blunders in the early months. The worst was when she caught sight of a small child’s coffin and had started crying helplessly. She had also parked in the wrong
place, impeding the manoeuvring of one of the limousines and earning herself a sarcastic reproach from one of the men. Bruce had rescued her, and explained how vital it was that all their vehicles had ready access to the road outside.

All of which meant she had to take care, not only to deliver all the flowers on time, placing them in the right section of the bay, but also to remain inconspicuous on a day which was sure to be stressful.

Female voices floated through from the shop, one of them rather shrill. Simmy went to see who it was.

A woman was standing much too close to a display of ornamental grasses, waving her arms. ‘They made her look at about a thousand pictures before letting us go. It’s so
typical
.’

She had dyed purple hair, with pink streaks. At a glance, Simmy could see three studs in her eyebrows and lip. Bonnie stood passively at her shoulder.

‘I’m back,’ she said to Simmy. ‘This is Corinne.’

Simmy’s first thought was that if this was the responsible non-aunt who was such an improvement on Bonnie’s biological parent, then what in the world could
that
person be like?

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the woman. ‘Thanks for taking Bonnie under your wing. She really likes it here.’ Her voice was rich and low, her accent neutral.

‘That’s okay,’ said Simmy feebly. ‘Are you here for the rest of the day now?’ she asked the girl.

‘Absolutely. Corinne drove me back. I’ve done my duty as a citizen.’

‘Did you recognise anyone?’ asked Melanie. ‘In the mugshots, I mean. I still don’t understand why they thought you would. You never had any dogs nicked, did you?’

‘We had some trouble, before Easter,’ said Corinne tightly. ‘Bonnie caught a bloke in our backyard, where the
dogs live. He’d grabbed one of them, but she scared him off. Screamed blue murder, she did.’

‘You reported it?’ Melanie sounded sceptical.

‘There was someone else there at the time, and she told the cops. We wouldn’t have bothered. They never did anything – obviously.’

‘Seems a bit of a stretch to think that man had something to do with the murder in Troutbeck,’ frowned Simmy. ‘Doesn’t it?’

Melanie’s intake of breath reminded Simmy that they had said nothing about the violence in Troutbeck. ‘What?’ the girl demanded. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Didn’t you hear about it? A man was killed there on Tuesday. I’ve had Moxon after me, because my father and I saw the man on Monday. It’s all jumbled up with people stealing dogs – although I don’t think there’s any real evidence of a connection.’ She looked at Bonnie. ‘You didn’t recognise anyone in the database, then?’

‘No one,’ said the girl. ‘It was a right waste of time.’

Simmy could barely take her eyes off Corinne. Somewhere deep down she felt she should be wary of the woman, even apologetic for accepting Bonnie as an employee without due consultation.

‘Much as I wish I could stay and catch up with the whole story, I need to get the car sorted,’ said Melanie. ‘I’ll come in on Saturday, shall I? Then I can cover for you while you go and see to the stuff for the wedding. And I will make an effort to do a couple of hours tomorrow.’ She looked around the shop, pausing at each face in turn. ‘I’m going to miss all this,’ she said. ‘But funny as it might sound, I don’t want to get involved in any more police business. I always was one step
behind you and Ben, and now I seem to be about ten steps back. I’ll just let you get on with it.’ She smiled sweetly, and headed for the door.

Corinne was striding around the shop, peering at the cards, fingering the flowers and Ninian’s pots. Her foot nudged a bucket of lilies on the floor, not quite tipping it over. Simmy watched anxiously, noting that the long skirt was not only wet at the hem but well coated with white hairs, presumably from a dog. The woman was dressed for an Edwardian spring day on the fells, not a wet visit to a contemporary flower shop.

‘Yes, go,’ said Simmy distractedly. ‘Thanks, Mel. Good luck with the interview. Knock ’em dead.’

‘I’m only going for the practice. I told you.’

‘I know, but it wouldn’t hurt to have an offer, even if you turn it down. Think what a boost it would be.’

‘To my ego, you mean? Right.’ Melanie rolled her eye again, and made her departure without a word to Bonnie or Corinne.

‘I wanted to check with you,’ Simmy blurted awkwardly, ‘about Bonnie’s eating. I wasn’t sure how involved I should be.’ She glanced at the girl, feeling increasingly apologetic. ‘She says I don’t have to worry, and she’s—’

‘Oh, no. Don’t bother yourself about all that. She’s fine now. It’s better just to ignore the whole business. Isn’t that right, Bon?’

Bonnie flashed a tiny smile of agreement that suggested to Simmy that she’d have done better not to broach the subject. Any temptation she might have had to go on to talk about the rooms upstairs was quickly quashed. ‘I think there’s a customer,’ Bonnie said, tilting her head towards
the door. A man was standing just outside, apparently uncertain as to whether to come in. He was rubbing the glass, which was smudged with rain, and peering into the shop. For a moment, Simmy thought it was Ninian until she looked closer and saw it was a younger shorter individual.

‘What’s he doing?’ she wondered aloud.

Bonnie moved to the door and made a beckoning movement. ‘Do you know him?’ Simmy asked.

‘It’s Murray,’ said Corinne, on a falling note. ‘Bloody Murray. I bet he’s been following me.’

‘He hasn’t, Con. Don’t be daft. He’d have had to wait outside the cop shop for hours in the rain. Maybe he wants to buy you some flowers, and is shy, because you’re here and you’ll see him.’

‘Fat chance. He must have come to get something for the funeral and he knows I’ll have a go at him for leaving it so late.’ She grinned at Simmy. ‘Tell him he should have done it a week ago.’

The man finally came in, with a sheepish expression. ‘Hi, Con. Bon. Never expected to see you two here.’

‘Bonnie’s working here now,’ said Corinne. ‘Has been since Tuesday.’

‘Never.’ There was a Welsh lilt to the word, although his previous remark had sounded more northern. He looked at Simmy, as if for rescue. ‘Not too late to order flowers for Miss Hodge’s funeral tomorrow, am I?’

Simmy squared her shoulders. ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘So long as it’s nothing too complicated. I’m having to do a lot this afternoon.’

‘Just something basic.’ He gave Corinne a bolder look. ‘I thought you’d do it from both of us,’ he said accusingly.

‘How d’you know I didn’t?’

Good question,
thought Simmy, finding herself more and more fascinated by these people.

‘Lindy told me. Said she helped you do the order online and you just put from her, Bonnie and you.’

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t want people getting the wrong idea, did I?’

Murray made a brushing movement with his hand, and treated Simmy to an engaging smile. ‘Something with lilies,’ he said. ‘And put “With sympathy from Murray Pickering”, if that’s okay.’

Simmy found her order pad and wrote on it. ‘You can do the card yourself, as you’re here,’ she offered.

‘No, that’s okay. My writing’s rubbish. You do it for me. What’s the damage?’

‘Twenty pounds, for a spray with lilies, carnations and white roses. Twenty-five if you’d like a bit more than that.’

‘Twenty’s fine.’ He produced a crumpled note from his pocket. ‘Sorry to make life difficult for you, being so late. I’ll let you get on, then.’ He turned to go, ignoring the others.

‘See you later?’ he said to Corinne.

‘Not if I see you first,’ she snapped.

The man laughed self-consciously, and they all watched him leave. ‘He’s my ex-brother-in-law, actually,’ said Corinne. ‘He was married to my sister twenty years ago, for a year or two. I’d better get out of your way now. Thanks for taking Bonnie on. She won’t let you down.’

Simmy thought of the sodden scrap that had arrived for work that morning, and grimaced slightly. None of her doubts as to the wisdom of employing the girl had been
allayed. And she was now falling seriously behind with the funeral flowers. When she saw that it was past two o’clock, she yelped. ‘Gosh – I do have to get cracking,’ she said. ‘I’ve got ever such a lot still to do.’

‘Bye then,’ waved Corinne, as if they were already firm friends.

Bonnie and Simmy gave identical exhalations of relief at the sudden emptiness and quiet of the shop. ‘At last!’ sighed the girl. ‘I thought she was going to stay all day.’

Simmy could think of nothing diplomatic to say, so she merely nodded and went into the back room. The new order was an irritation, and she resolved to make the quickest and simplest sheaf she could. Briefly, she put her head out into the shop. ‘Can you write that card for the new order?’ she asked. ‘I noted the wording.’

‘Okay. Is there a special pen or something?’

‘No. Use whatever you can find.’ Somewhere at the back of her mind, she lodged the thought that the acquisition of a particularly nice italic pen for such messages might be a good idea.

Doggedly she constructed two more tributes, forcing herself to take all necessary care to follow the instructions in the original orders. One was from two people called Graham and Trish, and the other from a woman Simmy remembered. She had come into the shop the week before and written the card herself. ‘For dear Barb. You will be terribly missed by us all. Lots of love, Vicky.’ The sincerity was palpable, and Simmy had made an extra effort to keep the card safe until the bouquet was done. Now, she lingered over the flowers, selecting a subtle range of yellows as requested, standing back as far as the tiny space allowed, to admire the effect.

Three o’clock came and went, with scarcely a sound from the shop. What was Bonnie doing, she wondered? Playing on a mobile phone, probably. And despite Corinne’s assurances, once again Simmy worried about the girl’s meagre level of sustenance. She never seemed to eat or drink unless Simmy initiated something. Simmy herself had missed lunch and now found herself ravenous.

She made two mugs of tea and ate a biscuit before going out into the shop. ‘Time for tea,’ she said, as undramatically as she could. ‘Everything quiet out here?’

She stopped and looked around. Something was different. Where there had been displays of mixed flowers in buckets of water, and a few of Ninian’s vases, haphazardly lining the way from door to till, there was now a kind of organised avenue, drawing the eye inexorably into the shop. The colours were ranged from dark near the door to light near the till, giving an astonishing effect of a pathway that one felt compelled to follow. Or so Simmy gradually understood, standing as she was at the wrong end. Unthinkingly, she moved to the door and turned to look back. Not only had the colours been magically rearranged, but the heights flowed smoothly, from tallest at the door to shorter further in. ‘But … How?’ she stammered. ‘I mean – tall
and
dark? Where are the tall light things?’ It was a trick, surely.

‘I had to cut a few stalks,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘But there are still plenty of short dark and tall light, over there.’ She pointed at a triangular cluster of blooms in a corner of the shop where there had previously been a somewhat jumbled assemblage of greetings cards, ribbons, dried flowers and pots. They had been streamlined in a way that Simmy knew
she could never in a thousand years have managed.

‘It’s magic,’ Simmy gasped. ‘Sheer unmitigated magic.’

Bonnie laughed. ‘It was easy. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do when there weren’t any customers. I’ll have a go at the window next, if you like. I should probably have done that first, but I thought I should ask you if it was okay.’

‘It’s more than okay. You’ve made it look so
enchanting
.’

‘Flowers
are
enchanting. Honestly, it was only a matter of moving them around a bit. I had a picture in my head before I started and just fitted it all in – sort of thing.’ She tailed off, flushing slightly. ‘It might make it a bit difficult for people to get to the cards, though. I might have to do that section again.’

Simmy hadn’t moved from her spot just inside the door. Deep reds, purples, blues mutated via pink and orange to yellow and white in a uniquely compelling fashion, on both sides. ‘I never realised such a thing was possible. And yet it really is quite simple, as you say. I feel pretty stupid not to have thought of something like this for myself.’

Bonnie shrugged. ‘Nobody does, as far as I can see. It’s probably just me. I am a bit mad, you know.’ And to Simmy’s relief, she picked up her mug and took a large gulp of tea.

The
ping
of the doorbell sounded right above her head and she jumped out of the way as Ben Harkness came in. He had his usual schoolbag over one shoulder and looked weary. He stopped just behind Simmy and blinked. She had time to note that the magical new avenue only left enough space for people to progress in single file. That could perhaps present difficulties, she thought with a little stab
of anxiety. Wasn’t there some health and safety edict about that sort of thing?

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Just in time for tea. Although you said you weren’t coming again till Saturday.’

He ignored her. ‘What happened in here? Why’s everything so different? It looks like … like …’ he floundered. ‘Like something from New York’s East Side. Only different,’ he added helplessly.

‘Bonnie did it. She’s got a magic talent, evidently.’

He removed his bag and set it down cautiously. ‘Too many books,’ he complained. ‘I’ll get scoliosis at this rate.’

Simmy ignored him in return and went to make more tea. When she came back, he was leaning over the table on which sat the till and computer, looking at something on the screen. Bonnie was sitting beside him. They flinched guiltily as Simmy approached.

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve only been gone two minutes and you’re up to something.’

‘No, we’re not. We just thought it would be interesting to know how many orders for flowers there’ve been, for the Hodge woman’s funeral.’ Ben spoke much too carelessly to be convincing.

‘For heaven’s sake, why?’

‘No reason.’

‘Come on, Ben. You wanted to see exactly who’d sent them, didn’t you? For some sinister reason of your own.’ The sort of terrible thought that only arose when Ben was around hit her. ‘You’re not trying to make a connection between her and that murder, are you?’

‘Of course not. That would be idiotic.’ He gazed in a parody of innocence at the ceiling.

‘Although she did have a very precious dog. And she did live at Troutbeck Bridge. And she did know everybody,’ listed Bonnie. ‘So there could be
some
sort of connection.’

Simmy had a number of simultaneous thoughts about murder and Troutbeck and dogs and her father. She remembered again his odd inconclusive testimony as to what he had overheard at the pub. For no reason she could identify, a feeling of dread washed over her. She very much wished Russell had never gone to the Gents when he did, never taken any notice of words exchanged behind a wall and certainly never reported it to the police. But it was too late, as Ben would doubtless point out.