The Coniston Case (8 page)

She would call the police when she got back to Windermere, she told herself. First she had to make five more deliveries, three to the same address in Newby Bridge and two in Coniston. The three turned out to be for a trio of young sisters from their doting father. They were at school, but their mother took the flowers in with a slightly rueful smile. ‘He’s away in Saudi, you see,’ she explained.

Simmy bit back the question as to whether he had remembered his wife as well. It was definitely none of her business. At least it had been a very economical delivery. She went back to the van glad to have it almost emptied in so short a time.

The slow winding road up to Coniston gave her more than enough time to think about the latest puzzling bouquet for the disgruntled Miss Drury. She had not sounded particularly young, certainly over thirty. Why would anybody deliberately set out to cause trouble between
her and her boyfriend? No former lover consumed by jealous rage had come to mind, it seemed; no racist parent furious at her choice of partner. She had sounded genuinely bewildered and not a little angry.

If it had not been for the fact of the murder of one of Simmy’s customers, these bizarre orders for flowers would be quite easily dismissed as an annoying but essentially harmless set of pranks. As it was, there was a real underlying threat, and the fact that Simmy had innocently taken three, if not four, orders from a seriously malign individual made her very uneasy.

The police would presumably devote their efforts to finding a link between all the people who had been sent sinister floral offerings. As far as Simmy could see, they were all very different. An elderly lady, a young farmer’s wife, a middle-aged man and another young woman, living in scattered villages roughly centred on Coniston. There would have to be probing questions as to their work, contacts, movements and activities, which even at first glance struck Simmy as horribly intrusive. They had all seemed perfectly nice people, undeserving of the disruption and distress that had befallen them and which was very likely to get worse.

The sight of the Old Man looming out of the frosty morning mist to her left made her shiver. It was an eerie mountain at the best of times, perhaps because of its name, which suggested consciousness of some kind. The people of Coniston probably felt protected as if by a guardian angel, but as a visitor, Simmy perceived it more as a watchful and mildly threatening presence. She remembered that Kathy’s daughter was performing some sort of experiment on its
slopes, and wondered whether she was all right.

The mountain rose to a sharp point, dominating the smaller ones surrounding it. There was wispy cloud veiling it in horizontal bars, the whole scene drained of colour, leaving nothing but white and pale grey. She remembered that her first sight of it, in March of the previous year, had been all of brown and orange. In summer it blazed in a hundred shades of green. Her father had expounded on the copper mining which killed all the fish in the lake, and the charcoal burning that went on until well into the twentieth century. Despite appearances, the western fells had been sites of some industry since Roman times – something that Kathy’s daughter was somehow focusing on, if Simmy had correctly understood the somewhat garbled story.

The two delivery addresses were at opposite ends of the village, neither of them close to the scene of the previous day’s murder. With any luck, she could avoid setting eyes on any police personnel, and postpone reporting the Newby Bridge puzzle until she got back to the shop. She wanted no further impediments to opening its doors to would-be customers.

She also very much wanted the deliveries to go smoothly. The first turned out to be blessedly straightforward. A woman with a small baby answered the door and took the flowers with a broad smile and effusive thanks. The second was to a much older woman who appeared to be rather unwell. She held a thick scarf across her throat, and opened the door a bare three inches. ‘Yes?’

‘Flowers for Mrs Thomas,’ said Simmy.

‘Really?’ A thin hand reached for them and took them through the gap. Simmy hovered, heart beating in
apprehension. But all was well. ‘Oh, the silly boy! It’s my son, Robin. Sent me a Valentine. Isn’t that ridiculous! Any other son would wait for Mother’s Day.’

‘How nice,’ said Simmy.

‘Of course, we both know I might not be here that long. Now, if you don’t mind, I must close the door. The cold makes me catch my breath, you see.’

Mother’s Day was little over a month away. There was something very grim in the thought that the woman might not even have that long to live. She certainly did look extremely frail. But what a devoted son he must be, doing his best to cheer her, apparently with considerable success. The relief at having brought the hoped-for delight to all but one of the morning’s customers was considerable.

Yewdale Fells rose to the east as she turned back, planning to retrace her route southwards. A spectacular scene in its own right, it was generally overshadowed by the Old Man. The clouds had left a clear gap through which the rugged slopes could be clearly seen. The folds and gashes in the hillside threw odd shadows, some of them suggesting patterns in the brief moment of clarity. Simmy had heard that it was a difficult climb through gorse and bracken, with old mines and quarries to be negotiated along the way. This summer, she promised herself yet again, she really would get organised and do some serious exploring. But first she must concentrate on the day ahead. If she hurried, she might get back to the shop by half past eleven, in time for any lunchtime shoppers.

Before she had even passed the Coniston car park, however, she was intercepted. Not by DI Moxon lurking in wait for her, but by a distraught woman flagging her
down on the pavement. The bright lettering on the side of the van plainly announced her identity, of course. It was intended to, after all. But now she very much wished she could become anonymous and unobtrusively slip back to work without attracting attention.

With a sigh, she braked. The woman ran out into the street and round to the driver’s window. ‘Oh, thank God! What a miracle, you being here!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve been so upset, thinking of poor Maggie taking my flowers the wrong way. And here you are, so I can explain it to you.’

Maggie? Which one was she, wondered Simmy. ‘Um …?’ she said.

‘Maggie Aston. On the farm. She says she
threw
them at you. I never
dreamt
she’d do that. I should have put my name, of course, but I assumed she’d understand. And all the time, she thought it was Trevor apologising for an affair or something. How embarrassing for you. I’m so sorry.’

‘No problem,’ said Simmy, feeling bemused. On first impression, it seemed that particular flower delivery could be removed from the case. ‘These things happen,’ she added meaninglessly.

‘But you must have felt so
awful
,’ the woman persisted. ‘What a dreadful waste of flowers.’

Simmy silently agreed, but could hardly say so aloud. ‘Is everything forgiven now, then?’ she asked.

The woman flushed violently. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot. I know I exaggerated in that message. The thing is, I did do something very bad and I wanted Maggie to forgive me. I thought she would hate me for ever and I couldn’t
bear
that. So flowers seemed a good way of admitting my fault. A confession, in a way.’

Again Simmy was inhibited in her desire to ask what the crime had been. ‘I see,’ she lied.

‘Well, I expect it’ll come right in the end. Things usually do.’

Simmy wasn’t sure she agreed with this. She gently revved the engine, having carefully not turned off the ignition. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘but—’

‘Oh, yes. It’ll be a busy day for you. My aunt was a florist and she nearly went mad on Valentine’s Day. Even worse for Mother’s Day, of course. That’s a nightmare.’

Thanks
thought Simmy.

‘Off you go, then,’ the woman encouraged. ‘I’m a bit busy myself, actually. I do the cleaning for some of the holiday homes hereabouts. But I can’t go down there.’ She ducked her chin at the little road leading down to where Moxon had stood guard over a dead body the previous evening. ‘They won’t let anybody pass.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Something very nasty happened, apparently. It was on the news just a little while ago.’

Simmy had no intention of getting into that subject. Let Ben accuse her of a wicked lack of curiosity, if he wanted to – she was adamant. ‘Bye, then,’ she said and closed the window. Before the woman could say another word, she was off down the main street and southwards past Torver as the quickest way home. The sky was clearing, which was not entirely good news, because it lowered the temperature. But she saw no sign of ice on the roads and made reasonably good time. Her thoughts flitted from one unexplained event to another, hoping to arrive at a reassuring conclusion that nothing that was happening had anything to do with her.

So the murder was public knowledge, at least in a
generalised way. The apologetic woman had called it ‘something nasty’, so perhaps it had not been disclosed that a man had been violently killed. Even so, there was little doubt that Ben and Melanie would quickly get to hear of it and approach her for more information. Their natures were both infinitely more inquisitive than Simmy’s was. Ben never wasted any time in drawing conclusions and connections, aided by Internet searches and an impressive intelligence.

She could not evade the fact that her morning drive had produced at least one new factor in the story, and probably two. Wherever she went, people forced knowledge on her against her will and completely unsolicited. She garnered names and links without the slightest effort. It was as if fate was conspiring against her, and yet she had learnt over the past four or five months that it was much more rational than that. A florist put herself in the line of fire simply by being associated with major life events where emotions were heightened and families forced to confront disagreeable truths. This forcing was occasionally violent, leading to further violence and even murder.

As for the
real
Mr Hayter, his daughter Daisy had reported him missing, which implied an absence of wife or girlfriend. Furthermore, the
false
Mr Hayter also known as Mr Braithwaite, had a son who was Moxon’s godchild, and who clearly did not live with his father. She entertained a picture of the two men living quietly together, separated or divorced from the mothers of their children, and enjoying a sparse social life. Into this calm oasis a bombshell must have been thrown, perhaps in the shape of an anonymous bunch of flowers. And now they were
both dead. The mystery that brought Simmy nothing but pain and frustration would no doubt give rise to an excited curiosity in young Ben Harkness. He would do his best to drag details, facts, reported conversations out of Simmy. But he would be disappointed – all she could offer where the second body was concerned were impressions – that no wailing wife or daughter had been in evidence; no
white-faced
brother or son. The body had presented a neglected abandoned aura, with nobody but police officers attending it. Belatedly, Simmy felt sorry for the man. Until then she had been aware only of her own reactions, her stoicism in confronting her first dead face full on. Only now did she experience a flush of sadness at the pain he must have endured and the sudden extinction of a life that should have run for another twenty or thirty years.

She reached the shop at eleven forty-five, and quickly turned the Closed sign to Open. Within minutes four people had crowded in. One of them was her mother. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I was hoping for a mug of coffee, an hour ago. I had to go to Julie’s instead.’

Julie ran a hairdressing salon in the centre of Windermere and was Simmy’s closest local friend. ‘Did you get your hair cut while you were there?’

‘Of course not. But I did make an appointment for next week. And we had a nice chat.’

Simmy winced at the thought of the interruption Angie had probably caused.

A couple in their thirties were hoping to discuss wedding flowers, which given the date struck Simmy as somewhat thoughtless. She gave them a stack of brochures and leaflets
and made an appointment for the coming week. And a familiar elderly woman hovered meekly behind everyone else, obviously hoping for a quiet word with Simmy.

‘Mum, I can’t talk now. I’ll try and drop in over the weekend, but as I told you already, I’m more likely to just slob about on Sunday, getting over this week. It’s all every bit as chaotic today as I thought it’d be.’
And I should phone the police
, she remembered. There was an ominous feeling that real chaos was on its way, especially if Ben showed up as he often did on a Friday afternoon.

Angie left with an impatient sigh and Simmy turned to the old lady. ‘Mrs Crabtree,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘You remember me?’ It evidently came as a great surprise.

‘Of course. I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘The police came to my house this morning. Two women in uniform. I dread to think what the neighbours made of it.’

‘I’m sorry. I expect they explained more about the run of unpleasant messages sent with flowers, including yours. They do need to catch the person doing it.’

‘Well, I was very little use to them, because the whole business proves to be entirely innocent.’

‘Oh?’ Simmy’s spirits rose at this reassurance and she smiled broadly at her visitor.

‘Yes – you see, my niece, April, called to say her mother – my sister Pattie – sent the flowers, because she’d got the idea I was moving. Poor Pattie’s losing it, I’m afraid. She can be perfectly lucid one moment and away on another planet the next. She took it into her head to send me a bunch of flowers, and only told April about it this morning.’

‘I see,’ said Simmy uncertainly. ‘So she’s not so bad that
she can’t write a letter to order some flowers – unlike your son and daughter?’

Mrs Crabtree laughed. ‘You remember that, as well! Pattie was a highly competent professional woman all her life. She could write a letter in her sleep, even now. She keeps postage stamps and writing materials in a lovely old walnut bureau that once belonged to our grandmother.’