Authors: Rebecca Tope
‘In that case,’ Simmy asked slowly, ‘why have you come here? I mean – if everything’s all right, after all?’
Mrs Crabtree smiled. ‘I had a feeling you might be worried. You looked so concerned at my distress.’
‘You could have phoned.’
‘I could, yes. But I liked you and wanted to see you again. I know you had some trouble at the end of last year, and this business was probably the last thing you wanted.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’
The woman tossed her head in denial. ‘Not at all.’
‘Well … would you like a hot drink while you’re here? It looks chilly out there.’
‘That would be lovely. Coffee, if possible, thank you.’
Settling her guest awkwardly on the small chair by the till, Simmy quickly went to prepare the drink. In the absence of any customers, they enjoyed fifteen minutes of comfortable chat.
‘I suppose letters were the standard way of communicating, not very long ago,’ Simmy mused.
‘Indeed. I miss them very much. Although I’m not so different from my sister, to be honest. I still send one or two a week. I admit to writing opinionated missives to the papers now and then, but I’ve never said anything to
offend. I just talk about the old days and the way people keep on making the same mistakes over and over again.’ She gave Simmy an assessing look. ‘You might not be old enough yet, but when you get to my age, you start to see the way nothing ever changes. It’s depressing, really.’
Mrs Crabtree looked to be a few years shy of seventy – scarcely old enough to qualify for ‘elderly’, when so many people lived into their nineties. Where Simmy had initially seen her as soft and slightly pathetic, she now revised this perception to include a sharp and restless mind. ‘What did you do for a living?’ she asked, expecting the answer to be teaching or nursing.
‘I was a civil servant.’
Not far off, Simmy thought. ‘Oh! I have a friend in the civil service. She’s visiting me at the moment, actually.’
‘It’s a big employer, the state – though not as big as it used to be. There was a time when it employed three-quarters of a million people. It’s less than half a million now,’ she added regretfully. ‘What department is your friend in?’
‘Oh … um … Revenue and Customs, I think. She doesn’t talk about it much.’
Mrs Crabtree smiled. ‘No, I don’t suppose she does. I was MoD, and I hardly talked about it at all. One thing you do learn there is discretion.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Simmy, wondering whether there could be any possible connection between a hush-hush job and a malicious bunch of flowers, with the story of the dysfunctional sister nothing more than a smokescreen.
‘I retired eight years ago. It all seems like another world to me now.’
‘But you keep up with the news. I mean – if you write to
the papers, you must have a good grasp of everything that’s going on.’
‘Oh, not really. I stick to local matters.’
‘So – don’t you think it’s a good thing that the police are taking the flowers seriously? I mean, you were quite upset when you thought someone was trying to force you to move house. That’s not a nice thing to do, is it?’
Mrs Crabtree shuddered. ‘It’s my Achilles heel,’ she admitted. ‘Or I would never have been so emotional about the flowers. I know it would have made more sense to move to a bigger town, where I could walk to shops and all the other things you need. But there’s a good bus service where I am, and I expect to go on driving for at least another ten years.’
‘You drove here today? Over Hawkshead Hill in these icy conditions?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re a better man than I am, then. I came the southerly way just now.’
‘From where?’ The woman frowned her confusion.
‘I had to go to Coniston this morning, with some flowers for Valentine’s Day. I hate icy roads. The thought of a skid terrifies me.’
‘You won’t skid if you use the gears properly. And if you do, just steer into it.’
‘Easier said than done,’ said Simmy. ‘I have a feeling my feet would just take over and ignore anything my head tried to tell them.’
Mrs Crabtree laughed and then met Simmy’s eyes with a very straight look. ‘A man was killed in Coniston yesterday, according to the policewomen. They didn’t say
so directly, but I concluded they think it’s connected with you and those flowers you brought me. It gave me reason to worry about you.’
Simmy’s heart lurched. She should have learnt by now, she told herself, that professional women of a certain age were very often uncomfortably direct in what they said. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, it arose from an aversion to wasting time. Beating about the bush could delay an effective exchange for weeks or even years. This one was transforming into a woman of steel before her very eyes. The look she gave Simmy was verging on the accusing. ‘Oh, no,’ she protested. ‘I really don’t think …’
‘If you
do
think a minute, you’ll see how it is.’
‘But how do you
know
? I mean – did they tell you his name? Is he somebody you knew?’ She groaned softly. ‘Or does everybody know everybody around here?’ Having met Melanie’s grandmother a few months earlier and been treated to a spate of gossip about a lot of people, she already knew the answer to that question. Anyone who had grown up and gone to school in the area, and who had continued to live and work there all their lives, did indeed know almost everybody.
‘Coniston isn’t far from Hawkshead,’ was all she got in reply.
A customer finally interrupted them and Mrs Crabtree made her departure, showing every sign of having said what she had come to say. Simmy found herself unsure of exactly what that had been. Had the woman made the intrepid drive into Windermere solely to reassure the florist – or did she have other business there? In any case, it had had the effect of delaying the call to DI Moxon, to tell him about
the girl in Newby Bridge – or
not
in Newby Bridge, to be more accurate. The new customer required full attention for ten more minutes, requesting an instant bouquet of flowers all in a narrow spectrum between pink and mauve, choosing and rejecting from the many blooms Simmy had available.
It was almost one o’clock when she found herself alone at last. With a powerful sense of reluctance she called Moxon.
‘Mrs Brown,’ he said, as always. It was never a question. He then waited quietly for her to say her piece.
‘Yes. I thought you’d like to know I’ve had another peculiar flower delivery. It was Newby Bridge this time.’ And she told him the story, including the vague description of a man in a long dark coat who paid for the flowers in cash. ‘And a couple of other things happened as well. I was in Coniston again this morning and a woman flagged me down and confessed to being the sender of one lot of flowers. The farm one. Then Mrs Crabtree came into the shop just now—’
‘Wait, wait,’ he begged. ‘I can’t keep up with all this. Did you say “confessed”?’
‘Yes. Maybe “admitted” would be more accurate. No – she wanted to confess to me, of her own free will. Admitting implies I was already questioning her, doesn’t it?’ She paused to examine the definitions of the two words. ‘She told me she was an idiot not to have signed the card. She’d done something to upset Maggie Aston and thought it would be obvious who the flowers were from.’
‘Did she send the others as well? Who
is
she?’
‘Oh, no, I’m sure she didn’t. That wouldn’t make any
sense. She’s a cleaner – works for people with second homes. She knew about the murder, or at least that something horrible had happened.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘All right. And on top of that, one of the people you delivered flowers to has been to talk to you?’
‘Right. Mrs Crabtree. She lives in Hawkshead. She’s not nearly so meek and mild as I first thought.’
‘I’ve got a report here. She was interviewed this morning.’
‘I suppose that’s really my fault for overreacting. The flowers were completely unconnected to anything you’re investigating. Her sister sent them. I must have wasted police time. Sorry about that.’
‘Is that what she came to tell you?’
‘Sort of. She rambled a bit about her family and her job, which I don’t think was relevant at all. When she heard about the murder in Coniston, I think she must have assumed that you thought there was a connection with the flowers, so she came to make sure I knew there wasn’t. It was rather sweet of her, I thought.’
‘Hmm. And you believed her?’
‘Of course I did. She’s just a nice lady who wants to keep things right.’
He sighed very audibly. ‘I worry about you, Persimmon Brown. I really do.’ He said
Per
simmon, as almost everyone did, despite her trying to teach them otherwise. Her mother was almost the only person who got it right, with ‘P’simmon’, but then she was the one who established it in the first place. By definition, whatever she said must be correct.
‘I worry about myself,’ she agreed. ‘All I ever wanted was to be the bringer of happiness with beautiful blossoms and instead I get drawn into one horrible crime after another.’ She took a breath. ‘What about your friend Tim? It sounds as if you’re still on the case.’
‘I don’t anticipate any change. I’ve explained my position to the chief superintendent, and he doesn’t seem too bothered.’ He spoke carelessly, like an ordinary person having an idle conversation.
‘If it was me, I think I’d be quite glad to be set aside. You can go and investigate illegal fishing on Esthwaite or something instead.’
‘It’s not you though, is it. Tim Braithwaite deserves a thorough investigation, and even if I say it myself, I am undoubtedly the best person to do it. Everybody understands that.’
Simmy didn’t know what to say; he sounded so confiding, she could not simply dismiss him with claims of busyness. ‘Did the girl – Daisy, is it? – know him well? Is she going to be doubly upset, losing him as well as her father?’
‘That’s a good question. She was in and out of the house a lot, seeing her dad. And Tim’s son Jasper knew her too. He was quite keen on her at one time. I think they even got engaged for a short time. She’s a very pretty girl. I think most of the lads in the area fancied her, at one time or another. She’s too good for the chap she’s marrying, according to most people who know them. Tim was never entirely sure what to make of her, but I think he would have been happy for Jasper to settle down with her. I can’t really guess what she’ll be feeling now.’
‘Is the wedding going ahead, after all this?’
‘I’ve no idea. I assume it must be. A wedding isn’t an easy thing to cancel these days, is it?’
Had it ever been, Simmy wondered, thinking idiotically of Lorna Doone getting shot on the threshold of the church. Only such extreme measures could avert the cumbersome juggernaut that was a wedding, in most periods of history. She went back to what she supposed was the main topic on Moxon’s mind. ‘Do you think Mr Hayter somehow killed Mr Braithwaite and then himself? Could it have been a fight over a woman?’
Moxon moaned gently. ‘Nothing so simple. Hayter died at least twenty-four hours earlier than Tim, according to the pathologist’s initial observations.’
Simmy could hear the voice of Ben Harkness plucking wild theories out of the air and voiced one or two of what she imagined they might be. ‘But perhaps he left something poisonous for him to drink or injured him somehow so it took a day for him to die? I suppose that’s all a bit fanciful.’
‘It is,’ he agreed, with a hint of sharpness. ‘It’s my friend we’re talking about, remember.’
And if you’re going to be so sensitive about it, you’re best taken off the case
, she thought, but did not say aloud. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, feeling misunderstood. ‘I’ll go now. I just thought you should know about what happened this morning. Maybe I needn’t have gone to the trouble. I don’t suppose it’s the least bit important.’
‘I’ve written it all down,’ he said. ‘Obviously
something’s
going on, with all these malicious flowers flying about.’
‘Literally, in the case of Maggie Aston.’
‘The woman at the farm,’ he said, with a slight question in his voice.
‘Right.’ She paused. ‘But now we have innocent explanations for those
and
Mrs Crabtree’s. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘I never really thought they were all from some sort of master criminal,’ he said drily.
‘Didn’t you? Ben did. I should warn you, I’m going to tell Ben and Melanie about this new thing. Ben really does come up with some clever ideas, after all.’
He tutted softly. ‘That boy is so off the scale when it comes to unauthorised interference, I hardly know what to do with him.’
‘You’d be mad to exclude him. Look at how helpful he was last time. He’s got all the right instincts – he’s more or less an apprentice detective already. He’s totally serious, you know. The fact that he’s been accepted unprovisionally on one of the only courses in forensic archaeology shows that other people think he’s good at it. He’s probably going to revolutionise the whole police forensics system in a few years’ time.’
‘Well, don’t let him anywhere near any actual people, okay? I can’t stop him hypothesising, but I don’t want to see hide or hair of him until this is all sorted out.’
‘He understands that.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘And I might remind you that Melanie has her uses, as well.’
‘Melanie Todd is a different matter entirely. Last I heard she was still going out with Joe Wheeler, who seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut.’
Simmy remembered the text message about a second death and found herself agreeing with Moxon. The
ginger-haired police constable’s appeal for Melanie remained incomprehensible. Ben’s brother Wilf would be a far better prospect; most of Melanie’s friends assumed it was sheer perversity that motivated her in sticking with Joe.
She made a wordless sound, to avoid committing herself to an opinion.
‘Somebody ought to come and see you in person,’ he added worriedly. ‘We’ll need a description of this cleaner person, for a start. And more about the Newby Bridge thing. I can probably manage it just before you close.’
‘I could come to you,’ she offered, without enthusiasm. ‘After I’ve shut up shop.’