The Ambleside Alibi: 2 (7 page)

But it was too late. ‘Ben? Would that be young Mr Harkness, by any chance? You’ve talked this over with him, have you?’

‘He saw me leaving the police station, and wanted to know what it was all about.’

‘And you told him.’ The detective sighed.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘We do try to keep these things under wraps. It doesn’t help the investigation if it’s common knowledge who we’ve been questioning. We’ve had very good cooperation from the press so far.’ He sighed again. ‘Not that it’s a very newsworthy murder, I suppose.’

‘Ben won’t tell anybody. And he might even help. He is very clever.’

‘So what were you going to say, when you stopped? Something that the boy said.’

‘Well – just that you must have information about
Mrs Clark’s being alive that morning, shortly before you found her. I mean, you must know the time of death quite accurately.’ She found herself struggling for words. She couldn’t say
the body must have still been warm
or anything so graphic. Ben would have had no such hesitation, with his predilection for gruesome TV series and forensic interests. When Simmy let herself think about even the peripheral realities of a murder, she felt sick. Crushed skulls, flowing blood, gasps for air or shrieks of pain all made her shudder.

‘You know her name?’

‘Didn’t you tell me?’

‘I might have done. But she was
Miss
Clark, not Mrs.’

‘Right. I remember. Melanie said it was on TV last night, in the news. They gave her name. And her granny was at school with her sister,’ she added, unable to resist scoring a point.

‘What? Whose granny?’

‘Melanie’s. They all know each other, apparently. Penny Clark was in the same class as Mel’s mother’s mother. Nancy was her twin, but she went to a different school.’

‘Penny is Mrs Hopkins now. Married to a farmer with five children. One of them’s in jail.’

‘Really? What did he do?’

‘She, actually. She killed a child on the road. Drunk driving. Got three years for it.’

Simmy winced. ‘How awful!’

‘Miss Clark was her aunt.’

‘Yes. I see.’ A thought struck her. ‘The child wasn’t Mr Kitchener’s, was it?’

Moxon smiled and gave a slow head shake. ‘No
connection with him at all. The connection with Miss Clark was through his mother.’

‘Who died a few weeks ago.’

‘Right.’

The food arrived and they ate quickly. Simmy reviewed their conversation. ‘What else did you want to ask me? Surely it wasn’t just whether Mr K had seen me again?’

‘I was wondering what you thought of him. How well you knew him. Exactly what he said to you on Wednesday morning. We got a bit sidetracked,’ he apologised. ‘As we so often seem to do.’

‘Do we?’ The
we
gave her pause. Did he think of her as in some special sort of relationship with him? Was there more going on than she had suspected? She had no idea whether he was married or not; she had liked him to start with, although there had never been anything of a sexual attraction. He had told her she was unusual, with a useful approach to police enquiries. Did he think she was encouraging him?
Was
she?

‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘Oh! Well, I felt sorry for him. He took his mother’s death very hard. I get the impression he’s lonely. He’s divorced and there was no mention of anyone else on his flowers. I mean, they were just from him. He spent a lot on them. He looks thin, don’t you think? And a bit grubby. Not looking after himself too well. He was Mrs …
Miss
Clark’s lodger for a while. Then I assume he moved in with his mum, maybe because they both felt they needed to be looked after. He’d do the DIY jobs and she’d do the ironing and all that sort of thing. How am I doing?’

He made a face, suggesting it was much as he’d expected.
‘He’s not the only one who looks thin. That fish thing’s good, is it?’

She had finished it within five minutes, as well as draining her beer. ‘Lovely, thanks. Now, I really have to go. Good luck with everything. It sounds like rather a muddle.’

‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘And I can’t pretend you’ve helped at all.’

‘I did my best,’ she defended, before grasping that he was joking. Or was he? She probably
hadn’t
helped, if he was still hoping to pin the crime on Mr Kitchener. But it had been an essentially amicable conversation, until this last remark. Was he angry with her? It was difficult to read him, as he continued to sit at the table when she got up. Even after several encounters, he still seemed alien, a man from another world. She could not imagine touching his skin or handling his clothes. There was an invisible patina to him that was not quite greasy or repellent, but which put him beyond any wish for closer contact. It was, she believed, mainly due to his job. Just as you hesitated to shake hands with an undertaker, you were reluctant to get inside the mind of a man who devoted his life to catching criminals. They both inhabited a shadowy realm that ordinary mortals preferred to ignore. She thought again of Melanie and her Constable Joe, and wondered whether the girl had come close to any of these same resistances. And if not yet, would she ever?

‘Thank you,’ he said heavily.

‘Bye, then.’ She left him finishing his chips and trotted hurriedly to her car.

Nobody was waiting on the doorstep when she got back to the shop, which made her feel she had rushed for no good
reason. Where was Ninian Tripp with his vases, for one thing? She admitted to herself that she had been anticipating his return ever since she’d opened at nine o’clock. His grey eyes and clear skin had made a far more positive impression on her than DI Moxon had done. Ninian was somehow
wholesome
, despite his troubled background and undercurrents of desperation. He had a sweet smile and scruffy clothes, and a faintly earthy scent that was probably clay. Ninian made things come alive under his hands, like God fashioning Adam. Moxon sniffed out guilty secrets and confronted people at their worst. While knowing it was unfair to compare them, Simmy found herself doing exactly that.

The next person to come into the shop was a complete surprise on a number of levels. Simmy’s initial reaction was to anticipate reproach of some sort. The next was acute curiosity. Finally, she felt concern. Here was trouble, she realised. ‘Hello,’ she said quietly. ‘Mrs Joseph, isn’t it?’

The woman looked older and sadder than she had on Wednesday. Then she had shown an animated array of emotions, one of them being a kind of excitement. She had permitted Simmy to share some of her personal details, at least at first. Now she stood pathetically just inside the door and blinked as if unsure of where she was, or why.

‘This is Persimmon Petals?’ she quavered. ‘I came on the bus, you see.’

‘Is there something the matter?’ She wanted to add
with the flowers
, but stopped herself. That would be too defensive, as well as much too trivial. Mrs Joseph was worrying about something far deeper than the condition of a bunch of flowers. And yet they
had
been substandard. Comprised of week-old carnations and dahlias, with lacklustre greenery, she had known from the start they were unworthy. Just because the Candida girl had insisted on spending less than twenty pounds, Simmy had lowered her own standards unforgivably.

‘Well, in a way.’ The old lady lifted her chin in a valiant attempt to be dignified. ‘The flowers – do you remember? From my granddaughter, it said.’

‘And you thought they were from the one who was adopted? Yes, I remember.’

‘It seems I was wrong. That girl died. My daughter has known for years, but never told me. My granddaughter got breast cancer and died, when she was thirty-six. She’d be forty-two now. Imagine that!’

Again, Simmy wrestled with the mental arithmetic. Mrs Joseph’s daughters were likely to be mid to late fifties at most. If one of them had a daughter forty-two years ago, she’d have been about sixteen at the time. Not so terribly unusual, of course, but highly likely to carry elements of real tragedy hidden in the detail. ‘How old are your daughters?’ she found herself asking. Any more of these calculations, and she’d give herself a headache.

‘Davy is fifty-nine and Nicola is fifty-three. Davy had the baby when she was seventeen. Nobody forced her to give it up. I wouldn’t like you to think that. It was not especially shameful or secret. Her father was upset, of course – what man wouldn’t be, even now? She was so young, still his baby girl, in his eyes. The boy wasn’t much older. He’d nothing to say for himself. Davy saw right through him, and knew he’d never be any use. She wanted to be a radiographer. She’d wanted it ever since she broke her leg when she was ten, and got so fascinated by the x-ray machines. The baby went to a good home, and nothing more was ever said about her.’

‘Did Davy have more children?’

‘A boy, when she was thirty-one. Stephen.’

‘And Nicola?’

The old lady’s face tightened, her mouth a thin line. ‘I don’t see a lot of her. She’s opted for a very unsavoury way of life. I’m afraid I no longer know what to say to her.’

Simmy could think of no constructive answer to this. ‘Oh dear,’ she mumbled.

‘The thing is, dear, I’ve come to ask for your help. Davy says there’s been a mistake somewhere and the flowers came to the wrong person. She says there’s no way in the world that I can have an unknown granddaughter. She vows black and blue that it has nothing to do with her – quite cross about it, she was. And Nicola – well, let’s just say she’d never have come close to getting herself in the family way. The idea is simply ludicrous, as Davy said.’

‘A mistake?’ Simmy shook her head. ‘I really can’t see … I mean, couldn’t it be that Nicola was, well –
forced
, somehow?’

‘Raped, you mean? And made pregnant? I did think of that. But I would have
known
. I would have been told. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, and there really isn’t any way that she could have gone through a pregnancy. She only lives in Keswick and my brother lives a few streets away. She gets on well with his wife – always has. She’s a real peacemaker, is Sally. A very dear woman. She’d have let me know if there’d been anything … I phoned her yesterday, just to make sure. She
vowed
there’d never been any hint of a baby. They’ve seen Nicola at least once a month since she left home. Sally laughed at the very idea.’

‘All the same …’ Simmy floundered. ‘I suppose it could have been some awful kind of joke.’

Mrs Joseph seized on this eagerly. ‘Yes! It could, couldn’t
it? People do horrible things like that sometimes, don’t they? Will you tell me, then, who it was that ordered the flowers? You must have a name, or phone number or something. How did they pay? You
have
to tell me something. It’s driving me mad, you see. I can’t sleep. And they weren’t even very
nice
flowers,’ she added, with the long-expected note of reproach.

‘I can’t tell you anything. I’m really sorry, but it would be the most outrageous breach of confidence.’

‘I do understand that. But, you see, I’ve been thinking about it. Surely she
wanted
me to trace her? Why would she make such a gesture in the first place? And how did she know it was my birthday? It’s all so mysterious. I had an idea. Do you think you could forward a letter to her, from me? That’s what the adoption people do, you know. Then she can reply to me directly, if she wants to.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got her address,’ lied Simmy, feeling terrible.

‘But you could get it, I’m sure.’

‘Besides – she’s got
your
address,’ Simmy remembered, in relief. ‘I think she’ll approach you herself, if she’s genuine, and it’s not just a trick or a joke.’

‘But her
name
. You know her name.’

‘I can’t give it to you.’ It was anguish to be so unaccommodating. She felt like a stiff public servant brushing off an importunate applicant for extra funds. ‘I really am very sorry. I can understand how you must feel, but if you’re absolutely sure that it isn’t possible that you’ve got a granddaughter, then you should try to forget all about it. There is a chance, I suppose, that it’s part of a confidence trick – that she’s out to get your money or something. You probably ought to be careful.’

This wasn’t helpful, she realised. ‘You mean, I should tell the police about it?’ Disbelief made Mrs Joseph’s jaw go slack. ‘Surely not!’

‘Well, it’s up to you. Perhaps not unless something else happens.’

‘If I did, and they took it seriously, they’d question you about it and you’d have to give the person’s name to the police, wouldn’t you?’

‘Probably,’ Simmy said, impressed at the clarity of the old woman’s thinking. She wondered whether she herself would have been so competent under the same circumstances. ‘But I’m not sure they would take it very seriously, as it stands. After all, the only thing that’s happened is that you’ve been sent some flowers. I’m just saying you might be wise to watch out for anything else that might happen.’

Mrs Joseph went very pale. ‘Like being murdered, you mean,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I heard what happened to Nancy Clark.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘Not really. I think there was some vague connection between my husband and her sister Penny. Nancy sent a rambling letter of condolence when he died. Something about a school reunion in the 1970s. I had no idea what she was talking about. It almost sounded as if she was hinting at an affair between them.’

‘How very nasty.’

‘She never married. I think she must have got bitter and twisted. Some women do, you know.’

Simmy made a mental resolve that it wouldn’t happen to her. Mrs Joseph went on, ‘Perhaps that explains why she got herself murdered, don’t you think? She must have
been rude to somebody and they lost all control. If that was what happened, there’d be no need for anyone else to worry, would there? No need to keep looking over our shoulders, waiting for a madman to attack.’

‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ said Simmy confidently. ‘I didn’t mean that, anyway. The flowers can’t have anything at all to do with Miss Clark, can they?’

‘Of course not,’ the woman agreed. ‘I don’t know why I brought the subject up. It’s just all those policemen in town, you can’t get away from it.’

If anything, Simmy was quite glad of the diversion. She had managed to fend off Mrs Joseph’s demands for information, while letting her speak freely about her situation. The old lady had grown in stature and confidence during the conversation, showing herself to be fully functional mentally, and quite robust physically. She had been landed with a major mystery, and had tackled it intelligently. Simmy decided that she liked Mrs Joseph and she suspected the feeling was mutual.

‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. You’ve made a lovely job of this shop, haven’t you?’ She looked around with little nods of approval. ‘And if you do change your mind about giving me that person’s name – well, you know where I am.’

‘Right.’

Simmy watched her go with a sense of having allowed principles to dominate normal human decency. She wasn’t sure what she might have lost by giving Candida Hawkins’ name to the woman she claimed was her grandmother. It might even have been what the girl wanted and expected – a devious way of making contact, for which
she could subsequently disclaim responsibility. If so, then Simmy had no wish to act as go-between, without knowing a lot more of the implications.

All the same, it was a preferable mystery to that of who had killed Nancy Clark, and why. Even if it was a scam of some kind, it had the merit of originality. And she had no serious qualms that Mrs Joseph ran any risk of becoming the next murder victim.

Ben called in again that afternoon, talking almost before he was inside the door. ‘That adoption business,’ he began. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘Well don’t. I’ve had the granny lady in today, and she says there’s no chance whatever that it’s really a grandchild of hers. One daughter swears blind that it’s not hers, and the other apparently never had anything to do with men, and couldn’t possibly have got pregnant.’

Ben blushed briefly, but was undeterred. ‘But what if it’s her
husband’s
grandchild? I mean – that would more or less make her the grandma, wouldn’t it? He’s quite likely to have unknown children somewhere.’

‘He’s dead, Ben. He’s been dead for years and years.’

‘All the more reason they’d go to her, then. They’ll be after the inheritance. She’ll have got his money, won’t she?’

‘If there was any. It’s only a small house. She doesn’t look very rich to me. Plus there are two daughters who’ll get everything when she goes. Although she might have left Nicola out of her will, by the sound of it. She doesn’t seem very fond of Nicola.’

‘Well, it’s still a good theory,’ he insisted.

‘I don’t think it is. Why now?’

‘Maybe the old girl’s been ill lately.’

Simmy did her best to give the matter her full consideration. For one thing, she had no wish to hurt Ben’s feelings by dismissing his ideas, and for another, she found herself intrigued by the whole experience. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it
might
have some mileage to it. Mrs J said there was something between that Penny Clark Melanie told us about, and Mr Joseph. Something about a school reunion in the seventies, and a card that came after he died.’

‘There you are, then!’ he triumphed. ‘So this is a secret love child, coming to claim its rightful dues.’

‘It has to be the child of the love child,’ Simmy corrected him. ‘Which seems rather remote to me.’

‘No, no,’ he argued. ‘Think about it. If you suddenly discovered that your parent – mother, probably – had been adopted, after a lifetime of secrecy, you’d want to know who the original parents were, wouldn’t you?’

‘Um … Would I? I’d probably think it was none of my business. And where’s the adopted mother in all this, anyway?’

‘She could be dead, or emigrated or something.
Plus
,’ he added with great emphasis, ‘it leads straight to a connection with the murder! You’ll have to tell the Moxo man about it.’

‘No, wait. What if the daughter that was adopted – that is, Mrs J’s granddaughter, child of Davida – had a child? That would be possible. It would fit quite easily, in fact. Then this would be a
great
-granddaughter.’

‘Hey – that’s brilliant! I bet the cops would never think of that.’

‘They would, if they thought it was important. But it’s
not, Ben. It’s our own private little mystery, nothing to do with the police. I mean, what would I say if I did go to the inspector with it? You think I should tell him about the message on the flowers, I get that. But there isn’t anything else, is there?’

‘I suppose the rest of it is all hearsay,’ he agreed thoughtfully. Ben was especially interested in the nuances of evidence and the delicate game the law required police prosecutors to play. ‘But they can check most of it,’ he concluded.

‘How can they? The only hard fact is Mrs Joseph’s name and address. I think it would be mean to bring her to their attention. Poor old thing – she’s obviously got nothing at all to do with the murder.’

Ben ignored her. ‘I wonder whether she knows your Mr Kitchener?’ he mused. ‘That would connect everything up beautifully.’

‘
How
would it? We already decided, with Melanie, that in a small town everybody’s going to be connected, anyway. None of it helps catch a murderer. If you go back fifty years, you’ll probably find that everybody in Ambleside has got some sort of motive for killing everybody else in town.’

‘We’re not interested in
everybody
. Just a few. After all,’ he said patiently, ‘somebody really did kill the old girl. They must have
had
a reason.’

In spite of herself, Simmy knew she was hooked. She admired her young friend’s cleverness; even his unemotional approach to events that she found wrenching helped her to get some perspective. But a dash of compassion would not have gone amiss, all the same. Ben was clearly destined for a great career as a forensic pathologist or something of the
sort – no doubt achieving brilliant results, thanks to his great intellect. It would just be nice if he acknowledged that there was pain and fear, disgust and despair somewhere in the story as well.

‘We shouldn’t be getting ahead of ourselves without Melanie,’ she decided. ‘She’ll never forgive us if we leave her out. Besides, we need her for all the background stuff. That’s where her real strength lies. She
knows
everybody.’