The Windermere Witness (3 page)

She gave them automatically, trying to quell any temptation to make difficulties. In the back of her mind, her rebellious mother muttered about databases and unwarranted storage of personal material.

‘Thank you,’ he nodded. ‘Now, I expect you’ll understand that we need all the help we can get. We’ve asked you for interview, because I have it on the authority of a Constable Joe Wheeler that you were here this morning, with the wedding flowers, and that you spoke to the young man, Mark Baxter, as you were leaving. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘When I spoke to him? Something like twenty past nine, I suppose. I got here just after eight, and spent an hour arranging the flowers in the room they were using for the ceremony, and the banqueting room. Then I went up to the bridal suite and delivered the buttonholes and bouquets. I was back in Windermere at about a quarter to ten.’

‘A five-minute drive?’ he frowned gently.

‘I got stuck in Bowness. There was a coach and quite a few caravans coming and going. It might have been
twenty-five past nine, perhaps, when I saw Mark. We only chatted for a couple of minutes.’

‘Had you ever met him before?’

‘No.’

‘What did you chat about?’

‘The wedding. He seemed excited to be an usher. He wanted the best buttonhole and I told him they were all the same.’

‘Did he say why he was outside?’

‘Waiting for his father, he said. There were three or four other men waiting with him.’

The inspector’s little eyes brightened. ‘Indeed? And did you know any of them?’

‘No, but Mark told me their names. One was the best man, Glenn, I think. Plus the groom and a Spanish man called Pablo. And Felix, of course. He’s the groom’s cousin – in a wheelchair. You’ll easily confirm that. They were all quite a lot older than Mark. I think one or two of them were smoking. They had big umbrellas. It was raining hard.’

‘So there were four of them?’

She paused to think. ‘Five with Mark.’

‘Did it seem strange that he should speak to you? Didn’t you get wet?’

‘I was in the van. He waved me down as I was leaving. It
was
a bit funny, I suppose. One of the other men shouted after him, asking what he was doing.’

‘Did
he
get wet?’

‘He must have done. He didn’t have a brolly of his own. He put his head in through the passenger window. He was very young. I imagine he was just a bit bored with all the waiting about, and wanted someone to talk to.’

‘But … forgive me, but
you
are quite a lot older than him as well. Why couldn’t he have talked to his male friends?’

‘I have no idea. I can only make wild guesses, which I don’t expect would be very helpful.’

‘Impressions, however, might be useful,’ he argued. ‘You have to understand how little we know. We build up a picture out of a lot of small details, from various sources, in the hope of reaching a solid conclusion.’

She said nothing, still absorbing the fact of the boy’s death, and failing to attach much significance to anything other than that. Nobody had uttered the word
murder
as yet, although she remembered Melanie telling her that Mark’s father had been hurling accusations.

‘So?’ coaxed the inspector.

‘Um …? What was the question?’

‘How did he seem to you, really? Excited, bored, on the edge of the group he was with – that’s what I’ve got so far. He was waiting for his father. Did he seem eager to see him?’

The fleeting expression she had observed on Mark Baxter’s face came back to her with a sudden jolt. ‘No, I don’t think so. He seemed a bit scared, actually. Or
jittery
, maybe. Wanting to get it over with. I don’t think he knew the others very well, being so much younger. But people are often like that before a wedding, aren’t they? Especially a great big one like this.’ A thought struck her. ‘They
did
get married, didn’t they? All this didn’t make them cancel at the last minute?’ An unworthy anxiety that cancellation might jeopardise the payment of her bill crossed her mind.
No,
she told herself,
they’d have to pay me, whatever happened
.

‘They got married,’ he told her with a tight smile. ‘Minus one usher. It didn’t seem enough of an omission to warrant any delay.’

She grimaced. ‘They must feel terrible about that now.’

‘I imagine so,’ he said, with an invisible shrug to indicate that this lay beyond his sphere of interest.

‘And what an awful business for the hotel,’ she went on, as more and more repercussions flooded her mind. ‘You’ve already made a frightful mess of their lawn.’

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he said suddenly.

‘What? No, I’m not. I moved here earlier this year.’

‘From where?’

‘Worcestershire. But I was born near Manchester. We’ve moved about a bit. My parents run a B&B in Windermere now. I came to be near them when my marriage broke up.’

‘Do you have children?’

Normally the question was brushed aside with a quick ‘No’ and a change of subject. But this was a police detective, and answers had to be given more carefully. She met his eye and shook her head. ‘We had a little girl who was stillborn,’ she elaborated. ‘Three years ago now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with something that looked like real emotion. ‘That must have been hard.’

‘As you’d expect, more or less. We’re not a very prolific family. There are compensations.’ She held his gaze steadily. ‘I mean it – there really are.’

‘Good,’ he nodded. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Have we finished?’

‘I think so, yes. I should have told you sooner that this is a murder enquiry. First indications are that Mr Baxter was killed by a blow to the head and his body deposited in
the lake. Two people found him during a search after the wedding ceremony had been completed.’

‘What time was that?’

He gave her a look that said
All right, I’ll let you ask me one question, and only one
. ‘About eleven-forty-five.’

She glanced around the room, and then at her watch. ‘You moved quickly,’ she said. ‘Setting all this up, and getting me down here. I’m amazed.’

‘Constable Wheeler can be thanked for the last part. He knew you’d done the flowers and were here this morning. He called your assistant who said you’d spoken to Mark. He suggested she bring you down for interview right away.’

‘Yes,’ she said, still half dazed. ‘I know. But even so …’

The detective smiled. ‘Were you always a florist?’ he asked, in something that felt like an attempt to send her away in a lighter frame of mind.

She hesitated. ‘Market gardener, originally. It’s a long story.’

A man across the room was half turned on his chair, watching Moxon closely, plainly waiting for a chance to interrupt. ‘You’re wanted,’ said Simmy.

‘Ah!’ he nodded a quick thanks for the alert. ‘Thank you again. I might want another chat with you at some stage.’

‘Right,’ she said, and got up from her seat. She wanted to protest loudly to somebody, somewhere, that the boy should not be dead, that she should not have spoken to him, and that bad things should definitely not happen to innocent young souls.

She wandered out of the hotel, hoping to see Melanie waiting for her. The shambles of the wedding was increasingly evident, with groups of finely dressed guests hovering uncertainly on the lakeside. There should be a major banquet underway by this time, with champagne and speeches and gaiety. Whatever might have happened to Markie, people had to eat, and the planned schedule presumably somehow had to be adhered to. The additional staff employed by the hotel would be in the kitchen and its adjoining rooms, wondering what to do. The main players would be required to speak to the police, the parents of the dead boy too flattened to play their wedding roles. Except, his mother was unlikely to be present. George Baxter was unlikely to countenance the presence of both her and his first wife, Eleanor. Where was she, then? Did she know what had happened?

The ambivalence of all weddings was a familiar theme
for Simmy. Serious and silly, portentous and frivolous – the excesses inherent in the celebratory aspect overshadowing the profundity of the emotions and the public commitment. Hapless registrars did their best to conjure the more solemn implications in the midst of froth and flowers. As a florist, Simmy understood that she was assumed to be on the side of the froth. She was expected to focus on matching shades of peachy pink, and the exact drop of a swag of autumn leaves – and she diligently fulfilled such expectations. It was a job, a profession, for which she had studied and passed exams. Few people grasped that a florist had to listen to stories of sudden deaths and inconvenient births. They had to take enormous care over wording on cards and timing of deliveries. The wrong flowers could cause decades of offence. They were invisible but crucial bystanders at the major life events that overtook every family in the land. Where a wedding demanded far more labour than any other occasion, Simmy was fully aware that the really important work lay with a funeral.

And young Markie Baxter was going to have a very big and very public funeral one of these days.

There was no sign of Melanie. The massive hotel gave plenty of scope for getting lost, with the so-called service wing as large as a substantial mansion in its own right. Mel knew many of the staff, having been at school or college with them. Her best friend was married to the deputy manager and her cousin was in charge of the team of chambermaids – most of them from Eastern Europe. The world of a major four-star hotel struck Melanie as intensely glamorous, and fuelled her eventual goal to work in one. She regularly reminded Simmy that her participation as a
part-time assistant in a florist’s shop was purely temporary and expedient. Simmy received these reminders with mixed feelings. She liked and trusted Melanie, but she knew there were plenty more where she came from, and the prospect of a succession of assistants was actually more appealing than otherwise.

An odd pair of people caught her eye, sitting on a damp rustic seat under a tree at the edge of the lawn, holding hands. It was Eleanor Baxter and the little flower girl from the bridal suite, their heads bowed in a strikingly similar attitude. Automatically, Simmy went towards them, drawn by the stillness and sadness coming off them like steam. Were they grandmother and grandchild, she wondered confusedly? Surely not – Eleanor was barely fifty, a slim and glamorous mother of the bride, taking up the role with an aggressive zest that Simmy had found difficult. She was unlikely to be this child’s grandmother.

Wishing she had paid more attention to the gossip about the family, she met the little girl’s eye and smiled tentatively. ‘Hello,’ she said.

Woman and child stared at her with barely veiled hostility. She couldn’t blame them, when she thought about it. What was she doing? Whatever did she plan to say to them? ‘I’m so sorry,’ she floundered. ‘What a terrible thing to happen. I mean …’

The older woman scowled blackly. ‘Please be quiet,’ she snapped. ‘We were hoping to be left alone for a while. Lucy and I have no part to play at present.’

Belatedly, Simmy realised that there was every chance that the child – who appeared to be about six – had not been told anything specific about what had happened. What
did
you tell a child, who thought she was at a wedding and turned out to be embroiled in a murder?

Lucy huddled against her companion and swung one foot agitatedly. The peach-pink outfit made her look like a doll. An expensive doll with a china face. It was difficult to believe she was a real individual with swirling emotions. As youngest bridesmaid she had been a sort of mascot, a point of endearing innocence in the wedding pictures. Now she was a vulnerable embarrassment, who ought to be taken home by somebody.

‘I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?’ Her sincere intentions must have come through in her voice, despite being totally unable to think of any assistance she might usefully supply.

Eleanor Baxter looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you live locally?’

‘Well … yes. A couple of miles the other side of Windermere. Why?’

‘Would you take Lucy for me? They won’t let anybody else leave until they’ve asked all their questions. And we
are
supposed to be having a wedding breakfast. God knows whether that’s going to happen now. It seems impossible, either way.’

Simmy gulped. Modern protestations rose to her lips, the most daft of which was
But I haven’t had my CRB check
. Didn’t the child have a mother somewhere, or a nanny? How was it possible that she could be handed so readily to a total stranger?

‘Where’s her mother?’ she blurted. ‘That is – who
is
she?’

Again the two pairs of eyes stared at her. ‘
I’m
her mother, you fool. This is Bridget’s little sister. I thought everybody knew that.’

‘Oh! I’m so sorry. How stupid of me. But …she doesn’t know me. You can’t just …’

Lucy remained passively on the seat and awaited her fate.

‘Of course, it was an outrageous request,’ said Eleanor stiffly. ‘But things are rather desperate, as I expect you can see. The fact is, Lucy has never been very interested in the wedding, have you, darling?’ She nudged the child, who shook her head. ‘She’s not really the bridesmaid type, but of course Bridget wouldn’t listen to anything like that. She thinks everyone’s as mad about weddings as she is. There are hardly any other children here – just a pair of teenaged boys. It would be doing her a great kindness. You might take her for a walk in the woods, something like that.’

‘In that dress?’

‘Ah. The dress is a difficulty, of course. Do you have children? Might you not find some clothes for her?’

‘Surely she has some of her own, in a room here somewhere?’ Lucy had been wearing something casual earlier in the day, Simmy remembered. ‘Where are the things she had on this morning, when I brought the flowers?’

Eleanor sighed. ‘I suppose I could go and fetch them. We’re on the top floor.’ She looked hopefully at Simmy, who stood her ground. No way was she going to start running errands inside the hotel for a woman who had full use of her own legs, murder or not.

‘Don’t worry. My mother has a collection of children’s clothes. We can go there.’

‘Oh?’

‘She runs a B&B in Windermere. She’s discovered that it’s easier to supply emergency clothes than let people try
and do some washing.’ This summary concealed a great slough of painful experience associated with dirty clothes and American insistence on total cleanliness at all times.

Eleanor smiled tightly, as if it pained her to hear such disclosures. The dead boy, Simmy reminded herself, was the son of Eleanor’s one-time husband, by another woman. There was no term for it – ‘stepson’ assumed the father had married the mother, which George Baxter had not done, if Melanie could be believed. There was no reason to think Eleanor had felt warm towards Markie – but neither could it be assumed that she had resented or hated him. Nothing could be taken for granted. ‘Perhaps you should give me your name and a telephone number,’ Eleanor said.

Simmy extracted a card from her shoulder bag. It introduced her as ‘Persimmon Petals’ with address and phone number, and a tiny line that added ‘Proprietor: P.A. Brown.’ She rummaged for a pen and added her mobile number. ‘My name is Simmy Brown,’ she said.

‘Simmy?’ Eleanor rolled her eyes with no attempt at subtlety. ‘Are you telling me your Christian name is Persimmon?’

‘I’m afraid so. But I go by Simmy.’

‘I’m not sure I should let Lucy meet your mother in that case.’

It was a joke, of a sort, and Simmy took full advantage of it. ‘She is a bit overwhelming,’ she admitted. ‘But very good with children. She’s got a room full of games. Lucy might like to spend the afternoon there. I haven’t got anything for her to do at my house.’

‘No children, then,’ nodded Eleanor. ‘That’s a shame.’

Twice within the hour she had been reminded of her
failure, her lack. It was almost too much. ‘I’ll have to find my assistant. We came in a van. There’s no child seat. She’ll have to sit on Melanie’s lap. It’s probably illegal.’

‘Probably,’ Eleanor agreed carelessly.

Lucy had slowly perked up in the course of this exchange. Simmy detected a spark of interest that suggested a lurking spirit ready to be rekindled. She began to suspect that what she had seen thus far was in no way representative of the true nature of this small girl.

‘All right, then,’ she decided. ‘You can find us at Beck View in Lake Road. It’s a big house, with a sign outside. On the right as you approach from this direction. We’ll wait for you, shall we?’

‘Thank you. I’ll be sure to come for her by six. At least – somebody will.’ She sighed again. ‘It might be her father, if they won’t let me escape from here by then.’

‘Dad?’ chirped Lucy, speaking for the first time. ‘But he’s in Ireland.’

‘Is he?’ Eleanor blinked her confusion. ‘Are you sure?’

The child nodded emphatically.

‘Oh, yes, I remember now. We’re supposed to stay the night here, aren’t we? God, this is such a bloody mess, Luce. I knew it would be awful, but this is ridiculous. That wretched boy …’ She stopped herself with an effort.

‘Simmy?’ came a new voice. ‘What’s going on?’ Melanie came into view, around the dripping autumnal branches of the tree. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘This is Lucy,’ Simmy introduced. ‘We’re looking after her for the rest of the day. I thought I’d take her to my mother’s. Are you coming back now in the van? It would be helpful if you did.’

To her credit, Melanie made no objections and asked no questions. ‘Okay,’ she said. Even when they were packed into the van, she was still just as restrained. Perhaps, thought Simmy, as one of a large family, it seemed quite normal to her to take charge of a strange child when the need arose. As for Simmy herself, the situation became increasingly alarming with every passing second.

Angie took one look at the frothy silk dress and shook her head at the crazy ways of the world. ‘You poor thing,’ she sympathised. ‘That looks horribly uncomfortable. I’ve got a very nice brown tracksuit in my treasure chest, just your size. Come and see.’

She led Lucy into the cluttered back sitting room, and opened the wicker basket where she kept assorted clothes. The tracksuit was produced effortlessly, and Simmy could see that it was perfect for the occasion. A rich dark brown velour, with elastic at ankles and waist, it slipped onto Lucy as if made for her. The instant transformation was like magic. The little girl moved her arms experimentally, and gave a little skip. Before Angie could rescue it, Lucy had kicked the peach-pink dress in disgust. ‘And my hair,’ she said. ‘It’s tight.’

She had been coiffed into a wispy topknot, with corkscrew tendrils around her ears. ‘Who did the hair?’ Simmy asked, before she could stop herself. ‘It was supposed to be my friend Julie, but she had an accident.’

‘A man,’ said Lucy disdainfully. ‘He called me
duckie
.’

‘Tch,’ said Simmy, with feeling.

‘The flowers were nice, though,’ Lucy said, as if Simmy might need consoling. ‘They were the nicest thing of all.’

‘Thank you. Didn’t you like the rest of it, then?’

‘Not much. Too many people.’

‘I know what you mean.’

Don’t ask too many questions
, Simmy ordered herself. If there was one thing she could remember about being six, it was the annoying habit grown-ups had of asking about school and recent holidays and none of the things that were really interesting. She also reminded herself that it would be unethical to quiz Lucy on events of that morning. Hadn’t there been something in a famous novel about that? She thought it might be a Henry James, much of whose work she had read with unnatural pleasure at the age of seventeen. ‘Nobody your age likes Henry James,’ her mother had objected. ‘Hardly anybody of
any
age does, come to that.’ Simmy had thought it wonderful, all the same.

‘Do you know how to play Downfall?’ she asked hesitantly, scanning the shelves of board games in the room.

‘I’m hungry,’ Lucy announced, with a shade of reproach. ‘And
very
thirsty.’

Simmy laughed in a little shock of realisation. ‘So am I, now you mention it. I suppose we both missed our lunch. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and that was early. And I only had toast.’

‘I had sausages,’ Lucy admitted.

This was not a doll after all. It was a human creature in need of sustenance, and warm clothes and reassurance. There might be lavatory issues and unknowable routines. Great kindness was called for. Simmy looked to her mother, with a fragile hope of rescue.

‘Cold chicken, bread, apples, coleslaw,’ she listed,
without enthusiasm. Angie, like her daughter, was tall and lean. She wore narrow spectacles, over which she liked to glare, like a schoolmistress. ‘We gave your spaghetti to the dog. You might remember that you rushed off two minutes before it was due to be served.’

‘We can make chicken sandwiches, then,’ said Simmy. ‘Thanks, Mum. Come on, Lucy – the kitchen’s down this passage.’ She led the way to the well-appointed room that always made her think of a small factory, with the two large cookers and stainless steel sinks, flanked by a massive fridge and humming dishwasher. Producing a full English breakfast for up to ten people at a time required an industrial level of efficiency.