A Lake District Christmas Murder, page 1
A Lake District
Christmas Murder
REBECCA TOPE
In fond memory of Sally Laird (1945–2024)
My friend for almost 60 years
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
By Rebecca Tope
About the Author
Copyright
Author’s Note
As in previous titles, this story is set in real villages. Some liberties have been taken with precise layout and distances to fit the storyline. The White Lion Inn in Patterdale is now under new management. It appears in the story as it was until recently.
Chapter One
‘We have no idea what they’re like,’ Simmy worried. ‘What’m I going to wear? How long do we have to stay?’
‘There’ll be loads of other people there. Nobody’s going to take much notice of us. If they do, it’ll be Robin they talk to, not us. It’s just a nice village get-together for Christmas. Don’t get all obsessive about it.’
‘It’s not our village, though, is it? We’re not part of Glenridding society – or do we say “community”? That sounds nicer, somehow. Whichever it is, it’s not us. I wouldn’t mind if it was people we know here in Hartsop. Why have they even asked us?’
‘Because we go to the shop there, and people know us, whatever you think. They’re only being friendly. Why’re you being so weird? I’d have thought you’d be thrilled at the chance of meeting more people. You’re always saying you wish you’d got a friend within walking distance.’
Simmy paused, trying to analyse her own response. Christopher had dropped the news of the invitation only ten minutes earlier, and her instant reaction had been resistance bordering on panic. A couple slightly younger than them, named Dan and Fran Bunting, had approached Christopher in the Glenridding store and invited the Hendersons to a late-afternoon get-together in two days’ time – which would be 21st December, a Friday. ‘It’s a solstice party. We’re asking everybody,’ said Dan. ‘Really going the whole hog. Kids, dogs, grannies – the works. Sausages, punch, mince pies. We won’t turn down any contributions, but it’s not obligatory.’
‘You’ve got a little boy, haven’t you?’ put in Fran. ‘I bet he’s excited about Christmas. I’d love to meet him.’
‘He doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but we think he’ll enjoy it this year. But I don’t think we’ll bring the dog,’ said Christopher cautiously. ‘Thanks for asking us – it sounds great.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Simmy now. ‘I feel overwhelmed for some reason. I like people in small doses. I’ll be stupidly shy.’
‘I doubt if there’ll be all that many, when it comes to it. Not a lot of people live in Patterdale, after all, and some of them are bound to be otherwise engaged. Think positive. It sounds pretty good to me.’
‘You just said there’d be loads of people there,’ she accused him. ‘Make up your mind.’
‘We’re going, Sim – and that’s final.’
‘I know we are,’ she sighed. ‘I didn’t doubt it for a moment.’
They arrived early, on the basis that this meant they could leave early, too. ‘I bet everyone’ll be gone by seven,’ said Christopher. ‘They obviously don’t intend to give us much food. Although he did mention sausages and mince pies.’ They’d used the village car park a short way below the designated house.
‘And it’ll be Robin’s bedtime. They must realise that.’
The house was one of the oldest in the area, made of the typical dark grey slate that characterised Lakeland. ‘What do they do?’ Simmy whispered belatedly, as they were almost on the doorstep.
‘No idea,’ Christopher replied, before turning a wide smile on Fran Bunting, who had thrown the door open for them. ‘Here we are,’ he added fatuously.
Their hostess was thin, with make-up worthy of a film star. She wore tight leggings and a long red top with sparkly bits in it. ‘And this is your little boy!’ she trilled excitedly. ‘Remind me what he’s called.’
Simmy responded gratefully, aware that this was a ploy to make her feel welcome, rather than any genuine interest in the child. In the turmoil of releasing Robin from his buggy, getting into the living room and trying to focus on the three or four faces already there, any lurking shyness was dispelled. The doorbell rang again, and Fran sped off to answer it, leaving guests to introduce themselves.
‘Drink?’ asked a man Simmy vaguely recognised. He watched Robin’s sturdy march across the room with obvious enjoyment. ‘They look like drunken sailors at that age, don’t they?’
Simmy laughed. It might be a cliché, but it was no less true for that.
‘This is Dan,’ said Christopher to his wife. ‘What drinks have you got?’
‘Gin. Wine. Sherry. Juice. Punch.’ The last was uttered with special emphasis, suggesting that there really was little or no choice.
‘Punch, then,’ said Christopher. ‘Right, Sim?’
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘What’s in it?’
‘All the usual. Most of the alcohol’s boiled off, according to Fran, if that’s worrying you.’
‘Not really,’ said Simmy. She looked at him more closely, trying to identify what he reminded her of. She thought it might be a vicar. There was something in his manner suggestive of solicitude, an excessive attention to her feelings and wishes that felt intrusive. ‘It smells gorgeous,’ she added.
The room was decorated with swags of greenery: mostly sprigs of fir, holly and ivy, with pine cones added here and there. As a florist, Simmy felt obliged to give a further inspection, although she had already ascertained at a glance that it was all home-made. A small Christmas tree stood in a corner, looking oddly irrelevant. Christmas carols were playing in another room.
Robin shared none of his mother’s discomfort amongst strangers. At twenty-one months, he was walking and talking with confidence, accustomed more to adults than other children and alarmingly enthusiastic about dogs. Dan Bunting rapidly provided punch, and Simmy drank half of it right away. ‘Hello, little man,’ a youngish woman greeted Robin, ignoring his mother. ‘Shall I give you a cake?’ Without glancing to a parent for permission, she handed the toddler a large mince pie.
‘Ah … um …’ Simmy managed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right. He’ll make an awful mess.’
‘Oh – sorry,’ said the woman unapologetically. ‘He’s not allergic, is he?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s never had a mince pie, so we’re probably about to find out.’
The woman laughed much louder than was appropriate and Robin gave her a sideways look before sinking his teeth into the pastry. His face was instantly besmirched with crumbs.
‘I’m Aoife,’ said Robin’s new friend. ‘It’s Irish for Eva. Don’t even try to spell it.’ She then proceeded to do exactly that.
‘You don’t sound very Irish,’ said Simmy, trying with difficulty to avoid any stereotypes. Irish people did feed their infants on sweet unsuitable food, she suspected.
‘Well, yes – I mean, no. I’ve been here most of my life, as it happens. Since I was nine, in fact.’ Her eye caught another woman, and she grinned. ‘If you’re looking for funny names, how about Diellza? She’s Albanian. I’ve just been getting to know her, but I didn’t get very far. She’s quite exotic, don’t you think?’
A large female approached warily. ‘Hello,’ she said in a musical voice. ‘My English is not too good. Sorry.’
‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ Aoife assured her, with a patronising smile. She waved at the Hendersons. ‘Some local people for you to get to know. They’ll tell you their names.’
‘Christopher and Simmy,’ said Christopher. ‘We live in Hartsop.’
‘Oh? You are … Simmy?’ She was obviously querying the name, not the individual.
‘Short for Persimmon. Tell me your name again.’
‘Di-ell-za,’ came the answer, slowly, separating the syllables.
Before any more could be said, Fran Bunting appeared waving an envelope. ‘Hey, Diellza – this came for you this afternoon. I forgot to give it to you. Looks like a Christmas card.’ She handed it over and moved quickly away. Diellza put it in a pocket.
Robin was standing close to his mother, gazing up at the new person towering over him. She was wearing an all-enveloping kaftan-style garment, made of a heavy material that hung from her substantial figure. She had to weigh sixteen stone, Simmy assessed, and she had a sweet face. ‘It’s a pretty name. Like Demelza. That’s Cornish, I think.’
‘Names are interesting. My husband is called Alexander. He’s Scottish.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You say “Scottish” not “Scotch”. I have to take care to get that right.’
‘Your English is really good,’ said Christopher. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Oh, quite a long time. But I don’t think I will ever get to know all the idioms. I take everything much too literally.’
‘It must be awfully difficult,’ said Simmy. ‘And the English are so bad at other languages. We just expect everyone to learn ours. It’s awful, when you think about it.’
The Albanian’s jaw tensed, her teeth clearly clenched. ‘Ooh,’ she gasped. ‘Sorry.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Simmy.
‘Yes, yes. Bad tummy,’ Fran said. ‘Mince pies. Cheese.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘English food can be hard to digest at times.’
The conversation was turning out to be harder going than Christopher for one was prepared to put up with. He drifted away, holding his glass of punch, and Robin followed him. Simmy let the toddler go, confident that nothing much could happen to him. His hands and face were revoltingly sticky. If there was any justice, he would wipe himself all over Aoife, but she had disappeared from view.
She turned back to Diellza, with a sense of obligation. While she had more patience than her husband, it was limited. However curious she might be as to the reasons for an overweight Albanian finding herself in Patterdale, the prospect of forming the right kind of questions and perhaps being regaled with too much information as a result was not enticing. ‘Go and sit down,’ she advised, and then added. ‘Are you living nearby?’
Diellza hesitated, making no move to find a seat. ‘I’m living here. Dan and Fran have let me have a room for a time. They are kind. I’m trying not to bother them too much.’ Something guarded in her expression made Simmy wonder what the precise relationship might be. ‘Christmas is a strange time for everyone, in different ways,’ Diellza went on. ‘Ordinary life is paused for a few days.’
In spite of herself, Simmy felt curious. The Albanian was young – probably under thirty – and her English was really not so bad. ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘Although it really boils down to just one day. When you get to Boxing Day, the whole thing’s pretty much over. I always find Boxing Day a bit depressing.’
Diellza smiled fleetingly. ‘It’s very strange,’ she said again.
Simmy wanted to ask more, while avoiding any appearance of undue curiosity. Her complete ignorance of Albania made it difficult to frame casual questions, but she gave it a go. ‘I expect all the rituals are different in Albania,’ she tried.
‘We don’t think of them as rituals,’ came the slightly frosty reply.
‘No – wrong word. I mean—’
‘I know what you mean. But really it is not so different. We have the food and the music and the gifts, just the same as you.’ Again, the rictus of discomfort. ‘I’ll sit down, as you suggest,’ she decided. ‘I’m sorry. You find me at a difficult moment. It’s nice of you to talk to me – Simmy. I will remember your name. Perhaps we can see each other again after the Christmas days. I think Dan will agree to that.’
Uh-oh, thought Simmy. Was she imagining an implication that Dan Bunting was not the simple benefactor she had assumed? Was Diellza in some way an unwilling recipient of his largesse? There was no avoiding the idea of ‘human trafficking’ or ‘modern slavery’, merely by learning the woman’s nationality. Suddenly it felt horribly possible.
Her instant inclination was to back away from this sort of trouble as fast as she could. She looked round for Robin, as a handy excuse, but he was across the room with his father. At least four more people had arrived in the past few minutes, not counting two children aged about six, who were quietly fighting in the doorway. Someone had turned up the volume of the carols and ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ was belting out.
‘Go and sit down,’ she said loudly. ‘Before people grab all the chairs.’ There were two armchairs near the fireplace, and a scattering of upright dining chairs obviously brought in from another room. Diellza did as suggested, sailing across the floor as if it was empty of people. Her bulk ensured a clear passage. Simmy smiled slightly to see it. Then she turned away, slightly ashamed of herself for her cowardice. But after all, you were supposed to circulate at a party and talk to everyone there. If Diellza was being exploited in some way, others could see it and deal with it, rather than her. She could hear voices in other parts of the house, which had at least three big downstairs rooms, and concluded there was a table somewhere bearing sausages and other seasonal fare. She would find someone else to talk to, and then go and explore.
But nobody offered themselves as a likely conversationalist. Simmy stood beside a small table, checking one face after another. There was a woman with very short pink hair she had seen before in the Glenridding shop, and an older one who was excruciatingly thin and who sometimes jogged determinedly through Hartsop and off towards Crookabeck. A man with a gingery-grey beard was also faintly familiar.
Simmy’s thoughts remained stubbornly with Diellza, who was now seated regally on a rather small chair, one hand on her stomach. She could hardly be an illegal immigrant if the Buntings were happy to expose her to all their friends and she had been in the country for a while. Where was the husband called Alexander, who was Scottish? The very fact of his existence further reduced any suspicion of illegality. But equally pertinent was the fact that he was not spending Christmas with his wife who was staying in a tiny Cumbrian village with an apparently charitable couple. It made her realise how sheltered and spoilt she had always been, when such matters as Albanian politics and displaced migrants were so far beyond her understanding.
Dan Bunting came smoothly to her rescue, the perfect host. ‘Hey – Simmy, right? You look as if you might need more punch. Come and talk to Louise. She’s expecting her third and feeling hot. She’s been admiring your Robin. Her second one is just his age.’
Simmy already hated Louise for having the babies that she herself had wanted. With every passing month it became more obvious that Robin was never going to have any siblings. ‘I met Diellza,’ she said, hoping for some explanation.
He nodded cheerfully. ‘She’s a sweet girl. Very well educated, actually, but got herself in a bit of a mess these past few weeks – well, months, actually. Badly treated by her husband. We’ve taken her in until after Christmas. Well – wouldn’t you? Poor thing had nowhere to go.’
Simmy sighed, knowing that she was really very unlikely to have offered a roof to a troubled Albanian. ‘That’s very good of you,’ she said.
‘Well, we’ve got the space, and far too much food. It’s making a nice change, and she’s no trouble. Stays in her room most of the time. Doesn’t even hog the bathroom, which was Fran’s main worry. We’ve only got one.’ This oversight was evidently a cause of some regret. He went on, ‘She didn’t want to come down to meet people, but we persuaded her. I hoped she’d make one or two friends.’ He pulled a face. ‘Although we don’t expect her to be here for very long, so it wouldn’t be a very good idea to get too rooted.’ He was watching Simmy for her reaction, which gave rise to a degree of resistance. Again, there was the hint of hungry attention that sometimes imbued a vicar’s conversation. She had no intention of repeating anything Diellza had said to her.
‘It was very nice of you to invite us to the party,’ she mumbled instead, noticing that the carols had gone quiet again. ‘I feel awful, not knowing more people. But it’s always so busy with Robin and the shop and everything. It’s all we can manage to walk the dog and see family. Christopher’s got brothers and sisters he likes to keep up with.’
‘Shop?’
‘Oh, yes – didn’t you know? I’ve got a florist shop in Windermere. I’m back there three days a week now. Robin goes to my parents. It’s a real hassle getting him to them – they’re in the exact wrong direction. I should be full-time, really, but that’s just too much.’
‘He’s still very young,’ said Dan Bunting, with the same sympathetic understanding as before. This man is too good to be true, thought Simmy, again with a flicker of shame. ‘And yes, I remember now about your flower shop. Silly me.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
Simmy waved this away. ‘The punch is delicious,’ she said.
‘So I’ll fetch you some more.’ And he went off with her empty glass, having mercifully forgotten all about the pregnant Louise.
