Read Online The Ambleside Alibi: 2 by Rebecca Tope - Free Book Online Page B

inevitable. The first was a traditional but expensive sheaf of red roses from a man to his wife on their anniversary. They lived just north of Newby Bridge, which would take a minimum of ten minutes to reach, and much more likely to be over fifteen. But then she could zoom along the main roads to Staveley, where the second delivery was due. It would in theory be possible to perform both visits within an hour.
    The second bouquet was composed of the more exotic and flamboyant end of the floral spectrum. Gerberas in red, pink and orange were teamed with clusters of red holly berries and two peach-coloured roses. Encircling the flowers were glossy evergreen leaves. It was unsubtle, but perfect for the season. The occasion was a sixtieth birthday, but the order had added a note: ‘Make it as Christmassy as you like.’ Simmy had taken this as permission to go overboard on the reds.
    Simmy had a liking for Staveley, where she often found herself heading for flower deliveries. The encircling hills gave the village an atmosphere of settled security and permanence that she enjoyed, and once there, having made excellent time on the roads, she habitually lingered over the task as long as possible. Only when a car tooted its horn at her, did she realise she had been driving at twenty miles an hour, peering up at the fells and generally admiring the wintry scene in the continuing sunshine.
    She accelerated moderately into the village centre and found the designated house after a brief search. Making the first deliveries since that to Mrs Joseph, she was inexorably reminded of that episode. The door of the Staveley houseopened inwards, she noted. The woman told her no personal details, but grasped the flowers with unambiguous delight. ‘They are good to me,’ she rejoiced, with no further elucidation. ‘Thank you very much. Did you make it up yourself? The bouquet, I mean?’
    ‘Yes I did.’
    ‘It’s gorgeous. You
are
clever. The roses are absolutely perfect. And the
colours
!’
    ‘I’m glad you like them.’
    ‘Thank you again,’ said the woman, and the door was gently closed.
    And a happy birthday
, Simmy belatedly and silently mouthed. She still wasn’t getting this delivery thing right, she suspected. Probably she should remain faceless and anonymous, just two legs on which to convey the flowers and nothing more. People didn’t want anything beyond that. They wanted to revel in the scents and symbolism of the tribute, savouring the sentiment behind it, and closing out anything extraneous to that.
    She drove back only slightly less slowly, convinced there was no real cause to rush. For some reason she thought of her father, nursing his injured cat. Russell Straw was a kind man, good with animals and children. She remembered that they’d been planning a walk to Garburn, which was near Kentmere, which was approached via Staveley. It all connected, both geographically and psychologically, and explained the sudden intrusion of her father into her thoughts. The area was crying out for exploration, and she had let far too many months pass without any serious efforts to gird up and get going. Now it would all have to wait, and she was annoyed with herself.
    Perhaps there would be a crisp cold winter, in which walking would be perfectly feasible. And then she remembered Melanie’s unsettling prediction of snow, and she sighed. However much she tried to shrug it off, she could not deny that snow frightened her. It concealed landmarks and lured people into crevasses. It fell off hillsides and buried you. It smothered sheep and cattle, and caused barn roofs to collapse. Simmy somehow knew these things, without ever having come close to experiencing them. If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, she might have believed that in a previous life she had met her death in a snowdrift. As it was, she had no livestock to worry about, and even if the road from Troutbeck did become impassable by car, she could still walk down to Windermere in an