Read Online The Troutbeck Testimony by Rebecca Tope - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Tope
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she said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘Nor me.’ The words were uttered forcefully. ‘Do you hear? It’s nothing to do with me, either. So don’t you go thinking it has.’
She nodded timidly. It sounded like a threat. She took it as a threat. And yet there was an appeal in his eyes that softened his expression and made her less afraid of him. She glimpsed a life spent under suspicion simply because of the way he looked. Scruffy, thin, sly – he was nobody’s idea of trustworthy. Impatiently she thought: surely he could clean himself up without any great effort, if it mattered to him how people judged him. He didn’t really strike her as a murderer. But then, she had actually met three murderers since coming to Cumbria, and not one of them had shown any outward sign of their capabilities.
The man walked away, uphill towards the Mortal Man. Simmy went into her house and tried not to think any more about him.
Wednesday was a lot cooler than previous days had been, with grey skies over the lakes and fells. Determined to avoid any risk of getting embroiled in police activity at Town End, she took the alternative road out of Troutbeck down towards the church, turning left at the chestnut tree, which had the first hints of pink flowers that would cover it in another week or two. Making deliveries before opening the shop was efficient, but it meant an uncomfortably early start at times.
She drove first to Staveley with the delivery of flowers, where Cynthia Mossop was in her dressing gown, bemused at the doorbell going before she was properly awake. The flowers were well received, and Simmy duly gratified. She sped back down to Windermere and her shop, catching glimpses of the lake where an early mist drifted above the water.
She found her thoughts full of her mother’s account of her father’s startling change of character. Had it been coming on gradually, or was it as sudden as it seemed to Simmy? Was it all because of her experiences over recent months, into which he had also been drawn? Did he understand what was happening to him, or was it all unconscious? Would it help if she deliberately avoided all mention of the events of the Bank Holiday Monday, or make him even more paranoid? Perhaps it wasn’t paranoia anyway, but a purely rational response to situations that really were dangerous? People had died, after all, including a man in Troutbeckless than a day ago. DI Moxon had taken Russell’s report seriously, and had manifested concern for Simmy’s safety.
It was all happening again – she had to face it. There had been another murder, close to where she lived. Ben Harkness would be avidly excited about it, and Melanie would probably admit to an intimate knowledge of the dead man’s family and all their doings. And it was not going to do Simmy or her father any good at all.
The shop had a handy paved area in front, where plants could be positioned in a display that mostly had to be taken in at closing time every day. ‘Persimmon Petals’ was painted in fancy lettering above the window. When the handmade model of the well-known Baddeley clock tower had finally been removed after five months in situ, Ninian had promised to construct a more permanent attraction to include his trademark ceramic tiles, but nothing had yet materialised. Simmy and Melanie had both been remiss in failing to create a proper display in the meantime.
Still thinking about her father, and wondering how worried or annoyed she should be, it took her a moment to register that another man was standing outside the shop, clearly waiting for her.
‘You’re early,’ she said, feeling moithered, or mithered, according to which north country dialect one adopted. In either case, it was a word Simmy found herself using a lot, when people approached her at an unsuitable hour.
‘I got up at sunrise, which was nearly three hours ago,’ said Ninian Tripp. ‘The best of the day is almost over.’
‘That might be true on
‘Nor me.’ The words were uttered forcefully. ‘Do you hear? It’s nothing to do with me, either. So don’t you go thinking it has.’
She nodded timidly. It sounded like a threat. She took it as a threat. And yet there was an appeal in his eyes that softened his expression and made her less afraid of him. She glimpsed a life spent under suspicion simply because of the way he looked. Scruffy, thin, sly – he was nobody’s idea of trustworthy. Impatiently she thought: surely he could clean himself up without any great effort, if it mattered to him how people judged him. He didn’t really strike her as a murderer. But then, she had actually met three murderers since coming to Cumbria, and not one of them had shown any outward sign of their capabilities.
The man walked away, uphill towards the Mortal Man. Simmy went into her house and tried not to think any more about him.
Wednesday was a lot cooler than previous days had been, with grey skies over the lakes and fells. Determined to avoid any risk of getting embroiled in police activity at Town End, she took the alternative road out of Troutbeck down towards the church, turning left at the chestnut tree, which had the first hints of pink flowers that would cover it in another week or two. Making deliveries before opening the shop was efficient, but it meant an uncomfortably early start at times.
She drove first to Staveley with the delivery of flowers, where Cynthia Mossop was in her dressing gown, bemused at the doorbell going before she was properly awake. The flowers were well received, and Simmy duly gratified. She sped back down to Windermere and her shop, catching glimpses of the lake where an early mist drifted above the water.
She found her thoughts full of her mother’s account of her father’s startling change of character. Had it been coming on gradually, or was it as sudden as it seemed to Simmy? Was it all because of her experiences over recent months, into which he had also been drawn? Did he understand what was happening to him, or was it all unconscious? Would it help if she deliberately avoided all mention of the events of the Bank Holiday Monday, or make him even more paranoid? Perhaps it wasn’t paranoia anyway, but a purely rational response to situations that really were dangerous? People had died, after all, including a man in Troutbeckless than a day ago. DI Moxon had taken Russell’s report seriously, and had manifested concern for Simmy’s safety.
It was all happening again – she had to face it. There had been another murder, close to where she lived. Ben Harkness would be avidly excited about it, and Melanie would probably admit to an intimate knowledge of the dead man’s family and all their doings. And it was not going to do Simmy or her father any good at all.
The shop had a handy paved area in front, where plants could be positioned in a display that mostly had to be taken in at closing time every day. ‘Persimmon Petals’ was painted in fancy lettering above the window. When the handmade model of the well-known Baddeley clock tower had finally been removed after five months in situ, Ninian had promised to construct a more permanent attraction to include his trademark ceramic tiles, but nothing had yet materialised. Simmy and Melanie had both been remiss in failing to create a proper display in the meantime.
Still thinking about her father, and wondering how worried or annoyed she should be, it took her a moment to register that another man was standing outside the shop, clearly waiting for her.
‘You’re early,’ she said, feeling moithered, or mithered, according to which north country dialect one adopted. In either case, it was a word Simmy found herself using a lot, when people approached her at an unsuitable hour.
‘I got up at sunrise, which was nearly three hours ago,’ said Ninian Tripp. ‘The best of the day is almost over.’
‘That might be true on
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