Christopher surprised her by arriving home at half past four, at least an hour before she expected. ‘She’s dead,’ he said, before he was properly through the door. ‘Sounds as if it was a knife, but all details are being withheld.’ He was obviously quoting an official. ‘We’ve closed early and are staying closed until at least Thursday. Big notice on the gate. Police interviews with all staff will begin imminently.’
He was pale, and as she watched him, he slumped onto a chair that had been left near the door. None of the furniture in the main living space was yet in its permanent position. There was still flooring to be done, as well as more new walls. ‘It’s … shattering,’ said Christopher. ‘She was such a solid person. We all relied on her completely. I can’t imagine the place without her. The moment we got the news, everyone started behaving like headless chickens. Including me. Fiona called the cops; they called Oliver; Oliver came and told all the staff. They want to know about family, friends – all that stuff.’ He started up at Simmy wildly. ‘I’ll have to tell them about Crickers, won’t I?’
‘Of course you will. Why – is that a problem?’
‘He can’t have done it. He wouldn’t pull a knife on anybody. Most likely it was just a burglary gone wrong. I don’t mean just …’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But she did have some decent things in the house. Pictures mostly. She’d got a genuine Stanley Spencer, for one thing. And some nice silver. And about two hundred of those little Limoges boxes. No self-respecting burglar’s going to want those. Even Josie was getting tired of them and kept threatening to put them up for auction. She’d have cheerfully handed them over to a burglar without a struggle.’ He groaned. ‘It wasn’t a burglar, was it? That would be too simple. Poor old Josie. What a ghastly thing.’
‘It must have happened in the night,’ said Simmy, finding herself to be thinking unusually clearly. ‘Before she would normally have left for work, anyway. Where does she live, did you say?’
‘About a mile this side of Keswick. On the little back road that goes to Threlkeld. Just an ordinary house in a row, set back off the road a bit. I’ve only been there once, actually.’
‘Have you spoken to Fiona?’
He shook his head. ‘She didn’t come back to work. Oliver came and talked to us all – sent us outside to tell everybody to go home. There were a few people collecting purchases from Saturday still hanging about. We weren’t allowed to tell them why – just that there’d been an incident, and the place had to be closed. There’ll be all kinds of rumours flying about by now.’
‘The truth’ll soon be out.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘She must have been very well known. Had she upset anybody lately? She didn’t strike me as especially friendly.’
‘She was sharp sometimes. But always totally fair and straight with them all. Even the absolute idiots who bidded for things by mistake or hadn’t brought any money with them – she never yelled at them or anything. God – I’m glad it wasn’t me who found her. I never want to go through that again.’
Less than a year earlier, Christopher had come closer to violent death than was easily tolerated. Simmy’s association with murders, all of them unsought and accidental, filled him with horror and a powerful sense of resistance. More than once, he had made it clear that he blamed Ben Harkness, which was entirely unjust.
‘Well, have a mug of tea and try not to think about it,’ she advised, waiting for him to take the hint. When at home, almost all kitchen duties devolved onto him since the baby arrived. It took him a while, but he finally got up and went to put the kettle on.
‘How’s the young master been since I phoned you?’ he remembered to ask. ‘Everything seems nice and quiet now.’
‘He dropped off after lunch and hasn’t stirred since. The routine is completely blown. He’ll probably keep us up all night now.’
‘I’ll play with him for a bit – see if that helps.’
‘He’ll like that,’ said Simmy optimistically. She found herself thinking that the benefit might flow the other way – from son to father. Christopher certainly needed some sort of distraction.
The evening felt like an interval between dramatic events. Robin was still playing ducks and drakes with the routine, and showed no signs of settling down to a reasonable bedtime. A suspension in time, waiting for the police to drag Christopher into their investigation, or for Fabian Crick to show up and persuade them of his innocence. ‘How would he have got to Keswick, anyway?’ Simmy mused. ‘That scooter couldn’t possibly have got him there, especially in the night.’
‘If he called a taxi, there’d be records and the police would soon be onto him.’
‘Yes.’
Christopher ruffled his own hair, his expression agonised. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Josephine. It’s going to knock the business sideways, losing her. She’s the lynchpin of the whole place. Nobody else understands the inner workings of the software system.’
Simmy’s mind was still functioning with surprising clarity. Ideas were firing off in all directions, even as she cradled her restless infant. The afternoon playtime with Christopher had not gone well – Robin had been fractious and unco-operative. ‘Is there a rival auction house who thought they could gain an edge by removing your lynchpin?’ she suggested.
‘Come on – that’s a terrible idea,’ Christopher scoffed.
The baby clearly took exception to the loss of his place at the centre of their attention. He protested in the only way he knew. ‘Right – one last feed, and then we’re all going to bed,’ said Simmy. ‘And that’s final.’
‘I won’t be able to sleep if I go this early,’ Christopher objected. He looked around the half-finished living area as if in search of amusement. ‘I could watch a bit of
