Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  “Ms. Parke?” Mrs. Draycott appeared in the doorway.

  “I can’t feel my lips!” Pru gasped. “I’m going numb. I’ve been—”

  Mahonia Arthur Menzies—spikes of sunshine in winter with leaves that catch and tear at me. Is this heaven or is it hell? BB

  Chapter 23

  Pru grabbed her own arm and pinched, but couldn’t tell if she felt anything. She pressed her hand to her chest—she couldn’t stop panting. Stumbling, she reached out to Mrs. Draycott.

  “I’ll ring Mr. Pearse.” The landlady shot out of the dining room and almost collided with Christopher, front-door key in hand, who must’ve heard Pru call out as he’d come in. He grabbed her by the arms.

  “I ate something,” she whispered, panting, “and I began to feel…my lips and tongue are numb.” She could barely enunciate—could he understand her words? Was she drooling?

  “Sit down,” Christopher ordered, and although he sounded in control, his face turned ashen. He knelt in front of her. “Mrs. Draycott, ring 999 immediately. Then Dr. Cherrystone.”

  Mrs. Draycott asked no questions, but turned on the spot.

  “Relish,” Pru told Christopher, “from Cynthia. It must be in the kitchen.”

  “Let me get it—are you all right here?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes—” She held on to the table with both hands. “Go on.”

  She heard the clattering of dishes and cupboard doors and then voices as Mrs. Draycott joined Christopher. Light-headed, Pru clutched her heart as her pulse faded.

  “Do you think it’s some sort of allergy?” Mrs. Draycott fretted as she followed Christopher in.

  He brought the jar out—carrying it on the palm of his hand, which he’d covered in a tea towel. Fingerprints, Pru thought.

  “Careful,” Christopher said as he held it out for Pru to see. She peered closely at Cynthia’s label.

  Mountain Pepper Relish.

  “Oh God,” Pru said, as a fresh wave of heat swept up her neck and face, but from embarrassment, not poison. The feeling rushed back into her arms, her heart beat strongly once more, and the numbness faded from her tongue and lips. She picked up the jar. “It’s mountain pepper.”

  Christopher raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s a shrub from Tasmania. Mr. Bede grew it—there’s quite a nice one in the garden. That’s probably where Cynthia got the berries. It’s used to make a spicy condiment or sauce—I’ve seen recipes online. It isn’t…it isn’t what I thought.” She kept her head down, but cut her eyes to him and saw him nod. “I’m all right—it only startled me.”

  “Well, that’s an immense relief,” Mrs. Draycott heaved with a sigh. “You know, the first time I bit into a large piece of fresh ginger, I thought I would wilt on the spot. Mr. Draycott had brought Chinese takeaway from a place on the road into Moreton-in-Marsh. The most remarkable experience—as if my whole mouth was on fire.”

  “I’m sorry I made such a fuss,” Pru said.

  “Nonsense,” the landlady replied. “Let me cook more eggs for you.”

  “No, thank you—I’m fine, really, only I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

  “Well, then, perhaps I’ll put the kettle on. Cherry and the ambulance fellows are already on their way.”

  —

  Pru, mortified at making a scene and accusing Cynthia of trying to poison her, had longed to hide in the dark recesses of room number eight. But instead, she waited bravely in the sitting room to face her humiliation. Christopher sat down with her, and she could see the lack of sleep in the deep lines on his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes.

  “The sett? Did you find anyone or anything?” she asked, desperately wanting to shift the spotlight off her blunder.

  Christopher shook his head. “I’ve asked Appledore to send out a couple of uniforms to dig through the mess made by moving the earth round. It may have been disturbed again—perhaps that’s what woke Michael up.”

  “What about the badgers?”

  “If they were there at all, they won’t come back now.”

  Pru thought for a moment. “Where is the sett? From Constance’s favorite place at Glebe House, I can see a copse off to the left.”

  “Yes, the far side of that. The little cottage where Bram lives is on that lane. There’s another copse across the next field where Ger’s caravan sits.”

  “That’s out the way Cherry lives,” Pru said.

  At that moment, Dr. Cherrystone arrived, followed close on by two EMTs. Pru apologized profusely for leading them on a wild goose chase. “I made a mistake—it was only something I ate. I’m fine now—really.”

  They asked her questions about how it had happened, took her blood pressure, listened to her heart, checked her eyes, and called it good. “No harm done,” one of the EMTs said as Mrs. Draycott brought out the tea. Everyone settled into chairs and settees. Over their cups, the ambulance workers and Cherry exchanged the odd humorous story of false alarms. Pru realized she would now be added to their repertoire.

  Tea break over, Cherry left, followed by the ambulance, and not two minutes later, a small silver car stopped in front of the B&B. Pru watched out the front window as a man got out. He was short and wore a three-piece gray suit. His hair, combed straight back, began high on his forehead.

  “What do you think?” Pru asked. “Could this be the man himself?”

  Mrs. Draycott met her guest at the door and said, “Go through, Mr. Elkington. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  There were introductions all round before they sat and engaged in polite conversation about the weather. Mr. Elkington commented that if he’d known there would be such temperatures in England in October, he wouldn’t have needed to go to Aruba. Pru mentioned that she’d heard they might be in for a change. They all agreed the sky seemed exceedingly clear.

  At last, Mrs. Draycott delivered the tea tray. “My only regret,” she said, “is that I have no cake to offer.” She hovered for a minute, perhaps waiting for an invitation, but none forthcoming, she excused herself.

  “Inspector Pearse”—Elkington leaned forward—“can you tell me how he died? Is it really murder, as people are saying?”

  “At present, it is a murky case. It appears that Bede ingested a poison. That was what killed him. But after his death, a statue was pushed over onto the body. Whether to ensure his death or to make it look as if the stonework had caused it, we aren’t yet sure.”

  Elkington shook his head. “Dreadful, really.” He looked over at Pru. “Are you a part of the investigative team, Ms. Parke?” He asked the question in a neutral voice.

  “Yes,” Christopher replied, “she is. In an unofficial capacity, of course, but Ms. Parke knows the garden, is aware of its historical significance, and was asked to advise on its future. A future Bede is no longer a part of. It may be significant. She also was the person who came across the body.”

  “Yes, of course, I see.” Elkington set his cup and saucer down. “Well, then, let me give you my background. I was Batsford Bede’s solicitor for twenty-six years. The first nineteen years passed, I may say, without incident. But seven years ago, Mr. Bede made significant changes to his will, and since that time our relationship has been that of…”

  He frowned, his eyes darting here and there as if looking for the words he wanted to say. “You know the tale of the boy who cried wolf?” Elkington asked. “ ‘Wolf!’ the boy calls out, and the villagers rush to his rescue, only to find there is no wolf. It happens so often that at last, just when the boy’s call is real and his life in danger, the villagers tire of the game and refuse to respond. And that’s the end of the boy.”

  Elkington picked up his tea and stirred, as if assembling the next part of his opening statement.

  “In this tale, Inspector Pearse and Ms. Parke,” he continued, “I play the role of the villagers, and Batsford Bede, the boy. ‘Change!’ he’d cry. ‘I must change my will—immediately!’ Mr. Bede was a man who would brook no delay—apart
from those of his own making—and so I would drop whatever business I was in and come running, only to find that he had changed his mind about the change. And so, twelve days ago—as I was checking into my hotel in Aruba—once again the boy cried wolf, and this time, I replied that I would see to it upon my return. And until yesterday, when you rang, I intended to do just that.”

  “Do you know what changes he wanted to make?” Christopher asked.

  Elkington shook his head.

  “Did this summons sound unusual in any way?”

  The solicitor sighed. “Upon reflection, I believe perhaps this latest and last cry of wolf did seem—different. I sensed that something troubled him, and, at the same time, something pleased him. But he gave me no details.”

  “It would be helpful for us to know the contents of his will,” Christopher said. “Would you prefer that I contact the executor?”

  “I am both solicitor and executor,” Elkington replied. “I told him I’d rather not, and didn’t he have a relative or close associate he could trust with the matter, but he said no. Of course you may see it—wills are a matter of public record once they are filed—but I thought it might be easier on those concerned if I had a word first. That is why I began at Glebe House.” He tapped his fingertips together for a moment. “See here, Ms. Parke—Ms. Summersun mentioned you. The two of you are close?”

  Close? Pru had known Coral for five days, but under the circumstances…“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  “It’s only that, I don’t think she’s taken this well, and she may need your support.”

  Pru and Christopher exchanged glances. “Taken what?” he asked.

  “Apparently, Ms. Summersun was under the impression that Glebe House would be left to her, because of the former arrangement—Mr. Bede’s first will—in which he’d left everything to her mother, Constance Summersun. But you see, that was the change seven years ago, the one I told you about. Constance had died, and he rewrote the will with no mention of the younger Summersun. He left his entire estate to someone else.”

  Pru jumped off the love seat, but she felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach at this revelation and she couldn’t catch her breath. She fell back again.

  “But Coral thought—”

  “Yes, I understand now what she did think. I’m afraid this has been a shock. I tell you this because I thought you might want to look in on her. I’m sure she will be given some transition time, so that she can move out of…”

  “Is she alone?” Christopher wanted to know.

  “Well, there was no one at the house when…”

  Pru flew off the love seat again. “You told her she’d been cut out of the will and then you just walked away?”

  Christopher stood, too, but it was to put his arm round Pru’s shoulders and hold tightly. Pru heard a bumping in the corridor, and pictured Mrs. Draycott dusting the staircase as she listened in.

  “I’ve got to go to her,” Pru said. She put a hand on Christopher’s arm. “Wait—who did he leave it to? Glebe House, the fields, and the gardens?”

  The solicitor rose and smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers. “I’m sure you’ll understand, Ms. Parke, when I say that I believe it’s best to talk with the beneficiary of Batsford’s will before information is released to the general public.”

  “Oh my God,” Pru said, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself as the realization hit her. “He left it to Cynthia.”

  Lay out what rules you like about the garden, and the garden does what it will, regardless. BB

  Chapter 24

  Elkington’s face widened with surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Well, if Ms. Mouser has already revealed that she inherits Glebe House…”

  Pru barely heard him. “ ‘She’s a spider,’ Coral told me, ‘a spider who has caught him in her web.’ But I don’t think Coral knew the extent of it.”

  “Mr. Bede always appeared in his right mind during our dealings,” Elkington insisted, “so I don’t believe that any undue coercion forced him to—”

  “But he had wanted to change the will.” Christopher spoke in a low voice, as if to himself. Pru saw his look of concentration and knew he was slotting this new information into its place in the murder inquiry. But she couldn’t do that—objectively look at the wreck Batsford Bede had left behind. She could think only of Coral.

  —

  Pru gave Mrs. Draycott the briefest of explanations—“just going to see about Coral, back for dinner.” Behind her thick lenses, Mrs. Draycott’s eyes gave nothing away, but Pru was sure the landlady had a fair idea of what had been said in the sitting room. How quickly would the news make it to Cynthia’s ears—or had she known all along?

  Elkington had left by the time Pru got to the front door, and Christopher waited for her, car key in hand.

  During the short journey to Glebe House, Pru fumed until, just as they pulled into the yard, she burst out with, “How could he do that to her? Mr. Bede—take all this away from Coral?”

  “A will is not the place to settle a score,” Christopher said. “Is that what he thought he was doing—punishing her for leaving? Coral returned when her mother died, didn’t she?”

  “Yes—that was ten years ago.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “About a year, I believe. And then she moved back to Oxford.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she…” Pru thought back to her first conversation with Coral and what others had implied. “She wanted to make her way in the world? Perhaps she thought village life was too confining.” The first time Coral had left, she’d been eighteen—youth can excuse a great deal. But the second time, Coral had run away from Oliver. Pru didn’t know that for certain, but she felt it strongly.

  “She married soon after,” Pru added. Quite soon. Almost immediately. Why had she done that?

  Glebe House seemed deserted. The blue-and-white police tape had gone, along with PC Mills and her cohorts. The Green Man knocker reverberated at the front door, but no one came to answer. Pru glanced round the yard, and saw that the door to the garden shed stood halfway open.

  She led the way and peeked inside. Sunlight streamed in from the windows on the south side, throwing clearly defined rectangles of gold onto the floor, but the rest of the space lay in shadows. Coral sat at her uncle’s oak desk, staring at its clean surface, hands in her lap.

  “You go in,” Christopher whispered. “I’ll be nearby.”

  Pru nodded and pushed open the door.

  “Coral?” she asked quietly as she approached the desk.

  Coral looked up, her face blank and washed of color. Her gaze circled the room, the books, the watercolors, maps, and diagrams.

  “I walked out to the bench at the top of the Long View. That’s where Mother and Uncle Batty rested at the end of each day. I sat there with him last week and we talked of her. The leaves on the lily of the valley are turning yellow,” she said, her voice thick. “Why must they die now?”

  Pru circled the desk and knelt down beside Coral.

  “They aren’t really dying—only disappearing for the winter. They’ll be back again next spring, just as they are in your tapestry.”

  “Not my tapestry,” Coral said.

  The woman’s stillness worried Pru—she’d expected one of Coral’s wild outbursts, as on the morning of Mr. Bede’s death. The quiet in the room spoke not of shock, but of sadness and failure. Pru thought she might prefer Coral raving or collapsing in a heap to this.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we? I’ll make us tea.”

  Coral remained seated until Pru put a hand on her arm. Then she stood and said, “It’s what I deserve, you know. No more than I deserve.”

  And that was the last she spoke. Together, they walked into the house and to her room, where Coral sat on the love seat and sighed as if she’d come to the end of a long and strenuous journey. Pru left her there.

  Christopher had kept back and met Pru in the kitchen. She switche
d on the kettle and searched the pantry, at last coming up with a packet of caramel wafers.

  “Should I ring Dr. Cherrystone?” she asked.

  “Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’ve just been on the phone with Natalie. I didn’t explain, only to say you might need her help. She’s on her way down. How do you think Coral is?”

  “I think she’s in shock, and why wouldn’t she be?” Pru struggled to keep the tears away. “She came back to take care of Mr. Bede; I think she wanted to make amends. And she spoke of him and her mother so fondly—this is a terrible blow for her.”

  “It opens up a whole new line of inquiry,” Christopher said.

  “He wanted to make a change to his will,” she reminded him. “Perhaps he was about to change it in favor of Coral.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t realize she’d already been cut out, and thought that’s what the change would do.”

  Pru turned to Christopher, unable to wipe the frown off her face. She knew the implication. “No, not Coral,” she insisted. He didn’t speak, but she knew his thoughts, and at last conceded, ever so slightly. “Yes, of course,” she whispered, “everyone’s a…but that means others might have a motive, too. Who would stand to lose if the will were changed?”

  She told herself she wasn’t trying to throw suspicion on Cynthia. Or at least, Cynthia alone. What about Bram’s leasehold? Would Ger Crombie murder Mr. Bede out of loyalty to Bram? What about Danny Sheridan, who had lied about Mr. Bede visiting the pub? He must’ve had a reason for that. Perhaps Dr. Cherrystone had tired of making the daily trek to see his patient, and had done away with him. Lizzy? Mrs. Draycott? Good grief, she thought, why not suspect Custard the bull while she was at it?

  —

  Pru sat with Coral, who drank her sugared tea without comment. She didn’t touch the cookies, but Pru ate several—her crunching magnified in the silence and the wafers leaving a fine dusting of crumbs in her lap.

  When she heard what she hoped was the sound of Natalie arriving, Pru excused herself and left for the kitchen.