Constance is ill. She is quite ill, and if something happens to her, I don’t know that I can go on.
And so began the end of the story of Batsford Bede and Constance Summersun. His entries became fewer and his words more terse—angry even, as he saw Constance fade.
And so, where is the girl? C says it’s all right, she has her own life. She would forgive her anything, but I cannot.
She’s arrived at last—no longer a girl, I see, but a grown woman. Mother and daughter reunited and I find I am jealous of their time together, because it lessens mine with her.
At last, we have something in common—our sorrow. We mourn together.
Gone. I am alone. I cannot bear to look at the garden.
The room had dimmed by the time Christopher returned, and Pru could barely make out his figure in the doorway.
“Are you asleep?” he asked quietly.
She responded with a ragged breath and a sob. He came to her, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached out.
“What’s wrong?”
Pru hiccuped and managed to say, “She died.”
His hands tightened on her arms. “Who died?”
“Constance.”
He switched on the lamp at her side, and Pru blinked. She knew her eyes were swollen from crying and her face probably blotched and red. Christopher frowned, and then his gaze dropped to her lap, where the journal lay open, and his eyes softened.
“Did he write about it?”
Pru nodded, another sob caught in her throat. “He loved her.”
Christopher took Pru in his arms, kissed her forehead, and rubbed her back.
“When Coral returned for her mother,” Pru said into his shoulder, “at first he resented it, but then they grew close. Until she left again.” Pru sniffed and Christopher released her, offering his handkerchief. “Thank you. He was a prickly man, but when Coral came back because of his illness, I believe they reconciled. Look, here.”
She flipped a few pages.
“He wrote in black ink in all the books. But, I’ve noticed that every once in a while, there’s something written in blue—often just one line, but sometimes more. They seem to be scattered throughout, but I think the blue comments are more recent. And so here, at the end—this is in blue.”
Where has all the honesty gone? The variegated variety, with white-edged leaves and white flowers, Lunaria annua Alba Variegata. We had given over the shady corner of the White Garden to it, but across the years it has vanished. Did my own honesty disappear with it? I admit now I was wrong. The girl—pardon, the woman—returns and each day we grow infinitesimally closer. She remembers details of those years that even I had forgotten. Today, we sat on the bench and spoke of her mother, and I recalled C saying to me, “Just wait. She’ll come back.” I am glad she’s here. We will replant.
A light tapping at the door.
“Yes?”
“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Mrs. Draycott called, “but I wanted to let you know Natalie has returned Coral to us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Draycott. We’ll be right down.”
Pru blew her nose. “Do you want to go on ahead? I’d better splash some water on my face first.” They walked along the corridor and Pru stopped at the bathroom. “You didn’t find anything, did you? At Cynthia’s?”
Christopher shook his head.
“And did you two have a chance to talk?”
“We did not,” he said. “She left and stood across the road on the pavement to ‘allow us the freedom we needed,’ she said.” He rubbed his thumb on the back of Pru’s hand. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“And, look,” Christopher said. “Ger Crombie.”
Field, bull, Ger—the afternoon’s escapade came rushing back to her.
“I didn’t know he was following me.”
“Following you?” Christopher’s hand tightened round hers.
“Oh—you didn’t know that either, did you? It’s all right, he only wanted to—” Pru could hear voices from downstairs. “You go on, I’ll explain later. I think it’s something to do with Bram’s leasehold and the meadows.”
—
From the kitchen came the rattling of pots and pans, accompanied by the soothing voices of Radio 4 and the familiar aroma of baked chicken. Pru went out to the front room to find Coral on a settee, her hands in her lap and her face earnest, but worn and weary. Christopher sat in a chair across from her.
“We never spoke of his will,” she was saying. “I did talk with Mr. Elkington once or twice, but it was on matters of the accounts. I won’t contest the will—that would be foolish. What grounds would I have? And if that’s the way Uncle Batty wanted it, who am I to complain?”
When Christopher noticed Pru hesitating in the door, he nodded her in. She sat next to Coral as he continued his questioning.
“And you are sure you saw no one in the lane or the fields as you made your way to Glebe House this morning?” Christopher asked.
“It was early—before Mrs. Draycott’s walk with Lizzy and…” Coral’s voice petered out, but then she straightened her shoulders. “Once there, I went upstairs to visit the rooms and reminisce. I suppose I’d been up there ages, and I’d walked out onto the landing above the front door. It’s big enough for a seating area, and Uncle Batty had one of Mother’s large watercolors framed and hung there. It’s of the meadows.” She turned to Pru. “It’s the picture that the tapestry was based on, the one in my…in my room. From the window on the landing, I saw the fire.” Her eyes glazed over, and Pru could’ve sworn she saw the flames reflected there.
“What did you do?” Christopher asked.
“I ran—I remember reaching the door. But I don’t remember anything else, until Pru was there.”
“You knew that Bram wanted a leasehold on the meadows and the other fields?” Pru asked.
Coral nodded. “She’s quite amibitous, isn’t she? And full of energy.”
“Do you know what she wanted to do with the meadows? Did she want to build on them?” Pru asked.
Christopher leaned back and watched. Her questions were based on Ger’s tangled tale, and Pru had yet to explain that.
“Margaretta, build?”
Pru smiled, wondering what Coral would say if she knew that only she and Cyn called Bram by her full name.
“No,” Coral said, “she couldn’t do that—there’s a covenant.”
“On the meadows?” Christopher asked.
“A covenant?” Pru echoed. That sounded biblical to her, like Moses and the Ten Commandments.
“It’s a law attached to the land, not to the owner,” Christopher explained. “It prevents any property owner from carrying out certain actions—usually building.”
“The covenant runs with the land,” Coral said. Pru heard Mr. Bede’s voice in those words—she had read them in his journal. The words had been written in blue, and so, Pru thought, more recent. Had he been reminding himself?
“So, it doesn’t matter who owns it?” Pru asked.
Coral nodded. “Although, I do remember Uncle Batty saying there was a person who had expressed interest in buying the fields.”
“Lizzy mentioned that,” Pru said. “Mr. Bede told the fellow in no uncertain terms to shove off. But I thought it had happened ages ago.”
“Yes, but this was since Mother died and after I…I had gone. Uncle Batty actually considered it for a while, when he was deepest in his despair.”
“Did he tell you this?” Christopher asked.
Coral nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “We didn’t part on good terms when I left, and we had little contact until he fell ill. All those years.”
“But the meadows, Coral—you don’t think it was Bram who wanted to build?”
Coral shook her head. “Not Margaretta—Uncle Batty knew how much she loved the meadows. You just ask her about harvest mice and bumblebees and fieldfares and see how long you’re pinned to your chair.” Pru laughed and Coral smiled, a faint
smile, but genuine. “So you see, the meadows are safe. And that’s something for me to remember.”
—
The evening—subdued, melancholy, but not morose—ended with coffee in the front room and Mrs. Draycott tuning in a classical-music station on the radio. Christopher had his eyes on Pru all evening—across the table, over coffee. When she met his gaze, it was as if the rest of the world fell away and only the two of them remained. Those eyes were as good as having his hands on her. Almost.
When Christopher stood and announced, “I hope no one expects a song, because I’m going to bed,” Pru popped out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box.
“Yes, I believe I will, too,” she said. Putting her hand on Coral’s arm, she added, “You won’t go anywhere tomorrow without telling me, will you?”
“No, Pru, I won’t leave. I’ll be here,” she promised. “I have nowhere else to go.”
“Yes, you do—tomorrow we must sort out your story time for the fête. We’ll go to Grenadine Hall.”
Coral’s cheeks colored, and her eyes shone. “Yes, well. Of course.”
—
In their room, Christopher reached to one side of the bed and then the other to switch on the tiny bedside lamps, before straightening up and catching Pru’s hand. “I’ve been thinking,” he said and stopped.
Thinking? Was this really the moment to think?
“I’ve remembered more about all those years ago, when I dated Cyn.”
Cyn—oh good. Best to keep quiet, then. Pru offered an encouraging smile. Christopher inhaled and exhaled before continuing.
“It was about six months or so after my and Phyl’s divorce was final—not a full year, I don’t think—and I’d heard that she’d started seeing someone. That sort of knocked me…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know why, but it did. Not long after that, I responded to a B&E call at an office—I don’t even recall what sort of business. Cyn worked there. And she was friendly.”
I can imagine.
“And I thought, well, if Phyl can do it…I went back the next week and asked Cyn out, and she said yes.”
Mmmm.
“I think I only needed to get my confidence back, you see, that’s all it was. We saw each other…” Pru could see his face go pink.
“You don’t need to go any further,” she said. “And you don’t need to be embarrassed.”
“Well, I am.”
“In a way,” Pru said, “if you stop and think about it, Cyn had something to do with setting you on a path that eventually, years later, intersected with mine.” She paused. “I suppose I should thank her for that.”
He laughed once, stopping abruptly. “But you won’t. Will you?”
“I might.” She grinned.
He laughed again, and she could hear the relief in it. He took her in his arms, and his lips brushed her temple. They rested against each other, Pru listening to her own heart beating alongside his. She leaned back and ran a finger across his forehead, riffling his short hair. He took her hand, placing a kiss on its palm. No, she wouldn’t begrudge all those years that had gone before, because if it hadn’t been for those years, this would never have happened.
—
They lay on top of the sheet, the duvet dispatched to the floor, their fingertips touching. No breeze came in the open window, the night air heavy and warm. Pru considered taking a cool shower, but couldn’t be bothered to move.
Christopher sat up.
“Ger Crombie stalked you?”
Pru was glad they’d waited for this discussion. She had a clearer head now and could concentrate. She told Christopher the story of her afternoon, Custard and all.
“I don’t know why it is that Coral can walk through that field with no trouble. I did, too, the first two mornings.”
“Custard knows he’s got the better of you now.”
“Ger says the sett that was destroyed had been abandoned ages ago. But there’s one in the next copse, and there were two babies this spring.”
“Why hasn’t he said anything to me about it?”
“He has a problem with authority,” Pru pointed out, and Christopher grunted. “The news about the other sett and the cubs were about the only thing I understood in the conversation—Ger only half-said things and not much of it made sense. If Bram doesn’t want to build, could it be that fellow Mr. Bede had chased off the land all those years ago came back? Perhaps Ger is in cahoots with him?”
Christopher smiled—he always liked it when Pru “talked Texan.”
“That’s an old tale with few details, and so it would be a difficult one to follow—probably quite a cold trail.”
“I’ll ask Lizzy if she remembers any more.”
Christopher nodded. “Good. We’ve learned Ger Crombie was involved in an earlier incident—several years before the fox hunt. He was thirteen, and taken in along with a couple of nineteen-year-olds for burglary. The two older ones already had form, and so they were sentenced to time, but it was thought the thirteen-year-old would be given only a reprimand as he was so young and it was his first offense. But he never showed, and the matter fell by the wayside. The sentencing magistrate was Batsford Bede.”
“Ah. And all these years later, Ger turns up here, not knowing who lived at Glebe House. Did Mr. Bede remember him, do you think?”
“It doesn’t seem likely,” Christopher said, “not the most memorable of cases, and more than fifteen years ago.”
“Ger got steady work from Bram and a place to live. And a big sister—sort of. But he doesn’t trust the police.”
“Yes,” Christopher agreed. “It’s as if he’s still scared about that incident all those years ago—thinking he may still be punished. Perhaps someone has been playing on that fear.”
Why had Ger said he didn’t trust Cynthia?
The bull bay (Magnolia grandiflora) has entered adolescence—gawky, not quite knowing what to do with its limbs, complaining that the water or the soil or the aspect is not to its liking. Not a flower to be seen for another year or two. The girl has arrived at the same point in life, and it drives us to distraction. We eagerly anticipate the maturation of both into elegance and beauty. BB
Chapter 32
After breakfast on Friday, Pru found Christopher searching the drawers in the kitchen, a small box on the counter next to him. He came up with a knife, and as he cut open the package, he said, “I ordered these online—I wanted a good look at what we need to find.” He drew out a packing list and a clear plastic bag full of nothing that glinted in the light, reminding her of—what? He dropped the bag on the counter where it landed with a light thunk. Pru squinted and moved closer. Not a bag of nothing, as it turned out, but a bag full of clear, empty capsules.
“But you haven’t found them anywhere—Glebe House, Lizzy, Cynthia—with or without aconite in them?” she asked.
Christopher shook his head. “I’ll take these with me today and leave them in the incident room.” The incident room he’d been provided with in Stow was, in reality, more of an incident corner, the station being quite small. “After my first stop.”
His first stop—to intercept Ger Crombie.
“You’re not arresting him, are you?” Pru asked.
“I’ve no evidence, but I do want to have a further word—especially to ask if he knows anything about the sledgehammer we found.”
“The person who damaged the statue and pushed it over—why would he keep that thing around? Wouldn’t burying it in the sett be too obvious?”
“Rather like the monkshood you found in the courtyard,” Christopher replied, “and the capsule behind the bed. Those might’ve been careless mistakes on the murderer’s part—that’s certainly not unheard of. Or, they could’ve been on purpose, to lead us off in the wrong direction. That, too, is not an uncommon trick. Murderers can either think too much, or not think at all. Look now”—he reboxed his bag of capsules—“I can easily drop you and Coral by Grenadine Hall when you’re ready.”
“The
dropping part would be easy,” Pru said, “it’s the ready part that’s hard. You go on, and we’ll see you later.”
As the morning dragged on, Coral made an art of dawdling, and Pru struggled with unsticking her from the B&B. Yes, Coral wanted to go to the Hall, but first she needed to…insert any possible excuse here: wash her hair, iron a dress, collect the eggs for Mrs. Draycott, tidy her room. Pru sympathized to a point. She could see Coral working up the courage to face Oliver and actually speak to him, but despaired of the woman ever reaching the launch stage.
As it turned out, Pru spent her patience for nothing. She had wanted to be at Grenadine Hall for the afternoon arrival from London of her friend Jo Howard. They had texted back and forth throughout the week—Pru, with carefully worded messages. She wanted to let Jo know what had happened, without making the situation sound dire. But, as Pru stood at the bottom of the B&B stairs tapping her toe, a text came through from Jo to say that neither she nor her daughter, Cordelia—nor Cordelia’s partner, Lucy, and their son, Ollie—would arrive until late that evening.
And so, when Mrs. Draycott offered to assemble a lunch of some sort, Pru called up to Coral one more time.
“Coral? Would you like lunch?”
Coral pushed open the fire door and stood on the landing. Her full-skirt dress was of a pattern that breathed autumn—as if a gust of wind had knocked all the leaves off the trees and they were swirling around her, gold, crimson, amber.
“But, Pru, shouldn’t we be on our way?”
—
Their walk—bypassing Custard and skirting Glebe House—proved longer than normal, but pleasant as Coral told Pru tales of autumns past.
“I watched a brown hare race through the meadow one day—zigzagging across and leaping high on his long legs—and I decided to be a hare. I tore down the Deep Borders, crisscrossing as I went, and I leapt as high as my short legs would allow, but I tripped and landed on a recently planted akebia, squashing it flat. Mother laughed and said that as akebia grew at such a rampant rate, perhaps that would keep the vine in check. Uncle Batty tried to look stern, but I saw him smile. Mother could always make him smile.”
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