He pulled out his phone, and Pru was about to say Bram didn’t know where Ger had gone, but three women entered the kitchen discussing the finances of the local WI chapter, followed by two older men wishing the beer tent was open on setup day. Christopher grabbed a second scone and said to the newcomers, “Here now, let us give you some room.”
They thanked him, and he and Pru decamped outdoors to the far end of the terrace. Christopher made his call before he and Pru continued their conversation, keeping their voices low, regardless of the empty space round them.
“Still, the person with the motivation and method for the poison is Cynthia,” he said. “If she thought Bede was about to change his will against her.”
“No,” Pru said, eager to outline the facts that she knew would clear Cyn. “I don’t think she uses herbs medicinally. And she spent years trying to get Mr. Bede to change his will. She’s never wanted Glebe House. And she knew about the codicil—he didn’t actually come out and tell her what was in it and she never saw it, but she said he seemed happier after he’d written it.”
Pru saw that ghost of a smile pass over Christopher’s face and she shrugged. “We had a chat,” she confessed, “and it went well. Also, she has an alibi for the morning Mr. Bede died. A better one than Thirty-Six Hours of Solitude—Chelsea buns.”
“I don’t know why she had to keep this so quiet.”
“Something about being a good example to her clients.”
“She will need to put it all in a statement.”
“Also, Cherry wants something from her.” Pru relayed the rest of Cyn’s story. “He’s never spoken well of her.”
“He’s another one who asked to see Noah Elkington,” Christopher said. “If Bede was a private patient and the doctor had gone out of his way for him, perhaps Cherry expected a bequest after all those years as a faithful physician. And if he didn’t get it, he might now want to wring it out of her as sole inheritor.”
“He must do well from his private patients.” Pru pictured Cherry’s house and the doctor’s office as she had seen it—the examination table, the counter under the window with the sink, the glass-front shelves, and the drawer she had seen standing open. An empty drawer, just a bagful of—
“Pru! Here you are,” Coral said.
Coral peeked cautiously out the door of the kitchen and scanned the landscape before emerging.
“The coast is clear,” Pru told her. “I haven’t seen Oliver in ages.”
“I was thinking,” Coral said stepping out but staying near the door, “if I shouldn’t go back to the Copper Beech this evening. There’s no reason for me to stay here, and I’d hate for Mrs. Draycott to be alone.”
“Mrs. Draycott declined Natalie’s dinner invitation because she had something last-minute to finish for the fête,” Pru said, “and no, you aren’t going back to the B&B, even if I have to tie you to a chair. Now, would you like to join us for a cup of tea?”
Coral faded into the doorway and Pru saw why—Oliver was coming up from the kitchen garden. “No, thank you,” Coral’s voice drifted out. “John says to tell you cocktails in an hour.”
“Well, then, let’s ask Natalie if we can lay the table. And you?” Pru asked Christopher.
“I’ll walk out and take a look at the Badger Care stall and see you for drinks.”
—
Drinks, dinner, and after—Pru enjoyed the casual evening, although it was frustrating to watch Coral and Oliver go to great pains to avoid contact. If Oliver took a step toward the drinks tray near where Coral stood, she countered by taking a seat next to Christopher, and when Coral stepped dangerously close to Oliver at the bay window, he scooted off to the empty fireplace. Christopher and John seemed unaware of the emotional undercurrents to the evening, but Natalie and Pru kept track of every change in the atmosphere. It was frustrating, but during coffee, Pru reminded herself the evening must be the first time Coral and Oliver had spent more than a minute in each other’s company in ten years.
As they all stood at the front door to take their leave, Natalie said, “Look now, eleven o’clock at night and the temperature feels like a midsummer’s day. When will it end?”
It was a rhetorical question, and they all nodded their disbelief at the warmth. Christopher began the goodbyes, but Pru interrupted in a rush, an idea suddenly coming upon her.
“Oliver, I have an enormous favor to ask you. I wonder if you’d be willing to take a look at Mr. Bede’s garden journals. Coral lent them to me and I’ve read through them, but I’ve loads of questions about specific plants and…things, and it would be such a help if you could…advise me.” Why? “Because I still intend to go through with writing up my recommendations for the renovation, no matter what. And in fact”—she locked her arm through Coral’s in a further fit of inspiration—“Coral will need to assist us—me—too, because, knowing the garden as she does…”
Pru ran out of steam and threw Natalie a look of panic.
“Nothing should stand in the way of seeing Batsford and Constance’s dream restored. Your mother would want that, don’t you think, Coral?”
Coral and Oliver looked everywhere but at each other as a painfully quiet moment passed before Oliver said, “Yes, I’d be happy to help, Pru. Next week?”
Next week? Certainly not—strike while the iron was hot. “I’ll bring them with me tomorrow, just so you can get a first look. We won’t be busy the whole day, surely.”
The purr of an expensive motor approached up the drive and when the car stopped at the entrance, Jo, Cordelia, and Lucy emerged.
“Arrived at last!” Pru said. Greetings and introductions piled on top of each other until, when voices petered out, Pru asked, “Where’s the little one?”
“Fell asleep in his car seat,” Cordelia said. “Hope he makes it up the stairs without waking.”
“Well, we’ll see him tomorrow, then. ’Night, all.”
After a round of “good nights,” Pru, Coral, and Christopher reached their car. Behind them Lucy carried a limp Ollie against her shoulder and into Grenadine Hall.
Oliver had lingered on the drive.
“I’ll, um, say good night now, too.” He looked directly at Coral as he added, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Coral whispered. “Good night.”
Oliver departed down the path to his cottage on the other side of the glasshouse, and after Christopher closed the car door on Coral’s side and put his hand on Pru’s door, he murmured, “Nice work, Ms. Parke.”
“Is it?” she replied. “I’d hoped they would get farther than that.”
But when she got in the car and glanced over her shoulder, she saw Coral, a dreamy look on her face, watching Oliver’s retreating figure.
Garden Open Today—how I hate those words. BB
Chapter 34
As Pru lay not quite awake early the next morning, a thought pinged inside her head—like an internal text message—but when her consciousness went to read it, it was no longer there. Something she needed to tell Christopher. About Ger. No, Bram. No, neither of them, but definitely about Mr. Bede. Something Mr. Bede had said. No, that couldn’t be right—something he wrote? A message from Mr. Bede.
He’d been happy Pru was there—funny how, when that thought drifted into her mind, it gave her such peace. And he’d wanted her to read the journals—he’d been quite adamant about that with Coral. Yes, give them to the gardener, he’d said, they’ll be safe there. Perhaps he’d hoped for her to reconstruct the Deep Borders from his notes. She could do—although the plant lists and garden plans had been burned, she would know what had been planted by assembling all the nursery receipts stuck in the back of the books.
The house phone rang, and by the time Pru reached the bottom of the stairs, Christopher stood at the front door, car key in hand. He glanced over her shoulder before he spoke, quietly.
“Cyn rang—she’s found something at her flat and wants me to stop and take a look. She asked for you to come along, too.”
>
It was enough for Pru that Cynthia had asked for her—she didn’t actually need to be there.
“It’s all right, you go. Coral and I can walk to Grenadine Hall.”
“No, I shouldn’t be long—we’ll keep to our eight o’clock departure.”
Pru downed her tea and toast, dashed back upstairs to tuck Mr. Bede’s three garden journals in her canvas bag, and arrived at the entry to find Coral waiting by the front door, her small train case at her feet.
“I breakfasted early with Mrs. Draycott,” Coral said. “She’ll see us later at the fête. The library has promised to lend me some lovely posters of children’s books to decorate the story-time stall. Lizzy has a few lengths of colorful fabric and ribbons—that will help brighten the space—and we’ve a chalkboard to set at the front. I’ll need to find a good hand to draw a sign for us.”
Coral’s industry left Pru breathless—also, she was captivated by her dress for the fête. The day before, she had represented flora with swirling autumn leaves. Now, her full-skirt dress teemed with animals—red squirrels with pointy ears, foxes leaping, hares boxing, badgers caught mid-waddle, robins perching on twigs, and mice tucked into tiny nests.
“You come with your own illustrations—that’s fantastic.”
Coral held out her skirt and twirled. “It’s my visual aid,” she said. “The children always like it.”
Christopher pulled the car into the drive and emerged with a grim face.
“No,” Pru said, instantly worried. “What?”
With a glance at Coral, who had already settled into the backseat, he pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and held it out to Pru. She saw several clear empty capsules that, when caught in the light, glinted like a silvery slug trail—a comparison familiar to any gardener.
“At Cynthia’s?”
“Outside her door on the landing.”
“Well, they aren’t hers,” Pru said with force.
“No, we had already searched her flat, the landing, the stairs down to the shop level. They don’t look like much, but we wouldn’t have missed these lying at the base of a flowerpot.”
They look like nothing, Pru thought. “But at her doorstep? And the filled capsule you found behind the bed? The hole in the garden where the monkshood had been dug? The wilted plant dropped in the courtyard? They’re such blatant clues.”
“Ham-fisted, to say the least,” Christopher agreed.
Coral lowered her window. “We really do need to be on our way, don’t you think?”
Pru lifted her eyebrows. Christopher nodded.
“Coral, did any of your uncle’s pills come in a capsule like this?”
Coral frowned, took the bag, and looked closely. “No. And anyway, these are empty. Are they a sort of DIY medication?” She looked up at Pru, her eyes hot. “Is this how she did it? Are these hers?”
Christopher took the bag from her. “These are examples of empty capsules, that’s all.”
Coral fumed in the backseat as they made the short journey to Grenadine Hall, and Pru wanted to put her into a better frame of mind before they arrived. She turned to Christopher and said, “Someone wrote to Coral about Mr. Bede being ill—asked her to come home. That was a kind thing to do, don’t you think?”
In the backseat, Coral stirred. “I brought it with me,” she said. Snapping her case open, she took out a plain notecard and handed it up to Pru.
The message was brief and unsigned: Your uncle is ill and he needs you. Please come home.
Coral leaned forward. “Do you know Natalie’s hand—is it hers? Because I want to thank her for sending it.”
“Mmm,” Pru said. “I’m not sure.”
In truth, Pru could positively identify the handwriting, because she’d seen it on jam-jar labels and the container of mountain pepper relish. Cynthia had written that note. But she wasn’t sure Coral was ready to hear that yet.
—
The field at Grenadine Hall bustled with last-minute activity. In another field beyond, Scouts, waiting to direct parking, got up a spontaneous game of soccer. Christopher peeled off to the Badger Care stall, Coral to her story-time tent, and Pru headed for the kitchen, where she found all doors and windows open and Natalie fanning herself.
“I’m quite done in, and we haven’t even started.”
“At least we’ve escaped the storm due in tomorrow,” Pru said. Lizzy had been right, although inexact about timing. Pru would be quite happy for the change—the air had grown heavy, pressing in on them, and the clear sky had an odd, tinny look. Natalie had sent John off to the nearest superstore to lay in more ice.
Jo appeared in the doorway, caught in the middle of a cavernous yawn. “I’d kill for a cup of tea,” she moaned.
Natalie left, and Pru and Jo settled down at the table to catch up on the minutiae of life.
“I haven’t laid eyes on little Ollie yet,” Pru said, stretching her legs out and propping her feet on the chair next to her. “I’ll barely recognize him—two and a half. It’s hard to believe.”
“You’ll know him when you see him.” Jo set the kettle on to boil for a second round. “Wouldn’t he enjoy your Coral’s story-time? Dele’s taking him on the gnome treasure hunt later.”
Pru and Jo had barely begun to chat—or so it seemed—when John walked in.
“You’re on the gate first, are you, Pru?” he asked.
Pru, having no real job for the day, had volunteered to fill in where needed, and to advertise this fact, wore a lanyard, from which dangled a large red disk that read FÊTE LOCUM. She’d been assigned the first hour to collect the pound entrance fee—all proceeds to the local library, as usual.
“I am,” she said. “Is it getting near time?”
“One minute to the hour, and you’ve a queue already stretching back as far as Chipping Norton.”
“Ten o’clock!” Pru leapt out of her chair and ran for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Jo, would you throw my bag in that little room for me? Thanks!”
The queue, although formidable, did not go as far as the next town, and everyone was in good cheer when Pru pulled up, out of breath. She moved the orange traffic cone from the path, and the parade began, each pound coin making a thunk as it dropped into the box until the thunks became clanks as the box filled.
Pru stood in the shade of a patio umbrella, greeted each person, and gave directions when asked—the top requests being for the tea tent, the beer tent, and the loos, in that order. Pru knew only a few of the locals, and so she was surprised to look up and see a familiar face—Noah Elkington.
The solicitor wore chinos and a cotton shirt as if they were a three-piece suit. He ran his hand over his slicked-back hair and said, “Good morning, Ms. Parke.”
“Mr. Elkington, good morning. Do you live in the area?”
“No. Bristol.” He looked past her to the marquees. “Ms. Mouser invited me today.”
“Oh.” Pru smiled and wondered what sort of life coaching this would entail. “Well, you might find her in the WI tent.” As no one waited behind him, Pru seized the opportunity for a bit of background research on the murder inquiry. “Sorry, but do you remember years ago that someone wanted to buy the fields and meadows from Mr. Bede?”
The solicitor’s eyebrows rose, fell, and furrowed. “That was a misunderstanding—Batsford had no right, of course, to run the fellow off like that, because there’s a public footpath through the land. I believe it was the fact that the man had brought along surveying equipment that really put Batsford over the edge.”
“Have you seen this fellow since?”
“No, that was years ago,” Elkington said. “You aren’t saying he’s returned? This is an unstable time for the estate, what with the will and now this missing codicil. It would only muddle matters to have an offer. As it happens, your husband is not the only inquiry I’ve had in the past few days about breaking the covenant—”
“Is it Bram?”
“Ms. Bramwell? No, and I’m sorry for
that confusion. Her leasehold is quite secure—I explained this to her late yesterday afternoon and apologized. Batsford had posted this request to me, and it arrived after I had left on holiday. You’d think all correspondence would be electronic these days, but no. I can be away for only a day or two and when I return, I find my desk piled high with letters.”
“Noah! There you are.” Cynthia appeared over Pru’s shoulder and looped her arm through the solicitor’s.
“Yes, here I am,” he said, running his hand over his head once more.
“ ’Morning, Pru.” Cyn smiled at her, but with an atypical hesitancy.
Pru thought those empty capsules found at her door might be giving her pause. Or their freshly minted truce, as yet untried.
Pru gave her a dazzling smile. “Good morning.” The queue had started to grow again, and a group of five women, empty shopping bags in hand, looked eagerly over the solicitor’s shoulder at the stalls beyond. This was not the time or place for further quizzing. “You two enjoy the fête.”
—
After an hour, Pru was relieved of her entry-gate post and took her first turn round the stalls. She made it no farther than a display of weaving from the local guild.
“Oh, it’s you,” the woman said. “You couldn’t stay for just a moment, could you? I’m gasping for a cuppa.”
“Off you go,” Pru said, and immediately picked up a leaflet to read up on warp and weft in case someone asked. A half hour later, she was set free and made it as far as a chalk sandwich board done up in bright yellows, scarlets, and oranges: STORY TIME WITH CORAL, it read with a few leaves fluttering down from a golden tree at the side and animals and birds gathered round a rock as if waiting for the show to begin. She saw Oliver’s hand in this.
The sides of the marquee had been folded up so that everyone could see in and come and go as needed, and six children sat squirming on the grass as more entered, while Coral chatted with parent figures hovering nearby.
When Coral seated herself on a low stool and spread her skirt round her, the children wiggled closer, and curious fingers reached out to touch. One bold girl said, “Fox!” and soon they were all pointing and naming.
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