The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  “Pru, Pru, what happened?” Malcolm came rushing up and cautiously touched her arm. “I saw that fellow running off. Did he hurt you?”

  She stood, clutching her bag to her chest and rubbing the place on her neck where the strap had cut in. “Malcolm, where did you come from?”

  “I live just round the corner, Pru, and I was walking back from the shops.” He did have a canvas bag in his hand with something leafy inside and a baguette sticking out the top.

  A patrol car pulled up to the curb and an officer got out. After explanations all round and Pru saying, “Where’s my phone?,” the officer suggested she come into the station to make a report. The reporter and Malcolm both said they would follow and give their accounts and possibly offer a better description of the man than she could.

  The reporter—kind enough not to press her when she ignored his questions about why she had been at the Wilsons’—handed her the phone. She looked down at its shattered screen. “I think it’s broken,” he said.

  At the front desk of the police station several streets away, the desk sergeant handed Pru a form to fill out when he heard the story. That seemed to be all there was to it. As she finished, a door behind the desk swung open and out came DCI Pearse. Pru noted that even on a Saturday he wore a suit. “Ms. Parke,” he said with surprise. “You’re quick with your passport.”

  “I was attacked,” Pru said, not in the mood for his attitude, “just now, just outside the Wilsons’ house. Someone tried to grab my bag. And he knocked my phone out of my hand before he ran off.”

  Pearse’s policeman’s concern took over. “Were you hurt? Was he caught? Did you get a good look at him?”

  “I’m fine,” Pru said, although she felt as if she’d just come out of a cocktail shaker. “I got a quick look, but the reporter and Malcolm might remember more—they’re here now giving their statements.”

  “We have reporters covering bag-snatchings now?” Pru knew that it wasn’t the biggest crime in London, but it was a crime committed against her, and she thought it warranted a little more concern and a little less sarcasm.

  “No, the reporter was outside the Wilsons’. He said he saw this guy lurking at the corner, as if he was waiting for me.”

  “And Mr. Crisp? What was he doing there?” Pearse glanced around the lobby, and then back at Pru. “Why would someone be waiting for you outside the Wilsons’?”

  “I don’t know. He broke my phone.” A little sympathy here, please, she thought.

  “Why did he run off?”

  “I hit him, like this.” Pru demonstrated her successful defensive move.

  “Excellent,” Pearse said, and Pru blushed. “Now we can narrow down our search for someone with a broken jaw.” She didn’t smile.

  “Ms. Parke, have you thought of anything else you want to tell us about what happened at the Wilsons’?”

  Pru thought about her photos and the flash drive in her bag, but she didn’t want to waste anyone’s time. “No, not yet. But I’ll let you know.”

  “Right. Now, do you have a way home?”

  “I can get a bus.”

  “I’m leaving now, just stopped in for some paperwork. Let me give you a lift.”

  Pru wasn’t sure she wanted to be cooped up in a car with Pearse, however short the journey. “No, thanks, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll just get my coat.”

  Pearse combined his good deed with a few further questions for Pru once they settled in his car and Pru gave him her address. He asked if anyone saw her arrive at the Wilsons’. No one that she had noticed. Did anything in the basement look disturbed? No.

  “How long have you known the Wilsons?” he asked.

  “I met Mrs. Wilson on Monday,” Pru said. “It was a referral from another client. She hired me to clean up the garden, and I was there Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday—I met Mr. Wilson that day—before her big luncheon on Thursday. Then I was back yesterday morning.” Yesterday morning, well, that went without saying.

  “And Mrs. Wilson asked you round to coffee this morning?”

  “Yes,” said Pru, then caught herself. “You think that they lured me there and set up someone to accost me? They wouldn’t do that. They were concerned about how I was getting on, and I am going to build a garden for them …”

  “Yes,” Pearse said, “your Sissinghurst.”

  “It could be my Hidcote. Or my Kiftsgate. Or my Great Dixter.” Silence. “On a smaller scale, of course.”

  “Quite a nice square you live on, Ms. Parke,” Pearse said as he turned the final corner and pulled up in front of Pru’s town house.

  “I’ve sublet the place for a year at a very low rate, and my year’s almost up, so I’ll have to be moving along … soon. The owners are in Italy for a year. He’s a history professor, but I think they’re also in antiques—the Clarkes, Archie and Pippa Clarke. I’ve never actually met them.” Pru offered as much information as possible, thinking that this might be part of the investigation.

  “Did you go through a service to find it?”

  “No, it was a friend of a friend of a … friend. In Dallas.” Pearse had stopped the car, but she didn’t get out. “So, he died when someone hit him with the spade … Mr. Pendergast?”

  “He was struck hard three times. It smashed his skull and left hair, blood, and tissue on one of the spades in the shed,” Pearse said, as if rattling off a shopping list. “You must not have noticed that when you replaced it on the wall. He died instantly. Time of death was probably not long before you arrived on the scene.”

  Pru made a small, embarrassing squeaking sound. She’d meant to be studied and detached and to say, “Oh, I see,” but as the brutal act played itself out graphically in her mind, she was afraid what would happen if she opened her mouth. She swallowed hard.

  Pearse changed his tone, as if remembering that he wasn’t speaking to one of his officers. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parke. I’m sorry. Murder is never pleasant, but it’s easy for me to forget how terrible it really is.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you need some assistance?”

  Pru blinked away the image left on the screen in her mind, wishing she didn’t have such a vivid imagination. “No, thanks, no, I’m okay.” She got out of the car and turned. “Thanks for the lift.” She hesitated. “Inspector, Mr. Wilson is genuinely upset about what happened to his friend, you know. He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him.”

  Pearse held her gaze for a moment. “Keep an eye on your bag, Ms. Parke,” he said.

  Stonechat Gardens

  The Old Rectory

  Tolpuddle

  Dorset

  TD2 7EX

  29 September

  72 Grovehill Square

  Chelsea

  London SW3

  Dear Ms. Parke,

  Thank you for your enquiry of 30 August regarding the post of head gardener at Stonechat Gardens. We regret to inform you that the post has been filled. We appreciate your interest in and enthusiasm for the Dorset landscape, and we know that you will put your knowledge and experience to good use.

  We appreciate your interest in this post and wish you well in your future endeavours.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Arthur F. Mortimer

  Stonechat Gardens at The Old Rectory

  AFM/ssc

  Chapter 4

  It rained Sunday. Pru wouldn’t mind if the rain always confined itself to Sundays, in order to keep her workweek dry. She considered staying in, but she’d had another email from Lydia, and she needed to avoid her computer for a while.

  “Marcus says that if you call him and tell him you want the job, he’ll keep it open. Please do it soon, mija. You know we only want the best for you,” she had written. Marcus being Lydia’s brother had made for a sticky exit from Dallas, leaving her friend, ending a relationship, and escaping her former life all in one fell swoop.

  She’d distract herself with Romans, she decided. Although she had visited befor
e, Pru thought a rainy Sunday perfect for a return to the Roman rooms at the Museum of London. The museum occupied the center of what seemed like an enormous roundabout. Its front entrance was not at ground level, and was accessible only by covered raised walkways that looked like spokes of a wheel radiating from the building and extending over the busy street below. Better than dashing through traffic, Pru thought.

  She wandered through rooms of ceramic amphorae, soldiers’ shoes, reddish Samian pottery. What had been part of the original Roman city wall could be seen through a glass display, although it had been altered so much over the centuries that only the foundation remained Roman. Mosaic floors helped to re-create the Londinium of the few centuries of Roman Britain. Layers and layers of civilization, she thought, just below all our feet.

  But the mosaics brought to mind Jeremy’s bloody body crumpled in a corner of the shed. She shook her head to get rid of the picture and tried instead to imagine what she could do with the town house garden space. Maybe a collection of representative Roman plants, Pru thought. And something to replace that dead birch. A bay laurel would work—it could take the London climate. Boxwoods to line the rill, slicing the garden into three sections, accentuating the narrow, deep shape even more. Her mind wandered back through the centuries as she considered the possible plantings.

  Pru stopped short at the end of the Roman display and, instead of continuing into the Saxon era, left for home. Walking back from the Tube station, she arrived at five o’clock to find Jo standing on her front step rapping hard on the door. “Pru? Are you in there?”

  “I’m here,” she said, and Jo whirled around, her face full of worry.

  “Where’ve you been? I tried to phone you, and I’ve been round twice today. What’s happened to you?”

  “My phone got broken yesterday when I was … Come in—I’ll open a bottle of wine and explain.”

  They settled in the sitting room with their glasses, but when Jo heard about the attempted bag-snatching, she jumped up and paced the room. She worried that Pru acted too flippantly about her chances of being accosted again. “What if it had something to do with the murder? There you were right out in front of the Wilsons’ house—he was obviously waiting for you. And then you walk off today all alone.”

  “I was around loads of people. I was in no danger. And what do I know about the murder? Why would anyone want to hurt me? I can’t tell them anything because I don’t know anything.”

  “You may know more than you realize,” Jo said mysteriously, then immediately lightened up. “Isn’t that what they always say in those novels?” She sat back on the sofa next to Pru and gasped. “I forgot my news—Cordelia’s pregnant!”

  “Pregnant? Ah, Jo, you’ll be a granny.”

  “Dele and Lucy have been planning it for ages—I wasn’t allowed to breathe a word until they knew for sure. They even picked out the sperm donor together.”

  Pru heard a small, muffled crash from behind a closed door somewhere. “What’s that?” She turned her head around, trying to locate where the sound came from.

  Jo didn’t move her head but blinked. “What?”

  “Did you hear that? Didn’t it sound like it was close?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Jo said.

  Pru stood up and walked into the hall and listened. “Did it come from the basement? It sounded like something fell.”

  Jo became engrossed in her phone. “I didn’t hear it. Are you sure it wasn’t something outside?”

  “No, I … I don’t know. Maybe.” Pru stayed in the hall.

  “Pru,” Jo said, looking up brightly, “maybe it’s a mouse. There might be a mouse in the basement.”

  “A mouse?”

  “You aren’t afraid of mice, are you?” Jo asked with a concerned look on her face.

  “No,” Pru said in a faint voice, picturing the mouse running out of the Wilsons’ garden shed just before she found Jeremy’s body. “I don’t mind a mouse. Do you think it will stay down there?”

  “It would never come up here, Pru,” Jo said, putting a hand on Pru’s arm. “I’m sure of it. It’ll probably just go back to wherever it came from.” She was at the door in a flash for as quick an exit as Pru had ever seen. “I’ll see you at the weekend. Bye now.”

  Sir Frank Chesterton Victorian Gardens and Grottoes

  The Bank

  Much Wenlock

  Shropshire

  TF13 6AA

  30 September

  72 Grovehill Square

  Chelsea

  London SW3

  Dear Ms. Parke,

  Thank you for your application of 27 August for the position of head gardener at the Sir Frank Chesterton Victorian Gardens and Grottoes. I write to regretfully inform you that you have not been selected for the post. We appreciate your enthusiasm for and knowledge of Victorian gardens, ferneries, and stumperies, which we are sure will be valuable to you in securing a post of your choosing.

  We appreciate your interest and wish you well in your future endeavours.

  Yours sincerely,

  Albert Pymm-Scott, director

  Sir Frank Chesterton Victorian Gardens and Grottoes

  APS/scw

  Primrose House

  Bells Yew Green

  Royal Tunbridge Wells

  East Sussex

  TN3 9BJ

  30 September

  72 Grovehill Square

  Chelsea

  London SW3

  Dear Ms. Parke,

  Thank you for your application for the post of head gardener at Primrose House. We would be happy to speak with you in person about the post at your earliest convenience. Please ring us on 0871 951 9177 so that we can set up a time for your visit and interview.

  We’ve included a brief leaflet about Primrose House for a little background reading.

  Kind regards,

  Davina and Bryan Templeton

  First stop Monday: a new phone. How did we live before we had phones in our pockets and bags? she thought. After getting the lowest-cost phone possible and letting the phone experts transfer her contact list—the only bits of information that survived the crash—Pru thought she had time to stop off at home and check the post.

  She’d be ecstatic with a job offer, but almost as happy if one of her clients paid a bill. Fortunately, she opened the bad news first and got it over with. Pru didn’t know how much more she could take of this. Well, she did know how much more—one look at the calendar and it was all too evident that she would need to find a position in less than a month or she would be on the first boat back to the States, so to speak.

  Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she’d forgotten all about Sir Frank Chesterton and his Victorian Gardens and Grottoes—ferneries and stumperies had never been her strong suit. But Primrose House, that felt different. Her hopes instantly swelled, and buoyant, happy images filled her mind. She wished it were as easy to steel herself for disappointment.

  She phoned Primrose House in the afternoon, set up an interview for Thursday, and then checked the rail schedule. She’d take the train to Frant, just past Tunbridge Wells—only an hour’s journey—and get a cab from the station to the garden. Staring out a train window would keep her calmer than monitoring an unfamiliar bus route and worrying about the next roundabout and whether she had missed her stop.

  In the meantime, she needed to get some real work done, something she could get paid for, but even before that she must take her passport in to the police station, as DCI Pearse had requested. Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her, she glanced around and thought she saw someone ducking around the corner, but when she looked again, she realized it was a young mother bending down to her child in a pram. Don’t get carried away, Pru, she told herself, no one is after you.

  She had phoned Jo that morning, thinking that they could meet later in the day for a glass of wine. Pru wished it could be a more common occurrence;—it was one of the only social engagements she had, and it meant a great deal
to her. But Jo had—Pru could think of no other way to describe it—brushed her off. Meetings, showing potential clients their potential office spaces, must finish the contract on so-and-so’s house let. Deserted, Pru walked up toward Fulham Road and the police station.

  Preoccupied with her personal woes, she barely noticed the woman waving at her from across the road, until the second or third time she called. “Hello! Sorry, hello?”

  Pru came out of her daze to see a woman dressed in tight jeans, spike heels, a purple cardigan, and stylish, small glasses with heavy black frames; she sported cherry-red lipstick on a kewpie-doll mouth.

  She walked across to Pru. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m completely lost. Can you tell me where”—she glanced down at a crumpled scrap of paper in her hand—“Lecky Street is?” She looked up at Pru with a hopeful expression.

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that would be. Are you trying to find a business?”

  “No, I’m trying to find a flat, and I was supposed to view one there.” Her whole manner slumped. “God, this is a disaster. I don’t know anyone in London, and you’re the first person that’s stopped to talk to me.”

  The woman didn’t move and continued to look at Pru, who didn’t have a remedy for her problem, although it seemed as if one were expected. “The police station isn’t far. I’m headed that way. Maybe you could ask there.”

  “Police?” The woman looked left and right, and her shiny blond hair swirled around her face like a little girl twirling in a full skirt. “No, no, I don’t need that.” She smiled at Pru. “I have a map in my bag. I’ll just sit down somewhere and give it a look, shall I?” She hesitated and then said, “If you had just a moment, maybe you could look, too? I’d be ever so grateful. Could I buy you a coffee?”