The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  “Is that it, then?” asked the waitress.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “We’ve got wholemeal bread, baked this morning. Would you like some of that?”

  “I’d love some,” Pru said.

  After the waitress left, Susan asked, “Are you a vegetarian, Pru?”

  “God, no,” said Pru. “It’s against the law to be a vegetarian in Texas.” They all looked at her. “That’s a joke,” she said. “Sort of.”

  “Pru,” Susan said, “you don’t really sound like you’re from Texas.”

  “You mean I don’t sound like a country-western singer,” Pru said.

  “Might your English mother have influenced your accent?” Christopher asked.

  “She might have, yes.”

  Christopher told Michael and Susan where Pru’s mother came from and reminded them of Imber’s history. “It seems that some rare plants are able to survive on the plain because it’s inaccessible to the public and to grazing animals.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Pru said, thinking that really should have been her line.

  Christopher gave a small shrug. “I read about it recently.”

  “Recently?” He glanced sideways at her. She couldn’t help thinking that “recently” meant some online research between their drink that afternoon and the badger expedition that evening. She tried not to be too pleased.

  Michael and Susan lived close to the small town Stow-on-the-Wold, where Michael owned a personal-computer servicing business and Susan worked at home as a technical writer. They’d been to the States before, and so the conversation began by quizzing Pru about the business climate in Texas, of which Pru was woefully ignorant. Fortunately, the topic turned to country matters and moved from there on to Roman Britain.

  “I’m going to see Chedworth tomorrow morning,” Pru said. “I’ve never been, and I’m looking forward to seeing the mosaics there, to see if they are anything like the mosaic we found in the garden where the murder took place.” She stopped and, alarmed at what she’d said, looked at Christopher beside her.

  “That’s all right,” he said to her. “You certainly aren’t giving any secrets away.” To Susan and Michael he said, “That’s how Pru and I met. What I mean is, Pru was at the garden, and we met when I …”

  Pru covered her smile with her napkin.

  “There are no gardens at Chedworth,” she said, “but I’ve read up on the kinds of plants the Romans grew. They tried to bring plants from farther south to grow here, and that didn’t always work out well—Italian cypress may do all right in some places, but grapes and pomegranates aren’t quite so successful.”

  “Ooh, pomegranates,” Susan said, “I wish we could grow them. They’re very dear in the shops.”

  “Oliver, the gardener at Grenadine Hall, is trying to grow them in the orangery, sort of in honor of the house’s name,” Pru said. “He says Natalie and John hope to make their own syrup and bottle it. But glasshouses tend to be humid, and pomegranates like it on the dry side, so I’m not sure it will work.”

  “Well, if they like it on the dry side,” Susan said, “I’ll give up hope right now.”

  “We’re very happy to meet you, Pru,” Susan said as they walked to the car ahead of Michael and Christopher. “We don’t see as much of Christopher as we’d like, but when he does come out, he’s always on his own.”

  Pru felt she must correct any misconception. “No, we aren’t … that is, it’s just because of the case, and we happened to …” Try as she might, she couldn’t quite focus her thoughts to deny Susan’s amiable observations. And Susan ignored her attempts.

  “We have a spring fair to start off the season. I hope you can come out for it.” She glanced back over her shoulder as the men approached. “We know Christopher well enough. He keeps himself to himself, if you know what I mean. But he was different this evening—he was quite relaxed, enjoying himself.”

  At the house, Christopher parked and walked Pru around the corner to the kitchen door, where a light had been left on for her.

  “I hope it was all right that I mentioned the mosaic at the Wilsons’,” Pru said.

  “That wasn’t a problem—don’t worry about it.”

  They stood outside the kitchen door. She looked up to the clear sky filled with stars, and Christopher followed her gaze. “What a gorgeous sky, we don’t see this in town,” she said.

  From inside, they heard a chair scrape across the flagstone floor followed by a muffled giggle.

  Pru raised her eyebrows. “My chaperones.”

  “Ah,” Christopher said, “gooseberries.”

  “Gooseberries?”

  “It’s an old country name for an unwanted chaperone.”

  “Yes, that’s what they are—they’re gooseberries. Thanks for asking me along this evening,” Pru said. “I really enjoyed it.”

  “The Horse and Groom does a Sunday carvery,” he said. “Would you care to join me tomorrow?”

  “Thanks, I’d like that.”

  “I’ll call for you at half past one.”

  “That’s fine.” She glanced at the door. “Good night.” Pru let herself into the kitchen, where she found Jo and Lucy in pajamas and sitting at the table, mugs of hot chocolate in front of them.

  “Well, how were the badgers?” Lucy asked, winking broadly.

  “There’s no need for innuendo,” Pru said. “We went to see badgers—with other people—and we saw badgers.”

  “You’ve been watching badgers all this time?” Jo looked up at the clock on the wall.

  “And then we went for a meal,” said Pru in an offhanded manner.

  “Aha—and then?” Lucy asked.

  “And then they all brought me home. That’s the end of the story, girls. Good night.”

  Not wanting to miss Chedworth Roman Villa nearby, Pru and Jo set off first thing in the morning, so that Pru could still meet Christopher for lunch. “I know the Romans are important to you, Pru,” Jo said in her mother voice, “but ancient Romans don’t hold a candle to a lunch date with a good-looking detective.”

  Although Chedworth had no restored gardens as Fishbourne in Sussex had, the extensive mosaic floors that had been uncovered were impressive. She and Jo wandered about on the raised walkways—built to help keep the remaining mosaics intact—and admired the craftsmanship of the tiles and artistry of the designs, which included representations of winter, spring, and summer; only autumn was missing.

  But Chedworth seemed to have little to do with the mosaic at the Wilsons’. Even though only a portion had been revealed, theirs appeared to be a mosaic sitting directly on soil—soil that got wetter the farther down you dug. Entire Roman floors were often set on posts, so that the space between floor and ground, called the hypocaust, Pru read on a sign, could carry heated air from the furnace. Ingenious, but unrelated, and it left her unsatisfied.

  And distracted. Chedworth had been a showy, luxurious villa until the fifth century, but it was only in 1864 that two workers came upon the remains of a building while digging for a lost ferret. Leave it to the help, thought Pru, to uncover such an amazing find. As they strolled around, thoughts of the lost ferret reminded Pru of the hedgehog nest in the Wilsons’ garden shed. That led to thoughts of badgers and then straight to Christopher. She hated to admit it, to herself let alone to Jo, but she felt just a touch of nervousness about their afternoon lunch. It’s just a lunch, she thought, more than a drink, less than a dinner. The pub has a carvery, and it’s just a lunch.

  On the drive back to Grenadine Hall, Jo sensed her preoccupation. “You know, Pru,” she said, in a careful manner, “if you and Christopher begin to see more of each other, then that’s just one more reason to stay even if you don’t have a job at …”

  “Oh, no,” Pru stopped her. “That’s not the deal I made.” Pru already had mentioned—just mentioned—to Jo that the end of her year drew near and that Lydia and others had already started making plans for Pru’s move back to the States.
r />   “You mean,” said Jo, “the deal you made with yourself? Is that the deal you’re talking about?”

  “I can’t wander aimlessly through life.” Pru knew this explanation would make no impression on Jo. “I made a plan, and I need to stick to it. I need to set some standards.”

  “No matter how miserable you make yourself?” Jo asked, after which she changed her tone, as if to back off from the direct attack. “It’s pleasant to spend time with someone who shares some of your interests, isn’t it—nature, the country, you know?”

  Pru looked at her out of the corner of her eye and said nothing.

  She pulled on a nubby, rose-red cardigan, brushed off her brown corduroy trousers, took out her hair clip, combed it through, reclipped, and stood in the hall, ready to go, just before half past one. A few butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. Jo saw her waiting and intervened.

  “Go stand in the library,” she shooed Pru away. “I’ll answer the door.”

  “Jo, you’re not going to tell him I have a curfew, are you?” Pru joked as she stood in the doorway from hall to library.

  When Christopher knocked, Pru came out of the library just in time to hear Jo say, “Hello, Christopher, let me just go and see if Pru is ready. Oh, here you are,” and she made a face at Pru as she left them.

  “These gooseberries don’t give up, do they?” Pru smiled at him. He wore a dark canvas field coat and olive-green trousers, portraying the perfect country gentleman.

  “You look very nice,” he said as he held the door open for her and they walked out.

  “Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

  He had walked over from the pub to fetch her; he was staying in one of their bed-and-breakfast rooms upstairs. They set out, chatting about Rome and the countryside. He asked about any family she might have in England, and she said she had none that she knew of, but told him about the Wilsons’ former gardener, Simon Parke. “I hope I can meet him. He might be some distant cousin, you never know.”

  The way to the pub ran through the grassy verge alongside the road, over a stile, and then across a field. As they neared an oak at the edge of the field, Christopher put his hand on her shoulder; they stopped, and he nodded to a low branch. After a moment, Pru could see a tiny bird, its orange-red breast bright against the dark trunk. They stood just a few feet away, and the robin hopped down the branch, edging closer and closer to them, eyeing them all the while, as curious about them as they were about him. When a car motored past, the bird flew off into the high grass.

  “How did you know he was there?” Pru asked as they continued their walk.

  “I could hear his tic-tic-tic. I knew he must be close.”

  “They are so cute. American robins are much bigger,” she said.

  “Are they bigger all over the States or just in Texas?”

  She laughed. “American robins are blackbirds,” she said, and added to explain, “Well, what Americans call robins are quite close to blackbirds here, only with red breasts. We don’t have these little guys.”

  They walked single file on the narrow footpath through the wheat field, which headed off at an odd angle to meet up with the road on the other side. The ground under their feet was hard, and Pru could see bits of broken crockery embedded in it—just as Oliver had mentioned, mementos of previous generations. She had been in a hurry walking to the pub the day before, so now she slowed down to look at the different colors and patterns as she walked and almost ran into Christopher who had stopped to wait for her.

  He took her hand. “You aren’t looking for Rome, are you?”

  “I don’t think it works to look for it on purpose,” she said. “It seems all the important finds are accidents.”

  The mild early autumn temperatures—warm at least at midday—continued, so they sat outside with their pints after ordering food, and the conversation turned back around to the Roman ruins at Chedworth.

  “Can you believe that such a place existed and no one knew about it—Rome under a field,” Pru said. “Just think what else might be at the Wilsons’. What if the whole block is a villa?” She’d started to dream again, and as she started thinking about the mosaic, she remembered the soil. “Do you know about rivers in London that have been covered over? The Fleet and maybe others?”

  “I know the Fleet was covered for sanitary purposes, and I believe there was a river that made its way through Chelsea. It comes out—what’s left of it—at the Embankment.”

  “Do you think that there could be a tributary, some small stream, that runs along the bottom of the Wilsons’ garden? That might explain the wet soil.”

  “Are you thinking about your new garden?”

  She shrugged. “If the stream had always been there, why did someone put a mosaic floor over it? I suppose there could be all sorts of artifacts buried there, along with the mosaic and the coins. Do you think that’s what the murder was about? The possibility of valuable pieces hidden in the garden?”

  “It’s the only connection right now,” Christopher said. “Jeremy Pendergast and Harry Wilson both love archaeology, both enjoy digging for the past. Often the pieces that are found on amateur or professional digs are donated or lent to museums, but those artifacts can go for a high price at auctions—and there are many private collectors about. However, you can’t take someone else’s property and auction it off as your own. And if something were found there, it didn’t belong to either of them.”

  “But”—she couldn’t help herself—“you know that Mr. Wilson didn’t take that coin and leave it on his own desk, don’t you?” The two coins—one in the dead man’s hand and one on Mr. Wilson’s desk—seemed entirely too easy a link.

  He nodded to concede her point. “It does appear too convenient that you found it there,” he said, “but that doesn’t prove that Wilson didn’t pick it up in the shed.”

  She ignored that suggestion. “So, perhaps someone was trying to steal the coins—or the mosaic?” Pru realized she was giving Mr. Wilson the motive for murder—in order to stop Jeremy from cashing in or perhaps wanting to cash in himself. “Not Mr. Wilson, of course, he wouldn’t do it. What about Malcolm?”

  She knew it sounded as if she were throwing Malcolm to the wolves, but she thought a broader view of suspects might weaken the spotlight on Mr. Wilson. “Malcolm could’ve come over the wall. And he’s been involved in some shady dealings.” Pru saw a smile flicker across Christopher’s face at such a trite phrase, but then it disappeared quickly, as if he thought better of it. “He blackmailed Jeremy last year.”

  “Who told you that?” Christopher frowned slightly.

  “The Wilsons told me,” Pru said, and then regretted it, because it made Mr. Wilson guilty of something else now: withholding evidence. “But I don’t think he actually carried out the blackmail. They said Jeremy called his bluff or something. It probably didn’t turn out to be much.”

  “What else did the Wilsons tell you about Malcolm?”

  “Well”—she held her new theory close to her like a prize—“the Wilsons didn’t tell me this, but I suppose you saw the ladder rungs on Malcolm’s side of the garden wall.”

  “Yes, I saw them,” he said, “when I questioned Mr. Crisp at his house. How was it that you saw them?”

  How did you see them, Pru? She wondered if the same excuse she had been ready to give Malcolm would work for Christopher: checking on the soil. He watched her with his deep, dark brown eyes. Her bravado fell apart, and, at any rate, she had always been a bad liar. “Almost every time I’m there, he pops up over the wall to chat, like a jack-in-the-box. I wanted to see what he was standing on.”

  “Pru …” She could feel the lecture starting.

  “Oh, Christopher, I’ve been meaning to tell you this. A few days ago, I overheard Malcolm talking with someone in his garden, and I think they were talking about the mosaic.”

  Christopher looked puzzled. “You overheard … where was this?”

  Pru explained the circum
stances and the conversation—touching only lightly on Saxsby’s mention of Mr. Wilson as the murderer, because it sounded to her as if Saxsby was feeding Malcolm a line. She admitted to crossing the line of tape around the shed, but pointed out that she left no fingerprints and ventured no farther into the shed than just inside the door. She didn’t mention that Malcolm had seen her.

  Christopher’s face took on a taut look. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “I tried to phone you after it happened, but I got your voice mail. I didn’t want to leave it on a message, so I thought I’d ring later. And then it slipped my mind.” Now she was the one withholding evidence. “I thought I might try and ask Malcolm about this Saxsby. And, I will admit, I was irritated at being called ‘a bloody American gardener.’ ”

  Christopher sighed. “Pru,” he said with a stern tone, “you are not a police officer. It isn’t up to you to conduct interviews or try to turn up more evidence.”

  She bristled at this treatment; it felt as if he was chastising her. She was not a disobedient child, and she shot back, “I have common sense, and I can use that. I’m not in danger from Malcolm.” But, Pru thought, if he’s involved in the murder and I’m a witness, maybe I am. “And no one leapt over the garden wall to grab me by the throat.”

  “Perhaps you aren’t in danger now, but you don’t know what might happen if you continue to pry.” Christopher’s voice stayed quiet, but she sensed a growing anger.

  “Pry?” Pru raised her voice. “Pry? I’m not Miss Marple. If I learn something that might help …”

  He interrupted. “We are pursuing several lines of inquiry and do not need your help. This is a police matter, and as much as you may wish to …” He seemed to be searching for the least offensive words. “… be involved in the investigation, your actions, such as listening in on conversations, may put you at risk.”

  “It was broad daylight, and Sammy showed up just a few minutes later.” Pru refused to be taken care of when she knew what she was doing. Oh, wait, she thought. “Sammy caught a glimpse of the guy Malcolm talked to. Stringy black hair.”