The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  “No, Romilda, really, I don’t need to go out there. I can see from here.” She never found it easy to explain her fear of heights; completely avoiding dicey situations worked best.

  Romilda hustled her closer to the window. “Pru, let’s take a good look.” Her voice got louder as she pushed Pru forward. Pru was surprised at Romilda’s strength. She wasn’t tall, but she had the distinct advantage over Pru of not being affected by the dizzying view of the ground below.

  As Romilda pushed, Pru tried to get loose and back away from the window, grabbing at Romilda for some security. Instead, Romilda shoved her hard and Pru lurched partway through the window, landing with both hands on the tiny balcony and catching another glimpse of the ground below. Her head began spinning and that old, sick feeling came over her. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure where her feet were.

  “Get out!” Romilda shoved her backside with great force, and Pru toppled out onto the smoking section, scrambling for something to hold on to.

  “Romilda!” she shouted, and she heard the window slam behind her. “Romilda, let me back in, please.” She couldn’t look back; she couldn’t turn her head at all. She plastered herself against as much of the window and frame as she could. From inside, she heard a door slam, followed by a crack, and the little balcony beneath her shuddered.

  She screamed, but not loudly, because that might make her fall. “Oh, God, oh, God.” She slowly stood and eased herself onto the ledge and away from the cracking balcony, trying to find something to hold on to. She kept her eyes on the window in the building across the street, like someone who is seasick tries to focus on the horizon, but below her, she knew the ground was rolling, just like the ocean.

  Her right hand grabbed hold of some metal protrusion in the wall of the building—a big eyebolt, a flagpole holder, she didn’t know. All she knew was that it didn’t move. Her left hand held the frame of the window that Romilda had slammed shut. Her right foot was on the narrow building ledge, her left still on the balcony. She heard another crack and felt another shudder. Moaning slightly, she edged her left foot over to the stone ledge, which wasn’t deep enough to stand with her toes straight out, and so her feet pointed in different directions, like a ballet dancer’s first position.

  And now what? she thought. The street was deserted; Romilda—whoever Romilda was—probably had disappeared. Her bag and phone were inside the flat, if they hadn’t been stolen, but that made no difference. Her phone could have been two inches away, and she never would have been able to move a hand to make a call. Could she stay up here until someone noticed? How many hours would that be? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the ground shift and tilt.

  Chapter 9

  She heard him, quietly at first, and then shouting from the street below. “Pru? Pru?”

  “Christopher?” She needed to speak louder or he wouldn’t hear her. “She pushed me out. I need some help.”

  There was no asking what happened; that was for later, if she could get to that point. “Is the window beside you locked?” he asked. “Can you pull it up?”

  “I don’t know if it’s locked. I can’t get to it.”

  “Your hand is on the frame. It’s just a few inches away. Can you reach over and—”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t move. Christopher, I’m not good with heights.”

  He didn’t speak. “Christopher?” she whispered. He hadn’t gone away, had he? She heard him talking, and she realized he must be phoning for help. She pictured the fire brigade coming to her rescue. She pictured the ladder coming up close to her. She wondered how she would get on it.

  “Pru, can you look at me?”

  “No, I can’t look down. The ground moves too much.”

  “Can you close your eyes?”

  “If I close my eyes I feel like I’m tipping forward.”

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he said quickly. “I’m coming up there. Which flat is it?”

  “It’s 219. Shouldn’t you go after her? I can tell you what she looks like.”

  “No, I’m coming after you.”

  “Good,” she whispered.

  After a minute, she heard him at the window. He lifted it slowly and said, “Pru, I’m going to come out and—”

  “Don’t come out here. That extension in front of the window is unstable—I think it’s going to collapse. It cracked when I was on it. I don’t want you to fall.” She gave a little laugh. “That’s pretty silly, isn’t it? I’m the one that’s going to fall.”

  “You will not fall,” he said in a commanding tone.

  “Yes, right, Inspector.”

  “I’m going to touch your left hand,” he said. “I’m not going to try to move it. I’m just going to touch it.”

  “Okay.” His hand felt warm and comforting as it covered hers, flattened on the window frame.

  “Pru, move your left foot toward me. Just slide it a few inches.” She concentrated hard on the feel of his hand and slid her foot over. “Now, slide your right foot over.” Once she had done that, he said, “Now, your left foot again.”

  “I can’t go any farther, Christopher. I’ve got hold of something with my right hand, and if I move any more, I would have to let go of it. I can’t do that.”

  “Pru, turn your head and look at me.”

  He couldn’t be more than two feet away, but he might as well have been in Dover. She knew that normal people would just take the two steps and be inside the flat again, but she wasn’t normal, not when it came to this.

  “Pru, look at me.” She moved her head, but kept her eyes focused in the same place across the street until she could shift them directly to his face. He had his left foot propped up on the window ledge, and he was leaning far out the window. It didn’t seem to bother him. “I’m going to put my arm on your waist—not in back, in front, to help you stay on the ledge. All right?”

  “All right,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on his. He reached forward and pinned her lightly against the wall. It felt good. It felt safe. She heard a siren getting closer.

  “You can let go with your right hand now,” he said. She loosened her grip on the metal piece. “I won’t let you fall,” he said. “Come closer.”

  If she could get her left foot inside the window, then maybe, maybe. She inched toward him, keeping herself flat against the wall, until she reached the opening, and he pulled her in, both of them tumbling together and almost landing on the floor. She turned and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. He had one hand on her hair, and she thought she heard him whisper, “My darling,” in her ear just as the fire brigade arrived.

  And the police. When they reached the flat and began talking, asking questions, looking around the flat and out the window, she thought she’d better open her eyes. “I’m okay.” He loosened his arms slightly, and she thought she might be able to stand. Then she thought again. “Maybe I’ll lean against the wall, would that be all right?”

  He helped her over to a wall away from the window. When she leaned against it, she decided it might be easier to just slide on down to the floor and sit for a moment. She discovered that she sat down next to her canvas bag. So Romilda wasn’t a thief.

  Christopher kept hold of her hand as he explained the situation to the officers.

  “She pushed me. She pushed me out the window. I can give them a description of her—I’m better now. Let me stand up.” Although still shaky, she felt silly on the floor while everyone else bustled around.

  Christopher helped her up. “We can go to the station, and you can give your statement there. There’s no need to stay here. They’ll look for evidence. She’s long gone by now.”

  “Your station?”

  “No, we’ll go to the Kennington station.” He put an arm around her. “Now, will you be all right on the stairs?”

  “Of course I will,” she replied and gave him a chagrined smile, “as long as I can hold on to you.”

  “I’m not about to let go.”

>   Perhaps they were letting her leave the scene on her own because she was with a DCI from another borough, but—regardless of the reason, she was grateful. By the time they reached the ground floor, she was steadier. Christopher had parked one street over, and he offered to have her wait and he’d get the car.

  “No, I’ll walk with you. I’m better, really I am.” They reached his car, away from the comings and goings of the police, and he took her in his arms again, kissing her hair. It felt comfortable, more than comfortable, but before she could enjoy the comfort too much, she was aware of a growing anger inside.

  “I feel like such a fool,” she said. “I don’t even know who she was.”

  His voice was gentle. “Come on, let’s get to the station so you can give your statement.”

  On the short drive, she fumed. “I should’ve known something wasn’t right. I should’ve known.”

  “You did know,” he said.

  “I did?”

  “I could hear it in your voice. You were uncomfortable with her or what she said. You knew it wasn’t right.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have let you go there alone.”

  “No, you can’t take responsibility for this. What do you think I would’ve done if you had told me not to go?”

  He glanced at her and with a small smile said, “Well, there’s that.”

  As he parked, she said, “But if I knew something wasn’t right, then why didn’t I know that I knew?”

  “You’re a compassionate and trusting woman. It’s just your nature. You look for the good in people.” He took her hand.

  For a moment, she let this lovely statement wash over her. And yet … “Is that a nice way of saying I’m gullible?”

  He didn’t reply, but asked, “Are you ready?”

  She leaned over, cupped her hand behind his neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him, a long, slow kiss. “Yes,” she said, “I’m ready.”

  It wasn’t a quick process. Christopher sat with her in one of the questioning rooms while she filled out forms. He fetched her tea in a polystyrene cup, which she accepted with a smile. It tasted terrible, and by the look on his face, he knew it. She gave her statement, describing every minute she’d spent with Romilda, and went through, step by step, what had happened that evening.

  “How much do you know about this woman?” the sergeant asked.

  “Her name … Romilda.”

  “Do you know her surname?”

  “No, she never told me.”

  “Where she worked?”

  “No, she had a different story every time I met her.”

  At one point, a uniformed officer came in and spoke to the sergeant, who then turned to her and said, “Ms. Parke, we have your fingerprints on file.”

  She was sure he didn’t mean it to, but it sounded to her ears like an accusation—as if she were the criminal.

  “Ms. Parke is assisting on a case of mine, one she was a witness to,” Christopher said.

  “Sir, do you think this evening had something to do with that case?”

  “It may, so we will need to see what you find, of course.” Christopher and the sergeant continued discussing how they would share evidence, but Pru didn’t listen. She was feeling even the bigger fool now. Romilda wasn’t just some con woman; this was part of a scheme to get rid of her, because she knew … something. She knew something that she didn’t know she knew. But was Romilda an accomplice of Alf’s or Malcolm’s?

  Christopher turned to her and opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped and stared at her left breast. He moved his head slightly and went for his glasses. Before she could react, he asked, “What color is her hair?”

  “Blond,” Pru said, “she has long blond …” She looked down at her black sweater and saw, entwined in the wool, one long blond hair. Christopher pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket, and the sergeant provided a pair of tweezers. Evidence, thought Pru, a piece of hard evidence.

  The sergeant left the room with the bag, and they continued to wait.

  “Does she know where you live?” Christopher asked.

  For a moment, she felt panic rising. She thought hard about all she’d said to the woman and where they met. She breathed a sigh of relief. “No, no, I never told her. She never asked. We were always away from my neighborhood when we met.” Pru stared at her tea, watching a film form on the surface.

  “This wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  Pru looked up sharply. “Are you a mind reader as well as an inspector? Christopher, if I hadn’t frozen there at the window, I might have been able to grab her, hold her, instead of letting her push me out.” She could feel herself back on the ledge. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “It feels like the earth way down there is shifting, moving, and you’ve lost all sense of gravity. There’s no place to be.”

  The sergeant returned. “Ms. Parke.” He stood just inside the door, fingering a piece of paper, then came to the table and sat down. “Ms. Parke.” He took a breath and then another. “Would you like to … speak to someone?”

  “You mean besides you?”

  “We have someone here that you could speak with. We know that sometimes circumstances can seem overwhelming, and you think that—”

  Christopher interrupted. “It isn’t like that,” he said.

  The penny dropped. “You think I was going to jump?” Pru said. “I wasn’t going to jump. I was pushed.”

  “We have a copy of the application to let the flat,” the sergeant said, as he pushed the paper across the table.

  Christopher intercepted it, began patting his pockets for his reading glasses, and stopped. He gave a short laugh that sounded like relief and pushed the paper over to Pru. She didn’t need glasses, either. On the line that said “applicant’s name,” someone had written in block letters: “Prudence Parke.”

  “I didn’t fill this out,” she said, jabbing her finger at the paper. “That’s not my name. My name isn’t Prudence. It’s Prunella.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile, “I’m sure of my own name.”

  She could at least give a description of Romilda. She described her to the police sketch artist, who worked, not with a paper and pencil, but with a computer. Alterations could be made almost instantly. “Her bangs were a little longer, and sort of swept to either side,” Pru said, and the bangs changed. She couldn’t get Romilda’s eyes right, though, because of the heavy black frames on the small glasses—they had done a fine job of obscuring a most important identification feature. Finally, Pru said, “Yes, I think that’s right. I think that’s her.” The sergeant printed out a copy for her.

  When finally she was free to leave, they walked to the car and stood for a moment. Pru’s mind drifted back to the first time she’d met Romilda, trying to come up with some useful clue. That’s why she wasn’t prepared when Christopher said, “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  What did this mean? Come home with me? I’ll put a guard at the front door of 72 Grovehill Square? Perhaps you could bunk here at the station? She wasn’t a charity case. He continued. “Why don’t you—” but she leapt in before he could go on.

  “I can stay at Jo’s tonight. Would you take me there?”

  His face was unreadable, but his tone was kind. “Yes, of course I’ll take you there.”

  “Let me just ring and warn her,” Pru said.

  She talked with Jo briefly, giving a sketchy account of the evening. Jo wanted only to know that she was safe. Was Christopher with her? Yes, Pru replied, he would drive her over.

  He wouldn’t hear of dropping her at the door of Jo’s building in Belgravia, but instead found a place to park not too far away, and they walked back. Pru took his hand, and at the door he let go so that he could put his arms around her.

  “I had a lovely evening,” she said, her arms about his neck. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Just before their lips met, he
stopped and said, “You won’t—”

  “No,” she said quickly, “I won’t.” I won’t try to find out who Romilda is, I won’t try to solve the murder, I won’t … whatever.

  He kissed her gently. And kissed her again. She quite forgot just where they were. The silent street gave her a sense of privacy, but it was a false sense of privacy. Their kisses grew more urgent, she pressed herself closer to him, and he slipped his hand under her sweater—and then a cab flew by and hit its horn. They broke apart for a stunned second, and Pru started laughing, while Christopher grinned and put an arm around her shoulders in a most decorous manner. Jo opened the door, wearing a turquoise silk robe over footed pajamas. She reached out her hand to Pru.

  “I’ve been watching for you,” she said with a little smile. “Oh, Pru, this is so awful,” and to Christopher, “Thank God you were there.”

  “He was there, and he saved me,” Pru said, holding on to both of them.

  “Christopher,” Jo said, “will you come up for a drink?”

  “No, thank you, I won’t tonight.” To Pru he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  Jo led her to the elevator, and as the door closed Jo said, “That would have made an interesting headline: ‘DCI Saves Life Then Gets Arrested for Indecent Exposure.’ ” Pru smiled and leaned up against the elevator wall. She could still feel his slightly rough end-of-the-day beard growth rubbing against her face. Jo grabbed her hand again. “You know I’m happy to have you here, Pru, but … why didn’t you go home with him?”

  Pru gave an exasperated laugh and put the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I didn’t … he could’ve …” Bad timing, missed signals, she wasn’t sure what to chalk it up to. “I don’t know.”

  Jo had put a sheet over her sofa, and set out a large soft wool pashmina for a cover. Pru stripped to her underwear and put on an old T-shirt of Cordelia’s, while Jo poured her a large measure of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet. Pru related the entire episode, beginning with her first meeting with Romilda.