“I wanted to ask you about something Malcolm told me,” Christopher said. “I showed him one of your photos, from the flash drive that shows him on his steps. I asked what he was doing.” He started searching his pockets.
“Are you looking for your glasses?” she asked. “I’ve got a pair.”
“No,” he said, “not this time. I was going to bring that flash drive with me, but I seem to have left it.”
“I downloaded all the photos on my laptop—we can look there.” They walked into the sitting room, and Pru booted up the computer. As they waited, she remembered Malcolm watching her put her phone into her pocket at the bus stop on the day of the murder. She said, “I believe Malcolm thinks I have a photo of something important. Did you find anything?”
“Not yet, but one photo looked as if he were talking with someone on the basement steps. We can just barely see the top of a person’s head when we zoom in. When I asked Malcolm about it, he said the photo showed him with a fellow who was going to help him prune the climbing roses. And then he asked if I please wouldn’t mention it to you, because he felt embarrassed that he hadn’t hired you to do it.”
“Prune his climbing roses? That’s not right,” Pru said.
“Why not?”
“Well, you don’t prune roses now, it’s too early in autumn—late autumn or winter is best. Malcolm knows better than that. It promotes new growth that could be killed in a cold snap.” She remembered how uneasy Malcolm became during the tour of his roses every time the topic of pruning came up. “Do you think it was Alf in the photo?”
“It’s possible. The Wilsons didn’t have a recent photo, and I haven’t shown them this one yet. Not that they could tell much.”
When the computer was up and running, Pru opened her photo library and looked for the folder that she had labeled “WilsonGarden,” but it wasn’t in the program. She searched the entire hard drive and still turned up nothing.
“That’s strange—I can’t find them.” And then she saw again, quite clearly, getting back from the country Monday, the footprint on the post, and the lid of her laptop open. Here’s something she forgot to tell Christopher. She felt him standing behind her chair, and so she got up and walked to the sofa, unconsciously taking the clip from her hair, running her hand through, and reclipping. “You’d better come sit down.”
His face was indiscernible, but she could well imagine what he was thinking. She held out her hand to him like a stop sign. “I didn’t think there was anything to tell, and I still don’t, but I will tell you this, anyway.” Probably not the best way to begin, she thought.
“When Jo dropped me off Monday afternoon, and I came inside, I almost felt as if someone had been here. But,” she hurried on, “no one could’ve been here—there was no break-in, everything was shut tight, no broken windows or busted locks, nothing missing—I would’ve phoned you about that. The lid on the laptop was up, and I thought I’d closed it.—But the computer was shut down, and I know I’ve forgotten to close the lid before. Also it looked as if there were part of a footprint.” Christopher still hadn’t said anything, and that made her a little nervous. “It was on the post on the floor in the front hall. One footprint,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It had to be from the postman.”
He spoke in his police-officer tone of voice. “There are people who can break in without it looking like a break-in. Do you have anything left of that post?”
With a sinking feeling, she realized she had destroyed more evidence. Good work, Pru. “There was a check—Sarah Richards finally paid me for stringing lights around her terrace—and I took it to the bank. I think I threw the envelope in the bin there.” Why had she been so thoughtless? “It may still be in the recycling here.—Let me look.”
In the kitchen, she turned out the paper recycling bin, scattering newspapers, advertising leaflets, and post on the floor. As she picked up pieces of mail, turning each one over, Christopher walked in and got down on the floor with her.
“Pru, I wasn’t scolding. But if we could find part of a footprint, it might help.”
She picked up an envelope and saw about two inches of what might be a footprint on a slightly wrinkled envelope. She handed it to him.
“Was it wet or dry when you got home and found it?”
She stared at the envelope and thought. If it had been wet, it might’ve just happened; if it had been dry, the print was old when she arrived home.
“Wet, I think it was wet. The paper wasn’t crinkled. Do you think that Romilda had something to do with this?”
He didn’t reply immediately. They’d turned over every piece of mail and found only the one partial print; he put that envelope in one of his handy plastic bags. After cleaning up the floor, they went back into the sitting room.
He looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed. “If we knew who she was, we might know that. I heard from forensics. The hair was synthetic—she was wearing a wig. They found another on the floor of the flat. But there were no fingerprints to be found.”
An image popped into Pru’s mind of Romilda spinning around in the dark flat with her arms held out. “She was wearing gloves. That’s why I didn’t see her fingernail polish—she was wearing gloves.”
“The supports to the extension on the ledge had been … loosened.”
She could almost feel the crack under her feet again. “The police don’t think that I made this up, do they?”
She saw his jaw tighten. “It’s been made very clear to them that they will not think that.”
“I wish I could come up with something that would help the investigation. Something I could do that would …”
He took her hand in his. He appeared calm. “Pru, please … I am always concerned about anyone who is a witness to or innocently involved in any crime,” he said.
“Well, of course you are.”
“But I am confessing to you now that I may be … slightly more concerned in this case, and that’s why I keep repeating myself, because my warnings don’t seem to be getting through.”
“Christopher, I don’t …” She stopped when she realized that it would be disingenuous of her to say that she didn’t need protecting after he had literally pulled her off a ledge, but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let it lie. “I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.”
“Yes”—he raised his eyebrows—“so I’m discovering. But if anything happened to you because of this investigation or your actions, I would feel …”
“Like it was your fault?” She touched his cheek with her free hand. “Yes, I’m discovering that. Right, I won’t take matters into my own hands. Well, I’ll try not to take matters into my own hands. How’s that?”
He took a breath and let it out. “All right, that’s a start. And please, if anything happens that seems even remotely unusual, phone me. If you walk in the house and sense that someone might be in here, please walk back out immediately and phone me.”
“I will,” she said. They sat quite still for a moment. “I’m concerned about Mr. Wilson. Do you still suspect him?”
Christopher looked at her. “Harry Wilson certainly had the opportunity and the means, but,” he said quickly over Pru’s protest, “we are still looking into a possible motive. There is evidence of him at the scene—although he’s already admitted to being in the shed the evening before with Pendergast. The ground was trampled and we couldn’t pick up distinct shoeprints. But we have Harry’s fingerprints, and yours, of course.” Pru squirmed, but Christopher smiled and continued. “Money does not seem to be a problem for the Wilsons, and so it’s unlikely he would want to steal the mosaic or the coins and try to sell them.”
“He would never do that.” But then why was he corresponding with Hodges & Hodges Appraisals? she thought.
“And so, at the moment, he is not in imminent danger of arrest.”
“Good,” said Pru.
“And it is not your job to try and clear him.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
/> “I believe that Harry Wilson knows more than he’s telling us, and that could be a problem.”
Pru chewed on her bottom lip.
“There must be something else, something that Mr. Wilson doesn’t know, some other piece of information that we’re missing.” Oops, she thought, I am not a police officer. “I mean, that the police … I mean you … hmmm.” She stopped so that she wouldn’t dig herself in deeper.
A smile played about his lips for a quiet moment. “How is it that you are so sure about the Wilsons, after knowing them such a short time?”
Pru didn’t want to admit it was because the Wilsons had made her feel like a member of the family. “I can just tell. Maybe you could hire me to vet the suspects on all your cases.”
Christopher laughed softly. They still held hands, and he stroked the top of hers with his thumb.
His phone rang.
He released her hand and stood up to answer. “Pearse … yes … bring him in. I’m on my way back now.”
“Bring who in?” she said when he’d ended the call, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“I do have other cases,” he said as he again offered her his hand and they walked to the door.
“Yes, I know you do,” she replied, noting that he didn’t actually say that it wasn’t Mr. Wilson being taken in, after which she felt guilty thinking he would deceive her that way. “Good thing we finished lunch,” she said.
“I’m attending parents day at Sheffield,” he said.
“Is that this weekend?”
“Well, it’s tomorrow. I’m taking the train this evening, but I could wait and take an early train tomorrow …” he said, leaving the end of the sentence dangling.
“Jo invited me to dinner this evening at Lucy and Cordelia’s. They’re expecting—Cordelia’s pregnant. The baby’s not due until spring, but they’re already wanting to transform their tiny back garden into a child-friendly planting space, and they asked me for help.”
“Will you stay at Jo’s tonight?”
I do not need protecting, she said to herself. Aloud she said, “I’m sure she’d be happy to have me again,” and hoped he would let that slip by.
“Right,” said Christopher. They stood in the dim front hall; he held both her hands in his. “I’ll be back late tomorrow night. I could phone you Sunday, we could have a day out around the city if you’re free.”
“I am free on Sunday. I look forward to it.”
“And tomorrow, will you see Jo tomorrow?”
“You mean, will I please not take up with strangers on the street who then try to push me out a window?”
He put his arms around her. “Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what I mean.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 11
Cordelia and Lucy owned a ground-floor flat in Islington, which came with a postage stamp–sized back garden. Pru wasn’t quite sure that the three of them—Cordelia, Lucy, and baby—could fit in it and leave room for any plants at all, but she offered suggestions for pots of plants that could be grabbed and tasted by a baby or toddler without any ill effects. She warned the parents-to-be that flowers attracted bees, so perhaps floriferous plants could be grown in pots that hung from the wall, out of reach of tiny hands. When they asked about a lawn, Pru suggested they take the baby to the little park at the next corner but one.
Dinner was a communal affair. Lucy had threatened Cordelia with liver after Cordelia’s doctor had suggested she needed an iron supplement, but fortunately common sense won the day. The menu consisted of grilled fish, an inordinate amount of roasted potatoes, and a spinach salad, which served as appetizer, too, as they all chopped vegetables and sampled along the way.
Pru loved dinners with Jo, Cordelia, and Lucy, because they made her feel as if she had three sisters. She knew it was because only children covet the thought of siblings, but Pru didn’t believe for a moment that there was a problem in her pretending on these few occasions. Naturally, with the intimacy of family came the freedom to hand out advice.
“Now, Pru,” Jo began, using a carrot to gesture, “I think you need to just think carefully about leaving.”
“Leaving?” asked Cordelia. “You don’t mean leaving London?”
“Pru thinks that because she hasn’t found the job she wanted, that she has to go back to the States,” Jo explained.
Pru hoped they wouldn’t gang up on her, because she wasn’t up to it. “I gave myself a year, and I can’t just hang on making no money with no place to live. I’d end up sleeping in Hyde Park under a blanket of newspapers.”
“But things have changed,” Jo said, “now that you’ve met Christopher.”
Lucy’s ears perked up. “Christopher? Isn’t he the policeman who was at the fête?”
Pru reached for her glass. “Now, that’s not fair, Jo. We hardly know each other.”
Jo scoffed. “It didn’t look that way last night.” Pru’s face felt hot, and she busied herself getting more wine. “You can barely shut up about him,” Jo continued, “there’s no trying to deny it. When was the last time you felt like this about someone?”
She tried desperately to come up with the name of some man from her past, but Marcus was the only face she saw, and that had been a relationship based more on convenience than deep feelings, at least on her part. Jo saw the answer on her face.
“I told you,” said Jo. “He cares about you—that’s obvious. I can tell he’s a very kind man, and a man who feels a great sense of duty.”
Jo’s description touched her, and Pru felt a bit too emotional to reply, afraid of what might come out. How did she and Christopher stumble into this? She thought of Jo’s description—his great sense of duty. It did seem that he took his job to heart.
“It must be the badgers.” Lucy leaned in. “A man who loves badgers is very sexy.”
A good laugh broke the moment open, and Pru breathed a sigh of relief.
As Lucy and Cordelia went to lay the table, Jo asked in a quiet voice, “Have they found out anything about that woman?”
“No, nothing. She was wearing a wig, as it turns out,” Pru said, “so even my description isn’t correct.” She remembered the sketch and dug it out of her bag. “They gave me a copy of what they came up with. That’s what she looked like to me, but without the glasses and wig, who knows.”
Jo gazed at the computer drawing for a long time, squinted, and began to frown.
“Oh, Pru,” Lucy said, “when we were in the country, you asked me to find out about your landlord, Archie Clarke. All that Jo cares about is that his checks clear”—Jo bent over her knife and cutting board and didn’t respond—“but I’ll ask around about him next week. Someone on the faculty must know him. I’ll let you know if there are any skeletons in his closet.”
“I’d love to find out that he wants to give me his house, free and clear, and move to Italy permanently. Find out if he’s independently wealthy,” Pru said. She crushed a clove of garlic for the salad dressing. “Jo, I thought I should tell Christopher about the noises in the basement.”
Jo knocked her small cutting board off the counter; pieces of carrots clattered to the floor and rolled everywhere. Jo got down on her hands and knees and began collecting them as she said, “Oh, my God, what have I done?”
“Mum”—Cordelia bent to help her—“it’s only carrots.”
Pru got the feeling Jo wasn’t talking about the carrots. She didn’t understand her friend’s reaction, but it made her uncomfortable hiding this from Christopher—even if it was mice. “Jo, maybe the police could check, just to make sure they don’t see anything … amiss?” Now that she thought about it, what would she tell him? Arrest those mice!
“Oh, Pru, why don’t we just leave it for now?” Jo looked flushed as she stood up and began washing off the carrots. “I’m sure it’ll stop soon. I mean, what could the mice want down there, anyway?”
“A nice warm home for winter?” Pru asked. The mice were moving in ju
st as she would be moving out. Maybe she could live in the basement with them.
Before the end of the evening, Jo reminded Pru that she, Cordelia, and Lucy were off the next day to visit Alan in Edinburgh. Jo quizzed her about her weekend schedule. “Will you see Christopher?” Pru knew that Jo didn’t want her to be alone, just as Christopher hadn’t, but really, she was beginning to feel badgered by all this care.
“Yes, of course I’ll see him,” she said, not mentioning that it wouldn’t be until Sunday. She didn’t need anyone Pru-sitting over the weekend.
Attention quickly shifted from her activities when Jo called for the pudding—their big indulgence, tiramisu that Cordelia made using decaf espresso to soak the cake.
When she got ready to leave, Pru glanced around for her copy of the police sketch she had pulled out to show Jo. She didn’t see it anywhere and assumed she must’ve already stuck it back in her bag.
She spent an uneventful night alone, and by the time Saturday morning arrived, she thought she would point out to both Christopher and Jo that she hadn’t needed minding. She hoped to hear from Jo soon. She had promised to phone on her return from Edinburgh—“We need to talk,” she’d said again Friday evening—and Pru wanted to discover the cause of her odd behavior.
By midday Saturday Pru was restless. She needed to take some kind of action, and so, after online research about the waterways of London, she decided to walk the route of the hidden Westbourne, the river that had been, like the Fleet, an open sewer until the 1850s when it was routed underground. That didn’t seem to her at all a violation of the quasi-promise she’d made to Christopher; she merely wanted to look into the conditions of a garden she would build. She would like to build. She would’ve built except for the problem of a murder getting in the way.
She didn’t take the whole route, which started up in Hampstead Heath, but picked it up toward the end of its journey, in Kensington. She read that at Sloane Square Underground station, the river actually passed over the platforms in a large iron pipe. She used up a fare on her Oyster card to stand on the platform and gaze up at the glossy black pipe before returning aboveground to continue her trek.
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