The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  “Lydia, I know you need to know, but couldn’t we …”

  “Pru, mija, it’s okay to say it out loud. Tell me the day.”

  “Next Tuesday.” Pru stared at the floor as she replied, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Christopher turn and look at her.

  “See, now, how bad was that?”

  “Lydia, please …”

  Pru was about to beg off the conversation when Christopher came over, put his hand on her cheek and mouthed the words, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed her softly, just beside her right eye, which made a tear leak out and trail down her cheek. He wiped it away, kissed her again, and walked out the door.

  Lydia continued, “… and Yolanda’s about to get braces. She wants you to see her before it happens—she thinks maybe her whole face will change or something.”

  “Tell her she’ll still be beautiful. Give the girls my love,” Pru said. The conversation ended, but too late. She went to the door, hoping that he might be standing on the other side, but her front step and the sidewalk were both empty.

  She slammed the door and heard a small crash from the basement. “Be quiet down there,” she bellowed at the basement door. Silence. She grabbed her bag and stomped upstairs, saying under her breath, “I wish I had known that was all it took to get those mice to shut up.”

  Stanborough House

  Church Row

  Beckwithshaw

  Harrogate, North Yorkshire

  HG3 1QW

  15 October

  72 Grovehill Square

  Chelsea

  London SW3

  Dear Ms. Parke,

  This is to inform you that you have not been selected for the post of head gardener at Stanborough House. We appreciate your interest in this post and sharing with us your vision for a restored manor garden in the Dales. We know that your knowledge will stand you in good stead in your future employment.

  We wish you well in your endeavours.

  Yours sincerely,

  Andrew O. Beckingham

  Stanborough House

  AOB/tma

  Chapter 12

  Monday morning she ran late. She hadn’t slept well, flopping around in the bed like a fish on a stream bank. Her muddled dreams came back in snatches. There had been a badger in one of them; he was eating something, but she didn’t want to think about what it might have been.

  The electric kettle boiled and switched off; Pru poured her tea but had time for only a few sips and half a piece of toast. She told herself she’d stop for a coffee later and maybe grab a sandwich at Pret a Manger, but in the meantime, she had the last shreds of her career as a London gardener to wrap up. She would meet a client, Ann Hordern, to conclude their association and to offer instruction on gathering berried stems in the garden without massacring the shrub. At the Craddocks’ she would sweep paths and water pots. They had found cheaper help within the family; their nanny was to become the gardener. Maybe she’d drop by the Wilsons, just for a chat, just to make sure everything was all right. Just to make sure the police—she declined to name Christopher in that role—hadn’t arrested Mr. Wilson.

  She arrived behind a well-dressed woman with thick auburn hair in a chignon who clanged from all the jewelry she wore. She carried a large Harrods shopping bag overflowing with papers.

  Pru hung back at the bottom of the steps, and when the door opened, she heard Mrs. Wilson say, “Oh, Xanthe, yes, do come in—Harry is just downstairs.”

  “No, Vernona, I won’t come in,” the woman said. “I’m just leaving all this crap for Harry. It’s what he asked for. I certainly don’t need it, and I still have so much to clean out of Jeremy’s flat. I’ll be back at it today. Sorry for the bag, but really, he had an enormous amount of useless possessions to go through. At least he kept one filing-cabinet drawer labeled for the society. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known where to look. I got all this out just ahead of the police—as if they would care about it—and it’s been in the boot of my car for days. They took his computer, but I suppose you know that. And they wanted the extra set of keys for this house. Jeremy always kept them on a hook in the closet, but they weren’t there. I’m sure the police will ask you about that. Oh, and, Vernona, I won’t be at the dinner Wednesday.”

  She didn’t wait for Mrs. Wilson to respond, but turned to leave, treating Pru as if she were a bollard in the road. Mrs. Wilson saw Pru for the first time.

  “Pru, dear, what a lovely surprise, come in.” She looked down at the shopping bag stuffed in such a haphazard fashion. “Xanthe never did care much for Jeremy’s hobby. Really, this is just a lot of meeting minutes and the like, but I’m sure Harry will appreciate receiving them.”

  And then, like switching off a lamp, her entire demeanor changed, her face turned red, and she stumbled over her words. “Oh, dear. You must want coffee,” she said in a halting voice. “I’ll just drop this bag off with Harry,” and without another word, she turned and went down the basement stairs, leaving Pru standing at the open front door.

  It was such an odd invitation that Pru stuck her head in the door first and looked around, in case they had company and didn’t really want her to stay. But there was no one, and so Pru went back to the kitchen as usual. Mrs. Wilson returned and stayed silent while she made coffee. For the first time, Pru felt uncomfortable in her presence, uncomfortable enough to keep her canvas bag around her shoulder, as if she weren’t invited to stay long.

  Mrs. Wilson served her a slice of currant cake without speaking and returned to stand by the counter. Pru had taken only a bite when her hostess said, as if making an announcement, “Pru, we would like to thank you for all the work you’ve done here, and we want you to know that we understand that you need to move back to the States, and that you … you need to prepare for that move, and so we believe that it’s best for you and … and for us that we end our acquaintance now and we wish you well, it’s been …”

  She had started to wring her hands as she spoke, and she didn’t seem able to continue. Pru wasn’t sure what was happening—it sounded as if Mrs. Wilson were breaking up with her.

  “Mrs. Wilson, is something the matter?”

  She had turned her back on Pru, and the cafetière fell out of her hand into the sink, where it shattered. Pru jumped up to help her, but was stopped by Mrs. Wilson’s firm refusal. “No,” she said with alarm. She did not meet Pru’s eyes. “Nothing is wrong. It’s been lovely knowing you, and now I believe you should go. And leave for Texas. I’m sure you are looking forward to that. Now.”

  In her stunned silence, Pru added up each small disappointment of the past year—letter after letter of rejection, bits of garden work all over town that amounted to nothing. She had tried to make the best of it and had been comforted that here, near the end, she had found a place that felt like home. To have Mrs. Wilson, who had treated her as a member of the family since that first day, tell her to go away gave her a dull, hollow ache in her heart.

  “Have I done something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.

  Mr. Wilson burst into the room, banging against the doorjamb.

  “It’s the most remarkable thing … Vernona, Pru, I can hardly believe it.” His face was flushed and his hair stood on end as if he’d grabbed hold of it with one hand and molded it into place. He paced back and forth, stopping and starting. “The letter, Jeremy told me, but I didn’t have any idea that … I don’t know what to do. This is … we can’t let it be lost …”

  “Harry, sit down, you’re not making sense.”

  “You must see, Vernona. Pru, you must see it.”

  “I’ll look at it, Mr. Wilson. Where is it? What am I looking for?” Pru, startled at Mr. Wilson’s incoherence, wondered if he were ill.

  “Downstairs, on my desk, Pru. Go and look. Yes, Vernona,” he said as if to appease his wife. “Yes, I’ll sit down right here. I’m fine.”

  Pru went to the basement as Mrs. Wilson insisted her husband stay seated until he calmed down. Downstairs, Pru saw tha
t he had started to go through the papers that Xanthe delivered. Some were still in the bag—she had taken no great care to pack them—and some he had piled up on his makeshift desk. Sitting on top of the desk stack was a yellowed paper held rigid against a stiff backing and slipped into a clear plastic bag. A handwritten note on Jeremy Pendergast’s printed stationery was taped on the plastic.

  The note read:

  H-

  Forgive me for not showing this to you when you first moved into the house. I found this letter in a trunk left there in the attic, long ago forgotten. I thought it would be best to research the letter writer first, and then consider what should be done. Now that the mosaic has been uncovered, there is no turning back. I don’t want you to try to stop me from following what is the only practical course. When you read this letter, you’ll understand the importance of the find.

  J

  Remember Vindolanda.

  She lifted the note and saw an old-fashioned script on yellowed paper.

  28 June 1841

  I take pen in trembling hand to write an account of the occurrences of the previous five days. Our small piece of Chelsea brings great acclaim on itself, as the holder of an incredible discovery. The discovery now carefully covered over awaits re-awakening as soon as the proper authorities are notified and scholars gathered.

  For behind the house, so very near to our own lives, while digging to plant our garden, the spade went down too far and brought up wet soil. Our gardens need nourishing water, but the extent of water in this place brought to mind an underground stream or tributary. Before abandoning the land and our hopes of growing a few cabbages, we looked closely at the wet soil and found a coin, recorded here as closely as I can with my poor artistic skills. Could this be the head of the Emperor? On reflection, we believed this coin and two others located nearby to be markers and took our decision to continue exploring the oozing mass.

  We widened our exploration and found that a portion of mosaic floor had been placed near the coins, perhaps as a broader marker for the remarkable find beneath.

  We came upon what appears to be thin slivers of wood with writing, wrapped well in layers of what look to be linen, but sunk into the mire. We examined only a few, and carefully restored those we had retrieved back to the ground whence they came, as it appears that the waterlogged environment may have aided in their longevity. We replaced the three coins in the layer of soil above, to act as markers when we return to retrieve the treasure. I record here the writing found on one such thin wood. It will remain to be seen if this be here the work of the Emperor Hadrian or some copy to trick our minds.

  Thomas Gaskell

  Pru glanced through the letter, although the dated handwriting style and the fact she wasn’t wearing reading glasses made it difficult to decipher. She tried to assemble all the facts in her head: the mosaic marked the burial of something important. Whatever it was, she thought, could probably make someone a lot of money at an auction—if it had been found on private property, not a garden owned by the Earl of Cadogan. This involved Jeremy and Mr. Wilson, certainly, but most likely Alf, too. Her faith in Mr. Wilson still wouldn’t allow her to classify him as a real suspect. Perhaps he had opportunity, but where was his motive? Still, the presence of this letter with Jeremy’s note attached here in Mr. Wilson’s house didn’t look good.

  She scanned Jeremy’s note again: “Remember Vindolanda.” Was it a code?

  Thoughts and suppositions tumbled about in her mind as she heard the knock at the front door. Mrs. Wilson answered.

  “Mrs. Wilson, may I speak to your husband?” asked Christopher. Pru looked down at the letter in her hand and felt dread creep over her.

  “Yes, Inspector?” Mr. Wilson said. Pru heard him come out into the hall from the kitchen.

  “Mr. Wilson, we have recovered from Mr. Pendergast’s computer an email he sent to you that Thursday evening, the evening before he was murdered. It indicates that you know about a letter he found that has something to do with the mosaic, or what is buried under the mosaic in your shed.”

  Pru tried to will Christopher to stop talking.

  “Inspector …” Mr. Wilson began.

  “Mr. Wilson, why didn’t you inform us about the email? Do you have this letter?”

  Mr. Wilson did have the letter—it lay on the desk in front of Pru. First the coin, now the letter. Christopher would come down and find this additional piece of … He would come down and see the letter and mistake it for evidence against Mr. Wilson. This, this letter and the accompanying note would look as if Mr. Wilson had tried to stop Jeremy and it went too far. But it only appeared to be damning evidence, Pru thought, there must be more to the story.

  “Mr. Wilson, the email indicates that you were putting up some resistance to Mr. Pendergast’s plans, that you might try to stop him.”

  To Pru, it sounded as if Christopher was about to slap the cuffs on Mr. Wilson, and she couldn’t let that happen.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Christopher continued, “we could get a warrant to search your …”

  She heard nothing else. Mrs. Wilson may have abandoned her, but she would not abandon them. She needed time to help prove Mr. Wilson’s innocence. Pru took the plastic-wrapped letter with Jeremy’s note and put it in her bag. Numb with fear, she moved quickly and quietly to the door leading outside. She opened it, stepped out, and locked it behind her.

  She could barely breathe. What had she done? She had taken evidence in a murder case—but for a good reason, she told herself. She trusted Christopher, but he needed to stop and think, not immediately arrest Mr. Wilson for a murder that he didn’t commit. Is that what he was about to do? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure. Had she jumped too hastily to a conclusion?

  Her mind started filling with “what if” and “how could he.” She needed to think. Clutching her bag carefully so as not to bend the letter, she walked up the steps and quickly down the sidewalk, opposite her usual direction. Five doors down, she heard Malcolm hurrying up behind her.

  “Pru, were you just in to see Vernona and Harry? Has there been any progress in the case?”

  She stopped. Fed up with his incessant questions and innuendos, she jabbed at the only soft spot she thought he might have. “Malcolm, how’s your mother?”

  His cockiness evaporated. “Mother is … doing well, thank you,” he said in a small voice. As if a crack had opened up in his veneer, he added, “Pru, I hope you don’t think that I would ever do anything to harm you.”

  “Then, just what are you doing, Malcolm?”

  “Pru, you don’t know what Harry—”

  “I have to go.” She left him standing, getting away as much from him as from the chance that Christopher would emerge from the Wilsons’.

  She walked. Taking with her an important piece of evidence in a murder case, needing to get away and consider not just what she had done, but also what might be happening back at the Wilsons’, she headed down to the Embankment, across the Albert Bridge and along Battersea Park Road, back across the Queenstown Road Bridge and alongside the Royal Hospital. She kept walking and eventually realized she had walked to her own house. She stood on the far corner of the square, in the dim shade of one of the plane trees, its leaves beginning to turn gold, and watched her front door for a while. Everything seemed quiet. She approached and made a dash across the street for the door.

  Inside, she paced around the house, still holding her bag, thinking about what she should do. Finally, she set the bag down and got out the letter, lifting it from the plastic carefully so that she could open and see the second page. It appeared to be in Latin, but instead of filling her with wonder, it made her sick to her stomach. She slipped the letter back in its plastic not wanting to think of her act. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on a stack of oversized books on the shelf. Pulling Beautiful Italy down, she placed the letter inside the front cover and then stuck the book under one of the cushions on the sofa.

  There, she thought, there, it’ll be safe there.
Her phone rang and she jumped. When she pulled it out, she saw Christopher’s number. She couldn’t answer. She’d betrayed him. She pressed fingers into her temples, which had begun to throb. Be logical, she thought. Sit down and think about what to do, what’s the best thing to do. Xanthe, Jeremy’s widow—ex-widow?—had delivered the letter to the Wilsons. Perhaps she would have some information about the letter or the society. Xanthe had told Mrs. Wilson she would be working at Jeremy’s flat today. Pru retrieved the letter and copied down the address from the stationery, then returned the letter and book to the safe spot under the cushion.

  Jeremy’s flat wasn’t far from the Wilsons’, so Pru made sure to avoid their door completely and approach from the opposite direction. She knocked and then paced back and forth on the small front step, unable to keep still.

  Xanthe answered, her jewelry clanging. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Pendergast? I’m …”

  “Pendergast? The name is Thomas, Xanthe Thomas. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m sorry.” Off to a fine start, Pru thought. “I’m Pru Parke, the Wilsons’ gardener”—that was pushing it, she realized, but how else would she identify herself?

  “Gardener?” She seemed about to laugh, but she stopped. “Oh, yes, you’re the one who found Jeremy.”

  She saw his body again, slumped in the corner, the blood running down onto his shirt. “Yes,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about your husband …”

  “Ex-husband.” Xanthe raised an eyebrow.

  “Ex-husband, yes.” Pru plunged in with both feet. “Do you know if Mr. Pendergast had any dealings with Alf Saxsby before he died?”

  “Alf Saxsby? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Do you think that anyone in the society might have known about the mosaic,—the one in the Wilsons’ shed? Did your husband—ex-husband—say anything to you about the mosaic? Do you know Malcolm Crisp?” If she could ask every question that came in her mind, perhaps one of them would jog Xanthe’s memory.