The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  Pru took a mug in to Christopher, who stood in the front room talking on his phone, before she returned to sit with Mrs. Wilson in the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to build a garden for you,” Pru said, “but I’m so happy that you’re able to go back to Greenoak.”

  “We’ll expect a visit from you just as soon as you can get there, dear,” she said. Vernona continued talking about their house and how she’d already phoned her old Women’s Institute chapter and been put back on the competitions committee. Pru pictured herself going down for a visit—it was all too easy a dream to dream—but found that it made her eyes prick with tears. She took a breath and turned her attention to Mrs. Wilson and the subject of finding enough WI members willing to teach knitting at the local primary school.

  Christopher got off the phone and sat with them at the table just as Mr. Wilson came in to give a report.

  “We’re moving slowly,” he said, “so as not to disturb anything. But we’ve found the third coin, the last one that Thomas Gaskell returned to the hole as the marker.”

  “Mr. Wilson,” Pru said, “I hit something when … when Archie made me start digging.” Christopher reacted to this by grabbing her hand and holding it tight. She smiled at him. It was a memory of fear now, and not the fear itself; she squeezed his hand. “Do you think that I might have struck the actual wooden tablets?”

  “We believe that there is a covering, perhaps another piece of mosaic or tile of some kind that covers the collection of tablets,” Mr. Wilson said. “But it may take us a while to get to that part of the excavation—it’s a delicate operation.” Mr. Wilson glanced out the window. “And to think that Archie was going to dump it all in shopping bags. Had he lost his mind?”

  “Is he talking, Inspector?” Mrs. Wilson asked Christopher. Pru suspected that she might be a fan of detective shows.

  “He isn’t talking very much at the moment,” Christopher said, with a sideways glance at Pru, “but that may be because he has several stitches in his tongue.”

  Mrs. Wilson said, “You’re brave, Pru, to stand up to someone like that.”

  “I got the feeling that it was Pippa who was in charge,” Pru said, “and Archie was the muscle.”

  “Pippa’s been running Archie ragged since they married five years ago.” Mr. Wilson shook his head.

  A man with silver-gray hair and wearing a black-and-white sweater put his head in the door. “Harry? We’re looking at where to put the poles for the marquee. Can you come out?”

  Mr. Wilson stood up and said, “Everyone, this is Dr. Timothy Morrison, Oxford. You know Vernona, of course, and this is Pru Parke …”

  Dr. Morrison interrupted him. “Are you the young woman who saved the tablets?”

  Pru laughed at the compliment. “I’m happy to have helped.”

  “And Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse.” Mr. Wilson finished the introductions and then left with Dr. Morrison to talk tent poles. Mrs. Wilson started another round of coffees.

  Christopher and Pru stayed seated, holding hands. “Oh, by the way,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out an envelope that looked as if it had been rolled up. She saw the letterhead. “Do you know someone named Duxton Stewart? She apparently used your phone to ring Hodges & Hodges Appraisals.”

  He watched her face. Disguising her phone number wasn’t as foolproof as she had thought. She could feel the color start to creep up her cheeks.

  “It was just a phone call, Christopher. I only phoned and pretended to be her, and I only did it to find out if they would tell me what they were going to auction off and only because I wanted to make sure that Mr. Wilson had nothing to do with it, which I’m sure was the case. Wasn’t it?”

  She saw that ghost of a smile. He opened the letter for her to see.

  “Collingford, the man you spoke to on the phone—that is, the man Duxton Stewart spoke to—is an old school friend of Harry’s,” he said. “Knowing his interest in archaeology, Collingford wrote to say he had a client—he couldn’t name him—who wanted to set up a private auction of a few Roman items. Harry gave me the letter, and I spoke to Collingford yesterday to find out that it had been Archie trying to set something up. Harry had thought it was Alf.”

  Pru read through the letter as he spoke and looked at the closing. Between “Best,” and “Gabriel Collingford” was a scribbled signature, a single name. “Christopher, did he sign it … Stinky?”

  Christopher took the letter and returned it to its envelope. “British old-school nicknames.”

  “Did you have a nickname at Oxford?”

  “Well,” he said, standing, “I believe it’s time for me to leave.”

  Pru walked him to the door. He would leave tomorrow morning for the weekend to help his son, Graham, with his university study in the Lake District. That cut her already precious time with him short, but she would not let that color what they had left. As they stepped outside, Mrs. Wilson came to the door, too. “Inspector,” she began.

  “Christopher, please,” he said.

  “Christopher, we’re having a small dinner party this evening for Pru. We hope you’ll come. We didn’t think she should be alone tonight.”

  “Yes, thank you, I’ll be here.” The door closed and he said, “I didn’t think you should be alone tonight, either.”

  Pru smiled. “The Wilsons invited me to stay here for a few days. Your sergeant told me that I can go back into my house this afternoon, as long as an officer is there. I have to start packing.”

  His smile faded as he watched her.

  “You’re very silent on this subject,” Pru said as she looked down.

  “I don’t want to make you feel worse than you already do,” he said.

  “I don’t believe that’s possible.”

  His phone rang.

  He didn’t make a move to answer it until she kissed him lightly. “See you this evening.” As she closed the door, she heard him answer, “Pearse.”

  Without the hope of a world-famous archaeological discovery anytime soon, Pru decided she’d get some air. She walked back to the kitchen and said, “Mrs. Wilson, I think I’ll take Toffee for a walk.”

  The atmosphere in the kitchen was festive. Mr. Wilson opened the wine, Jo chopped vegetables for the salad, and Lucy and Cordelia offered to lay the table. Pru had just opened the oven door for Mrs. Wilson to take out a lasagna left by Mary when they heard the knock. Everyone looked at Pru.

  “Oh,” she said, looking around at their pointed stares, “let me get that.”

  “Hello,” she said to Christopher as he stepped in, a bottle of wine in one hand. She took his other hand and slipped it around her waist. He kissed her softly.

  “I’m happy you’re here,” she said. “I’m happy to have all of you together this evening.” It’s my farewell dinner, she thought, which made her lose the smile.

  Christopher held her close with his free arm and began, “Don’t you want to—”

  “Pru, dear?” Mrs. Wilson called out from the kitchen. “Red or white?”

  “Red, please, Mrs. Wilson,” she called back, determined to regain her good mood. “For both of us.”

  As she took his hand and they walked down the hall, Christopher said, “We’ll talk on Monday.”

  She turned back and gave him a sly smile. “Is that what we’re going to do on Monday? We’re going to talk?”

  He had just enough time to give her bottom a pat before they walked into the kitchen.

  As Jo and Lucy carried the food to the table, Pru saw Christopher take Mr. Wilson aside and talked quietly for a few minutes. She wondered if Mr. Wilson would be in any trouble for withholding evidence—the emails sent to him from Jeremy—but thought that couldn’t be the case, because both men ended the conversation by shaking hands.

  Over dinner Mrs. Wilson said, “Christopher, Pru says that you work for country matters. I want you to know that at Greenoak we never trap, and we have our own badger se
tt, just at the edge of the wood. I hope you’ll come down and see it sometime.” Mrs. Wilson pointedly looked at Pru, who smiled at her.

  Pru listened to the talk around the dinner table and thought, This is my family—the sum total of my life in England. The conviviality of the company, a glass or two of wine, and Christopher sitting across the table from her made Pru almost believe that it would be possible to stay without money, without a job, without a place to live. Tomorrow it would be a different story, but for tonight, she could pretend.

  They all needed to tie up loose ends. Having had little time alone with Christopher, Pru took the opportunity to ask, “What about Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm is in serious trouble,” Christopher said. “He may not have had direct knowledge of the murder, but he believed everything that Alf told him—that Archie told Alf.—Malcolm kept back information and he followed directions. He was the one who planted the coin on Harry’s desk. He really did believe that Harry killed Jeremy.”

  “He phoned you when he saw Archie drag me through the garden,” Pru said, “and he phoned 999 when I fainted Tuesday morning. Although I suppose he was told to be there and watch me. And there’s his mother.”

  “Those things may help his case,” Christopher said, “but it’s really up to the courts now.”

  “And Alf?” Pru asked.

  Mr. Wilson supplied that information. “Alf was a stooge. He didn’t really know what Archie was about. Christopher says they caught up with him this afternoon in Southampton—what did he think he was going to do, steal away on a packet to Australia?”

  Mr. Wilson had apparently had a moment to fill his wife in on the details, because she didn’t look surprised. “But he helped in the end, didn’t he?” asked Mrs. Wilson. “He kept records and photos and even a voice recording of Archie and his scheming. That will help, won’t it, Christopher?”

  “It will indeed help.”

  Mrs. Wilson looked down in her lap. “Alf wouldn’t really have hurt Pru, I’m sure of it. And Harry understands that Alf wouldn’t have let him be arrested for murder.”

  Those claims hung in the air above the dinner table for a moment, no one wanting to dispute Mrs. Wilson’s kind but misguided effort to excuse her brother’s inept criminal activity. Mr. Wilson broke the silence, saying in a quiet voice, “It’s all right, Vernona.” And to Christopher, “They weren’t the most polished criminals, I expect.”

  “No,” Christopher said, “but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.” He gave Pru a quick glance. She still found it difficult to believe that Malcolm—or Alf, whom she had not even met—could be dangerous. But then, she would never have thought a professor of archaeology capable of murder.

  “Do you know who Archie was planning to sell the letters to—or the silver jug?” Mr. Wilson asked.

  “Clarke gave us a name, but it’s a fake, and that person was probably not the final buyer, just a go-between. But we’ll track the right person down,” Christopher said.

  When the plates were empty and the wineglasses drained, Jo announced, “Right, everyone go sit down and get comfortable. Vernona and I will clear away and take out the coffee.”

  Conversation over coffee continued but grew quieter and quieter until they heard Cordelia snore. It was time to be off. Pru said goodbye to Lucy and Cordelia, making sure she didn’t sound maudlin. Jo would spend the weekend helping her clear out of 72 Grovehill Square.

  Mr. Wilson shook hands with Christopher, said good night to Pru, and followed his wife upstairs. Christopher stood by the fireplace examining a book while Pru turned off a few of the many lamps around the room. As Mr. Wilson’s figure receded, Pru said in a loud whisper, “Oh, good, Mom and Dad have gone upstairs. Now we can make out on the sofa.”

  Christopher smiled and met her in the middle of the room, slipping his arms around her waist. She flinched as he touched her bruise.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot,” he said with concern.

  “It’s just in an awkward place,” she said and smiled. “Aim high. Or low.” He watched her with an arched eyebrow. She gave a little gasp. “Oh, that’s much better.”

  The reminder of her injury brought a frown to his face. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” he said, his lips against her forehead.

  “Oh, Pru,” Mrs. Wilson called from upstairs.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll just leave the landing light on for you, shall I, dear? You can switch it off when you come up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pru said, not letting go of Christopher.

  “Good night, Christopher,” Mrs. Wilson called down.

  “Good night, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Vernona,” they heard Mr. Wilson’s voice faintly pleading, “let them alone.”

  “Well, Harry, she’s been through such an ordeal, and she’s exhausted …” Mrs. Wilson’s voice faded, and they heard a click as the bedroom door shut.

  Things were just getting interesting when the clock began to strike midnight.

  Pru pulled back and looked at him. “What time is your train in the morning?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Four fifty.”

  “Oh, Christopher.” She kissed him once more and said, “Go home. You won’t be any use to Graham if you fall asleep on the job.”

  Over the weekend, she finished packing up her meager existence under police supervision and finally on Monday morning she said her goodbyes to the Wilsons. They had begun to box up their own possessions in preparation for the removals van, although Mr. Wilson would remain behind during the excavation. Simon Parke, eager to get back into the garden at Greenoak, already had phoned them. “You’ll come down to see us as soon as you get back,” Mr. Wilson said. “We’ll be settled, and we’ve plenty of room for you.” She smiled at him and his wife, but said nothing.

  “I’ll be back Monday,” Christopher had said before he left her Thursday night. “An early afternoon train, and we’ll have the rest of the day and evening together.”

  But there was no rest of the day. British rail workers called a surprise, one-day strike Monday, throwing the travel plans of hundreds of thousands of commuters and travelers into chaos. By the time Christopher and Graham arrived at the bus station in Cockermouth, given a lift by the farmer who owned the remote river cottage they had rented, no chance remained of finding any kind of transport anywhere in the Lake District. Christopher phoned several times during the day, reporting on their lack of progress. Pru could hear the anger and frustration in his voice.

  Their tortuous journey back began in Cockermouth at four o’clock Tuesday morning with a bus to Keswick, and then another bus to Penrith before they could get a train that took them into Euston by late morning. Christopher had to go directly to the police station.

  “I came to say goodbye.” Pru stood just inside the door of Christopher’s office. She meant to make this short and clean—she didn’t want to break down in the middle of the station. He stood behind his desk holding a file. He looked terrible, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed.

  “I’m so sorry.” He slammed the file down. “Bloody British rail system.”

  She smiled a cheerful, fake smile. “You couldn’t do anything about that. I don’t have much time—Jo is taking me to Heathrow.”

  “Are you sure you want to leave now?”

  “It isn’t as though I didn’t try. It just didn’t work out.”

  “If you were to stay …” Christopher said.

  Pru pressed her lips together to keep her chin from quivering. She tried. She failed. She couldn’t accept anyone else’s terms, even if it meant forfeiting what could be. Pru slammed the door on those thoughts.

  “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice deserting her. “I don’t know how …” She meant to say she didn’t know how to make that leap, but could go no further.

  As he moved around the desk toward her, a uniformed officer stuck her head in the door. “Sir? Sorry to disturb you, but Constable is waiting.”

  Before anything else could happen, Pru wid
ened her fake smile and said, “Goodbye.” She almost added, “I’ll phone you,” but couldn’t bring herself to leave on such a cheap note. She slipped out the door.

  The police had finished with 72 Grovehill Square, and only Pru’s bags were left. She walked back one final time and arrived on her front step not a moment too soon. She had trouble fitting the key in the lock, as it appeared to be floating through the sea of tears. She left the door open slightly for Jo, who would be around in fifteen minutes to take her to Heathrow. The house was clean and everything packed up or given away except for, on the kitchen counter, a box of her favorite tea, Yorkshire Gold, opened just a few days ago. Pru looked at the box for a few seconds, and then turned it upside down, dumping the tea bags into her canvas bag.

  The post from the past few days caught her eye. The police had apparently left it on the counter after they’d taken what they needed. Pru had avoided the stack yesterday, not wanting to pile bad news onto her already fragile emotional state. There was a letter from Primrose House—a rejection, she knew. The letter taunted her, daring her to open it. Could she not just for once give up a tiny bit of control and step into the unknown without a plan—at least, without a plan of her own devising? She picked up and fingered the unopened envelope with a small frown on her face. She set the envelope back on the counter, and smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles. She snatched it up again, ripped it open, and pulled out the letter. She straightened herself up, putting on her invisible armor against inevitable defeat, and scanned the contents.

  “Pru?” She turned to see Christopher, slightly out of breath, standing in the kitchen doorway. She was on the ledge, toes hanging out in midair, and he held out his hand. “I want you to stay. Please.”

  His tie was crooked, and the sight of it brought the tears back to her eyes. She looked down at the letter again, reading the few lines more carefully.

  “Pru?”

  She fairly flung herself into his arms. Catching him off guard, they both staggered a bit before finding equilibrium. She kissed him and leaned her head back so that she could see his brown eyes, that gaze that could see right through her. She laughed and kissed him again as she let go of the letter and it drifted to the floor.