The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  ‘Nice t’ meet ya.’

  ‘And I, you.’

  Thank God Jury had introduced him to Scott as educated, and he didn’t have to drag out his execrable North London accent that people would believe even less than they’d believe Melrose sang with whales.

  ‘Millie!’ called Macmillan, unnecessarily, since Millie was already there. ‘So when d’ you start on them steps?’ He nodded toward the several short flights of terrace steps leading from the stone patio down the grassy plateaus to the fountain.

  ‘Oh, soon. First I need to pick up a few things, you know, a certain kind of fertilizer (better not be too specific, as if he could be) and a couple of other items.’

  ‘Suprised you didn’t get Warburton to get it for ya. He knows the right places.’

  Warburton, landscape architect. Shift gears. He looked at some as yet unplanted rhododendrons. ‘Are you much bothered by voles, Mr. Macmillan? I’d suggest that you wrap those roots in bark just up to ground level.’ This was one of the four pieces of gardening arcana that Melrose had mastered. Diane Demorney thought that four was overdoing it. He needn’t learn the specifics of all four.

  But Melrose didn’t agree. The more he could get specific about, the more comfortable he felt.

  ‘Just don’t get into roses. Once that starts, you’re a dead man,’ said Diane in the Jack and Hammer two days before. ‘Indeed, insist that you not be consulted in any way about roses or anything connected to roses. If roses come up at all–and what gardener doesn’t bring them up?–say it’s always been your tenet the less known the better. That will sound so weird that they’ll immediately conclude you must be a font of wisdom when it comes to roses. But I’m warning you, once you mention black spot you’re done for.’

  Macmillan scratched his neck. ‘Well, ah could have a vole or two abo’t.’

  Millie said, ‘I’ve seen no evidence of voles, Dad.’ She looked Melrose up and down as if the evidence might just be standing before her.

  Melrose took his pipe from his pocket and was considering lighting it but pipes were tricky things to light, so he hit the bowl on the heel of his shoe, knocking out the bit of tobacco that remained. He did this while sizing up Millie, who might be the bright one of the two. ‘I didn’t say there were voles, Miss Macmillan. I merely asked.’ He smiled. He had read up on voles because they were smaller than mice and he’d liked the drawing of them scampering up a tree and chewing the bark with teeth ‘like scissors’ Country Life had said. He went on, ‘You might want to protect that young holly over there with tree tubes.’ He was making himself unpopular. He smiled. There was a salutary side to this: they wouldn’t want to talk to him, most certainly would not attempt to instruct such an arrogant gardener, and would leave him alone to his non-work. Not having caught anyone’s fancy with his bark wrapping or vole, Melrose brought out his third morsel. ‘Well, where shall I put my little plot of enameled mead?’ He looked about as if it were a rhetorical question. Who would give a damn, except some medieval poet who could go on at great lengths ? ‘I have always loved a medieval garden, haven’t you? They’re so romantic.’ How delightful. They were both looking at him from squinty brown eyes.

  ‘Maybe in there?’ said Millie, pointing toward a deeply hedged-in allotment. ‘There’s a pond. It’s quite pretty.’

  ‘Really?’ Melrose walked over to the opening in the hedge and looked in. ‘Yes. A kind of secret garden, isn’t it? That should do nicely. One can, of course, get elaborate in one’s design, but I myself prefer a simpler one. I’ve always liked the effect. Ordinarily, one doesn’t do this until spring; that’s in order to cut the grass first.

  In the 1600s, gardeners were known to cut around each flower with shears to make the blooms stand out.’

  Millie said, ‘It’s like in jewelry, Dad. Tiny bits of colored gemstones arranged to make–’

  They were interrupted by the approach of a third person, who, judging from Millie’s expression, was of particular interest to her.

  ‘Marc!’ she called out, waving.

  Melrose didn’t see why the call and the wave were necessary given they were the only ones there.

  Marc Warburton was a good-looking man and nobody’s fool, an impression Melrose could have done without. If anyone here could see through him, it would probably be Warburton. Macmilan and daughter quickly chose up sides. She said, ‘Mr. Plant, here, is looking for the right spot to put in his enameled mead.’ Melrose didn’t much care for the ‘his’ in that statement, as if Declan Scott were merely humoring some eccentric relation.

  ‘Yes, I know, but I don’t see any reason to do it.’ Warburton smiled. The smile was rather twinkly.

  ‘It’s an effect I’ve always thought very pretty,’ said Melrose, standing his ground. Don’t back down from any position, no matter how weak or laughable. Never, never, never, never back down.

  Diane sounded like Winston Churchill at the top of his game. ‘I’ve always thought it a charming pre-Raphaelite thing. Of course, as I was just saying, it works best in spring, given one has to cut the grass to accommodate the flowers. But I thought I’d try just a bit of a pattern to see how Mr. Scott likes it.’

  This time Warburton squinted. He was not, Melrose decided, as sure of himself as he made out to be. ‘What sorts of flowers would you use for this?’

  ‘Periwinkles? Violets, pansies...’ Good God, in early March would a pansy even know its name? Don’t back down don’t back down... It was becoming a mantra. ‘Set off against, oh, Helleborus agitatious.’ He would like to have washed that down with a glass of whiskey.

  Warburton had taken out a pipe; now Melrose wished he had his in his mouth, too, puffing away.

  ‘That’s a new one on me,’ said Warburton, himself about to puff away when he got the thing lit.

  ‘Yes, it’s rather hard to come by. But I could have my man send some from Ardry End.’ Not only was he possessor of this rare helleborus plant, his man was in on it, too.

  Macmillan put in his two pence. ‘Wot’s it look like, then?’ Melrose took the stance (the coward’s stance, Diane would have said) of hedging his bets by getting closer to reality as these people knew it and looked at the distant clumps of hellebore of whatever Latin names, white or a pale something. ‘Like that, except deeper and rather chummy.’

  ‘Chummy?’ They looked at him, round eyed and startled.

  Oh, hell, he should have said ‘chubby.’ Well, too late now.

  This is what came of barely digested stuff from Country Life. ‘Yes, it’s just a word I use to describe a plant that gets on well with others. Hellebores that like shade, for example. Though the agitatious prefers filtered sunlight, it’s quite friendly with shade, too.’ Melrose smiled. There were times when all he wanted to do was pat himself on the back. The other three didn’t look as though they had that in mind, however. Or four, if one counted Roy, who had run along the walk to sit and look at Melrose with curled lip. Roy was the only one whose nonsense limit was working full throttle.

  Marc Warburton had now taken a lighter from a pocket, one of those flamethrowers that could be used to caramelize a crumble.

  Melrose could not now rescue his own pipe, nearly empty of tobacco, and besides it would appear to give Warburton an edge. No, he would have to look ruminative without the advantage of peering through soothing spirals of smoke. But he better speak first now. ‘I–’ Warburton stepped all over his ‘I.’

  ‘Mr. Plant, I’m interested in what brought you here.’

  (Murder and disappearance ?) Melrose smacked down ‘here’ as if it were a badminton bird. ‘The turfing, you mean? Yes, Mr. Scott wants to restore the gardens to their original–’

  Smack. (The game got testy.) ‘I’m well aware of that. I’m the designer.’

  Smack. ‘I’m a little unclear about this designing business. Where does the design come in if you’re following the original?’ Big smack from Millie, who quickly came to the defense of Warburton. ‘He has to find it out, doesn’t he? He has to
rediscover it, see?’

  Melrose would have loved to step on ‘rediscover,’ but he held his tongue.

  Roy, however, was glad to make his feelings known. He turned and turned in circles. Although that could have merely indicated confusion as to what the hell was being said.

  Bigger smack from Melrose. ‘But surely the footprint (excellent term!) is here. We can make out the old beds, borders, paths, can’t we?’ He smiled winningly.

  Well, perhaps not winningly, for no one appeared to be won, except Roy, who came from Warburton to Melrose, who had just expressed the sharpest insight of the morning. Even Roy could have found the footprint.

  Warburton was searching for a counter smack to the footprint notion. ‘The original plan isn’t all that clear–’

  (Oh, what a lame rejoinder! Warburton should take a lesson from Diane.)

  Said Millie: ‘What plants and shrubs are in the original have to be redesigned.’ Rediscover, redesign, Millie Macmillan was really gung-ho on doing things over again.

  Melrose frowned. He wondered if Warburton was a necessary adjunct to this garden restoration. He certainly was as far as Millie was concerned, but... He also bet there were original architectural drawings of Angel Gate and its land. He decided to extricate himself from the party. He glanced at his watch and exclaimed, ‘Wow! I’d better get going! I’ve got a date with some fertilizer in St. Austell!’

  ‘St. Austell?’ said Millie. ‘But wouldn’t it be easier to get it round here someplace? St. Austell’s a distance. We hardly ever go there.’

  Precisely. Melrose smiled.

  19

  In St. Austell – quite a charming town had Melrose been in the mood for charm – he found a garden supply store where he purchased two bags of fertilizer called Turf ‘n’ Grow because he thought the play on words (‘touch-and-go’) was very imaginative for someone in the fertilizer business. The other reason he bought it was that the gentleman who waited on him said it was a very unusual type of fertilizer, containing numerous ingredients–a chemical bombardment–to enrich the soil. Yes, it was expensive, ‘but I think you’ll find it’s worth it.’ Melrose had always believed the more a thing cost, the better it was–wine, clothes, cars, Brown’s Hotel and the Ritz. This did not extend, however, to beer and animals, excepting racehorses. Aggrieved had cost him a pretty penny; he’d bought the horse from the Ryland Stables. But his goat Aghast he’d bought for a song. Well, you couldn’t race a goat, after all.

  And turf, of course he’d need the turf. It was his plan to buy any old turf as long as it bore some resemblance to grass; or even if it didn’t, he could say it too was a most unusual brand. No, turf didn’t come in brands, did it? An unusual cut, yes, he doubted anyone would want to get into that with him. The garden shop manager said, yes, they could get him some and deliver it if he could just give them instruction. (‘Ha!’ Melrose had said in what he hoped was a good-natured, farmerlike voice. ‘Better the instruction should come from you!’ The manager had just offered a dim sort of smile.

  As Melrose whistled his way along the pavement, he pictured a goat race. If Newmarket would just put one in between the horse races, it would probably do a lot toward relaxing the race goers.

  Rather like bringing on cheerleaders in American sports at halftime. He was carrying a bag of fertilizer over his shoulder, feeling like a character out of Thomas Hardy (as he was also wearing his flat cap), thinking he must make a good show of a man consumed with his trade, hard worker, no slacker. It felt good, but not so good he would want to continue with it outside of the demands of his present job. His car was parked along the street and he dumped the fertilizer into the trunk.

  In the small jam of people at the crosswalk, he recognized the woman he’d met at Angel Gate, Hermione Hobbs. This could be a golden opportunity to get some information. He followed her for a few minutes, waiting to see whether she stopped at one of the shops. He hoped she wasn’t going into the church across the way to do brass rubbings. She passed a tearoom (good choice) and was coming up on a pub on the corner.

  He hurried and caught her up. ‘Miss Hobbs,’ he said, with far more enthusiasm than he felt.

  She turned. ‘Oh, hal-lo.’ These horsey types always seemed to lean on the ‘e’ until it became an ‘ah.’

  ‘It’s Mr.–’

  ‘Plant. Melrose Plant. I’m doing that bit of work for Declan Scott.’

  She shielded her eyes as if from his bright self and said, ‘What brings you to St. Austell?’

  Well, good grief, it wasn’t exactly Aruba, was it? All manner of people were spilling into St. Austell. But she seemed to want to make something of it merely by virtue of her presence here.

  ‘Supplies. I’ve just been buying fertilizer at the shop down there.’ He nodded in the direction from which he’d come.

  ‘Fertilizer?’

  ‘Yes. Your garden supply shop is well stocked with the stuff.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘I began an interest in turf and flowering mead when I was at Oxford.’

  ‘Oxford?’

  She was having a hard time taking anything in, wasn’t she? ‘I read medieval history there and turfing and enameled mead; well, I had always wanted to do that at Ardry End.’

  ‘Ardry End?’ Her eyes lit up.

  ‘Yes, my home. It’s been in the family for – look, would you care for a drink (pointing toward the pub) or a cup of tea (pointing toward the tearoom)?’ That he had kindled an interest in himself and fanned the sparks with Ardry End was clear.

  ‘Why... yes, that would be pleasant. Tea, I think.’ Probably one of those women who thought drinking in pubs was a man’s job and felt she would be better complemented by flower-bedecked cushions and cakes and scones.

  It was crowded, but two women were putting on their coats and Melrose nabbed the table they were leaving. The floor was uneven (de rigueur for a tearoom), causing the table to rock slightly.

  Instead of tablecloths, there were paper place mats, but one could hardly expect a total adherence to graciousness in these pushy times.

  A thin woman in her sixties with lips that seemed permanently pursed in disapproval took their order for tea and toasted tea cakes, all – Melrose was sure – straight out of the bag and the packet.

  ‘Tell me more,’ said Hermione, leaning toward him, all eyes and ears.

  Melrose had forgotten what he’d been telling her less of.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your family seat. It must be lovely. Is it in Cornwall?’

  ‘No. In Northamptonshire.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He noted the disappointment. Was that because Northamptonshire was not a destination county? Or was it the distance from Cornwall? ‘The country around there is beautiful. Not as beautiful as Yorkshire. There’s a place for you! The North York Moors.’ Well, that was a bit wide, but it was a way into murder. ‘Yes, it’s too bad Yorkshire has so many bad associations for us, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pardon?’ She looked vacant.

  He had segued quite smoothly to the subject of murder. ‘You know–the Yorkshire Ripper, the Moors Murderers.’ The tea and cakes had arrived. ‘Th’nk you,’ said the purselipped matron as she put the cups and plates down.

  Hell, did she have to bust in on the murder? Now he’d have to rev the subject up again, for he had decided Hermione had a fifteen-second attention span.

  ‘This looks lovely,’ she said, pouring tea.

  This was clearly her favorite word. ‘Urn. One wonders about crime these days.’

  ‘Why?’ She operated on her tea cake with a surgical precision.

  Why? He’d sooner talk to Lulu. ‘Well, we have so much more of it.’

  She smiled and ate her tea cake. ‘I expect it’s better not to think about it, don’t you?’

  ‘No, actually. I mean, you surely must be curious about this murdered woman at Angel Gate ?’

  ‘That was most peculiar. This is quite nice,’ she said of the tea cake.

 
The tea cake was receiving as much attention as the murder. It would have been deep air, the heaving speech of air... Melrose was suddenly reminded of Wallace Stevens’s poem. He decided he was sitting across the table from the heaving speech of air. Hermione could hardly be in the running for Declan Scott.

  He felt in this one-sided conversation as if he were dogsledding, pulled along by a laconic pack of huskies. He said, ‘It’s quite dreadful what Mr. Scott has had to suffer. His wife dead, the daughter abducted. I don’t see how he manages to keep his balance.’ Her little finger was cocked above her teacup as she sipped.

  ‘That was awful! Poor Declan.’

  He waited. When she said no more, Melrose heaved a little air himself and whipped the huskies on. ‘It must have been dreadful for the child’s mother, too. I mean to think she should have been watching –’

  In an uncharacteristic little outburst, Hermione said, chinking the teacup back in its saucer, ‘She should have been, shouldn’t she? Well, Mary was never the most careful person. She was so absentminded.’

  Absentmindedness would hardly cover the situation. ‘But he didn’t blame her, did he? And, of course, the little girl was his stepdaughter, not his daughter.’ That could have been better put, but it probably made no difference with Hermione.

  She chewed and thought this over. ‘I don’t think Declan blamed Mary, no, but you know one does want someone to blame.’

  Drily, Melrose said, ‘I should think the kidnapper might be good for a start.’ She missed the sarcasm. He went on. ‘There must have been a lot of speculation. I mean as to why the child was taken?’

  ‘Declan’s got mountains of money, of course.’

  ‘But there was never a ransom demand.’

  ‘That was peculiar. There was some talk about its being done for revenge, but I can’t credit that.’

  ‘Why would anyone want revenge? Where did that idea come from?’

  ‘The Hardcastle girl.’

  Melrose was for once in this conversation taken aback. ‘Why would this Hardcastle girl want revenge ?’