The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2)

by Marty Wingate

  “Ned was such a help, wasn’t he?” Ivy said as she unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off. “Even before you started here at Primrose House, he was always popping by just to see if there was anything the Templetons needed doing or to tell them something about the history of the place.”

  It occurred to Pru that Ivy might possess information that Pru could use as she looked into Ned’s murder. Ivy might know why Davina implied that Ned was blackmailing her. Pru recalled Davina’s comment about hiring Ned—“It isn’t as if we had the choice.” Talking with Ivy involved no risk on Pru’s part. I’m being careful, she told Christopher in her head, remembering with a rush of pleasure that he was due to arrive that evening.

  “Ivy, let’s get a fire going, shall we? Can’t you stay awhile?”

  “Well,” Ivy said as she took the whisky bottle and poured them both another, “I do seem to have a free evening now, don’t I?”

  It wasn’t one of Christopher’s creations, and they smoked up the cottage a bit—but it was a fire and it was warm. The two women settled down with the whisky and a small plate of cheese and crackers and put their feet up on the sofa. They chatted about gardening, housekeeping, Robbie’s love of Robin Hood, and the village hall, which was in sad need of repair. Pru took comfort in both the company and the drink, and the chance to ignore her own troubles for a while.

  “Is Robbie’s dad around?” Pru asked, wondering if this was a topic for discussion.

  Ivy shook her head. “No, he left when Robbie was about five. It was very hard for him, you know, the way Robbie is. He just didn’t have the strength for it.”

  Pru pressed her lips together to keep from saying what she thought about Robbie’s dad and his strength. Instead, she said, “You’ve done such a fine job with Robbie.”

  Ivy got tears in her eyes. “Oh, he’s my heart, that boy.”

  In her mind, Pru saw Birdie’s sitting room filled to the brim with photos of Simon and realized that he was Birdie’s heart. But that thought brought her too close to despair, and so she turned away from it.

  “What kinds of things did Ned tell the Templetons?” Pru asked.

  “Just this and that.” Ivy held her glass up to the fire and the whisky glowed golden brown. “He knew so much about the village, and all the ancient goings-on. Do you know about the Domesday Book?”

  “William the Conqueror, it’s a recording of all the towns and villages at the time?” Pru offered.

  “And who owned what land—well, I once heard Ned talking to the Templetons about the Domesday Book and land rights. I remember he said, ‘Well, who do you think owns it?’ Isn’t that funny, that he would know so much about things so long ago? He was just like the rest of us, didn’t even own his cottage. It belongs to the estate, to Lord Hamilton.”

  Pru poured another round as she smiled. “You don’t think Ned wanted to be the earl, do you?”

  Ivy snorted into her glass. “I’d say he would’ve taken it if it was offered.”

  “Do you know his daughter, Cate?” Pru asked.

  Ivy nibbled on a bit of cheese. “Poor sausage. To be left with no parents and her so young. I hope she’ll be all right. I hope she’ll be”—Ivy looked sideways at Pru—“safe.”

  “You know about Jamie, then?” Pru took the poker and gave the fire a stab, causing a shower of sparks to rise and a cloud of smoke to billow out into the room. Her eyes burned, and she coughed.

  “News gets around,” Ivy said, giving a cough herself and reaching for the bottle. “I asked Ned about her one day—just inquiring, you know, after her welfare—and he said very little, just that he would take care of her.”

  “But he wanted her to stay with Jamie, didn’t he?”

  “Ned had a traditional view of the world,” Ivy said. “Thought there should be a mother and a father in every home—even wanted me to track down Robbie’s dad and make him come back to us.” Ivy shook her head. “Ned didn’t realize that families don’t all have to be the same to be happy.”

  No more talk of family, Pru thought, she couldn’t take it. “Did Ned think that Jamie would get the head gardener job? This job?”

  “He may have,” Ivy said, giving her a sympathetic look. “But you know that Mrs. Templeton cannot be talked into anything—although I did hear a sharp word or two between them one day, something to do with the garden. But that was ages ago, before you started here. The Templetons love everything you’re doing.” Ivy reached out and gave Pru’s arm a squeeze.

  Talk of the garden reminded Pru of the task still ahead of her—a finished landscape. “I don’t know how we’re going to get it all done,” she said, shaking her head.

  Their talk wandered off into other subjects, and they laughed over stories of dealing with employers. Pru was surprised to find that the whisky was well more than half gone. She wasn’t sure she could stand up. “Ivy,” she said, “perhaps you should stay here tonight.”

  “Oh, Pru, no,” Ivy said, leaning over to reach for her handbag on the floor and almost falling off the sofa. “Aren’t you expecting your Mr. Pearse? I’m not sure he’d like to find me asleep on the sofa when he arrives.” She pulled out her phone, dialed a number, and said, “Tommy? It’s Ivy—could you come collect me at the gardener’s cottage at Primrose House?”

  She rang off and said to Pru, “He’s lovely, Mr. Pearse is. Now then, how did the two of you meet?”

  Pru told their story, going light on the details of the London murder, and ended with “And he said if I had gone back to Texas, he would’ve gone to get me. Isn’t that lovely?” She drained her glass and reached for the bottle.

  “It’s just like in the movies,” Ivy said. “You’re so lucky to have found such a wonderful man. To be involved…in a relationship…” Ivy gave her a shrewd glance.“To have a boyfriend.”

  Pru burst out laughing. “No, Ivy, don’t say that word. How embarrassing.” She covered her face.

  Ivy picked up on it immediately. “Oh, go on,” she said, laughing and elbowing Pru, “you say it.”

  “I can’t,” Pru said, turning scarlet. “I can’t—I’m too old to say it.”

  “Well, you aren’t too old to do it,” Ivy said, and they both erupted in peals of laughter as Christopher suddenly walked in the cottage door, causing another puff of smoke to escape from the fireplace into the room.

  His eyes moved from Pru to Ivy to the almost-empty whisky bottle. “Ladies,” he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

  Pru could see him clearly, although it seemed as if she was looking through the bottom of her glass.

  Ivy stood up, holding on to the sofa and her handbag. “Mr. Pearse, how lovely to see you again. I’ll be on my way now.” But she didn’t move, eyeing the distance to her coat at the table.

  “Hi.” Pru smiled up at him. God I love him, she thought.

  Christopher reached for Ivy and her coat at the same time. “You aren’t thinking of driving home, are you?”

  “Not at all,” Ivy said. “My car is up at the big house, and I rang for Tommy, our local taxi.” As if on cue, tires crunched on the gravel and a horn honked. “There we are. Bye now, Pru.”

  “Goodbye, Ivy, thanks for stopping.” Pru momentarily forgot the reason for Ivy’s visit and thought they’d just had a friendly chat.

  “Let me walk you out,” Christopher said, holding firmly to Ivy’s elbow to escort her to the waiting taxi. When he returned, Pru hadn’t moved, although she’d tried to reclip her hair with little success. He sat on the edge of the sofa and said, “How are you?”

  “I’ve had a bit to drink,” she said.

  “Have you, now,” he said, smoothing her hair down and kissing her forehead. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please.” She kissed him on the mouth and wondered why he tasted like whisky. Then she remembered she was the one that tasted like whisky. “Can you fix the fire?”

  “Is it broken?” he asked, and she giggled. He put the kettle on and worked his Boy Scout magic with
the logs. Pru stayed where she was. She drank the strong tea, and on the second cup her head began to clear. That brought the events of the day back into focus.

  “Did you visit Birdie today?” he asked.

  Yes, there it was. The pain that had receded briefly was back and as sharp as her moment of discovery. She took a few breaths and stared into the fire.

  “Simon is my brother.” She could think of no way to introduce the topic, and blurted out the one sentence that rested at the top of the pile of memories and longings.

  Christopher was quiet, searching her face. “Did Birdie tell you that?” he asked.

  Pru cocked her head. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “You look very much alike,” he said.

  “We look like our dad,” Pru said in a hoarse voice.

  “Did your mother never say anything?”

  Pru shook her head. It felt as if an earthquake was passing through her body. She swallowed hard, trying to stay in control.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “She gave him away,” Pru said, putting her cup on the floor and trying for a matter-of-fact tone. “She passed him off to Birdie and George. He wasn’t convenient.”

  “Is that what Birdie told you?” Christopher took her hands.

  Pru grabbed them away. “She abandoned him.” Now shaking with rage, she got up and stood by the fireplace, hand on the mantel to steady herself. “She was pregnant when my dad left after the war. Birdie said they didn’t know if he’d come back for her or not. She had the baby and gave him to Birdie. Discarded—like an old pair of shoes.”

  “She was a girl,” Christopher said, standing and taking hold of her hands again. “She was an unmarried girl, and she allowed her son to be brought up by others. Think of the sacrifice that must’ve been for her. Come here, sit down.” She sat, now holding tight to his hands as if they were her anchor at sea. “It’s too easy for us to look back and judge,” he said. “We don’t know what it was like—it was a different time.” He put his hand under her chin and lifted it up. “Did he have a good life here? Does Birdie love him?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes, Birdie loves him.”

  “Does he know about his parents?”

  “He does now,” she whispered.

  “And did you see him—talk with him?”

  Pru’s eyes grew unfocused. “He was so angry.”

  Christopher’s hand tightened on hers. “What did he do?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “he didn’t do anything—except make it abundantly clear that he has no interest in getting to know me—he already has a family.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “They abandoned him, so why should he want a sister who would be a reminder of that every day?” Tears came into her eyes but didn’t fall. “All my life I’ve wanted a sibling, and now that I have a brother, he wants nothing to do with me.”

  She took comfort in his arms. They didn’t speak for a while, until at last Christopher asked, “Have you eaten? Or was it just whisky for dinner?”

  She laughed a little. “It was mostly whisky,” she admitted. She dragged herself away from the brink of the abyss and on to news of the evening. “Ivy was waiting for me when I got back.” She told him that Ivy had seen the Templetons’ car at the house that day. “The two of them are up and down from London so often, Davina probably forgot she’d stopped back by,” Pru said.

  “There’s no reason for her to lie about it?” he asked. “Do you believe they got along with Ned?”

  Pru shrugged. “She’s made a couple of odd statements before about him—as if they’d been forced into hiring him. But she never explained what that was about. And she seems really sad that he’s dead.”

  Christopher grinned and kissed her hand. “Will Ivy tell Tatt?”

  “She asked if it was all right to ring DS Hobbes instead—I gave her my permission.”

  They returned to staring at the fire. Although she tried, Pru couldn’t keep out the voices—snatches of her conversation with Birdie, and Simon shouting that he already had a family. Finally, she lifted her head. “I’m very poor company tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “You, my darling, are always the best company. Although, I’m not sure what tomorrow morning will bring.” He pulled her up. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Chapter 21

  Pru heard small sounds in the kitchen the next morning. Christopher was up; she reached for his pillow and put it over her ears, hoping to stop the throbbing pain in her head.

  “Coffee?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Coffee,” she said, her head still under the pillow, “would be lovely.” She peered out, squinting her eyes against the flood lamp aimed straight at her. It turned out to be only pale sunshine through the window. She sat up and took the mug, relishing its heat and the fragrance of the coffee. She took a test sip. “God. What time is it?”

  “It’s after ten.” He was dressed, proving that the day had already started for some people.

  “I’ll fix us breakfast?” she said, hoping he would decline the offer.

  “I’ve had breakfast already.” Christopher gave her a kiss. “I have something I must do today,” he said. “I’ll be back this evening.”

  “I should’ve been up earlier—I didn’t know you’d have to leave.” Their time was limited and precious, and here she had squandered some of it.

  “If that bottle started out full yesterday, I’d say it’s just as well you slept in.” He took her hand. “It’s just for today.”

  “If you can’t make it back, that’s all right, I’ll understand,” she said, putting on a brave, but transparent, front.

  “I’ll see you,” he said, “this evening.”

  —

  Although she kept busy for most of the day, Pru ended the afternoon sitting in the kitchen, the only light in the cottage from the sofa lamp. She thought about her childhood—her happy childhood with two parents who loved her and whom she loved. She marveled at how alone she felt now that evidence of their deceit had been revealed—she belonged nowhere and to no one.

  When she was about five, she had made up a sibling—a sister named Barbie who had a smooth, blond ponytail. Barbie had become her constant companion. Pru had requested two of everything—cookies, bowls of cereal—so that Barbie would have her own. She couldn’t remember how long that lasted. Had she come to her senses one day or had Barbie disappeared from her life gradually? When her mother poured Barbie a glass of Kool-Aid, did she think to herself that she could’ve been pouring it for Simon?

  She thought of the black humor in that situation—she pretended she had a sibling while her mother pretended she didn’t. The betrayal cut deep—uncovering the depth of her mother’s lies opened a chasm between her and the loving woman she thought she knew, a mother who could give up her baby.

  Her mind hovered in a shadowy place, and she was surprised when Christopher walked in. She hadn’t even heard his car.

  He stood just inside the door. “What are you doing in the dark?”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s gone five. Are you all right?”

  She got up and kissed him. He winced. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  His face didn’t look right—she switched on the kitchen light for a better look.

  “Oh my God, Christopher.” His right eye was black and blue and swollen almost completely shut.

  “I’m all right,” he reassured her, but she could see otherwise.

  “What happened?”

  He put his arms around her waist and looked into her eyes. Well, one eye looked, one eye squinted. “I will tell you what happened, I promise that I will tell you,” he said, and she could tell by his tone that he wouldn’t. “I promise I will tell you,” he repeated. “Just not right now.” He continued to look and she continued to be silent. “I promise,” he said again. “All right?”

  “All right,” she said in a small voice. The huge pool of misery inside her, brimming wi
th family secrets and lies, shifted slightly to allow room now for this: worry. An open case, she thought. It was too easy to forget he had a dangerous job. A policeman could be injured in the line of duty at any time, and here’s proof. And he couldn’t talk about it, so she wouldn’t know until…“Not right now,” she repeated.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you today,” he said.

  “I was fine,” she said. She kissed him, her lips barely touching his. “You’re the one who’s hurt.”

  He gave her half a smile and began to massage that spot low on her back. “It’s just my eye. The rest of me still works.”

  She cupped his uninjured cheek in her hand. “Does it?” She drew close and kissed him again, with more intent. “We’d better find out, don’t you think? Just to be sure,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

  She took care pulling off his sweater, making sure it didn’t rub against his bruised face. She kissed him at the base of his throat and worked her way up to his mouth, standing on tiptoes to do so. He took care, too. He traced the shape of the fan pendant against her skin and followed the path of the chain with his lips. And when he reached for her, he took care to remind her that she did belong—she belonged with him.

  —

  Pru nestled her head into Christopher’s shoulder, his arm around her. “How is your face?” she asked. “Do you want something for the pain?”

  “I’ve just had something for the pain,” he said, “and I feel much better. Shall we go into town for a meal?”

  She stuck her chin out. “I cooked,” she said.

  “No,” he replied with proper amazement. “What brought this on?”

  “I wanted to stay busy,” she said, getting up to dress. “I rang Ivy after you left—oh dear, she was worse off than me—and she talked me through it, from going to the shops to chopping the shallots.” She acquired a lofty attitude. “I made boeuf bourguignon. Although in Texas we’d just call it beef stew.”