—
She waited until after he’d had seconds—the first meal she’d cooked in her cottage, and a rousing success—to tell him about the online comment, thought by the Courier and the police to be menacing. Christopher didn’t take it well.
“I’ll ring Hobbes,” he said, pulling out his phone.
“No, there’s nothing to it. They took the comment down, and nothing’s happened.” She put her hand over his. “I couldn’t keep it from you, but I don’t want you to worry.” She kept her eyes on him while she bit her lower lip.
“And?” he asked, realizing there was more.
“I saw Jamie at Ned’s funeral. He’s obsessed with getting Cate back,” she said, holding on to Christopher’s hand. “He’s upset about Ned’s murder—he thought Ned would sort everything out for him. He blames it on Liam. And he did make some reference to me being selected as head gardener.” She tried to throw that in as an offhand remark, but it was no good.
She could see the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stared a hole through her. She could only wait it out, until he reasoned with himself and—she hoped—came to the conclusion that she was in no danger.
He looked around the cottage. “You shouldn’t stay here alone.”
“It’ll be fine—Sergeant Hobbes said the police will be patrolling the area.”
“Why don’t you move back to your little room up at the house?” he asked.
“Davina and Bryan are gone more than they’re here these days,” she said. “I’d be no safer up there than in my own cottage. And I’ll be safe here. I’ll lock the door. I’ll let no one in.”
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“You could ring every hour to check on me.” He said nothing. “I could get a guard badger,” she said.
She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Keep your phone handy.”
Chapter 22
The winter sun did its best to blaze through the kitchen window on Sunday afternoon, reminding her of the young plants in the greenhouse. “I’d better go and open the vents a few inches,” she told him. “With the sun so bright, it’ll heat up inside, and the primroses aren’t ready for that yet.”
He stood up from arranging firewood. “I’ll come with you,” he said.
“I’ll be right back—you keep going with your building project,” Pru said, waving at the pile of kindling.
She walked through the front gate of the walled garden and into the greenhouse, pushing open the roof vents a few inches. Movement beyond the back gate caught her eye. She froze, staring at the opening, waiting. For a second, she considered going back to get Christopher, but then decided that would be excessive. This was her garden; she was in charge of who was allowed here. She crept as quietly as possible to the lower gate and peered out. The tape had been removed from the murder scene, and it was a clear view to the potting shed.
“Liam?”
He started as he emerged from the shed. “Pru, I didn’t want to disturb you. I brought the paraffin heater back.” He nodded toward the interior of the shed. She didn’t reply. “Do you remember, you asked me to collect it after it was repaired?”
“Yes, sure, of course I remember. Thanks.” Liam didn’t move. “You and Fergal are working tomorrow?”
“We’ll be here,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Hope the fine weather holds.”
“Liam,” she said, after taking a deep breath. “I want to ask you something.”
Fergal came round the far corner of the walled garden. “Right, I’m ready now. Pru.” He looked none too happy to see her, she thought. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wanted to leave the tools we borrowed—the pruning saw and those long loppers. We’ll be on our way now.”
“Do you have a few minutes? You could come up to the cottage. Christopher is here. I only want to chat.” They were as skittish as rabbits when she got them alone.
“Is everything all right?” Christopher appeared down the path from her cottage. She saw the brothers take note of his black eye but make no comment.
She smiled at him. “Everything is fine, I was just asking Liam and Fergal back for a cup of tea.”
“Sorry, we can’t stay,” Fergal said. “Come on, Liam.” He jerked his head down toward the access lane.
Her gaze followed Fergal’s gesture, and she saw their car parked on the lane. “Do you drive down this way often?” she asked.
Liam’s eyes cut back toward the track, which had begun to dry out in the clear weather. “Sometimes. I came down this way last week, didn’t I? I brought that stack of seed trays in.”
She didn’t remember but was happy to take his word for it.
Fergal was acting like a herding dog, trying to get his brother to move, but Liam didn’t budge. He said, “Christopher, when someone tells the police something that may not be exactly true—” He got no further, as Tatt came stomping through the lower gate of the garden.
He surveyed the group and said in a quiet and self-satisfied voice, “Well, well, well—what do we have here? A meeting of the minds? Getting your stories straight? And what are you doing, Pearse, coaching them?” He caught sight of Christopher’s face. “Run into a disagreement, did you?”
Pru put her hands on her hips. “Inspector Tatt, what do you want?”
“I want to know what the Duffys are doing here on a Sunday afternoon, Ms. Parke, that’s what I want. You’ve yet to account for your whereabouts,” he said, pointing to Liam. “Although others seem eager to do so.”
“Who?” Pru asked.
“And to let you know of an interesting discovery we made.” Tatt paused, took two steps back, his eyes sweeping the small group as he said, “We’ve found the victim’s mobile phone, and guess where it was? Of all places,” he said with a chuckle, “behind a stone at the Duffy cottage.”
“That’s not true,” Liam shouted, making a move toward Tatt. Fergal grabbed him.
“It is true, and I’d say we’ll have a few questions for you about it before long.” Tatt patted his stomach as if he’d just eaten a large and satisfactory meal.
“Where was it?” Christopher asked.
“Behind a loose stone,” Tatt said, sounding eager to brag. “No one had noticed before…” He caught himself. “That isn’t really any of your business, now, is it, Pearse?” He turned back to the Duffys. “And what are the two of you doing here?”
“Leaving,” Fergal said.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Pru,” Liam said.
“Sergeant Hobbes will be stopping for a visit,” Tatt called after them.
Pru could barely hold still in her fury and fear. She latched on to the one topic she could control. “Inspector, there’s nothing sinister in my gardeners coming over on a Sunday afternoon—we’ve worked plenty of weekends.” She would not let her own suspicions about Liam creep out for Tatt to discover. “We’re starting on a new phase of the garden, and we needed to go over a few details. And you’ve no right to suggest that Christopher is here for any reason other than to see me. That feels a bit like police harassment,” she said.
“Spare me your American television dramatics, Ms. Parke,” Tatt said, one hand in his pocket jangling his keys. “I was passing your cottage and decided to stop and ask about Mrs. Templeton. Did you know that she returned to Primrose House on the afternoon of the murder?”
It seemed that Ivy wasted no time. “No, I didn’t know that. As I told you, I was in Tunbridge Wells. Did you check all the places I told you I’d been?”
“Yes, yes, you are not a suspect,” Tatt replied. “Has either Mr. or Mrs. Templeton ever voiced any dissatisfaction with Bobbins or his work? Mrs. Templeton made him sound too good to be true.”
“I don’t know of any difficulties,” she replied, feeling Christopher’s eyes on her.
“Very well. Until next time, Ms. Parke. Pearse.” Tatt walked away, and Christopher stepped over to Pru’s side.
He lifted a stray strand of her hair and rested his hand on the back of her neck,
caressing it lightly. “There’s something wrong about that—police just now finding Ned’s phone at Liam’s,” she said. “Did it sound suspicious to you?”
“It sounded convenient,” Christopher said as they walked back to her cottage.
—
“The fire is ready for you to light later. You’ll stay in this evening?”
“I’ll be here,” she said in a small voice as she stared at the cold fireplace and contemplated the quiet evening that stretched out before her—an evening full of misery, as far as she could tell. The past was waiting in the wings, eager to lay claim to her mind. Time to dwell on the stories her mother never told her.
Pru watched Christopher take the poker and move one of the logs a millimeter. “I have a few questions for Davina,” she thought as she planned to fill her week with work. “I’ll talk with Liam and Fergal, too.” Christopher stood up, and she realized she’d spoken the words aloud. “About the garden,” she added to no avail.
He saw through her. “Pru, that isn’t a good idea. Leave it to the police.”
“I can talk to Cate,” she said. “Just a friendly chat. I believe she was lying about Liam not being at her flat.”
Both his grip on the poker and his voice tightened. “You’ve been threatened, and we don’t know where it’s come from. If you push the wrong person, you could end up in danger.”
“I haven’t been threatened—it was a vague statement,” she said, unconsciously crossing her arms in defiance. “I can talk to people. I can ask questions.”
“No.” He thrust the poker back onto its stand causing the whole set to rattle. “Not after this.”
“I have to stay busy,” she shouted at him.
Silence. After a moment, he walked over to her and they held each other. She knew that her stubborn streak was rearing its ugly head, but she had no inclination to back down. He looked at her with a lopsided smile. “Come up to London next weekend. You can get away, can’t you? We’ll take Jo, Cordelia, and Lucy to dinner.”
He was throwing her a life preserver, and she willingly took hold. “To Gasparetti’s?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes widened as her mind filled with possibilities. “The Garden Museum has a new exhibit on Lawrence Johnston and Hidcote—I was hoping to see it. And we could go to the Sunday recital at Westminster.” A tiny spark of excitement ignited inside her. A weekend in the city, away from the garden, the murder, and the family history she never knew she had. She kissed him soundly.
Primrose House
Monday, 1 February
Dear Pru,
We’ve thought further about the statue of Ned in the oval, and decided that perhaps that’s not the best way to honor his memory—I’ve had a vision of something so much better! I see that all the little apple trees have been delivered for the walled garden. As you had already planned to espalier these in various patterns along the wall, why don’t we spell out Ned’s name in branches? Wouldn’t that be so sweet? We’ll chat more this week.
Best,
Davina
Chapter 23
The upcoming weekend in London shone like a beacon, guiding her through the morass of the week as she tried to untangle the three balls of knotted intrigue in her life—Ned’s murder, Jamie’s obsession with his wife and his barely disguised desire to be head gardener at Primrose House, and her own newly revised family situation. She glanced down at Davina’s note, which had been stuck in her front door that morning as usual. Under no circumstances would she let this latest wild hair divert her. Pru shuddered to think what visitors would say if they saw “BOBBINS” spelled out in branches in the walled garden.
She did, however, have something to talk with Davina about, and so while the workers, including Liam and Fergal, began preliminary excavations for leveling the terraces, she popped into the kitchen of Primrose House midmorning on Monday. Ivy had gone to the shops.
“Coffee, Pru?” Davina was poised to pour.
“Thanks.” Pru sat at the table and took a deep breath. She hoped to do this without implicating Ivy. “Davina, Inspector Tatt mentioned that you had stopped back by here on that Thursday”—“that Thursday” had emerged as the most popular euphemism for the day Ned was murdered—“you’d probably forgotten that,” she added in a rush.
Davina didn’t answer at first, instead taking an inordinate amount of time to arrange the many flowing layers of thin material around her before she sat down. She looked down into her coffee. “It didn’t seem relevant at the time,” she said. “I wonder that the inspector thought to mention it to you. Is it because Christopher is involved in the investigation?”
“No, certainly not, he has nothing to do with this.” A fear that Christopher could be reprimanded for meddling lodged in her mind. Could Tatt complain? “It’s only me—I didn’t want to pry, it’s just that I can’t help but hear things…from Tatt, of course.” Trying to appear casual, Pru took the milk and poured an extra dash into her mug, resulting in more milk than coffee, and cooling the liquid to a tepid state.
Davina waved her hand at Pru and smiled. “No, don’t mind me. How can you help but be involved in all this? You may as well know,” Davina said, her eyes bouncing around the kitchen, from table to sink to dish drainer, never hitting Pru. “I did come back—to see Ned.” Davina’s statement put a stop to all movement in the kitchen. Pru sensed that even the clock held its breath before its next tick.
“Oh,” she said.
“I rang Ned and asked him to come up to the house and see me that afternoon. I needed to talk with him.” She glanced out the window as they heard a small bulldozer roar past below the balustrade. “Bryan and I have put a lot into Primrose House—not just a great deal of money, but our time, too. We will not give up now.”
“You’ve done an amazing job on the restoration,” Pru said, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Did Ned want you to give up?”
Davina turned an even gaze on Pru. “I hope you aren’t letting all this business draw you away from what needs to be done in the garden, Pru,” she said, putting an effective end to any more talk about Ned, and causing Pru’s face to turn quite hot.
“I haven’t let it interfere in my work,” Pru said, putting her mug down. “We’re doing fine,” she added, thinking to herself what a lie that was—they were far behind schedule. “I know what needs to be done.” Davina arched an eyebrow. “In the garden,” Pru added in a rush. “I hope you know that I’m committed to having the garden ready and that I will work as many hours a day as it takes.” Pru wondered how her résumé would look if her first—and possibly only—head-gardener post lasted only three months.
Davina melted into her usual convivial self. “Of course we’re very pleased with the progress,” she said.
Pru thought Davina was also quite pleased at successfully changing the subject—away from Ned. “Well,” she said, “I’ll just get back to it, then.”
She was at the kitchen door when Davina said, “He never showed up. I waited here past our time, and I even drove down that little road you have at the bottom of the garden, but I didn’t get out of my car and I didn’t see him.” Her eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t see anything amiss, and I had to get back to London for a dinner that evening.”
Pru turned. “Did you tell the police that was why you came back?”
“God, no,” Davina said, her face flushed. “How would that look? I didn’t see him, and so it doesn’t really matter, now does it?” She watched Pru’s face, as if daring her to say it did indeed matter.
“Well, I suppose that…the police like to know…everything. Don’t they?” She couldn’t keep herself from one more reckless question. Go ahead, she thought, fire me. “What did you want to talk with him about?”
“Ned knew a great deal about this area, its history, its laws. I only wanted to” —Davina looked off into space for a moment—“chat with him about that.”
That hardly seemed a good reason for the hour’s drive from L
ondon when she’d just gone up that morning. “What would he know that—”
“You should leave this alone, Pru,” Davina cut in.
I will not leave it alone, Pru thought, but she was prevented from asking another question when Ivy walked in carrying three shopping bags in each hand. Davina launched into a detailed conversation with her about an upcoming dinner party.
Pru left, checking in briefly with Gordon about the terracing and the next load of dairy manure—this one not quite as fresh as the first—that he would deliver and dump at the base of the balustrade terrace the following week. After that, she skirted the construction work and walked down to the meadow and beech wood. The meadow would be dug out in April—they’d found the stream source that Repton used to fill it and a new channel would be constructed.
It had occurred to her that a bench near the water would create a lovely scene from the balustrade—the bench could be a focal point if they lined it up with the central staircase through the terraced beds. It would mean a large hole cut in the yew walk, but she had lost interest in the yew and planned to cut it down drastically, creating a low hedge lining the path instead of a hallway with green walls. This wasn’t Sissinghurst, after all. She mulled over what kind of bench would get Repton’s approval, telling herself she should know his tastes by now. Then she remembered Liam’s advice to include something of herself in the garden. Perhaps she would.
She stroked the smooth gray bark of a huge beech and leaned against it, craning her head to see up through the branches. In front of her was the yew walk; beyond that and perpendicular to it, the boxwood allée ran straight down the hill. It was far enough to the side that the new terraced beds would not interfere, although she thought the boxwood had outlived its usefulness with all the new additions to the landscape. Off and up to the right she could see the terracing work and the balustrade; the ground-floor windows of the house were hidden.
She scuffed around in the thick leaf duff, and her foot caught on something. It was an archer’s bow. At first, Pru thought it must be the one Fergal made for Robbie the day he was Will Scarlet, but on closer inspection, she saw that although it wasn’t the finest quality, it was a real bow—polished wood with a leaf motif carved into it and a taut string—not the pretend variety. She picked it up and looked round for arrows or signs of target practice, but saw nothing. The land belonged to the Templetons, but a copse could attract anyone looking for a piece of woodland to enjoy. Thinking if no one claimed the bow she could give it to Robbie—sans arrows, of course, and with Ivy’s permission—she took it back with her and propped it up outside the shed.
The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) Page 15