Midsummer Mayhem
Page 1
Midsummer Mayhem is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Alibi Ebook Original
Copyright © 2018 by Martha Wingate
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780425286234
Cover design: Tatiana Sayig
Cover images: Shutterstock
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Marty Wingate
About the Author
SHAKESPEARE AU NATUREL
Presents
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
By
William Shakespeare
Directed by
Max Stirling
Our Players:
Theseus, Duke of Athens / Oberon, King of the Fairies…Ambrose Grant
Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons / Titania, Queen of the Fairies…Linden Parfitt
Egeus, Hermia’s father…Sam Snoad
Hermia, in love with Lysander…Nell Malone
Lysander, loved by Hermia…Gabriel Gibb
Demetrius, suitor of Hermia…Will Abbott
Helena, in love with Demetrius…Anna Hutton
Puck, or Robin Goodfellow…Les Buchan
The Mechanicals are played by the Bumbling Blokes,
who appear courtesy of Chataway’s Circus:
Peter Quince, a carpenter
Nick Bottom, a weaver
Francis Flute, a bellows-mender
Tom Snout, a tinker
Snug, a joiner
Robin Starveling, a tailor
The Fairies:
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed
Stage Manager…Penelope Farthing
Costumer…Miriam Sykes
Set Decoration…Pru Parke
Masters, I am to discourse wonders—but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out!
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 4.2.26–28
Must I speak now?
3.1.82
Chapter 1
“I can’t do it,” Pru whispered as she hid in the dark behind the door to the sitting room. Sounds of conversation and laughter drifted out. A drop of sweat trickled down her forehead, and she whisked it away. “I just can’t.”
“No one’s forcing you,” Christopher replied, his hand resting on the small of her back.
“It’s only that I thought I could,” she explained. “I thought it might be fun. But no, I’ll only make a mess of the whole thing and end up looking a fool.”
“You were perfect last night,” he said.
“Yes, but that was in bed and you were my only audience.”
Christopher peered through the narrow opening into the library and then looked back at her with a ghost of a smile. “Then, perhaps you should imagine they aren’t wearing any clothes, either.”
Pru laughed and then slapped a hand over her mouth. Her nerves, stretched taut, loosened ever so slightly.
“Party pieces aren’t a requirement,” Christopher reminded her, “only after-dinner entertainment.”
No, but they formed an integral part of a convivial evening in England. And she had so wanted to participate.
“Everyone else did so well,” Pru complained. And they had—their guests had come up with poetry, funny stories, piano pieces, songs. Christopher had told his own version of an old English folktale about how badgers can protect against dark magic. “But the thought of getting up in front of that crowd—”
“There’s only nine of us out there.”
“Yes, and it’s that ninth one that’s the problem. How can I stand there and recite his own words to him?”
“They aren’t his words; they’re Will Shakespeare’s.”
“You know what I mean—the director.” She sighed. “I’m a gardener; my party piece should be planting a tree. Why did I think performing lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream would be a good idea?”
“Then don’t do it,” Christopher said and kissed her temple. “I’ll go in and offer brandy. They’ll never notice.”
He moved to go, but Pru caught his arm.
“No, how silly I am.” She cleared her throat, took out her clip, combed it through her brown hair, and reclipped. “I’m ready.”
* * *
—
Pru stood in front of the unlit fireplace and felt a slight June breeze drift in from the open French doors—a delightful summer evening in Hampshire, but it did nothing to cool her off. She fidgeted. Christopher locked his intense brown eyes on her to offer encouragement. Evelyn and her husband, Albert; Pru’s brother, Simon, and his wife, Polly; and Reverend Bernadette all smiled up at her. The others—actor Ambrose Grant, stage manager Penelope Farthing, and director Max Stirling watched and waited. They had been delightful dinner companions—she must remember that.
Swallowing hard and praying she wouldn’t have to shout “Line!” Pru inhaled deeply and began.
“Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire—
I do wander everywhere
Swifter than the moon’s sphere,
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see—
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their s
avours.
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.”
“Brava!” were the shouts and cheers, and Pru couldn’t sit down quickly enough. Where is Christopher with that brandy? A large glass appeared in front of her, and she seized it, giving him a grateful smile.
“Well done, Prunella,” Max Stirling said. “Gardener and actor.”
“Oh now,” Pru said, mortified at the attention. “I believe I’d better stick to supplying you with plants for your production.”
“You are more than supplier.” Max toasted her with his glass. “You are an artist, a visionary in flora, however ephemeral your creation may be. Of course, we in the theater are accustomed to the temporary, the fleeting—isn’t that true, Ambrose?”
“Indeed. It’s why we are in constant search of our next role.”
The Ambrose Grant fan club—Polly, Evelyn, and Bernadette—tittered appreciatively. He did have that way about him—the power to charm the knickers off women of a certain age. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Well, I will undertake it.
1.2.83
Chapter 2
One morning three weeks earlier, Pru edged open the door of the mudroom with her elbow and entered bum first, her arms round a basket that overflowed with daisylike flowers in butter yellow, sunshine orange, and a glowing red that leaned toward amber. Each petal glistened with drops of rain from an overnight shower.
“There now,” she said. “I’ve thinned the calendula.”
Evelyn Peachey, towering over the kitchen sink peeling potatoes, looked down her beaky nose at the harvest. “Marigolds.”
“Yes, pot marigolds—they make a lovely edging to the veg beds and a good pollinator plant, but between reseeding and overwintering, they’re threatening to take over.”
Pru hesitated as the sharp aromatic scent of the leaves rose between them. Her relationship with the housekeeper-cook at Greenoak had come light-years since they’d met two years earlier, but Evelyn remained queen of the kitchen, and Pru wouldn’t want to presume.
“I thought they might be useful here. I could rinse the flowers off, and you could sprinkle petals in the salads for your pensioners’ meals,” she offered.
“Those old folks would think I mistook their salad bowls for the compost heap.” The cook set a stockpot under the running tap, dumped the mountain of potatoes in, and then stood back as the water rose, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled. “They’d make a lovely vinegar, though. I’ll use it to dress the greens, and they’ll not be the wiser.”
Pru breathed a sigh of relief. “A sprig of lemon verbena in the vinegar, too?” Evelyn nodded. “I’ll put the rest in water.”
Each weekday, in addition to preparing the evening meal for Pru and Christopher, Evelyn cooked a dozen extra dinners and boxed them up. These, she and her husband delivered to pensioners who lived in cottages dotted round their village of Ratley.
Pru rummaged in the mudroom cupboard for one of the many empty pint-size canning jars that always seemed to be available, and when the door banged open, she jumped, bumping her head on a shelf. Her sister-in-law, Polly, swooped past her and into the kitchen.
“Have you seen this?”
She held up a copy of the Romsey Advertiser, positioning it just under her nose so that it looked as if the newspaper sported faded blond hair and red-framed glasses, and tapped on a half-page ad.
Shakespeare au Naturel
presents
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
with
Ambrose Grant
(“Nick Pepper” of Coronation Street!)
Linden Parfitt
and
The Bumbling Blokes (courtesy of Chataway’s Circus)
To be held on the luxurious grounds of Coeur-de-la-Mer Priory Hall
Wine and picnic hampers may be ordered with your booking
Evelyn’s hand went to her chest. “Ambrose Grant is coming here?” she gasped.
Polly nodded rapidly, and the newspaper crackled. “Can you believe it?”
In his heyday of the late 1980s, Ambrose Grant had been every woman’s dream as he played a scoundrel who wandered onto Coronation Street—the longest-running British soap opera—and stayed for a decade. Pru’s English mother had been a devoted viewer, picking up the program on cable at their home in Dallas by way of a Canadian station—and so Pru had watched, too. But she’d lost track of the actor since then.
“EastEnders was next,” Evelyn said. “Do you remember, Polly, he played Ben. Devoted to his family, he was.”
“Until his dark past caught up with him,” Polly replied, wiggling her eyebrows. “After that…well, he’s done this and that. Stage work, I believe. For a while, he was talked up as the new Doctor Who, before they cast that other fellow. But I do know he’s been on Midsomer Murders three or four times.”
Evelyn sighed. “The way his hair swooped down over his right eye.”
Polly pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand. “And the way he’d sneak a look at the camera—as if he was about to give you a wink.”
Both women sighed deeply.
* * *
—
Two weeks after Polly’s visit, Pru stood over the sink in the loo off the mudroom, scrubbing grime from her cuticles with a nail brush. Evelyn call out, “Where’s Simon got off to? He’ll miss elevenses if he’s not careful.”
Pru and her brother, Simon—heading into his late sixties and fifteen years her senior—gardened together at Greenoak, although he’d been there forty years and Pru had joined him only two years earlier, when she and Christopher had married. The six-acre landscape kept them reasonably busy, as there always seemed to be a new project in the works.
“Simon texted that he had something to do first thing—he didn’t say what. But there isn’t much would keep him away from morning coffee.”
Pru dried her hands and set the pitcher of milk on the table along with cups and saucers—because Evelyn didn’t go in for mugs. When the kettle came to a boil, she poured water over the grounds in the cafetière.
At the same moment Evelyn pulled a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven, Simon pushed open the mudroom door and called, “Good morning.” Stomping his feet on the mat a couple of times, he walked in the kitchen and slid into a chair, the scent of yeast and spice dancing in the air.
“Ah, Evelyn, smells fantastic,” he said.
“Have you washed?” Evelyn asked.
“I haven’t done anything to wash off,” Simon said, but when Evelyn threw him a look over her shoulder, he didn’t take it further and rose. Upon returning, he held up his hands to the cook.
“There now,” she said, setting a plate down and filling the cups.
Simon tucked in, tearing off a strip of roll and dunking it into his coffee and tilting his head back to drop it in his mouth. “You didn’t need to start on those stone planters at the end of the drive,” he said to Pru. “I would’ve taken care of them.”
“No, it’s all right. I weeded the Mediterranean garden and let Hal do the heavy lifting. He moved the nursery containers and the soil out before he left. We can plant the pots up this afternoon. So now”—Pru started in on her own roll—“what was the appointment you had this morning?”
“You remember the Shakespeare being put on in the gardens at Coeur-de-la-Mer Priory Hall?”
“Remember—are you joking? Shakespeare au Naturel is staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We already have our tickets, don’t we, Evelyn?”
“We do indeed,” Evelyn agreed. “Only think—Ambrose Grant in person after all these years.” She blinked back a tear and sniffed at the pile of onio
ns she was chopping.
“Polly has your tickets,” Pru said. “Didn’t she tell you? We wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Pru, mildly interested in Ambrose Grant, was delighted at the thought of a theater evening and thrilled about seeing Coeur-de-la-Mer Priory Hall. The place lay not much more than a stone’s throw from Greenoak, but it was shrouded in mystery because the owners, who lived in France, never let anyone in. For Pru, a ticket to the play was permission to view the grounds for the first time.
“There might be more to this than just going to a play.” Simon shoved the rest of a roll in his mouth. “It’s Jeremy, you see. He’s legged it.”
“Jeremy the head gardener? He’s quit? What happened?”
“I’d say it was a breakdown in expectations between employer and employee.” Simon licked his fingers. “When the Gascoignes hired Jeremy—what was that, nine years ago?”
“Thirteen,” Evelyn said without turning round.
“Really? Well, there you are. Thirteen years ago, they told him he’d be left alone, just him and eleven acres. They’re never there, and when they are, they don’t entertain. That suited Jeremy perfectly—he’s more hermit than gardener.”
True. In her two years at Greenoak, Pru had seen Jeremy at the Robber Blackbird—their local pub—once, sitting in a corner accompanied only by a pint of bitter and a book.