Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for
that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays
3.1.136–37
Chapter 11
“Why didn’t you say you’re married to a copper?” Hermia insisted.
Miriam whipped round from the tea table. “And what does it matter who she’s married to?”
“She could be undercover.” Hermia crossed her arms. “Spying on us.”
“Isn’t that just like a bloody actor?” Miriam mocked. “Someone’s dead, and all you can think about is yourself. Or is it that you’ve done something you’re ashamed of?”
“What I do is none of your business!” Hermia’s voice jumped an octave.
“Sit down, Nell.” Demetrius tugged on her skirt, and she flumped back onto the sofa.
Pru straightened up and addressed the group. “As you already know, I’m a gardener, and that’s the only reason I’m here. My job is to decorate your set.”
“There, you see,” Miriam snapped, “she’s a gardener.”
From the costumer’s tone, Pru realized that although actors seemed to be at the bottom of Miriam’s list of esteemed professions, she wasn’t far above.
“And as it happens,” Pru announced, “I am married to Christopher. Detective Inspector Pearse. I haven’t kept that a secret, it’s just that it only came up now because he’s here to look into Ly…Gabriel’s death.”
“I’m sorry, Pru,” Ambrose said, looking sheepish. “We thought it better to let them know.”
“It’s fine. I’m glad you told everyone,” Pru replied.
“Does anyone here object to Prunella’s marital status?” Max asked sharply.
No one spoke or looked up from the floor. Finally, there was a general shrug of shoulders, and then Francis Flute rose and said, “Well, I, for one, am glad. You’ll be able to tell us what’s going on.”
She shouldn’t count on that.
Demetrius and Hermia moved off to sit against the wall with their sandwiches, and Max insisted Pru take the space between him and Puck, leaving Miriam to scoot closer to Ambrose. In a few minutes, Sophie returned and called for Anna Hutton.
That was Helena, who staggered when she stood. The sergeant—a good twelve inches shorter than the actress—took her arm.
“There now, dearie, you’re all right. Did you have a cup of tea? Where’s your bag—is it out there with the others under the awning?” she asked as they walked out. “Then you’ll have it to hand, won’t you? You can leave after you speak with Inspector Pearse.”
Those who remained in the stables ate in silence until Sophie appeared again. “Ms. Malone?”
Hermia stood, as did Demetrius. He grabbed her arm.
“I’m going with her,” he stated.
“Mr. Abbott, is it?” PS Grey checked her list. “And why would you need to do that?”
“She’s my sister, that’s why.”
“Well, sir, your sister will be fine on her own. You’ll need to stay until called.”
“I don’t want her being accused of something she didn’t do,” he replied hotly.
“DI Pearse is merely asking a few questions, sir,” Sophie said mildly. “And you’ll get your turn.”
“Leave it, Will,” Hermia said, shrugging off his hand. “I’m fine.”
Demetrius kicked the stone wall in response and sat.
A thick silence fell once again and, if only to stir the air round, Pru went over to Linden and Nick Bottom and petted the dogs.
“They’re lovely. I don’t remember seeing them in your act last summer.”
“We’d only just taken them in,” Linden replied. Pru couldn’t see Linden Parfitt as a Bumbling Bloke in her spare time, and so took this “we” to mean she and Nick Bottom were a couple.
“They don’t have a strong enough herding instinct, we were told—not good enough for farmwork.” Nick gave either Bubble or Squeak an affectionate slap. “But for us, they’re the best dogs ever.”
* * *
—
After Hermia finished, the rest of the Mechanicals were taken one by one. Any attempt at conversation among those who remained fell flat. Puck was called, then Egeus, and after that, Bubble and Squeak accompanied Linden, whose pale complexion made the dark circles under her eyes look even darker. At some point in the afternoon, Pru heard the crunch of tires on gravel, and looked out to see a hearse creep into the yard.
For something to do, she went off and refilled the kettle. Not long after she’d returned, PS Grey arrived.
“Ms. Sykes?” she called.
Miriam hitched her carpetbag onto her shoulder, and Ambrose took her hand and went with her to the door. Neither spoke—Miriam didn’t even look up at him before she walked out.
Only Demetrius, Ambrose, Max, and Penelope remained. The stage manager sat in a chair near the sewing machine and glanced at the door every few seconds until the director said, “Penny, we’ll have the usual call time tomorrow—ten o’clock. In the afternoon, we will take the Mechanicals scenes—including Pyramus and Thisbe. Also, Bottom and Titania, although we won’t have the little fairies.”
Penelope gave Ambrose and Pru a sideways look, but asked no questions—instead, she opened her three-ring binder and began making notes. Max walked over to her, and they entered into a discussion about the grandstands, which were to be erected for the audience.
Ambrose leaned closer to Pru and whispered, “Will we be able to do it?”
Pru shrugged in reply.
Soon, PS Grey appeared again. “Right, Mr. Abbott. Inspector Pearse will see you now.”
Demetrius didn’t move.
“Why did we have to be cooped up all afternoon?” he complained. “Questioning the company as if we are suspects. None of us knows what happened to Gabriel. Full stop.”
“The inspector is waiting, sir.”
“Well, I won’t go.” He jumped up and advanced on Sophie, jabbing a menacing finger as he towered over her. “No one is going to tell me what to do.”
Ambrose started toward the young man but stopped when PS Grey drew herself up to her full five feet.
“Inspector Pearse has questions,” she countered in a hard voice, “and you’ll answer them here, or you’ll answer them down at the nick—it makes no difference to me. But answer them, you will.”
Demetrius stepped back as if repelled by a force field. “Well, yeah, all right,” he conceded. “No need to get shirty about it. I was just saying…”
“Let’s go.”
Pru checked the time—Evelyn would be wondering what happened to her. Should she send her a text? And say what—Sorry, held up by a murder. See you in the morning? No, Evelyn would be leaving with Peachey soon to deliver the pensioners’ dinners—Pru would explain it all tomorrow.
A uniform stopped the sergeant and Demetrius in the yard. Grey sent the actor on his way with the PC and returned to the stables.
“Ms. Parke? Hal Noakes is here.”
“Hal?” For a second, Pru couldn’t remember why in the world Hal would be there. “God, yes—he’s come with another plant delivery. I suppose I’ll have to send him away. No wait, I’ll ask Christopher first—is that all right?” In the hierarchy of an investigation, Pru always tried to remember her place.
“Yes, of course.” Sophie accompanied her to the theater lawn and commented along the way. “This is an amazing place—is it National Trust or something?”
“No, privately owned. The gardens are lovely, but they aren’t ever opened, not even for charity. It’s a shame.”
Christopher rose as soon as he saw them and crossed the lawn, leaving PS Grey to sit with Will Abbott under the awning.
“Do you have your killer?” Pru asked with false hope.
“Hardly�
�we have an assortment of shocked innocents who regarded Gabriel Gibb as a fellow actor and knew nothing about his personal life or anyone who might want to do him harm.”
“How many of them did you believe?”
“It’s too early to believe anyone.” He rubbed her arm. “How are you doing back there?”
“Mmm. But Hal’s arrived.” Pru’s quick explanation ended with, “I suppose he could keep the plants in the bread van for the night and return them to the nursery tomorrow. Or”—she gave Christopher a quick glance—“he could unload them here and take them to my plant corral. Just in case.”
“You mean, just in case the production can continue.”
“You should see him—Max, that is. He’s back there with Penelope talking about tomorrow’s rehearsal. You know what Ambrose said—how much this means to him.”
“Yes, and I’ve already heard testimonials from Linden Parfitt, Miriam Sykes, and Les Buchan. I expect I’ll hear more from Ambrose.”
“The production is less than two weeks away. What did you tell them?”
“I told them this is now a crime scene.”
As Christopher scanned the theater lawn, Pru studied his face—still the inscrutable DI.
“What else could you hope to find on the grounds?” she asked. “Lysander—Gabriel—was in the cottage. It would be easy to keep that off-limits.”
“Whoever did this is here,” Christopher told her. “Someone who knew him and knew what bee stings would do to him. How can the production continue with a murderer among the company?”
“But why not? Wouldn’t it be better to have them all in one place throughout the investigation? There would be no escape for the murderer if he or she had to show up for rehearsal every day.”
“That’s quite true,” he said in a speculative fashion, “but if they did continue with the production, you wouldn’t need to return. I wouldn’t want you in the middle of this—and you’re finished here, didn’t you say so?”
“What?” Oh, he was good—appearing to concede one point only to come at her with concern for her safety. “No, not finished. That is, nearly, but we still need to arrange the plants, and we may need to swap things out, and Max hasn’t actually approved the cypress for the Athenian court and—”
She paused. Sitting in the stables through the afternoon, watching each cast member pulled out for questioning, she’d had time to think this through, and it was quite clear to her that she needed to stay involved in the inquiry. She had more than a passing interest in the gardens and the play—she had responsibilities. Clearly, Gabriel’s death had to do with both, and so she had a finger in every pie. How could Christopher argue with that?
Taking a deep breath, she continued. “And it would be convenient for you to have me here. You and your team can come and go as you please, and so I’d be perfectly safe because you would be keeping an eye on me, but at the same time, I would be in the middle of things as you couldn’t be. I may hear something to your advantage.”
Pru wasn’t actually sure anyone in the company would speak to her again knowing she was related to the police, but she clung to the belief she could be of value.
Christopher watched her, and she could see his jaw working. But when he said, “You wouldn’t need to ask anyone questions,” Pru saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
“No—no questions,” she vowed firmly. “Just general conversation.”
“I wouldn’t want you to set anyone off.”
Enthusiasm bubbled up, and she couldn’t keep a lid on it. “On the other hand, what if I do stir something up? That might be helpful—I could be your cat among the pigeons.”
That might have pushed it too far—Christopher narrowed his eyes at her. She held her ground and waited until she thought she couldn’t wait any longer, and then he nodded in the direction of the front gate. “Go on, then.” She scurried off but got only a few yards away before she stopped dead and whirled round.
“You were going to let them continue all along, weren’t you?”
That ghost of a smile again. “I don’t think I could’ve stopped them. And, as it turns out, I like your plan.”
* * *
—
She raced to the shed through the empty yard—the hearse having departed with the body of Gabriel Gibb—pulled the cart out, and trotted to the gate, kicking up chippings on the way. A sense of purpose filled her that went beyond her duties with both the set and the garden—a feeling that she could be useful to the inquiry. Did Christopher already have an inkling of a suspect? Did she? Speculation could be both good and bad in a murder investigation—don’t pick a favorite too early in the game.
Who among the cast and crew had known Gabriel Gibb was allergic to bees? Had one of the women become fed up with his casual attitude toward relationships? Had one of the men thought it chivalrous to kill the philanderer off? Had it been a moment of fury that left Lysander dead?
But a jar full of bees meant planning. Could a murder be both a crime of passion and cold calculation?
We will meet, and there we may rehearse most
obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect. Adieu!
1.2.99–101
Chapter 12
A PC stood on guard at the open gates of Coeur-de-la-Mer Priory Hall while the entire cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream huddled near Penelope’s car, setting a scene that appeared slightly off-kilter. Miriam and Hermia—Nell—who had not appeared to get along, were deep in conversation. Demetrius—who was really Will—leaned over Helena—Anna. Puck—Les Buchan—leaned against the silver Mercedes next to the actor who played Egeus. The Mechanicals juggled small beanbags in a nonchalant manner, the way a person clicked a pen or tapped a foot without realizing it. Linden sat on the ground, and Bubble and Squeak lay on either side.
All movement ceased when they noticed Pru, and every face turned to her with an expectant look—even the dogs lifted their heads and pricked their black ears. But what did she have to tell them? Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and she gestured to Hal, who had parked the bread van away from the other cars and now waited with the vehicle between him and the cast. “I only…” she mumbled, “that is, it’s…the plants, you see.”
“What is this?” Hal asked when she hurried over. His eyes darted toward the group and then away. “Is it a fire drill or something?”
“Didn’t you ask anyone?”
“Why would I?”
“Hal, the actors won’t bite,” Pru said. Although, apparently one of them had done more than that. “Someone has died. Gabriel Gibb. The young man who played Lysander.”
“Dead?” he repeated. “How did that happen? And why the police?”
This couldn’t be kept a secret, too many people knew. “Bee stings, apparently.”
Hal frowned. “Was he in the orchard? I saw massive amounts of bees there, but I don’t know how—”
“No, the cottage. And that’s odd, isn’t it? So the police must find out how it happened. Christopher’s here.”
“Cor. That’s serious. You mean one of them did this to him?”
Pru shrugged. “It’s up to the police to find that out. Come on, let’s take these plants in.”
They loaded the cart, and Hal set off—describing a wide arc round the cast—while Pru walked behind him, carrying the last flat of brunnera in her arms, its foot-high silver, heart-shaped leaves almost obscuring her vision. They’d made it through the gates when Linden came forward.
“Pru, will they be much longer, do you think?”
She sensed more than saw the group of actors and crew lean closer, waiting for an answer. Over her cargo of foliage, Pru noticed that the hollow, haunted look round Linden’s eyes had deepened.
“Didn’t they say you were free to go?”
“Yes,” Linden answered. “But we’re waiting for Ma
x.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure he won’t be too much longer.”
On the way up to the corral, Pru looked into the theater lawn but saw no one under the awning. She left Hal to finish unloading after they’d arranged for his return the next morning. “That’s good,” he said. “The nepeta in the double border has gone over, and you know how it sprawls. If I shear it tomorrow, we’ll get another flowering later in the summer.”
Pru agreed yet wondered who would be on the grounds of Coeur-de-la-Mer to see that second flush of flowers, but thought it better to keep Hal busy in the garden and near at hand in case she needed him for the set.
With the theater lawn deserted, Pru headed for the stables, finding Max and Christopher sitting in chairs across from each other. No Penelope or Ambrose—they must be waiting with the rest.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just thought I’d…” She grabbed at the most likely excuse for breaking in. “Tea?”
“That would be lovely, Prunella, thank you—if it’s all right with you, Inspector?” Max asked, deferring to the man in charge.
“Shall I make it in the cottage?” Pru suggested, and Christopher nodded.
The gardener’s quarters were deserted. She switched on the kettle and leaned against the counter. As quiet as it was, she could still hear a constant humming in her brain, as if a swarm of bees had taken up residence. She exhaled in a huff, reclipped her hair, and reached for the teapot.
* * *
—
“Sugar?” she asked Max as she handed him a mug.
“No, my Antonia weaned me off sugar in my tea.”
“Will you sit with us?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, thanks.” She thought that Christopher had finished with the more formal part of the interview—asking Max to report his movements of the morning. She perched on the edge of the sofa, always eager to watch her inspector in his element.
“DI Pearse was asking me about Gabriel,” Max said. “What sort of fellow he was, and—I assume this was your subtext—why someone would wish him harm. Because it seems obvious this was done to him, not by him.”
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