Her casual response—as if it meant nothing how Miriam spoke to her—didn’t come off well, and she felt her face heat up. And so, with her nose in the air and making what she hoped looked like a respectable exit, Pru left the library. She made it as far as the stairs then stopped, clutching the three juggling balls. With no further inclination to practice, she dropped them into a large empty vase and walked into the sitting room. Nick Bottom perched on a side chair surrounded by fairies, while Titania stood close behind him and stroked long invisible ears as if he already wore his costume piece, the head of an ass.
BOTTOM: I cry your worships mercy, heartily. I beseech your worship’s name.
COBWEB: Cobweb.
BOTTOM: I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb—if I cut my finger I shall make bold with you!
Pru saw the scene being rehearsed as if through the opposite end of a telescope and heard the lines come to her across a field, her mind filled with the vision of Max’s bag and its contents. Nell had seen the injection pens in Gabriel’s bag. Then they were gone. And now Max had them.
When the scene finished, the little fairies were ushered out of the room by their chaperones. One of the girls looked over at Pru on her way through the door and stuck her tongue out—her purple tongue. Pru laughed and did the same—as did every fairy in line after that. Nina clicked her tongue and shook her head but smiled as she accompanied them. Miriam stayed behind and beckoned Les Buchan with a small nod. He went over to her, and they had a few quiet words, Miriam cutting her eyes at Pru. Les moved over to Ambrose, who glanced her way, too, and after that, he said something to Linden. Pru stayed put—feeling exposed and, at the same time, safe in her corner protected by a coffee table and two floor lamps.
But protected from what, she couldn’t quite figure out.
“If we offend it is with our good will,” Max said, and the entire cast—sans little fairies—took their places to rehearse the play-within-a-play put on by the Mechanicals during the wedding feast of Theseus and Hippolyta. It was almost always played as comic relief, although the subject wasn’t light. It concerned Pyramus—Nick Bottom—and Thisbe—Francis Flute—as two lovers kept apart by their families and whose only recourse was to communicate through a chink in a wall. Their plan to escape together is thwarted through misunderstanding—Pyramus finds a bloody cloak, mistakenly thinks Thisbe dead, and so he stabs himself.
Now am I dead,
Now am I fled;
My soul is in the sky,
Tongue, lose thy light;
Moon, take thy flight;
Now die, die, die, die, die.
Nick Bottom—Pyramus—lay spread-eagle with his head on a footstool, as his voice drifted off into nothing and a pall fell over the room. One of the dogs rose from under Linden’s feet and licked Nick’s face. Nell’s curls quivered, and then a wail rose up, a keening, and when her cries reached a peak, she leapt off the sofa and ran for the door.
Max sighed. “We shall end there today,” he said. “Miriam, will you leave the costumes here tonight, or shall we return them to the stables?”
Penelope looked up from her phone. “The rain’s stopped, and there should be clear skies tomorrow.”
“You can leave the costumes here if you like, and we can take them back tomorrow morning,” Pru said. “Perhaps there’s something I can help you with this evening, Miriam.” As long as it didn’t involve sewing, but Pru didn’t add that caveat. Her offer to help was sincere on the one hand and a scheme on the other. She wanted to know what those looks being thrown about earlier meant, and what sort of secret was being passed round.
And why had they been so eager to tell her how important Gabriel had been to the company and how upset Max had been at his death—when both statements appeared to be blatant lies? Pru wasn’t sure if they were obstructing justice, but they were most certainly obstructing her need to know. If she had Miriam all to herself until later when Christopher returned, she’d have plenty of time to find out.
Miriam frowned, as if the same thing had occurred to her.
“I think it would be best to return them today,” the costumer said. “After all, we’ve got all the cars here, and I’d have a chance to get set up and be ready for tomorrow.”
It was decided, and the move began. They were all so organized, Pru left them to it and went to the kitchen, where Nell sat with a cup of tea. She’d stopped crying, but her swollen eyes and red nose spoke volumes. Evelyn had the pensioners’ meals stacked on the counter, ready for Peachey, and had joined Nell at the table, a box of tissues to hand.
“Cuppa?” the cook asked.
“I’d love one.” Pru took a seat. “How are you feeling now?” she asked Nell.
Nodding, the young woman blew her nose and said, “Thanks for the tea, Evelyn. I see we’re making a move, so I’d better go and find Will. He worries, you see, that’s why he’s always trying to tell me what to do.”
“Older brothers,” Pru commiserated. “They can be so overprotective.”
Nell gave a little laugh. “They can that—but it’s only ever been the two of us, and so he’s always looked out for me.”
After Nell left, Pru sat at the table, tapping her cup against the saucer.
“Did you have your fairy cake?” Evelyn asked.
“I had the icing, remember?”
“Well, I’ve one left here with no icing—would that do you?”
“It would indeed.”
* * *
—
Peachey arrived, and Pru and Evelyn carried pensioners’ meals to the van while the entire costume shop was repacked into car boots.
“Chicken and veg stew for your dinner,” Evelyn said. “It’s already in the oven.”
“I can cook now, you know,” Pru reminded her. “I could’ve done something.” With a fair amount of lead time, that is.
“That’s the last of the food in the freezer, the shelves are bare. I’ll need to have an entire day of casseroles and the like to replenish—you can help with that.” As her husband slammed the doors of the van shut, Evelyn looked back to the house. “I wonder should I check how they’ve left the sitting room.”
In a right state, Pru feared. “No, I’ll take a look—you go on your way.”
Pru met Anna at the front door—her arms were full of costumes with a set of fairy wings on top. She hesitated at seeing Pru and said, “Say, could I—that is, do you have a—”
She got no further as Nick called out, “We’ve a bit of room left here.”
“Coming,” she answered.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Pru said to Anna as she left. Anna—Helena—she’d hardly said a word on her own since accusing the pyracantha of killing Gabriel. As she closed the front door, Pru added Anna to her list of interviews she wanted to conduct.
The sight of the sitting room was a shock. Everything had been put back in its proper place. She walked the room to double-check—from large pieces of furniture to framed photos on the lamp tables and a collection of tiny crystal badgers, it was all in order.
“I need to say something.”
The door behind her closed, and Pru turned to find Will Abbott coming for her.
She would’ve backed up, but the wall was behind her, so instead she shifted to the side and stood behind a wing chair, putting her hands on the back in case she needed to shove it at him for a quick escape.
What a silly thought. Wasn’t it?
“What do you need to say?”
“I don’t want Nell harassed.”
“No one’s harassing her.”
“You keep talking to her—”
“Talking is not harassing. Your sister is still quite upset, and it might be a good idea for her to see a counselor or—”
“Will!” It was Nell from the other side of the door. “Where
are you?”
“Leave her alone,” Will warned Pru. He jerked open the door and left.
Of this discourse we will hear more anon.
4.1.177
Chapter 20
It was just possible that Will was more than big-brother protective, Pru thought as she followed them out.
The yard and drive were beginning to empty. Peachey’s van had departed, and now Nell’s car turned out of the driveway, the orange Jazz with Penelope and Frances right behind.
Miriam had her head in the boot of her car, and Ambrose stood at his Mercedes, with Max already ensconced in the passenger seat. Les Buchan was leaning in the window of Linden’s Rolls.
“I’d be happy to go along and help unload,” Pru said. “I could ride with you, Miriam.”
Miriam, rummaging round in the boot of her car, bumped her head on the lid in her rush.
“No, thank you. We’ll be fine.”
Ambrose came over. “I’m sure you and Christopher would like a bit of peace and quiet this evening, Pru,” he said. “Miriam, come to dinner with me, why don’t you. Once we’ve unloaded your car, you can leave it here and we’ll go somewhere. I’ll bring you straight back—Scout’s honor. If that’s what you want.”
“What? Oh, I couldn’t, I—”
“Miriam is an easy houseguest,” Pru said. “We enjoy having her here. And anyway, she and I need to talk.”
Miriam’s panicked gaze flitted from Pru to Ambrose to the sewing kits in the boot of her car.
Well, Miriam? You’re afraid of your own feelings for Ambrose, and you’re afraid of what I might ask you. And so here you are now, stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Miriam looked at her feet, and then she straightened up and threw back her shoulders.
“No, thank you, Ambrose,” she said. “I believe I’ll return the costumes and my supplies to the stables and come back here to Greenoak. I’m sure it’ll be an early evening for us all. I’ll warn you now, Pru, I may not even want dinner—I’m that tired.” She looked down at her car key and added, ever so quietly, “Perhaps another evening.”
Ambrose touched her hand. “Anytime at all,” he replied, just as soft. Pru felt a third wheel in this exchange, but the moment didn’t last as Ambrose left with a smile on his face, and Miriam quickly jumped into her car.
Pru watched her drive off. An early evening, was it? We’ll see about that.
* * *
—
By the time anyone showed up for the evening meal, Pru had harvested greens for a salad, taken the chicken stew out of the oven, and put in a rhubarb crumble.
“See,” she said to no one, “I can cook.” She poured herself a glass of wine and spent the next half hour online staring at images of adrenaline injection pens. There were several brands, and Pru identified the ones she had seen in Max’s bag. She read about how they could save lives, and she even watched videos of how to use the pens. Shots—or jabs, as they were called in Britain—had never bothered her.
The crunching of tires in the yard told her someone was home. She shut her laptop and began setting the table, but the minutes ticked by and no one walked through the door. Pru stubbornly refused to go and look, knowing perfectly well who it was who didn’t want to face her alone. It was only when she’d poured her second glass of wine that another car pulled in, doors opened and closed, and both Miriam and Christopher came in the mudroom door, the former looking sheepish when Pru greeted them with, “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Makes it difficult to even get out of your car.”
They settled to dinner, Miriam paying great attention to her food and very little to Pru. Pru didn’t say much, either, and so it was left to Christopher to fill in with a mostly one-sided conversation.
“The library doesn’t look as if anyone had been in there at all today,” he remarked. “Hard to imagine it was full of your costumes as well as everyone’s personal things.”
Pru had been about to leap in and help him out with dinner chat, but his description of the library caused her to remember what she had hoped to forget—the adrenaline injection pens hidden away in Max’s bag. She lost all interest in conversation—instead, her thoughts drifted off into unpleasant rooms of her mind.
They made it through to the rhubarb crumble, but only just.
“Coffee in the library?” Pru offered, suddenly coming to life.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off,” their houseguest said. “Dinner was lovely—that’s got to be the best crumble I’ve ever tasted.”
Sweet talk will get you nowhere. Pru followed her out of the kitchen and caught her halfway up the stairs.
“Miriam.”
“I’m sorry about dinner.” Miriam gripped the handrail. “I know I was terrible company—it’s just that I’m exhausted. Can we talk tomorrow? I’ll be more myself—promise. Night.”
When Pru returned to the kitchen, Christopher asked, “Coffee in the library?”
“I believe I’ll go up, too. I need a bath—I feel as if I’m still covered in purple icing. Do you mind?”
He let her escape—for the moment. As she climbed the stairs, she tried to put a coherent thought together. What would she say to Christopher about the injection pens?
She couldn’t see Max involved in a murder, but people who had known him far longer than she had were acting in a suspicious manner. Before his death, Gabriel Gibb appeared to rub everyone the wrong way—even the women with whom he was involved. The day after, the praise was lavish. Such a valuable member of the company—they all thought so and especially Max. Especially Max—talk about being overprotective. But was it for good reason? Had Max taken a jar of bees into the cottage and stolen away the one thing that would’ve saved Gabriel’s life?
A soak in the tub wasn’t helping, but Pru was determined to stay in until she turned into a prune—if it took that long to contemplate the pros and cons of holding on to this piece of information. Her defense for keeping the knowledge to herself was sadly lacking in good reasons.
Their bedroom door snicked closed, and Christopher sat on the bed to remove his shoes. He came into the bathroom and leaned over to kiss her. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Crap.
“Miriam’s being pigheaded about Ambrose.”
She had yet to verify that with Ambrose’s side of their history, but it was the first thing that popped out. What she should’ve said was that she believed Miriam knew something that might show Max was involved in Gabriel’s murder—they all knew it—and hadn’t mentioned it to the police. But this, of course, would lead to the fact Pru knew something, too.
Let Christopher do his job. But admonishing herself that way did little good. He might have to question Max under caution, and wasn’t that the closest thing to charging him with murder? Max had his whole heart in this production—a heart that had been broken when his Antonia died. How could she take that away from him?
Christopher handed her a towel and offered a hand as she climbed out of the bath. He walked out into the bedroom without comment, and she knew he had taken the topic of Miriam and Ambrose for what it was—a poor diversion.
She tried a new subject. “That was quite a surprise—Linden and Nick getting married. After what she told me about leading separate lives.”
That stirred up mild interest.
“Being married is no guarantee they wouldn’t be compelled to testify against each other—but we’re a long way from charging anyone,” he said, his voice muffled as he pulled on his pajama top. He appeared in the bathroom doorway, watching and waiting.
“Nell’s really broken up about Gabriel,” she offered. “She’s also worried about her brother. And perhaps with good reason—Will can be rather aggressive when it comes to defending his sister.”
That hit a mark.
“How?”
“I’ve happened upon Nell a couple of times and we’ve chatted, and now he thinks I’m harassing her. He told me to leave her be.”
“Does he think that’ll help his case?”
“His case?” Pru took a sharp breath. “Is he your prime suspect?”
Christopher narrowed his eyes at her, but after a moment answered with his own question. “Does Will Abbott seem the sort to go out of his way to collect bees?”
“No, but maybe he didn’t act alone.” A brother-sister murdering duo?
“Abbott swears he never saw the injection pens, but they were sharing a flat, and he could easily have taken them himself,” Christopher speculated.
“Doesn’t seem likely, does it? That someone would take the injection pens?”
And she was back to Max again.
“Pru.”
The double-edged sword of Christopher’s perception—he knew it wasn’t Miriam’s relationships, Linden’s marriage, Nell’s grief, or Will’s aggressive behavior that weighed heavy on her mind.
Pru cupped his face in her hands for a moment.
“It’s a small thing,” she said.
“You cannot withhold evidence from the inquiry.”
“Withhold? I would never withhold evidence!”
Christopher made the slightest of movements—merely cocking his head as if to hear her better—reminding Pru that her statement was not strictly true. When they had first met, she’d stolen an important clue in a murder inquiry because she thought it would protect a friend. She had suffered the consequences—not from Christopher or any police officer, but from her own guilt and mortification that she could do such a thing. It had turned out all right in the end, but she’d spent a terrible couple of days because of it.
“It’s only that I need to follow up on something—ask a question or two tomorrow. You should thank me—I’ll be saving police time doing this. I won’t be in any danger, I swear. And after that”—she thrust her open hands toward him—“it’s all yours.”
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