Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  Yes, it was—trespassing. But trespassing in order to enjoy a garden. That didn’t seem too terrible. “Hal, why didn’t you tell me you’d already been here when I first brought it up to you on Saturday?”

  He shrugged off the question with one shoulder. “You were talking about the play, not the garden—I didn’t think you would care. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.” He frowned. “Who told you?”

  “Nell saw you—she thought you were scoping out the landscape for me, for the set. Taking a look at the stage and all. Perhaps that would’ve been a help to me if you had.”

  Hal retrieved his notebook from the base of an orange dahlia as big as a dinner plate. “I’m to stay away from that.”

  “Sorry?”

  He blinked at her. “The garden. Am I to stay away from that now?”

  “I only wish you’d’ve let me know.” Pru imagined Hal here in the garden as rehearsals proceeded onstage. “You weren’t reciting lines from the play as you skulked round, were you?”

  “I didn’t skulk,” he objected. “And you’re missing out, Pru—messing with the plants for the set. Have you taken time to look round the garden? You should be out there, spending your days as I have, taking in the place and doing the work needed. Have you even seen the…the nuttery? Or the quatrefoil pool? Do you even know where it is?”

  Quatrefoil pool? She hadn’t realized there was such a thing at Coeur-de-la-Mer. Perhaps it was true—she’d been bitten by the theater bug.

  “No, I—but Hal, I don’t understand. Why did I have to practically beg you to help me out?”

  Hal brushed a spot of dirt off the open page of his notebook. It smeared, leaving a streak behind. “I didn’t want to seem too eager.”

  “Well, good thing you’ve had your nose round. The production has only a week to go before they open—Max has probably found a new Lysander by now, and they’ll be doing all those last-minute things that don’t involve the plants.” Of course, all that depended on the director and actors being innocent of murder—but wasn’t that for Christopher to sort out?

  “Technical rehearsals,” Hal said. “You’ll need to be here in case there are changes to the set to suit the lighting and all. And you’ll need me here, too, to shift plants round. Won’t you?”

  “No, some of the actors double as set movers. Finish this dahlia list for Simon, and that’ll be it. You can get back to regular duties at Greenoak and your town garden. All right?”

  * * *

  —

  Lunch was a subdued affair with an undercurrent of tension. Pru perched on the edge of the sofa with a sandwich, stealing glances at Max, who sat at the table with Linden, the two of them engaged in a lively conversation about a mutual acquaintence. Meanwhile, Will Abbott, in the window seat, kept his eyes on Pru, although every time she looked up, he looked away.

  Her cheese-and-pickle didn’t go down well under such scrutiny, and so, when Anna sat next to her on the sofa, Pru welcomed the diversion. She’d seen little of the young woman since Gabriel’s death, apart from on the stage.

  “How are you?” Pru asked, thinking that if she intended to check in with each of Gabriel’s lovers, perhaps she should catch up to Linden later.

  Anna ripped open a sandwich container and peered at the tuna-and-sweet-corn filling before saying, “I’m not doing this any longer. I’m going home.”

  “To Catford?”

  Anna nodded, her mouth full.

  “Are you quitting?”

  “I’m not quitting the show,” Anna explained. “I wouldn’t do that to Max and the others. But after we close, that’s it.”

  “Won’t you miss it?”

  “Not really—don’t know what got into my head wanting to be an actor. I need something steady, and I miss Artie. My boyfriend. This sort of life is—I don’t know, people become obsessive about it. I’ve been talking with Miriam, and she says she could arrange for me to get on with a shop that carries her things—be sort of a rep for her line. In Mayfair,” Anna added.

  A shop in Mayfair—the toniest neighborhood in London? “That sounds promising. Do you like interiors?”

  Anna smiled. “Oh yeah—I about drive Artie mad with all my fussing in our little bedsit—wanting to get the right curtains and such. Just imagine being able to spend all day long round that fabric and those lovely things. Helping people create just the sort of home they long for.”

  Sort of like designing a garden for a client, Pru supposed. “Will you stay living where you are?”

  “We’ll keep to Catford, but my Artie is looking for a better flat for us. I told him I didn’t want a garden, but if there is a garden, I don’t want any flowers in it. Because flowers attract bees, and look what they can do.”

  “What happened to Gabriel wasn’t the bees’ fault,” Pru said. Bees were having enough problems without being accused of murder.

  “Yeah, well—all the same, I wouldn’t trust them.”

  She hoped Anna would overcome her fear and that a garden, if only a pot of marguerites outside a window, would be in her future. Because the world is full of dangers, and—as long as you weren’t allergic—bees seemed rather low on the list. The young woman had never seemed a likely prospect for a murderer, and if bees frightened her so much, Pru doubted if Anna would’ve been able to get close enough to capture them in a jar and let them loose on Gabriel.

  “Right, you lot,” Penelope announced, “back to it.” Everyone rose and the cottage emptied, but Pru stayed behind. The uniform walked by and looked in. She waved, and he nodded and continued on his patrol. Pru switched on the kettle, dusted crumbs off the counter, and sussed out the remainder of Evelyn’s ginger cake.

  At the same moment the kettle switched off, the door opened.

  “I’m not needed at the moment,” Ambrose said. “I could just do with a cuppa.”

  “Righto,” Pru said, wishing that everyone she wanted answers from would be so obliging as to seek her out. And yet, if Max walked in, what would she say?

  With the tea made and the last slice of ginger cake split between them, Ambrose and Pru sat at the table, steam rising in slender ribbons from their mugs, as she considered how to broach the subject of his past with Miriam.

  “I’m glad you know of our concern for Max,” he began, reminding Pru that Ambrose might be seeking his own answers. “It’s taken a weight off our minds—realizing that we can hand that responsibility over to you. You know he is no killer, I can see that. And I know you’ll be fair about whatever you do.” He took a sip and cleared his throat. “Have you decided what that will be?”

  Pru shrugged.

  “I suppose you’ll have to tell Christopher, won’t you?”

  “Of course I’ll tell him,” she said.

  “But you haven’t yet?”

  “But I will.” She huffed, bitten by resentment at being doubted and guilt for not speaking to her husband already. Time to move the conversation on to other business. “How are things with Miriam?”

  Ambrose’s turn to shrug.

  “She told me what happened—before, I mean, all those years ago. That she left you. And about Alec. No details, just that.”

  A miasma of emotions swam over Ambrose’s face. Heartache, anger, love, sorrow.

  “No details?” he asked. “Well, I can provide those. She told you she left me, but did she also say that the night I didn’t go home—the last of many, I hasten to add—was the night she planned to tell me she was pregnant?”

  Pru set the scene in her mind, and it made her sad. She saw a young Miriam sitting alone in a tiny flat, waiting, waiting. Did she fall asleep? Did she remain upright in a chair until at last, with no hope left, she took her suitcase from on top of the wardrobe and began to pack?

  “Surely you weren’t surprised she’d gone?”

  “I was relieved,” Ambrose
spit out. “How’s that for a callous youth? My first thought was for myself—I was relieved because it saved me from thinking up another excuse for being out all night. I told myself she’d be back. I was in the middle of a production, and it was only when a couple of days had passed that it occurred to me perhaps I should make the first move. I tried ringing her, but she didn’t answer. She’d left no note. Max knew—she’d told him—but he waited until I asked before he told me that she’d gone home to her parents. I rang them and was met with, shall we say, some hostility. That angered me, and so I left her alone. If she wanted to put an end to it, then fine—let her.” Ambrose picked up his tea and put it down again.

  Pru’s eyes stung with angry tears, but she swallowed her outrage against Ambrose’s younger self, except to say, “And how did that work out for you?”

  He barked a laugh. “Not well. The more time went by, the more I missed her. Eventually, I tried to get in touch again—but this time, I kept at it. I only wanted to talk—to let her know I was sorry and that I loved her. She never told me to leave her alone, she would only say, ‘Not yet. Not yet.’ When she did finally talk to me, that was when I found out about Alec.” Ambrose looked out the window and blinked. “He was almost two years old. Well, I thought—this was obviously Miriam’s fault. I had a son, and she’d kept it a secret.”

  “Her fault?” Pru asked hotly. “All that she had gone through, and it never occurred to you—”

  “Nothing occurs to a young man who has his own self-interests at heart. I was brimming with self-righteous indignation. I demanded to see the boy, I demanded my rights—as if he were a possession. And finally, I did meet him. Two and a half years old, he was.” Ambrose’s eyes shone. “I can still see him putting his hand out to shake. ‘Hello, Father,’ he said. I could barely speak.”

  And his voice caught now, after all the years. He took a moment before continuing. “We began to spend time together regularly, and a miracle occurred—I grew up. It wasn’t easy or quick, but gradually, I became a father to my son. His mother I’ve yet to win back. I loved Miriam then, and I still do to this day, and she knows that. I’ve always hoped that we could make another go of it.”

  It occurred to Pru that filling in the blanks of a story didn’t always clear things up—Ambrose was obviously the villain in this tale, at least early on. But as the years went by—thirty of them—if he’d redeemed himself by being a good father and promised to be a good partner, why couldn’t Miriam accept that?

  * * *

  —

  If she had spoken the truth to Hal earlier before she’d sent him on his way, Pru herself would be wrapping up work on the set of Shakespeare au Naturel’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But she felt a reluctance to admit to herself that she’d come to an end of her duties. Instead, she quickly realized there were any number of jobs still left for her to do—and that wasn’t even taking the murder into consideration. Pru’s Plant Corral, for example—were there flats of thyme, or perennials, or shrubs sitting unused that could be returned to the nurseries? Ignoring the thought that she might’ve already done that, she decided she’d better take a look.

  Straight up the green corridor she marched until Sophie came out from the orchard and called to her.

  “Pru, I’ve located a place in here where the flowers in the jar might’ve come from. I can see a bare spot—a patch with stems cut back.”

  “That’s close work.” Pru imagined Sophie sticking her nose in the bed of phacelia that ringed the trees. “Didn’t the bees bother you?”

  The sergeant shook her head. “I keep out of their way, and they keep out of mine.”

  “Did you notice if the cuts were ragged?” Pru had the idea the murderer might have used the jar and lid to capture flowers—and bees—ripping the stems off.

  “No, neatly trimmed. But nothing else nearby—no footprints or the like. The grass springs back and wouldn’t hold an impression, and the bed itself is too congested with stems.”

  At that moment, Will shot through the yew arch opposite where they stood, spotted Pru, and pointed a finger.

  “You!” he said.

  Sophie stepped out from behind Pru, and when Will caught sight of her, he spun round and left the way he’d come.

  “Mr. Abbott!” PS Grey ordered.

  After a moment, he reappeared, but only just.

  “Were you speaking to Ms. Parke?” the sergeant asked, walking half the distance to him.

  “I might’ve been,” he said with a lofty air as he edged along the yew, moving away from her. “But it can wait.” He came to another opening onto the theater lawn and disappeared.

  “No one should underestimate you,” Pru said to Sophie.

  She grinned. “If they do, it’s to their peril.”

  Here is the scroll of every man’s name which is

  thought fit through all Athens to play in our interlude

  1.2.4–5

  Chapter 24

  Max had the Athenian court onstage—Theseus and Hippolyta to begin with. The Mechanicals gathered just offstage waiting for their scene, and Bubble and Squeak sat under the awning with Max. Pru stood halfway back on the theater lawn and taking in the effect of the Italian cypresses on the platform, five on each side—tall, thin, and elegant. They’d look fantastic in the Mediterranean garden at Greenoak—she would talk with Simon about it, and perhaps they could take these after the play closed. She squinted, trying to see the same forms in a different setting. They would set them on two sides, running into the corner…

  “Admiring your handiwork?”

  She hadn’t heard Christopher’s soft footsteps on the grass, and here he was. He put his hand on her back, and she leaned into it.

  “Not really my handiwork—I haven’t done much but move plants where Max wanted them.”

  “He would have nothing to move about if you hadn’t known what to bring in. How has the day been for you?”

  “A bit jumbled, but all right. And yours?”

  “Would Gabriel Gibb have taken anyone in the cast into his confidence and admitted his allergy?”

  “Didn’t seem like the sort to do so.”

  “Nell Malone saw the adrenaline injection pens, and she said nothing. What do we make of that?”

  She loved it that he said “we,” but had to tell herself that could be referring only to police officers. Still—

  “I think she was confused about her relationship with Gabriel—she cared about him, even though she knew he was going off with other women. But I can’t see her planning this revenge.”

  “Did she know what the pens were for?” Christopher asked. “People with allergies to peanuts or shellfish carry the same medicine. The murderer knew Gibb carried them for an allergy to bee venom, and if Gibb didn’t let on to anyone in the cast, then it must be someone from his past.”

  Who in the cast knew him before this production? Pru thought.

  “Linden met him during a production a year or so ago,” Pru said, frowning. “I’m not saying that she did it. Or could do it.”

  “Finding a piece of evidence isn’t the same as accusing someone of murder,” Christopher reminded her. “And we never know which detail may be key.”

  His admonition didn’t help much—this part of an investigation distressed Pru, when it came down to pointing a finger, as the circle closed in from many to a few. Still, she knew he meant to encourage her, and so got on with it.

  “Les Buchan’s daughter was involved with Gabriel ten years ago. They were in school together toward the end of sixth form.” The British school system still confused Pru. “They were eighteen—is that right?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Well, the relationship ended badly, I guess—he didn’t give any details—and Les blamed Gabriel.” Pru shook her head. “That’s weak, isn’t it? It happened so long ag
o. It certainly doesn’t make Les a strong suspect.”

  Christopher watched her, his DI mind humming along while Pru’s idled, her thoughts all about Max. He was the only one left, wasn’t he? He was the one with the injection pens in his bag. No, she couldn’t give Max up yet. But she could feel her face heat up under Christopher’s scrutiny.

  “I’d like you to come down to the station,” he said.

  “Are you arresting me?”

  That ghost of a smile twitched his lips. “Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

  * * *

  —

  Pru skipped tea break, explaining to Penelope and Max she had a few errands to run.

  “Tomorrow, Prunella,” Max said, “you will see the result of these weeks and weeks of rehearsal. The story at last comes together. We will have two full run-throughs—one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The second with costumes—not a full dress rehearsal, of course, only to let the actors find out how their clothes affect their movements. I hope you are able to be here, as there may be some tweaking necessary once coats and hats and skirts and fairy wings are in place.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Pru replied.

  “Pru,” Penelope called and pointed up to the stage. “You wouldn’t have any more of those ones with the silvery leaves, would you?”

  Brunnera? Indeed she did. The stage manager accompanied her to the corral, and they brought out the last flat, placing the pots at different heights on an old step stool Penelope had come across in the stables. “I’ll get the crew to cover it for us—they could make pockets out of the burlap—make it look like a rocky outcrop.”

  Christopher had left, and Pru needed to be on her way. She walked the length of the theater lawn but felt as if she were crossing the stage alone on opening night—all eyes on her. Les Buchan stood downstage right, his gaze following her path. Nick watched her through the cascade of the five balls he juggled while Linden, kneeling over Bubble and Squeak, glanced Pru’s way with the rest of the Mechanicals eyeing over their shoulders. One of the large smoke bushes on the stage rustled, and Pru saw a tall figure and brown hair just over the top—Will Abbott. Max, on the other hand, had settled back into his camp chair and was paging through his script.