“These are my work clothes,” Orlando said. “Why are you here? Did you come for a visit?”
“There’s tea in the sitting room,” Evelyn said on her way back to the kitchen.
“Please,” Pru said, “let’s go in. You can stay for a cup, can’t you?”
They’d barely got seated, and Pru reached for the teapot, when Claire told her son of their intentions.
Orlando shot up. “But I don’t want to go home. I’ve got things to do here—don’t I, Aunt Pru? How will you and Simon get the garden ready without me?”
“He’s right,” Pru said, resisting the urge to throw her arms around him so that his parents wouldn’t steal him away. “We’re in such a state, and a magazine editor is visiting next week. We’ll never be ready without Orlando’s help.”
“You see, Mum, I’m needed here.” After that jab, Orlando sat down again and helped himself to a slice of Evelyn’s currant cake.
“You can’t just cast him out and reel him back in to suit yourself,” Christopher said to his sister. “Give the boy a say.”
“You can’t boss me around, Christopher,” she replied.
Well, Pru thought, sibling squabbles are everywhere.
Christopher sighed. “We’d like him to stay.”
Claire turned to her son with a smile. “Bess is looking forward to you coming home, Orlando.”
Apparently, sister Bess didn’t hold as much sway as she had once. “Got another gormless git she needs chucking out?”
Claire stood. “We’d best go pack you up.”
Tommy stood, too. “Come on, son. Show me your room.”
Orlando looked from his father to his mother and back, and slowly rose, taking another slice of cake with him. And it was done.
Pru waited in the sitting room doorway, her arms folded tightly in front of her, and Christopher stood at the foot of the stairs while the three Barneses packed. When they returned, several pieces of Orlando’s colorful, charity-shop attire stuck out of his bag.
“You don’t need to take those things, do you?” Claire was asking as they landed in the front hall.
“They’re mine—aren’t they, Aunt Pru? I can take them.” Claire reached up to adjust his jacket, and Orlando shrugged her away.
“Of course they’re yours,” Pru said. “You take them with you, but be sure to bring them when you return. You’ll need them in the garden. And I hope you come back very soon.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Would you like to leave a message for anyone?”
Orlando’s eyes flickered to Pru’s for a second. He blushed and said, “No, thanks. Could I say goodbye to Evelyn?”
“We aren’t taking you to Australia,” Tommy said as Orlando went through to the kitchen.
Claire’s face softened, and she reached a hand out to Pru. “It isn’t as if we’re not grateful. We are, truly. You’ve been so kind to do this.”
The four of them stood in awkward silence until Orlando returned with a large hamper. “Evelyn had a few things to send along with me,” he said. “She’s an excellent cook.”
“I can see that,” his father said. “I’d say you’ve put on an inch or two in every direction since we dropped you off.” He reached for the basket, and after a tug, Orlando released it. “Better say your goodbyes now.”
Christopher shook Orlando’s hand, and Pru gave him a hug, which he did not try to wiggle out of. Tommy opened the front door, causing an eddy of cold wind to pull in a few dried beech leaves that swirled around and came to rest under the umbrella stand. Christopher put his arm around Pru’s shoulders, and they stepped out to watch Claire, Orlando, and Tommy get into their car.
Pru painted a thin smile on her face, hoping that they wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks. She felt as if a weight had been attached to her heart.
“I don’t think that was necessary, do you?” she said, wiping her face after the car drove away into the dusky late afternoon.
“No, I don’t, but that’s my sister for you—from one extreme to the other.” Christopher massaged her back and kissed her hair. “Why don’t you get us a couple of glasses, and I’ll get a fire going.”
In the kitchen, Evelyn was packing up the last of the pensioners’ meals for Peachey to carry out. “I didn’t realize the boy was leaving,” the cook said.
“Neither did I—his parents decided quite suddenly and gave us no warning.” Take that bitter tone out of your voice, Pru told herself. “Of course, we knew he would be going home sometime, it’s just that—we’ll miss him.”
Evelyn nodded.
“You put together a hamper?”
“Just this and that I had in the freezer for a rainy day,” Evelyn said. “A lasagna, a chicken curry, a bacon-and-mushroom pie. Oh, and that apple crumble I’d made for you and Mr. Pearse—but you don’t mind that, now do you?”
“No,” Pru said, “not at all. It’s very kind of you.”
“Well.” She nodded to the Aga. “Your supper is keeping warm.”
Pru saw Evelyn and Peachey off and took glasses to the sitting room. Christopher had chosen a bottle from their wine cellar—actually the cupboard under the stairs—and a fire crackled and popped as the kindling caught. He was on the phone as she entered.
“Right, thanks. You’ll ring with any other details? Cheers. Bye.”
They settled on the sofa, sitting close and sharing a footstool. Christopher laid his hand on her thigh, and Pru absorbed comfort from his light touch. They didn’t speak for a while, but at last Pru sighed deeply. “I suppose we couldn’t keep him forever.”
“Did you want to?” Christopher asked.
“I don’t know—I could’ve stood him awhile longer,” she said, looking into the fire. “I believe he was beginning to enjoy the garden—I was about to teach him the finer points of seed starting.”
“I’m sure he’s sorry to miss that.” Pru saw his smile and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. After another minute, Christopher sat forward. “That call was from forensics.”
Pru sat forward, too. “What did they find?”
“Jack died sometime between about nine and midnight. It was cold and the body cooled off quickly. It appears that he was held down, face in the dirt, and he died. But he didn’t suffocate.”
Christopher watched her as she assimilated the information. She knew that he would add only a small detail or two at a time until she could take no more—her imagination was too vivid. But she wasn’t quite at her limit yet. “But if he couldn’t breathe—isn’t that how you suffocate?”
“There were none of the normal signs of suffocation—his eyes weren’t bloodshot, there was no discoloration around—”
“Yes, yes, all right.”
“He was held facedown, he continued to breathe—they found soil particles in his lungs—and then his heart stopped.”
Pru remembered what Polly had told her over lunch “He was ill. Polly said that Stan said Jack was ill.”
Christopher nodded. “He had a weak heart. But someone attacked him—that caused his death.”
Chapter 21
The next day, Pru looked into the parterre garden first thing. The only policeman on duty was Martin, who stood sifting through rocky soil from the pit—soil that had been sifted through when they found the skeleton. “Sorry, Martin, I won’t disturb anything. Must you be the one to do that—can’t you get a uniform?” she asked.
“I don’t mind,” Martin said. “I should have my hands on all parts of the investigation.” She left him to it, thinking that sounded like a phrase from a policeman’s manual.
By the time Simon arrived, midmorning, Pru had started digging the planting trench around the herb beds for the germander.
“Sorry to be late,” he said, stuffing a pair of gardening gloves in his coat pocket. “Pol is a bit under the weather.” He didn’t look too good himself—unshaven, swollen eyes.
“It’s all right,” Pru said, leaning the spade against the wall while she removed her coat. “
We can’t help the delay. Is Polly ill?”
Simon didn’t look at her, but ran his eyes along the line of the wall around the garden, until it reached the blank slate that would be the cutting garden on the far end. He shook his head. “No, just everything catching up, I suppose. I’ll get started,” he said. “Where’s the boy?”
“Orlando went home with his parents yesterday,” Pru said. As much work as he had been to get started, he had been an extra pair of hands and a strong back, and now, they were without even that. Simon squinted into the clouds and didn’t reply. “Look,” she said, “we can take a few minutes. Do you want a coffee? Can we talk?”
At last he looked at her. “I don’t want to talk.”
There were two immediate topics on the table as far as Pru could see—Jack’s death and the more material concern of the state of the garden—plus the lingering issue of Birdie’s house. “You don’t want to talk about what?”
“Whatever it is you want to talk about,” he said, his eyes flashing. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”
“Fine,” she snapped. She took up her spade, plunged it into the soil, and hit a rock that jarred her arm. Simon walked off as she wiggled the spade around the rock, trying to get under it. Must he make this so difficult? “Oh, bugger it,” she muttered to herself, she would make him talk. “Simon!” she called just as he reached the gate. He didn’t stop.
That was the way the day went—Simon in the Mediterranean garden, Pru digging a trench for the germander. At lunch, the two of them focused on their sandwiches without saying a word. The silence got to be too much for even Evelyn, who filled in the empty spaces with uncharacteristic small talk.
“Next week I’ll be doing my cakes for the fête,” she said as she stirred a pot.
“Yes, the fête’s almost upon us,” Pru replied.
“My usual entry for the competition,” Evelyn continued.
God save me from being a judge at that table, Pru thought. She had learned that, in order to remove all suspicion of prejudice, judges were assigned to the various competitions at the last minute by pulling names out of a hat. Pru had a bone-chilling vision of standing blindfolded in front of a table filled with cakes made by Evelyn and Kitty that she couldn’t taste because her mouth was filled with the fear of making a wrong choice.
—
Pru skipped afternoon tea break, as did Simon, which she discovered at the end of the day.
“I’d a whole pot of tea here with no one to drink it,” Evelyn said.
“I’m sorry, Evelyn, I suppose we were too busy,” Pru said over a fresh cup. Gardening, as always, had freed her mind, and allowed her thoughts to wander. She’d thought about Simon and his increasing withdrawal from her. She’d thought about Jack and the people in the village. As she watched Evelyn drain an enormous pot of potatoes, she thought about how strong the cook was and how broad her hands. She heard Evelyn’s voice in her mind, far off like an echo, complaining about some wrong Jack did to Peachey. She cleared her throat. “You must’ve known Jack a long time.”
For a moment, Pru didn’t think Evelyn was going to answer, but at last she said, “All my life. We were in school together.”
“Is Peachey from around here? Did he know Jack his whole life?”
“Albert grew up in Dorset,” Evelyn said as she spread a tea towel on the table and dumped the steaming potatoes onto it. “We met when I was on holiday with my ma in Lyme Regis. He moved here for a post with Great Western.”
“Did he work for the railway long?”
Evelyn’s face was red from the steam, and she gave Pru an accusatory look. “Why do you want to know all this?”
“I…it’s just conversation,” Pru said, going red herself.
A light tapping at the door in the mudroom caught their attention. Evelyn opened the door and closed it again. “It’s that duck,” she said to Pru, and returned to dinner preparations.
Pru went to the door to find Sonia looking at her. “Umm, hello, Sonia,” she said. She looked up the drive and saw Jemima approaching. She wore a thick black coat, the pink pinafore peeking out the bottom.
“Jemima, how nice to see you. Come in.” Pru held the door open for her and looked down at Sonia, wondering if she should extend the same courtesy to the duck.
“Thanks, Ms. Parke,” Jemima said. “Don’t worry about Sonia, she’ll probably wait for me—unless she decides to call in somewhere else. She’s quite independent.”
“Is she safe on her own?” Pru asked.
“Oh yes,” Jemima replied. “She goes up to Romsey with Gran on market day, and once, when Gran couldn’t make it, she got on the bus by herself. Everyone was so used to seeing her, they didn’t even mind.”
Pru smiled at the girl. Jemima had grown a bit chattier since their first meeting, Pru thought, and her mood had lightened perceptibly, although she retained an air of drama. “Evelyn, you’ve met Kitty’s granddaughter, Jemima.”
“Hello, Mrs. Peachey. Orlando speaks highly of your cooking.”
Evelyn sat the young woman down and gave her tea and cake. “It’s my ginger cake,” Evelyn said.
“It’s quite good,” Jemima said after a bite. “It’s Orlando’s favorite.”
Evelyn puffed up and turned back to her work.
“Do you know Orlando had to leave—to return home?” Pru asked. Jemima gave a small nod. “Have you spoken to him? We haven’t heard from him. Yet.” It had only been the afternoon before, but it felt to Pru as if he’d been gone far too long.
“We’ve texted a bit,” Jemima said. “His mother has discouraged him from contacting you, so I said I’d stop in.”
“He’s got his mobile back?” Jemima and Orlando’s relationship seemed to be moving apace, Pru thought. Only a few days ago he had stood speechless at the sight of the girl.
“Yes.” Jemima took a sip of tea. “He wasn’t happy about his abrupt departure from Greenoak, and his parents hoped to placate him with the return of his ability to communicate. He wanted you to know he’s ready to help however he can to resolve the recent unfortunate event.”
Pru could imagine what Claire would have to say about Orlando hacking into someone’s email to solve a murder. “Please tell him we miss him and thank you, but Christopher has everything under control.”
Chapter 22
An overly optimistic statement, she knew. The investigation was going nowhere. Jack’s fingerprints were on the handle of the spade found in the parterre lawn, Christopher reported. So were Pru’s and probably Simon’s. No footprints on the chippings, no tire tracks in the lane. No piece of evidence jumped out, pointing to a prime suspect. Christopher said little as he came and went from the closet—his murder room. Pru hadn’t gone back in, mostly because she didn’t want to see the many photos of Jack’s corpse as it lay splayed out in the garden.
On Friday morning, Pru walked into the kitchen just as her phone rang.
“Ms. Parke?” said a perky voice on the other end. “It’s Jacinta Bloom, editor at The English Garden. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” Pru felt light-headed and sank into a chair.
“Just grand. We here at the magazine are so very excited to be able to feature the garden made famous by such a brother-and-sister duo.” The perkiness dropped off a degree. “I did want to get in touch with you, of course, after the recent tragedy.”
Well, at least someone sees this scouting visit as a bad idea, Pru thought. “Yes, we are quite affected by the death here at Greenoak—we all knew him, and it’s difficult getting over that.”
“And that is why I wanted to extend to you my assurance that we will in no way interfere with any police matter on our visit Monday.”
Monday? “But, Ms. Bloom, I don’t even know if we’ll have access to all of the property by then and—”
“Not to worry, we only need to take a quick look round. I think we’ll arrive by lunch—will that be all right? Oh, and”—perkiness was replaced by barely concealed
curiosity—“is it true that your husband is a former DCI with the London Met?”
After they rang off, Pru dropped her head into her arms. “We’ll have guests for lunch on Monday,” she said. Evelyn set a cup of tea down beside her and went back to work.
—
Pru stood at the corner of the house and watched Simon come up the hornbeam walk for lunch. She could see the effect the past few days had had on him. He had grown sullen and quiet. First it was Birdie, and now Jack. Polly was focusing her attention on Stan, even helping to plan the memorial service. “Stan has no one now,” Polly had said to Pru. “Simon understands.” He may tell Polly he understands, but Simon’s slow step and sagging shoulders told another story. Pru knew he was hurting, and her heart hurt for him.
“Well?” he asked as he approached. “What is it?”
Burst that bubble of empathy, why don’t you, Pru thought. “The magazine editor rang. They’ll be here Monday at lunch.” She waited for his reaction. Surely he could read the underlying message—you were the one who started this; you need to put a stop to it.
Simon glanced around him, a fleeting look of panic crossing his face. But he wouldn’t budge. “Yeah, sure. All right.” And he walked into the kitchen.
Pru started to follow him, but stopped when Christopher’s car pulled into the drive.
“Are you here for lunch?” Pru asked when he got out.
He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I’m heading to Stan’s—someone broke into his house,” he said.
“What? How could someone do that at a time like this? Is he all right?”
“He isn’t hurt,” Christopher said. “It happened this morning when he was working out in the field. And it wasn’t really a break-in—he’d left the door unlocked, as usual. When he got back, he saw papers strewn across the floor, and the attic door had been pulled open.”
“Poor Stan. How did he sound?”
“Angry. Look.” Christopher took her arm and glanced toward the house. “Is Simon around?”
Pru nodded. “He’s just gone into the kitchen. Do you need to see him?”
The Skeleton Garden Page 14
