“She isn’t in possession of the place yet?”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Pru replied. “But Batsford Bede must be in his eighties by now and from what the letter says, in poor health. Maybe she’ll want to sell up when she inherits and so wants to get the gardens in order.”
“She’d like you there quite soon,” Christopher said. “And if we time it just right, we’d be there for the fête.”
Pru saw that ghost of a smile around his mouth and she traced his lips with a fingertip.
“Fancy a little holiday, Inspector?”
Aster x frikartii Mönch—Lavender-blue flowers with a silver cast. Quite useful in the summer and autumn border. Embraces any companion, effusive bloomer, seems to go on forever. She almost exhausts me, but still, I couldn’t say no. BB
Chapter 2
“Was there a sign at that last junction?” Christopher asked.
“I didn’t see one,” Pru said. “I’m trying to find us on my phone, but I don’t think there’s good service here.” They had a high wall on one side of them and a grassy verge on the other—Pru thought there must be a field beyond, but the hedges and several oak trees obscured their view.
“The satnav sent us off toward Cheltenham when it should’ve taken us in the other direction out of Stow. I wasn’t paying attention, or I would’ve realized it earlier. I’ve got to have that thing looked at.” He nodded toward the small GPS screen set into the dashboard of the car.
That morning, a Friday, they made ready to depart for the Cotswolds and the accommodations arranged by Coral Summersun, saying their goodbyes to Evelyn and Peachey. After that, Pru had dashed back to confirm that the rabbit fence held fast around the sprouts in the kitchen garden at Greenoak. She had been concerned about leaving Simon to work alone in early autumn—they expected an enormous bulb order any day, and she didn’t want him even thinking about planting the entire lot himself—but Simon had taken his sister’s temporary departure as a sign that he, too, needed a holiday.
In short order, they’d hired a fine strapping young fellow from Sparsholt, the local horticultural college, for two days a week. He had expressed great interest in continuing the renovation Simon and Pru had started in the parterre lawn, but Simon made it quite clear the new employee was to carry out no actual work. They needed him only to keep an eye on things, sweep leaves off the terrace, and cut the grass and edge the lawn.
Simon had spent half the day taking the fellow around the grounds and giving him instructions, mostly on what not to touch. Pru couldn’t blame her brother—the gardens at Greenoak had been his lifelong work, and she’d come on the scene only recently. But Pru did persuade Simon to promise the lad that upon their return, the three of them would sit down and discuss furthering his responsibilities. And with that, Simon and his wife, Polly, left for a fortnight on the south coast of France.
—
Pru and Christopher had had a pleasant journey meandering their way from Greenoak in Hampshire to Upper Oddington near Moreton-in-Marsh. They had stopped in Salisbury and toured the cathedral, and had lunched in Cirencester, followed by a wander through the Roman museum.
“Shouldn’t we be passing the Horse & Groom on the way?” Christopher now asked. Pru checked her watch—she could just do with a pint herself, but it was nearing teatime and they were expected.
“Oh!” she said as they flew past a turnoff that looked like no more than a sheep track. “Did that say Red Barn Way? I think it’s what we want. The directions say ‘Take Red Barn Way just out of Lower Oddington toward Upper Oddington and you will see the Copper Beech just before you enter the village.’ ”
“Right.” Christopher pulled over close to the hedge and Pru heard the hawthorn branches scraping her door. He whipped the car round, and said, “Back we go. If we miss it this time, try to give her a ring.”
No service, Pru thought, as they turned down the tiny track and both exclaimed—“There!”—as they caught sight of a hanging sign that read: THE COPPER BEECH B&B. Up the short gravel drive sat a cottage of Cotswold stone with a peaked slate roof and a higgledy-piggledy collection of attached annexes—the varying shades of stone indicating these additions had been made at different stages throughout the cottage’s long life. On the tallest roof peak, a rusted metal whirligig revolved and squeaked—it took the form of a chicken sitting atop an old-fashioned tricycle with an acorn on its head and surrounded by chicks that looked as if they were on a carnival ride.
As always, the garden drew Pru’s attention. She glanced about as Christopher retrieved their bags and they carried them to the front door. The eponymous beech grew across the drive from the cottage, its smooth tan trunk as big around as a dining table and the vast purple canopy of leaves casting a murky shade. She could see a small glass conservatory jutting out from the back of the cottage, its windows encrusted with moss. A wrought-iron table and chairs with chipped white paint sat on a terrace of crazy paving. Growing through the cracks between the stones, Pru spotted mounds of lady’s mantle, erigeron, and hardy geraniums, a bit trodden on this late in the season—as well as sprigs of grass and weeds. A great green hulk of an Irish yew squatted to the right of the front door.
Christopher rang the bell as Pru peered under the branches of a nearby witch hazel. “Hardy cyclamen,” she said, nodding to the carpet of heart-shaped leaves and diminutive pink flowers with swept-back petals. She turned her attention to the oak door and they waited. After a few moments, she glanced at Christopher with her eyebrows raised. Should he ring again?
They both jumped as the viewer—shaped like a Gothic window set in the door—snapped open and Pru glimpsed thick spectacles with black frames. The peephole slammed shut again and the door opened to reveal an older woman about Pru’s height. She wore a sky-blue velour tracksuit and white trainers with metallic blue detailing and wide, thick soles. Her dark-brown hair—curled just under her chin and with bangs that rested on the top of the frames of her glasses—was so impossibly thick and even-colored Pru thought it must be a wig.
“Mrs. Draycott?” Pru asked.
The woman smiled broadly. “Yes, good afternoon—you’re very welcome to the Copper Beech. You are my lodgers, aren’t you—Ms. Parke and Mr. Pearse?” They introduced themselves, and Mrs. Draycott relieved Pru of one of her bags. “Let me help with those. My only regret is that Mr. Draycott is no longer around to assist in such matters as fetching and carrying.”
“Here now,” Christopher said as he took the bag out of her hand and stuffed it under his arm, “we can manage fine.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Pearse.”
“Is the car all right there?” he asked—arms full, he could only nod.
“Yes, it’s fine,” Mrs. Draycott replied. “I don’t drive, you see, never needed to—always got round on my bicycle. But I had to give it up on my eightieth birthday.”
She held the door open for them, and they walked into a narrow, dim entry. Mrs. Draycott maneuvered a tiny joystick within the light-switch plate as if she was changing gears in a car. With each shift, a different light wall or overhead light came on—first gear, Pru saw a glow spill from a doorway at the far end of the corridor; second gear, and the light in the ceiling above them sprang to life.
“Mr. Draycott’s idea,” the woman told them. “He rewired the entire place and decided to save on wall plates, so he doubled up. Tripled occasionally. He was creative that way and enjoyed a bit of whimsy—he said it was as if we had our own light show. I believe the switch outside your room has six different positions for fixtures all along that floor. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. ‘Keeps our guests on their toes, Fabia dear,’ he used to say to me.”
Christopher, still laden with luggage, shifted a bag and knocked into the umbrella stand.
“Your room is all ready for you,” Mrs. Draycott said, “but why don’t we leave your things just here for the moment—you must be desperate for a cup of tea after your journey. Yes?”
The offer of a cuppa never
runs amiss. “Yes,” Pru said. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”
With no room to lean over in the close quarters, Christopher executed a deep knee bend to set the bags on the slate floor. Pru heard a crack, and he winced.
“You go through now”—Mrs. Draycott nodded to a doorway—“and I’ll bring the tea in. Mind your head, Mr. Pearse.”
She retreated down the corridor and disappeared through a door at the far end. Christopher hung their jackets on the pegs above the umbrella stand and Pru glanced round at the entry with its dark wood trim and blackened oak lintels that hung low enough to threaten a headache to anyone of even average height. Gray light filtered in through high windows; the walls were painted a cornmeal color, which brightened the atmosphere slightly. A floral scent cast a light blanket over the inevitable smell of old wood and plaster.
Pru noticed a guestbook on the small table beside a tiny lamp—and looked to see that the last people had signed in two years previous. Next to the guestbook stood a pile of leaflets offering a bus tour to London for the 2012 Olympics. The Copper Beech B&B sat off the beaten track, apparently.
“Shall we?” Christopher asked.
He ducked his head under the low lintel as they walked through the door and into a sitting room large enough to hold several seating areas and a grand piano, all furnishings fading into dark corners, as the light from a single standing lamp illuminated only the floor at its base. Christopher stopped at a set of bookshelves just inside the door, while Pru headed for the bench seat at the front bay window, but movement near the piano caught her eye. A woman sat in the far corner, and she had switched on a table lamp next to her. Was this Coral Summersun? Were there other lodgers at the Copper Beech?
The woman wore a thin cream-colored cardigan over what looked like a camisole, its lacy top peeking out. Her turquoise skirt—one of those crinkled broomstick styles—fell to her ankles, almost brushing black flats. Her silver hair, in corkscrew curls, cascaded down to her elbows. She rose, and her deeply lined face broke out in a wide smile at the sight of them.
“Christopher!” she exclaimed.
Christopher whirled round.
“Cyn?”
Pru watched the scene that played out in front of her as if it were in slow motion. The woman went to him, walking the entire length of the room with her arms outstretched. Christopher’s face drained of color and he froze. When she reached him, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. Not a peck on each cheek, not a little smack, but a full-on lip-lock that seemed to Pru to go on and on. And on.
Christopher took hold of the woman’s shoulders and pulled her off, breaking the suction of their lips.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” the woman asked, beaming. “Can you believe it?” Her attention turned. “And you’re Pru!”
The woman walked toward Pru, her arms outstretched and a wide smile on her face. Pru thought she heard Christopher say, “Pru, this is Cynthia…” just before the woman threw her arms round Pru’s neck and kissed her. Not a peck on each cheek, not a little smack, but a full-on lip-lock that seemed to Pru to go on and on.
Her lips were warm and soft—not an unpleasant sensation, only extremely odd. “Oh, um, hello,” Pru said when she had at last disengaged herself and was able to catch her breath. She found Christopher at her side, and felt him slip his arm round her waist and hold her tightly.
“Cyn is a friend from many years ago,” Christopher said.
“Ages and ages,” Cyn said, still smiling at him. “I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? You didn’t know I was here.” She beamed at Pru. “Christopher and I knew each other in Cheltenham, before he ever moved up to London. Come on, now, let’s sit. Fabia will be in with the tea.”
Fabia. Fabia Draycott, proprietress of the Copper Beech B&B—Pru clung to that fact like a life raft in a sea of confusing emotions. She tried to list all the women Christopher had ever mentioned dating, but there hadn’t been that many, and the only woman she ever really remembered was his ex-wife, Phyl. Cynthia—Cyn? No, never heard of her.
Pru and Christopher sat on the love seat in front of a low table. Cyn, switching on a few more lamps as she moved round, chose to slip in next to Christopher. She put her hands on his thigh and said, “Don’t you look wonderful—this marriage obviously agrees with you. You must tell me all about your life now.”
Christopher took Pru’s hand. How sweet, she thought, but then sputtered a nervous giggle. He cut his eyes at her.
“There now,” Mrs. Draycott said, coming in with a tray laden with a plate of massive scones among the tea things. Christopher jumped up and took it from her. “How very kind of you, Mr. Pearse. Set it just there. I see you’ve found your little surprise.”
Christopher put the tray down and sat in an armchair across from the love seat. With the extra space available, Cyn scooted over and tucked her arm through Pru’s. “It was perfect, Fabia, thank you for not telling them. I hope you didn’t mind a bit of subterfuge.”
“No, of course not,” Pru said when Christopher didn’t reply. “Surprises are always such fun. Do you live in Oddington?”
“Yes—Lower—just over that last rise you came to. I’ve been here for ages.” Cyn released Pru, took the cup Mrs. Draycott proffered, and stirred milk into it.
Mrs. Draycott held the plate of scones out to Christopher. “When I mentioned my lodgers, Ms. Mouser was ever so delighted.”
When she said the name “Mouser,” Christopher give a tiny nod, mouthing the name as if he hadn’t remembered until that moment.
Pru heard a buzz, and Cyn plunged a hand deep into a hidden pocket of her skirt, bringing a phone out for a brief look at the screen. “There he is now—my five o’clock. Best be off.” She grabbed both of Pru’s hands in hers, and Pru leaned away slightly. “I’m so very happy to meet you, Pru. And I’ll see both of you quite soon, I’m sure.” When she stood, Christopher did, too, and Cyn dropped Pru’s hands, grabbed his and stepped close, pressing herself against him. “Look now, aren’t you still the perfect gentleman. Sit and enjoy your tea.”
She left, and Christopher sank down next to Pru. Mrs. Draycott reached for the teapot and said, “These lovely scones come from the farmshop bakery just down the road, but the strawberry jam is Ms. Mouser’s. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it—she adds just a hint of basil to it. Most unusual. But she is a dab hand at using herbs and seeds and such for all her concoctions. Now, milk?”
Imagine the garden as the rooms of your mind. Many corridors may be as straight as Roman roads, while a few wander hither and yon. Some rooms stand open to inspection, whereas a few, we are curious to discover, have doors slammed shut. BB
Chapter 3
Their conversation with Mrs. Draycott over tea centered on what it was like to run a B&B. “Forty years I’ve taken in lodgers,” she informed them. “My only regret is that the world has changed so, and business has slacked off as I’ve not been able to convert the rooms to en suite. I don’t understand why people are afraid to share a bathroom these days.”
For a moment, Pru thought she was expected to answer. But “Well, yes…” was as far as she got.
“And, too, I’ve drawn the line at televisions in every room. I’m quite willing for guests to come down to my sitting room if they want to watch their favorite program. I’d much prefer, of course, that we gather in here for a bit of music or some such. Do you have a party piece, Ms. Parke?”
Party pieces, the age-old entertainment of British get-togethers in which each person had a song or a story or a poem to perform. Pru had recited “ ’Twas the Night Before Christmas” when she’d celebrated her first Christmas in England at her friend Jo’s flat, but she had nothing else in her bag of tricks.
“Not as such,” she answered, lifting her eyebrows at Christopher, hoping he might come up with a hidden talent for the ukulele.
He offered nothing.
“Tea was lovely, thank you,” Pru told Mrs. Draycott. “And the strawberry jam—basil, now, who would’ve though
t of adding that?” Pru wouldn’t’ve, that’s for certain.
Christopher stacked empty plates and cups onto the tray. “It was fortunate for us that you had a vacancy,” he said, as he carried the tray into the kitchen, dipping his head just in time. Pru followed him, thinking that vacancies looked to be the norm at the Copper Beech.
Their landlady brought up the rear. “I was delighted when Ms. Summersun contacted me. Your visit is a bright spot in my quiet autumn.”
When they moved from the kitchen to the front entry, Pru heard Christopher smack his head on a low lintel.
“Now, what time would you like dinner?”
Coral Summersun had not explained to Pru that their lodging included an evening meal and for a moment both she and Christopher were at a loss, standing at the foot of the stairs with bags in hand.
“Seven-thirty?” Christopher suggested.
“Lovely. Here is your room key, and here is the key to the front door. I leave the latch on these days so that no one can just walk in—really, you never know even in our little village. I’ve given you my largest room. You’ll find it easily enough—all you need to do is follow the corridor until you get to number eight. As you are my only lodgers at the moment, the bathroom in your wing is all yours. Now, I’ll give you time to settle in. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Mrs. Draycott shifted the wall switch at the bottom of the steps into gear and a light show ensued—the far end of the corridor, the front room off to their right, the entry—a ray even beamed from below the door to the cupboard under the stairs—until at last the staircase itself sprang into life.
Dismissed, they headed off. Up a thickly carpeted flight of stairs, through a fire door—Christopher had to put his shoulder to it to get it open—turn right, duck under the low lintel, down a short, narrow corridor walking single file, up three steps, through another fire door, turn left—duck—down four steps across a noticeable seam between the cottage and an add-on to a dead-end corridor with only one door, which was marked SUPPLIES.
Best-Laid Plants Page 2
