Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  Pru saw one of the PCs cut her eyes at the fellow, who cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, sir. I’m Sergeant Appledore, sir. PC Mills and PC Fuller.”

  Christopher hesitated, as if waiting to make sure Appledore was quite finished, before he began.

  “How do you do, Sergeant. This is Pru Parke, my wife. Ms. Parke is the one who found the body.”

  Police eyes flickered to Pru and back to Christopher.

  “I’m here for the gardens—advising on a renovation,” Pru said by way of explanation.

  The reason seemed to satisfy the sergeant, and, introductions finished, they moved through the landscape until they stood crowded on the top step of the Herb Garden looking down at the corpse. The forensics team, Christopher told them, was on its way from Cheltenham, but would likely be another half hour.

  Pru gave them an accounting of her movements, starting with her arrival at Glebe House at—about ten o’clock. She had reached the point in her story of coming upon Mr. Bede when Sergeant Appledore broke in.

  “Could the gentleman have brought the statue down on himself without meaning to? I mean, it’s quite an old-looking thing, isn’t it?” Appledore employed that voice young men take when talking with women old enough to be their grandmothers. “The statue, that is. Couldn’t have been too stable. Perhaps he was out here doing a bit of weeding, had an attack and took hold of it to steady himself and…down it went.”

  “No,” Pru said firmly. “He couldn’t have done it. That is, I don’t think he had the strength. I realize all this stonework in the garden is old and some pieces look a bit dodgy. But I saw this one yesterday, and it had no damage to the base. None.”

  “It was Ms. Parke who noticed there was no blood, and he’d not actually been crushed—that the statue did not make contact with the body,” Christopher said.

  Appledore gave her an appreciative nod. “I’d say there are many people who would leg it at the sight of a dead body—it takes courage to stay and observe.”

  “She has that,” Christopher said, and Pru felt her face go hot as he continued. “We’ll need to search the grounds for what did this.” He nodded to the crushed limestone that had been the statue’s feet. “A sledgehammer, a large mallet.”

  “There are tools in the garden shed,” Pru said, “the small building in the gravel entry, where you parked. It might’ve come from there.”

  “We will treat this as suspicious,” Christopher said, “although it’s obviously more than that. Whoever turned that statue over on him either meant to kill him or perhaps wanted it to look as if that was the cause of his death. But he or she must’ve been interrupted.”

  That intense gaze of his landed on Pru. She could see the fresh worry and knew he was thinking just who had done the interrupting—she had.

  “Did you know the gentleman—Mr. Bede?” Appledore asked Pru as he craned his neck looking over the statue of Pliny the Elder.

  “I hadn’t met him—yet. My project was arranged through his niece—well, not his niece, but the woman who is to…” Pru’s voice trailed off as she lost the thread.

  “Looks as if he might’ve fallen on his stomach first,” Christopher said. “You can see bruising on his cheek, and a smear of soil on his dressing gown.”

  Appledore squinted at the body. “Yes, sir, I do see that now. It’s unlikely he turned himself over, I suppose. And this ersatz niece is Coral Summersun—as you say?”

  “Yes,” Pru replied, “and she should be here, but she isn’t. At least, I haven’t seen her. The house is open, though—through the courtyard.”

  Appledore raised his eyebrows. “Reasonable grounds, sir?” he asked Christopher.

  “I’d say.”

  Fear surged through Pru, and horrible visions mushroomed. “You think something’s happened to Coral? It didn’t even occur to me—I didn’t see her car.”

  “Then she’s most likely not here,” Christopher said mildly as they all moved away. “Regardless, we’ll take a look.”

  But when they reached the courtyard, more uniforms had arrived, as well as the forensics team. They had paused to don blue paper booties and blue paper coveralls. Automatic precautions, Pru thought, even though Christopher had already admitted she had compromised the crime scene. Of course, he’d said it in a nicer way.

  As he led the team off to where the dead man lay, Pru hung back, trying Coral’s number again to no avail. Four PCs returned to the courtyard, nodded to her, and went indoors, beginning their search of Mr. Bede’s bedroom. Pru thought to follow Christopher to the Herb Garden when her eyes fell on a glazed pot half hidden behind the turquoise-blue gate and nestled amid a fuchsia, its earring flowers dangling from arched stems.

  An empty container, Pru thought at first, a piece of art—like the tall urn at the end of the Deep Borders where she had dropped her handful of weeds. Except from this pot, a wilted stem emerged and a limp leaf hung over its edge. It was the leaf that caught her eye. She moved to take a closer look just as one of the uniforms came out of the house.

  “Ma’am?” she asked.

  “Ms. Parke?” Appledore asked as he came through the gate and saw Pru bending over the urn.

  “Pru?” Christopher appeared over the sergeant’s shoulder.

  She held out her hand. “May I have one of those gloves?”

  “Sorry?” Appledore asked.

  Christopher drew out another evidence glove from his pocket and handed it over. Pru pulled it on and reached into the pot, bringing up a plant with a thick root attached to a stem of green leaves that were divided and had pointed tips like a maple. She straightened and held it up for them to see.

  “Aconitum,” she said. “Monkshood.”

  “Monkshood?” Appledore pointed at the plant and stepped away. “The poison? There’ve been cases—I’ve read about them. You shouldn’t touch it.”

  “Yes,” Pru said. “Roots, leaves—all parts poisonous. It has been used medicinally, too, I believe.”

  “Do you think he ingested this poison?” Appledore asked. “Suicide—or an accident? Or administered by someone else?”

  “We’ll need to keep an open mind about this throughout our investigation, Sergeant,” Christopher said, “but we will certainly order a toxicology report.”

  Appledore nodded. “Why would Bede grow poisonous plants, Ms. Parke?”

  Pru considered breaking it to the sergeant that many plants in the garden and in nature were poisonous or toxic to varying degrees, and if all of those were taken away, there would be very little left.

  “It’s a lovely perennial in a border or in the wild garden—panicles of dark blue flowers in late summer. Tall stems. But it isn’t so poisonous that you can’t touch it. Really, we’d have gardeners keeling over right and left if that were the case.”

  “Is it in this garden?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How is it usually taken?” Christopher asked. “Do you know how the poison works?”

  She wrinkled her nose in thought. “I can’t recall details, but I’ll look it up. I know it can be deadly—or not. I suppose it might depend on the dose and the health of the person taking it.”

  Appledore scratched the back of his neck, setting his cap askew. “It might’ve been chopped up and stirred into his tea and the person discarded the leftovers here.”

  “It’s a bit obvious as a clue,” Pru said.

  Appledore nodded once as if conceding the point. “Ms. Parke, would you be willing to look through the garden to find this plant?” His eyes cut to Christopher.

  “That’s a good idea, Sergeant,” Christopher said. Appledore beamed.

  “Yes, of course, I’ll look. But it may take a while.” She thought of the ten overgrown acres that were Glebe House gardens. How easy would one plant be to locate?

  “Why don’t I come along?” Christopher suggested.

  The DI in charge shouldn’t have to take time out to stroll through the garden—Pru thought Christopher offered only for her safety
, but the place teemed with police. She wouldn’t need an escort.

  At that moment, a voice from the yard called out, “Sergeant?”

  But it was nearly drowned out by frantic shouts of “Let me through! What are you doing here? What’s happened?”

  Coral.

  “I’ll go to her,” Pru said.

  —

  Two female PCs kept Coral in place, but barely—they seemed reluctant to exert too much force. Coral, on the other hand, flailed and kicked out at them, her flushed face an unpleasant contrast to the pumpkin-hued outfit she wore. A large bobby pin had shaken loose from her chignon, and one loop of hair bobbed round and threatened to come completely unwrapped.

  “Please, ma’am,” one PC said as one of Coral’s arms bopped her on her bowler, “can you wait until the sergeant arrives?”

  “It’s the DI in charge, Beth. We’ve got a real DI,” the other PC said as Coral continued to thrash about and smacked her in the face. “Steady on, ma’am.”

  “Pru!” Coral ceased movement except for reaching her arms out, the PCs’ hands still holding on to her wrists. “Tell them to let me go—what is happening? Why are there police here? Where is Uncle Batty—he can’t be upset, he’s not well. Let me go!” she shouted and managed to yank one arm free.

  Pru glanced round the yard and saw blue-and-white police tape stretched across the entrance to the drive and several panda cars along with an ambulance inside. Coral had left her car on the other side of the tape.

  “Here now, Coral, first calm down, please.” Pru put her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Inspector Pearse sent me out to fetch her,” she told the policewoman.

  The PCs sighed and let go their grips. Pru put her arm tightly round Coral’s shoulders and guided her as far as the gate before Coral balked.

  “I’m not taking another step until you tell me what’s happened. Did someone break in? Is Uncle Batty not well? I’ll need to phone Dr. Cherrystone at once.”

  “Please, Coral”—Pru remembered the courtyard and all the police—“come sit in the garden shed with me.”

  “No.” She stamped a foot for emphasis. “You tell me now.”

  Pru took a shaky breath. “It’s your uncle—I’m very sorry, but he’s dead.”

  Coral made a choking sound and collapsed against Pru, who staggered and fell into the gate. It banged open and rebounded into them and at just the moment when Pru thought they’d both crash to the ground, Christopher and the sergeant appeared.

  The two men dived for Coral. “Thanks,” Pru said, putting a hand on the gate to steady herself.

  “Ms. Summersun, I presume?” Appledore nodded to the limp form resting against him.

  “Let’s get her indoors,” Christopher said.

  They carried Coral into Mr. Bede’s room, as it was the nearest and so most convenient. Already, plastic sheeting had been laid on the rug, and two uniforms hovered over the bed and nightstand.

  “Perhaps on the sofa,” Christopher said. They laid Coral out and the woman moaned and stirred and opened her eyes, her gaze flitting from the activity near the bed and back to Pru.

  “Where is he?” she whispered.

  Pru sat on the edge of the sofa and laid a hand on Coral’s. “I’ll take you to him, but first, I want you to meet my husband, Christopher Pearse.” The two men pulled chairs closer to the sofa.

  “How lovely to meet you,” Coral said weakly to Christopher.

  “I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances,” Christopher said. “I’m not sure you know this, but I’m a policeman. And this is Sergeant Appledore from Stow.”

  Coral glanced at the sergeant and then away. “Stow,” she echoed.

  She’d moved from hysterics to stoic calmness—easier to manage, but Pru wasn’t sure it made anything else better. Her composure had an eerie quality.

  “Coral, there’s something we need to explain about how your uncle died,” Pru said.

  “Where is he?” Coral came back round to the subject at hand.

  “I’ll take you out there, but not just yet.” Pru didn’t think Coral needed to see the dramatic scene of a crushed statue lying across her elderly uncle. Had they removed it?

  “I want to see him.”

  “Really, I think—”

  “Now,” Coral insisted, rising from the sofa and squaring her shoulders.

  Pru stood with her. “Yes, all right.”

  Christopher stepped in front of them and walked out first, giving Pru a quick look over his shoulder. She read it as, Stall if you can.

  “He’s in the Herb Garden,” Pru told her gently. “Do you remember where that is?”

  Coral’s brief clarity seemed to drift away. “I don’t really like rosemary,” she murmured. “Such a strong scent.” Without looking at the various police officers, she added, “I should make tea for our guests.”

  “Here now, ma’am,” Appledore said, “we’ll sort the tea.”

  Pru put a gentle hand on Coral’s back and guided her out the door.

  “There’s a seedcake,” Coral said to Pru. She smiled. “Do you know, I remember when I was quite young, Uncle Batty made his own cakes. He was a fine baker.”

  Shock, Pru thought. It can put you in such a fog. It can look a bit like madness. She murmured a reply, and Coral shook her head.

  “We thought he was recovering so well,” she said. “But he was old and frail, and I suppose we should’ve been prepared for this.”

  Not for this.

  Came across a young hare, dead, on the path to the Herb Garden and took it away and out of sight. Wouldn’t do for the girl to happen upon it—she’s quite fond of the little buggers. BB

  Chapter 13

  The police—those in uniform and the others in blue paper coveralls—came and went down the path, but Coral seemed not to notice and marched on. Pru thought the garden probably hadn’t seen this much activity in decades. She stopped just before they reached the entrance to the Herb Garden and put a hand on Coral’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure you are wondering what the police are doing here. There’s some concern, you see, about what exactly happened.”

  Coral averted her gaze when a uniform emerged from the garden and walked past them. “We’ll need to call for the doctor,” she said to the ground.

  Pru despaired of getting through to her. At that moment, they heard a collective “Oof!” followed by a resounding thud. Pru stepped in front of Coral, held her at arm’s length, looked into the garden, and saw four men brushing their hands off. The statue lay on a nearby bed, squashing a winter savory and a raggedy stand of tarragon.

  “If we could wait a few minutes more, Coral, I believe they want to—”

  Coral pushed past her and for one second, stood taking in the scene—Christopher and police forensics arranging the body, one fellow unzipping a large black bag, a stretcher waiting nearby—and the next she screamed, ran to Mr. Bede, and threw herself on him. She set up a high wail, a keening, interspersed with garbled words—but not so garbled that they didn’t all hear the gist of it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, Uncle Batty, what can I do? It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I’m sorry.” Over and over, even as Pru knelt to pull her away and offer reassuring words. Coral rocked back and forth, her face wet with tears that ran down her cheeks and dripped off her chin and onto her cardigan.

  “Sir!” A PC came running up to Christopher. “There’s a man who’s come into the garden a back way. He says he’s the doctor.”

  Immediately behind the PC, Dr. Cherrystone came striding up, a fierce frown on his face and his bag in hand. He scanned the crowd and his eyes landed on Coral and Pru.

  “What’s all this about?” he demanded.

  Coral renewed her hysteria. “Cherry, look what I’ve done! Oh please, can’t you do something?”

  The doctor rushed to Coral. Pru introduced him quickly to Christopher, who took over and explained the scene.

  Cherry pulled Coral away from the corpse, her
wails diminishing into unintelligible mutters, and he asked, “What in the world was he doing out here?”

  Yes, Pru thought, didn’t they all want to know that.

  “Why don’t we go indoors and talk?” Christopher suggested as he motioned them out of the garden. “I’d like to know when was the last time you saw him, Dr. Cherrystone?”

  “Yesterday morning,” he answered as he supported Coral and they walked to the entrance. “I see him every morning these days. I’m a little later than usual today, but Coral always looks in on him early on a Monday.” The doctor looked back over his shoulder. “I’m very sorry I didn’t keep to my usual early visit—perhaps I could’ve prevented this.”

  “How long was he a patient of yours?” Christopher wanted to know.

  “Years,” Cherry said in an absentminded fashion.

  “How many years?”

  Pru didn’t feel the need to stand and listen to this background questioning.

  “I think perhaps we’ll go inside,” she cut in. She took over with Coral, who was calm now, but limp and sticky with sweat. They passed through the courtyard and bedroom—Coral giving no notice of the police—and then along a wide corridor with dark wood wainscoting and fanciful wall paintings of beech trees running up the wall and onto the ceiling, as if they walked through a forest. In different circumstances, Pru would’ve enjoyed exploring the house, delighting in the attention paid to making such delightful features. Perhaps later.

  They came to a large kitchen where Sergeant Appledore stood filling the kettle.

  Coral hesitated, then reversed, backing up into Pru, who stood behind her in the doorway.

  “Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” Pru suggested. “In your bedroom. Is it upstairs?”

  “No,” Coral replied in a weak voice. “Here.” They walked farther down the corridor and into a bright room that contained a bed, a small love seat, a wardrobe, and a dressing table, which held an array of heavy crystal perfume bottles, in jewel colors of red, purple, green, and gold. French doors opened not onto the courtyard, but onto the garden path near the stand of iris.