“Now the flour,” Coral said. “But use a spoon to stir—it can get a bit thick. And after that, scrape it into the tin.”
The cake went into the oven and Pru stared at the door, both fearing and longing for the outcome. She hadn’t minded stirring up the sponge. With Coral instructing her, it had been fun—almost like listening to one of her stories about growing up at Glebe House.
“Were you a schoolteacher in Oxford?”
“No,” Coral replied, her back to Pru, “not a teacher. I worked in a bookshop. Blackwell’s—do you know it?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. But then, who listens to you at story time?”
Coral glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “The children come from a nearby primary school every Monday morning. It’s the best time ever.”
—
“Pru baked a sponge for our afters,” Coral announced once they’d cleaned their dinner plates.
Mrs. Draycott murmured, “Much appreciated,” while Christopher raised his eyebrows and said, “Well done.”
“Coral!” Pru’s face flamed. “I only added the eggs.”
“Vital to our sponge, Pru—what would we have without eggs? We’d have a pancake! All right, we both baked it. But you’ll do it on your own next time, I’m sure of it.”
“You are a dab hand at the cooker, Coral,” Mrs. Draycott said as she stacked dishes.
The sponge cake had turned out well, Pru admitted to herself with a warm glow—although, of course, she attributed much of its success to the rhubarb and custard sauce. No one had spoken of the origin of the added ingredients that had made the dinner such a flavorable hit, but during their transition from dining to sitting room, Pru had a quiet word with Mrs. Draycott, just to confirm the source.
“Yes, Cynthia is forever urging me to try something new, although I admit I’m a bit of a slowcoach when it comes to innovation in the kitchen,” Mrs. Draycott whispered. “You’re right not to mention it. It’s understandable Coral would be frightened of Cynthia’s role in Batsford’s life of late, but I’m sure she will come to understand how much it meant to him.”
Pru couldn’t be certain of that.
In the front room, Mrs. Draycott magicked a bottle of brandy to go with their coffee, and conversation ambled along.
“Surprisingly warm and dry for October,” Mrs. Draycott observed.
“Lizzy said it’s about to change,” Pru said.
A dreamy look came over Coral. “One winter Lizzy told us it would snow on Christmas Eve—big, fat flakes would float down from the heavens. Mother wanted to see the snow fall onto her meadows, so we bundled up and went down to the end of the Long View, and waited until we were half frozen, and at last Uncle Batty said, ‘Blast Lizzy and her snow!’ and we went back in and drank hot cocoa.”
“Lizzy’s nose for weather can sometimes lead us astray,” Mrs. Draycott replied.
Coral giggled, followed by a sigh. “Cherry has got it in his head that there’s to be building on the meadows,” she said. “I don’t know how he came up with that idea.”
They settled into a comfortable silence as Pru remembered Bram’s leasehold. Did she mean to build? Ah well, something for that solicitor to sort out.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Christopher said, “I was able to track down Noah Elkington. He’s on his way back from a holiday in Aruba, and he’ll come up tomorrow morning.”
“Oh thank you, Christopher,” Coral said, smiling, as if he was her social secretary. “I’ll go over in the morning and wait for him.” But her good humor seemed to fade. “I’m sorry the two of you never had the chance to meet Uncle Batty. I’m sorry…”
Pru leaned over and patted her hand. “I feel as if I have met him—reading his garden journals. He wrote about building the garden, and he often mentioned your mum—and you, too.” Coral’s smile was wistful. “Those journals are yours, of course—I’ll return them anytime you wish.”
“I’ve a great responsibility,” Coral said, lifting her chin, “but I’m ready. And also, Christopher—I want to help with your inquiry.” The statement caught Pru off guard, and she saw surprise on Christopher’s face, too. “Please, you’ll tell me what I can do so you can find out what happened to Uncle Batty?”
“Well, I would like to ask you a few questions, Coral,” Christopher said.
But he got no further. Outside the front window a movement caught Pru’s eye, and, at the same time, Mrs. Draycott sprang out of her chair quicker than Pru thought an eighty-six-year-old could.
The landlady waved her arms as if to shoo them away, then she circled the room switching off lamps as she said, “Well, I’m sure all that can wait until tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d help me with carrying things into the kitchen. Coral? Ms. Parke?”
They followed their orders and gathered coffee cups and glasses. As they left the sitting room, Pru heard Mrs. Draycott say, “Mr. Pearse, could I speak to you for a moment?”
And when Pru heard that, she knew what she’d seen out the window. That flash of silver curls.
Pru continued into the kitchen with Coral, filled the sink with suds, and located a dry tea towel. When Mrs. Draycott appeared, Pru said, “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” and she backed out of the kitchen, leaving the two women washing up and chatting.
Pru slipped back to the darkened sitting room but stopped before she reached the entry when she heard low voices. Although she knew two people stood inside the front door, the lamp threw a single silhouette against the wall.
“Christopher,” Cynthia said, an urgent plea in her voice, “it’s only because I know how good you are at dealing with people. I’m afraid that all this with Batsford will be misconstrued and I want to explain it to you, because you’ll be able to help. But, you must keep it to yourself. A secret. Please. I know you realize how important it is to me. It’s just, I’m not sure Pru would understand—she seems to be quite close to Coral.”
Pru quelled her first thought, which was, The nerve! and attempted to think rationally. What did Cynthia have to tell him? She made it sound as if it might pertain to Mr. Bede’s murder. Or was that a ruse?
“No, Cyn,” Christopher said, “I won’t keep secrets from Pru.”
A moment of silence. Pru’s eyes stung with tears of love and affection.
“Of course,” he added, “if it has something to do with the investigation, I trust you will tell me regardless.”
“Yes,” Cynthia said. A rustling, and Pru saw the one silhouette break into two. “No. Not the investigation. It’s only, I need to have a word with Noah. And I don’t want Coral to get the wrong idea.”
“Nevertheless,” Christopher replied, “you knew Bede, and I will need to ask you questions.”
“Pru!” Coral called from the kitchen. “Where have you got off to?”
Pru jumped back and knocked into a side table, which sent a porcelain vase with scrolled handles rocking wildly. She grabbed it a second before it crashed to the floor, and fled to the kitchen, her heart thumping in her chest.
“I’m here, Coral.” She looked down, and saw she still clutched the vase. She set it carefully on the kitchen table and said, “My, are you both finished washing up already? At least let me put things away.”
With dishes clattering as she stacked them on shelves, she didn’t hear Christopher come in. He put his hand on Pru’s back, and she could feel the warmth through her clothes. It calmed her.
“All right?” he asked. She nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze. They said their good nights and made the journey to room number eight in silence. Inside, Christopher did battle with the window before forcing it open a few inches—anything for the hope of a breeze—as she undressed. She sought a diversion from the topic of Cynthia Mouser.
“You won’t say anything to Evelyn, will you?” she asked.
It may have been a different topic, but the theme of secrecy, Pru realized with a stab of guilt, was the same. She rushed on. “The sponge—I didn’t really bake it, and I don�
��t want her to think I’m getting ahead of my lessons.” Cynthia’s words echoed in Pru’s head—I’m not sure she would understand. She shook them out.
Pru saw a flicker in Christopher’s eyes and thought he, too, remembered Cyn’s pleas. “About cookery,” he said firmly, “I don’t think lending your assistance with baking a sponge would hurt her feelings, but no, not a word.” And then, he asked, “You know, don’t you, that you don’t have to learn to cook for me?”
“Yes, I do know that. I want to learn it for myself. Fancy being frightened of a whisk.” She thought how infinitely weary she was, but realized she’d never sleep without first confessing. “I heard what Cyn was telling you. I was just inside the sitting room. Eavesdropping.”
“Were you?”
Pru loved that he would pretend only to save her face. “You knew I was there.”
He smiled and seemed to choose his words carefully. “I may have been aware of your presence when I heard a minor crash. Doesn’t matter, my darling—you’ve every right to hear what she has to say.”
Pru made an attempt not to swell with pride—and she determined to be worthy of his trust during the murder inquiry. He was, after all, missing a sergeant and with almost no one to help. Apart from her.
—
In the blackness of the night, Pru jerked awake and, once again, had no idea where she was. A phone was ringing somewhere. Christopher, apparently on police autopilot, had reached over for the flashlight and was up and to the door, saying, “I’ll just answer it,” before Pru could even recall details of their situation. Copper Beech B&B, Upper Oddington. The Cotswolds. Glebe House. Batsford Bede. Yes, that’s right.
Why was someone ringing in the middle of the night?
Pru switched on a lamp and waited.
“What’s happened?” she asked as soon as Christopher came in the door a few minutes later.
“That was Michael—he’d decided to stay out at the site of the damaged sett to take note if the badgers returned.” Christopher pulled trousers and a shirt on as he spoke. “No badgers, but someone was out there. Michael had fallen asleep, but something woke him. He called out and must’ve surprised whoever it was. The fellow shoved him over and ran off. I’ll go out and take a look.”
“But, it’s three o’clock,” Pru protested, weakly and without hope of success. “Wait, I’ll go with you.”
“No. I’ll text you—wait, sorry, that won’t work.” No, it wouldn’t—no mobile reception at the Copper Beech. He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
But not soon enough. Pru sat up in bed, watched him leave, and stared at the door after he had gone. She remained that way for she didn’t know how long, imagining all sorts of evils. To distract herself, she picked up one of Mr. Bede’s journals, her eyes running over words without understanding. I told him we had a colony of common meadow rue (Thalictrum flavum) along the damp edge of the meadow. Does he think he’s worth more than a wildflower? He’s wrong.
It had been written in blue ink—notable only because he had used black in the rest of the journals—and in a hand, although legible, none too steady.
All the while, Pru’s ears were on high alert. Every tiny creak, squeak, or rustling—real or imaginary—seemed to be magnified as she listened for Christopher. She remained awake, nerves taut, until just gone six, when the bedroom door crept open.
C planted out twelve Astrantia Hadspen Blood this afternoon, and the girl came toddling after her, pulling up each one. Replanted—this time asking for assistance from the little helping hands. I say she’ll not make a gardener and C tells me nonsense, only that the seed may take years to germinate. BB
Chapter 22
“Nothing,” Christopher reported. He carried two cups of tea, and Pru marveled that he’d made the trek from the Copper Beech kitchen to room number eight without spilling a drop. She took hers as he sat on the edge of the bed. “No badgers, no human. I’ve sent Michael home. I’ll go back now to take a better look in daylight.”
“Is this truly about badgers?” Pru asked. It had been one of a myriad of crazy ideas swirling round in her head while she hadn’t slept.
Christopher gave a sideways nod of acknowledgment. “Or is it meant as a distraction—to distract me, especially, from seeing something about this case?”
“Do you think it was Ger Crombie?”
“He’s an easy target, but what is his motive? What would he gain—or what does he have to lose?”
They drank their tea, and when Christopher had drained his cup, he kissed her.
“Go back to sleep for a bit, why don’t you? I’ll stop by again before I go into the station.”
“I’ll rest for a minute,” Pru said. “I don’t think I could sleep.”
Christopher closed the door. Pru put her head on her pillow and knew no more.
—
Just after ten, she opened her eyes. Bright sun had begun to stretch its way across the room, touching the foot of the bed. She arose and took her time showering, arriving downstairs just before eleven.
Mrs. Draycott, resplendent in a chartreuse tracksuit, had donned kitchen gloves as she worried a stain on the counter. “Mr. Pearse thought it best to let you sleep. He has come and gone again—this time for the police station, consulting with Sergeant Appledore. He is to return”—she squinted at the clock on the range—“forthwith. Coral left early for Glebe House to meet Mr. Elkington.” Her report concluded, the landlady straightened up and said, “And now, Ms. Parke, let me cook your breakfast—or would it be, as you Americans like to call it, brunch?”
“No, don’t bother. I’ll have a cup of tea and toast, that’s all.” Not Mr. Draycott’s toast, of course, which remained safely ensconced on the warming shelf above the cooker—although it had nearly met its end the evening before. Coral—while preparing the dinner—had come close to knocking the plate with the petrified piece into a saucepan. She had caught it just in time and broken out in a fit of giggles.
“I’ll do you scrambled eggs, what do you say?” Mrs. Draycott asked.
“I suppose I couldn’t say no to that. Is there any of that chutney left from dinner?” Bay leaf–flavored orange marmalade missed the mark, but Cynthia’s chutney had been quite tasty.
“Sadly, not a smidgen,” Mrs. Draycott said, pulling off her gloves. “However, this morning on our walk, Cynthia gave me a small jar of a special relish for you to try—she thought you might enjoy it. Shall I serve that?”
Everyone’s a cook, Pru grumbled, but silently—after which she felt ashamed and promised herself to be more magnanimous toward Cynthia in the future. “Yes, please,” she said, pouring herself a cup of tea. “But there’s no hurry—I’ll take my tea out to the terrace.”
—
Pru sat in the sun of another gloriously clear and warm October day in the Cotswolds and thought about how Coral seemed to be rising to the challenge of her role as owner of Glebe House. But the problem of Mr. Bede’s murder remained. Pru applied herself to sorting this out.
If Mr. Bede had killed himself with the poison, could the person who pushed over the statue still be charged with murder? Perhaps one person had both poisoned him and pushed over the statue? Or was it two people, one poisoner and one pusher?
The people who knew Mr. Bede would have to be eliminated as suspects—Cynthia, Ger. Danny Sheridan might have something to hide. Bram?
Motive—what of motive? Pru would like to have a look at Christopher’s incident room at the police station in Stow-on-the-Wold. She had learned it helped to make sense of a senseless event, the way he arranged photos of people, and created a timeline, adding movements and possible motives.
Pru left those thoughts and shifted her mind back to something she better understood—the garden.
From the comments of others—and Coral herself—Pru got the idea that perhaps Mr. Bede and his “niece” had become estranged after Constance died, and part of the reason for Coral’s return when he became ill was reconci
liation. Pru hoped they’d accomplished that before he died, and he had known Coral would be the right person to cherish the house and gardens he loved so.
Pru sensed the love story between Batsford Bede and Constance Summersun. After she died, had he thought about Constance every time he looked at the garden, each day he walked the Long View and gazed at her favorite aspect, whenever he stood at the entry to the Pool Garden?
Had he lost heart and lost interest in the garden when he lost her? And when Coral left, he’d given up completely, allowing the garden to fall into its current state of disarray. Pru hadn’t reached that point in his journals. Perhaps she’d skip ahead, although that did seem a bit like reading the last page of a novel first.
“Here we are now.” Mrs. Draycott set down her tray and served Pru a plate of steaming scrambled eggs, a pile of toast, and a small bowl of Cynthia’s relish, which looked to be a finely chopped mixture of seeds with other bits and bobs. The house phone rang, and the landlady excused herself to answer.
Pru shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth first off, then buttered a piece of toast and took a bite. As she chewed, she lifted the bowl and took a sniff of the relish, catching a sharp, spicy, but pleasant aroma. It made her mouth water. She spooned a mound onto her plate and took a tiny taste to sample—the relish warmed her tongue. Hot? Right up her alley. She stuck her fork into the mound and took it in all at once, but the mouthful caused more than warmth—it had a kick, followed by a searing heat. She chewed quickly, swallowed, and coughed, wishing she had a glass of water nearby.
The second after the burn hit, Pru felt her lips go numb. And after her lips, her tongue deadened. The sensation moved down her throat.
The symptom of aconite, she’d told Christopher, when it’s taken orally, is numbness of the lips and tongue. Then the sensation would travel and move down the arms.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She slapped at her lips, but felt nothing. She bit her own tongue, but no pain followed.
“Ah!” She leapt up, bumping into the table and knocking her chair over. “Ahhh!”
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