Christopher saw the doctor out, and Pru stayed with Coral.
“Why were they all here again, Pru? The police.”
Pru worried Coral had begun to slip back into that netherworld, but then remembered she had not been privy to Natalie’s news of the codicil. Should Pru tell her? Would this get Coral’s hopes up again, even higher, only to be dashed to bits on the sharp rocks of disappointment if the codicil was never found? Or if it was found, and there was still no mention of Constance Summersun’s daughter?
“Are they still looking for evidence to find out who killed Uncle Batty?”
Good, Pru thought, this will put us in a different direction. Although, unfortunately, this direction led them toward Cyn—also not a good choice of topic.
“Coral, do you know what medicine Mr. Bede took?”
“I have a list in the drawer there.” She nodded to her nightstand. “Something for his heart, a diuretic, I believe. And something for congestion. It was all on his nightstand.” Yes, but none of the prescribed meds matched the capsule police had found on the floor—the one filled with monkshood.
“Did he ever consider a different medical approach—something herbal, perhaps?”
Coral shook her head. “I remember he used to say ‘decoration, not decoction.’ He loved the garden for its beauty and for its use in the kitchen. Herbs as medicine didn’t interest him.” Coral gave Pru a sharp look and grabbed her arm. “Did she give him something? Is that what killed him? Will Christopher arrest her? You see it, Pru, don’t you? What she did?”
The questions came fast and furious as Coral worked herself up into a state. Pru took hold of Coral’s hand with a firm grip and said, “You must let the police take care of this. You know they will find out what happened to Mr. Bede, but it doesn’t do them any good for you to…become upset. All right? Yes?”
Pru’s quiet tone and calm words belied her thoughts, which echoed Coral’s own. Could Cynthia have persuaded Batsford Bede to take the capsule? Had she wiggled her way into the old man’s life and played it just right so that he left his entire estate to her and then—when she discovered he’d decided to change his will against her—killed him before Elkington returned?
“Uncle Batty always downed his pills without a thought,” Coral murmured. “Cherry would try to explain what each one did—‘Take this for your heart and this for your breathing’—but Uncle Batty would pay him no mind, just throw the handful back and swallow.” Coral’s eyes narrowed. “He was so trusting—easy enough for someone to take advantage of him. If she thought she might benefit.”
Coral knew nothing about the capsule, and yet her thoughts hit close to the truth. Pru looked into her eyes and saw clarity. She took a chance.
“There’s some new information—it’s why the police are here again. It seems that Mr. Bede wrote a codicil to his will a week ago Monday,” she said. “While Mr. Elkington was away. He handwrote it and had it witnessed by Natalie and Oliver.”
Coral’s eyes lit up. What caught her attention—the codicil? The hope that she might get Glebe House after all?
“Oliver was here? You mean, before yesterday?”
Pru laughed, but with exasperation—at least they’d veered off the subject of Cynthia. “Coral, has it ever occurred to you to just go and see Oliver? Talk with him?”
“No, I couldn’t,” Coral said, sinking back into her seat. “He doesn’t want to see me, or he would’ve been here long before this. No, I ruined that chance long ago.”
Thickheaded, the pair of them.
Flame flower has painted itself on the hedge near the garden shed—C calls it exquisite, and I quite agree. BB
Chapter 27
They stood at the front entry—Pru, Coral, and Christopher—ready to leave. Coral took a long look back into the house, its interior washed in darkness, before pulling the door closed. Standing nose-to-nose with the Green Man knocker, she stroked his leafy face, and tapped his nose three times. She locked up, and offered the key to Christopher on her open palm in ceremonial fashion. Coral’s chin trembled and she swallowed hard as tears welled.
Please don’t, Pru thought, don’t take away the last link she has with Glebe House and her mother and her whole life. At least not yet.
Christopher closed Coral’s fingers over the key. “No,” he said. “We have the spare. You hold on to this for now.”
Tears spilled onto Coral’s cheeks as she mumbled, “Thank you.”
—
Natalie’s delicious cottage pie notwithstanding, dinner at the Copper Beech was a dull affair. Coral neither ate nor talked. Mrs. Draycott, Pru, and Christopher separately made attempts at conversation, but nothing took hold. At last, when time came to gather the dishes, no one mentioned the possibility of coffee in the front room.
“Coral,” Pru said as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. “After breakfast tomorrow, would you mind helping me with—” That was as far as she could get. Coral needed to stay busy and away from Glebe House until the entire codicil thing had been sorted, but Pru despaired of coming up with a distraction. She threw Christopher a frantic look as Coral watched and waited.
“The fête?” he offered, but they both saw the fear flare in Coral’s eyes. The fête meant Grenadine Hall—a place Coral didn’t think she was welcome.
But Pru seized on the idea. “Yes! Natalie wants you to offer a story-time stall for the young children—and I said I would go over with you and choose the right spot. She says for you to tell any stories you want.”
Pru received a tiny, brief smile in response. “The dormice are preparing to hibernate,” Coral said weakly.
“Dormice it is.” Natalie had said nothing of the kind, but Pru felt sure she would embrace the idea. “See you in the morning.”
They departed for their various beds, except for Christopher, who stayed downstairs to write his police report on the case thus far. If he could stay awake that long. Pru, for one, felt as if she could sleep for a week.
Once abed, she reached for her usual nighttime reading material—one of Mr. Bede’s journals—and spent the next hour reading his thoughts on winter-flowering camellias (Looking for a good, single pink and despair of finding it) and his penchant for packing in the vines (Climbing Iceberg intertwined with the Italian honeysuckle—a good show).
Amid the quirky plant descriptions were those occasional outliers, comments written in blue ink instead of his usual black. Pru had taken these to be more recent jottings. They were scattered throughout the journals as if, possessed of a sudden thought, he had grabbed the first notebook to hand, opened to a random page, and scribbled the words before they left him. She’d read one earlier about meadow rue. Now she found another comment—this with a biblical overtone: The covenant runs with the land.
She was in the middle of a yawn when Christopher came in. When he crawled into bed, he pulled the duvet up to his chin. They’d managed to crack through the thick layers of ancient paint to get the window open, but the heat of the days had finally warmed the house up, and for Pru, one window was not enough. She folded down her side of the duvet and stuck a foot out from under the sheet.
Christopher switched off the lamps and, in the inky blackness, asked, “Do you know how Coral’s husbands died?”
Pru’s thoughts had been far away on the Saturday fête—drifting on clouds of baked goods, collectibles, and handmade tea cozies, and so the question blindsided her.
“Mmm. I think…I don’t remember if…one of them…No.”
“Never mind,” Christopher replied. He felt round until he located her lips and kissed her. “I’ll look into it tomorrow. Good night.”
—
Not a good night. Christopher’s question continued to ricochet inside her head. She’d meant to question Coral about her life, but circumstances had prevented her. Well, Pru would remedy that tomorrow. Best to get these things out in the open. We are pursuing several lines of inquiry, but Police Constable Pru Parke is on the case and will not rest until these
details have been cleared up, sorted out, and laid to rest. Not to worry.
—
Worry had not been banished for good, though—it had only waited in the recesses of her mind and returned the next morning, posthaste.
“I’m making a quick trip to Oxford this morning,” Christopher said, buttoning his jacket before Pru was even out of bed.
She bolted upright. “Why?”
“To confirm Coral’s movements Monday morning. Also, I rang the police station and will stop in there and see what they have on her husbands’ deaths.”
“I’ll go with you,” Pru said.
“You’re off to Grenadine Hall today.”
Yes, the story-time stall.
“Is it really necessary?” she asked. “What do you think you’ll find? I’m sure Coral will tell you all you need to know.”
He leaned over and cupped her face in his hand. “It’s routine.”
—
Routine or not, she didn’t like it. Coral had nothing to hide, of course, but still it worried Pru to think that every detail of her life would be turned over, examined for discrepancies, inconsistencies, awkward moments. How clean would any of us look under such circumstances?
And now, Ms. Parke, about this green dye you poured into the fountains at the Dallas Arboretum—did you mean for that to be some sort of guerrilla ecological statement?
It had been for St. Patrick’s Day, but would that have held up in court?
Also, Pru realized she should’ve asked Coral about her husbands before this. Yes, two marriages in ten years—both ending in death—did sound a bit odd, but life is odd, isn’t it? Of course it is.
Pru kept up this inner monologue as she went down to breakfast, peeking in the kitchen to let Mrs. Draycott know of her arrival.
“You’re in good time, Ms. Parke, the tea is just come ready. I’ve not seen Coral yet—would you prefer to wait breakfast on her?”
“I would,” Pru replied, “but I’ll take a cup of tea now.” As the landlady poured, Pru added, “Coral’s probably exhausted, no wonder she hasn’t shown her face. I feel terrible for her. You know about the poison, don’t you? And Mr. Bede’s will? And the missing codicil?”
Mrs. Draycott nodded. “Dreadful.”
Pru took time stirring milk into her tea so as to avoid looking directly at Mrs. Draycott. “Monday morning,” she said, “on your walk. Cynthia wasn’t with you.”
“No, it was her Thirty-Six Hours of Solitude, you see.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. Where does she go for this…event?”
“Cynthia believes that time and space are fluid,” Mrs. Draycott answered, then took a sip of her tea. “I’m not quite sure what that means, of course.”
—
Pru took a plate of buttered toast and her second cup of tea out on the terrace and returned when her dishes were empty.
“Coral may not be in the mood for breakfast,” she said to Mrs. Draycott. “Still, I believe I’ll check on her—don’t you think?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” the landlady replied. “We don’t want the poor sausage sitting in the dark, brooding. She’s in room number three—up the stairs, through the one fire door, turn left. Don’t take the next turn, but go straight until you see four steps down to your left again. Yes?”
Yes, as long as she didn’t meet Custard the bull on the way. Pru followed Mrs. Draycott’s directions and found number three with no difficulty.
“Coral?” she called. She knocked lightly and called again. “Coral? Sorry—I hope I’m not waking you, but I wondered if you’d like…” Pru’s voice petered out and her heart thumped once, twice. She rapped on the door. “Coral!”
Pru tried the door handle, found it unlocked, and announced herself as she opened it.
“Coral, I only want to know…”
The room was empty.
Coral’s room was tidy and the bed made—or untouched from the night before. Pru threw open the wardrobe and saw several dresses hanging and Coral’s cases stored away. She hurried down the stairs, stopped and ran back up to her own bedroom, where she grabbed her canvas bag, and ran down once again, bursting into the kitchen. Mrs. Draycott’s eyes were wide behind her thick lenses.
“I think Coral may have…she wanted to…if she thought…” Pru stopped to gather her thoughts, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There now—Coral isn’t here. I’m guessing she’s gone back to Glebe House, but really, she shouldn’t be there alone. I think I’ll head on over and see about her.”
Pru hadn’t intended to sound an alarm, but her voice shook when she spoke.
“Will you ring Mr. Pearse, or shall I?”
Christopher, in Oxford investigating the untimely deaths of Coral’s husbands, was almost an hour away.
“Let me just see about her first, shall I? No need to worry him, Mrs. Draycott. I’d say she’s sitting in her room quietly—and I’m sure she’s in need of a proper cup of tea. I’ll give you a ring.”
Pru hurried off, taking the circuitous route that avoided Custard, but added ten minutes to the journey. She trotted to make up the time, but had to pause twice, each time stopping in the shade of a tree to catch her breath. What was the hurry, she scolded herself, but another, quieter voice urged her on.
Pru approached the few cottages and shops that made up the village center. One door led to the doctor’s surgery—where Cherry saw his National Health Service patients—and at the far end of the building, stone steps led to an upstairs flat. The name on the letterbox: CYNTHIA MOUSER. When Pru slowed to glance up the stairs, she caught sight of someone walking behind her in the lane—not too close, not too far away. She stole a look out of the corner of her eye.
Ger Crombie. She hurried a few steps and so did he; she slowed, and he kept the same distance. What was he playing at? Pru had no patience for this—did he mean to menace her? If so, he was doing a poor job of it—broad daylight, and although traffic wasn’t fierce, a car came along the lane regularly.
Pru sped up then abruptly stopped and whirled round. Ger looked like a deer caught in headlights, and he grabbed hold of the post office door as if the most important thing in the world to him at that moment was buying a stamp. But the post office opened afternoons only, and he was left looking the fool, rattling a locked door. Pru watched as he shifted from one foot to another and then—as if coming to a decision—pivoted to face her. But at that moment, the postmistress apparently took pity on him and unlocked the door. Surprised, Ger jumped and let out a curse.
Pru wouldn’t have minded going straight back there and confronting him, but Coral took precedence. She continued on her way.
Closer to Glebe House, she caught a whiff of smoke. Still too warm for a fire to be going, she thought, and—on second sniff—it didn’t smell of wood smoke. Perhaps a farmer had rubbish to burn. She picked up her pace as the acrid smell thickened in the still air, making it difficult to breathe. Just before she reached the drive, Pru looked up over the top of the hedge and saw smoke billowing, and large blackened ashes swirled round like bats. She heard the crackle of flames.
We’ve extended the path from the White Garden west to the wall. Have ordered more stone and made note on the plans. Record-keeping up to date. BB
Chapter 28
Pru ran into the drive, but pulled up short at the sight. The house was not engulfed in flames as she had feared—instead, in the middle of the gravel yard a bonfire blazed, and behind the flames and through the smoke she saw Coral. Her hands were clasped at her throat, her eyes wide, and her mouth stretched open as if in a silent scream. Strands of her hair, which had come loose from her chignon, rippled and drifted in the hot air currents, making her look as if she was underwater.
Pru circled the fire and approached, afraid to startle her.
“Coral?”
Coral stared into the flames and didn’t respond.
Pru dropped her gaze to the bonfire and her stomach lurched as she identified the fuel—books. Garden books by Vi
ta Sackville-West and Gertrude Jekyll and others. Not only books, but also watercolors, maps of the garden, elevations, plan views, vignettes, plant lists. The contents of Mr. Bede’s garden shed on fire.
“My God!” she shouted and Coral jumped, pitching forward toward the flames. Pru grabbed her arms and jerked her away. “Come on,” she urged, pulling the woman along and toward the shed. Pru let go of her on the front step, ran in, her feet sliding on a few papers that had escaped their fate. She grabbed a long-handled rake and dashed back to the fire and scraped at it frantically, trying to spread it out. She stomped on a few licks of flames, but the heat went straight through her shoes, so instead she raked gravel over as much of the fire as she could, hoping to smother it. She worked and coughed as the smoke got in her lungs and stung her eyes, but she kept working.
Coral appeared beside her and threw something at the bonfire, which hissed as steam filled the air. Pru staggered back and Coral dashed off, watering can in hand, to an outside tap. They labored until the flames were gone, although the center remained hot as well as the gravel beneath their feet. At last, they stood staring mutely at the smoldering remains.
Pru ran the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead—it came away smeared with soot. She looked over at Coral and thought she could see a mirror of herself—ashes settled in their hair and stuck to their clothes, faces beet red. Coral held the empty watering can loosely in one hand and panted, gazing at the ground, and suddenly cried out and dived for the embers. Pru grabbed at her, ending up with a handful of cardigan. She yanked and managed to pull Coral back, but not before the woman had retrieved a half-burned paper, curled and black round the edges. A watercolor. Enough of it remained to identify the Pool Garden on a sunny day, the contrast of dark and light accentuated by the reflection of sun on the water’s surface. Coral’s body convulsed with silent sobs as she held the piece to her breast and sank to the ground, rocking to and fro.
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