Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  Pru bent over and held on to Coral’s shoulders. “What happened? Coral? Tell me what happened.”

  But Coral, beyond speaking, only pulled in a ragged breath and continued to sob.

  “Right, let’s go inside,” Pru said. “Come on now, up we go.” She was able to get Coral to the open front door and inside as she continued. “The police should be here soon. You remember that, don’t you? They’ll be searching for the codicil.” But now, Pru thought, they’d have something else to investigate.

  As if she’d conjured them up, a police panda car rolled into the yard and braked abruptly. Pru needed to get to them and explain the situation, but didn’t think Coral, whose sobs had diminished to a whimpering, would be able to stand on her own. Desperate as she saw Sergeant Appledore hop out of the car, Pru led Coral to the bench seat of the umbrella stand.

  Coral stirred and murmured, “Did you call them, Pru? Did you phone the police?”

  “Coral, listen to me.” She waited until Coral focused on her and then continued. “Sit right here for a moment. Don’t move. Understand? Sit. Stay. I’ll go talk to the sergeant.”

  Coral nodded and tears, which had formed blackened rivulets on her cheeks, dripped off her chin. She still clasped the charred watercolor to her chest.

  “Sergeant,” Pru called, as she dashed across the yard, nodding to PC Mills and the other uniform. She gave them the briefest of explanations—as much as she knew—and Appledore started in by chastising himself.

  “We’d’ve been here an hour ago to take up the search again, except for these yobs wreaking havoc on the far side of Stow—broken windows in a row of shops, although nothing taken—and here we are down a man—sorry, Mills, an officer is what I mean—and I’d like nothing better than to be standing next to Inspector Pearse through this inquiry. I feel as if I’m throwing away a great opportunity to learn, but I have my duty, and there’s nothing else for it. Now, Ms. Parke, do you have any idea why Ms. Summersun would want to do this?”

  “No, Sergeant, I realize what it may look like, but I don’t think Coral started the fire.”

  “You say you found her standing here, looking at the blaze?”

  “Yes, but she was in shock.”

  “Then she told you how she came upon it?”

  “I…no, that is…I haven’t had a chance to talk with her. She’s quite upset. Please let me go to her while you begin your—search.” What they could possibly hope to find in that pile of ashes, she didn’t know.

  Coral had followed orders and waited, and now Pru led her down the corridor to her room.

  “Would you like to rest?” Pru asked. “And we can talk.”

  “May I take a bath?” Coral asked.

  “Of course. That’s the best thing.” Pru appreciated the idea of a hot bath as a remedy to your troubles—she’d very much like one herself at that moment, but it would have to wait. “In you go. I’m going to ring Dr. Cherrystone and ask him to come up. All right?”

  Coral nodded as she closed the bathroom door, and in a moment Pru heard the water flowing into the tub. When the fragrance of lily of the valley escaped with the steam from under the door, Pru stepped out in the corridor and rang Cherry, saying that Coral needed him, could he come. After that, she went to the front door and saw that the blue-and-white police tape had gone back up across the drive to the lane. Up, down, up—like a curtain on a stage.

  “There’s very little of it left,” Appledore reported, coming up to her and shaking his head. “Dry papers and such—quick fuel. That codicil could be gone now—and we’ll have to find out who would want that to happen. I rang the inspector to tell him. He’ll be on his way soon.” PC Mills called the sergeant over, and off he went.

  With the immediacy of the flames and Coral’s emotional state, Pru hadn’t put it together—the codicil. The police had come to search for it, but someone had suspected it might be in the garden shed, among Mr. Bede’s papers. This was the reason to destroy the records of a lifetime? Hot tears joined the sweat on her face.

  She retrieved her bag from the yard and dug out her phone as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. She should’ve been the one to tell Christopher, and she would need to explain that to him. Although he could be driving at that moment, and so instead, she sent a text. Will be here when you arrive.

  On the way back into the house, Pru rang Natalie.

  “It seems you’re on call for Glebe House these days,” she said at the end of her explanation.

  “I don’t mind,” Natalie replied. “God, she’s been through it, hasn’t she? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Pru retraced her steps into the kitchen and washed her face and neck with a bar of lemon-scented soap at the sink and used a tea towel to dry. She checked herself in a small round mirror near the door, then unclipped her hair, ran the damp towel through it, and dusted herself off, thankful her navy linen top wouldn’t show the grime. There, quite presentable—although the tea towel had seen better days. She left it in a heap on the counter to collect later, and walked out through Mr. Bede’s room to the courtyard and to the top of the Long View, where she waited and watched Cherry come up from the meadow.

  “It’s been a difficult morning,” Pru said by way of a greeting. “I thought you should see her.”

  Cherry shook his head as they walked through the courtyard and into the house. The doctor’s quick movements oozed irritation. “I don’t know what she thought she would accomplish by setting fire to Batsford’s garden papers. A fit of pique, I suppose—angry that he’d led her on.”

  Pru held up at the kitchen door. “She’s in the bath—would you wait for a minute, and I’ll just let her know you’re here. I hope you don’t mind I rang you,” she added.

  “God, no,” Cherry said. “I’m only concerned for her. Yes, you go in first.”

  “Thanks.” She paused. “Sorry, how did you know about the fire?”

  Cherry frowned at her. “You told me when you rang. That’s why you wanted me to see Coral.”

  Had she? “Right. Sorry, it’s been a difficult morning.”

  Coral, wearing a dressing gown in a muted purple, the shade of a damson plum, stood barefoot and towel-drying her hair in front of the tapestry of her mother’s favorite view. The same meadows Pru had just admired as she waited for Cherry.

  “Better after your bath?” Pru asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “The doctor’s here—would you like to see him?”

  “It’s going to disappear, isn’t it? It’ll all go away—no one will care.”

  “Coral, tell me what happened and what you saw.”

  “I saw fire,” she whispered and held the towel to her chest. “Why was there a fire?”

  Isn’t that the question, Pru thought.

  Coral moved to the bed and sat down on the edge. “I came over early—I couldn’t sleep and got up before Mrs. Draycott. Christopher let me keep the key—you remember? I came here, and when I passed Lizzy’s cottage, I said hello to Mr. Tod.”

  “You went through the field—the one with the bull?”

  “Old Custard—he didn’t mind me. I didn’t see Lizzy.”

  “Did you see anyone here when you arrived?”

  “No. You see, I came to say goodbye and remember what had gone on before. Uncle Batty and Mother—all the years I was growing up and when she was ill and I came back.”

  “But you left again after she died,” Pru reminded her.

  “Yes,” Coral said, a bitter note to her voice. “And what did I think I could gain by that?”

  “You married. Coral—what happened to your husband? How did he die?”

  Coral looked at Pru for a moment, but her mind seemed far away. “A work-site accident,” she said. “He was a builder. They were renovating one of the colleges. Someone came to the bookshop to tell me.”

  A construction worker—as noble a job as that was—was not exactly how Coral had portrayed her husband to begin with. Something to do with the university? In a way.


  “And, your second husband? He was associated with Green Templeton College, you said?”

  Coral blushed. “He was the porter,” she said. “What would you call him in the States—he was the guard at the gate.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Hit by a bus,” she continued, shaking her head. “He’d run out in the road to help a woman who’d dropped her shopping. He was kind that way. They were both very nice men.”

  Very nice men—not “I loved them” or “My heart was broken.”

  “Were they older than you?”

  Coral stirred and frowned slightly. “No. Sam and I had birthdays only a week apart, same year. And Tony—well, there was a gap there. I was a year older than he was.”

  Briefly, Pru had entertained the idea that Coral might have sought out older husbands, substitutes for Mr. Bede—a father/uncle infatuation. But apparently not.

  And more to the point, Coral had nothing to do with her husbands’ deaths, and Christopher would know that by now.

  “You need to rest.”

  “I can’t,” Coral said. “I’m afraid to close my eyes—I’m afraid I’ll see fire.”

  The rattle of crockery announced Natalie’s arrival. She stood like a good butler holding a tray.

  “Cup of tea, anyone?”

  What a fantastic annual vine, that hyacinth bean (Lablab purpureus)—dark leaves, spikes of rose pink flowers followed by striking bean pods. Companionable in any circumstance. BB

  Chapter 29

  They had their tea—Cherry, too, who gently questioned his patient, and afterward gave her a light sedative. “This’ll help you sleep, and you’ll feel the better for it when you wake,” he said before he left.

  Natalie and Pru watched as Coral drifted off, eyes on the charred watercolor of the Pool Garden propped up beside her on the nightstand. When Pru’s phone rang and she saw it was Christopher, she excused herself and took the call out into Mr. Bede’s courtyard.

  “You aren’t driving, are you?” she asked.

  “Road traffic accident on the A40 at Ducklington—we weren’t moving, so I’ve pulled off on the verge. Are you all right? Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you before Sergeant Appledore, but I rather had my hands full.” Pru gave him a complete account as she walked out to the bench at the top of the Long View. Almost complete—there was Ger Crombie following her, but she tucked that away for later. “All his papers, his books, and his lovely watercolors—except for the one Coral grabbed. Have the police found anything?”

  “Ashes, the bindings of books—certainly no handwritten codicil. Coral saw no one—nothing?”

  “She said not. I’ll ask her more after she wakes, but really, she was in a dreadful state and has finally said yes to a light sedative, so now she’s sleeping.” They were silent. Pru plunged in. “You know she didn’t do this, Christopher. It would make no sense—she’d already found out she hadn’t inherited Glebe House. A codicil would be the only hope that she might get something. She wouldn’t’ve destroyed it.”

  “Yes,” Christopher agreed. “But you heard Bede say he was putting someone on notice. That could’ve been a warning about the codicil.”

  A warning to the beneficiary in the will who was about to be replaced. All signs pointed to Cynthia. If she knew she was set to inherit, and Mr. Bede had told her he’d written a codicil to the contrary, what would Cynthia have done? Did she want Glebe House that desperately?

  “Also, the PCs found something at the damaged sett. A sledgehammer, buried, although covered with loose material. It’s an old one—the wood handle is worn, and it looks as if it might’ve splintered. It might be the one used on the statue. The head seems to have a few chips in—we may get rock dust out of the grooves.”

  Not a murder weapon, but at least an actual piece of evidence. A thrill of discovery shot through Pru’s veins.

  “There are tools in the garden shed here at Glebe House—I don’t remember a sledgehammer, but then I didn’t look closely.”

  “And that door’s never locked.”

  Yes, Pru had thought that, too. Easy access for someone to search for a missing codicil and then burn everything that might be a likely hiding place—books and papers.

  “Look,” Christopher said, “I’m getting off the main road. I’ll see if I can make my way up to the A44 and come in from the north. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  They ended the call, and Pru remained on the bench gazing down the Thyme Walk, between the Deep Borders and through the Stilt Garden to the gate—Constance’s view of the meadows, the lands now farmed by Margaretta Bramwell. As she gazed, she thought.

  Bram could have been put “on notice,” too. If she had thought the leasehold arrangements settled and if Mr. Bede had given her cause to think he would alter those plans against her, what might she have done? Bram and Ger gave each other alibis for the morning of the murder. Bram, with her cow eyes and soft dark curls. No. Ger Crombie, on the other hand…if he was loyal to Bram, to what lengths would he go to make sure she would get her leasehold?

  —

  Coral slept peacefully—her hair spread over the pillow like a halo. But instead of Natalie sitting at her bedside, Pru found Oliver. He leaned forward, arms on his thighs, hands clasped and all attention on the woman in the bed.

  “I hope you’ll stay until she’s awake,” Pru whispered.

  Oliver shook his head. “I’m only here while Natalie goes back to the Hall—marquees are on their way and she wanted to meet the lorry. She won’t be long—and I don’t think Coral would want to see me when she opens her eyes.”

  “Hogwash,” Pru said. “And stop feeling sorry for yourself. I don’t know what happened then, but I know that now, you are the first thing Coral would like to see when she wakes.” Pru saw Oliver’s mouth twitch before he turned his head away. “And actually I need you to stay longer—I have something I must do. I won’t be long. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?”

  “She didn’t set the fire.” Oliver nodded in the general direction of the gravel yard. “She would never burn all that—Batsford’s plans and her mother’s watercolors.”

  Pru’s eyes flew to the singed image of the Pool Garden beside Coral. “Constance is the artist?” she asked. “I thought they were Mr. Bede’s. Oh, poor Coral. One thing piled on top of another. You”—Pru pointed at Oliver—“don’t move from her side.”

  —

  In the yard, gloved PCs carefully sifted through the remains of the fire and bagged up what was left of the books. Pru gave Appledore an update on Coral—sleeping—and promised to return soon.

  She walked off down the lane briskly, and with confidence. Where the lane split, she took the way that retraced her steps to the tiny center of the village instead of the left fork that led to Lizzy’s cottage. Although at that moment, next to a hot bath, she would like nothing better than a glass of sloe gin and a nap.

  Feverfew grew in two large pots marking the stairs to Cynthia’s flat. Pru walked past, and paused to look in a shop window while she got up her nerve. She then powered down her phone, pivoted, and took the stairs.

  “Just a chat,” Pru murmured, pausing on the landing. There was a doorbell—an actual small bronze bell. She took hold of the leather strap hanging from its clapper, aiming for a single strike, but her hand shook and the bell rang with raucous attention. She flinched and clamped her hands on the metal to deaden the noise.

  Cynthia answered almost immediately. “Pru?” She looked down the steps. “Is Christopher with you?”

  “No, I’m alone. I hope I’m not disturbing you—you don’t have a two o’clock or something?”

  Cyn shook her head and smiled—a quiet, subdued smile. She kept her arms wrapped round her and appeared smaller to Pru than when they’d first met.

  “Well, come in—you’re in good time, I’ve had back-to-back appointments all morning and can finally breathe.” Cynthia opened the door wide, and Pru stepped
directly into a large sitting room, warm and inviting with a woven floral rug, a stone fireplace, and squashy furniture that reminded her of Lizzy’s. Above Pru’s head, bundles of dried herbs hung from hooks in the oak beams. The place smelled of sweet woodruff—pleasant and calming.

  “This is nice,” Pru said. “Is this where you see your…clients?”

  “No”—that sly look passed over Cyn’s face—“I have another room for that.”

  Pru, determined to keep her footing in this exchange, straightened her shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind that I stopped—I wanted to talk with you.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Let’s sit. Would you like tea?”

  “No,” Pru said quickly. “No, thank you.”

  Cynthia sat on the sofa and Pru took a chair where a heap of tiny embroidered pillows stuck awkwardly in her back and caught under her bottom so that she sat askew. She took a deep breath.

  “How long had you known Mr. Bede?”

  Cyn did not look surprised at the question. “Oh, for years now.”

  “How many years?”

  Cyn waited a beat before answering. “Eight years. He was quite despondent when we met—he couldn’t find himself. It happens to some men after a traumatic event.” Cyn’s crystal blue eyes sparkled.

  Pru cleared her throat and elbowed the pillows, trying to dislodge one from behind a shoulder blade.

  “Where were you the morning that Mr. Bede died?”

  “On my Thirty-Six Hours of Solitude. I did tell you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “One can be alone and away from the world in a variety of ways,” Cynthia said in a teacher’s voice. “It isn’t only physical distance that matters.”

  “So, you were here?”

  The sparkle left Cyn’s eyes, and they settled to a dull gray. She smoothed out her skirt and played with its ribbon edging as she spoke. “Yes, here. I stay inside for the entire time and…”

  “Meditate?”

  “Well, sometimes I clean out a closet.”

  Not fair. Not fair to throw me off balance by being normal.