“You must’ve loved growing up here,” Pru remarked.
“I did,” Coral said, but her chin trembled. “How could I forget that?”
“But you didn’t forget—did you? You turned your memories into stories. And you were quite young when you left—eighteen?”
Coral nodded, but didn’t respond. They walked farther, reaching an intersection with another footpath. Coral went right without hesitation, and Pru wondered how many times she’d made the journey between Glebe House and Grenadine Hall ten years ago.
“When you came back after your mother died—why didn’t you stay?”
“There’s a question even I would like an answer to.” She gave a laugh without humor. “I was scared, that’s all I know—feeling the way I did about Oliver. I had gone off to make my way in the world—do something of importance. Or at least marry someone of importance. When Oliver proposed, I panicked. The moment I left I knew I’d made a mistake, and I’ve spent all these years regretting it.”
“Did you and your uncle stay in touch?” Mr. Bede’s journals had given Pru an intimate look into his life as well as the lives of Constance and Coral Summersun. But there were corners and gaps she longed to fill.
“I sent him Christmas cards, birthday greetings, but only occasionally heard back. I certainly didn’t blame him. Uncle Batty and I always had Mother between us, you see—she was the glue. We didn’t quite know what to do without her. I know now I should’ve stayed. I knew it soon after I left, only I didn’t know how to make amends. And then, a few months ago, I received a note saying Uncle Batty was quite ill and I should come home. It wasn’t signed, and I’ve been too embarrassed to ask who sent it—Cherry? Natalie? Whoever it was, I’m grateful. Since I returned, we had slowly made our way back to each other. I will always hold that dear.”
Pru smiled, thinking that Mr. Bede had written almost the same thing about Coral.
—
They emerged from the copse on a rise—Grenadine Hall and grounds lay before them. The field in front of the Hall bustled with activity—lorries unloading pallets of folding tables, and handcarts bumping over the hummocky grass with boxes of pottery, linens, knitwear, and tea towels. Poles were being driven into the ground and white tarpaulin fabric for the marquees unrolled and attached. The tent sites lined the field’s perimeter with the far side sitting snugly against a stand of enormous beeches. Pru caught the distant strains of the workers’ battling radios—Beatles music versus an operatic aria.
Coral chose not to continue on their footpath—it would take them dangerously close to the kitchen garden and glasshouses, no doubt too close to Oliver. Instead, they took a last-minute roundabout route through a wild patch of ground that emptied them into the lane at the top of the drive, and they walked along the field where the marquees were being raised.
Natalie greeted them at the house and said, “Oliver is in desperate need of helpers to sort out the gnome treasure hunt.”
Both she and Pru looked hopefully at Coral, but Coral acted as if she hadn’t heard.
“Was that a used-book stall I noticed on our way in?”
“Yes, the church has both a jumble sale and a book stall this year. Why?”
“Well, I thought I might offer my assistance in pricing and sorting,” Coral answered. “It’s something I know a great deal about after all my years in a bookshop. And, Natalie, don’t you want to show me where my story-time stall will be?”
Coral and Natalie set off for the field, and Pru sought out Oliver, who stood in the glasshouse with a stack of papers and an army of gnomes at his feet. Some of the figures were only a few inches high, others two feet; many had pipes in their hands, a few held hoes or spades; some stood, others reclined; a few were painted gold while the rest sported bright blues and reds; all had beards and pointed caps, and every one of them faced Oliver as if awaiting instructions.
Pru studied the group. “They’re sort of creepy when you see them en masse, aren’t they?”
“Afternoon, Pru,” Oliver said, looking up from a clipboard and glancing over Pru’s shoulder.
“She’s with Natalie,” Pru said, and Oliver’s eyes darted back to her. “And so, I am your only available assistant.”
They spent the next couple of hours placing gnomes round the garden, marking their spots on the map key, and retracing their steps to make sure the gnomes were hidden, but not totally lost to sight. Children would need to locate each one, mark their positions correctly on a blank map, and return to the glasshouse to claim their prize.
“Well, there we are,” Pru said, tucking the last gnome a bit farther into a rhubarb-forcing pot lying on its side. Now, she could just do with a cup of tea. The WI—Women’s Institutes—would run the tea tent for the fête, but on setup day, Natalie had arranged for tea to be available in the kitchen of Grenadine Hall.
“Tea, Oliver?” Pru asked. “Perhaps Natalie and Coral are finished in the field.”
“Yeah, no—that is, I need to count up the miniature pumpkins, see how many we’ve got. I’ll be in later.”
Pru could see this lasting the rest of the day—Oliver and Coral keeping a bead on each other, but never making contact.
Oliver might not need tea, but Pru could certainly use a cup. When she came out of the kitchen garden, she met Lizzy Sprackling, who must’ve come up the footpath through the fields. Pru almost didn’t recognize her, as she had abandoned her awning of a hat and pink Wellies and was dressed in baggy linen capris, an oversized shirt, and sandals, her thin gray hair twisted up into a tiny knot on top of her head.
“How’s Coral?” Lizzy asked.
The simple question triggered a flood of words that Pru had pent up inside her. Lizzy, she felt, would understand.
“It isn’t fair—that Coral gets nothing from Mr. Bede. She’s trying to be brave about it, but it’s as if she sees her life as nothing now that she believes she let him down so terribly. I don’t think that’s what he intended at the end.”
“It certainly isn’t what Cyn intended,” Lizzy said. “She’d tried to talk Batty out of that silly notion of leaving everything to her—been at him about it for years.”
With a reluctant huff, Pru blew away the last of her resentment toward Cynthia Mouser, she of the Thirty-Six Hours of Solitude.
“Fabia told me about the fire,” Lizzy said. “What did it burn?”
“Everything in the garden shed.” Pru shook her head at the thought. “His books. The watercolors—I only just learned that Constance did those. And all Mr. Bede’s garden plans and diagrams.”
“Shameful—all that gone. Still, Batty’s drawings, elevations, plan views, the lot?” Lizzy looked off into the distance. “Well, I might be able to help you there.”
“That would be fantastic. Anything you can remember will be useful. Lizzy, it’s puzzling, Mr. Bede’s death. On the morning he was killed, are you sure you didn’t see anything unusual on your walk?”
Lizzy shook her head. “I’ve been asked that before, and I’ll answer it again—no.”
“Mrs. Draycott says that you saw Cherry on his way to Glebe House.”
“And so we did.”
Pru frowned. “But you just said you saw nothing unusual.”
“That wasn’t unusual,” Lizzy said. “That happened every single morning.”
Hadn’t Cherry said he’d waited to make his doctor’s visit until later the morning of Mr. Bede’s death? But now that she thought about it, Pru couldn’t be sure that had been the case. Wasn’t Christopher due at Grenadine Hall soon? She would talk with him. But what she needed right at that moment was—
“Lizzy, want to come in for a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks, I can’t spare the time. I’ve got to see that they’ve placed my marquee properly,” she said. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Pru looked over her shoulder to the sea of white tents, none of which had any identifying sign. “I’m not sure—do you know where it’s supposed to be?” What would Lizzy b
e selling at the fête, she wondered—nettle tea?
“It’s supposed to be set apart. Adds to the mystique, you see.” And with that, Lizzy went off to institute her search.
Tea. But as Pru took two steps toward the house, she caught sight of Bram coming up the drive. Her head was bare of its knit cap, an intense frown held her pretty face hostage, and her hands were knotted into fists and kept tightly at her sides.
“Pru!” she called. When she got closer, she asked, “Have you seen Ger?”
“Not today. But I think Christopher wanted to talk with him this morning.”
Bram nodded quickly. “Yes, Christopher came by. I didn’t think I needed to be there, but he asked me to. And so I heard what happened to Ger all those years ago, when he was a boy.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her denims. “I knew there was something in his past he didn’t want to talk about. You see, don’t you, he got caught up in the wrong crowd? But he straightened himself out after that with the help of his sister. Now, he’s afraid it’s all catching up with him.”
“Did you talk to him about it?”
“I didn’t have a chance. Cherry stopped by—he wanted me to check on the far field, where part of the hedge had been broken through near the drive to his house. He thinks the sheep eat his roses. So, I left, and told Ger I’d see him at lunch. But he isn’t about—I can’t find him. I’m afraid he’s run off.”
“I can’t imagine he’s gone for good. You mean a great deal to him, you know. And, Christopher wanted to talk with him only because the police must question each person carefully. You see, it’s because everyone’s a suspect until he or she…isn’t.” Pru pressed the spot between her eyebrows with her index finger, hoping to reset her brain.
“I’ve been a bit distracted myself,” Bram confessed. “The thing is, I thought Mr. Bede had my leasehold all settled, and he hadn’t.” She sounded more hurt than angry. “Mr. Elkington knew nothing about it. Cynthia says he didn’t do it on purpose, that it was all part of the emotional inertia he’d experienced since Coral’s mum died.”
“Why doesn’t Ger like Cynthia?”
That brought out a laugh. “She makes him nervous, he says. He isn’t used to talking about his feelings and the like—she can do that to some people.”
“Can she? Look now, Bram, will you come in and have a cup of tea?”
“Nah,” Bram said. “Thanks, but I won’t. I’ll go round to his caravan again. I feel responsible for him, Pru. I told him it would be all right.”
—
Pru pulled out her phone after Bram left and sent a quick text to Christopher: On your way? God, she needed that tea.
She walked as she hit “send” and walked straight into Cynthia.
On an intellectual level, Pru had quite come to terms with Cyn, her past with Christopher, and her manner with Pru. But this was her first opportunity to put her new outlook into practice.
“Oh, um, hello.” Good start.
Cynthia’s pale eyes were like a cold fire. She cast a glance over her shoulder, back toward the fields. “Harrumph,” she said. At least, that’s what it sounded like to Pru.
“Everything all right?”
“I won’t be threatened,” Cyn declared, her silver curls shaking with indignation.
Summer pudding for our tea—created by the girl. And not bad, for a first try. BB
Chapter 33
“I’m not threatening you,” Pru said, wondering if Cynthia referred to the day before and the search of her flat.
Cyn frowned. “I didn’t mean you. I meant Cherry.”
“The doctor? Why would he do that?”
“He’s got it into his head that what happened to Batsford is my fault. He’s even made a suggestion that I might be practicing medicine without a license. He said I should watch myself or there would be consequences.”
“That’s preposterous. The police searched your flat only because they need to eliminate every person from their inquiry—that’s just the way it works. But you didn’t poison Mr. Bede.” Pru both believed and didn’t believe her own words.
“It wasn’t an outright accusation, but I can see it’s on his mind. He came to my flat earlier. At first, he seemed quite surprised that I opened the door. And then he started in on accusing me—and after that, he had the nerve to say he thought we could come to some sort of an ‘understanding.’ ”
Pru heard the quotation marks round the word, and they shocked her. “What sort of an understanding—what does he want from you?”
Cyn shook her head and blushed. “I wasn’t about to wait to hear—I left him standing on the pavement.”
“That’s—that’s extortion at the very least,” Pru whispered as a fellow walked past them carrying a cardboard box overflowing with rainbow-colored sock puppets, heading toward the marquees.
The frown disappeared, replaced by a smile—not sly or coy, but with a touch of relief. “I’m sorry that we seemed to get off on the wrong foot with each other, Pru,” Cynthia said. “That was my fault. You are a lucky woman—and Christopher’s a very lucky man.”
Pru’s face went hot, but she didn’t feel as if Cyn was trying to push any buttons, so she only lifted her chin and said, “Yes.” She stopped short of thanking the woman for her part in it.
“I tried to dissuade him, you know—Batsford.” Cyn lost her playfulness. “He knew it wasn’t right the way he’d written the will, but it took him a long time to come out of that tunnel. It was both a blessing and a curse that he fell ill early this year—terrible for him, but it brought Coral home. She’d been miserable in Oxford—did she tell you? The two of them are family as much as anyone is, blood or no. And his illness made them both realize how much time they had lost and that they were dangerously close to losing the memory of the one person they both loved.”
“Someone might have found the codicil and burned it,” Pru said. Her own words surprised her—was she blurting out evidence? Did Cyn even know about the codicil?
“Yes. I knew he’d asked Natalie and Oliver down to witness it. Batsford didn’t say specifically what he’d done, but I could sense such relief in him, and I was glad. I do not need or want Glebe House.” Cynthia smiled at Pru, but with chagrin. “It’s what I had wanted to talk with Christopher about.”
“But without the codicil, no one knows what he wanted,” Pru reminded her. And the thought remained that Cynthia could not account for her whereabouts the morning Mr. Bede died. Could this protest about inheriting Glebe House be a ruse?
“The thing is, Cyn, the morning he died you were on your Thirty-Six Hours of Solitude, and if you have no witnesses to your whereabouts—well, it’s difficult.”
Cyn frowned at Pru. “A prescribed period of solitude is important—not only for my own well-being, but I hold myself out as an example to the people I counsel. How would it look if they knew I took the commitment lightly?”
“You were in your flat cleaning out closets,” Pru said. “You told me that yourself.”
Cyn crossed her arms tightly. “Oh, all right. The thing is, on Monday mornings, the shop below me gets a delivery of Chelsea buns from Huffkins bakery in Cheltenham.” Cyn leaned closer and whispered, “I have a standing order. And so, I nipped down around seven, and stayed for a cup of tea with Morag. I’m afraid I quite let the morning get away from me. But I returned to my confinement, and I stayed there until the next morning. It was only after that when I found out about Batsford.”
It was certainly alibi enough for Pru, who could do with one of those Chelsea buns. “Right. Good. Listen, I’m desperate for a cup of tea. I was just going up to the house—I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
“Thanks”—Cyn put a hand on her arm and Pru didn’t mind—“but I’m helping to set up the WI stall. I’ve got some of my chutney in there.” She stopped after taking a couple of steps away. “Did you get a chance to taste the mountain pepper relish I left for you?”
A memory of heat crept upon Pru. She had accused Cyn, in
so many words, of trying to poison her. Had Mrs. Draycott mentioned that to her friend? Cyn’s face looked clear of suspicion or innuendo.
“Yes, lovely,” Pru said. “And such a surprising flavor. I love spicy food.”
“I thought you might—being from Texas. Well, I’ve more if you’d like to take any away with you back to Hampshire.”
—
Christopher found Pru in the kitchen at Grenadine Hall with her second cup of tea and still working on a massive fruit scone upon which she had slathered butter and heaped raspberry jam.
“Mmm?” she asked, pointing to her plate, her mouth full.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no.”
Pru poured his tea while he took a scone and a few little sandwiches and sat at the corner with her. One of the fête workers nodded to them as he left, brushing crumbs from his hands.
“Ger?” she asked when they were alone.
“He’s scared.”
“Did you tell him you knew about all those years ago?”
“I did,” Christoper said, but didn’t continue as two fellows came in the kitchen for their tea break. After they had poured mugs of tea and stuffed a couple of scones in their jacket pockets and left, Christopher added, “I explained he’d be in no trouble about it now, but I don’t believe he heard what I was saying. Too many years of not trusting the police.”
“What about Mr. Bede’s death?”
Christopher shook his head. “It’s possible he murdered Bede out of some misguided loyalty to Bram if he thought Bede wasn’t going to give her the leasehold. He couldn’t’ve thought it through—how would that help?”
“Did you say that to him?”
“No. Cherry arrived, and that shut Crombie up for good. I didn’t pursue it.”
“Bram says he’s gone—Ger,” Pru said.
“What does he think that will solve?” Christopher passed a hand over his eyes. “We’ve nothing to charge him with—no evidence, but he’s certainly doing a fine job of making himself look guilty. Right, well, I’ll get a couple of PCs out to search the area and check with Bram about where he might go.”
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