Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

  Pru obeyed and pulled out a stack of drawings—garden plans, diagrams, elevations, vignettes.

  Stunned, she looked up at Mrs. Draycott as if the woman had just performed a miracle. “Glebe House gardens—all of Mr. Bede’s plans. But they were burned!”

  “The originals, yes,” Mrs. Draycott said serenely. “But all those years ago when Lizzy did a bit of work for Batsford, he asked her to make copies of his drawings. And he told her to keep them safe, because one never knew what the future might bring. ‘You,’ he said to her, ‘will be my off-site storage facility.’ ”

  —

  When Pru descended the staircase, she found Oliver waiting at the bottom. He hovered over the aspidistra near the umbrella stand, checking the soil and the tips of its leaves as if it was a demanding plant and wouldn’t be just as happy growing in a closet as in a sunny entry. Pru circled round him as she headed toward the kitchen, and said, “She won’t be long.”

  Dinner preparations were under way—John stood at a counter, peeling potatoes, while Natalie pulled out plates. She shooed Pru away.

  “Jo and the others will be down later. Go, get yourself a drink and relax. I’ll let you know when we need help.”

  Pru went off to pour herself a gin and tonic and made it two when Christopher walked in. As she mixed, Christopher leaned close and nuzzled her neck, his warm lips sending a shiver down her arms.

  “Mmmm,” he said, “not ale, not mud—what is that?”

  “Coral let me use her lily of the valley scent.”

  “It smells different on you. I like it.”

  Pru made a mental note.

  “Now,” she said, “come tell me how it all went.”

  She led him to a corner settee, and after he’d taken a generous drink of his G&T, he picked up Pru’s hand and held it to his lips.

  “I’m sorry you and Coral had to face Cherry alone—he’s a man who believes he is right and everyone else is wrong. To him, people are only impediments to his personal goals.”

  “We weren’t hurt. And Coral has quite an arm on her, I must say.”

  He smiled at that. “When we told Cherry we’d got a fingerprint off the capsule in Bede’s bedroom, he said rather proudly he’d made only the one mistake. He confessed to it all, but he has absolutely no remorse for what he’s done. Instead, he rather feels that he should be protected from prosecution because of his desire to build proper housing in the UK.”

  “Proper housing? He wanted to build houses like his own—great huge, ridiculously expensive monstrosities. I shudder to think. Have you found the capsules at his house?”

  “And more. Minced gray material in a small container. Suspected of being monkshood root—we’ve sent it off for testing. A pair of shoes covered in rock dust. He’d carefully bagged them up and stashed them in the washing machine, as if no one would think to look there. Uniforms are going door-to-door in the village to find out if anyone saw Cherry at Cynthia’s this morning.”

  “Good,” Pru said. “You can never have too much evidence, can you? What about Ger?”

  “Ger had been carrying the fear of discovery around with him a long time, and for no reason.”

  “He had his sister to protect him. Until she died.”

  “Yes, then he was set loose from his mooring. Shortly after arriving here, he met Cherry at the pub. After a few pints, Ger let slip about his past, mentioning the magistrate’s name. The doctor had tucked that chit away and soon after, Ger got work with Bram. The doctor saw Bram as a rival—would she get the leasehold of the meadows or would he get the sale? And so he began blackmailing Ger.”

  “Bram told me a window in Cherry’s house had been broken, and he suspected Ger, but said he wouldn’t report it. He probably broke his own window and has held it over Ger’s head all this time.”

  Christopher leaned forward and set his glass down hard. “I let my impression of Ger—and his attitude—get in the way of the investigation.”

  “I did the same with Cynthia,” Pru said. When he cut his eyes at her, she smiled and kissed him. “But we got to the truth in the end.”

  “Hmph,” Christopher said—a reluctant consent. “Cherry hoped to divide my attentions and ordered Ger to destroy the sett. Crombie knew it wouldn’t do any real damage, because the sett had been long abandoned, so he made a show of pushing the earth round to satisfy Cherry. I’ve asked Ger to take me out to the sett he’s found.”

  “How did he take that?”

  Christopher smiled. “I’ve asked Bram along as well. And Michael—I’m hoping Crombie will join the local group and help out.”

  “Michael’s all right after the other night when someone knocked him over?”

  “He’s fine. That was Cherry—he was out burying the sledgehammer he used on the statue.”

  They sipped their drinks in lovely, peaceful quiet. Pru propped an elbow on the back of the settee and remarked, “Ger really did save us today.”

  “He may have assisted, but I believe you and Coral were well able to take care of yourselves.” Christopher frowned. “Just don’t try it again, please.”

  “Have you gone back to Seamus Sheridan?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sheridan has been quite accommodating—and quite angry with Cherry. The doctor had started in on Bede about buying the meadows several years ago. Two years ago, when Seamus visited to see the pub his son had bought, he and Cherry met. Cherry saw this as fortuitous—here was a man with experience in property speculation and development. First he asked for advice, and soon he was suggesting Seamus invest in the scheme—the Cherrystone Mansion Estates. He promised massive returns.”

  “Did he invest?”

  “No, Seamus said he didn’t like the sound of it. He’s offered up his email correspondence, mobile phone records, all his financial dealings—anything we need to assure the police he had nothing to do with murder. He insisted there was no way he would sacrifice his lifestyle on the Costa del Sol for a few extra quid. Also, I think he was still a bit afraid of Bede after being chased off the land all those years ago.”

  “The codicil is legal—everything is in order?”

  “It is. Noah Elkington came round to check it—seems he’s staying locally for a day or two.”

  “Is he?” Pru asked. “I wonder where.” Christopher narrowed his eyes at her tone. “We’ll save that for another time. First, let me explain about Coral and Oliver.”

  —

  Christopher had just expressed amazement over the story of Cordelia and Lucy’s son when Natalie appeared in the doorway. “Pru, we’re ready for you.”

  Pru jumped up and crossed to her. “Right, shall I lay the table?”

  “Oh no, don’t bother—Coral and Oliver did that—they’re just stepping out for a walk before dinner. No, Jo’s brought us a lovely jar of chocolate sauce from Fortnum & Mason, and Coral said you would bake us a sponge for our dessert.”

  Pru’s head jerked round to the French doors, where outside, Oliver and Coral walked across the terrace hand in hand. Coral glanced over her shoulder, caught Pru’s panicked look, and smiled.

  “Pru?”

  Pru turned back to Natalie, who held out a whisk.

  “Ready when you are.”

  Gardeners are not good from some innate talent, but rather because when they fail, they don’t mind trying again. BB

  To Leighton, always up for sussing out a new garden

  Acknowledgments

  A good critique group is worth its weight in gold—continued thanks to Kara Pomeroy, Louise Creighton, and Joan Shott. I’m also grateful to my agent, Colleen Mohyde, editor Kate Miciak, and everyone at Alibi—your support and guidance create better stories.

  I couldn’t write the Potting Shed books without visits to National Trust properties (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk) and the many private gardens across England that participate in the National Garden Scheme (aka the Yellow Book; https://www.ngs.org.uk). These landscapes are inspiring not only for gardeners, but also for mystery writers. So
, don’t be surprised to find me lurking behind a tall yew hedge as I listen in on conversations. It’s all research.

  BY MARTY WINGATE

  The Potting Shed Mysteries

  The Garden Plot

  The Red Book of Primrose House

  Between a Rock and a Hard Place

  The Skeleton Garden

  The Bluebonnet Betrayal

  Best-Laid Plants

  The Birds of a Feather Mysteries

  The Rhyme of the Magpie

  Empty Nest

  Every Trick in the Rook

  PHOTO: MARY M. PALMER

  In addition to the Potting Shed mysteries, MARTY WINGATE is also the author of the Birds of a Feather mystery series. A well-known speaker on gardens and travel, she has written numerous nonfiction books on gardening, including Landscaping for Privacy. Marty’s garden articles have appeared in a variety of publications, including The American Gardener and Country Gardens. She is hard at work on her next novel.

  martywingate.com

  Facebook.com/​MartyWingateAuthor

  Twitter: @martywingate

  If you enjoy Marty Wingate’s Potting Shed mysteries,

  read on for an excerpt of

  The Rhyme of the Magpie

  A Birds of a Feather Mystery

  An Alibi Original Ebook

  Chapter 1

  One for sorrow, two for joy;

  Three for a girl, four for a boy;

  Five for silver, six for gold;

  Seven for a secret, never to be told;

  Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss;

  Ten for a bird that’s best to miss.

  Four magpies in their black-and-white court jester outfits strutted about on the pavement when I stepped out of my cottage. I gave the door a sharp tug to make sure it latched and looked down the empty high street toward the green. The birds had the place to themselves—the village was mostly deserted midmorning on a weekday, as the majority of residents commuted into London. I turned right for the short walk to work, and the birds lumbered off into the road when I passed, hopping and skipping a few times before they took flight. One looked over his shoulder and locked a beady black eye on me as he lifted off.

  Four—I must ring Bianca later today and give her a scare. I had spotted four magpies the last time my sister had discovered herself pregnant. Little Emmet had recently turned two. Dad had observed three birds when Bee was pregnant with Enid, and Mum the time before that, predicting the sex of my niece Emelia, now ten. I had told my sister that the magpies were an early warning system, and she told me to shut it. But in a nice way. We loved each other, my sister and I. I also loved her husband, Paul, and all three—with perhaps the fourth on the way—of Bee’s dear, sweet children. I particularly loved the fact that they lived at the other end of England.

  A cold gust of wind caught me from behind, sending my hair into my face. The first of May in Suffolk—a somewhat dodgy experience. I turned up the collar of my coat and tucked my hair behind my ears. I still wasn’t used to this shorter cut—those twelve inches of hair had been good insulation against a cold neck. Even so, you won’t hear me say a word against a chin-length bob and uneven bangs that hang down too far into my eyes. This flapping hair was part of the New Me, only three months old, and I would wear it proudly.

  I cut across the high street, wishing that it had been necessary to sidestep a busload of tourists. It was my life’s work—my new life. Lure tourists into Smeaton-under-Lyme, where they would be enchanted with the picturesque village and its tales of ancient Romans and pillaging Vikings, and where they could spend a few pounds in the shops and pubs. The Earl Fotheringill—my employer and owner of not just the village and my Pipit Cottage, but also the parkland, farms, managed woodlands, holiday cottages, and various historic sites around the estate—counted on me to make it happen.

  As I arrived at the door of the tourist center, my second-in-command stepped out. “There you are, Julia,” she said. “I’m just off for fresh milk.”

  I looked down at the time on my phone. “But, Vesta, it’s only two minutes till ten o’clock. Lord Fotheringill is never late. He’ll wonder where you are.”

  Vesta Widdersham squinted against the glare of the gray skies and clipped sunglasses onto her pearly cat-eye frames. “He takes no notice of me. I’ll just dash up to the shop. I’ll get us a packet of biscuits, too—we’re low. What do you think—bourbon creams?”

  “Malted milk?” I asked without any hope of getting them.

  Tilting her head to the side, she looked at me out of the corner of her glasses and gave me half a smile. “Too ordinary.” Vesta saw a connection between biscuits and courting that I didn’t see, and, as the Earl Fotheringill was divorced, Vesta thought I should be interested. I was getting the distinct and slightly unpleasant feeling that the earl thought along the same lines.

  “We’re not here to put on a show,” I said.

  “You’ve got to give them what they want,” she said with a sly look.

  “Vesta!”

  “Biscuits,” she said. She ran a hand through her short hair that was a shade she called “champagne.” Vesta, a retired home health care nurse, had about as much experience in the tourism industry as I did, but she played an important role at these meetings with Lord Fotheringill—she was a buffer.

  “You’ll hurry, won’t you?” I asked.

  “Someone rang just now and asked for you,” she said, cinching her pink raincoat up around her thin frame. “He didn’t leave a name or a message, but he did sound familiar.” She looked at me with fake innocence and a perplexed frown.

  I felt a dull ache start up in my chest as I sensed my old life as a foxhound and me up a tree. “You’d better get the milk.”

  Vesta answered with a tiny backward wave as she walked away. I stood on the pavement for a moment and viewed our shop-front window as a visitor might. Gold-leaf lettering read “Tourist Information Center” and the small space was cut almost in half by a counter. In front of the counter were racks of leaflets touting the many attractions around the estate. A poster of the abbey ruins hung on the wall, and the counter was awash in promises: “Buy fresh local produce at the Smeaton-under-Lyme farmers’ market—opening in June” and “Celebrate Summer Solstice in Suffolk.” In back of the counter was our work area, which comprised a small table, a computer, a kettle, a fridge barely big enough for a carton of milk, and a loo.

  I turned the door sign to “Open” and slipped behind the counter to hang up my coat, smoothing my skirt in the process and patting the embroidered Fotheringill family crest on my cardigan. I pinned on my nametag and checked the mirror to make sure it was straight. “Julia Lanchester,” it read, although backward to me, “Tourist Information Manager.”

  Full-time manager, and then some. I worked six days a week, which sounded rather Dickensian, but it was necessary, at least here at the beginning, in order to build the village and the entire Fotheringill estate into a destination spot.

  Angling my head under the light, I looked for the telltale gray hairs amid the dark blond that Rosy at The Hair Strand swore she saw. “We could do a lovely highlight,” she had said as my long locks had fallen to the floor, “take years off you.” I had told her I didn’t need any years taken off, thank you very much. She had smiled. “Good on you, Julia. No need to hide our age when we turn forty.” Thirty-seven, I had corrected her.

  “Welcome to Smeaton-under-Lyme,” I rehearsed to my mirror image. “Our little corner of Suffolk has so much to offer. Would you like a map of the fifth-century Saxon trail?” I might as well say it to myself, as I’d had few real live tourists to say it to.

  The earl looked at this new tourist information center—the TIC, as we referred to it—as a way of increasing income for the estate, which he hoped to run along the lines of Chatsworth in Derbyshire. He thought it likely there would be another remake of Pride and Prejudice anytime now—or, at the very least, Martin Chuzzlewit—and we should be selected for location shots.


  The bell tinkled above the door, signaling that it was showtime.

  “Lord Fotheringill, good morning,” I said.

  His Lordship rested his bicycle against the wall and took off his helmet and trouser clip. “Now, Julia, please—it’s Linus.” He wagged a finger at me and smiled as he took a handful of poeticus daffodils from his bike basket. “They’re just starting to bloom along the drive—Thorne cut them for me to bring to you. And Ms. Widdersham.”

  “How lovely, Linus,” I said, taking the flowers and picturing Thorne, his Lordship’s ancient butler, sent out on such a dangerous solo mission. I busied myself with filling a vase while Linus straightened his bow tie and stood examining a map on the wall that showed the extent of his estate.

  Lord Fotheringill wore impeccable tweeds and had a neatly trimmed mustache and black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, although some weeks that gray was more noticeable than others. Even without my heels, I towered over him. He really was a dear, but the man was sixty if he was a day—more uncle material than suitor. Tread carefully, Julia.

  “I’ll just switch the kettle on—Vesta’s gone for milk. We’ve come up with some smashing ideas to attract visitors.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when Vesta really did show up just before the kettle switched off. She often lingered at the shop, chatting up its owner, a widower named Akash Kumar, in one of the slowest courtships the planet has ever seen. I told Vesta she should just ask him over to dinner, but she said I didn’t understand how best to go about these things. And we both knew she was right.

  We sat round the small table in the back part of the TIC, finished with business and well into our tea. “Bourbon creams, my favorite,” Linus said, taking another biscuit off the plate.