The voice cut through the quiet morning, and, startled, Pru took a few steps back. Was that Mr. Wilson’s voice? Her heel hit something, she lost her balance and fell backward into the corner, plopping down on something lumpy. She put her hands down on the cushion, turned around to see what had broken her fall, and froze. She had fallen onto the body of a man who lay slumped like a rag doll thrown in the corner. She couldn’t see his face, because it was covered in blood—Pru could see it glistening even in the poor light—blood matted his hair, ran down his neck, and soaked into his shirt.
Pru flew up, screamed, turned, and ran straight into Mr. Wilson. He grabbed her upraised arms by the wrists and shouted, “Who are you?” as he peered closer at her. “Oh, Pru, I’m sorry, it’s just that …” And then he looked past Pru. “Good God, what’s happened?” He dropped Pru’s wrists and bent over the still figure. “Jeremy? Jeremy? Are you all right?” He whirled around. “What happened?” he asked Pru.
“Harry? What’s happened? That’s just Pru you saw—I’m sure of it.” Pru heard Mrs. Wilson and yet couldn’t react to her or to Mr. Wilson, who lifted an arm of the body and checked for a pulse. Mrs. Wilson’s voice seemed to sink into his consciousness, however, and he jumped up, brushing past Pru and getting to the door just as his wife arrived.
“No, Vernona, don’t come in here. It’s Jeremy—it’s dreadful, you can’t. We must … phone an ambulance. And the police.”
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Wilson stepped in past her husband’s weak attempt to stop her. “Harry, what’s wrong? Who is that? What’s happened, who is hurt? Pru, dear, were you attacked?”
Mr. Wilson turned back to Pru. “I’m sorry, Pru, I didn’t mean to come at you like that. Are you all right?” Mr. Wilson’s voice and hands shook. He towered over Pru and Mrs. Wilson both. He blinked rapidly, his rimless glasses fogging slightly in the emotional atmosphere.
“I’m fine,” Pru reassured him, although her voice shook. “Well, I mean, I’m … okay. No, Mrs. Wilson, I just arrived and walked in here and found …” Jeremy—she’d heard that name.
“Harry, is he …?” Mrs. Wilson’s question faded away.
“Yes, no pulse and his head … there’s blood everywhere.”
For a second, the Wilsons and Pru stood close to one another in the small space. Pru felt the presence of the lifeless body behind her; a cold clamminess came over her. “Can we … get out of here?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson grimly. “We should go inside. I’ll ring the police.”
It took only a few minutes after the call was made—Pru had heard Mr. Wilson on the phone in another room, talking in a low voice—before several uniformed policemen and women arrived; Pru couldn’t quite tell how many because they moved in and out of the house and garden. Following them, a woman and two men in plainclothes appeared. Mr. Wilson met them all at the door and came back to the small sitting area in the kitchen to report that the three of them needed to stay indoors for now. You don’t have to tell me twice, thought Pru.
Mrs. Wilson made tea, and Pru tried to make small talk with Mr. Wilson, who sat on the sofa facing the window that looked onto the back garden where the police were getting down to business. His eyes had a hollow appearance, and Pru noticed that although he faced the window, he looked everywhere but out it.
“Is he … was he a friend of yours, Mr. Wilson?”
“Jeremy.” Mr. Wilson named him. “Jeremy Pendergast. I’m sorry I startled you, Pru. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, the both of you,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Such a shock finding him like that. Pru, do you take sugar in your tea?” Milk, of course, goes without saying.
“No, thank you.” The cold clamminess she felt in the shed had been joined by a slight nausea. Was this shock? “Yes, please, one spoonful.”
It’s true that a cup of tea fills many needs. Not only does a hot drink soothe the nerves and warm the hands, but also the whole process—beginning with “I’ll put the kettle on”—speaks of order and calm and just a touch of tenderness.
The police and other workers—Pru thought one of them had to be the medical examiner—continued to come and go through the hall. Eventually Pru realized that one person had stopped in the doorway. They all looked up to see a tall man, with dark short hair flecked with gray that was—neatly parted as if it wouldn’t dare do anything else. He wore a navy suit, light overcoat, and a grim expression; well-defined features accentuated permanent lines between his brows. He waited on the threshold holding his identification for them to see. “Detective Chief Inspector Pearse. May I come in?”
As DCI Pearse entered, Mr. Wilson stood up and introduced himself and his wife. “And this is Pru,” he said. Mrs. Wilson bustled around with the teapot, pouring another cup. Pru wasn’t sure of the protocol, so—she stood, too, and said, “I’m Pru Parke.”
“Please, everyone sit down. Thank you.” Pearse took his cup and sat on the desk chair with his back to the window. It cast his face in shadow, but he seemed to realize that and scooted the chair ninety degrees. Pru glanced at his face, which was all business, although she thought she detected a few smile lines around his eyes—brown eyes that caught her looking at him. She glanced away.
“Mr. Wilson, you knew the deceased?” Pearse asked.
“Jeremy Pendergast,” said Mr. Wilson. “We work at the same firm. He’s a friend. He’s let this house to us.”
“And he’s in your group,” Mrs. Wilson added. “Your group.” She turned to Pearse. “It’s the Amateur Archaeology Society of London. Harry’s been a member for years, and so has Jeremy. That’s how they became friends, and that’s why they were so interested in the mosaic that Pru found in the shed. Harry’s group goes off all over the country digging around and looking for flint arrowheads and Saxon jars and Norman whatevers. They’re very good at it, and Harry has received many awards and notices about his work. County museums love to display their finds.”
“It’s just a hobby,” Mr. Wilson said weakly. “A bit of history, a bit of the outdoors.”
Pearse looked at Pru. “And why are you here?”
“Oh, Pru’s our gardener,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Well, barely our gardener—she’s only just started, clearing out the bottom of the garden, planting flowers, but she’s going to do the whole back for us, tear down the shed and build a little barbecue or something out there. Aren’t you, Pru?” Mrs. Wilson glanced out the window and away again. “Not today, of course.”
“Ms.…” Pearse began, looking at Pru.
“Parke,” said Pru.
“And Pru is short for … Prudence?”
“No, it’s Prunella.” Wait for it, thought Pru.
Pearse paused a moment, then looked down and wrote in his notebook without comment. “You’re American? Canadian?”
“American.”
“Are you in Britain visiting?” Pearse asked.
“No, I live here and work here. I moved to London from Texas. I’m here legally—do you need to see my passport? I have a British passport because my mother was British. I have dual citizenship. I work as a gardener. I’m legal. I have gardening clients. It’s … legal for me to be here.” Could I be more defensive? she thought.
“Of course she’s allowed to be here,” Mrs. Wilson said. “She’s American. How legal can she be?”
“Yes, fine, thank you,” Pearse cut in before the Pru legalfest could reach another level. “I would like to see your passport when you have the chance to bring it by the station, Ms. Parke. There is no question about your … legality, just for identification purposes. How long have you lived in London?”
Like a poorly edited film, short scenes leading up to her London move flickered through Pru’s mind: her mother’s funeral, October at the Dallas Arboretum with hundreds of pumpkins floating in the fountains, Marcus standing at her front door shouting that she was unable to make a commitment.
“Almost a year,” she said quietly.
Pearse turned his attention. “Now, Mr.
Wilson, can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, I put the kettle on, then I looked out the back window, and I saw someone go in the shed. I didn’t realize it was Pru …”
“Ms. Parke, you arrived on the scene first? What time was that?”
“It was just about nine, maybe quarter past,” Pru said. “I noticed the shed door slightly open, and I went in. I was inside and I heard someone shouting—Mr. Wilson was calling as he came out—and it surprised me. I stumbled backward over the … Mr.… the body.” Jeremy something—what was his last name? “And then both Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were there …”
“I heard Harry shouting,” Mrs. Wilson filled in, “and I knew it must be Pru that he saw and perhaps he’d forgotten she was coming round again. I didn’t want him to frighten her,” she said. “Harry was off for a long weekend with the society down in Gloucestershire. When I told him on the phone yesterday morning about finding the mosaic in the shed he was so surprised he came straight home to see it. I didn’t want Pru to think there was a problem.”
“I wasn’t going to attack her, Vernona. I just didn’t realize it was her. It startled me, that’s all.” Mr. Wilson’s nervousness, gone for a few minutes when the policeman first arrived, returned.
“When did you arrive back in town, Mr. Wilson?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“Was Mr. Pendergast in Gloucestershire with you?”
“Of course he was, yes. Jeremy organizes most of our digs.”
“Mrs. Wilson, who has access to your back garden?” asked Pearse.
“Oh, no one, no one at all,” rushed Mrs. Wilson. “Jeremy told us we needed to be careful about who we let in, and so no one goes through the house without one of us knowing, and no one has a key to the basement door, no one at all.” A thick silence filled the room. “Except for Pru, of course.”
Pru cut her eyes at Pearse and saw him looking at her.
“You came through alone this morning?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Was the basement door locked when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“No, I’m afraid I was thinking about the garden. I wasn’t looking for …”
“Sir?” Someone in a disposable blue coverall came to the door, relieving Pru of finishing her sentence.
Pearse went into the hall and spoke for a moment. He returned with two clear plastic bags. One contained a wallet and some keys; the other, what looked like a coin.
“It appears that Mr. Pendergast was hit at least once on the back of the head. There’s a good deal of blood. His body may have been pushed into the corner. He certainly didn’t fall there, and he has dirt on him. It’s probable he was hit with one of the spades in the shed, but if that’s the case, the murderer took care to replace the spade on its rack.”
Pru remembered the spade on the ground. “Oh, I did that. When I went in, the spade was on the ground, and it hadn’t been there the other day, and so I thought I would just … straighten up.”
“Thank you for tidying the murder scene, Ms. Parke,” Pearse said.
“I didn’t know it was a murder scene at the time,” Pru pointed out.
Pearse’s eyes lingered on Pru for two seconds—penetrating brown eyes. She dropped her gaze and he turned away and patted the pockets of his jacket and shirt until he pulled out reading glasses. He examined the contents of one of the bags for a moment before handing it to Mr. Wilson. “Do you know what this is?”
Mr. Wilson stepped to the window for more light and held it in the palm of his hand, turning it over to see the reverse. His hand began to tremble.
Pru stood up and insinuated herself between Pearse and Mr. Wilson to get a better view. “Mr. Wilson, what is it?”
He held his palm out for her to see. The coin still had dirt on it. “It appears to be a Roman coin, a sestertius, a brass coin. Look.” He pointed at the raised image in profile, a man with curly hair. “That’s Hadrian. You can see his name along the edge, ‘Hadrianus.’ And on the reverse”—he turned the bag and coin over—“it’s an image of Britannia.” He could have been giving a college lecture.
“Excuse me, Ms. Parke.” Pearse leaned over and took the bag out of Mr. Wilson’s hand. “Is this authentic?”
“I’m unable to verify that.” Mr. Wilson’s manner became businesslike, although Pru saw that his hand, now at his side, still shook. “Where did it come from?”
“Mr. Pendergast had it clutched in his hand,” Pearse said as he put the bag in his pocket. Pru sat down again, feeling light-headed at the thought. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Well, I … he …” Mr. Wilson stumbled over the straightforward question, but Mrs. Wilson cut in.
“You were out at the dig together until yesterday.” She turned to Pearse. “They were out at the dig until yesterday, near Bishop’s Cleeve in Gloucestershire, and they were supposed to stay until Sunday but Harry decided to come back and take a look at the tiles.” She turned to Pru. “You didn’t do anything wrong, dear. How could you know something so dreadful would happen? I really thought we should do something about the garden even if Jeremy said to leave it be—well, the state of it—and it’s a good start, really it is.” She reached over and patted Pru on the knee.
Pru felt quite breathless after that explanation, which seemed to leave more questions in the air.
“Why didn’t Mr. Pendergast want the garden done up?” asked Pearse. He glanced out the window. “And what exactly did you do to it?”
Pru raised an eyebrow. She’d had only two days, after all. “I cleared out the entire back of ivy and planted all the pots on the terrace in two days—to get it ready for Mrs. Wilson’s luncheon yesterday.”
“An entire garden renovation in two days?” Pearse asked.
Pru’s eyes narrowed. Was he making fun of her? “I don’t do instant makeovers,” she said. “It’s a start on a larger project.”
Mrs. Wilson brought their attention back to the murder victim. “Harry, you showed Jeremy the mosaic Pru found in the shed?” Then she said to Pearse, “When I told Harry on the phone about the Roman tiles, he was very excited, and that’s why he and Jeremy wanted to come back. I hope that Jeremy got a good look at them before …”
Mr. Wilson set his cup down with a clatter. “Yes, Vernona, he did get to see them. You see, Inspector, Jeremy would have been very interested in any Roman ruins found here, as that was one of our main interests. We’ve been down to Fishbourne many times, studying what they’ve found, and we go off on amateur digs, helping out the professionals from time to time.”
“Would he have wanted to dig up the back garden? Excavate the whole area?” asked Pru. She had a fleeting thought of her garden design. “Or maybe he would’ve sold the house?”
“Oh, no, dear,” Mrs. Wilson said, “Jeremy doesn’t own this house. No one owns anything around here except the earl.”
Outside the window, movement caught their attention, and they all turned to see the body, zipped up in a bag and laid out on a stretcher, being carried out of the shed, up to the back door. They heard the procession come into the hall, and saw it pass straight to the front door.
“Ms. Parke, would you take me out and show me these tiles?” asked Pearse. Pru felt sure he’d already been out to see the mosaic and hoped he wouldn’t take this opportunity to accuse her of jeopardizing artifacts from ancient Rome, too.
As they walked out, Pearse exchanged bits of information with some of his workers. Then he said to Pru quietly, “The earl Mrs. Wilson mentioned is the Earl of Cadogan. He owns much of Chelsea and Kensington. Most people just let from him.” That’s a lot of rent to collect, thought Pru. Pearse continued, “Fishbourne is down in Sussex, a Roman palace …”
“With a garden,” Pru interrupted him. “Parts of Fishbourne were discovered in about 1830, but nothing much was done until the 1960s. When they excavated, they discovered not just the palace, but the garden, too
. The Romans brought ornamental gardening to England, and at Fishbourne they found the outlines of the original garden, then planted it up with boxwood hedges and fruit trees, modeled on the way that Pliny described his own first-century garden and the way Fishbourne might have looked.”
Pru realized she’d started to lecture, but she felt as if she needed to show Pearse that she knew something about the country. He had stopped and listened to her without interrupting. She shrugged. “I’ve been to see it. It’s amazing.”
She stopped at the door of the shed; Pearse stepped in and turned back to her. “If you could just be careful where you step.” She had trampled much of the crime scene already, so she picked her way in delicately.
Inside, battery-powered lights had been clipped up so that everyone could see everything, including the large, dark bloodstain on the ground, just next to where Pru had uncovered the tiles. She looked away and brushed off her bottom, praying she didn’t have any spots of blood on her trousers from Jeremy’s body.
“The soil was loose there”—she gestured without looking—“and I dug down about a foot and hit something hard. I wanted to find out if there was a foundation for the shed, in case the Wilsons wanted a barbecue out here. It was easy to dig a wide enough hole, and I saw the mosaic, little black and white tiles, and some red ones, too. I kept brushing away the soil and it looked like a swirly picture of the back end of a horse. I showed Mrs. Wilson.” Pru took a breath and looked over at the area. “But I didn’t uncover this much. And it looks as if someone has dug out more under the edge of the mosaic.”
“And which spade did you find on the ground?”
“That one. Have I destroyed evidence? You’ll find my fingerprints on the handle. Do you think I covered up the murderer’s prints?” She thought for a moment. “You’ll find my fingerprints on the door latch, too, won’t you?”
“And your footprints on the ground outside and in here,” Pearse said, as if taking account of all the ways Pru had disturbed the scene. “You won’t be out here again anytime soon, will you?”
The Garden Plot Page 5
