The Garden Plot

by Marty Wingate

  Yes, Pru thought, I live to compromise murder scenes. “Not until I’m allowed.” She drew herself up. There went the big account, the big garden project, the big paycheck. “How long will that be?”

  “A few days, at least. You can ring me to be sure, before you start making your own Sissinghurst here.” He handed Pru a business card as he spotted the pile of leaves in the far corner.

  Pru followed his gaze. “Is that more evidence? I didn’t go in that corner.” At least she had left one corner undisturbed.

  Pearse stepped around the bloodstained soil and bent down to look more closely. “Look at that, a hedgehog nest. Now, there’s a reason to leave an untidy corner of the garden—give them some space of their own. Looks like last winter’s nest, it’s empty now.” Pru observed Pearse observing the hedgehog nest: he looked nothing like an inspector now, rather more like a naturalist in the country. Now she could see where those smile lines came from.

  “Is there still a scent?” Pru asked. “Toffee growled a little the first day I was out here. Maybe that’s what he growled about.”

  “Toffee?”

  “Toffee Woof-Woof,” Pru said, trying not to smile, “the Wilsons’ dog. He must be upstairs in a bedroom right now.” She gestured back to the house.

  Pru swore she could see a ghost of a smile on Pearse’s face.

  “It’s possible, if the hedgehogs have been back round here,” he said. “Toffee might have picked up the scent.”

  “At first, I thought it might be a badger,” Pru said.

  “Badger? In Chelsea? Might as well look for a unicorn, too.” He stood up and was once again a police officer.

  Overcoming her reluctance to look at the bloody stain on the soil, Pru peered over at the dug-out area around the mosaic. “Hmmm,” she said.

  Pearse looked at the ground, too, and then up at her. “What do you see?”

  “The soil looks quite damp there in the hole.” She started to step closer and stopped. “Is it all right if I check?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Pru knelt down and saw on closer inspection that the soil wasn’t just damp, it was wet, and looked as if it got wetter the farther down it went. She reached down, gathered up a handful of soil, and squeezed. Dirty water dripped out.

  “Malcolm, the neighbor in back, said he tried to grow roses against his wall down here and they died. He thought it was too wet. I wonder, could there be a stream running underground here?”

  “I don’t know, Ms. Parke. Perhaps that’s something you’ll discover when you make your garden here.” Pru sensed an approaching dismissal. “You can go for now, but please take your passport by the station.”

  She walked back into the kitchen, where the Wilsons had remained on the sofa.

  “Mrs. Wilson, I’ll be going now,” Pru said. “Would you like the key to the basement back?”

  “Not at all, dear, we still want a garden—although I suppose we’ll need to sort that out with Xanthe, Jeremy’s widow. Ex. Well, never mind. We’ll just wait until all this is finished. Would you like another cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks. Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “Thank you, Pru. And I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  Pearse stepped back into the room, his attention on the Wilsons. Pru tried to blend into the scenery, staying near the door, hoping to hear more that would help her understand what had happened.

  “Mr. Wilson, what time did Mr. Pendergast leave yesterday evening?” Pearse asked.

  “It was just before seven, I believe. We were getting ready for dinner.”

  “More of a tea than dinner,” Mrs. Wilson cut in. “Really, after getting ready for my luncheon yesterday, I didn’t have a moment to cook. And Mary had left some cold chicken for us.”

  “Who is Mary?” Pearse asked.

  “Mary comes in a few mornings a week to help out, but I’m always here. She doesn’t have a key,” Mrs. Wilson explained.

  Pearse turned back to Mr. Wilson. “Did you know Mr. Pendergast was coming back to the house? Did you have any contact with him later yesterday evening or early this morning?”

  “I didn’t see him again.” Mr. Wilson looked out at the shed, not at Pearse. “He saw the mosaic yesterday, and then we covered it back up. He left in the early evening.”

  “There’s no sign of a forced entry, and the basement door to the street was locked.”

  “Jeremy had his own keys to the house and basement, of course,” Mrs. Wilson said. “But he always rang before he came. He was very considerate that way.”

  Pearse looked into the hall, handed the plastic bag to a policeman, and noticed Pru. “Did you need something else, Ms. Parke?”

  Pru had no answer, but escaped eviction when one of the police workers came to the door. “Sir? There’s a neighbor here. He wants to talk with you.”

  “Yes, ask him to come in here, if that’s all right.” Pearse turned to the Wilsons and ignored Pru. Malcolm walked in.

  “Harry, Vernona, how terrible this is about Jeremy. Oh, is there tea, Vernona?” Without a word or greeting, Mrs. Wilson turned to put the kettle back on for a fresh pot.

  “Are you the inspector? I’m Malcolm Crisp—I live just to the back. I’m sure you’ve got every bit of information already. Do you have any idea who did this?”

  Pearse turned to the new arrival. “Mr. Crisp, we’ve just started the investigation. Did you see or hear anything unusual during the night or early this morning?” he asked.

  “I don’t really keep a constant eye out the window,” Malcolm said—Pru noticed the Wilsons glance at each other. “Of course, I’m sure Harry already told you about the argument he had with Jeremy last evening out in the shed.”

  “Did you and Mr. Pendergast argue, Mr. Wilson?” Pearse asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing.” Malcolm’s voice contained just a trace of delight. “Just some loud voices, that’s all. I couldn’t really hear what was said, just snatches of phrases:—‘Not yet,’ and ‘I won’t let you jeopardize,’ and something about ‘What it’s worth.’ ”

  “Jeremy and I discussed how to go about examining what might be there.” Mr. Wilson’s face colored up, and Pru noticed he avoided using the words “Roman” and “mosaic.” “There’s no question that it needs to be looked at, and we discussed … how best to go about that. We talked—perhaps we were loud. That’s … that’s all.”

  The policeman with the plastic bag stepped in the doorway and spoke quietly with Pearse, who turned to the Wilsons. “Mr. Pendergast’s door key was still with him, and the basement door was locked. You say no one else could’ve come through?”

  Silence filled the room, until Pearse noticed Pru still standing near the door. “Ms. Parke?” he said sharply.

  “Yes, Inspector, goodbye. Mrs. Wilson …”

  “Pru, dear, I’ll see you tomorrow morning for coffee, shall I?”

  Pru accepted graciously and then left before Pearse had her removed forcibly.

  Chapter 3

  Just as well, she thought. The Nethercotts’ topiary awaited her—seven geometric shapes, from balls to pyramids—dotted around their back garden. The Nethercotts had great hopes of turning the shapes into something more fanciful. First they had requested the center plant to be turned into a crown—they were proud monarchists—and next they thought that the two on either side of the crown could be quickly changed into lyres. After that, they hoped she could transform the balls into peacocks. Everyone wants a peacock, Pru thought.

  They’d also asked if she could secure a window shutter; many clients assumed that if the chore took place outdoors, the gardener could do it. She needed to sift through the events of the morning, but garden tasks had piled up in the few days since she’d taken the Wilsons on, and if she wasn’t going to be raking in the money on their new garden, she’d better continue her other gigs. Standing at the bus stop, she pulled out her phone. She had to tell someone.

  “Jo, you won’t believe what I’ve go
t to tell you.” Pru gave a quick rundown of the morning’s events.

  “No one would be murdered over a Roman mosaic, surely,” Jo said.

  “It’s more than a mosaic. This could be huge,” Pru replied, envisioning the garden she could create around the ruins of a Roman villa.

  “But the Wilsons will have to tell the earl before they can dig,” Jo said.

  “Yes, the inspector told me about the earl. I suppose it’ll all belong to him, no matter how amazing the discovery.” Despite the murder, Pru couldn’t get out of her head the possibility of taking on a project bigger than anything she’d ever dreamed up. “Look, do you have time to meet me at the Cat at three?”

  She had just ended her call when Malcolm spoke behind her.

  “Pru?”

  Pru jumped.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s a terrible business, isn’t it? So, you found the body?”

  She didn’t know if she was supposed to talk about the murder, but on the other hand, Pearse hadn’t given her a silence order. “Did you know Jeremy Pendergast, Malcolm?”

  “Oh, yes,” Malcolm said, “we all knew Jeremy. What was it like? Was he alive when you found him? Where was Harry? In the shed with you?”

  This seemed too gruesome a subject, and thinking about the details made Pru slightly queasy again.

  “Had anyone … disturbed anything? Did you see anything else in the shed?” Malcolm persisted.

  Besides a dead body? Pru thought. “No, I didn’t really have time to look around.”

  “What about this mosaic—I couldn’t help but hear what you said on the phone …” Yes, Pru thought, you couldn’t help but hear when you were eavesdropping. “Is that what Jeremy and Harry argued about?”

  Malcolm’s manner pushed Pru too far; she wouldn’t be the one to reveal the possibility of Roman ruins—she’d be stealing Mr. Wilson’s thunder. At least, she didn’t want to reveal the news to Malcolm.

  “I don’t know, really. You should talk with the Wilsons or with the inspector. Maybe you saw someone in the garden? I don’t even know when he was killed, last night or early this morning.”

  “Oh, someone was in the garden all right,” said Malcolm, sounding sure of himself. “Did you have any evidence for them? Anything to … show them?”

  “I didn’t have anything to show them. All I could do was say that I found the body. Sorry, here’s my bus. I’ve got to run. I’ll see you soon, though.”

  Pru stepped on the bus; as Malcolm watched her intently she dropped her phone in her pocket and pulled out her bus pass, called the Oyster card. As the bus pulled away, she looked up and saw Malcolm staring at her through the window.

  Pru began the crown topiary transformation at the Nethercotts’ and took a stab at a light shearing for the lyres and peacocks. She had encouraged Helen and Gordon Nethercott to let her whack away at the yew, explaining that it was one of the few conifers that would grow from old wood. “I can cut right into these shapes now, and the new growth will pop out before you know it. It’ll be a fast start to the new look,” she said.

  But they were hesitant to commit to such a drastic move. “We don’t really like the look of the bare wood,” Helen had explained as she and her husband stood there anxiously watching Pru, who held hedge clippers in her hand.

  “Of course, of course,” Pru had said. “We’ll go slow.” She had turned away from them and rolled her eyes. Yew wood was a gorgeous dark red-brown that flaked off dramatically. Who could object to that? Perhaps I could wave my magic wand, she thought, and instantly transform the yew into a crown, lyres, and peacocks and make them dance around the garden.

  She had to admit the slow clipping created a sense of calm after the morning’s drama and settled her queasy stomach. By the time she arrived at the Cat, she was more than ready for lunch; Mrs. Wilson’s sugary cup of tea being the last thing she’d had.

  She gave Wilf a wave—he stood in a corner instructing a new barmaid on food composting. Pru had suggested the Cat and Cask sign up with a local company that collected kitchen scraps from restaurants and pubs, and Wilf had jumped at the chance to do his part to reduce the amount of waste heading to the tip—he also liked to use his newfound eco-consciousness as a bit of a marketing tool. It helped Pru, too: when she finished tidying the pots and window boxes, she could dump the spent flowers and wilted leaves in the bin along with the scrapings from plates.

  When Jo arrived, Pru ordered a chicken salad plate and they each drank a half pint of bitter while she went through her morning again, this time in detail. Freshly shocked at the event, Jo fumed about a member of the Metropolitan Police treating Pru in such a fashion. Pru followed up with telling her about Malcolm at the bus stop; he obviously had been listening to her side of the conversation. They speculated on the murder, motives and method, and wished they knew more about everyone involved.

  “You really don’t think it was because there might be Roman ruins in the shed?” asked Pru.

  “Roman ruins?” Jo snorted. “Roman ruins are as common as dirt in London. You can’t move without tripping over a pile of pottery or a bit of a statue. They found Hadrian’s head in the Thames, for God’s sake.” She thought for a moment. “I’d say a fair number of Roman leftovers in London get discovered and then get undiscovered—covered back up again, lest the find hold up some building project. And if there is a villa under there, it didn’t belong to this Jeremy Pendergast.” Jo sat upright. “Pru, what if it was a random act? It could’ve been you—what if you had disturbed someone about to break in to the house …?”

  “The person was already in the back garden, and the only way there is through the house or the basement,” Pru said. “And I would like to know what Jeremy Pendergast was doing back there again. I wonder if he and Mr. Wilson really did have an argument. But then he could just end their lease, couldn’t he, and the Wilsons would have to move.” Silently, Pru wondered if the Wilsons had money problems, as she did. The letter she’d seen in their house from appraisers—they could be selling off their belongings for quick cash. Perhaps Jeremy had given them a deal on rent, as the Clarkes gave her, and they couldn’t afford to move. Pru’s line of thought was leading her down a path she didn’t like.

  “I see all sorts of disputes over lets and sublets,” Jo said. “People may get turfed out, but the disputes don’t end up in murder.” She glanced at the time on her phone. “I’m supposed to go to Cordelia and Lucy’s for a meal—do you want to come? I’d hate to leave you alone tonight, thinking about all this.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I didn’t remember until I was leaving the Wilsons’ about all the photos I’ve taken—during the work and this morning when I got there. I’m going to download them and take a look. Maybe I have a photo of something that will help the investigation. You never know.”

  She thought back to the murder scene and her discovery of the wet soil beneath the mosaic. Murder she couldn’t fathom, but wet soil, that’s something she understood.

  “Jo,” she said, “could there be an underground stream or seepage or something at the bottom of the garden? Without anyone knowing about it?”

  Jo looked thoughtful. “Well, they covered over the Fleet,” she said.

  “You mean Fleet Street?” asked Pru.

  “The river Fleet,” said Jo. “It was a sewer, I mean really a sewer, flowing to the Thames. It was covered over ages ago.”

  “But this couldn’t be the Fleet, that’s over”—Pru waved her hand vaguely—“by Ludgate, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but there could be others.” She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, Pru, you’d be better off asking some historian.”

  “I might just look into it,” Pru said. “It will affect whatever I do with the garden.” She took a breath. “Jo, anything from the Clarkes?”

  Jo studied Pru’s face for a moment. Gauging my tolerance level for bad news, no doubt, Pru thought. “No,” Jo sa
id. “There is no need to add something else to your list of worries—you just put them out of your mind.” She stood up, gathering her bag and phone to leave. “Pru, next weekend—come to the country with us. The Bennet-Smythes invite us all every year. The village has an autumn fête on Saturday, and there’s loads of room at the house. It’ll be good for you to get away … and we can go to Chedworth. You can become an expert in Roman villas.”

  Pru made her way home and spent the early evening filling out more applications for jobs, one for Stanborough Castle, a small private estate in Yorkshire, and one for a large ravine garden in Cornwall. She had hoped to hear by now from a small garden near Royal Tunbridge Wells, Primrose House; she had applied several weeks ago. It had sounded the perfect size, just four acres—somewhere she could design, dig, plant, tend, and avoid small-engine repair. The advert for Primrose House offered what most did for a full-time head-gardener post: regular hours, holidays, and—she loved the idea of this—a cottage of her own.

  Pru’s dreams of cottage living, born of her mother’s stories of growing up in England in the 1930s and ’40s, had a vintage look. In Pru’s vintage cottage vision, someone sat across the table from her, drinking tea. She could never quite make out his face, but she felt sure they drank out of her mother’s Spode china—the blue-and-pink Queen Mary pattern, the last few pieces of which had been packed away carefully and stored at Lydia’s.

  Memories of sitting and drinking tea with her mother in their kitchen in Dallas always comforted Pru. No matter what the temperature, their afternoons had been marked with this small ceremony. “There’s nothing cools you off better than a hot cup of tea,” her mother would say.

  Pru’s dad had taken a decidedly different view. “In America,” he would say with a twinkle in his eye, and a quick glance at his wife, “we drink our tea with ice.” His proclamation notwithstanding, Pru kept close to her heart the sight of her dad, every afternoon after his retirement, sitting down in the kitchen for a nice, hot cup of tea.