Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3)

by Marty Wingate

  Pru peered out the back window in the kitchen and saw someone else’s garden.

  “You should have everything you need here—at least to get you started. Shall I pop round to collect you in the morning? Thought I’d give you a tour of the gardens before you begin your great endeavor with Alastair. Here now,” Victoria said as she held up the key, “all yours.”

  Although not sure of her exact location, Pru knew the flat was too close to the garden to need a lift and told Victoria she would see her there in the morning. “Right, I’ll meet you at the west gate at nine. Cheers, bye!” Pru got the door closed before Victoria had any afterthoughts.

  She turned all the lights on and surveyed her temporary digs. A basket, lined with an oversize tea towel and brimming with local fare, took up the entire kitchen table. Pru investigated and found whole meal bread, farm-fresh eggs, coffee roasted in New Town, a tea blended specially for the botanic garden, cheese, fruit, jam, butter, a bottle of red wine—not Scottish. In the fridge, milk and bacon. She smiled. They’d given her as much as she could handle.

  —

  “Murdo Trotter.” Pru giggled on the phone. “He’s one of the gardeners—seemed a bit out of place, if you ask me. Everyone was talking administrative policies, and I heard him going on about ‘hibs.’ What are ‘hibs’?”

  Christopher laughed. “Hibs are Hibernians—one of the Edinburgh football clubs.” He had answered on the first ring, and she knew he’d been waiting for her call.

  “It’s a lovely flat,” she said. “Reminds me of the cottage. You’ll like it.” Please come soon.

  “Did you see much of the city when you arrived?”

  “It was too dark, and Victoria demanded all my attention.” A brief rundown on Ms. Findlay, followed by, “And anyway, I’m saving all my sightseeing for you. I won’t even look at the castle.”

  “You won’t be able to not look at the castle. You’ll see.”

  As they talked, she moved around the sitting room, trying first the armchair, and after that the sofa to see which would be her favorite place. “And how was the rest of your day?” she asked.

  “I walked over to Russell Square after you left and had a cup of tea at the kiosk.” She waited. “And then I went by the station.”

  They had spent Sunday afternoons at their leisure during his leave—wildflower walks in Cornwall, rambles in Gloucestershire, the theatre in London. Now here they were apart—Christopher back to his bachelor ways working every day of the week. For a moment, the next three months that stretched in front of Pru appeared to have no end.

  Chapter 6

  She stood on the corner at the end of her street the next morning and pulled up her coat collar against the cold. Left? Right? She’d studied Menzies, ships, plant collecting, the route of the Discovery—she’d neglected to memorize the streets in her new neighborhood. She’d have to dig in her bag, find the map, and look like a tourist.

  “Good morning.”

  Pru turned to find a short older woman with soft, steel-gray bubble curls and sharp eyes behind blue-framed glasses. She wore a red wool coat, purple scarf, and a matching beret. “We’ve a fine start to the day, don’t you think?”

  The air had been thick with tiny snowflakes when Pru stepped out her door. By the time she’d walked to the corner snow had morphed into sleet, which had let up as quickly as it had appeared. Now, the air was clear but sharp. She sniffed; the cold was making her nose run. “Yes,” she said, her breath creating clouds of fog. “Lovely.”

  “Are you searching for a house number? I don’t mean to pry, but if you need assistance…”

  “Thanks, that’s very kind of you. Which way to the botanic garden?”

  “Which way would you like to go?” the woman asked.

  Pru peered at her, looking for a resemblance to the Cheshire cat.

  “It’s just that you could go either way and arrive.” The woman stretched her arms out left and right.

  Pru laughed. “I see. The west gate, please.”

  “Well, then, come along with me—I walk past it every morning at this time.” Before she took a step, she said, “I’m Agnes Murchie. I live in Balmoral”—she gestured behind them—“not the Balmoral, if you know what I mean, but the road.”

  Pru introduced herself and—before she could get the “you’re American”—told her story in brief.

  “Well then, welcome to Edinburgh,” Mrs. Murchie said, as they walked. “I’ll see you often. I take this walk every day—up, around, and back through the Botanics—before I go to work in the charity shop.” She stopped as they crossed a bridge and pointed to stone steps that led down to a footpath. “This path goes along the Water of Leith—it’s a lovely walk, but the steps are a wee bit slippery when it’s raining, so do be careful.” Mrs. Murchie steered her to the right around a corner, but waved her hand back toward a road to their left—“grocer, chemist, salon, wine shop, anything you need is there. Lovely food shops where you can buy fresh meals to pop in the oven.” She glanced at Pru out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t cook much myself.”

  “Neither do I,” Pru said and they both smiled at this first connection. “It’s good to know where to shop—thanks.”

  They stepped aside to allow a woman being led by a swarm of terriers to pass.

  “So many walkers with their dogs—I sometimes think I should bring Prumper along with me for a walk, but I just can’t see a Siamese putting up with it, can you?”

  They neared the employee entrance at the west gate—Pru could see Victoria waiting for her in the distance—and Mrs. Murchie invited Pru to stop round for a cup of tea. “I’m home in the late afternoon. I’m in number twelve—one of the high doors.”

  —

  Pru could just imagine Victoria taking groups of schoolchildren around the gardens—they’d never have a second to misbehave if she kept them on the move the way she kept Pru going, striding from the arboretum to the Queen Mother’s garden, from Temperate Palm House to Scottish heath, up the Chinese Hillside, and finally to the city viewpoint, all the while keeping up a stream of chatter. They stood looking at the spires of town—Pru panting as quietly as possible, Victoria explaining what they saw.

  “Right,” Victoria said as they marched back down the hill, “I believe Alastair is expecting you at ten.” She took a folded map out of her pocket and pointed to a building at the northeastern corner of the garden. “He’s just there, up the stairs, third door on your right. I’m sure you can find your way. I must be off—meeting a new group of volunteers for orientation.”

  Victoria seemed to possess a bottomless pit of energy—Pru silently wished the new volunteers luck. She looked down at the map; they’d ended the tour in the middle of the garden, and so she headed off on a curved path to meet the main walk that led to the administration building. Her head swiveled from side to side as plants and displays caught her eye—huge trees she couldn’t identify, bare branches of shrubs awaiting bud break. No time to stop now, but she’d have three months to enjoy spring as it unfolded.

  “Good morning, Pru,” a voice called from behind her.

  “Murdo, hello.” When he caught up with her, she added, “And how are you?”

  “No’ bad,” he said. He had a wool cap pulled over his red burr, transforming his head into a green cue ball; he held up a black trug and a long-handled cultivator. “Just off to weed the Queen Mother’s garden,” he explained as he climbed into the driver’s seat of an electric cart and looked up one path and then down another.

  “It’s that way, isn’t it?” Pru nodded in the direction he had come.

  He looked behind him. “Oh, aye.” He sighed.

  “Weeding,” she said, “not a glamorous job, but always necessary.”

  “Ah, it isn’t that, it’s just—I’m more of a tree man—massive oaks, the smell of a Scots pine.”

  “You’re an arborist?” Pru asked.

  “Arbor? No,” Murdo said, shaking his head. “I’ve not made one of those.”
>
  “Sorry?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’d best be off.”

  She watched him drive off toward an enormous square opening that was cut into a thirty-foot-high beech hedge—crisp brown leaves still clinging to its branches. She continued to Alastair’s office, smiling to herself—she could already give directions around the garden.

  “Pru Parke,” she said at the front desk, and acquired the proper identification before heading upstairs. As she approached Alastair’s office, she saw that the door was halfway open. Voices drifted out.

  “No, really, Iain, I believe you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you meet her,” Alastair said.

  “Nothing would surprise me about this project,” a voice returned.

  “Just give her a chance,” Alastair said.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “A great deal depends on a good outcome, Iain—you know that.”

  “We wouldn’t want to spoil plans for your grand exit, now would we, Alastair?”

  Pru announced herself with a small cough. “Hello?” She knocked, but kept out in the hall.

  “Pru, come in.” Alastair met her at the door and offered an introduction. “This is Iain Blackwell, historian of special collections here at the Botanics. Iain,” he said, as if they hadn’t just been talking about her, “this is Pru Parke, who’ll be working on the Menzies journal.”

  Iain reached out a hand and gave Pru what felt like a perfunctory shake. “Welcome to Edinburgh,” he said. “I’m sure you’re very pleased about this project.” His voice was smooth. Pru wasn’t sure if he was Scottish—some Edinburgh accents weren’t nearly as strong as those from outside the city. He looked to be fiftyish and certainly wasn’t one of the gardeners—too well-dressed in a brown wool jacket; the muted plaid set off his auburn hair, which was cut short and styled perfectly. He glanced at Pru and then away when he spoke.

  “Thank you, yes, I’m happy to be here, and I’m looking forward to digging in. So to speak.” Too silly? Pru had a bit of nerves on her first morning.

  “Iain will be a great resource for you, Pru,” Alastair said, motioning her into a chair as Iain leaned on the edge of a table set against the far wall. “Now, here”—Alastair patted a thin bound volume on his desk—“is a reproduction of the journal pages that were found. Naturally, you will want to see the actual document, but for daily purposes, we thought it best for you to work off a copy.”

  “Of course, you know when the journal ended?” Iain asked.

  “I believe the last entry was February 16, 1794, when they left Hawaii,” Pru said. “The entire return journey on the Discovery—more than a year—all missing.” Iain didn’t look at her as she spoke, and so she turned to Alastair, who slid the book across the desk to her.

  She took it in her lap and opened it. She recognized Menzies’s handwriting, as she had been reading his journal of the voyage at the British Library. The script was legible and the language simple, yet descriptive—profound, Pru thought. She already heard his voice in her head, much as she had created a voice for Humphry Repton when she worked on the gardens at Primrose House. Menzies sounded like a beloved professor—kind and encouraging, instructing but never chastising. The first date was 17 February 1794. Pru smiled—these missing pages picked up the day after the last known entry.

  “I’ve left a copy of his entire journal in your office. You will be looking for discrepancies in this found text,” Alastair explained. “The paper and ink on the original will be dated, of course.” It would be up to Pru to not only authenticate the botanical information, but also describe the journal and how it fit into Menzies’s entire journey on the Discovery, as well as sort through the stories and explanations he gave afterward.

  “And you know why the journal went missing,” Iain said. It was a flat statement, delivered with arms crossed in front of him.

  Was he trying to catch her out? “To save face—the navy’s. Captain Vancouver was concerned that word would get out about how he treated Lord Camelford, and so Vancouver demanded that Mr. Menzies turn over his journal. He refused, and so he was under threat of court-martial.”

  “Why would dealings with Lord Camelford concern Vancouver?” Iain fired back.

  Pru knew the story inside out by now—and would’ve been enjoying the exchange if it wasn’t for Iain’s treating her as if she were a fly he kept trying to swat. “Because young Lord Camelford was Thomas Pitt—a relative of the prime minister.”

  “Vancouver was of low birth,” Iain added, as if Pru’s answer was lacking. As he went on with a description of the captain and his status in society, she squinted at him. He reminded her of someone, but it wasn’t until he wrapped up his soliloquy with “And so, Ms. Parke…” that she realized who it was: Mr. Boyd, her high school algebra teacher. It was his mouth. Iain had no lips just like Mr. Boyd, only a wavy line—a cartoon mouth. “And so, Ms. Parke, DeMorgan’s theorem…” No lips and that condescending way of talking to her. Pru had never liked Mr. Boyd.

  “…the importance of unknown writing by Mingis?” Pru’s attention returned only at the end of Iain’s question. Mingis? Who was he talking about? “Well, Ms. Parke?”

  “I’m sorry—who?”

  A small smile of triumph crept onto Iain’s face. “You don’t know the correct pronunciation of his name?”

  “Iain.” This from Alastair, part plea, part warning.

  Iain looked away, and Pru turned again to Alastair, her mind abuzz. “Well, if this is authentic, it could verify the story he told later about the monkey puzzle tree. And who knows what other plants he might’ve been credited with introducing? The missing part of his journal—this part,” she said to the copy in her hand—“covered the time they spent in Chile on the return trip. Mr. M…”—what was she supposed to call him?—“Menzies’s story of discovering the monkey puzzle tree has always been a topic of debate.”

  “Wasn’t it true he took seeds off a dessert he was served in Santiago?” Iain cut in.

  “Well, some people have—” Pru began.

  “And germinated them on the way back to England?” he asked.

  Let me finish, she thought. “It’s such a romantic, adventurous story,” Pru hurried on. “But did Mr. Menzies come across the seeds in a more prosaic way? Given to him by someone in the court, perhaps. Maybe the dessert story got told so often that after a while, he began to believe it himself.” She gave the volume a pat while she stopped to catch her breath. “I hope this will tell us.”

  Alastair’s smile was broad and inclusive. “There now, that’s grand. You’ll find Menzies’s account of acquiring the seeds in there,” he said, nodding toward the new document. “But is it the real thing? You’ll have to tell us.”

  “And I’ll write up my findings?” she asked. Surely her work would result in some scholarly paper.

  “Oh, well,” Alastair said, and paused for a moment. “Yes, of course. I’ll look forward to it.” He stood. “Pru, I want you to go to Iain with any questions you have. He is to be your…well, what should I say…sounding board for any ideas and conclusions you come to. And now”—he moved to the door—“I’ll just pop down the hall and get us tea—yes, Iain, coffee for you, I remember. You two get to know each other.”

  After Alastair left, the silence was deafening. Iain turned his back on her to shuffle papers about on the table until Pru said, “This certainly seems like your area of expertise. Were you not able to take on the extra work right now and study the journal yourself?”

  He didn’t look at her, but said in an offhanded manner, “Oh, now, why would they need me when they had someone like you—someone who had so much…to offer?”

  Pru’s face heated up at this apparent jab. She did have a lot to offer—she knew she did—but he seemed to be making a joke of it. “My master’s degree is in garden history,” she said, keeping an even and friendly tone. “I know what I’m doing—I hope you believe that.”

  “I believe,” Iain said, pivoting to face her, a tigh
t smile screwed on his mouth, “that you’re here because you were bought and paid for.”

  Pru snapped her head back as if she’d been slapped. “What does that mean?”

  “That means, Ms. Parke, you’re a fraud.”

  Chapter 7

  She flew out of her chair, clutching the journal copy, just as Alastair bumped his way back through the door carrying a tray full of rattling cups, milk jug, sugar bowl, and spoons. “Right, now, here we are. Pru, do you take sugar?”

  Alastair didn’t seem to notice the lack of congeniality in the air. As he poured, he chatted away about the garden and the city. Pru asked as many questions as possible just to keep him going. Iain was silent, keeping all his attention on his coffee until he drained the cup and excused himself.

  Alastair began going over the practicalities of Pru’s job—office, desk, electric kettle, assistant—but she heard barely a word. She needed air. She needed to take a few deep breaths and clear Iain Blackwell from her mind.

  “You’ll want to check in with Iain regularly,” Alastair continued. “Just to let him know how you are getting on. Perhaps the two of you can set up a meeting to start off or finish out each day.” Lovely.

  “Alastair, should Iain be conducting the research himself?”

  “Certainly not!” he said. “This is your job, and we’re so very pleased you were available to take it on.” His jovial tone teetered on the edge of overcompensation. “Now, a few more details. Your office is down the back stairs, out the door, and into the next building,” Alastair said. “It’s small, but I think you’ll find you have enough room. I know that Victoria has given you the cook’s tour, but I’ll show you around the offices just as soon as…” His phone rang, and he looked down at the screen. “Oh, sorry, Pru, I do need to take this. Can you make your way over, and I’ll stop by in a while? I believe we’ve got your name on the door.”