“Come through, Ms. Parke,” she heard the designer call. Pru walked behind the partition to find Tassie perched atop a Victorian wrought-iron fern stand, a squashy pillow for comfort, and Madame Fiona throwing a large black cloth over the mirrors. The room darkened slightly. “No need to worry, dearie, we just don’t want to spoil the big reveal, as I like to say. Now”—she gestured at Pru—“off with your things and we’ll begin.”
Madame Fiona retired to the back room, and Pru stripped to her underwear and fan pendant necklace. More dress design sketches had been pinned up near a worktable, and Pru edged over to see if she could pick out which one might be hers, but before she got close enough to see anything other than color—white, blue, maroon, black—Madame Fiona emerged carrying a pile of white material with something blue trailing behind.
“Now, now, Ms. Parke, you must contain yourself. Up you go,” she said, nodding to the dais. Pru climbed aboard. Madame Fiona set her bundle on the table and sorted through material before choosing a piece that resembled a giant cotton ball. “Step in here,” she said and pinned the skirt onto a bodice that she pulled over Pru’s head. “I’ve not stitched the piece together, so we can rework anything necessary. Arm in here.”
The material was stiff, like an old-fashioned petticoat, and snowy white. Pru swallowed. As a gardener, she always avoided white. She bent her head to look down. “Chin up, Ms. Parke, we need a clean line.” Pru stood back at attention. As Madame Fiona fussed, Pru cut her eyes to look at the sleeves. They bunched up just above the elbow. Her breathing became shallow. Dropping her eyes without moving her head, she saw that the neckline seemed reasonable, not too high or too low. Madame Fiona pulled up on Pru’s bra straps. “We’ll need a bit of a lift, I think.”
The skirt had a lot of layers to it, but didn’t seem to go to the floor. Well, that’s a good thing, Pru thought. Isn’t it?
“Lift your arms, please,” Madame Fiona said and tied a wide piece of baby-blue satin around Pru’s waist. Pru began to feel light-headed; she hoped she wasn’t sweating onto the fabric. “We’re taking a chance here, Ms. Parke,” the designer said, sounding breathless herself. “We’re making a statement.” And with a flourish, she whisked the black cloth off the mirrors. “Voilà!”
Pru’s face went numb—she could neither smile nor grimace, although she felt very much like doing the latter. The image in the mirror—could that be her? Flouncing, balloon of a skirt, puffy sleeves, satin sash. She couldn’t get her lips apart. “Mmm…”
“Now, Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said, “adjustments can always be made, but I need your general opinion. Here now, you can see the back if you turn to this mirror.”
Pru saw an enormous blue satin bow tied at her waist.
“Mmm…” She struggled to form a coherent word. “I…mmm…have to go.” She stepped down and began pulling at the sleeves, the pins scratching at her skin. “I’m…so sorry, Madame Fiona, I just remembered…an urgent…thing I have to do at the Botanics. It’s…mmm.” She tried to extricate herself from the costume.
“I know it’s a great deal to take in at once, but I felt the pastoral imagery so strongly with you, Ms. Parke…” the designer said as she hurried to unpin Pru from the frock.
Pru grabbed her own clothes, hopping up and down to pull on socks, stuffing feet into her shoes, and stretching arms into her cardigan. Tassie began to yip, as Pru’s jumping caused the fern stand to shake. “I’ll ring you just as soon as…”
As she spoke, she backed toward the door, her arms loaded with the rest of her things, when Madame Fiona shouted, “Ms. Parke! Your trousers!”
Pru looked down at her bare legs. She dropped her bundle, picked out her trousers and jumped into them, getting one shoe stuck partway down a trouser leg. “Thank you, Madame Fiona, I’ll just…soon…” She backed out of the work area and continued until she’d pushed the front door open with her bottom.
Out on the pavement, Pru broke into a run, tearing around the corner and running smack into someone hurrying toward her. She dropped her bag and bent to pick it up, amid a flurry of “Sorrys” on both sides. She looked up to see Alexander—the nice fellow she’d met her first day—and he took hold of her arms.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Oh, hello,” Pru said, “yes, fine.”
His red-rimmed eyes registered barely a flicker of recognition. “Good. Good.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and looked at the ground, then back at her. “Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
He hurried around the corner, and Pru gave him a backward glance before returning to her own misery.
—
“Little Bo Peep!” she shouted into the phone as she paced back and forth across her tiny kitchen, hot tears of humiliation streaming down her cheeks. “I looked like Little Bo Peep—all that was missing was a bonnet and a flock of sheep!”
“My God, what was the woman thinking?” Jo asked, her voice uneven with anger. “I can’t believe she would do this—I’ve seen some of her designs, Pru, and they were lovely. How could this happen?”
Pru’s breathing calmed and her heart rate slowed as Jo’s outrage soaked up some of her hurt. “Oh, Jo, if you were here, I’m sure it would have been fine. I should’ve been clearer about what kind of wedding dress I want.” Pru shrugged. “But I don’t know what I want, so how could I?”
“You leave this to me.” Jo had taken on her business voice, and Pru knew that Madame Fiona had better watch out. “I’ll talk to her first thing tomorrow. I still want to get your dress for you, but I will not let Madame Fiona or anyone else try to do something like this. I’ll sort it out—I don’t want you to give it another thought.”
Pru felt a rush of gratitude. “Thanks, Jo.”
“Now, any word on when Christopher will visit you?”
“No,” Pru said, shaking her head at no one. “He might be able to get away in a couple of weeks, but it’s so difficult for him, you know.”
They rang off without Pru filling Jo in on the rest of her day—really, she couldn’t be bothered to go into the story of Marcus’s appearance in Edinburgh. A malaise crept over Pru. And it was Christopher she really wanted to pour her heart out to.
But even their conversation couldn’t cheer her as it usually did. He knew about the fitting appointment, and it was the first thing he asked.
“Well, it was…okay,” she said in a small voice, unable to bring herself to describe the reflection she’d seen in Madame Fiona’s mirrors, although it was seared onto the screen of her mind. How was it that other women could sail through planning a wedding, and she felt a fool at every turn? “It wasn’t what I expected, I guess.” Just move on, she thought. “Of course, I had my usual argument with Iain—but here’s the bizarre thing that happened today: I saw Marcus.”
A moment of silence. “Marcus—from Dallas?” Christopher asked.
“Yes, apparently he’s on some exchange program. I hadn’t told Lydia that I was here in Edinburgh, and so he was just as surprised as I was.”
“And, you’ll be working together?”
“No, thank God. I doubt if I will see him at all. He’ll be way over there,” she said, waving her arm listlessly to indicate the large administration building, “in some office.” Hearing Christopher’s voice had lifted her spirits enough that she felt like eating, and she had wedged her phone between ear and shoulder while she sliced off a piece of the chicken-and-ham pie. “And so how did it go in court?”
“Not well,” he said. “They dismissed the case.” His voice was muffled, as if he was rubbing his face. “It’s a great deal of work to put in—interviewing, piecing together evidence, writing reports—to come to nothing.”
She heard the weariness in his voice. “And here I am nattering on,” she said, as she set a fork down on the table, and not for the first time wondered what she was doing so far away from him. “I hope to see you soon.”
They rang off. She poured herself a glass of
wine while the pie warmed. Later, as she turned on the television for the late news, she heard something outside—a scraping of stone, footsteps on the walk at her door. She muted the TV and listened, but heard nothing else. After a few minutes, she opened the door and glanced around. There was a rustling in the privet, but it was too scrawny a hedge to hide anyone. Pru sniffed—a soapy scent drifted on the cold air. Then she heard a clattering from an open window above her—the neighbor upstairs, washing dishes. She checked twice that the latch was thrown on the door.
Chapter 14
The next morning, a shower of rain fell—the dark sky promised more to come. Pru stood at her office door, digging in her bag for the key, when Murdo appeared at her elbow.
“Pru,” he said quietly, and she jumped. “So, I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Heard what?”
“About Iain Blackwell.”
Pru continued the key search, but glanced up at Murdo, who didn’t continue. “What, Murdo, what about Iain? Ah,” she said, her hand emerging from the bag’s depths holding the key. She concentrated on the lock instead of Murdo hovering at her shoulder.
“He’s dead.”
Pru dropped the key. “What?”
“Yesterday,” he said, his voice low. He bent to pick the key up for her, and glanced over his shoulder as he stood.
“What happened? Was he ill?”
Murdo continued to look around the empty hall. “It was an accident, Pru. They say he slipped, hit his head, and fell in the Water of Leith. Over on Glenogle. Do you know the spot?”
Pru leaned against the wall to stop the world from spinning. She knew the spot. She walked across that bridge every morning. She chatted with Mrs. Murchie as they walked. “But the water isn’t even deep there. Did he drown or hit his head?”
Murdo backed off a fraction. “I dunno, do I?”
“How awful. When did it happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Murdo said. “But it was an accident, Pru.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”
She vowed never to argue with another person for as long as she lived—because you never knew, you just never knew. She nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. Who told you about it?”
Murdo regained some of his usual chipper attitude. “Och, it’s all over. One of the fellows in the shed was telling us earlier. Weel,” he said, straightening his shoulders and sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket, “I’ll leave you to get to your work now.”
Her work—oh, yes. The big project. But she needed Iain for that. She checked the phone on her desk—no messages. Would any official person come to tell her, or did they expect the news of Iain’s death to reach her through the usual channels—gossip? She went to find Alastair.
His door was ajar and he was on the phone, but when he saw her peek around, he raised his eyebrows in greeting and motioned her in. “No, no, Joan,” he said into the phone, “don’t cancel any of his courses. I’m sure we can find someone to fill in. Right. Cheers, bye.” He indicated a chair. “Pru, do come in and sit down. Coffee?”
“Alastair, I’ve just heard about Iain.”
His face fell at once. “Yes, dreadful, isn’t it? Still,” he said, cheering back up again, “this doesn’t affect your project at all—I don’t want you to worry about that. I know you can carry on with no problem. Is there anything you need at the moment?”
“No,” she said, “I guess not.”
“Well, I’ll just let you get back to it, then, shall I?” A dismissal if she’d ever heard one.
She got to the door, when Alastair said, “Oh, Pru—have you taught classes before?”
—
Rather than face her office, she sought coffee—not with Alastair, she could just do with a little less of that chipper attitude. Instead, she took refuge in the Terrace Café. Tray in hand, she saw Victoria Findlay wave her over.
“What a horrible thing to happen,” Victoria said when Pru asked if she knew. “And too bad about the timing,” she added. “Just a week away from our Daffadowndilly Days to celebrate spring. No matter—if the weather is fine, the garden will be heaving with pushchairs, as if every mother and baby in the city have been kept locked in a cupboard for the winter and they’ve broken out all at once.”
A few mothers, taking refuge from the rain, which had picked up its pace, sat in a corner of the café and chatted while their children played. Two toddlers shrieked with delight when their stack of wooden blocks fell to the floor, rendering conversation—for a moment—impossible.
“Did Iain have family, do you know?” Pru asked when it had quieted down.
“Ah, I don’t believe so. Well…” Victoria’s face turned pink as she pressed a finger against her plate to capture the last few crumbs of scone. “He has a friend. You know. A friend who is a man. I mean, well, partner?” She cleared her throat and took a gulp of her tea. “Must get back to it.”
—
Pru sat, head propped in hand and elbow on the desk, staring at the papers in front of her. Now that there was no Iain to ask questions of, she had plenty of them. But she found that they mostly centered on him and his personal life. Had he no relatives? How was his partner coping? Alastair, Victoria, Murdo—none of them seemed particularly bothered that Iain had slipped and fallen into the Water of Leith. Did he drown, she wondered, or die when he hit his head? Did he know what was happening…?
When Saskia came in, Pru realized that the morning’s sharp showers still hadn’t let up.
“There now,” Saskia said, shedding her waterproof jacket and letting it drip from a peg on the wall. “We’ve Sir Joseph Banks today, Pru.” She brought out a file wrapped in plastic. “Copies, but still, we don’t want them damaged, now do we?”
The news of the day seemed to hang in the air, and Pru couldn’t avoid it. “Did you hear about Iain?”
Saskia was quiet for a moment. “I was there—right after. I walked by the bridge yesterday, and an old woman had just found him.”
“Oh, no, how awful for you. What happened?”
Saskia shrugged. “I rang 999. The woman was terribly upset, and I stayed with her for a bit. You know, just to make sure she was all right.” Saskia grew thoughtful. “They said he slipped. You walk that way, Pru, you know what those steps are like,” she said, drying her hands off. “Don’t you think he should’ve been more careful?”
Pru sighed and turned to work. Apparently, Iain’s legacy did not include sympathy from any of his work associates.
But his death did cause her to sharpen her focus. “That pesky fuchsia,” she said to Saskia. “It meant something to Iain. It’s the least we can do to see it through.” Up to that point, her research had come to nothing.
“We’ve found no mention of it in the letters from Banks,” Saskia reminded her. “All those letters Kew copied and sent up.”
Yes—Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. She had met someone there—who? Pru sifted through papers on her desk and checked her email before she found the name—Lawlor Dale, director of South American studies and plants. She rang, reminding him who she was. It took a minute for him to remember, but that didn’t bother Pru. All manner of research into garden and plant topics went on at Kew.
“You have everything we have,” Dale said when she asked about the Sir Joseph Banks archives. But Pru heard a hesitation in his voice and waited. He followed with, “Well, possibly not all.”
Pru rushed to explain about the fuchsia. “I know it’s from Brazil, but might’ve someone passed Menzies some seeds?”
Dale seemed skeptical. “That fuchsia has a murky past, no doubt about it—no one knows quite when it was introduced.”
“In the found journal we’re studying, Menzies mostly describes what the seeds looked like, and then goes on about the banquet they had that night. We thought that if he did bring seeds of the fuchsia back, Banks might’ve mentioned it in a letter or a diary. Do you believe there may be more Banks material?” Pru held her breath, hoping for she didn’t know what.
“I’d come down there myself if I could,” Pru said, “but circumstances are…difficult at the moment.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Iain’s death.
Or had he heard about it already? After a moment of silence, Dale came back with a softer tone. “Perhaps I can get a student on it. I’ll let you know in a week or two.”
Pru thanked him. A week or two? She could see him losing whatever scrap of paper he’d made a note on and it would be out of sight, out of mind. She would make sure that didn’t happen.
—
“Banks was a great advocate for Menzies, wasn’t he?” Saskia said, as they read through the correspondence.
“And Mr. Menzies returned the favor,” Pru replied, riffling through a stack of papers. “Here,” she said. “This is what he wrote about Banks.”
“…who in his great attention to this and every other accommodation shows such a particular zeal for the success of my deportment as deserves my most grateful acknowledgement.”
“They had a good working relationship,” Saskia said. “Like you and I do.”
Pru smiled, but she felt a tinge of guilt. “I thought that Iain and I were nearing something that might resemble that.” Her mind wandered away from Mr. Menzies and Sir Joseph Banks. “Victoria said that Iain has no family—that’s too bad.”
“Is it?” Saskia said. Pru looked up to see her tidying the notes and books they’d strewn about. Saskia noticed Pru’s glance. “Lots of people don’t have family,” she said. “Sometimes that’s just the way it is.”
Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) Page 9
