Except for Macalvie, he didn’t add.
34
The turf had filled the back of a pickup truck and been breezily delivered that morning by one of the young men from the garden supply place in St. Austell.
Having just unrolled a length of it, Melrose stood with his hands on his hips wondering what in hell he was supposed to do with it. He had spent precious little research time on this. He stood staring at this stuff, and then around at grass growing in the normal way of things and wondered at some of the idiocies landscaping had fostered. Besides himself, that is.
He draped the turf down the shallow steps leading from the grassy shelves above one of the several terraces to the gardens below. One length was not nearly enough to run all the way to the bottom. It would take at least one per terrace. Since he didn’t know anything about this particular kind of turfing, he would have to pretend he knew it so well that he completely disdained his turf–its quality, its practicality, everything.
He saw Macmillan coming. At least it wasn’t Lulu, who would not accept anything Melrose said without a battle. Mr. Macmillan, though, being a true expert, was therefore aware of his own limitations and was much more willing to take Melrose’s expertise at face value. Right now Melrose took up a stance, shaking his head emphatically and, for Macmillan’s sake, tsk-tsking.
‘Trouble, Mr. Plant?’
Melrose threw up his hands. ‘Trouble, Mr. Macmillan. As you can no doubt see.’
Macmillan looked, scratched his head. ‘Can’t say as ah do.
Looks pretty good stuff to me.’
‘Well, it isn’t good enough. Rather hopeless, isn’t it? Look at that color, for one thing.’
Macmillan bent over, hands on knees. ‘Looks green.’ He looked up at Melrose for confirmation.
‘Oh, it’s green, all right. It’s green. But much too rough a green.’
Again, Macmillan, still bent toward the turf, looked over his shoulder. ‘Rough?’
‘The seed was most likely burnt. You know, sunburned when it was sown.’
Macmillan frowned, comfortable in his ignorance, but happy to learn a thing or two. ‘Well, ah do know seed can get burnt, Mr. Plant, but...’
Melrose stepped on ‘but’ seeing there might be an involvement in something else. ‘And not liberally enough sown. Yes, a stingy hand was at work here, Mr. Macmillan, a stingy hand, indeed.’ He clapped his own unstingy hand on the old man’s shoulder.
‘That a fact? Well, ah never knew there was such a thing.’ Macmillan then looked more closely at the grass beneath his feet.
‘How ‘bout this lot, then?’
‘Oh, this?’ Melrose rubbed his shoe over a patch of perfect green. ‘For its purpose, it’s fine, absolutely.’ He was sorry to see Lulu and Roy coming their way.
Mr. Macmillan wiped his neck with a big handkerchief. ‘Well, truth be told, ah can hardly tell any difference. It kinda matches up, don’t ya think?’ He turned to Lulu. ‘Mr. Plant here’s saying this’-he pointed to the as yet unrolled up turf—’here’s a bit dodgy.’
Lulu considered. ‘I think it looks the same as the other.’ She kicked the incline wherein the steps rested.
‘Oh, well, to the untrained eye, I expect it does.’ Melrose smirked. ‘Nothing for it, then, but to roll it up and take it back.’ What a happy solution! Only now here came–of all people-Declan Scott, who seldom hung about to oversee the work.
‘How are you getting on, Mr. Plant? I can see you’ve got some help.’ Declan smiled.
Lulu looked up at him with the most intense admiration. ‘He says it looks dodgy.’
Melrose had on an old feed hat he’d found in the cupboard of the cottage and thought he looked very much the humble gardener. ‘I question the quality of the grass.’
Ignorance can defer to knowledge or just manage on its own.
Declan said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t think anyone without your eye would ever notice, right, Mr. Macmillan?’
‘It’s what ah was just sayin’.’
No, he hadn’t been, had he? But that was hardly the point.
Melrose was glad the hat shaded his eyes. ‘If you think it’s all right, then, I’ll just go ahead...’ And what? Trim it up, he supposed.
‘Unfortunately’–he was rooting through his basket of potluck tools–’I don’t seem to see my shears in here. That’s odd.’ It would serve her right if he turned on Lulu. ‘You haven’t borrowed them?’ She frowned. ‘No. Whatever would I want them for?’ The enigmatic Roy chose, from his wardrobe of barks, a snuffling one, through his nose. As if he hadn’t enough people hanging about, now here came Millie strolling over to the party from the clump of Rubus grass and Jury from the angel gate. Melrose felt like a pileup on the A30. He sighed at his tools. ‘I must have the shears to work on this lot.’
‘What kind d’ya need?’ asked Macmillan. ‘Millie,’ he called, ‘just go get my shears, girl.’
‘Oh, but I’m afraid that won’t do.’
Millie had started, stopped, started toward them again.
Melrose went on, wishing that Jury would go stand somewhere else. ‘Unless, of course, you have the number thirteen Black Diamond secateurs? They’re somewhat difficult to find. I bought mine in London, that shop near the British Museum.’
Millie frowned. ‘Never heard of that kind, I haven’t. Black Diamond? You, Dad?’
Macmillan frowned and shook his head.
‘Never mind. I expect the thing to do is call my man at home and have him send them.’
Jury interrupted. ‘No need for that. I’ll pick them up for you. I’m going to London. Be back tomorrow. Faster than any post.’ He clicked his small Biro into place over his small notebook. ‘Where’s this shop, now?’
If Melrose had had the Black Diamond shears in his hand right then, they’d’ve been in Jury’s heart. He could have whipped Jury with the thorn branch Lulu was using to hector Roy, but instead he rattled off a street and number. Any street within barking distance of the British Museum, what difference did it make? And any number.
They had finally all walked away from their sideshow, Jury off to collect Cody, who would drive him to the train. Only Roy remained, he having decided to stick with Melrose as a dependable source of entertainment. He had followed him into the kitchen, where Melrose now sat. After all that, Melrose thought himself worthy of a banquet, but had settled for cozying up to the teapot and some of Rebecca Owen’s superior tea breads.
She had poured tea for both of them and said, ‘How are you getting on with your turf, Mr. Plant?’
He winced, wishing people would stay away from that, as if it mattered anyway, as if it were painting frescoes on the walls of the Brancacci Chapel; he wasn’t Masaccio, turfing the Garden of Eden, for God’s sakes. Oh, to be in Florence! ‘It takes time. No, these things can’t be rushed. Ah, thank you.’
She was passing him the cake–Madeira, cherry, poppy seed-and he took a slice of the Madeira. He welcomed the quiet after the production outside.
‘Most things can’t, really,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’ What was she talking about?
‘Be rushed. As you were saying.’
‘Oh.’
‘I expect that Scotland Yard superintendent knows that better than most.’ She sipped her tea. ‘They have to be so meticulous, don’t they?’
She sounded–tentative, probing. As if she wondered at the wisdom of asking–or perhaps telling–him something. ‘He’s very good at his job. I’ve known him quite some time.’ This was no secret, so Melrose didn’t mind saying it.
‘Mr. Scott said he was the one who recommended you.’ Was she suspicious? He couldn’t tell. She struck him as an astute woman. All he said to this was, ‘Yes, he did.’ He waited for her to go on, but she merely drank her tea in silence. Finally, he said, ‘How long have you been with the Scotts? Or, rather, with Mrs. Scott?’
‘Since Flora was a baby. When Mary was married to Viktor Baumann. She needed help. Oddly, they
had no servants at all.
They lived in this huge flat at St. Katharine’s Dock, very luxurious it was, yet they had no maid, no cook, nothing. They ate out all the time. Mary wasn’t much of a cook.’ Remembering this made her smile until the smile saddened. Then she picked up again. ‘She said she was tired of supporting half the restaurants in London. But after Flora was born, she put her foot down about having help. I was taken on as some sort of housekeeper, nanny. It was quite pleasant.
‘One night when her husband was away I cooked dinner for Mary. She was impressed enough to double my salary if I’d cook two or three nights a week. Viktor Baumann was an inveterate restaurant goer, but even he agreed to sit still three nights a week.’
‘I’m not surprised. Your cooking is nothing short of fabulous.’ She chuckled. ‘Thanks. I’m a chef, actually. Many years of training, had my own restaurant in London for a few years. Then I tired of the hectic pace of it and sold up. I didn’t really need a job. I didn’t go in search of that one; a mutual friend recommended me as someone who’s good with children. I always have been for some reason, even though I have none of my own. Flora–’ Here she propped her chin in her hand and turned away. Too painful to speak of.
So Melrose took another tack. ‘Why did his wife have to insist on having help?’
‘Viktor Baumann didn’t like having strangers in the house. That was one reason. I think he felt women belonged in the kitchen and the nursery.’
Melrose frowned the deeper. He was thinking of Ruthven and his cook, Martha. But then of course that was completely different; they’d been around all of Melrose’s life. ‘But all staff, unless you’ve got old family retainers on it, are strangers to begin with. Actually, Mr. Baumann sounds paranoid.’
She gave him a frank look. ‘Oh, he is. He’s completely untrusting. I’ve always found, you know, that a person like that can’t be trusted himself. In the same way that liars find it hard to believe anybody else. And of course there’s the belief that women are pretty much chattel. Mary should’ve been able to do all that herself, kids, housekeeping, cooking, according to him.’
Melrose ventured a comment: ‘You don’t care for him much, do you?’
‘Does anyone? Oh, except for the ones who don’t really know him and are charmed. I think another reason he didn’t want staff around is that he’s extraordinarily jealous. He was of anyone Mary was fond of, man or woman. He was of me, I know that, but also of her women friends. Not to mention any men friends. The poor girl had very little company, mostly acquaintances because of this. Patricia Quint kept up; she’s a very loyal person.’
‘She knew Mrs. Scott back then?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were close to her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She looked off. ‘She insisted I come along here. Marrying Declan Scott was the best thing that ever happened to her. Outside of Flora, that is. He’s as different from Viktor Baumann as a man could be. He doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him.’ Her arms were folded on the table and she looked down into her empty cup, scattered with tea leaves as if she meant to read them. ‘Viktor used Flora as a weapon, either that or a chess piece. He thought it was all one of his games.’
‘Do you think she’s dead?’
Rebecca Owen seemed to shiver at the very thought of it. She rubbed her arms as if she’d caught a chill. ‘I really can’t stand to think that.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Only, you know, there are worse scenarios.’
‘And better,’ she quickly said. ‘It might not have been someone who meant her harm.’
A pedophile, thought Melrose, is probably convinced he means no harm. He did not say this. ‘Then you believe it was a person who simply wanted a child for herself?’
‘Yes, I expect I do. It happens all the time, doesn’t it? Women who snatch babies out of prams in front of Waitrose, things like that.’
Melrose thought she was being truthful in this instance and that she did believe it, or at least wanted to believe it so much she’d convinced herself. It was possible, he thought: wanting to believe a thing so much you finally did. ‘You’re probably right. But then you must not think this woman’s murder has anything to do with Flora.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘Then... what?’
She shook her head. ‘Perhaps it was the wrong person shot.’ Now, that was novel. ‘The wrong person? Well, but why?’ She leaned toward him, as if her physical presence could better convince him. ‘What if they had a meeting planned, an assignation? And the wrong woman turns up? It would have been too dark to tell straightaway.’
‘But wouldn’t a rendezvous–’
‘I doubt it was that.’
‘–point to Declan Scott?’
As if Melrose were a trifle slow, she gave a short laugh. ‘Doesn’t it point to him anyway?’
Melrose’s eyes widened in surprise as she rose abruptly and took her teacup off to the counter. He could understand she might believe it was Scott who’d shot this woman. But that the woman who was shot was not the one he planned to meet? That was preposterous: a woman he knew–this Georgina Fox (as far as he’s concerned)–simply strays into the garden even though she had no plan to meet him or anyone? No, Rebecca Owen didn’t believe that; she was too intelligent. ‘Do you–?’ But he was being too curious. ‘I suppose anyone would wonder. I don’t mean to be intrusive.’ He smiled, he hoped, sheepishly.
‘Yes, you’d hardly expect this sort of thing out here in the country, especially this country, Cornwall. It seems so far removed from everything.’ She paused. ‘What does this Scotland Yard man think?’
She was back to it again. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him. These policemen don’t talk much.’
‘Really? Well, I’ll be sure to tell Cody Platt He never stops talking.’
Again, Melrose was surprised. He frowned. ‘You know him, then? I mean aside from this awful business?’
‘Oh, yes. Cody was here even before Flora disappeared. Declan called in the police to report a break-in–we’d had a few things stolen. Cody came. He was a constable then. For some reason, Flora took to him and he to Flora. And he also to Mary. I know his presence after what happened to Flora was a comfort to her. He’s a detective, after all, and perhaps a–symbol? Proof that they hadn’t stopped looking for Flora. And, of course, that’s what he told her, that this Commander Macalvie never stopped. He wasn’t commander then; I think he was a detective chief inspector. But all the same. Yes, Cody Platt was a comfort.’
Through the window, Melrose watched Lulu throwing something for Roy to run after. He asked, ‘What happened to Lulu’s parents, Mrs. Owen?’
‘They’re both dead. Both in an auto accident a few years ago. It was absolutely terrible, Ben and Sara were on their way to St. Ives for a little holiday. At a roundabout near Camborne, a lorry plowed right into them. Ben had piled up so much in the backseat, he couldn’t see out the rear window. At least that was what I thought might have happened.’ She rose and went to the sideboard and pulled out a drawer. From this she took out a newspaper clipping she brought to Melrose. It gave the details of the accident.
‘They’d left Lulu with me for the time they’d be gone. Otherwise, well, she’d be gone, too.’
Rebecca Owen looked so sad that Melrose didn’t know what to say except something banal: ‘I’m sorry. What a horrible loss.’
‘I wonder if her being so young made it easier on her? She didn’t seem that disturbed.’
‘Throwing up a front, I expect,’ he said. Everything about this case seemed to be ‘throwing up a front,’ where the victim was as hard to identify as the murderer.
‘She seems to be by herself most of the day. Doesn’t she have school chums?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. She goes to a very good school; Mr. Scott sees to that. He’s extremely generous. They’re on holiday at the moment. Something to do with staffing problems. I believe two of the teachers had to leave–well, some kind of scandal, and
I expect the less said the better, as far as the children were concerned.’ Melrose wanted to laugh. No, the more said, the better, as far as Lulu was concerned.
‘But she gets on well with adults, doesn’t she?’ said Rebecca.
‘You certainly have an effect upon her, and a very good one. I think you light a fire in her.’ Smiling, she took the cake plate to the sideboard.
What? He fired Lulu up? He didn’t know if he believed in this fire-lighting business, but still he felt warmed by it.
At that moment Lulu walked in with Roy and they stood there. ‘You’ve been having tea for ages. You were supposed to come out...’
Nag, nag. Bark. Fire extinguished.
Lulu was stopped from following him out by her aunt and made to ‘have a lie down or you won’t be able to last out the evening.’
Ha! thought Melrose, as he walked to the secret garden. Lulu could outlast the Pleistocene. He studied his enameled mead design. Well, ‘design’ might be too fine a word, but it did look rather good. The snowdrops were a nice accent. What he hadn’t boned up on was exactly how to cut round the enameled patches. That’s why the grass was cut before the little flowers were planted; otherwise one had to do it by hand.
‘That’s quite pretty, Mr. Plant.’
Melrose turned at the sound of Warburton’s voice and his tweedy, tobacco-y smell. Warburton was pointing with his pipe.
‘Snowdrops. Now that is original. Never seen that before. Rather white, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I used a similar design first in my own garden in Northants. Indeed I designed one entire slope in silver and gold. Used marigolds for the gold (that was a bit too obvious wasn’t it?), but only for a band running down the center.’
Warburton’s usual sunny expression deepened into a frown.
‘But wouldn’t the marigolds be too large for achieving this jewellike effect?’
Drat! How stupid of him. He might as well try to plant shoes.
‘Oh, yes, but this was your dwarf marigold.’
The Winds of Change Page 23
