The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2)

by Marty Wingate

  —

  Pru drove her new-to-her Mini Cooper down the lanes to the hotel Christopher had booked for them in the Kent countryside. She passed the turnoff to Sissinghurst Castle and gardens and craned her neck to look down the lane. It was every gardener’s mecca, and she hoped to spend time there when it reopened in spring. Soon she turned into the long drive up to the expansive old hotel set in the middle of acres of neatly cut grass.

  The lobby was huge but warm, with dark, polished wood paneling and pillars; she could see a fire going in an adjoining room. Christopher sat on a sofa in an alcove just to the side of the reception desk with a pot of tea on the low table in front of him. He had his eye on the door, and he was up and to her before she got halfway to him. They met just behind a large parlor palm.

  Well, isn’t this silly, she thought. How can I feel nervous after we’ve spent the last few weeks unable to keep our hands off each other? She set her bag down and gave him a small kiss. He stood close.

  “Did you have a good drive?” he asked.

  Pru nodded and glanced around the lobby. “This is lovely.”

  He took hold of her left hand. “Would you like a drink?”

  Her nervousness vanished, replaced with the desire to ravish him on the spot. She murmured, “Mmm, later.”

  His fingers, barely touching the palm of her hand, began tracing a circle. “Would you like to have a look around the place?”

  “Not right now,” she said, barely breathing.

  She could see that ghost of a smile. “Are you hungry?”

  She cut her eyes around the lobby, looked back at him, and whispered, “Yes.”

  He squeezed her hand, picked up her bag, and said, “Come with me,” as he led her to the elevator.

  —

  “Covers,” she said, “I need covers.” Finally cooled off, she sat up to draw the duvet over them.

  Christopher pulled her back down, put his arm around her, and buried his face in her neck. “I thought this would never happen.”

  She snickered and said, “Yes, events did try to get the better of us—” but he stopped her with a kiss.

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “I know it wasn’t,” she whispered, and nestled her head into his shoulder.

  They were quiet for a moment. “I’ve booked a table for us at half past eight,” he said.

  “Oh, somehow you knew I wouldn’t want an early dinner when I first arrived—how prescient of you.”

  “I knew I wouldn’t want dinner when you first arrived.”

  She sighed deeply, ran her finger down his arm, and closed her eyes for a moment. “What time is it now?”

  He reached over her to the nightstand and picked up his phone. “It’s eight. I suppose we should be up and busy.”

  Looking over at his phone, she said, “You won’t get anyone ringing you about a case this weekend, will you?”

  Without replying, he switched it off. “I’ll get dressed and go down to check on our table.”

  How chivalrous, she thought. After he left, she got out of bed, repaired her hair and the dab of makeup she wore, and pulled out the package from Jo, which turned out to be a beautiful, long-sleeved, maroon dress of thin, soft wool with a very wide and deep neckline. She eyed the dress cautiously. It looked as if there would be no pushing up and creating cleavage, so that was a good thing. Still, dresses—let alone dresses with deep necklines—were not Pru’s usual forte. But, she thought as she pulled it on, Jo said to wear it and so I will.

  She looked in the mirror. The fit and the color were perfect, but the amount of exposed skin shocked her. She began tugging at the neckline, trying to pull it higher. “My God, what was Jo thinking?”

  “You look beautiful.” Christopher had come in without her noticing, and stood across the room.

  She whirled around, laughing, and put her hand on her chest. “I feel bare.” She needed another layer or she’d spend the night embarrassed. “I have a scarf—I can wear that over my shoulders.”

  He smiled at her as he walked over and held out a flat, square leather box. “I have something for you. Maybe it will help.”

  It took her breath away—a gold filigreed, fan-shaped pendant on a gold chain made of etched oval links. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you. It looks old—sort of art deco.” She picked it up and let the gold chain slide through her fingers.

  “It’s from the 1930s, so they told me.” He lifted her chin and watched her for a moment. “I don’t know the right time or place for this.”

  “To give me a beautiful gift?” she asked.

  “To tell you that I love you.”

  “Oh,” she said, her breath taken away once again. In Texas, she had kept her relationships at an emotional arm’s length, unwilling to make a commitment that would tie her down to a place she didn’t want to call home. But now she found her heart as close to him as they were standing.

  She laughed. “That’s amazing.”

  “Is it?” he asked with a quizzical look on his face. He slipped his arms around her waist.

  “Yes, because I love you,” she said, running her fingers through his short hair. She slipped her arms around his neck, and they gazed into each other’s eyes.

  He kissed her and said, “Dinner.”

  “Would you help me with my necklace?” She handed it to him, lifted up her hair, and turned around so that he could do the clasp.

  He kissed her neck, and then she heard him patting his pockets. “Hang on a tick—I’ve left my glasses in my jacket.”

  She needed no scarf, not with her necklace to show off. They sat quietly at dinner, stealing glances and sharing small smiles while the waiter described the specials for the evening, opened the wine, and served their first courses. They were so obnoxiously in love and still wrapped in that afterglow of sex that Pru wouldn’t have been surprised if the waiter had made fake gagging sounds when he walked back in the kitchen. She didn’t care.

  —

  It was breakfast before they had time to catch up with news.

  “You’ll be living in the pantry at Primrose House?” Christopher asked, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth.

  Pru sniggered. “Former pantry. Just until the cottage conversion is complete. It’s en suite.” They could put her up in the coat closet, as far as she was concerned; nothing could dampen her good spirits. “It’s where Davina and Bryan slept for five years during the house restoration, so I can hardly complain. And it’ll make my cottage seem huge.”

  She effused on Humphry Repton and the Red Book, and told him about the small article in the Courier.

  “It’s just as well that it didn’t mention my name,” she said. “I don’t really have anything to say about it.” He glanced up from buttering a piece of toast. “Right, well, at the moment I don’t have much to say.”

  The weekend went by far too quickly, as they knew it would. They took a long walk on Saturday, following a path out the back of the hotel that ended in a patch of trees, mostly beeches with their leaves turning gold, and a few oaks warming up to mahogany. On the other side of the trees, the path opened to a meadow with tall, tawny brown grass, beginning to break down in the late-autumn weather. They stood without speaking, their breaths creating clouds of fog in the air. Pru contemplated the view to the east, but she noticed Christopher looking around the clearing. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “I’m wishing it was a warm summer’s day and we had a blanket.” He looked over at her and smiled. “I’m wishing you didn’t have so many clothes on.”

  She burrowed her face inside the collar of his jacket until her cold nose touched his neck, and gave him a kiss. “Take me back to the room, and at least one of those wishes will come true.”

  Too early for the Christmas trade, the hotel had few guests, and so they began to lay claim to the sofa in front of the fire. Typical of English country hotels, on Sunday after the midday meal was served, the kitchen closed, with
only the bar remaining open and offering a few packaged snacks in the evening. Late in the afternoon as they read the Sunday Guardian in front of the fire, the barman approached.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Would you and the lady like me to send up a plate of sandwiches to your room this evening? It’s just, there’s a coachload of Germans arriving later, and you might prefer…” He cleared his throat.

  Pru peered over the top of the paper as she felt her face grow warm. They had been rather obviously preoccupied with each other. Christopher answered with aplomb, although she noticed the tips of his ears turned pink. “Thanks, yes, that would be fine. And a bottle of that cab franc we had last night?”

  —

  Friday evening had been sweet and tender. Saturday, laughter filled the long, lovely dinner. But by Sunday evening, sitting on the floor and eating off the coffee table in their room, an ever-so-slight note of melancholy crept in.

  “We won’t have this again for a while, will we?” Pru asked.

  “Still,” Christopher said, “it’s better than it might have been. I was afraid I’d never see you again if you left.”

  “I was afraid, too.” Looking back, she wondered what she had been thinking, about to go off to Texas.

  He fixed her with one of his penetrating looks. “I’d started looking into flights to Dallas.”

  Her eyes widened in delight, and she reached across the table for his hand. “You were going to go after me? How romantic.”

  “I didn’t want to lose you.”

  “You haven’t lost me—here I am. And I’ll be just an hour away.”

  As she fingered the gold necklace, which she now refused to take off except when showering, she swept thoughts of no home of her own and a seven-day workweek under the rug, so that she could fully enjoy the moment.

  On Monday morning, they said goodbye in the car park. Christopher promised to visit as soon as she’d moved in to her cottage, and Pru promised that it would be soon.

  Primrose House

  22 December

  Dear Pru,

  Just a thought as we pack up for Christmas. Shouldn’t a Humphry Repton landscape have a water feature? We thought that a lovely fountain in the large oval out front would be a magnificent way to greet guests—something three-tiered and Italian, perhaps. We’ll let you think about this, and we’ll settle on a design in the New Year.

  Happy Christmas!

  Davina

  Chapter 4

  Pru thought a three-tiered Italianate fountain would be in dreadful taste, but hoped she wouldn’t have to go into detail with her employer, who seemed to land on a new idea for that space every few days. Pru wouldn’t be surprised if Davina seized on a fairy garden or a collection of gnomes next.

  On Christmas Eve morning, Pru left for Hampshire. She spent the holiday catching up with the Wilsons, eating wonderful food prepared by Evelyn, their cook, and taking their terrier, Toffee Woof-Woof, for walks. They exchanged modest gifts: Pru gave Mr. Wilson a book on the Alamo; Mrs. Wilson, a book of stitchery patterns based on Roman mosaics; and Toffee, a box of rat-shaped dog biscuits. They gave her a sturdy hand-knitted sweater made by someone in Mrs. Wilson’s Women’s Institute chapter, a book of parterre and knot garden designs, and an Aga cookery book.

  On Christmas night, Pru retired to her bedroom to wait for the video call from Dubai she’d arranged with Christopher. Well, Graham had really set it up.

  “Are you there, Pru?”

  “Yes, hello, Graham, happy Christmas.”

  “You, too.” She could see Graham looking over Christopher’s shoulder and pointing to the keyboard and the screen. “Right, now, Dad, don’t move much or she won’t be able to see you, and when you want to ring off, just click—”

  “Yes, son, thanks, I think I’ve got it,” Christopher said, a bit of impatience in his voice. “I can take it from here.”

  “Right, that’s me away, Pru. Cheers, bye.”

  “Bye, Graham.”

  She and Christopher looked at each other’s image, until she saw the door behind him close.

  “Happy Christmas, my darling.”

  She touched his face on the screen. “Happy Christmas. How was the day?”

  “The company put on a dinner for all its UK employees and their families here, Christmas crackers and all. And how is everyone there?”

  “The Wilsons send their regards. They’re settled in and enjoying being back in Hampshire. They hope that you’ll come down, too, next visit.”

  “I wish I had my arms around you right now,” he said.

  She produced a small sound somewhere between a squeak and a sigh and left it at that.

  —

  As dear as the Wilsons were to her, she really focused on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, when she would meet their gardener who shared her surname, Simon Parke. Pru had looked forward to it since she first heard of him, when she worked for the Wilsons in London. Simon had been the Wilsons’ gardener for many years; Mrs. Wilson, knowing of Pru’s eagerness, had asked him over for tea. Pru hoped to discover that he was a relative. Her English mother, Jenny Parke, had been an only child, as was Pru herself. Her longing for some family relation in England had led her to dream up all sorts of connections, but since her arrival the year before, she’d had no time to carry out any actual research. Simon might hold the key.

  Boxing Day broke clear and mild. After lunch, Mrs. Wilson saw Simon out in the garden, and Pru said she’d go out to meet him.

  The afternoon sun, low in the midwinter sky, was in her eyes as she walked the path out to the terrace garden. She squinted, put her hand up to her forehead, and saw a figure ahead of her—he appeared as a silhouette, kneeling in the path, one knee up with his elbow resting on it as he took a close look at something. Pru got the queerest feeling, a wave of cold that spread from the top of her head and down over her shoulders. He must’ve heard her approach, because he stood up and turned to her, and the queer feeling vanished.

  “Hello…Simon? I’m Pru.” She held out her hand.

  He shook it firmly, with a good gardener’s grip. He wore a sheepskin coat against the cold. She moved slightly and, with her eyes out of the sun, could see that he was older than she by several years and just barely taller. She searched his face, looking for a reminder of her mother, but couldn’t say if she saw anything or not.

  “Hello, Pru, I’m happy to meet you. Vernona and Harry told me all about you and what happened in London.”

  “They’ve told me a great deal about Greenoak and the garden. I’m sorry it’s winter, but I can see it will be wonderful when the season starts.”

  They chatted about the garden and looked at the tips of grassy crocus leaves and spears of daffodils already shooting out of the ground. She asked him a few questions about clipping yew for topiary—a task she would be taking up at Primrose House. It was easy to talk with him—it’s always easy gardener to gardener, she thought. As they talked, she kept trying to steal glances at him, and a time or two felt him do the same to her.

  They walked past several large, fragrant witch hazels, and Pru gasped. “Oh, they’re lovely.” Carpeting the ground below the leafless shrubs were hundreds of hardy cyclamen, just four inches high, blooming in white and shades of pink.

  “They naturalize quite easily. Do you not have any at Primrose House?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen any,” she replied, smiling. “We don’t even have any primroses. Not yet, at least.”

  “Before you go today, we’ll dig up a clump for you to take back. We’ve loads here, more than enough to share. And snowdrops—do you need any of those?” Pru nodded, and he looked back at the house. “I’d say Vernona will have tea ready soon. Shall we go in?”

  They walked into the sitting room together, as Mrs. Wilson put the tea things down on a low table between two short sofas. “There now,” she said, looked up at them, and brushed her skirt off. “Oh. Well. Simon, Evelyn has made shortbread for you.”

  Mr. Wilson stoo
d in the arched entry to the room and looked from Pru to Simon and back again. “Vernona?” he asked.

  “Harry, come sit down,” his wife said.

  Pru and Simon sat on the same sofa, across from the Wilsons. Toffee took up residence beside Simon, and when tea was poured and Simon had a plateful of shortbread, he broke off a piece and gave it to the dog. Toffee took it out of his fingers gingerly and crunched it, after which he went over to Pru and sat down. She did the same. “Well,” she said, “he’s got our number, hasn’t he?” and Simon laughed.

  “Let’s have a photo of the two of you,” Mrs. Wilson said, “our two gardeners Parke.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe you can really call me your gardener,” said Pru, her face ablaze. “I didn’t have the chance to do anything.” As Mr. Wilson wandered off to find the camera, Pru said, “Simon, Mrs. Wilson probably told you about my mother—Jenny Parke. That she was English?”

  “You have the same name as your mother?” he asked.

  “It is confusing, I know. My dad’s last name was Walker. I use my mother’s name. I wanted to strengthen my connection over here, and I thought that would help.”

  “Vernona did mention your mother to Birdie, but I don’t believe I’m a Parke relative,” he said. He didn’t look at her, but reached over for another piece of shortbread, which he put on his plate and then put his plate on the table. “My aunt Birdie and uncle George Parke brought me up, after my parents died in a car crash just after the end of the war—not long after I was born. My mother was Birdie’s sister, you see. Uncle George was the Parke—so, probably he’s the relative, if there is one. But he’s long dead now, and they had no children of their own. Birdie’s still alive, though.”

  “Birdie might know something about your mother, Pru,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Weren’t your parents from Ibsley, Simon?”

  “Ibsley? Is that where your mother was from?” he asked Pru.

  She’d followed their exchange, but the disappointment that rose up inside threatened to overcome her and she didn’t speak, but only nodded. She had got her hopes up and now they were dashed. Simon was no relative—oh, perhaps he was related to someone who might have known her mother, but he wasn’t directly family. She smiled at him. “Thanks for coming over today, Simon, during the holidays and all—it must’ve taken you away from your family. You have a family?”