That caught Pru off guard—she hadn’t heard anyone say her mother’s name in so long. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Was she related to your husband? I would love to…if you ever had the time to talk with me about her…”
“Why don’t you come and see me? It would be better to talk in person.”
“Thank you, yes, I’d love to, Mrs. Parke.” Stop gushing, she told herself.
“Call me Birdie.”
Pru could go down on Friday—Davina and Bryan would be gone; Ivy could manage with Robbie; and Liam and Fergal had their own work. Birdie lived not far from the Wilsons, and so Pru knew that she could make the two-hour drive to Hampshire, visit, and be home by evening—especially as the Wilsons were not at Greenoak, but in Majorca for a winter holiday. She smiled to herself as she drummed her fingers on the table, and her mind filled with the possibilities of familial discovery.
She rang Christopher with the news of the day. He asked what Davina said about the garden—“We will soldier on, apparently,” Pru replied—and she explained about Tatt’s fingerprint report, skipping over the part where she had eavesdropped. When she told him about visiting Birdie, he said he hoped for the best and would see her late Friday evening.
Chapter 17
Primrose House
29 January
Pru,
I’m so sorry Bryan and I will miss Ned’s service—please give Cate our condolences. We have been thinking about a way to honor Ned and his life here in the village, and I think we’ve hit upon it. We’ll plant a special garden for him in the oval and we’ll commission a statue. Can’t you just see it? Something quiet and understated, of course. We’ll start asking around for marble sources.
Best,
Davina
Pru covered her face with both hands. “Oh my God,” she groaned. And then a vision flashed through her mind—a statue of Ned as Michelangelo’s David. She began to giggle, after which a snort of laughter escaped. Soon, she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. When at last her laughter petered out with a hiccup, she felt enormously better.
—
She cracked the whip on Tuesday—she wanted her crew to stay so busy that they had no time to dwell on what had happened. Busy hands, busy…whatever. It was a fine, clear, cold day, and the three of them—Liam, Fergal, and Pru—measured and marked where the new staircase and terraced beds below the house would go, in preparation for the workers to begin. Robbie decided he was Will Scarlet—one of the Merry Men—and spent most of the morning trying to fashion a bow so that he could aim pretend arrows at the Sheriff of Nottingham, but the dry sticks he chose kept snapping.
Finally, Fergal went down to the yew walk, cut off a stiff but pliable branch, and stripped it of its needles. “There y’are now, Robbie, that’s what Robin Hood would’ve used, a branch of yew.”
“Thanks, Fergal,” Robbie said in delight. “Thanks.”
“We’re mates, aren’t we, Robbie?” Fergal asked.
“You’re my mate,” Robbie said, as he began to tie a length of twine to the branch.
Robbie’s words echoed in Pru’s mind. His mate. “I gave it to my mate. He was cold,” Robbie had said at the police station when asked about his red fleece jacket. Nonsense, she thought, Robbie has lots of mates.
Pru thought she could get a word with Liam during the day. The first time, she called him over as she began running the twine along what would be the lower bed. But she’d no more got out the words “I wanted to ask you…” than Fergal called from up the slope.
“Liam, I need you to mark that corner for me.”
Liam climbed up the slope.
The second time was just before lunch. She walked up to Liam as he began to cut away at the turf to give them an idea what the steps down the middle of the terraces would look like. Robbie had taken a spade and started digging at the bottom end.
“Listen,” she said, “were you…” Over Liam’s shoulder, she saw Fergal rushing up.
“Liam, come over here with me now so we can shift that piece of timber for the equipment to get in.”
Pru frowned. “Fergal, I just wanted a word with him…”
“We’ve got a lot to do here before the end of the day,” he said, giving his brother’s arm a light jab. “Let’s go.”
“Yes,” she called after them, her face hot. “I know we have a lot to do.”
At lunch, Ivy invited them all into the kitchen, where she served a thick beef and barley soup with slices of cheddar and an entire loaf of her own bread. Fergal got Robbie to list the names of all the Merry Men, which took a while as he kept repeating Little John and asking if Marian was a woman, and if so, could she even be considered.
When Robbie ran out of steam, Fergal jumped on the subject of the terraces and how the gardens at Primrose House were not just about Humphry Repton. That prompted Pru to give a mini-lecture on what might remain of the Repton landscape. She described his watercolor of the view from the balustrade, which showed the pub off in the distance, until the tab was lifted to reveal his design that included the beech wood covering up the pub and creating a bucolic scene. It was the tallest of those trees that Davina had asked Pru to climb up, and Pru had begged off. But many of the landscape elements, she pointed out, were later additions.
“You should put a bit of yourself in the garden,” Liam said.
“I could import a few cowboys, would that do?” she asked.
Liam laughed. “Well, it’s your garden, too, not just Repton’s and not just a load of Victorian flowers. There should be something American.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with.”
—
Ivy departed after lunch, taking Robbie with her, but she kept the kitchen open and left a currant cake for their tea. Later in the afternoon, Pru put the kettle on while Liam ran the string around the last few stakes. Fergal walked in and stood at the table.
“So,” he said. “The police came to see us.”
“I imagine they did,” she said. “They’ve questioned all of us.”
“It must’ve been a shock for you—you and Robbie—finding Ned’s body.”
“I’m not sure Robbie really understood at first.”
Glancing out the window at his brother, Fergal said, “They found Robbie’s jacket with the hatchet, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Obviously, someone came across his jacket or took it from him and used it. Someone who thought it would be easy to blame Robbie,” Pru said.
Fergal looked down at the floor. “But Robbie…if Robbie was accused of the murder, it isn’t as if he would go to prison. Right? They wouldn’t do that to someone like him.”
Pru didn’t like the implication. “That doesn’t really matter, does it—whether or not he would be sent to prison? Would it be fair if Robbie took the blame for something he didn’t do just because he might not be punished? Surely that isn’t right—the real murderer goes free and an innocent young man is blamed?”
“No, that wouldn’t be fair,” Fergal said in a weak voice. “I’m just saying that maybe sometimes…”
Liam walked in. “Is there tea?”
“Yes, sit down,” Pru said, hoping at last for a chat.
Fergal’s face grew red. “Liam, come on. Gordon MacKenzie will be doing the terracing, and Pru has asked him to stop and take a look at the slope before they start to level it. We’d better be out there for him.”
“He isn’t here yet,” Liam said with a cross look. “We can sit for a minute.”
“No,” Fergal said, “let’s go out, he might be looking for us. Now.” He marched out the door and waited.
“I’m having my tea,” Liam shouted after his brother. Fergal scowled, then looked down the terrace and broke out in a smile. “Gordon,” he called, “come in and have a cup of tea.”
It was Pru’s turn to scowl. Well, wasn’t that convenient, she thought. Fergal seemed bent on preventing his brother from talking to her, and so far he had succeeded. Pru poured and they had their cake, discussing
the terracing with Gordon, whose crew would start the following week. When they finished, she suggested they call it a day.
“We’ll get the tools together before we go,” Fergal said.
“You two go on,” Liam said to his brother and Gordon. “I’ll be along.”
“Liam, we should…” Fergal began.
“Go on, Fergal, will you leave me? I won’t be long.” Fergal hesitated for a moment, but followed Gordon out when his brother didn’t move.
Liam continued to stare into his mug. Pru got the impression that he wanted to say something and, at the same time, didn’t. After a few silent moments, she asked, “How’s Cate?”
“She’s…sad.” He put his hands around the mug, as if to warm them, although there was no tea left. “Her aunt from Norwich is here. There’s a service on Thursday.”
“Yes,” Pru said. “She rang and told me. I’ll be there.”
They were quiet, Liam still not looking at her. He finally shook his head and said, “He shouldn’t have done that. Tell her to stay with Tanner. I don’t know how he could say that to his daughter. But he wouldn’t listen. Think how that’s left her now.”
“Liam, were you with Cate at Francine’s flat on Thursday?”
He glanced at her and then away. “Leave it alone, Pru,” he said, taking his mug to the sink.
“No, I won’t leave it alone.”
“You shouldn’t be a part of this,” he said, looking out the window.
“After I heard you argue with Ned that day, did you—” She’d left it too long. Fergal walked in and gave her a sharp look.
“We’ve got to be off.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Liam said.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to…” Fergal started.
“Yes, we’ll be here.” Liam pushed past his brother and Fergal followed without a word.
Chapter 18
Pru went down and around the side of the yew walk—unsheared, it was too overgrown to walk down the middle—and back to her cottage along the lower path, thinking about Fergal’s mother-hen act. As she rounded the corner, she saw the Courier’s reporter standing in front of her cottage.
“Hugo,” she said, startled to find him on her doorstep. She hadn’t heard from him since his visit on the previous Wednesday to check on the yew—the day that nothing happened. Surely he wasn’t hoping to restart the blog—look where that had got them.
There had been an article in the Courier about Ned’s murder, but not written by Hugo. The article mentioned the garden, the Red Book, and Pru, but the focus was Ned and Primrose House, and all quotes were from Davina, except one from Bryan, who said, “Ned was a damn fine human being.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ring you after what happened,” Hugo said, “but we thought it better to lay off the blog for a while. You understand, I’m sure?”
“Yes, that’s fine with me,” she said. “But didn’t they want you to write the article about Ned? You’re more familiar with Primrose House than anyone else at the paper, aren’t you?”
Hugo squinted at the horizon, got his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it, and put it away again. “It’s probably better that I didn’t…conflict of interest, you know.”
“What conflict?” she asked.
His eyes shifted left and right; he took an audible breath. “Ned was my father’s cousin. Well, of course, that made him my cousin, too.” Hugo paused for so long that Pru thought she might have to remind him of the topic, but before she could, he began again, in a hard voice. “Ned Bobbins made my dad’s life a living hell, and I don’t mind saying I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
Pru squirmed. “I didn’t know…that your dad…”
“He as much as killed him,” Hugo said, red-faced. “All my dad wanted to do was make a name for himself here, but old Ned would have none of it—no success without his approval. He ruined my dad. It may have taken years, but it wore him down until he died of heartbreak.”
“Was it recent? Your dad?”
Hugo blinked. “November. He died in November. Just a few weeks before Christmas,” he said in a voice that sounded like a small, sad boy’s.
“I’m very sorry,” Pru said.
Hugo drew his chin up, took a sharp breath, and pulled out his phone again. “That’s not why I stopped. I need to tell you about something that’s happened.” Hugo frowned and drew his scarf closer around his neck. “Someone posted a comment on the article about the murder, and the editor felt that the tone was…somewhat threatening.”
“Threatening? Who did it threaten? The Templetons?”
“No, not the Templetons.” He shrugged. “Listen, it was vague, nothing specific. It seemed to imply that things needed to be put right in the garden. But we can’t take chances about something like this, and we rang the police straightaway. The comment’s been removed.”
“Well, then,” Pru said, as her mind began to spin, “the comment’s been removed. No harm done.” Except for Ned’s murder and now a threat against the garden and—as an extension—her. “Thanks for letting me know, Hugo.”
As he got in his car and put it into gear, he said, “Perhaps we can start the blog up again, you know, after they find the murderer? If they find the murderer.”
Her phone was ringing as he drove off. She slapped her pocket and realized the ringing came from indoors—she’d left her phone on her kitchen counter that morning.
“Pru, it’s David Hobbes.”
She dispensed with hello. “Hugo Jenkins just stopped by to tell me about the comment online,” she said as she switched on a light in the kitchen.
“Right, well, that’s why I rang. I don’t want you to be concerned about this—we’re looking into it.”
“Can you find out who posted it?” she asked.
“I doubt it. It’s too easy for someone to register at the paper’s website in order to leave a comment,” he said, and then added, “You’ll tell Inspector Pearse about this, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll tell him—at the weekend.” She would have to word it carefully—she didn’t need Christopher shifting into superhero protector mode over some vague comment online. But just how vague was it? “What did it say?” she asked Hobbes.
“I don’t want you to worry, we’re…”
“I’ll worry more if I don’t know—my imagination will go wild. Tell me.”
She heard a few taps on a keyboard. “It said, ‘Who made this a deadly garden? You see what happens when history is in the wrong hands.’ ”
History was in her hands—or rather, Repton’s version of it was tucked away in a stack of sweaters in her wardrobe. She swallowed hard and took a deliberately casual tone. “Well, thank you for telling me that. I can see why this could be construed as a threat, but really, I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”
“You’ll tell…?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.”
—
The lashing rain pelted her slate roof—she heard it before she opened her eyes the next morning. Not a drizzle, not a shower, not even a showery rain—a British weather term that always made her smile—but a real downpour. Pru looked out the window and saw it falling in sheets, as if it had settled in for the long run. She rang Liam and Fergal to say they wouldn’t work outdoors today, but suggested that the two come to her cottage and they would spend part of the day planning. Her ulterior motive of questioning Liam about his involvement with Ned was too obvious: Fergal begged off. “If it’s all the same to you, Pru,” he said, “we’ll work here at our own place today. We’ll be back in the garden on Friday.” Yes, on Friday, when she would be in Hampshire and could not dog them about their alibis.
So she kept herself busy with plans for the terraced garden and filled the rest of the day by catching up with friends. Mug of coffee in hand, she rang Jo midmorning and they had a fine talk; later in the afternoon, she sent Lydia in Texas a long and chatty email, asking after her daughters and downplaying the murder.
�
�
Thursday was cold and gray, but at least there was no rain. A modest crowd gathered inside the old stone church for the service and out in the churchyard for the burial. Pru knew only Cate, Ivy, the Duffys—and almost didn’t recognize them in their funeral suits—and Jamie, who stood apart from the graveside group and didn’t speak to anyone. When she walked back to her car down the lane, he stood halfway behind an Irish yew waiting for her. He looked marginally better—at least he had shaved and changed his clothes.
“I’m not allowed at the house,” Jamie said instead of hello. “Cate asked me to stay away. I don’t want to make trouble, Pru, but could you at least talk with her? Tell her she needs to think about Nanda and what’s best for her.” He appeared earnest, clean-cut, in control.
Pru glanced back at the church. The small crowd had dispersed, and people had left for the reception at Ned’s cottage. “I can’t tell Cate that, Jamie—it isn’t my place.”
He jerked his head and jutted out his chin. “You’ve got what you want, is that it? The head gardener doesn’t have time for any lowly Council worker? Lording it over me, are you? Perhaps you weren’t the best choice for head gardener after all.”
The switch from plea to accusation was so abrupt that Pru was left speechless. And in the blink of an eye, his demeanor changed again, as if she’d switched channels on television. His face crumpled, his shoulders slumped, and he drew his hands out of his pockets and began tugging on his sleeves. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Look, I don’t want your job, I only want Cate. She needs to understand, I’ll be better. Can you tell her that?”
“I’m a gardener, not a therapist. You need to talk with your doctor. Sort yourself out.”
“I miss my little girl,” he said, suddenly breaking out in sobs and barely able to speak. “I miss my wife. Ned wanted to help me, and now I have nothing.” The sobs ceased. “This is all Duffy’s fault.”
She dug for the car key in her bag, got in, and started the engine, saying, “Jamie, I have to go now. Why don’t you just leave it for a while? Give yourself some time to…” Having no idea how to finish that sentence, she put her car in gear and hurried on her way, her hands shaking slightly.
The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) Page 12
