—
She had arranged a video call with Lydia in Dallas for that evening. She and Lydia had known each other for many years, and Pru had practically become a member of the family—welcomed in by Lydia; her husband, Ray Morales; their daughters; and Lydia’s brother, Marcus Rojas. Pru had worked with Ray and Marcus at the Dallas Arboretum, and she and Marcus had been on-again, off-again—that’s how Pru preferred to describe it—for a few years.
They chatted awhile before Pru got to her point. “Lyd, you have all my boxes, remember?”
“All? You own next to nothing. The boxes are in the closet in the spare bedroom,” Lydia said.
“I need one of them—it’s the one with Mom’s things in it. It’s marked, you’ll know which one.” Pru took a deep breath and a sip of wine and explained why.
To Pru, the box had always been special—she thought of it as keepsakes from her mother’s girlhood in England, but she knew there was more. Pru had opened the box after her mother died, but found her grief still too fresh to examine the letters and photos without the heartache of loss. She hadn’t looked at it since, but hoped that it might hold a clue to the family’s recently uncovered past.
“Pru, mija, I’m so sorry for you,” Lydia said after she’d heard the story. “I never thought your mom would be one for such secrets. I’ll send it tomorrow.”
—
The highlight of her week, Pru decided, was her visit to Cate. She arrived in time to wave and call hello to Mrs. Sock and Trevor, who were either on their way out or just returning from a walk. When Cate came to the door, Nanda stood just behind her, peering around her mother’s leg at Pru.
Nanda saw Trevor across the road and yipped. Trevor yipped back and wagged his tail.
Nanda got over her shyness soon after Pru arrived, and that allowed Cate to get a few things done around the flat without her daughter at her heels. Cate said housekeeping was the least she could do for Francine, who had opened her home to Cate and Nanda on such short notice. Not only did Nanda talk to Pru, but by the little girl’s bedtime, she wouldn’t stop talking. She squealed in delight as Pru turned her hair clip into a monster that tried to eat Nanda up, and Pru had four tea parties with Nanda’s collection of stuffed animals, which included Paddington Bear, Madeline—with her big round hat and blue French school uniform—a giraffe, and a pig.
Christopher rang during one of the tea parties. They had time for only a short chat—Nanda kept calling to her, “Pwu, dwink your tea” in a three-year-old’s version of a motherly tone—but at least he knew she was safe and sound.
“Nanda, would like to say hello to Christopher?”
Pru held the phone out and Nanda leaned in, shouting, “Pwu is busy now!” Then she took the phone and began a long one-sided conversation that sounded as if it had something to do with Paddington Bear getting into trouble.
When Pru reached over to rescue Christopher, Nanda wandered away, phone to her ear, into her mother’s bedroom. Pru followed and watched Nanda walk over to the open closet door and drop the phone into a tall, black, high-heeled boot at the very back. “Bye-bye.” She waved down the boot.
“Nanda?” Cate called from the kitchen. Off Nanda trotted, and Pru stuck her hand down the boot.
“Pru?” She could hear Christopher’s voice coming from her phone.
Pru laughed. “Did you get all that? What’s the scoop on Paddington Bear?”
—
Pru was stretched out on the sofa when Cate came out from putting Nanda to bed. “I could never be a granny,” Pru said. “I don’t have the stamina.”
“You’re not old enough to be a granny, Pru,” Cate said. “You’re more like an auntie.”
Grateful for the compliment and feeling immediately younger, Pru sat up and reclipped her hair. “I didn’t realize that Hugo Jenkins was a cousin of yours,” Pru said.
“Hugo—I saw that he was writing the blog. Did he tell you his tale of woe?” she asked, sitting on the sofa. “I’ve hardly seen him in years after that hoo-ha about the pub—he’s still blaming Dad, isn’t he?”
“He did mention that your dad and his had a…disagreement.”
Cate gave a disapproving click of her tongue. “Hugo’s dad was a con man, always looking for the easiest way to make a million pounds,” she said. “This was years ago. Fred—Hugo’s dad—was going to reopen an old pub up near High Brooms. It was the ‘oldest pub in Kent and Surrey,’ he said”—Cate’s fingers wiggled air quotes—“and ‘Henry VIII stopped here.’ Honestly.” She rolled her eyes. “Fred thought it would draw in busloads of tourists. He’d bought adverts and got it written up in pub guides. Began fixing the old place up.”
“That must’ve cost him,” Pru said, picking up Nanda’s pig from the floor.
“He’d borrowed loads. Except it wasn’t the oldest pub in Kent and Surrey—that’s the Red Lion in Rusthall. Dad said it opened in 1415. That’s all he pointed out—Fred’s pub just wasn’t the oldest.” Cate set Paddington Bear and Madeline back up on their little chairs. “The whole scheme fell apart, Fred lost buckets of other people’s money, and he and Hugo blamed Dad. It was the talk of the village for a while, but then most people forgot it.”
“Hugo still seems upset.”
“I’m sorry about Fred dying. But now Hugo thinks he has to clear his dad’s name. I can’t believe anyone could hold a grudge that long,” Cate said, after which her face clouded up. “Apart from Jamie, that is.”
“Is he leaving you alone?” Pru asked.
“Mostly. I didn’t tell him I’m starting back to work”—Cate would spend a couple of evenings a week as a private nurse, with Francine minding Nanda—“I don’t want to get into that again.”
“You were brave to break away,” Pru said.
“I should’ve done it sooner,” Cate said. She pushed her sleek hair behind her ear, picked up the giraffe, and began to fiddle with its legs.
Pru took a deep breath. “Cate, I want to ask you about Liam.”
Cate’s eyes looked like huge dark pools. She hugged the giraffe to her breast. “Oh God,” she whispered. Pru could see her trembling. “I’ve made such a terrible mistake.”
“A mistake?” A wave of cold washed over Pru as she reached out a hand to calm Cate.
“It’s just that—”
Nanda cried from her room. “Mummy! Mummy!”
Cate threw down the stuffed toy, threw off her look of fear, and stood up. “Sorry, Pru. She’s having some trouble getting to sleep these days.” She turned as she got to the door of Nanda’s room. “Usually if I read her a story, she’ll drop off. I don’t know how long it will take, but you’re welcome to stay.”
Somehow that welcome did not come across in her voice. “No, I’ll be off now, and I’ll see you again soon,” Pru said, standing to gather her coat and bag.
Cate walked her to the door and reached for the latch to open it.
Pru took a quick breath and plunged in. “Cate, you heard that they found your dad’s phone…?”
“That’s a lie, Pru, it can’t be true. Liam would never have Dad’s mobile.”
“Mummy!”
“I’ll see you soon,” Cate said, opening the door and putting an end to questions.
Pru walked out to her car, kicking herself for not getting to the point earlier, but she’d had no desire to talk about Jamie or Liam in front of Nanda. Cate’s alarm at the mention of Liam worried Pru. Was Cate scared of him—or something he had done?
Pru took the car keys from her bag and they slipped out of her hands, falling to the pavement at the same moment she heard rustling in the laurel hedge alongside the drive. She stopped and listened, but heard nothing else except Cate putting the chain on the door behind her. She bent down slowly to pick up her keys, and as she did so, cut her eyes over to the base of the hedge, which was bare of branches. She saw, among the thick brown stems emerging from the ground, a pair of work boots.
She stood up abruptly, not looking toward the hedge as she cont
inued to her car. Perhaps Jamie isn’t bothering Cate, but he is spying on her, Pru thought, and decided to ring DS Hobbes first thing in the morning to make sure that the police were keeping an eye on Cate.
Chapter 24
If Pru had only the garden to attend to, there still wouldn’t have been enough hours in the week, but even so, she filled every unclaimed second and each evening with sorting through questions about Ned’s murder and seeking out those who might have a clue—even if they didn’t realize it. On Tuesday afternoon, she had the opportunity to chat with Robbie.
They sat on the stairs at the end of the balustrade terrace that led down to where the workers continued to level the slope and prepare for the stonework. Robbie was trying to retie the string on his makeshift bow, and Pru sat down to help.
“My mate said he would teach me to shoot an arrow straight,” Robbie said.
Pru was beginning to think Robbie’s mate was much like her sister, Barbie—imaginary. “Who is this mate of yours, Robbie? Do I know him? Is he from Chaffinch’s? Is it someone who comes round here?”
“It’s a secret, Pru,” he replied, thrusting out his chest. “I can keep a secret.”
Before she could try to get further, one of Gordon’s crew called her over to see about the soil mix for the new terraced beds, and by the time she was free again, Ivy was giving her a wave as she and Robbie left for the day.
—
Since talking with Cate, Pru’s mind had been stuck on Hugo and how he blamed Ned for his own dad’s death. She rang Hugo with the pretense of chatting about resuming the blog, but she’d had to leave a message, and he hadn’t phoned her back. So at lunch on Wednesday, she made the short trip up to the Courier’s offices to talk with him in person.
She asked for him at the front desk, but a woman passing behind her, hair in a topknot and glasses perched on the end of her nose, answered instead of the receptionist. “He’d better not be around. I told him to get over to Stone Cross—a couple of pensioners were cheesed off at the Council for canceling the village fête this spring and started a protest.” She took her glasses off and let them dangle on their beaded lanyard. “May I help you?”
“Thanks,” Pru said, “it’s nothing important.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the American?”
Pru thought it was quite obvious that she was, at the very least, some American, but knew what the woman meant. “I’m Pru Parke—from Primrose House.”
“I’m Anna Clegg-Hill, editor here at the Courier. Why don’t you come through and we’ll chat. Coffee?”
Pru had no desire to talk with Ms. Clegg-Hill, but the woman began herding her toward a hallway, and she had no reason to be rude, either. “Sure, thanks.”
“Carmen?” the editor said over her shoulder to the woman behind the reception desk.
“Yes, coffee,” Carmen replied.
Pru imagined that the newspaper’s editor would love to get a few words from the head gardener of a local murder site—garden—but perhaps she could get a bit of information out of Clegg-Hill, too. The editor settled in behind a desk that was oddly void of paper, and Pru took the chair opposite; Carmen was on their heels with the coffee tray.
“Ms. Parke, how are things going at Primrose House?” the editor asked, hands folded in front of her and her face full of concern as she leaned over her desk. “What’s the atmosphere like? Tense? Is it difficult to walk every day past the place you found Ned Bobbins’s body without it catching at your heart? How is the investigation going? Are you privy to any new discoveries you might share with our readers? They do so love to read about you and the garden.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask Hugo to cover Ned’s murder, Ms. Clegg-Hill. Wouldn’t that have made the most sense—after all, he’s been writing the blog about us. Was he not available that day?” I see your bid and raise you, thought Pru.
The editor blinked. “Hugo was…” she began, and then leaned back in her chair. “Hugo was nowhere to be found the day of the murder—or the next.”
Nowhere to be found? Pru thought. “You mean, he was supposed to be at work and wasn’t?”
“I mean that Hugo is a young reporter with a great many ideas bouncing around in his head,” Clegg-Hill said. “When I asked him later where he was, he said he was up in London doing some research. I didn’t pursue it—I know I’ll see the end result sometime.” If she suspected Hugo of anything else, she didn’t let on.
Pru wanted to ask if the editor thought Hugo’s disappearance had anything to do with his connection to Ned, but thought that might result in being drilled again about what she herself knew. And lunch was almost over. “Thanks for your time,” she said to the editor. “I need to get back.”
As she opened the door, Clegg-Hill asked, “Shall I tell Hugo you stopped?”
Pru looked back and smiled, knowing the question was really: “Do you want Hugo to know you’re checking up on him?” The editor was fishing, but Pru wouldn’t bite. “Yes, of course, please tell him.”
—
Christopher rang, if not every hour, then certainly more often than usual. She saw DS Hobbes twice during the week, and for no reason. Once, he was parked in front of her cottage as she walked back at the end of the day.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” she asked.
He grinned. “Just dropped by on my way. Everything all right? You’re usually back by now, aren’t you?”
“I’m putting in a few extra hours these days,” she replied. “Will you phone the all-clear into Christopher or shall I?”
Hobbes blushed. “I don’t mind stopping, and Inspector Pearse is right to be concerned.” He started the engine, and then nodded in the direction of their access road, saying, “We found clay from down there on the tires of two cars—Liam Duffy’s and the Templetons’.” He looked behind him, as if afraid that Tatt sat in the backseat listening as he passed along evidence on the case. “I suppose Duffy could have a reason to be there, but Mrs. Templeton? Does she ever come down this way?”
The thought of Davina pulling down the road, finding the hatchet in the shed and confronting Ned made Pru queasy, but when she swept the image from her mind, it was replaced with one of Liam doing the same thing. “Have you asked her?”
“As soon as she’s back in town, I will,” he said, putting his car in gear.
“Sergeant Hobbes,” Pru said, laying a hand on his arm, “can you tell me about finding Ned’s mobile phone? How was it missed the first time police went to see the Duffys?”
Hobbes shook his head. “It’s a bit of a mess, and the inspector isn’t best pleased. He got an anonymous tip—a little too easy, if you ask me. The phone couldn’t’ve been in a more obvious place—the stone was sticking far out of the wall, the phone crushed behind it—none of it was there on our first visit. Instead of the best place to hide, if that’s what Liam was about, it was the worst place.”
“Were there fingerprints?”
“Not Liam’s. Ned’s blood was smeared on the phone”—Pru took a deep breath—“and there may be a partial print, but it isn’t clear.”
Pru hung her head and sighed. Hobbes inclined his head to catch her fallen gaze. “It’s just one more piece, Pru. We’re not finished.”
—
Pru drove back to the flat in search of Cate after work on Thursday, hoping to resume their conversation and pin her down about Liam’s whereabouts. Why would he hide an alibi—or was it that he didn’t have one?
But only Francine was home. “Just tell her I stopped,” Pru said.
“Can I ask you something?” Francine said, standing at the door as Pru turned to leave. “Robbie helps you in the garden, doesn’t he?”
“You know Robbie?” Pru asked.
“I’m the nurse at Chaffinch’s, the day care center he attends,” Francine reminded her.
“Yes, sure, I forgot that.”
Francine dug her thumbnail into the wood of the doorjamb, idly working off a piece of peeling paint. �
��On the day that Cate’s dad was killed, that afternoon…there was an hour or so when we couldn’t find him. Robbie, I mean.”
“He left Chaffinch’s? On his own? That’s not allowed, is it?”
“It doesn’t happen very often,” Francine said, “but occasionally someone might wander off. We’re right in town, though.” Francine took her long auburn hair and twisted it until it twisted upon itself and made a bun; she tucked in the end. “No one’s ever gone for long. And Robbie’s never done that before—we just thought he was out in the garden, digging. And really, before we could sound any alarm, here he came again, as if he’d just been around the block. Very chuffed he was, too, as if he’d done something he was proud of.”
“Does his mum know that happened?”
“We told her as soon as she came to collect him, later that afternoon. It’s the law. But he was safe.”
“Do you know if the police were told?”
“I was there when the sergeant visited the next afternoon—after, well, after you found Cate’s dad,” Francine said. “It didn’t come up. I don’t think the director wanted to call attention to it—and Ivy, Robbie’s mum, asked if we could keep it quiet.” Francine wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know where he could have got to, anyway. It was such a short time.”
“What did he say when you found him?” Pru asked, holding on to her car key so tightly that it dug into the palm of her hand.
Francine shook her head. “Some nonsense about Robin Hood. Nothing we could really figure out. But I thought I’d mention it to you,” she said, looking at the ground.
The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) Page 16
