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

by Marty Wingate

  “Don’t own Primrose House?” Pru asked. “That can’t be right—they bought it from Lord Hamilton; surely as earl he has the right to sell off the manor houses on his estate.”

  Hugo grinned. “We’re an ancient country, Pru, with many layers of antiquated laws. Ned knew what a massive tangle they are—it was what he loved, sorting through stories, decrees, and laws hundreds of years old. He gave me the idea to look. That day we argued at Sainsbury’s, Ned made a comment about Primrose House and how no one really knew its story. I thought it would make a great series in the paper.”

  “But Davina and Bryan have put so much into the restoration,” Pru said. “They wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t own the place.”

  “You’re from a young country where the laws are clear,” Hugo said. “It’s likely the earl didn’t know that a freehold sale wasn’t possible, that he held only an equitable estate. It has something to do with the Court of Chancery and when the land was registered”—he shook his head slightly—“at least I think it does.”

  “The Court of Chancery? Like in Bleak House?”

  “Yeah.” Hugo laughed. “We’re all living in a Dickens novel. We may not even understand it, but Ned did. What if he told the Templetons that he knew they didn’t own the place?”

  It took a moment for that to sink in. What would Davina and Bryan do if they discovered the huge amounts of money they’d spent had been for nothing? What would they do to cover up the fact that they weren’t the true owners?

  Davina’s comments about Ned fell into place. Ned knew that the Templetons didn’t own the house they’d sunk so much into, but he would keep quiet—for a price. And that price involved securing a good job for his son-in-law to make sure his daughter was provided for. Maybe Ned had asked for money, too. Had Davina finally had enough of his blackmail and put a stop to it in a fit of pique? The police had found mud from the rough track on her tires—she had no reason to take that lane unless it was to get to the spot where Ned was murdered. Pru swallowed hard. “Have you told the police?”

  He nodded. “Just this morning. I was looking for the last pieces, and I wanted to try to get them to agree to let me write it up—they wouldn’t, of course. Open case—the usual runaround.”

  “Do you think Ned was blackmailing the Templetons?” Pru asked, hoping Hugo would convince her otherwise.

  “He didn’t say so—not in so many words,” Hugo said. “When we argued—there outside the Sainsbury’s—he said something about taking care of Cate. It had been mentioned”—he cut his eyes at her—“that Cate’s husband might get the head gardener job. Before you came along, of course.”

  “It was Jamie,” Pru said. “I’m sure it was—the fire, the yews. He thought that with Ned’s help and a few acts of vandalism under my watch that I would get booted out and it would pave his way to take over. But I’m not sure how to prove it. He seems to have covered his tracks well.”

  Hugo surveyed the still-bare inner walls of the garden. “I’m sorry now that I didn’t write the piece about the antique apples, but maybe I can do it if we start the blog up again. Tell me, how do you grow actual trees from Victorian times?”

  “Fruit-tree varieties are propagated by grafting—inserting a stem of one tree into a cut stem of another. You can take cuttings of trees and put them on new rootstock—or you could graft the stems from several different apples onto one tree. It’s an ancient practice, but still used today.”

  Hugo made a couple of notes before saying he must be on his way. Pru stayed where she was. Something flitted about in her mind, and if she stood still, it might land and she could catch it. It had to do with grafting. She swept up all available memories of the subject to examine them.

  She had tried her hand at grafting in a propagation class at Texas A&M. They had used a variety of tools—some specially designed for the task, some not. The knife had slipped once or twice and cut her—she rubbed the pad of her thumb unconsciously, remembering how easily the sharp blade sliced her flesh. It was an occupational hazard of those in the trade, she knew; if she had kept it up, she would have ended up with scars on her thumb, as so many grafters do. She had seen those antique grafting knives at the Garden Museum in London, but in her class, some students had used pocketknives. “Anything can be a garden tool,” Pru had told DS Hobbes.

  Now she had more to tell him, but had to leave a message. “Pru again. The pocketknife—it’s a good tool for grafting. It’s for plant propagation—usually roses or fruit trees. I’m not sure if that helps, but I thought I’d let you know.” She rang off. One other bit of memory remained just out of her reach; try as she might, she could not get hold of it.

  Chapter 34

  At lunch, she chanced a quick trip to Francine’s flat to find out from Cate if the police had Liam’s alibi. Davina and Bryan were preparing to leave for Liverpool on a three-day meeting with the investor group—Davina had informed her that their next meeting would be at Primrose House in July, so that the investors could all attend the open garden day. A shrill laugh escaped Pru’s lips before she could stop it.

  She waved at Arabella Sock as she got out of her Mini and walked up to the door of the flat.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Cate said, “we’re just having our lunch.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you now,” Pru said, eyeing Nanda’s plate of fish fingers and wishing she had remembered to make herself a sandwich.

  “Not at all. Have you eaten? We’ve plenty, and we know how to share, don’t we, Nanda-Panda?” Nanda’s mouth was full, but she offered Pru the rest of a half-eaten fish finger. “Let’s give her a fresh one, shall we?” Cate asked.

  As Pru joined them, Cate said, “Sergeant Hobbes rang.” Choosing her words carefully with her daughter well within hearing range, she told Pru about Liam reporting on his whereabouts that Thursday.

  “Mummy, Liam likes Paddington Bear,” Nanda said, perking up at his name.

  Cate smiled at her daughter. “Liam told you a story about Paddington Bear, didn’t he?”

  Nanda nodded and handed Pru one of her apple slices. “Apple is good for you,” she said.

  “I hope there won’t be a problem about what I said to begin with,” Cate said. “What if they don’t believe me?” She sat down to her own lunch, shaking her head. “Too bad we don’t have CCTV here.”

  Pru could hear, through the closed kitchen window, a voice call, “Trevor!” She turned her head toward the sound.

  “But you do,” she said, standing up. “You do have CCTV—or as good as.” She saw that Nanda’s plate was clean, and she held out her hand to the little girl. “Nanda, would you like to go meet the dog across the street? Would you like to visit Trevor?”

  —

  Nanda kept up a steady stream of excited talk all the way out the door and across the road, until they set foot on the path, the door opened, and Trevor emerged, followed by his mistress.

  “Hello, Mrs. Sock,” Pru said. “Nanda has been wanting to meet Trevor, haven’t you, Nanda?” Nanda had turned herself into a barnacle and was stuck to the back of Pru’s leg, peering at Trevor with one eye.

  “Well,” Mrs. Sock said, “we’re very happy to meet you, now aren’t we, Trevor?” Trevor’s tail set an andante pace and he whined slightly, peering back at Nanda. “Why don’t you and the little miss come in?”

  They followed Mrs. Sock down the hall to the kitchen, where a plate of custard cream biscuits appeared as if by magic. Mrs. Sock offered the plate to Nanda, who took one biscuit, said a tiny “Thank you,” and sat down on the floor next to Trevor. Soon the beagle was giving the little girl’s face a thorough washing, causing a fountain of giggles to bubble forth.

  As she nibbled on her own custard cream, Pru laid her cards on the table, explaining in vague terms—for Nanda’s benefit—the day in question. “And so, I wonder if you remember seeing Liam that evening.”

  “I do indeed,” Arabella Sock replied. “You see, that was the day that Trevor and I had been to v
isit our doctor, and we returned just about five o’clock, didn’t we, Trevor?” Pru looked down at the dog just as Nanda offered him her second custard cream. He gave it a lick, after which she resumed eating it herself.

  “Oh, um, Nanda…” Pru began. She wondered if she could be fired as an aunt before she ever got started.

  “Don’t you worry about those two,” Mrs. Sock said. “My boys grew up sharing their bickies with our dogs, and tweren’t never any trouble.” She patted the palms of her hands on her expansive lap in contemplation, and then said, “Now, let me see—we did see the young man arrive. He parks his car round the corner and up a ways. I noticed it there that evening, on our walk, isn’t that right?” Again, she looked down to Trevor for confirmation, but the dog was unable to reply as Nanda had him round the neck in a gentle hug. Trevor must have been taught how to behave in the company of little children in his former life, Pru thought.

  “It might be necessary for you to tell that to the…police.” Pru whispered the last word. “You see…”

  Mrs. Sock put her hand up. “No, no, now, you don’t need to tell me any more. I’m happy to help.”

  —

  Pru drove back to work with a lighter load—she crossed Liam off the suspect list and hoped that the police would do the same. The next name that floated to the surface was Robbie, and Tatt’s latest anonymous tip echoed in her mind. Ivy had dismissed Robbie’s brief disappearance from Chaffinch’s on that Thursday afternoon, and Pru would like nothing better than to do the same, but the fact remained that for an hour, no one knew where he was. A “mate” could have easily persuaded him to hand over his red fleece jacket, but could he be persuaded to participate in murder? Pru shook her head. Robbie hadn’t understood the situation when he’d found Ned’s body—if he’d been there when the murder had occurred, he would’ve let that slip.

  The rest of the afternoon while her hands were busy, Pru’s mind was on overdrive. Who would this mate be? Robbie led a sheltered life, and his only outlet for socializing, other than Chaffinch’s, came at the Two Bells. Who was Robbie’s drinking mate on his weekly visits? Ivy said Ted behind the bar kept an eye on him, but Pru had been in the Bells often enough to know that it could get busy. She doubted that Ted could keep track of Robbie’s every conversation.

  She stood up from digging, stretched out her back, and glanced down near the site of the pond where Robbie stood on a wide beech stump—his parapet where he could survey all of Sherwood Forest. He was holding a bow—it looked like a real archer’s bow, not Fergal’s makeshift variety.

  She ran down the slope, narrowly avoiding one of his holes.

  “Robbie,” she said, gasping to catch her breath. “Where did you…what a fine bow that is. Where did it come from?”

  Robbie stuck out his chest and held out the bow for Pru to admire. Smooth yew with a carved-leaf motif. It was the bow she had found in the wood. The one that had disappeared from outside the shed.

  Robbie raised the bow, pulling back the string. “My mate gave it to me. It’s just like Will Scarlet’s.” He let loose the string and his eyes followed the path of the pretend arrow.

  Pru looked back over her shoulder at the Duffys, putting on their coats. “Fergal gave it to you?”

  “No, Pru, not Fergal. My mate that knows Robin Hood.”

  “Robbie!” Ivy called to her son from the balustrade terrace.

  “I’m off to the pub, Pru, to have a pint with my mates,” Robbie said, jumping down from the stump.

  “May I borrow your bow, Robbie?” Pru asked. “Just to look at it—I’ll give it back on Friday when you’re here again. Is that all right?”

  Robbie looked at the bow before thrusting it at Pru. “I can share. But don’t let the sheriff find it. He would get Robin in trouble.”

  “Not a word to the sheriff,” Pru said, taking the bow. “Thanks.”

  Ivy called again. “Robbie, come along now. We’re to stop by the Brickdales’,” his mother said.

  Robbie climbed the slope. “But, Mum, I get to have my pint.”

  “I’ll leave you at the Bells after that. You’ll have your pint.”

  Pru waved goodbye to them and hurried back to her cottage on the lower path, bow in hand. Forming a small plan as she went, she stopped briefly to put the bow inside the shed, and then rang DS Hobbes to leave a message.

  “The bow must’ve been in the wood,” she said, “because Robbie had it.” She was reluctant to say anything that might implicate the boy. “I’ve put it in the shed, so stop by if you want to get it. I’ll be out this evening, but I’ll explain more tomorrow.”

  She didn’t stop in her cottage, but headed straight for the pub.

  Chapter 35

  She pulled her Mini in behind the Bells, a two-story building of stone below and brick above ,with several chimneys sprouting from its slate roof and a garden off to the side. She parked in an out-of-the-way place between a wooden outbuilding and a couple of stainless-steel tanks Ted had acquired recently. He hoped to start brewing his own beer using local ingredients and had been talking with a few farmers about growing hops.

  It was not quite five o’clock, and Pru saw only four or five regulars when she cracked one of the doors open. She walked up to the bar, glancing around on the way, searching for a shadowy alcove. If Robbie caught sight of her, all covert surveillance would be finished.

  “All right there, Pru?” Ted asked.

  “Ted,” Pru said, by way of greeting, “I’ll have a pint of the Sussex Mild. You haven’t seen Robbie Fox yet?”

  “Ah, it’s Robbie’s day, that’s right,” he said, pulling her pint. “No, he’ll be in soon.”

  “Does Ivy ever stay with him?”

  “Good woman that she is—she gives the lad some time to be just a lad.”

  “Does Robbie have friends here?” Pru continued to look round for a good hiding place as she asked. The fireplace that stuck out in the middle of the room offered no cover—everything was within full view.

  “Well, he does, I suppose.” Ted took a cloth that had seen better cleaning days and began to polish the wood bar. “There are a few that talk with him. He doesn’t get into any trouble.”

  Behind Ted, Pru saw a small window, just large enough to get a couple of pints through at counter level. It had a louvered wooden shutter that moved up and down, and seemed to be stuck open a couple of inches; Pru could see only darkness beyond.

  “Ted, do you have a snug here?”

  Ted glanced over his shoulder at the little window. “We do, yes—more a box room these days than a snug, though.”

  “It’s just that I’d love some peace and quiet for a while,” Pru said, scanning the wall behind the bar until she saw the doorway to the snug off to the right. “Would you mind if I took my pint in there?”

  Ted looked as if he thought that was a preposterous idea. “There’s no real place for you to sit, I don’t think.”

  “Just a bit of dark and quiet—it’s been very difficult at Primrose House, as you can imagine.” She gave him a significant look.

  “Sure, yeah, go ahead.” He made a halfhearted move toward the door. “Let me shift a few things for you.”

  “No, please don’t bother.” She waved him away. “I’ll find a place to sit. Thanks so much—oh, you won’t say I’m back there, will you?”

  “Not a word,” he said as he turned away to the next customer.

  Pru took her pint and pulled open the door to the snug. No longer the hidden room for a quiet drink, it now held boxes of cleaning supplies and glassware, a few broken chairs, and a stack of bench cushions. When she closed the door, the only light came through the two-inch opening from the little window. She blinked a few times, and when her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took a low stool and positioned it so she could see into the pub and view the whole bar area by leaning left or right. If she stayed back far enough, she would be hidden in the shadows.

  She got settled just in time. Robbie entered the pub, a bundle
of excitement, and walked up to the bar. She heard him order proudly—“I’ll have a pint, Ted”—and saw Ted pull a pint of a low-alcohol beer.

  The sound of a phone ringing made her jump. It wasn’t hers—she saw Ted reach for the phone behind the bar—still, she thought, she needed to be careful and not call attention. She leaned back, stuck her leg out—kicking a box of glasses and setting them to rattle in the process—and wrestled the phone out of her pocket. She switched it off and set it down quietly on the floor at her feet.

  Ted exchanged a few words with Robbie, but soon became occupied with his bartending duties. Pru’s stomach growled. The Two Bells did not serve food, and the fish fingers at Cate’s seemed ages ago. If only she could reach out of the louvered window and grab one of the packets of sour-cream-and-onion crisps that hung at the back of the bar.

  Not long after Robbie arrived, Jamie Tanner strode in and up to the bar, standing next to Robbie.

  “Robbie, how are you?” he asked in a jovial manner.

  “I’m here for my pint,” Robbie said, beaming.

  The noise level of the pub had increased, and Pru wasn’t able to hear the entire conversation, but it was obvious from Robbie’s manner that meeting Jamie at the pub was not an uncommon occurrence. Was this Robbie’s secret, that he knew Jamie? It was certainly Jamie’s secret—he had professed not to know Robbie. If he hid that fact, what else was he hiding? Jamie and Robbie were mates, but that led Pru nowhere in her effort to absolve Robbie of guilt—according to Tatt, Jamie had an airtight alibi for that Thursday.

  Pru could get no more evidence from her undercover work, but neither could she go anywhere, and so she drank her beer and waited for Ivy to collect Robbie and Jamie to leave. After that, she would find out from Francine if Jamie had ever been spotted near Chaffinch’s and let Hobbes know about the situation—although it was unlikely to be of much help.

  Ivy collected Robbie—she was quite discreet about it, not making a show of Mummy coming to get her little boy—and Jamie, who had momentarily faded into the woodwork, came back to the bar and ordered another pint. God, no, Pru thought, when she saw Ted reach for the pump handle. It was the same beer that Robbie drank—low alcohol and designed to keep the drinker at the pub, ordering pint after pint all night with little worry of getting drunk. She was in for a long evening.