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

by Marty Wingate

  He turned and she scrambled. But he recovered, grabbing and hoisting her up, trapping her in a choke hold.

  She tried to pry his arm off her and stand up, but her feet could not find purchase. “You pushed my Cate and Duffy together—you encouraged it,” he said. With every word emphasized, he squeezed tighter. “You couldn’t take a few friendly hints—the plants, the shed, the yews. You need to be taught a lesson—and an ax is as good as a hatchet for that,” Jamie said, reaching for the handle.

  But the yew had a better grip on the ax than he did. He couldn’t pull it free, and the brief diversion gave Pru the chance to wiggle away, and the added advantage of stomping on his foot as she did so.

  It wasn’t much of an advantage, but she took it, running to the side gate and out toward Primrose House and people. There was no point in trying to get to her empty cottage—what could she do without her phone, email the police?

  As she ran, she shouted, hoping that if he thought people were already on site, he wouldn’t follow. She wasn’t even sure what time it was—would Liam and Fergal be there? Ivy? No Davina and Bryan, she at least remembered that.

  The air seared her lungs as Pru gasped for breath, just making it to the back of the house where the stone stairs led up to the balustrade terrace. A glance behind told her that he hadn’t followed—yet. She dragged herself up the steps and got to the kitchen door.

  “Ivy!” She banged on the door and peered in the darkened windows. No response. Would she even work today with no Templetons at home? Her hands went to her pockets. Another useless gesture—she no longer carried a key to Primrose House with her.

  Pru looked toward the walled garden. Perhaps she had scared Jamie away. If he was crazy enough to attack her in the walled garden, he might be crazy enough to go on about his business now—she’d seen him change in a flash from sanity to insanity and back again. Leaning up against the cold brick of the house, she scanned her surroundings and her eyes fell on Repton’s beech wood. Just the place to hide until Ivy or the Duffys appeared.

  She flew down the stairs past the towering pile of manure, continued down the terraced slope, and headed for the safety of the wood. Sit quiet, watch, and wait, she thought. Someone will arrive.

  Her eyes darted back and forth, behind and in front, in case Jamie should try to surprise her, and she scanned the ground until she found a fallen branch, or at least a piece of one, about three feet long with twigs down its length. She chose one of the largest beech trunks and settled against its smooth, gray bark, cradling her club. The trunk was broad; no one could see her from behind. She kept her eyes out toward the yew walk, Primrose House, and beyond. The skin around her neck burned, and she shivered in the cold. Her breath created little clouds—when would spring ever come, she thought. There was still so much to do. Where was everyone?

  Car tires on the gravel drive up by the house brought her back to her immediate predicament. She got up, stick in hand. Jamie wouldn’t be bold enough to pull into the drive—someone had arrived, she thought, someone to help.

  But Jamie had arrived, too. He knew his way around the grounds well, and must have gone out to the lane and circled around the house to the wood. His footsteps behind her had made no noise on the wet, decaying leaves, but just as she stood, he stepped on a twig a few feet away. She turned as he pounced, and her improvised club caught him right in the stomach. He gasped and seized the branch. Pru let go and ran toward the stone steps, but when she got to the terracing, she looked over her shoulder—a moment’s distraction that caused her to step in one of Robbie’s holes. Her right ankle bent awkwardly beneath her; she shouted in pain and collapsed. Jamie was on her in an instant, shouting what sounded like his mantra, “It’s your fault,” as he took hold of her hair, clip and all, and yanked her head back. His legs were the only things in reach—she grabbed one and pulled. Unbalanced, he fell on his back and rolled partway down the slope.

  But now she had lost her ability to run and had to drag herself back up the stairs to the terrace, each step on the ankle a stab of pain that made her cry out. She got to the top on her knees, but no farther, as he had run up the steps behind. He picked her up and threw her halfway out over the balustrade, so that she was hanging facedown, her view of the Sussex countryside suddenly topsy-turvy.

  “You don’t like heights, do you, Pru?” He pushed her farther over, trying to unbalance her. “You shouldn’t admit to a weakness like that—and the first time we met.”

  She did hate heights, but he had miscalculated her fear. As he forced her farther over the wide stone rail, she saw that the thirty-foot drop had been cut to fifteen, and below was a soft mountain of fluffy manure mixed with wood shavings. She began swinging her arms wildly, as if flailing in panic, and reached up, fastening onto enough of Jamie to unbalance them both. They tipped over sideways and dropped.

  The mountain of manure, just recently dumped onto the site, still had a great deal of loft to it—not quite as soft as a mattress, but enough to cushion their fall. If she had been a cat, she could’ve turned herself in midair and landed right on top of him, but as it was, they landed on their sides, still holding on to each other. Jamie recovered quickly and was stronger than she was. He pinned her shoulders down. She reached back, got a handful of manure, and smashed it into his face.

  “Bitch!” he shouted and slapped her hard, causing her world to spin. She pushed against his hold and tried to roll over on him, but instead they both rolled down the manure mountain together and came to a stop at the bottom of the pile. She tried to stand, but the pain in her ankle was a swift reminder that she couldn’t go far. Jamie shoved her down again. He put his hands around her throat and his thumbs pressed on her windpipe, squeezing until she made a gurgling sound. She couldn’t draw breath. Sparkles appeared in front of her eyes, and the world began to fade until a pair of hands clamped onto Jamie’s shoulders.

  “Get off her!” Pru jerked forward for a moment as the hands wrenched Jamie backward and threw him to the side.

  She collapsed, drew a torturous breath, and looked up. She squinted, trying to regain her vision, and saw frizzy brown and gray hair on a figure in a sheepskin coat.

  “Simon!” she croaked, and broke out in a fit of coughing.

  Jamie had rolled down the slope, and Simon paid him no heed. He bent down to Pru. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  She wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t an apparition. She opened her mouth to say something, but only gagged.

  Over Simon’s shoulder, she saw Jamie rush up, screaming something incomprehensible, holding high her club, about to strike. Simon turned in time to catch the branch, wrench it out of his hands, and use it to give Jamie a ferocious push that threw him back down the slope once again.

  “Hold it right there!” DS Hobbes came running down the stone stairs. He pointed, and two policemen, bringing up the rear, were on Jamie before he could get up. Hobbes grabbed hold of Simon.

  “No, no—it’s Simon,” Pru squawked, waving her arms.

  Simon didn’t try to escape Hobbes’s grasp. “I’m her brother,” he said.

  The DS looked at Pru, who nodded, choked back a sob, and winced at the pain.

  He let go of Simon and leaned over Pru. “Are you hurt?”

  “My ankle,” she mouthed, pointing to her right foot. She began another painful coughing jag.

  “More than your ankle,” Hobbes said. “I’ll get an ambulance.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Simon said, kneeling down beside Pru.

  The sergeant ran up the slope, phone to his ear. Jamie was resisting the two policemen, but with little success.

  “Who is he?” Simon asked her, nodding at Jamie.

  “He’s Ned’s murderer,” she tried to say, without much sound coming out.

  “Ah,” Simon said, observing Jamie being dragged off. “Harry told me about that. Ned—the old fellow who was killed?” He put his hand on the stone railing to stand up. “Guess I’d better watch who I’m callin
g an ‘old fellow.’ ”

  The police activity faded to the background as, for a moment, Pru and Simon fell into an awkward silence. Finally, she whispered, “Where did you come from?”

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, glancing up to the several police vehicles parked on the gravel. “I drove up and down the road before I decided this was Primrose House. It wasn’t fair of me—the way I treated you. I wanted you to stay on Sunday, when you brought me the box, but I didn’t know how to ask. Birdie’s been saying I should come and talk with you, and last night Polly said it had better be soon or I’d never have another good night’s sleep. I left at first light—I didn’t want to arrive too early.”

  “Not too early,” Pru rasped. “Just in time.”

  DS Hobbes returned and said, “Ambulance on its way. You can wait here, Pru, and they’ll bring down a stretcher for you.”

  “Here now, the two of us can carry you,” Simon said. They made a litter out of their arms; she sat up and held on to their shoulders until they got her to level ground at the kitchen corner of the house.

  The ambulance pulled in, and paramedics hopped out. One of them took her shoe off and asked if she was in pain. “It’s not too bad,” she said, which was not true, but in light of such sudden joy, the pain took a momentary backseat.

  When they’d got her settled in the ambulance, Simon took hold of the door handle and put his foot up to get in.

  “Sorry, sir, you can’t ride in the back.”

  “He’s my brother,” Pru shouted in squeaks and pops. An electric thrill shot up her spine at the very use of the word, but she realized she was practically unintelligible. She tried again. “He’s my brother.”

  Chapter 37

  They had no time for familial conversation during the ambulance journey, as the paramedic began an assessment of Pru’s injuries, or upon arrival at the hospital where she was admitted into the emergency room, had an X-ray taken of her ankle, and was installed in a curtained-off alcove. At last, activity slowed while she sat up on the paper-covered bed, still in her clothes, which were smeared with manure, and waited for a doctor.

  They sat in silence, Simon leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and hands clasped. “Does your foot hurt much?” he asked.

  Pru, the brave little sister, shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  “What’s it like—Texas?” he asked. It broke the ice, just a crack.

  “Hot.” She shrugged. Breaking between every few words for a cough, and trying to swallow without screwing her face up, she said, “It’s a good place to live, but all my life I listened to my…to Mother’s stories about England, and as far back as I can remember, this is where I wanted to live.” Tears welled up and fell as she attempted to blink them away. “I always wanted a brother or sister.”

  “I always wanted a brother,” Simon said. “You know, someone to kick a ball around with.” He looked hopeful. “You don’t play football, do you?”

  Pru laughed. “No, but I played softball in high school.” Before she could go into the finer points of slow-pitch, the doctor walked in.

  “Well, Ms….” He glanced down at the chart in his hand. “Ms. Parke, I’m Dr. Laurence.” He peered briefly at her face, neck, and ankle. A nurse had cleaned up the scrapes and wrapped her foot. “How does your throat feel?”

  “It hurts,” Pru said.

  “I’ve had a look at your ankle,” he said, holding the X-ray up to the ceiling as if to verify his findings, “and I’m happy to report you have no broken bones, but a rather nasty sprain, in addition to several abrasions and the bruises at your throat.” He took stock of her clothes and most likely caught a whiff of her. “Good God,” he said, “you’re the gardener.”

  Well, of course the police would’ve informed him of the situation, she thought.

  Dr. Laurence wagged a finger at her wrapped ankle. “You stay off that foot,” he admonished. He turned to Simon and shook his head. “Gardeners,” he said. “They never listen. She’ll be out there tomorrow mucking about, saying the peonies need dividing or some such.”

  “Hang on,” Simon protested.

  The doctor looked down his nose at him. “You, too?”

  “Yes, my sister and I are both gardeners.”

  Pru broke out in a huge grin. “Can I go home? I’m not going back out in the garden, I promise.” Today.

  The doctor looked skeptical, but said, “Yes, right, fine. Just give us a few minutes for paperwork.”

  He left and the siblings sat in silence, until Simon cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the way I acted,” he said.

  Pru shook her head. “It was a shock—for both of us. I don’t understand why they didn’t tell you. Or me.”

  “They knew I’d be fine with Birdie and George—and I was. I’ve nothing to complain about, really. I’ve a good life.” He looked over at her. “Did you read those letters?”

  Pru blushed. “Only a few lines. When I realized that she wrote them to you, I put them away.”

  He smiled, and Pru could see their dad’s smile. Her heart lurched. “There was one toward the end where she wrote: ‘Someday she will find you.’ ” He raised his eyebrows. “And you did.”

  DS Hobbes stepped into the room, carrying a flat parcel wrapped in plastic. Pru introduced Simon properly, then nodded to the package Hobbes held and said, “Is that the Red Book? Is it all right?” She would heal, but damage to her beloved Repton epistle might be irreparable.

  Hobbes took the Red Book out of the plastic. “It’s not too bad, doesn’t look as if it’s torn. No mud. Good thing it wasn’t raining today.” He offered it to Pru.

  “Simon, you look at it.”

  Simon took the piece of history with all the reverence it deserved, as she knew he would. The hospital room around them fell away as he opened the book and read the first page, then carefully turned to look at more. “Can you still see Repton’s landscape? Is any of it left?”

  Pru started to explain the Repton features she’d discovered, but Hobbes interrupted, clearing his throat. “Pru,” he began. “I’m sorry to bother you here, but I thought you should know…”

  “Yes, sorry—we’ll need to give the Red Book back for now. It’s evidence, I suppose?” Simon closed the book and stroked its cover before handing it back to the sergeant. “And you’ll need statements from us. What about Jamie?” she asked.

  “Looks as if there will be plenty of evidence for a murder charge,” Hobbes said. “There’s something else.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and took a deep breath before he began. “I spoke with Inspector Pearse.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Pru saw Simon sit up straight, but her mind was all on Christopher. This can’t be good, she thought. “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “That’s the thing,” Hobbes said. “I spoke to him just before his flight left. He hadn’t been able to get hold of you.” She thought of her phone on the floor of the snug at the Two Bells. “I had gone to your cottage, looking for you,” he continued, “and then out to the walled garden. He rang just after I found the note from Mrs. Templeton and your necklace on the ground.”

  Her hand flew to her throat, and she acknowledged what she had known all along—what cut off her breath when Jamie grabbed hold of her collar from behind, and what snapped to relieve the pressure was her fan pendant necklace. “Oh God, you told Christopher you’d found my necklace, but you didn’t know where I was?”

  The sergeant’s red face told her more than he could say about Christopher’s reaction. “I described the necklace to him, and he said that it was yours. I told him what I saw—the ax and the note—before I realized his situation. I told him I’d ring him back, but…by the time I’d found you and tried, he’d already switched his phone off for the flight.”

  Pru pictured it: Christopher on a flight for eight hours, not knowing if she was alive or dead. She covered her face with her hands.

  “I left him a long message, explaining that you�
��re fine—well, you know. I told him what happened.” Hobbes shook his head. “But he won’t hear that for another four hours.”

  “I need to ring him,” she said, automatically going for her pocket. “I need to leave him a message, too. But my phone is at the Bells.”

  “Use mine.” Simon held his out.

  “Thanks,” Pru said shyly as she took it. “David, can Simon give his statement soon? He drove all the way from Hampshire this morning, but I’m sure he needs to get home.”

  “Yes,” the DS said, “that’s fine. You stop by the station before you go. Pru, I’ll get your phone and your necklace and deliver them to you later.”

  After Hobbes left, Pru said, “Christopher is my…well, he and I are…” She could feel her face reddening.

  “Oh.” Simon nodded. “Sure. Does he live round here?”

  “No, he lives in London. He’s a DCI with the Met.”

  Simon’s eyes grew large. “Cor,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, I know,” Pru said, acknowledging the unusual pairing of a gardener and a policeman. She fingered the phone.

  “Would you like me to leave while you…?” He nodded to the phone.

  “No.” Pru smiled as she made the call. “You stay.”

  It was a comfort to hear Christopher’s voice, even if it was only his terse recording: “Pearse. Leave a message.”

  “Christopher, I’m all right.” Regrettably, her voice did not back her up on that statement. She filled her brief message with reassurances and ended with, “Ring me when you have a chance. After you get Graham to Phyl’s house in Oxford. It’s all right, really it is.” She sighed deeply and handed the phone back to Simon. “You’ve come all this way, and we won’t really have time to talk.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “We’ll have time after today.”

  Pru fiddled with the paper covering on the bed. She could feel the tears again. “I’ve taken a whole day in the garden away from you—it’s such a busy time now.”