That was when she heard the noise at the door. A little noise—it sounded like the pawing of a tiny hoof.
She went out to the mudroom and listened again, her ear pressed against the door. Nothing. Slowly, she opened it and saw no one. Then, she looked down at her feet to find a large black nursery pot holding Texas mountain laurel. She knew in a moment where it had come from.
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, she ran out to the yard, looking this way and that.
“Alf?” she called, but heard nothing. She ran back to the terrace. Empty. She went out to the drive again and headed toward the road. Had he left?
But passing the arch in the yew hedge that opened into the parterre, she saw movement and skidded to a halt.
A figure stood in silhouette with the low sun behind him, a rucksack flung on his back. When he dropped it to the ground and bent over, he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
“Alf!”
He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Pru. Merry Christmas!”
She took a deep breath, sighed, and then laughed. “You weren’t leaving, were you?”
“Oh, no. I wanted to take a look at the garden.”
“I’ll give you the grand tour, but now—you’re just in time for dinner. But, how did you know where to find us?”
Alf hitched his rucksack onto his shoulder and crossed the lawn toward her.
“You told me—Greenoak, Ratley. Although, I’m not too familiar with the area, so it’s good I had a bit of help.”
Christopher emerged from the house followed by Bernadette, who exclaimed, “Oh, look, it’s Father Christmas from West Dean.”
“That was you,” Pru said, and Alf’s eyes, how they twinkled. “This is Alf,” she explained to the vicar.
“Is it?” Bernadette said and peered at him. “Well, there’s a mystery solved.”
“Is that why you told Cagey you were busy this time of year?” Pru asked.
Alf’s cheeks were like roses. “Well, it’s only that—”
“Hang on,” Prus said, glancing down at his feet. “You’re wearing cowboy boots.”
Alf looked down, too. “I am.”
“Where are from, Alf?”
“Waxahachie.”
“Texas! How in the world did you end up here?” Pru asked, and giggled, because it’s a question she’d been asked over and over since she’d moved to England.
“I was born here, but my mum’s from Austin, see? My parents met when she was in England on holiday. We first lived near Chippenham, then moved to Scotland for a few years. When I was twelve, we immigrated to the States. But I’ve always wanted to come home, and so in January I moved back.”
It was a convoluted history, but Pru identified with it.
“I’m glad you’ve landed here,” she said. “Now, turkey awaits.”
Before following Bernadette into the house, Alf stopped to shake Christopher’s hand. “Mr. Pearse,” he said. Christopher nodded in return.
“Texas,” Pru said watching the young man head for dinner. “That’s why I couldn’t figure out where he came from, his accent is a bit of this and a bit of that.” Christopher started for the front door, but Pru caught his attempt to escape. “So, Alf didn’t have a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer to drop him off here.”
“Are you certain about that?” Christopher asked.
“How did you find him?”
Laying a finger aside of his nose, Christopher said, “I’m a policeman, Ms. Parke—I have my ways.” He wrapped his arms round her waist. “There’s a gift for you on the mantel in our bedroom, but I realized making sure Alf had a good meal today was something you wanted more. Happy Christmas.”
“And to you, too, Inspector.”
About the Author
USA Today best-selling author Marty Wingate writes three mystery series set in England. The Potting Shed books (Alibi) feature Pru Parke, a middle-aged American gardener transplanted from Texas to England, and the Birds of a Feather series (Alibi) follows Julia Lanchester, bird lover, who runs a tourist office in a Suffolk village. Marty’s newest series—The First Edition Library (Berkley)—presents Hayley Burke, the curator of a collection of books from the Golden Age of Mystery. The Bodies in the Library, book one, was released October 8, 2019.
Marty prefers on-the-ground research whenever possible, and so she and her husband regularly travel to England and Scotland, where she can be found tracing the steps of her characters, stopping for tea and a slice of Victoria sponge in a café, or enjoying a swift half in a pub.
www.martywingate.com
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