Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  “Did you know he was allergic to bee stings?” Christopher asked.

  “No. I assume the actors I work with are adults—apart from the little fairies. We are all responsible for our own actions, decisions, and welfare, and I see no reason to broadcast every personal issue.” Max stared off into the distance. “But perhaps I assume too much.”

  “What was he like?” Christopher asked.

  Background, Pru thought, that’s what he’s looking for. Context. She knew these first interviews were like scraping the top layer off a surface thick with many coats of paint.

  Max sighed. “I like to give young actors a chance, but I admit selecting Gabriel Gibb for Lysander wasn’t my best casting effort. He was a young man full of ambition but utterly lacking in self-discipline—certainly not uncommon at his age. Too many young actors want to be stars without putting in the effort. In truth, most of them will have to labor on for years before making a decent living, if ever. And they are vagabonds—dragged round the country to play roles they may not like, but which they dare not turn down. It renders a normal lifestyle rather difficult. And there are always distractions.”

  “Such as?” Christopher asked.

  “Emotions run high during a production—intense affairs flare up and, after closing night, are extinguished just as quickly. Not that good relationships can’t spring from such a beginning, but it takes work and determination.” Pru studied Max’s face as he looked into his mug. Was he remembering his first three marriages? Or considering the many women in Lysander’s life?

  Christopher leaned forward. “Do you think someone in the cast could’ve been angry enough with him to set up his death?”

  Pru held her breath in the second of silence as Max scowled, looked at his own hands, and finally shook his head.

  “This is a terrible thing that’s happened,” he said. “I don’t know who could even contemplate it, and I hope you find the perpetrator. But at the same time, this production needs to be a success. Ambrose and the others have invested so much—setting up the company and all that entailed—to have it come to a crashing end. It’s not only their money, you see, but their time and their hearts as well.”

  Christopher raised his eyebrows at this, but Pru spoke up first.

  “You know they’re behind it?”

  Max chuckled. “They thought they could keep their plans and schemes from Max Stirling? But now I am the one with a secret—they don’t know I know. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. It was such a kind and generous gesture, and they would be so disappointed if they lost that advantage. Couldn’t we keep the secret of their secret? Or would that harm your investigation?”

  “I won’t say anything for now,” Christopher replied, “but I can’t be held to a promise.”

  * * *

  —

  “Is nothing secure here?” Christopher asked as they left the stables and passed the cottage, following Max out.

  “Apparently not,” Pru replied. “I suppose they thought those ten-foot-high brick walls surrounding the place would be security enough.”

  “Not ten feet all the way round,” he said. “I had a PC walk the perimeter. There’s a wooded spot where an oak limb has knocked the top of the wall down, offering fairly easy access.”

  Pru brightened. “An intruder?” It was always convenient to blame a faceless murderer, although she knew it seldom played out that way in real life.

  “An intruder who took Gabriel Gibb a jarful of flowers and bees as a gift?” Christopher asked.

  “Mmm. Could be a crazed fan,” she offered, although she didn’t know if the actor had been so well known that he had any fans.

  They broke off their exchange at the open gates, where Max held out his arms to the waiting crowd as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “We are to continue,” he announced, his Russian accent lending a military note. He could get no further for a moment as the actors cheered, pumped fists in the air, and hugged each other.

  Their joy moderated instantly when Christopher added, “We’ll expect all of you here tomorrow at nine o’clock in order to take fingerprints.”

  The actors looked aghast.

  “Nine o’clock?” one of the Mechanicals asked with incredulity.

  “We wouldn’t want to infringe on your rehearsal time,” Christopher replied. “We have the particulars of your local accommodations—if anything changes, please let Sergeant Grey know.”

  The group dispersed. Pru hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and put a hand on Christopher’s arm. “I’ll walk home.”

  “No,” he replied. “Hang on a few minutes, and we’ll drive back together.”

  She gratefully accepted the offer. It had been a long and arduous day even before Lysander’s bloated corpse had been found in the gardener’s cottage, and now it must be well past six o’clock. Pru looked forward to a quiet evening with her husband and talking through the events after a glass of wine—or two. While he finished up with his officers, Pru wandered toward the black police BMW but stopped when she came upon Ambrose, Miriam, and Max in a heated discussion.

  “We are supposed to stay locally,” Ambrose said to the costumer. “Look, I can sleep on the sofa, and you can have the bedroom.”

  “No, thank you,” Miriam replied, her nose in the air. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Miriam, are you afraid I’ll wait until you’re asleep and slip under the covers?”

  Her face flared to scarlet, but instead of slapping Ambrose—as Pru thought she might—Miriam’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away and began searching in her bag.

  “Miriam,” Max said in a conciliatory tone, “I’m sorry I’ve given Linden and Nick the other bedroom in my penthouse—along with the dogs. Frances will be at Penny’s, and Les and the Mechanicals have taken the last rooms available at The White Horse.”

  Miriam sniffed. “I’ll go back to Tunbridge Wells—I’m needed at the shop.”

  “That shop runs perfectly well without you, and you know it,” Ambrose pointed out.

  “Then I’ll find a place on the road—it can’t be that difficult.”

  “No, you won’t. We don’t know what’s gone on here.” Ambrose took her hand, and she didn’t pull it away. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “You can stay with us.”

  The three of them turned round to see who spoke, and for a moment, Pru wanted to turn round, too, but then realized to her astonishment she herself had made the offer.

  “It’s only that,” she stumbled on, “we have several empty bedrooms…and if you need to stay nearby and you haven’t made arrangements already, you’d be welcome at Greenoak. Really, it wouldn’t be a problem, I’m sure—”

  Pru glanced back toward Christopher. Would it?

  Miriam shook her head so violently the comb flew out of her hair and hit Ambrose in the chest. “No! I mean, that is, it’s kind of you, but—”

  Pru was a second away from saying We won’t bite, you know, when Ambrose leapt in.

  “It’s perfect.” He smiled as he handed the comb back. “You’ll love it there. Evelyn, the cook, is outstanding. And you and Pru will have a chance to get to know each other.”

  It was beginning to sound like a sleepover.

  “And I know you’re always prepared,” Ambrose continued, his smile turning mischievous. “You’ve got an overnight bag in the boot of your car, don’t you?”

  “Stop it,” Miriam complained, but mildly.

  Pru sensed that whatever these two had in the past was not finished—for either of them. And she felt that familiar tug of the wannabe matchmaker—not that she’d ever been any good at it—but if all they needed was someone to facilitate, perhaps she could help. And the arrangement couldn’t hurt Christopher’s murder inquiry, could it?

  “Right
, that’s settled,” she said. “Do you have a car, Miriam? I’ll go with you—we’re only ten minutes away. Let me just tell Inspector Pearse I’m leaving.”

  She marched over to the cluster of police to hear Christopher say, “First thing tomorrow,” before he saw her and broke off.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I need just a quick word.” PS Grey and the uniforms chatted among themselves, and Pru stepped closer to Christopher. “I’ve invited Miriam to stay with us.”

  Christopher’s eyes darted to the costumer, who was talking quietly with Ambrose. “She said she’d be at The White Horse.”

  “Full up, apparently—she didn’t realize it.” Pru’s brow furrowed. “It’s all right, isn’t it? I think it’ll be good for them. For her.”

  He took her hand and absentmindedly rubbed his thumb in her palm. “I get the feeling this isn’t just about the murder, is it?”

  “Got it in one, Inspector—I’ll explain later.”

  Miriam had her head in the boot of her car when Ambrose caught Pru and whispered, “Thanks, you’re a peach.”

  “Want me to put in a good word for you while I’ve got her cornered?” Pru asked.

  Ambrose grinned. “I see you’ve cottoned on to my situation.”

  “Not entirely, but I’m getting an idea.”

  * * *

  —

  Miriam had resigned herself to her fate with a heavy sigh. Apart from Pru’s directions of “left here” and “out the top of the roundabout,” the drive to Greenoak was virtually silent, the heavy atmosphere dousing any flicker of idle chitchat.

  “So, you live in Tunbridge Wells?” Pru asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I worked not far from there a few years ago, near Bells Yew Green.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was at Primrose House. Do you know it?”

  “No.” Miriam jerked the car into second round a corner and added, “Wait, is that the place—”

  “Just here,” Pru cut in as they came upon the drive, realizing it might not be the garden Miriam remembered about Primrose House.

  They pulled into the gravel yard, empty apart from Pru’s Mini.

  “I’ll take that,” Pru offered when Miriam dragged a large brown leather holdall out of the boot.

  Her personal bag slung on one shoulder, Miriam clutched the leather case in front of her. “No, it’s all right,” she insisted.

  Pru started for the kitchen, but, deciding the front door would make the better impression, abruptly changed course, causing Miriam to knock into her with the holdall and reel back, off balance.

  “Here, please, let me help.” Pru wrenched the case from her, but had to use two hands, it was that heavy. As they plodded to the front door, Pru gave an introduction to Greenoak, sounding like a volunteer at a National Trust historic house.

  “It belongs to friends of ours who live abroad—they offered accommodations when Christopher and I married two years ago. I garden with my brother, Simon—he’s the one who laid out the landscape when he started working here forty years ago. I hope you can meet him.” Although, Pru thought, given Miriam’s disdain for gardeners, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. Opening the door and leading the way in, she announced, “Well, here we are, then.”

  Miriam paused. “My.”

  She took in her surroundings—the central staircase with its carved railings and the entry mirror, surrounded by a frame of oak leaves with the tiny face of a harvest mouse peeking out from one corner.

  Pru dropped the holdall on the floor and shook her arms out, and jumped as Evelyn burst from the kitchen still wearing her pinny and saying, “Here now, if you’re coming in the front, I hope you’ve taken your shoes off first. The kettle’s about to boil. I’ve been waiting since Polly rang and said she would…Oh, sorry.”

  Pru introduced the women, her mind racing as she tried to say enough, but not too much. She would go into detail with Evelyn later.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t ring ahead, but I thought you’d be off with Peachey by now. You see, Miriam is the costumer for A Midsummer Night’s Dream and is going to stay with us for a bit, because there’s been an incident at Coeur-de-la-Mer and—”

  “I’ll say there’s been an incident,” Evelyn replied. “A murder.”

  And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,

  Lamenting some enforced chastity.

  3.1.194–95

  Chapter 13

  “Have the papers got hold of it already?” Miriam asked, her face white as she looked up at Evelyn’s sturdy, towering figure.

  “No, not the papers,” Evelyn replied. “Here now, let’s not worry about that right now. I’ll take you up to your room—the one above the kitchen, overlooking the veg garden, do you think, Pru?”

  “That would be lovely, thanks, Ev.”

  Evelyn kept the uninhabited bedrooms at Greenoak at the ready, explaining that you never knew when someone might pop in and need a place to stay. And she’d just been proven right.

  Tea and cake were what they needed, and just what Evelyn had ready. A seed cake, studded with caraway. Pru set about collecting cups and saucers, and the kettle was close to a boil when she heard a car—more than one—pulling in. Christopher at last—although they wouldn’t get the quiet evening she’d hoped, not with a houseguest.

  But when the mudroom door opened, it was Polly and Bernadette who rushed in.

  “We’ve heard.” Polly pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand. “About the murder.”

  “You, too? How could you possibly have heard?” Pru demanded. Wait—Christopher said he’d talked with her brother to get the Gascoignes’ contact details. “Did Simon tell you?”

  Polly gasped. “Was Simon there?”

  “No, he was not. All right, how did you hear?”

  “Bernadette told me.”

  “Bernadette?”

  “I met Will Abbott,” the vicar confessed.

  “Demetrius?”

  Pru couldn’t have been more surprised if Reverend Bernadette Freemantle had said she’d seen it in a vision. Pru sank into a chair, and the other two women followed suit. Polly put her hands round the teapot and then poured out three cups. Pru reached for a slice of cake and said, “Right, start at the beginning.”

  “You should be the one starting at the—” Polly sucked in her breath. “I was returning from meeting with a client in Portsmouth, and I saw Bernadette dropping some young man and his bicycle on Market Place in Romsey. I stopped to see if she’d like to go for a coffee, and so we nipped into the Costa and she told me about it.”

  “Bernadette.” Pru raised her eyebrows. “What can you add to this?”

  “I was coming up from Nursling, you see,” Bernadette began, “and took to the lanes because of the roadworks on the A3057. And there he was, Will, stopped off to the side—he’d had a puncture in one of his tires. I pulled over to help.”

  “And he told you about Gabriel Gibb—it came out just like that?”

  “It’s the collar,” Bernadette said, touching her clerical garb. “People seem to feel it gives them permission. They feel comfortable talking about uncomfortable things—as well they should. And so we chatted as I took him into town.”

  “Will Abbott and his bicycle?” Pru asked, still finding this tale difficult to believe. “Bernadette, you drive a Smart car—where did you put the bike?”

  The reverend pointed heavenward. “On top. We opened the windows, and I held on with my right hand and steered with my left, while he held on with his left and changed gears for me. It was an interesting—and thankfully short—journey. But he told me no details—how did the young man die?”

  “You two realize I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “My God,” Polly exclaimed, “you sound like Christopher. Are you in on the investigati
on? Were you there when the body was found?”

  There was an image Pru would rather not conjure up again.

  “Polly, please—I don’t feel like I can go into it right now.”

  Her sister-in-law was known for picking up a sense of things that others might not, and after a moment, Polly nodded. She put her hand on Pru’s arm and gave it a squeeze.

  “It’s all right—you can tell us all about it later,” she whispered.

  “Thanks. So, Bernadette, how did Will Abbott seem?” Pru asked.

  “He had a few choice words for his puncture, but that was just a cover for how upset he is about what had happened. And he’s terribly worried about Nell, his sister.”

  “You didn’t tell us his sister was playing Hermia,” Polly said to Pru. “Surely that isn’t privileged information.”

  “You’ve hardly been interested in the cast apart from one.”

  “How is Ambrose?” Bernadette asked. “It must’ve been devastating—is he holding up well?”

  Pru glanced at the ceiling. “That reminds me—we’ve got a houseguest. Christopher has asked everyone, crew included, to stay nearby. Most of them were already set for accommodations, but we’ve taken in the woman who does the costumes. Miriam Sykes.”

  Two sets of eyebrows shot up.

  “Miriam Sykes?” Bernadette repeated.

  “Of Tunbridge Wells?” Polly added.

  “Yes, I believe she does live in Tunbridge Wells. Do you know her?”

  “Don’t you? She’s got a fabulous line of soft furnishings,” Polly gushed. “Her main shop is on the Pantiles in Tunbridge Wells, and she’s also online. Her stuff is absolutely gorgeous—beautiful fabrics, rich colors and designs. Curtains, upholstery—ooh! She added that line of silver candlesticks and etched glass vases last year, all British designed and made.”

  “Absolutely stunning,” Bernadette agreed. “And she counts the Duchess of Devonshire, Judi Dench, and Emma Thompson among her clients.”