Pru was at a disadvantage here. She had always appreciated a comfortable house but paid little attention to what made it so. Her talents lay elsewhere—she could rattle off the names of a dozen different asters and could come up with five trees for clay soil in an instant—but she couldn’t name a style of drapery to save herself.
“Do you have her things in your house?” she asked her sister-in-law.
Polly snorted. “You must be joking—I couldn’t afford a tassel.”
Bernadette hid a smile behind her hand. “I’ve got one of her pillows,” she whispered. “Just a wee one—the strawberry garden pattern.”
“My God,” Polly gasped, “how did you ever afford it?”
“Came across it in a jumble sale.”
Pru heard footsteps above. She didn’t think Miriam would be in the mood to talk shop and thought it better to send Polly and Bernadette on their way.
“Would you mind?” she pleaded. “It’s only that—well, you can imagine how drained she is. I tell you what, let me ring you tomorrow, and perhaps you can come round for tea when we’re back from rehearsal. You can meet her then.”
They left, but reluctantly, as they had not acquired any details of the murder nor had they been allowed to meet the queen of soft furnishings. Pru heard the fading crunch on the gravel drive as they drove off, to be replaced by the sound of other vehicles arriving.
Peachey walked in the mudroom, followed by Christopher, at the same time that Evelyn came in the kitchen through the swing door from the entry.
“There now, I’ve left Miriam to freshen up.”
“Do you know who she is?” Pru asked.
“Oh yes, she does those lovely interiors.” Evelyn pulled off her pinny and hung it on a peg. “I’ve seen the catalog. A bit dear, I can tell you that.”
“Is she all right up there?”
“She seems preoccupied—and who can blame her?” the cook murmured. “After what Polly and Bernadette told me.”
Christopher looked at Pru, who said, “They all know. Bernadette met Will Abbott when his bicycle got a puncture. He told her. And just after that, she talked with Polly, and Polly rang Evelyn.”
Evelyn nodded her confirmation. “And we’ll not say a word to anyone,” she promised, gathering her handbag. “Will we, Albert?”
Peachey held up his right hand. “I swear to keep shtum—no one will hear a word of it from me.”
Pru doubted it was Peachey’s ability to keep quiet that would worry Christopher, but rather that of the Ambrose Grant fan club.
* * *
—
Evelyn had left them cottage pie for their dinner—a good cook understands the need for comfort food—and a rhubarb-and-strawberry tart for pudding. Pru pulled out dishes to set the table, but stood stock-still as she dithered about whether they should eat in the kitchen—which she and Christopher preferred—or the dining room. She considered Miriam’s clientele—did the Duchess of Devonshire eat in the kitchen? Christopher came upon Pru hovering near the stove, clutching plates to her chest, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Why don’t we have our meal in here?”
She sighed with relief at someone else making the decision. “Yes, perfect.”
Miriam opened the swing door a few inches and peered in.
“All settled?” Pru asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she said meekly. “It’s good of you to take me in like this. I wasn’t expecting to stay, you see, and when we were told—” She bit off her last words, probably remembering the reason for her forced internment stood in front of her—DI Pearse.
“I hope it hasn’t put you out,” Christopher said.
“No, no. No.”
Dinner was a stilted affair, as Miriam spoke only when asked a direct question. “Salad?” “Please.” “More wine?” “Thank you.” And so, Christopher and Pru carried on their own conversation on a neutral topic.
“I heard from Graham—a text,” he said. “He’s in Gothenburg and hopes to be back by November. He’ll start work in Leeds in the new year.”
“That means we’ll see him for Christmas this year,” Pru replied, and to Miriam explained, “Graham is Christopher’s son.”
He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “And your stepson.”
Pru offered a grateful smile—still amazed she had such a thing as a stepson in her life. She turned back to their guest, to find Miriam’s eyes bright with tears as she gazed at Christopher and Pru’s clasped hands.
If Miriam had been a friend—or someone Pru thought might become a friend—she would have said, Oh dear, Miriam, what’s wrong? You can tell me. But when she opened her mouth to attempt it, out came, “You do such lovely work—your interiors.” She was taking Polly’s and Bernadette’s word for that fact, of course, but promised to look up Miriam’s business online later to make her compliment sincere, albeit retroactively.
“How is it you’re working on costumes for Max?”
Miriam hesitated over a bite of her second helping of cottage pie—wouldn’t Evelyn be delighted? “I was a seamstress on a couple of Max’s shows when I first started out.”
“That must’ve been quite a leap—from sewing costumes to creating such stunning soft furnishings.”
Miriam took a slug of wine and answered with a wave of her empty fork. “I needed a more reliable career than the theater in order to raise my son, so I moved back in with my parents for a while, until I had the business up and running.”
“You have a son?”
Pru perked up—it looked as if she might just break through Miriam’s hard shell—but at her question, the rising animation in Miriam’s face vanished, and she offered only a weak nod before returning attention to her food.
* * *
—
“I hope you’ll be comfortable in this room,” Pru said, lingering in the doorway. “You have a view of the kitchen garden from here.”
Miriam glanced briefly out the window—yes, that impressed her.
“Christopher and I are down the other corridor—you’ll let me know if you need anything?”
Miriam toyed with the eyelet lace on the duvet and whispered, “I will, thanks.”
“Good night, then.”
“Pru!”
Miriam’s restless hands flitted from the duvet to the sleeve of her tunic to the bedpost.
“There wasn’t anything going on between Gabriel and me. I mean, that would be ridiculous—why, he was younger than my son.”
“No, of course there wasn’t,” Pru replied.
“I don’t know why I did it—making out that there might be.”
“Well, emotions…” Could she quote Max here?
“I have no claims on him—he can do whatever he likes.”
Pru couldn’t be sure who this “he” was but feared asking for clarification.
“How I acted”—tears spilled onto Miriam’s cheeks, and she whisked them away—“it was silly of me.”
“I suppose we all—” Pru began.
“Ambrose…he didn’t believe it, did he?”
* * *
—
Christopher sat at the small desk in their bedroom—his pocket notebook in front of him as well as a large pad of paper, a stack of loose sheets, and his open laptop. Pru paused to take in the scene. She’d known him to work well into the night on a case, but perhaps not tonight. Crossing the room, she put her arms round him from the back and nuzzled his ear.
He put down his pen and leaned back against her. “Is Miriam all settled?” he asked.
“I suppose.” On the computer screen, Pru saw a photo showing a row of translucent yellow plastic cylinders, rather like fat pens, labeled: ADRENALINE (EPINEPHRINE).
“Is that what they look like—the injection pens?”
“Some of them,”
Christopher said and clicked to another website that showed opaque white pens. “It depends on the brand.”
“Did Gabriel carry them? And if so, where have they gone?” It was a question she knew had no answer. Early days yet, as they say.
“We didn’t ask to search every bag and satchel today,” Christopher said, frowning at the computer. “We didn’t have reasonable grounds, and there’s no point in looking for evidence in private property, finding it, and then having it be inadmissible in court.”
Pru headed for the bath, turned the water on full, and let the steam rise up into her face. Keeping her eye on the filling tub, she said, “Miriam is afraid Ambrose did it.” She looked back into the bedroom. “Come and talk to me.”
She stripped and dropped her clothes in the basket and sprinkled a vanilla-scented oil over the water’s surface, reclipped her hair high on her head, and sank into the hot, sweet-smelling tub. Christopher appeared, handed her a glass of brandy, and settled on the dressing chair against the wall, stretching out his legs.
“Did she tell you that?” he asked.
“Practically. It was a pretense—this thing between Miriam and Gabriel. She probably thought it was a fairly safe way to make Ambrose jealous—one that he might easily believe. And now she seems scared he did take it seriously—and that she pushed him into murder. There’s a mess that needs to be sorted.”
“Were Ambrose and Miriam ever married? A long-term relationship? They said nothing about this. How long have they known each other?”
Pru sipped her brandy. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” At Christopher’s raised brows, she added, “Just a chat. I feel like Miriam wants to tell the story—she only needs to feel safe before she can.” Pru sank down further, her chin just touching the water’s surface, and stuck a foot out of the tub near him.
He tugged on her big toe. Downing the rest of his brandy, he stood and leaned over, his hand on the back of Pru’s head, and kissed her—long, warm, and soft.
“I like that scent you’ve used,” he murmured as his lips found hers again.
“I know you do.”
* * *
—
“The timeline is chaos.”
Pru had started to drift off to sleep by the time Christopher pulled on his pajama top, retrieved his notes from the desk, and got back in bed.
“Is someone not telling the truth?” she asked and yawned.
“No one can remember where he or she was at what time—let alone know where anyone else was.”
Pru punched her pillows and sat up. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help. What time did he die?”
Christopher flipped through his notebook. “As early as twelve o’clock, as late as two—that may narrow after the autopsy.”
“I’d say it was later rather than sooner,” Pru said. “After morning break, I stayed back with Puck—wait, don’t tell me—Les Buchan. There. Then the Bumbling Blokes arrived, and for the next couple of hours, it seemed like everyone was everywhere. I can’t tell you the last time I saw Gabriel. I worked on the set, and I had to ask for help with the plants because Hal had left. Where were they all? I think Francis Flute was sitting next to Penelope a good deal of the time.” Pru leaned over to peer at his notes. “What is her real name?”
“Her name is Frances—the female spelling—although not Flute.”
“That’s convenient. What about Nick?”
Christopher flipped through his notebook. “You’re in luck there; he’s Nick, but his surname is—”
Pru stopped him. “Oh, why don’t we just leave it there? I can only remember so much at one time.”
Christopher handed over the rest of the names.
“Thanks. Penelope hadn’t included the Blokes on the original cast list,” Pru said. “I’ll copy these out later. Apart from fingerprinting, what else will you do tomorrow?”
“Talk to everyone again. It isn’t the most exciting process, but it must be done. We will continue to gather information, and when we sift through—we’ll catch someone out.”
That will ask some tears in the true performing of it.
If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes!
1.2.22–23
Chapter 14
LYSANDER—WHAT, DEAD?
The papers had certainly got hold of the news by the next morning. Christopher’s laptop sat open on the kitchen table with tabs to local and national newspapers’ headlines about the murder of Gabriel Gibb as he rehearsed for Max Stirling’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Pru clicked on each tab and found more twisted versions of lines from the play:
HAST THOU SLAIN HIM THEN?
A VERY TRAGICAL MIRTH
KILLED BY A RED-HIPPED HUMBLE BEE?
Plus more on the method:
VENOM OF DEATH
TO BEE OR NOT TO BEE
Miriam pointed to the last. “That’s pushing it—using a line from Hamlet.”
Christopher leaned against the counter, a cup of tea in hand. “Surely there was no press release?”
“Well, I couldn’t say,” Miriam replied, avoiding his gaze and leading Pru to believe that perhaps there had been some official notice—especially when the costumer added, “After all, there is no bad publicity.”
For some, perhaps. Pru had already fielded a call from her brother, who demanded—as only an older brother could—that she walk away from the production. His demands had the opposite effect, as he should’ve known—she got her little-sister hackles up and told him there was no way she would desert Max and the company. And besides, Christopher would be there. Then Simon asked if she’d seen the martagon lilies yet, and so they had ended the conversation on a peaceful note.
“Here now,” Evelyn said, pulling her head out of the freezer in the mudroom, her arms full of frosty plastic-wrapped loaves. “I’ll be baking this afternoon, so all I have for you today is two almond cakes and one of Kitty Bassett’s apple cakes.”
“You don’t need to feed the entire company,” Christopher told her.
“You should be thanking me,” Evelyn replied. “You know how much easier it is to talk with someone over tea and cake.”
Pru snickered, and Christopher conceded. “Thank you, Evelyn.” He checked his watch. “Well, I’m off—do you want to drive over with me, or will you go with Miriam?”
“I’m a few minutes away from being ready.” Miriam set her cup down and headed for the door, making it quite clear, Pru thought, that the two women would not be traveling the short distance together. But as soon as she pushed out the door, Miriam pushed back in. “Would you wait for me, Pru? I won’t be long.”
* * *
—
“I hope the weather stays fine,” Pru commented on the piercingly blue sky during their brief journey to Coeur-de-la-Mer.
“It could be raining stair rods and the show wouldn’t be canceled,” Miriam muttered.
“But surely you don’t get much of an audience when it’s raining.”
“The audience is always under cover—they’re the important ones, and as long as they’re dry, it’s a go. What does it matter if your helmet has filled with water while you’ve held it at your side—if you’re directed to put it on, you do—that’s the theater for you. I once saw Falstaff slip and fall flat on his stomach into a mud pit that had formed between act 1 and act 2 of The Merry Wives of Windsor.”
For having left the theater a few decades ago, Miriam sounded quite familiar with its goings-on.
“Was it when you were a young seamstress for Max’s show that you met Ambrose?” Pru asked.
Miriam threw her a look as she negotiated the turn down the drive. “Is this part of the inquiry?”
Pru gave her an innocent smile. “Depends on which inquiry you mean.”
They arrived at the gates, saving Mir
iam from answering as she deftly inserted her Jag into a sliver of space between the orange Jazz and silver Mercedes.
The PC on duty said, “You’re to go directly to the cottage for your fingerprints to be taken,” and then added, “Not necessary for you, of course, Ms. Parke.”
“Special treatment, is it?” Miriam asked as they walked on.
“Not because I’m married to the DI,” Pru replied. “It’s because they already have mine on file.”
The gardener’s cottage had turned from green room to a makeshift police station. PS Grey, an electronic fingerprint scanner on the table in front of her, had hold of Les Buchan’s hand, assisting him in pressing his fingers against the glass of the device. Hal was at the kitchen counter, his back to the room, and Christopher and Penelope stood in the doorway to the bedroom.
“Max’s ringing round for a new Lysander,” Penelope said. “We were flying without a net, I suppose, not having an understudy. In the meantime, I’ll read out the lines.” She sighed and looked down at the floor. “Dreadful about Gabriel. I know Max thought the world of him, and now, here he is looking for that impossible combination—a good actor, yes, but more than that, he must find someone who has the experience to take over at the last minute.”
“All finished here?” Pru asked Hal, who leaned over the counter, staring at his fingertips.
He cut his eyes to the others and nodded. “I’ll get to the catmint, if it’s all right.”
“Yes, go on—I’ll find you if I need you.”
Pru loitered at the counter, hoping to listen in on this second round of interviews. She kept herself looking busy by arranging Evelyn’s cakes in the sunshine so that they would thaw out by elevenses. When Will Abbott sauntered into the cottage escorted by a PC, Christopher thanked Penelope for her time, and the stage manager joined Pru in the kitchen space. Miriam had finished with fingerprints and, brushing her hands together, left for the stables. Nick Bottom came in and took her place.
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