Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  “Is that your house?” Peter Quince yelled from three cars away.

  “That would be grand,” Ambrose said.

  “Would it be all right with Evelyn?” Max asked.

  Evelyn would love it to bits, Pru knew this—as long as she could be forewarned. The real question was—what would Christopher say?

  * * *

  —

  It was decided to rescue the costumes; so, before they departed Coeur-de-la-Mer, all the cars drove to the yard and the cast dashed into the stables with large rolls of plastic sheeting. Miriam directed the proceedings while Pru stayed in the Jag and rang Evelyn, who took the news as if receiving orders from HQ. Next, a call to Christopher. He listened to Pru’s explanation, paused, and then asked, “All of them?”

  Yes, all of them. And although Max was the man to make decisions, Pru thought it best to have an idea of which rooms at Greenoak would be useful for rehearsal. And where Miriam might find room to work on costumes. Pru thought of that only when she saw Will Abbott, strapping young man that he was, carrying out the sewing machine.

  Car boots stuffed with costume paraphernalia, they drove away in a long caravan, down the drive and to the lane, until they reached the road and along that until they hit the roundabout, then off onto another lane, finally turning into Greenoak, where the first cars in had to circle round and park on the exit side of the drive. Not bad, Pru thought, checking the time—it had taken them only thirty minutes.

  It had taken Evelyn even less time. When Pru led them into the kitchen through the mudroom, they were enveloped in the heavy aroma of cinnamon—so alluring that Pru heard several sighs from behind her. After quick introductions to those she hadn’t met, the housekeeper-general took charge.

  “All your wet things on the pegs in the mudroom there,” Evelyn instructed. “Does anyone need a towel to dry off? Behind you on the washer, you’ll find a stack. Look at those shoes—have you been tramping over a field? Boot scraper just outside the door. Here now, I’ve just this minute poured up the large cafetière, and that pot of tea is ready. I’m sure you’ll need something before you start to work. You’re welcome to stay in here with your buns or take them out to the dining room or wherever wish. Now, Max—it’s coffee, black, isn’t it?”

  It was organized pandemonium. In the sitting room, Penelope directed the pushing of sofas, tables, and lamps to the walls—with Evelyn’s approval—for the main rehearsal space. Miriam took over the library for costumes and set up her machine near the French doors to the terrace for the best light. The dining room acted as green room, and the actors treated the kitchen as their own. Evelyn, as Pru’s Texas dad would say, was in hog heaven.

  Everything fell into place, and there was a lull as several cast members headed back to the kitchen. Penelope sat on the stairs checking something in her binder, and Pru approached.

  “All right there?” she asked.

  Penelope looked up. “Yeah, thanks so much for offering this, it’s a real lifesaver. You’ve no idea how dreadful rehearsals in the rain can be—oh, that is, you can probably imagine. I’m sure you’ve spent a fair few wet days doing gardening.”

  “Yes,” Pru replied, attempting to find ingress for the subject at hand. Because it had come to her that Penelope knew the problems with Gabriel as well as anyone.

  The stage manager took note of Pru’s hesitancy, and, her gaze dropping back to the page in her notebook, said, “Oh, right. You want to ask me about what happened to Gabriel.”

  Pru sat on the step one below her. “I’m sure you’ve told the police everything you know. I only wondered—”

  “If he tried it on with me, too?” Penelope laughed as she twirled her pencil like a baton. “It was as if he thought it good manners or something, you know—meet a woman, get her to sleep with him, that’s just the way the world worked. His world. Well, I put shed to that idea quick enough.”

  “I suppose every cast has one or two that don’t seem a good fit with the company,” Pru remarked.

  Penelope glanced up as one of the Mechanicals crossed the entry from kitchen to sitting room. “Even Uncle Max can get it wrong sometimes. Although, as it’s his first show in many years, I know he wanted everything to be just so.”

  “Were you stage manager for him before?”

  “Assistant—I learned the ropes. Four years ago—Antonia was quite ill by then and Max, of course, far away from the theater—the Bumbling Blokes did a show local to us, and Max sent me tickets and said there was someone in the cast he wanted me to meet. It was Frances.”

  “He’s quite the matchmaker,” Pru said.

  “He is that.”

  * * *

  —

  “Where’s Linden?” Ambrose asked, coming in from the sitting room. “We can sit on the stairs and run opening lines.”

  “Where’s Nick?” Frances asked, walking out of the library. “And the dogs?”

  Evelyn pushed the swing door open from the kitchen. “Dogs?”

  “Did anyone see them at the gates?” Penelope asked those milling round the entry with coffee and buns in hand. They stopped chewing and drinking, and Pru felt the air turn chilly as she—and probably everyone else—compared this to the moment they couldn’t find Lysander.

  “Max!” Penelope shouted. “Linden and Nick—they’re missing!”

  “They are not missing.” Max came to the door of the sitting room, where he’d been pushing chairs round to delineate the platforms. “Only late—not to worry. Last evening, they left, dogs and all. Linden had an errand.” Max locked his eyes on Pru, and she couldn’t look away. She read his message—Linden had gone to get a jar of honey from her bees at Kidlington. And she must’ve told Max why. “They should return by midday. Oh yes,” he added, “Penny, would you let them know where we are. And also, could you get me another coffee?”

  Pru reached out for his cup. “Here, let me.”

  When the kitchen door swung closed behind her, Pru found herself in a momentary oasis of calm with Evelyn humming at the sink and a stockpot steaming on the stove. In the quiet, she heard her phone ring and went to retrieve it from her bag in the mudroom.

  “You aren’t at the murder scene today, are you?” Simon said instead of hello. “It’s tipping down out there.”

  “No, rehearsal has been moved indoors,” she said to her brother. “We’re all at Greenoak.” Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, and Pru mouthed, Simon.

  “They’re all there?” he asked. “Ah, yeah, now I understand. Bernadette just came by and swept Pol off, saying they had to give Evelyn a hand. They made it sound like a house party, but you’re playing host to a murderer. If I’d have known what was up—”

  “We’re not in danger, Simon. Come round and see for yourself. Christopher will be here.”

  “And is Hal there as well?”

  “I haven’t seen him—shouldn’t he be at his other job—the town garden, Dean Bank?”

  “He should, but apparently he’s been a no-show there this week.”

  Pru colored. “I suppose that’s my fault—have I been taking up too much of his time? We’re finished with plant deliveries, though, so he should be able to get back to it.”

  “It isn’t on you,” Simon said. “Hal’s a grown boy. He can sort out his own schedule. I’ll give him a ring, how’s that?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Bye now.” Pru ended the call and said to Evelyn, “Bernadette and Polly are on their way.”

  Dropping a potato in the sink, Evelyn turned, two red spots on her cheeks. “I rang them. I thought I could use the help.”

  “I can help you.”

  “Yes, of course you can, but I need more than you. You’ll have your hands full with that lot, and, after all, it’s only fair that they have their chance—you did say they could meet Miriam.”

  Pru had meant to invite them over the day befo
re and hadn’t. “Of course. Well, you let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  “Is there anything I can do?” she repeated to Penelope. Evelyn thought Pru would be busy, but with no set to arrange, no pots to shift, and no fairy bower to plant, she might just spend the day twiddling her thumbs.

  The stage manager twirled her pencil for a moment and then said, “I could use some help. You could be my assistant stage manager—following up on bits and bobs. It’s not much more than general dogsbody, actually, but it would be a great help to me. What do you say?”

  Pru could dream of being onstage rather than behind it, but still, this was something—now she had a title. “Your assistant stage manager reporting for duty,” she said, smiling.

  First job, retrieve the sandwiches from the boot of the Jazz. Penelope accompanied her, leaving Max as he re-blocked the fight between Helena and Hermia. The new choreography included a great deal of flailing and pushing and falling, and as the stage manager and her assistant left out the front door, they heard Max shout, “Mind that pottery vase!” But as there was no ensuing crash, they continued on their way, collecting lunches and returning through the mudroom, as two more fragrant trays of cinnamon buns came out of the oven. Evelyn kept the extra freezer chock-full of prepared food “for emergencies,” but Pru wondered if there would be anything left by the end of the day.

  A mountain of sliced leeks occupied half the counter space, while her two assistants—Polly and Bernadette—washed up cups and saucers.

  After exchanging greetings and eyeing the proceedings, Penelope said, “I hope you aren’t cooking for us—we’ve already put you out, and we’ve lunch sorted—look at the load of sandwiches I have here.”

  “You need more than sandwiches to get through the day,” Evelyn admonished.

  Potatoes, leeks—Pru would never put up a fight against a bowl of soup, and Penelope, her polite protest finished, relented. “That’s really lovely of you, Evelyn—thanks.”

  * * *

  —

  The company eventually had its fill of coffee and tea for the morning and got down to work. With lunch under way and everyone sorted, Penelope told her assistant to check back in a half hour to see what else needed doing. And so, Pru wandered among the clusters of activity in the house, until she arrived at the costume shop in the library, where Miriam had Puck in his patchwork long coat as she adjusted the sleeves. Pru would be of no use with a needle and thread, and so offered to hang up the various coats and dresses and sets of fairy wings that had been haphazardly flung over furniture upon arrival.

  Ambrose put his head in the door. “Miriam, do you need me?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Those trousers for Theseus—”

  “Hemmed. You can try them later.”

  Ambrose looked distinctly disappointed and left.

  Miriam had let slip a personal recollection that morning in the rain outside the gates, and Pru thought Ambrose might have seen that as a crack in the high wall Miriam had built round herself. But, for the rest of the morning she buttoned her lip, and when Ambrose entered a room, Miriam left. Although Pru sensed that the woman’s lifelong resentment might be close to crumbling, Ambrose better not push it. Also, Pru told herself, she had yet to hear his side of the story, and should reserve judgment.

  As she hung a wispy pink robe on a sconce, she caught sight of someone through the closed French doors. It was Nell, sheltering against the wall under a shallow eave.

  “Is she all right?” Pru asked Miriam.

  The costumer shrugged. Pru stepped out and shuffled along the wall until she drew near. “Hello.”

  “Hiya,” Nell said.

  “If you’d like someplace quiet to be alone,” Pru said, “you could go upstairs. Would you like me to show you to an empty bedroom?”

  “Thanks, but no.” She shook her head. Her blond curls hung limp in the humidity, and she had a face to match. “Look, I’m sorry about how I was with you the other day. Accusing you of being—what do they call a police informant?”

  “A snout?” Pru had heard the term only on television—it sounded silly to her and now it brought a welcome, if weak, smile to Nell’s face. “It’s all right—you were in shock. It’s understandable.”

  “Imagine little bees doing that to someone.” Nell tapped the toe of her shoe into a shallow puddle on the flagstone. “I didn’t know his allergy was that bad.”

  “You knew he was allergic? But, didn’t you tell the police you weren’t aware of it?”

  “Did I?” Nell frowned. “I can’t remember what I said. And anyway, he never came out and told me—and so I didn’t know what it was he was allergic to. It’s only that I happened to notice he had those injection pens. We were in the stables and in a hurry because we thought someone might come in. His satchel—it was closer to me, and I saw a couple of the pens when I reached in for a—”

  “Nell.” Will had stuck his head out the door.

  “I’m all right, Will.”

  “You should come in,” her brother said.

  “What do you think I’m going to say to her?” Nell snapped. Color came back to her face—a flush of pink.

  Pru took a step back at the look Will gave her. His eyes full of something she couldn’t quite read. Pain? Fear? Guilt?

  His gaze shifted to his sister. “It’s Max. He’s ready for you.”

  There…may I marry thee;

  And to that place the sharp Athenian law

  Cannot pursue us.

  1.1.161–63

  Chapter 17

  Pru dashed out through the rain to the potting shed, where she wouldn’t be overheard. As the rain beat on the roof, she rang Christopher.

  “I’ve been held up,” he told her. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Evelyn is treating the day as a jolly house party. I wouldn’t be surprised if she invites the entire company to stay to dinner. But, Linden and Nick aren’t here yet—Max told everyone they had some business to take care of.”

  “They’re both gone?”

  “Yes, plus Bubble and Squeak.” As Pru talked, she used her free hand to dust off the bench and pick up a few stray plant tags. “They left yesterday evening.”

  “They’re taking their time,” he replied. “Kidlington’s not more than a three-hour journey there and back.”

  “And I’ve something else for you—Nell knew about Gabriel’s allergy.”

  “She never said—” His voice was sharp with annoyance. “What gave it away?”

  “A condom. They were in the stables and in a hurry—so she said. She reached over into his satchel to find protection and saw his injection pens.” Pru noticed a new pair of gloves had fallen behind a pot and moved them to a shelf. “So he had the pens, just not when he needed them.”

  “Did she really forget to tell me or was she covering up?” Christopher asked.

  “She could’ve been embarrassed,” Pru offered. “I saw her on the terrace and stepped out to talk—maybe she felt it was all right to say it to me.”

  “That’s good work,” Christopher said. “Now, we’ve located Gibb’s older brother in Portugal. He said that Gabriel was indeed allergic. It was discovered when he was a young boy, and he had been careful about carrying two pens with him. And we’ve tracked his doctor, who sent us a copy of the prescription. We didn’t find them in his flat, and Abbott denies knowing anything. So where did they go, those pens that would’ve saved his life?”

  They ended the call with Christopher saying he’d be along soon. Pru continued tidying—straightening the spades and hoes that hung on the wall, stacking a collection of tiny terra-cotta seed pots. But surely this cleanout was a job they had assigned to their assistant gardener? Where was Hal, anyway?

  “Prunella?”


  Max peeked in the doorway, holding an umbrella held high over his fedora and grasping a dog-eared script marked DIRECTOR in bold black ink in his hand.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “We are nearing lunch, according to Evelyn,” he reported. Stepping in, he set his script on the bench and shook out his umbrella before closing it and leaning it in the corner. “Polly and Bernadette are setting places in both the dining room and the kitchen. I’m grateful you invited us, but I’m afraid we’ve rather overrun your house today. I asked your whereabouts, thinking you may have needed to escape to hear yourself think. The consensus was that if you were nowhere else, you’d be as close to the garden as you could, even on a day like this. Although”—he glanced out the door—“I do believe it’s letting up.”

  Pru rubbed the palms of her hands on her trousers. “Linden told you what she went after.”

  “She did—a sample of honey from her bees. An unusual police request. Does that mean they found a jar of honey with Gabriel’s body and Linden is a suspect?”

  She opened her mouth, but no answer came to Pru—at least, not one she felt she could share.

  “It’s all right,” Max said. “You can’t tell me, I understand. But I can say unequivocally that Linden is incapable of hurting anyone—she has too big a heart.”

  And she’s a gardener, Pru thought. But how would that stand up in court?

  “Have you found a new Lysander?” she asked.

  “No, the search continues—but not to worry, I’ll sort it. A disaster on the brink of opening night is not unknown to me.” He brushed beads of water off his lapel. “Not a murder, of course—that is quite singular. And tragic, although not in the classical sense.”

  “Everyone has spoken so highly of Gabriel,” Pru said. At least now that he was dead. “And they all talk about how upset you are.”

  “Do they? There was no reason for him to die, but I can say that casting Gabriel Gibb as Lysander was one of my poorer decisions. Looking back now, I can see how totally unsuited he was for the theater.”