Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  He took her hands and kissed them. “Pru, you can’t protect everyone.”

  “I can try.”

  He goes before me, and still dares me on;

  When I come where he calls, then he is gone.

  3.2.414–15

  Chapter 21

  Pru went downstairs the next morning to find Miriam long gone.

  “She’d some adjustments to make on the ass’s head that Bottom wears,” Evelyn reported, followed by a chuckle. “That Nick—he’s one for the comedy, isn’t he? Aren’t all the Blokes? So, Miriam said you would understand and she would see you there.”

  “The sneak.”

  Pru made the comment under her breath, and Evelyn didn’t hear, as the kettle had just come to a boil. “There’s porridge on the stove.”

  “Thanks, Ev.” Might as well start with a hearty breakfast, as she had a great deal to accomplish. Bowl, porridge, knob of butter—“I need honey. Where’s that jar from the New Forest?” Pru opened the pantry and began rummaging until her hand closed round the hexagonal jar that had been pushed to the back. More than half empty, she noted—they’d done a job on it on Saturday with biscuits. She stuck her spoon in and turned it upside down to watch the honey, jellylike, plop into the hot mass of oats.

  Pru stirred and stirred her porridge while she thought about Linden and her bees and wondered how long the honey analysis would take. Would they compare hers with other Oxfordshire honey as well as to the honey found in the broken jar—the one that had been full of the bees that stung Gabriel to death?

  * * *

  —

  Searching the line of cars outside the gates at Coeur-de-la-Mer for an empty space, Pru realized she should’ve walked. The sun shone and there was a freshness to the air after the steady rain the day before. It would’ve been a fine ramble. But she had ended up in a hurry and wanted to get on with things, and so now pulled her Mini into a gap left between the Jazz and Les’s Mondeo. A lone uniform kept guard, but there were no signs of life near the cottage or stables. Where was everyone? Apparently, she was later than she had thought. The cottage lay empty. She noted the new lock. After police had finished searching for evidence, one of the PCs had replaced it. The company had left the new lock on the latch as usual—open for all and sundry. Pru wasn’t sure if the police would think that a good idea. She left Evelyn’s cakes—two ginger and two Madeira—on the counter and then headed toward Miriam’s costume shop, hoping to pin her down.

  Just beyond the stables, in the birch copse, she saw Lysander.

  A chill shot through her. No, she told herself—not Lysander, of course not. It was only that the tall, fit figure of a young man darting through the dappled shade reminded her of seeing Gabriel in that same spot before—when she’d thought he might’ve been on his way to or from a tryst. This must be Will. Did he think he could scare her away from his sister by lurking in the shadows? She wasn’t in the mood to put up with such behavior and stomped forward into the trees.

  “Will,” she called. “Will?”

  But the figure disappeared behind a massive mock orange, which sat at the intersection of another path. Pru had not learned nearly as much about the gardens at Coeur-de-la-Mer as she had expected to but had a vague recollection of a walkway that ran along the far side of the orchard, rose garden, and dahlia courtyard. Where did it lead? She would ask Hal.

  “Pru?”

  She must’ve jumped a foot in the air, whirling round to find PS Grey in the gravel yard.

  “All right there, Pru?”

  “Yes—fine, Sophie,” she replied, panting.

  “Boss is looking for you.”

  Christopher waited outside an arch near the theater lawn, watching the rehearsal onstage.

  “Yes, Inspector,” Pru said, coming alongside him. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been called away,” he said, “but shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I hope you make it back for elevenses—Evelyn’s provided enough cake for two companies.”

  “I’d rather you wait until I’ve returned before you start up your…” He appeared to grope for a word here.

  “My interrogation?” she asked. “When I put the screws to them? Where’s a dark room and a blindingly bright lamp when you need one?” He lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t need to worry,” she added.

  Christopher gave an unconvincing and muffled reply. “Grey will be here as well as the uniform at the gate.”

  She knew he meant business when Sophie came up to escort her the rest of the way to the stage.

  “It isn’t as if I’m going to do something crazy,” she said to the sergeant, who had the good sense not to reply.

  When they reached the stage-left entrance, Pru saw the actors rehearsing—the young lovers—and she heard the monotone refrains of Penelope reading out Lysander’s part.

  “There’s Will,” Pru said, nodding toward Demetrius.

  “Yeah,” Sophie answered. “Nell Malone, Anna Hutton, and Will Abbott—they’ve been up there working on that bit for an hour.”

  If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

  3.2.248

  Chapter 22

  Sophie did, as it turned out, have something else to do other than mind Pru—second-round interviews with each of the Blokes. As Max called for morning break, PS Grey—along with help from Bubble and Squeak—moved the small group toward the stables. Pru rushed over to snag Miriam before she escaped and saw that Ambrose, Linden, and Les were not far behind the costumer. Pru could’ve used the dogs’ help with herding this lot.

  “Oh, there you are now,” Miriam said as she breezed past. “We had a wee bit of trouble with Bottom’s headpiece, and I came over early to sort it. Sorry to miss you at breakfast. Are you going for a coffee?” She kept moving and ended speaking over her shoulder.

  “Hold it right there,” Pru said. “I want to talk to you.” In her peripheral vision, she saw the others begin to sidle by. “And you.” Pru pointed at Ambrose, and he stopped. “And you two.” Les Buchan and Linden. “Anyone else?”

  “Anyone else—what?” Miriam asked.

  “Right, well,” Pru said. “I want to know what’s going on.”

  Max came up behind her. “What’s this about? You aren’t forgoing Evelyn’s cakes, are you?”

  Pru didn’t have to look guilty—the group was doing it for her. At last, Les broke the long moment of awkward silence and shuffling of feet.

  “It’s only that we wanted to plan something special for Evelyn—you know, a bit of a surprise to thank her for everything.”

  Weak, Pru thought. That was something they could do in the cottage over coffee. She could see that Max thought the same. Were actors really such bad liars?

  “Shouldn’t I stay for the meeting, too?” Max asked.

  “Yes, of course you should,” Linden answered. “It’s only that this is the boring part—we thought we’d come up with two good plans, and then, we’ll run them past you and the others. So much less confusing that way, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t seem to think much of it. He looked at each member of the group, his glance a silent question. They each looked away—even Pru, whose heart sank as she did so.

  “Carry on, then. I look forward to hearing your scheme,” Max told them. “Titania, Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed when we reassemble.”

  Pru waited until he was well out of earshot before she turned to the group, hands on her hips. “Well, what’ve you got to say for yourselves?” she demanded. They were mute. “Go on, confess. You think Max did it—you think he killed Gabriel.”

  An eruption of denials.

  “He could never—”

  “How can you even suggest—”

  “It’s his whole life, this show—”

  But her accusation was
all that Pru had been able to deduce from the furtive glances and the complete turnabout in how they spoke of Gabriel before and after his death. Let alone falling all over themselves to say what a fine choice the actor had been for the part of Lysander. Blatant lies, she had decided—lies that had grown out of fear Max might be guilty.

  “Wherever you came up with that idea—”

  “Save your objections—this isn’t what I believe. At least, I don’t want to. But it’s clear that you are all worried that it could be true. Why?”

  One looked at the next, who looked at the next, until the responsibility had passed to Ambrose, who inhaled deeply and began.

  “None of us was happy when he cast Gibb—Linden had already worked with him on a Tom Stoppard revival in Bristol, and word gets round fast. His career may have lasted only a minute, but it was long enough for us to be well aware that he would happily walk all over anyone to get to where he wanted to be.”

  “But Max has always been helpful and supportive of young actors,” Linden added. “All of us have been there and benefited from his generosity and knowledge. So how could we object?”

  “Les could object,” Miriam said. “And with good reason.”

  Pru remained silent. Linden began, “Les, you don’t have to—” but he waved her away.

  “My daughter,” he told Pru. “She got involved with Gibb last year of sixth form—they were both eighteen. She was a sensitive young woman and a bit fragile, and their…relationship, whatever you call it…it almost broke her.”

  Pru had spoken to Les Buchan on several occasions and had never seen the hurt in his eyes as she did now. Had he spoken about Gabriel in a bitter tone? Possibly, but she couldn’t pinpoint any particular occasion. If Gabriel and Les’s daughter were the same age, they were adults at eighteen. Now the story must be ten years old. Had a father’s fury, buried these many years, come to light at last, precipitated by being cast in the same play?

  “Did you talk with him when the play was cast and you all met—remind him who you were?” Pru asked Les.

  “What good would that’ve done?” he replied.

  “We all found our ways of dealing with being forced to work with Gibb,” Ambrose said, and Pru saw two crimson spots bloom on Linden’s cheeks. “But it didn’t take long until we began to see how frustrated even Max was becoming. And we know what he can be like—not a one of us has escaped his occasional bouts of artistic ire in the past.”

  At this there were smiles—affectionate and nostalgic, with an air of “we can laugh about it now.”

  Explanations seemed to have dried up—no one continued Ambrose’s thread, and so Pru asked, “Which one of you saw them—the injection pens?”

  Expressions ranged from blank to lips pressed together.

  “Does it matter who saw them?” Miriam asked.

  Ambrose raised a hand. “I did. During that long afternoon we were stuck in the stables waiting to be questioned. You were out”—he nodded at Pru—“and I’d reached over to shift his bag off the sofa. I caught a glimpse of them and told the others as we were waiting at the gates.”

  “Maybe Max is allergic to bees, too?”

  This popped out of her mouth without thinking, but it hit her with full force. Of course, Max was allergic to bee stings, and so he carried his own adrenaline injection pens with him. There—case against Max closed. But why didn’t the others look as relieved as she felt?

  Linden shook her head. “He’s been stung before and had no ill effects—I’ve seen it. He and Antonia came out to Kidlington just after she was diagnosed, and we had a lovely day in the garden. Max bent down to smell a rose and got stung. His nose swelled and turned red, but he just laughed and said he looked like Mr. Punch.”

  “I’ve known him for yonks, and he’s never mentioned it once,” Ambrose said sadly. “Penelope said she knew nothing about it.”

  “Penelope is in on this, too?” Pru asked.

  “No, certainly not,” Miriam insisted. “It’s only that we needed to feel her out about it. She’s quite fond of her uncle and still more than a bit worried about him as well—she didn’t want to stress him unduly.”

  “Maybe he’s allergic to shellfish?” Pru offered. Wasn’t that a possibility?

  Les shook his head. “You haven’t seen him tuck into a plate of scampi.”

  “Well, did you ask him why he had the pens?” Pru persisted.

  An embarrassed silence settled on the group, until Les offered, “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

  They were disorganized for conspirators. “And so you formed this pact to promote an image of Max as shattered that Gabriel was dead. You even got Will Abbott in on it.”

  “Will doesn’t know why,” Ambrose said. “We only told him we were afraid the production would be scratched if police were too interested. He’s got his own worries—he doesn’t want Nell to be disappointed.”

  And so this group of close friends was convinced Max had killed off his Lysander in order to recast. And they had locked arms in order to keep him from becoming the prime suspect.

  Max returned, standing above them on the edge of the theater lawn. “And so,” he said, “what have you come up with?”

  At his appearance, faces flipped from morose to merry as they immediately began to bandy about a few wild ideas for thanking Evelyn.

  A week in the Canary Islands!

  Fresh flowers every week for a year!

  Introduce her to Mary Berry!

  Actually, that last one didn’t sound too bad—Evelyn loved her cooking show. Pru watched the actors dash off through a yew arch on their way to the cottage for a last-minute coffee. Taking their place in her line of sight came Will Abbott, giving her a cautious look as he made his way up to the stage.

  * * *

  —

  The morning wore on, and the most Pru accomplished was to check on the pots of acanthus for the Athenian court as well as the other container plants on the set, trimming a drooping leaf here and there to tidy up.

  Just before lunch, she came across Nell sunning herself atop the flat stone in the middle of the green corridor—the place Pru had seen the two young lovers on her first day. Nell pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms tightly round them, and rested her chin on a knee. She sat staring glumly at the hornbeam hedge in front of her.

  “How are you doing today?” Pru asked as she lowered herself onto the grass.

  Nell shrugged.

  “I knew what he was like, you know,” she said. “Nobody had to tell me—although they all certainly tried. It’s only that, I thought it was different between the two of us.”

  “It can’t be easy to start a new relationship when you’re busy with rehearsals. You and Anna sharing a flat, and Gabriel and Will doing the same. You must’ve had a difficult time finding a place to be alone.” Pru blushed, knowing full well that they had met just about anywhere.

  Nell cut her eyes at Pru and offered a tiny smile. “We had our own place. I found it—it was only a bedsit, but we needed privacy. With our own flat, I thought we could really be a couple. Anna wouldn’t be round, and so he wouldn’t—”

  She caught herself, but there was no need—Pru knew what she meant. But had a separate flat worked to keep Gabriel away from Anna? Or Linden?

  “Where’s your bedsit?”

  “Above that Indian restaurant in Romsey—behind that statue.”

  “Lord Palmerston.”

  “Yeah, him. It’s not much.” She sniffed. “I was on my own there most of the time, and now there’s no point in keeping it up, but I doubt if Anna wants me to move back in.”

  “Seems like it might be nice to have some company. Do you and Anna get along?”

  “We did before this—we were in a production of The Sound of Music last year, amdram in Islington.”

  “You sing?” />
  “Well, I give it a go.”

  Pru saw movement from the entry to the dahlia courtyard.

  “Was that Will?” she asked.

  Nell glanced that way. “No, I think it was your garden assistant—he sticks close by, doesn’t he? I saw him doing his recce last week.”

  “His what?”

  “When you sent him over to look round the place.”

  “You mean on Monday, when we were bringing in the plants?”

  “No, last week.”

  “Hal wasn’t here last week.”

  “Yeah, he was. I saw him watching rehearsal. I think he rather enjoyed it. Does he want to go into the theater?”

  “I doubt it,” Pru said as she rose. “I believe I’ll go have a word with him.”

  Nell put a hand to her mouth. “I haven’t dropped him in it, have I?”

  Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

  For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.

  3.2.45–46

  Chapter 23

  Hal bent over one of the dahlia beds—the same bed he’d started on three days before—with a notebook tucked under his arm as he reached in to examine the plant label. He was mumbling to himself. Pru marched up to him with such speed he bolted upright and took a step back, his notebook dropping to the ground.

  “Pru? I thought I’d get back to this list.”

  “Aren’t you finished with it yet?” Pru shook her head. “No, never mind that. Did you come onto the grounds here before I even mentioned Coeur-de-la-Mer to you? Were you here in the gardens before Monday?”

  His eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at her and sputtered before blurting out, “Simon had been talking about the place for the entire week after he heard from the Gascoignes. I didn’t know you were going to ask me to help, and with Jeremy scarpered, I thought it would be my only chance to see the place before they hired a new head gardener. I thought if the company was rehearsing, no one would even know I was here. All I did was have a look round. That’s no crime.”