Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

Was she frightened? No, frightened was not the word—although she couldn’t say just what this odd, unpleasant sensation was that now occupied the pit of her stomach.

  “I don’t feel uneasy, and I don’t believe anyone is menacing me. There you are, everything’s fine.”

  Christopher stood and pulled her to her feet. Pru stretched her arms out and rested them on his shoulders, and he settled his hands on her hips. “You have a remarkable knack,” he said, “for defending some of the most likely suspects.”

  She didn’t answer—she had none. But he didn’t seem to expect a reply, and only asked in a rhetorical fashion, “Where are those injection pens?”

  * * *

  —

  If only she could get to sleep, then it would be time to wake up and she could go meet Max at Coeur-de-la-Mer, find out what he wanted to tell her, and be done with it. But sleep stayed stubbonly out of reach, and the minutes dragged by, each one as long as an hour. Pru stared at the ceiling, willing herself to keep still—no sense in disturbing Christopher by tossing and turning. But she was hot. She longed to kick off the covers and let the cool night air tickle the sweat on her skin.

  It began to snow. Lightly at first, then heavier, as if someone far above was shaking a cloud harder and harder. The snow drifted onto her arms and into her hair, but it wasn’t cold and brought no relief. She watched as large, misshapen flakes lazily landed on the back of her hand. When she went to brush them away, they left a gray smear. Not snow—ashes.

  This was a dream—and in that way of dreams, she knew it, and yet could not wake up. Instead, Pru watched the ashfall thicken, piling up round her feet where she stood. The ash, she knew, came from a fire not far away. A mile? Two?

  It became difficult to take a breath. She tried to wave the ash away, to clear the air, but her motion only created a whirlwind of gray flakes spinning in front of her face. Then she heard it—a thrumming that grew until it filled her head and vibrated her entire body. And through the curtain of gray, she saw Lysander, his face obscured, standing in the birch copse just beyond the stables and holding an armful of blue flowers. He turned away from her. She opened her mouth to call his name, but inhaled ash and began to choke.

  This falls out better than I could devise!

  3.2.35

  Chapter 27

  “Fine, I’m fine, really. I’m so sorry I woke you. It was only a bad dream.”

  Pru had awakened with a jerk and gasping for air to find Christopher sitting up, stroking her hair, and calling her name.

  He kissed her sweaty forehead. “What was it—the dream?”

  “It was about a fire, I think. No, not a fire—or at least, not nearby. I didn’t see it burning. I saw…” She grabbed for a last wisp of memory before the dream vanished. “No, I don’t know what I saw. But I’m all right now. And I should be getting up, anyway—”

  “It’s early.”

  “Yes, well.” Not much of an answer, so she went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, expecting to see ash in her hair and gray streaks across her cheeks. “So, you or Sophie will be on-site today, won’t you?”

  “Do you want me to go over with you now?”

  She bent over the sink, splashing water on her face and keeping a casual tone. “No, that’s not necessary. But you’ll be there by nine or so, won’t you? Like you have been?”

  “Yes, nine.”

  She walked back into the room but avoided his gaze. “That’s good.”

  * * *

  —

  Pru got out of the house before Miriam made it downstairs or Evelyn arrived to begin her day—Christopher, on the other hand, stood on the terrace to watch her leave.

  “Why don’t you drive?” he asked.

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed the tip of his nose. It was daylight, the dream had vanished, and Max wanted only to talk about the set—all was right with the world.

  “The walk will do me good.” It would, she knew it—a few minutes to gather her thoughts as she traipsed through fields and along the lane. “You can get out your binoculars and watch me if you like. I’ll see you later.” Adding, “Will you bring Evelyn’s cakes with you? There will be hell to pay if we don’t have our elevenses.”

  * * *

  —

  The gates of Coeur-de-la-Mer were locked. On her approach up the drive, she noted only one car parked outside, an older-model green Peugeot. Max’s. The director would be inside already, waiting for her.

  For a moment, Pru stood in front of the gates and peered through the bars straight down to the house. This was the view she’d always had before Shakespeare au Naturel appeared on the scene. The gardens hidden away, off to the right, guarded by that enormous sentinel holly just inside. Hal was right, she had not spent as much time as she’d intended admiring the landscape or even keeping it up—she’d left that to him. He must’ve clipped every spent stem and picked up every stray leaf on the grounds by now. Pru dug into her bag, came up with the code, and keyed it in. The gates unlocked with a chink and opened slowly and silently.

  Her footsteps on the gravel path were magnified in the quiet morning air—as if she were the only living thing and the jackdaws squawking in a beech and the chitterings of little birds in the hedge were somehow separate from her. At the corner where she turned up into the green corridor, she paused. There he was at the far end—Max, his light scarf flung over one shoulder and his reading glasses dangling on their black lanyard. He had hands in his pockets, eyes closed, and his face to the sun, his silvery hair glowing like a beacon.

  Her hands shook—her entire body trembled. Last chance, Pru told herself. Last chance to turn back and do this sensibly—with a police escort. She imagined Max in handcuffs. No, she couldn’t do that.

  Pru walked with purpose past the orchard and the rose garden, circling the large flat rock that was a memorial to a hunting dog of the past, and had almost reached the entrance to the dahlia courtyard before the director noticed her arrival.

  “Prunella,” he said, reaching out and taking both her hands. “It’s very good of you to take this time.”

  His grip was firm. Pru wished she’d kept one hand in her bag clutching her phone, just in case. Of what, she wouldn’t say, not even to herself.

  “Is there something wrong, Max? You sounded…troubled on the phone last night.”

  “Troubled? Well, I suppose if all one’s plans went for naught, it would be troubling. The problem is, I cannot tell if I have succeeded or not. Should I give up? Is it too late to confess what I’ve done?”

  “Confess?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she tried to step back and Max held tighter.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking down at her.

  Her head bobbed up and down as she wrenched her hands from his grasp. This was it—he was actually going to tell her.

  “I’m fine.” She put a hand in her bag and felt round for her phone. “Go on.”

  Max nodded. “Yes, I will go on. It’s time to come clean, as they say. I requested to meet you here because I had a feeling you might already have an inkling of my plan. So I will ask you outright—how do you think it’s going between Miriam and Ambrose?”

  Pru blinked. “Sorry?”

  “Ambrose, of course, knows the importance of this opportunity, but does Miriam suspect that it was, shall we say, a setup? When I asked her to do costumes, I explained that it would be such a comfort to me to have those I knew and respected on this production. When I told her Ambrose was involved and she didn’t back out, I held out hope that she, too, saw this as a way to put the worst of their past behind them.”

  “Miriam and Ambrose?” Pru asked.

  “You know their story. Ambrose loves her deeply. True, he was a foolish young man, but that was decades ago, and don’t we all regret our imprudent youth to some degree? Tell me, Prunella, what do you see in Mi
riam? Is she moving closer?”

  “You asked me here to talk about Miriam and Ambrose?” Pru knew she sounded like a broken record, but her brain was working at lightning speed to process this turn of events, and her mouth hadn’t quite caught up yet.

  “It was when the group of them put their little scheme into action—forming the company—that I saw this chance to help them. My Antonia taught me that it is never too late to find true love—but one shouldn’t beat about the bush.”

  Relief rushed through Pru at such a rate that she had to put her hand on Max’s arm to remain upright. She had known it all along—he didn’t want to confess. He had been playing matchmaker. Ambrose and Miriam, Frances and Penelope—who knows, maybe Linden and Nick. Max was just an old romantic.

  “What a lovely thing to do,” she said. “Imagine all the years that have gone by since—oh, Max, I believe Miriam does care about Ambrose deeply, but she’s scared. Of what? Ambrose? Or is she frightened of her own feelings? I wonder what their son thinks of the possibility.”

  “Alec.” Max smiled. “What a delightful young man. Miriam has been a fine mother, and Ambrose has been a good father, too—he sacrificed a great deal for his family. He got the call from Hollywood. Years ago, when Alec was quite young. A film director wanted Ambrose for one of those wildly popular movies about a spaceship. Star…something.”

  Pru’s eyebrows shot up. “No—really?”

  Max nodded. “It was not the easiest decision for Ambrose to make, but he had come to realize what was important in life. He turned the part down in order to stay in Britain and be close to his young son and the woman he loved. He swore me to secrecy about the offer—he didn’t want Miriam finding out. He worried that she would go back to him out of obligation and not love. So, they have continued all these years, at an impasse—or a détente, of sorts. Father and son are quite close—as are mother and son. Mother and father—I hold out hope.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly do what I can to help,” Pru pledged. “I’ll have a chat with Miriam. And perhaps Ambrose, too.”

  She felt light as a feather. Knowing that this was what had been weighing on Max’s mind—this was his confession—gave her the courage to delve into darker spaces, hoping to discover more light.

  “Max, now I have something to ask you. On my first day here”—she paused, surprised to realize her introduction to the company and the production had been only a week earlier—“you told me no flowers on the set. Was that because of Gabriel—because he was allergic to bees?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “It’s true that the reason I asked you to refrain from using flowers was because I didn’t want to attract bees. Of course, we are outdoors, and I realized we could not create a no-fly zone, as it were, but I thought it best not to encourage them. But was it for Gabriel?” Max asked. “No. As I told you and Christopher before, I didn’t know about his allergy to bee venom. I told you no flowers for me—because I, too, am allergic.”

  This was what Pru had hoped was the reason she’d seen injection pens in his bag, but this idea had already been rebutted. “Linden said she’d seen you stung once, and you had no ill effects.”

  “Ah,” Max said. “I remember that occasion—a lovely afternoon in her garden. I leaned over to smell a flower and—” He pinched the tip of his nose. “Unpleasant, but not deadly. No, it was a later time when the allergy came upon me. We were at another garden party—a large affair with a hundred or so people strolling the lawns. It was a tiring afternoon for Antonia—her illness was beginning to take its toll—and I wanted to move her away from the crowds. But walking along a path, we were jostled, and I fell into the border. I felt the sting—two of them, I believe. People stopped to help me back onto my feet again. I laughed and told them the bees had had a bad reaction to me invading their space—but that’s all I could manage to say as I began to have difficulty breathing. Before I knew it, I had collapsed and was gasping for air. It was as if the world was receding at a rapid rate, and all I could see was Antonia bending over me and crying. ‘Please don’t die,’ she said, ‘I can’t face this journey on my own.’ ”

  Tears stung Pru’s eyes, and she snuffled and wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve.

  “And so I didn’t die,” Max said simply. “And that was because there was a fellow at the event who had his own jab pens and used one on me, helping me live until the emergency medical team arrived and could take over. It was that experience that taught me allergies can come upon a person at any time and any age. It’s an interesting fact about the human body—although not so fascinating when your throat is closing up.” He picked up the glasses from his chest and cleaned them with his scarf.

  “How frightening for you—and for Antonia.”

  “Indeed. I wonder was that the case with Gabriel—that this allergy came upon him only in that moment?”

  “No.” Pru shook her head. “His brother said he’s been allergic for years and he’d always carried adrenaline injection pens.”

  At that, Max pulled one from his bag and asked, “Were they like mine?”

  Pru did her best to pretend she’d never seen the cylinder he held out to her. “I don’t know, no one has found them.” She leaned closer and saw what had escaped her when she had a quick glance on the rainy day at Greenoak—the label included the name of the patient: Maximillian Stirling.

  “You never mentioned this to Christopher,” she said.

  “Is it a sin of omission?” Max asked. “I consider my health to be my own business.”

  Max tapped the pen in the palm of his hand. “If I had reached Gabriel in time, I could’ve done for him what that fellow did for me—save his life. But he was most certainly dead by the time we found him, and I’m sorry for that. You see, I know what Gabriel’s last moments were like—and I would not wish that on anyone.”

  “It is horrible to think about,” Pru agreed.

  Max dropped the pen back into his bag. “Have I been a suspect all this time? Has my innocence or guilt been a topic of discussion by the company?”

  Pru opened her mouth to protest, but Max waved her off.

  “No,” he said, and chuckled. “No need to answer. Of course there was concern. Look how I treated him. I’ve never been known for my patience with laggards, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I admit I can be fierce, and, although my fire has moderated over the years, it has not gone out entirely. I didn’t like the way Gabriel approached the part or the company—as if everyone owed him something and he owed nothing. It was my mistake in casting him, and more than once I considered letting him go. But, certainly not in this way. And now, here I am seeking a new Lysander less than a week before opening.”

  “It’s a problem, I’m sure,” Pru commiserated. “You haven’t found one yet?”

  Max surveyed the stage as if hoping a new Lysander was waiting for him in the wings. “Nell had an idea—and I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. An actor with whom she’s worked in an amdram production in Cheltenham. He’s quite talented, and he has the experience. He would be perfect for the part. I’ve been in touch and made the offer. He promised to give me an answer today, but I have every confidence he’ll take me up on it.”

  A rustling behind the hedge made them both turn in time to see a brown streak disappear in the direction of Pru’s Plant Corral.

  “We’ve a hare in the garden,” Pru said as the rustling continued at the base of the yew. “Maybe two. I don’t suppose there’s a part for them in the play?”

  “I’m afraid they wouldn’t take direction well,” Max said, and smiled as he glanced over her shoulder and to the other end of the theater lawn. “I see our day is about to begin.”

  Pru followed his gaze. Christopher stood in a yew archway, watching them. She waved and grinned—could he see her relief? She’d tell him everything now.

  “I’ll just go and say good morning.”
She dashed off but screeched to a halt after three steps and turned back to the director. “Max, it’s best for the police to know about your allergy—don’t you think?”

  Max shrugged. “I can see now, by not speaking up I might’ve caused misunderstanding—please tell Christopher and apologize for me.”

  Pru took two more steps and stopped again. “Do you still want to keep it from the others? They’ve been worried about you.”

  At this he frowned. “And show my weakness? They deemed it necessary to rescue me once already by forming the company. It makes me reluctant. And yet…”

  She waited, antsy to be on her way.

  He waved his hand as if to send her off. “Yes, all right—spill the beans. Is that what you Americans say?”

  “That’s good—really, I’m sure they won’t think a thing about it. And it’s not like it’ll be a huge announcement; I’ll just mention it to Ambrose. Oh, Max, I’m so looking forward to today—seeing the entire play twice. And I’m happy to help out, even if it doesn’t have anything to do with the plants. You’ll let me know what you need?”

  “I will need a great deal, Prunella—prepare yourself.”

  When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer.

  4.1.199

  Chapter 28

  Pru scampered across the theater lawn, out of breath by the time she reached Christopher, laughing and panting as she threw her arms round him, and then stepped back when she noticed PS Grey and a uniform not ten paces away.

  “Have you been here the entire time?” Pru panted.

  “You didn’t see my car on the lane behind you?” Christopher asked, that ghost of a smile.

  She giggled, comforted in knowing he watched out for her and delighted that his assistance had not been needed. “I suppose I could’ve guessed you’d keep an eye out—thank you. But as it turns out, there was no need, because it isn’t Max.”