Christopher looked past her at the director, now talking with Penelope, who had walked onto the stage from the green corridor. Ambrose and Les were setting up the awning.
“It isn’t Max,” Christopher repeated, “and you thought it was. That’s what’s been bothering you?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why was Max a suspect?”
“I saw injection pens in his bag—this was Thursday, when it rained and everyone went to Greenoak for rehearsals.” She related every detail, and ended with, “But they were his pens, so it was a mix-up—a misunderstanding.”
“Still, he should’ve told me he had a similar allergy.”
“He hasn’t told anyone—he thought it would make him look weak. And after all, if he had taken Gabriel’s pens, would he have just kept them in his own bag? Wouldn’t he have hidden them someplace?”
“It wouldn’t’ve taken much to ask him about the pens two days ago and find out they were prescribed to him and not Gibb.”
But two days ago, Pru had not seen that as a possible scenario, and feared—as had the others—for Max’s innocence. “Too much of an emotional investment, I suppose. I shouldn’t have been so quick to suspect him,” she admitted. “And then it got worse, because the others were so worried—what a state we get ourselves into. But that’s settled now. Are you staying long?”
“Long enough to talk with Will Abbott and his sister again.”
Pru’s high spirits took a tumble.
* * *
—
Pru had a word with Ambrose, who told Les, who told—well, the news was passed, however the chain. The injection pens in Max’s bag were his own—an antidote in the unlikely event he was ever stung. Pru could see how the news traveled by the looks of relief on the actors’ faces. Right, now that was sorted, there was only a murder to solve. And rehearsing the entire play twice in one day.
Max called for morning coffee break before a line was spoken, so that once the play began, it did not stop unless absolutely necessary. The cottage bustled with energy as the actors downed coffee and finished off both a seed cake and an almond cake while they chatted about anything but A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Thus sufficiently charged, Bubble and Squeak herded the company up to the stage, where the play began.
Now, fair Hippolyta…
As the scenes progressed, the actors made the occasional small error in lines or movement, but the director allowed them to find their own way out. Those not onstage kept quiet, although Pru did notice Peter Quince and Frances off to the side juggling.
The director kept his stage manager fully occupied, murmuring notes to Penelope almost nonstop. She wrote furiously, and during respites in his comments, she turned to her assistant, Pru, who carried messages to Miriam in the stables or crept behind the actors to shift a large hosta a few inches or rethread the lavender ribbon through the thyme.
Max had asked Nick to read the part of Lysander. He moved stiffly about the set, unsure of the blocking, and the other actors often had to nudge him one way or another. This will be an enormous undertaking, Pru thought—to have a new actor step into the role at the last minute. For everyone. No wonder Max needed someone with experience.
As act 1 proceeded, Theseus, Hippolyta, and Egeus exited the Athenian court, and Lysander and Hermia planned their escape to the forest. Helena was about to enter, and then the Mechanicals—Nick would have to make a quick switch from reading Lysander to playing his real part of Bottom.
If then true lovers have ever been crossed…Hermia went on with her lines, and from somewhere nearby, came a light, rhymthic clickety-clack and a mumbling voice that rose and fell. Pru listened hard, half aware of what she heard and half afraid.
She picked out the words, A good persuasion. Therefore hear me, Hermia. Max cocked his head. Penelope caught her uncle’s movement and glanced at Pru, who leapt up and ran out of the theater lawn and into the green corridor. She followed the sound and found herself on the other side of the yew hedge that ran along the back of the stage.
Hal stood moving the blade of a battery-powered hedge trimmer slowly along the surface of the yew in a wide arc from a seven o’clock position up and over till four, all the while speaking in a low voice as if talking to himself.
“Steal forth thy father’s house tomorrow night—”
“Hal,” Pru whispered sharply, “stop that! What are you doing?”
“I’m trimming the hedge,” he answered, not bothering to lower his voice as he continued with his work.
“Shh! No, what are you doing here—at Coeur-de-la-Mer? I told you yesterday you were finished.”
He dropped his arms, and the trimmer went silent as he faced her. “But I’m not, am I? I can’t leave now. Look at this hedge—it’s a dog’s breakfast.”
Pru could see a sheen of lighter new growth against the black-green of the yew, which softened the effect of its usual solid-looking surface. Yes, it needed trimming, but she’d already scheduled the fellows from How High the Hedge to come out before the show opened—hadn’t she mentioned that to Hal?
“Look,” she continued to whisper, but more calmly, “I know you want to make a good impression, but you’re disrupting the rehearsal today—it isn’t the same as before, when Max was stopping the actors all the time, this is—”
“A complete run-through,” Hal cut in. “Yeah, I know.”
The rehearsal continued onstage—Helena saying, “The more I love, the more he hateth me.” Pru stepped closer. “You’ve done a fantastic job on the gardens here, but aren’t you supposed to be at Dean Bank this morning? I thought you had a lot of catching up to do there.”
The trimmer swung back and forth in Hal’s hand like the loose clapper of a bell. Onstage, Nick read out Lysander’s lines—Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold—and Hal clicked his tongue. He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder and walked off.
* * *
—
Pru excused herself from the next scene to escort her assistant off the premises. She thought how odd it was that she’d spent most of her adult life trying to get people into a garden, and here she was booting someone out. She could understand Hal’s obsession—wanting everything to be perfect—and she also saw that he’d become quite taken with the production. Pru, too, was enamored of not only the gardens but also the theater—could she blame him for wanting to stay?
“Hal, when you did A Midsummer Night’s Dream in school—remember you told me that?—was it at Sparsholt, where you went for horticulture?”
Hal snorted. “It isn’t a drama school.”
“Then where—”
“It was ages ago,” he cut in. “I was just a kid.”
“Did you play Lysander?”
Hal slowed and then stopped. “Of course I didn’t—what made you think that?”
“Well, it’s only that you seem to know it so well.”
“It’s Shakespeare, Pru. Don’t you know it?”
Not so intimately, Pru thought. Was that the fault of the education system in the States or because she had gone into sciences and not art? She looked up at Hal, his face like thunder, and wondered how they’d reached this spot. He had always been such an affable young man. Seeking to defuse the tension, she said lightly, “Perhaps you’ll follow Max’s suggestion and take up with an amateur drama group,” she suggested. “You might enjoy it.”
Hal continued on his way.
“I’m sorry to send you off,” Pru said, hurrying to catch up, “but this is not the time for garden work—and anyway, you’ve completed your list, I’m sure. And it’s not forever—after the play is over, I’d like you to come back. We’ll need to make sure the garden is set to rights. We’ll have plants to return—you’ll help with that, won’t you? Look, we’ll talk about it later, all right? Wait!”
At last Hal held up, pausing near the holly sentinel. Further on, a PC
stood at the gates chatting with Sergeant Grey. They both glanced over.
“Returning plants reminds me,” Pru said. “Why were you so late to Beaulieu on Tuesday? The fellow at the nursery told me you didn’t get there until two-thirty.”
Hal frowned. “Are you checking up on me? Are you not satisfied with my work?”
“Your work has been exemplary—more than. It’s only that Christopher asked me to create a timeline for that afternoon, and I needed to know exactly where to begin. I couldn’t remember when Les Buchan and I had seen you outside the cottage, and I couldn’t get hold of you, so I rang the nursery to find out what time you arrived, thinking I could work back from there. I thought you were leaving for Beaulieu straightaway.”
“Oh that,” Hal said, shaking his head and exhaling in a huff. “I had to get the kerria pruned back, Pru—you told me to do it.”
“Hal, these are garden tasks you came up with yourself, I didn’t ask you. You had an appointment—the kerria could’ve waited. Where is the kerria, anyway?”
“Down by the house.”
“So, you pruned the kerria and that made you late?”
“Well, then I got caught in the roadworks on the A3057 on my way down—they had us stopped for ages. I apologized to the nurseryman when I arrived—didn’t he tell you that?”
Tuesday afternoon roadworks on the A3057—Bernadette had mentioned them, too. She had avoided the problem by taking to the lanes, and that’s where she had come across Will Abbott with his bicycle puncture.
“No, he didn’t,” Pru said. “I suppose if you’d known about the roadworks, you could’ve taken the road through Netley Marsh instead.”
“Did so on the way back. Well”—he shifted from one foot to the other—“am I dismissed now?”
Hal didn’t wait for an answer. Leaving Pru at the holly, he stomped past the PC and Sergeant Grey, got in the bread van, and slammed the door.
Christopher came up behind her.
“Hiya,” Pru said. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Grey and I were comparing everyone’s account of the day with the actual space. What was that about?” he asked, watching Hal drive away.
“Hal’s having a problem letting go,” she said, taking her hair clip out, combing it through, and reclipping. “The garden—and the play, too, I think. He was in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when he was in school years ago. He must’ve enjoyed it, and I believe he’s beginning to fancy himself an actor—and now I’ve banished him from the production. I feel guilty about it, because here I am involved in both. Plus, he was annoyed when I asked him about being late on Tuesday.”
“Late where?” Christopher asked, and, as Pru told him the roadworks saga, he pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “What time was this?”
“The nurseryman said Hal didn’t arrive until two-thirty.”
While Christopher wrote, Pru said, “Mr. Farrer mentioned how single-minded Hal was…can you be too dedicated to your work?”
“Farrer?” Christopher asked, pen poised over his notebook.
“Hal’s lecturer at Sparsholt, the horticultural college.”
As he continued jotting, Christopher said, “I’ll get Grey to talk with Hal again. It’s better to have an accurate account from everyone present that morning.”
That reminded Pru. “How did it go with Will and Nell?”
The notebook went back into the pocket, and DI Pearse turned his gaze on Pru, whereupon his look softened.
“You’re right, they didn’t have an easy life as children. They’ve given me the name of the carer in their last home and permission to look into their records. I believe Nell’s infatuation was just that—and although Will worried he had to cover for his sister, I don’t think either of them killed Gibb.”
“And so that means…”
“That you, Ms. Parke, were correct.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“Not that I won’t be following up on what they told me.”
“Of course—it’s your job.” For Pru, it was a great relief—apart from the fact that it meant a murderer was still among them. But murder must be set aside, because it was time for romantic comedy to take the lead, and Pru had duties that required her attention. “I’d better get back to it. After all, I’m assistant stage manager.”
“I’m away as well. I have a couple of things to look into.”
“Ready, boss?” PS Grey called.
“And the rest of the afternoon to waste,” he added.
“It’s the second half of our professional development course,” Sophie explained as she approached them. “It was either this Saturday session or two evenings next week. I have my assignment all finished.”
Pru’s eyes widened at her husband. “You had homework?”
Christopher’s reply was unintelligible, but the meaning quite clear. Pru hoped that Sophie had enough enthusiasm to last both herself and her boss through the next few hours.
“You’ll let me know if you need anything?” Christopher asked Pru as he touched her arm. “We’ll be at headquarters in Southampton.”
Pru gave his hand a squeeze and started back to rehearsal but turned at the sound of a vehicle approaching—Peachey’s mobile repair van. It stopped in front of the gates, the passenger door opened, and Evelyn climbed out.
“Miriam told me you’re going through the entire show twice today,” she said as Pru hurried back. “How in the world did Max think you could do all that when lunch is only those little sandwiches?”
“Now they won’t have to,” Peachey said and opened the van’s back doors with a flourish to reveal five cartons covered in tea towels. Scents of lemon and thyme along with a hint of something sweet wafted out.
“Evelyn, you’ll wear yourself out cooking for the entire company,” Pru warned as she, Sophie, and Christopher pitched in, each taking a box from Peachey as he unloaded.
“Nonsense, it’s only that pasta salad. I’ve a container of roasted chicken and one of poached salmon to go along with it. I’d only time for chocolate biscuits for tea. Now”—she reached inside the passenger window of the van, drew out her pinny, and tied it on as if preparing for battle—“lead the way.”
* * *
—
Peachey had a call-out—dead car battery near Andover—and left as Evelyn assessed the kitchen in the gardener’s cottage, rating it woefully inadequate. She had expected as much and had cooked at Greenoak, and come equipped with everything from cutlery to condiments. Pru offered to help, but Evelyn shooed her away, and when Christopher and Sophie left—with a few chocolate biscuits in their pockets—Pru hurried back to the rehearsal. Penelope nodded at her return but couldn’t speak, as Max leaned over to say something and the stage manager returned to her note-taking.
Apart from the hedge-trimmer interruption, the run-through seemed to go smoothly. Pru thoroughly enjoyed the play, considering the production a gem, and the actors fantastic—although the hole where Lysander should be was all too obvious.
Now the hungry lion roars…When Puck began the final scene with Oberon and Titania, Pru’s mind wandered as she considered the outstanding issue of finding Gabriel Gibb’s murderer. How likely was it that one of the actors she saw onstage now had committed murder? And if one of them had, was it for an old grudge or some new affront?
She studied Les Buchan, trying to see a father who would wreak vengence on a young man ten years after his daughter had been treated poorly. She examined Ambrose, too—had he been protecting the woman he loved? Would Linden or Nick kill to get an inconvenient reminder of an indiscretion out of the way? Christopher had said he believed Will and Nell innocent, but he wouldn’t leave it at that, rather he’d check every detail.
But really, none of them seemed suited to the role as far as Pru could see, and yet, she had to re
mind herself that was what actors were good at—pretending. They could create evil or good, guilt or innocence where none existed. If one of them had murdered Gabriel, he or she was giving an award-winning performance now.
Pru offered a round of applause as the play ended, but the actors didn’t bow, only smiled and dispersed. “We don’t rehearse curtain call until final dress,” Penelope said. “I say, Pru, I don’t suppose you’re up for a bit of fairy-minding this afternoon? The children will arrive for the second run-through, and I know Nina could use an extra pair of hands and eyes, seeing as how Miriam will be busy with final fittings. The thing is, once the children get those fairy wings on, they’ll think they truly can fly, and they do need a firm hand.”
“Of course.” Fairy chaperone for the afternoon—Pru would need to steel herself.
The cast gathered round Max on the theater lawn, some using the slight incline up to the stage as a back support, others flat out on the grass, as he gave notes. These ranged from exacting direction—“Place one hand on your hip when you speak the line”—to the more esoteric—“Bring the energy along as you rush past the audience, don’t leave it behind.” At last, Max called a two-hour break for lunch, encouraging his actors to rest before showing up for costume call.
Everyone headed for the gardener’s cottage, no doubt expecting the kitchen counter to be stacked with sandwich containers from Waitrose. Pru followed closely behind to take in their reaction at what was really for lunch. She was not disappointed.
Frances opened the cottage door and stopped, the rest of the cast stacking up behind her. “What’s this?” she asked after a moment of stunned silence.
“It’s lunch,” Evelyn declared.
“It’s a feast!” Les proclaimed as they crowded in.
“Wait, is that salmon?” Anna asked.
“Evelyn, come to Florida with us this winter!” Peter Quince begged.
The cook, red as a beetroot, sputtered in response to the acclamation. “Oh, now, enough of that. Eat up!”
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