Midsummer Mayhem

by Marty Wingate

  “Boss?” It was Sophie.

  “I’m fine,” Pru said. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She slipped her phone into her pocket. She wouldn’t go home, not yet. Instead of Greenoak, she would go directly to the Romsey police station, and be waiting there with the evidence when Christopher brought Hal in.

  * * *

  —

  How foolish that Pru had introduced Hal and Gabriel, she thought as she walked to the gates—they had known each other years before, although neither had acknowledged having met. That was hardly surprising with Gabriel—Les had said the only face the young man recognized was his own. But Hal had remembered, and said nothing.

  Why had he murdered Gabriel? Did Hal think Max, having lost one Lysander, would turn round and pluck him out of the garden on the basis of overhearing a few lines? Nell had been right—Hal kept himself close to rehearsals, but now she knew it was not only to watch, but also so that he could audition, attempting to showcase his own talent by spouting lines when Max was near. And to think he had pretended to be mortified when he’d realized others had heard. Perhaps he was a good actor after all.

  When she’d passed the large holly, Pru had a clear view through the gates to their makeshift car park where now only one car remained—and it wasn’t hers. Not until that moment did she remember she hadn’t driven that morning but walked in order to clear her head for her meeting. This car was an older dark green Peugeot—Max’s. Why would he have left it? Had someone else given him a lift, or had the director stayed late to work alone on notes or last-minute re-blocking of a scene? Max had an entire penthouse to work in, although he was sharing it with Nick, Linden, and two border collies. If he’d stayed here for peace and quiet, then he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

  But even as Pru had these thoughts, her feet were taking her in the direction of the cottage. She would put her nose in. No harm in checking.

  The door—even with the new lock to replace the one that had been broken—was still on the latch, and so Pru pushed it open. The cottage was empty and the light came in from behind her now, throwing a long shadow on the floor that reached all the way to the kitchen counter. She took one step in when the door to the little study opened and Hal stepped out.

  But I beseech your grace that I may know

  The worst that may befall me in this case

  1.1.62–63

  Chapter 34

  “What are you doing here?” Hal asked, his red cheeks deepening to scarlet.

  “What are you doing here?” Pru blurted out before she remembered she was talking with a murderer.

  “I’d left something behind and came back for it,” Hal answered. “Are you leaving now?”

  The police had evidence—she had evidence—and still Pru had trouble reconciling Gabriel’s murderer with this amiable young man, their assistant gardener with his toasty-brown hair and rosy cheeks.

  “I didn’t see the bread van parked outside the gates,” she said.

  Hal looked in the direction of the gates where only one car remained, and then slowly his gaze shifted back to her, his lids heavy, suddenly wary, as if guessing what she knew.

  “I didn’t need the bread van here,” he replied.

  There, for a moment, she saw him—not the Hal she thought she knew, but a man who had killed. It sent a chill down her spine.

  “Where’s Max?” she asked. “I came back to talk with him. He’s expecting me. Have you seen him?” She tried to look past Hal into the study, but he pulled the door closed.

  “He’s gone.”

  Her knees went weak. She dropped her bag on the floor and put a hand on the back of a chair, in hopes of remaining upright. In a show of false bravado, she said, “Well, he’ll come back. I’ll stay and wait.”

  “No. You’ll have to go.”

  She had her phone in her pocket. If she left now, she could send a quick text that would bring Christopher straight to Coeur-de-la-Mer instead of Dean Bank, where the bread van was parked and an unmarked police car kept watch—thinking Hal was on the grounds digging out a pond. But what would happen here in the cottage while she waited at the gates?

  “Where’s Max?” she asked again, and took two steps that put her at the end of the sofa. A large piece of furniture between her and Hal seemed the best arrangement.

  “It doesn’t matter about Max any longer.” Hal smirked. “Let’s just say I needed to give him his notes.”

  “Is he dead?” Her voice quavered. “Did you murder him the same way you did Gabriel?”

  Hal’s eyes narrowed. “I knew you had twigged it—the way you were after me about the garden and telling me if I liked the theater so much, why didn’t I do amdram? I should’ve had the part, not Gibb!”

  “You killed Gabriel because you wanted to play Lysander?”

  “It’s his own fault he died—I needed to get his attention. To remind him of how he stole the part right out from under me.”

  “That was at school, Hal—years ago. Not this production.”

  “And now, you think I’m to blame? I do everyone in the company a favor, and you turn it round on me.”

  “It’s murder.”

  Hal shook his head. “Nobody liked him.”

  “Liking or not liking someone has nothing to do with it.”

  “And directors make mistakes, Pru.”

  That brought her up sharp.

  “Did you talk with Max about the part?” she asked.

  “I’m not allowed!” Hal shouted. “That’s part of my program—I cannot pursue a role in any theatrical production, professional or amateur. He had to talk with me. They couldn’t fault me then, could they? I wouldn’t’ve been the instigator.”

  Pru doubted the terms of Hal’s cease-and-desist order included such convoluted rules.

  “And you thought Max would just hand over the part to you—on the strength of overhearing you in the garden?”

  “He wouldn’t pay attention—he refused to see what was right under his nose!”

  That buzzing had returned, and it distracted her. But this time the sound wasn’t inside her head—it came from somewhere in the room. In a panic, she pivoted on the spot, her eyes searching the counter, floor, table. But it was behind her—Hal had dropped his satchel near the door. It sat open, and peeking out of the top she saw it—the lid of a glass jar. He rushed toward her so fast, she instinctively backed off, but he swept past her, and in one swift movement threw the latch on the door—locking them in—and grabbed the canning jar out of his bag. He brandished it for her to see.

  “The phacelia’s going over.” He sounded like a gardener again, if only for a moment. “And I couldn’t chance going back for any more of the New Forest honey at Greenoak—what if Evelyn had seen me? Or Simon? I wouldn’t want them involved.”

  The jar was stuffed with a dusky blue—the flowers of the sea holly from the rock garden. She could see the bees crawling over the knobs of flowers and walking on the inside of the jar. She could hear the thrumming.

  But the jar was whole and the lid on—he’d yet to replicate Gabriel’s murder. Max must be alive. And yet, Hal had known to prepare for another murder the way he’d prepared a few days ago.

  “You did all that on Tuesday—find a jar, take honey from the cupboard at Greenoak, come here, and go to the orchard to get flowers and bees. And no one said anything?”

  “You think any of them paid attention to me?” He laid his hand on his chest. “I was just the crew. You were the one badgering me about the work I was supposed to be doing.”

  “All of it your idea.” Although now, of course, she saw it for what it had been—a smoke screen. A way to keep him on the grounds and near Max. He had been lurking behind hedges the whole time.

  “You were in the garden early this morning.” She said it half to herself. The hare had had company in
the yew. “You heard Max tell me he was allergic to bees.”

  “And thanks for that.” Hal gave the jar a shake, and bees knocked against the side. “It meant all I had to do was catch him up at the end of the day when the rest of them were leaving, and say you wanted to see him here in the cottage. He’d brought his own car—a stroke of luck for me. It meant he could stay behind and the others could go and no one would know. I didn’t expect you to notice.” As he said this last bit, Hal turned the jar upside down and upright again, examining the contents.

  “Hal, don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Pru said. They were weak words, but her mind had shifted into high gear and her mouth did what it could to catch up. Save Max. Get out. Ring Christopher. Was that the right order?

  Another violent shake of the jar and Pru heard a chorus of angry buzzes in response. Perhaps she could force Hal to smash the jar in this room, and if Max was in the study, he would be safe. Is that where he was? Why hadn’t she heard any noises?

  “Why did he have to go and find this other Lysander—the one Nell knows about?” He turned the jar over and over in his hands as if it were a tombola drum.

  Be reasonable, Pru told herself. Be calm. Show him there was a way out. “Hal, you need to talk with someone. I’m sure you can work everything out. People will help you. I think we should ring your therapist. Would you talk with her?”

  “What do you know about my therapist?” He advanced on her, using the jar to point at her. “You can’t talk with her—no one can, only me.”

  Pru took a step forward, ready to knock the jar out of his hand, when her phone rang.

  Instead, she jumped back and dug in her pocket. If she could only answer, whoever it was would hear what was going on. But Hal sprang at her, seized her arm, and squeezed as he tried to wrestle the phone out of her grasp. In the scuffle, she landed an elbow jab in his stomach and heard an oof. He dropped the jar on the sofa and used two hands to wrench the phone from her—it went flying, hitting the study door and knocking it open.

  Inside, wrapped round and round and secured to the chair with what looked like gardener’s twine, was Max, his head flopped forward onto his chest and a wide red mark across his forehead.

  “Max!” Pru screamed.

  A groan and the director lifted his chin. “Prunella?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

  Pru reached out to him, but Hal grabbed her from behind and threw her onto the sofa. She bounced against the cushions and popped up again, but he had the advantage of momentum and shoved her—she hit the armrest this time, just behind her knees. It took the legs out from under her, and she toppled over the low back, landing hard and knocking her head against the floor. Dazed and her vision blurry, Pru scrambled to pull herself to her feet. She shook her head to clear it and was rewarded by a wave of nausea as she watched Hal snatch the jar off the sofa and shake it hard.

  “Here,” he told Max, “I have a few notes for you.”

  He heaved the jar into the study, and it shattered at Max’s feet. Bees swarmed, knocking into the walls and window and Max, who cried out as Hal slammed the door.

  Pru sank to the floor and thrust her arm through Hal’s legs, trying to reach her phone. He stamped a foot, just missing her hand. She grabbed an ankle and yanked—suddenly they were a mass of arms and legs as he stumbled and fell on top of her. Her phone skidded out of reach, and Hal took a firm hold on her.

  “Look, Pru,” he gasped as he hauled her up with an arm against her throat. “Here’s the thing. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve changed my plans and decided to leave, and so all you need to do is let me.”

  As he spoke, he dragged her into the bedroom, and when she struggled, he tightened his grip. He threw open the wardrobe door—it rebounded and hit her in the face—striking her cheek and catching the corner of her eye. Her vision swam, and when she regained her senses, she found herself on her back in a small, dark space with Hal’s hot breath on her face as he whispered fiercely.

  “I like you, Pru, but you need to stay here until I’m gone. You only need to be quiet, just for a while, and everything will be all right.”

  He had his hand over her mouth, and so, she didn’t try to answer. Instead, she took in her surroundings. She could see past Hal out into the bedroom, and realized she was inside the enormous wardrobe. There was something soft underneath her.

  Wasn’t it still daylight? Part of her vision was dark, as if she looked through a veil. And why was he whispering?

  Then she heard other noises—not Hal, not bees. Shouts—a voice calling from outside. Two voices—maybe more.

  Pru kicked against the wardrobe and heard a satisfying thump. She kicked again and again and began to squirm and try to shout past the hand jammed against her mouth.

  “No, Pru, don’t,” Hal continued, and she could hear a rising panic in his voice. “Be quiet until they’re gone and I can get away.” She kicked again and again, and Hal yanked a pillow out from under her head and put it over her face, all the while whispering, “Quiet, please. All you have to do is stay quiet.”

  She fought against him, and he pressed harder on the pillow. It smashed her nose and crushed her lips against her teeth. She couldn’t open her eyes and saw only red splotches against black, and when she tried to take a breath, no air came in. It was as if her throat were filled with feathers—she tried again and again, all the while kicking until she had no energy to kick or breathe or…

  A violent movement jolted Pru, causing her to tumble back and forth. Was she inside the jar with the bees and flowers, and Hal was shaking it to get them angry? He had succeeded there—they were furious. Well, that’ll teach him, Pru thought lazily as she saw one of them fly by. She observed that it was an extremely large bee, and thought how odd that it resembled Police Sergeant Sophie Grey.

  And though she be but little, she is fierce.

  3.2.325

  Chapter 35

  When he dragged her out of the wardrobe, she fought back, catching Christopher on the nose before she realized he was the one saving her.

  “Sorry,” she said, although no sound came out.

  “Get her some water,” Christopher ordered the PC next to him. For an instant, all she saw was her husband’s face, and although he looked none too happy, she felt comforted.

  Over his shoulder, she took in an odd sight. Sophie, clamping handcuffs on Hal. Pru caught only a few words the sergeant spoke—“…it may harm your defense if you do not mention…” Disturbing images Pru could not quite identify flashed through her mind, and she leaned into Christopher but flinched when the right side of her face touched his jacket. She reached up to her cheek, but Christopher took her hand.

  “Blood,” he said. “It looks like a cut near your eye—I think the eye itself is fine, but it’s swelling.” Pru was close enough to see Christopher clench his jaw. “Did he hit you?”

  “Hal?” she asked, bewildered. Their assistant gardener? Had Hal hit her? He had never seemed the violent sort. Pru glanced again to the other side of the bedroom, where the young man stood compliantly next to PS Grey. The next moment, he had shoved an elbow into the sergeant’s throat, knocking her against the wall, and bolted out the door.

  Sophie was after him in a flash—a step ahead of the PCs, who were twice as big as she was. She tackled Hal like a rugby player, low and hard, and without his hands free to break his fall, he fell flat on his face and screamed in pain.

  PS Grey jumped up and put a foot on his back, assisted by the weight of a PC. She coughed, adjusted her derby, and said, “Resisting arrest won’t do you any favors.”

  “You have a secret weapon on your force,” Pru said to Christopher, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” he replied, handing her the water. “Can you drink this?”

  She smiled at him, as bits of what had happened came back to her.
Was she injured? Did she need an ambulance? Certainly she would remember everything in time.

  “Can you stand?” he asked. “We’ll move you over to the bed.”

  “I’m fine here,” she said, not wanting to be a bother.

  A bee—a real one, not Sergeant Grey—lazily buzzed by her. How had it got in? And then, an image sped through her mind—she saw something blue that crashed to the floor and shattered. A great swarm rose up.

  “Max!”

  It was more a croak than a scream, and when she leapt up, she fell back, but Christopher caught her in time. He held on, but she turned to him and said, “He’s in the study.”

  She stumbled out of the bedroom as a PC opened the door to the small study. He immediately backed off as bees, in search of freedom, buzzed out. Max was still in the chair but slumped over, and Pru could see his chest jerk as he struggled to breathe. She ran past PS Grey and a uniform who held on to Hal, and made it into the study, collapsing at Max’s feet.

  “Max,” she pleaded, and the old man lifted his head.

  His face was beginning to swell, and he wheezed, but she understood when his swollen lips mouthed the words, He took them.

  He took them—Hal had taken Max’s injection pens just as he had taken Gabriel’s—to make certain no one would be saved.

  Save him. Pru staggered out and braced herself in the doorway of the study. “Where’s my bag? Where is it?”

  “Yours?” a PC asked, holding it up.

  “In there!” she shouted, and Christopher grabbed the bag and turned it out onto the sofa. Amid hair clips, notebooks, plant tags, and purse—and tumbling from its loose wrapping of a tissue—came Gabriel’s injection pen. She lunged forward, plucked it out of the pile, and rushed back. Kneeling beside Max, she looked at the pen, concentrating all her thoughts. Then she removed the cap and stabbed the pen into his thigh, as if it were a knife.