Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (20 page)

“You’ll ring me if there’s a problem?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I see now. You came up here to tell me this news in person because you wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything crazy.”

He pulled her closer. “I came up here because I missed you.”

“Good answer, Inspector.” She nestled her head against his chest and inhaled deeply. “I like your soap,” she said and looked up at him. “Have I ever told you that?”

He laughed. “No, I don’t believe you have.”

“Well, I do. You smell woodsy.” She hooked a finger around his belt buckle. “Come to bed.” She took his hand and led him out the door, but turned at the last minute and grabbed her heels off the table.

The soothing sound of Christopher’s deep, even breathing beside her could not put Pru to sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, occasionally glancing over at the clock, each time to find that another twenty or thirty minutes had passed. Neither awake nor asleep, a film ran in the twilight of her mind, a badly dubbed movie where the audio didn’t match the images. She heard Alastair greeting her on her first evening while she watched the shallow Water of Leith rush under the bridge on Glenogle; Mrs. Murchie spoke about the loss of her first husband while Saskia read a copy of Iain’s book on native plants; Prumper batted at one of Mrs. Murchie’s colorful scarves hanging on the twiggy rack while Murdo’s voice described the life inside a piece of wood.

While one part of her brain worked on the Laird, murder, and wedding puzzles, another part, behind some closed door, had been working on a different puzzle. When the last piece snapped into place, she sat up in bed. “Oh, no.”

Christopher, instantly awake, sat up, too. “What? What is it?”

She turned to him. “Mrs. Murchie is Auntie Aggie. Murdo is her wee boy.”

Christopher looked at her blankly. “Did you have a dream?”

She tried to explain. “Mrs. Murchie—Agnes—left a wee boy behind years ago, and Murdo told me about his Auntie Aggie, who left him behind. They both had black-and-white cats, but it wasn’t two cats, it was the same one. And the tree—when he was young, he made her a scarf rack from a tree branch. I’ve seen it—it’s hanging on her wall right now. She has her scarves on it.”

Christopher didn’t look entirely awake yet. “A tree branch?”

“It’s really much nicer than it sounds—elegant in a rough sort of way. And he made it when he was just a boy.” Pru looked over at Christopher, who stifled a yawn. “But she doesn’t know Murdo is here—I need to tell her. They’ve been apart for so long.”

“But not right now.”

Pru glanced over his shoulder. Four o’clock. “No, not now. But early—I’ll stop by before I go to the Botanics.”

Christopher pulled her back down and covered them up. A shred of her twilight dream floated past, and she said, “Saskia and Iain were at Merrist Wood at the same time.”

“Hmm?”

“Saskia said they weren’t, but they overlapped a term before he took this job—I checked on it.” Pru yawned. “It’s nothing.”

“She didn’t tell the police?” Christopher asked.

“I told Tamsin. Coincidence. But all evidence must be gathered.” She felt Christopher’s breath on her ear as he laughed quietly. She drifted off at last, dreaming of the wedding. She and Christopher stood before Alan; both men dressed in kilts. At Alan’s feet, tiny Tassie happily squeaked away on an organic-rubber sporran chew toy, a memento of the day. Just past seven o’clock, she slipped out of bed.

She stood at Mrs. Murchie’s door, grateful to see a light through the window and movement behind the curtains. Christopher had thought her a mite too eager.

“Pru, it’s half seven,” he had said, sitting up in bed to see her buttoning her coat.

She shrugged. “I can’t stay still, I have to see her.” She kissed him, drawn to his warmth and the bed in which she had slept so little, but firm in her resolution. “You’ll ring me when you’ve decided what to do?” she asked.

“Take care,” he said.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I’ll stay away from Murdo.”

But she must at least talk about him—tell Mrs. Murchie that the nephew she had abandoned long ago was so near. Secure in her conviction of their identities, Pru’s insides waffled about how to introduce the subject; she knew only bits of their story and could not even speculate how each would react. She’d done little more than clip her hair, splash some water on her face, and get dressed, and now, with the door knocker in hand, she momentarily lost her nerve. She thought of Christopher sitting down to a pot of tea and a pile of toast, and it was all she could do to let loose the knocker, announcing her presence.

Mrs. Murchie peered out a crack in the curtains before opening the door. “Pru, whatever are you doing here at this hour? Is something wrong?” Mrs. Murchie cinched up the belt on her tartan dressing gown and ushered Pru into the sitting room where Prumper, settled on the armchair with his legs folded out of sight beneath him, eyed her out of two blue slits and murmured a low meow. Pru stopped in front of Murdo’s rack—each of its twisted branches festooned with a scarf of a different color.

Pru glanced at Mrs. Murchie and then back at the piece. “It’s oak.”

Mrs. Murchie’s eyes softened as she looked at the wood. “Yes.”

“He made it, didn’t he—your nephew?”

The old woman’s gaze turned sharply on Pru. “What?”

“The tree blew down in a storm. The two of you went to look at it. He picked that up”—Pru nodded toward the piece of wood—“and said it would make a fine scarf rack, and you said he should finish it for you.”

Mrs. Murchie’s face had lost all color. “What do you want? Did he send you? Did that wicked man put you up to this?”

Pru’s hand went to her heart. Had she got it wrong? “You mean Murdo?”

“No, not my dear boy—that dreadful father of his. Did Callum send you to find me after all these years?” Mrs. Murchie’s voice broke. She took a step back from Pru and hugged herself.

“No, Mrs. Murchie—I don’t know Murdo’s father. I know Murdo because he works at the Botanics.”

The old woman’s eyes widened, lifting the anger off her face. “He became a gardener?” she asked, a note of amazement in her voice. “He’s here, and he’s a gardener?”

“Well, not exactly. Yes. Sort of.” Pru shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

Mrs. Murchie reached over and took Pru’s arm. “How did you find out? Did he tell you about me?”

Pru covered the hand on her arm with her own. “He told me a story about his Auntie Aggie. And you told me a story about the wee boy you’d left behind. It wasn’t until now that I realized you were talking about each other.”

Mrs. Murchie drew her hand back and stuck it in the pocket of her dressing gown. She looked down at the floor and asked, “Does he know I’m here?”

“No, I don’t think he does. He saw you once, though, at the garden.” Mrs. Murchie’s eyes jumped to Pru. “From a distance,” Pru said. “I remember he asked me who you were. I told him, but he didn’t say anything else.”

“He doesn’t remember me,” Mrs. Murchie said, shaking her head slowly. “Or if he does, he won’t want to know me now. Not after I deserted him so many years ago.”

Pru put her hands on the old woman’s arms and bent her head down to catch her gaze. “He does remember you, Mrs. Murchie. And I can hear it in his voice—he still misses you.”

A small smile appeared at the same moment a sob rose in her throat. Pru felt a tremor move through Mrs. Murchie and saw that behind the blue-framed glasses, her eyes flooded with tears that quickly overflowed their banks. As she cried, Pru held her, crying along with her for all those lost years.

Prumper hopped down from the armchair and began a pattern of figure eights around Mrs. Murchie’s legs. She lifted him into her arms and he draped himself over her shoulder.

The tears subsided. With her free hand, Mrs. Murchie drew several wadded-up tissues out of her pocket and handed what looked like the cleanest one to Pru. They both sat on the sofa. Prumper walked from lap to lap before choosing to sit on the coffee table and face the women.

Pru said, “Murdo didn’t recognize your name—did he not know Mr. Murchie?”

“No one knew Mr. Murchie,” she said after blowing her nose and straightening her glasses. “I made him up.”

Pru’s eyes went to the photo on the mantel—a mustached man in a tam and thick sweater with a big smile on his face. “Who’s that, then?”

A big smile answered. “That’s my Murdo—my husband, Callum’s brother. Our nephew was named for him—the only decent thing Callum Trotter ever did,” she said in a brittle voice. “Callum’s Jean died when their son was a baby, and it was left to me to raise him. It was my joy—we had no children of our own.” She gazed at the photo, her eyes focused on the past. “But I lost my Murdo in a boating accident on the estate. There was a sudden storm while he was out on the loch. I was upstairs in our room, and I watched it happen.” She lapsed into silence.

Pru touched her hand. “How terrible for you.”

Mrs. Murchie glanced at her. “He wasted no time, Callum. He made it clear to me that there were other ways I could pay my keep apart from bringing up his only child.” Her eyes darkened. “What did he think the title ‘Laird’ gave him the power to do? Were we living in the Dark Ages and he could take his dead brother’s wife—and he thought I’d go along with it?”

“Did he force you to leave?” Or worse, Pru thought.

“I left on my own. I had no one to defend me against the brute. Was it a cowardly thing to do?” Pru could tell from the weariness in the old woman’s voice that she’d asked herself the question countless times. “It seemed my only way out at the time. I left our Jess to comfort my wee boy. I wrote him a note and hid it in his toy chest. I walked out after dark with one case and carrying my scarf rack—I walked as far as I could to get away from Callum’s influence. I got on a bus—the rack needed its own seat,” she said with a sad smile. “I was afraid Callum would come after me, and so when I got here to the city, I changed my name by deed poll.”

And Pru had thought herself brave for moving from Texas to England. “Didn’t you have any money—from your husband?”

“Murdo was the second son,” Mrs. Murchie said, as if that explained it all. “I had two hundred pounds I’d ferreted away in my brogues. I’d no family of my own left. I stayed with a sister of one of the estate workers, and I got a job.”

“And ended up owning your own newsagent.”

Mrs. Murchie lifted her chin slightly. “Aye,” she said. “No’ bad.” She frowned slightly. “What I first told you, Pru, about my parents—that was true. My dad did go down the mines. When I married my Murdo, it was a bit of a shock to his family, as I was not exactly from the right class. Another reason Callum thought he could own me.”

“Surely Murdo—your nephew—will understand why you left.”

She rose and straightened a sleeve. “I must talk with him, Pru. It’s time I explained myself. I’ll go to the Botanics this morning. To see him again.” She clasped her hands to her breast and looked down at an imaginary wee boy, her eyes shining. “Och, he had such a curly tangle of hair, the color of a sunset it was. I remember I’d reach down and give it a tousle and come back with bits of twigs and leaves in my hand.”

Pru smiled. “Well, a few things may have changed. You’ll come and find me if you need to?”

They moved to the front door. “What brought all this on?” Mrs. Murchie asked. “What made you realize who we were?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Murdo…” What could she say? Perhaps your nephew killed someone on orders from— Pru had thought it was Buddyboy Mac, but now it seemed likely Callum Trotter had issued the orders. “There have been a few problems, you see,” Pru said. “But really, I don’t want you to worry about that now. Just you find him. He’s going to need you.”

“If there’s trouble, I know who’s at the center of it,” Mrs. Murchie said. “If Murdo has done something wrong, it’s because of his father. Callum was always good at intimidating others to get his way. He’s the kind of person who’d tell you what you were to do and what you were not to do, what you believed and what you didn’t believe, why he’d even tell what you saw—”

“And what you didn’t see? Yes, I know the type.” Pru reached for the latch on the door. “I need to be off now—I’ve got an unscheduled meeting first, and then I must get ready for Saskia this morning.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Murchie said, her eyes gone soft again, lost in some memory. “We must keep our wits about us, Pru, when we encounter such people.”

As she reached the door to her building, Saskia came rushing up.

“Pru, you’re early today.”

“Yes, well, things to do. I don’t expect you until later, though, don’t worry. I need to see Alastair. I just stopped by to make a cup of tea.”

Saskia followed her into the office. “Well, I’m just in time, then. Wouldn’t you like a good strong coffee instead? You look like you could use one. I’ve brought this for you.” She pulled out a jar of specialty instant roast, about half-full. “Let me make it.” She picked up the kettle and swished it, then added more water at the sink. “Awfully cold out this morning, I can’t seem to warm up.” She kept her coat, hat, and gloves on while the water heated and she spooned coffee into a mug.

Pru rattled around in her desk until she found the tail end of a packet of digestive biscuits. “Doesn’t quite feel like spring yet, does it?”

The kettle switched off, and Saskia poured. Pru saw her holding a large spoonful of sugar over the mug. “No sugar, thanks.”

“Oh sorry,” Saskia said, dropping the sugar in. “I always forget that, don’t I? Well, you won’t mind this morning—I’m afraid I’ve been rather liberal with the coffee.”

Pru shrugged. “Just as well—I need to stay alert. Lots of milk please.”

Saskia added milk, gave the coffee a stir, and handed Pru the mug. “I’m off now—see you later this morning?”

Pru noticed white globules floating on the surface. “We may need fresh milk,” she said.

“Yes, right. I’ll bring some back. Would you leave your office open, in case you’re in with Alastair when I arrive?”

Saskia left. Pru took a sip from her mug and coughed. She certainly did get carried away—how many spoonfuls of coffee went in this? Still, nothing like a jolt of sugar and caffeine to get her going. As she took large swallows, chased by biscuit bites, she checked her email, almost choking at the sight of her inbox. A message from Lawlor Dale at Kew, with the subject line “Eureka.”

“Letter from J. Banks dated 3 September 1810 found in box cataloged as ‘Onagraceae ephemra 1790–1825’ mentions ‘Fuchsia triphylla flore coccinea in full flower on the windowsill behind me—thanks to A. Menzies whose pockets came back full of treasures.’ Talk tomorrow. LD”