Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (5 page)

She flew out of her chair, clutching the journal copy, just as Alastair bumped his way back through the door carrying a tray full of rattling cups, milk jug, sugar bowl, and spoons. “Right, now, here we are. Pru, do you take sugar?”

Alastair didn’t seem to notice the lack of congeniality in the air. As he poured, he chatted away about the garden and the city. Pru asked as many questions as possible just to keep him going. Iain was silent, keeping all his attention on his coffee until he drained the cup and excused himself.

Alastair began going over the practicalities of Pru’s job—office, desk, electric kettle, assistant—but she heard barely a word. She needed air. She needed to take a few deep breaths and clear Iain Blackwell from her mind.

“You’ll want to check in with Iain regularly,” Alastair continued. “Just to let him know how you are getting on. Perhaps the two of you can set up a meeting to start off or finish out each day.” Lovely.

“Alastair, should Iain be conducting the research himself?”

“Certainly not!” he said. “This is your job, and we’re so very pleased you were available to take it on.” His jovial tone teetered on the edge of overcompensation. “Now, a few more details. Your office is down the back stairs, out the door, and into the next building,” Alastair said. “It’s small, but I think you’ll find you have enough room. I know that Victoria has given you the cook’s tour, but I’ll show you around the offices just as soon as…” His phone rang, and he looked down at the screen. “Oh, sorry, Pru, I do need to take this. Can you make your way over, and I’ll stop by in a while? I believe we’ve got your name on the door.”

She left, getting outside the building where, still grasping the bound copy of the journal, she leaned up against the wall and sighed. “Ming-is?” She tried the word as Iain had said it. What was that about? She looked down at the journal and said, “Well, Mr. Whoever-you-are, here we are. But what are we doing here, really?”

“Sorry?” A man stood at the corner of the building. He cut a striking figure–hands stuck in the pockets of a wool-lined trench coat, wool scarf neatly tied around his neck, olive trousers, and brown loafers. He gave Pru an inquiring look.

“Oops,” she said. “Shouldn’t talk to myself on my first day.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re the American?” Had they made an announcement to the garden staff? she wondered.
Incoming American!
“I’m Alexander Donnell. Welcome to Edinburgh,” he said and held out his hand. He had a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

Pru smiled in return. This was more like it. “I’m Pru Parke, happy to meet you.” She gestured behind her. “Do you work in this building?”

He looked over her shoulder to the doorway. “No, I don’t,” he said, shaking his head so that a curl of his thick black hair fell over his forehead. “I was just looking for Iain Blackwell.” Pru’s smile vanished, and Alexander seemed to notice. “I’d say you’ve met him,” he said.

She nodded. “I had a meeting with Alastair Campbell—and Iain. I’m supposed to be working on Archibald Menzies’s journal”—she held the volume out to show him—“but I’m not sure Iain thinks I’m capable.”

“He can be a bit of a bear,” Alexander said and shrugged. “It’s just that he sets high standards—for himself as well as for others.”

“I didn’t mean to say that there was a problem,” Pru said, shaking her head quickly. “It’s my first day—I’m just trying to make sense of it all.”

“I understand, believe me.” Alexander nodded toward the door. “Is he still in with Alastair?”

Pru shook her head. “He left a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” Alexander said as he turned back the way he came. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.” She watched Alexander as he walked away. He looked to be in his midthirties and moved in that loose-jointed way dancers have. Pru wouldn’t have been surprised if he had tap-danced out of sight.

He made a fine antidote to Iain, she thought as she passed Murdo, who sat in his electric cart; the back held a large pile of plant debris. Fast worker. Murdo, one foot propped up on the dashboard of the vehicle, slipped a small notebook into the breast pocket of his jacket.

He smiled. “All right there, Pru?”

She clutched the journal to her. “Yes, Murdo. All right.”

She found her small office in a stone building perpendicular to the larger, newer administration building. A few other doors led off the short hall, but each had boxes piled up against them. Her own space, bereft of any character, contained a desk, table, cabinet, two chairs, and her name on a small card pinned outside the door. She laid the journal on the desk and put both hands on it, séance fashion, hoping to hear Mr. Menzies’s voice telling her that she was, indeed, an entirely logical choice for this job. She knew garden history, she had already demonstrated that she understood research methods and…

She shook her head. It seemed obvious to her now. She was a figurehead. They’d hired her because her name had been in the news—because of her association with Primrose House and Humphry Repton, she hoped, and not her ties to a murder. They wanted to make use of her momentary fame to bring attention to their garden. She could see how it would go. Iain would pilfer her responsibilities under the guise of being a “great resource” until he was in control. He certainly wanted to be in control.

She slapped her hand on the desk—well, she would not let him. This was her project—he would not wrest it from her. Did everyone at the garden think she was incompetent? Perhaps she would have to go through these three months alone with no support and no ally. Well then, she may as well begin. She took her clip out, combed it through her hair, reclipped, and pulled the copy of the original journal over. When she opened it to the first page, her eyes fell on a passage she remembered, about Menzies’s appointment to be surgeon and botanist on Captain Vancouver’s ship:

“The Treasury gave me a favourable hearing and readily agreed to my proposal, but the Commander of the Expedition made some objections, what they were I never heard, nor am I at this moment anxious to know, being conscious of the rectitude of my own intentions.”

If Mr. Menzies could put up with the uneven temper of George Vancouver for five years, surely she could endure Iain Blackwell for three months.

She looked around at the bare room, reached into her bag, and pulled out a framed photo. In it, Pru stood with Christopher the day after he’d proposed. They had walked to the Blue Peter pub—five miles on the coast path accompanied by a chill wind that threatened to blow them inland—and thawed out over lunch. Before starting on the return walk, they’d asked the barman to step outside and snap the picture. They were dressed against the elements: Christopher wore a wool cap, and Pru had wrapped her scarf up and around her head—her frizzy hair bursting out from behind. Arms around each other, they smiled, ruddy faces to the camera and white-capped water behind them. The memory made her smile again.

The photo had taken less than a minute, but the numbing cold had seeped through quickly. “Thanks,” Pru had said to the barman, who wasted no time in getting back indoors.

She held her phone out for Christopher to see the image. “Our engagement photo,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up. “We should send it to all the newspapers.”

Pru laughed, and then put on a brave face for the five-mile walk back. “Right,” she said, “are you ready?”

He nodded back toward the pub. “How about a hot whisky instead?”

She linked her arm through his. “Now, that’s a fine idea.” They repaired to a cozy table, stripped off jackets and scarves, and Christopher rubbed her hands briskly until she regained feeling in them and his were warm with the friction. The alcohol made them drowsy, and a trek back had lost its luster. They walked up through the village and caught the bus.

Coast walks and badger watches. And now wedding plans. She looked at the photo again and practiced saying, “Here’s a photo of my husband and me shortly before we were married.” She giggled. That would take some practice.

Before she got down to her first read-through of the journal—or spent any more time stewing over Iain—she got out her phone and the business card Jo had given her.

“Madame Fiona, your dream her creation,” said a man’s voice. It took Pru a moment to realize it was a recording. “Madame Fiona’s inspirations come from the heart, and she looks forward to…” There followed a beep and some scuffling sounds before someone broke in.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

“Hello, my name is Pru Parke, and I’d like to set up an appointment with Madame Fiona for a consultation about my…wedding dress.” It was the first time she’d said the words, and speaking them caused a slight flutter in her midsection.

“Ms. Parke, Madame Fiona here. I’m terribly sorry about that—I was up to my elbows in an Italian jacquard. First let me congratulate you on your upcoming wedding, and offer my best wishes for a long and happy marriage.”

Pru smiled and blushed. “Thank you so much.”

“Now, I have your particulars here from Ms. Howard.” Preliminaries out of the way, Madame Fiona’s tone became all business.

“Yes, Jo said that she’d spoken to you.”

“I need your measurements immediately—there is no time to lose. I’ll expect you this afternoon.”

“Oh, well, today?” Pru didn’t have a clue how to plan a wedding, and she couldn’t help but feel that perhaps she’d passed her sell-by date as a first-time bride. And now the clock was ticking to have the dress made. She needed someone else to make these decisions, and as Jo and Madame Fiona seemed eager to do so, she would certainly let them.

“What time do you finish your work?” Madame Fiona asked.

“I finish at four, but if you’d prefer that I come in another day…”

“My shop is very near the Botanics, Ms. Parke, and so I will expect you here at quarter past.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She found the garden’s café at lunch, bought a sandwich, and took it back to her office, engrossed in the journal, reading passages over and over again. Pru realized that each reading revealed something new, and there was much work ahead. She’d brought along a few reference books and had set them out on her desk, but she’d need access to the library on the grounds. She opened her notebook and began a list. The plant-accession database for the garden—she wondered if that was something she could ask Iain for. She drew a vertical line down the page and started a second column headed “Iain.” Alastair had charged her with staying in touch with Iain—Iain, who said she was a fraud. Hearing his voice again in her head roused a combination of anger and bewilderment. What on earth did he mean by that? Perhaps she should put that question on her list.

She returned to reading the journal, caught up in Mr. Menzies’s description of a particularly bad storm at sea just after they left Hawaii in February 1794, until a brisk knock drew her back to the present.

“Come in,” Pru said.

A young woman put her head round the door. She had light brown hair, cut short and brushed forward to form flat curls around her face. “Pru?” she asked, and stepped in, offering her hand. “I’m Saskia Bennett—Mr. Campbell told you about me, didn’t he? I’m your assistant.”

Assistant? Pru rewound the conversation with Alastair. Yes, there might have been something about an assistant.

“Saskia, I’m happy to meet you. Do sit, please.” What was she supposed to do with an assistant?

“I’m so grateful for the opportunity to work with you,” Saskia said, sitting up straight in her chair, hands clasped around a file folder in her lap. “When I heard about the project, I went straight to Mr. Campbell and asked for this placement.”

“You aren’t new to the Botanics, then?”

“No, I’m a gardener here full time. I’ll be with you only three afternoons a week.” Saskia held out the folder. “My CV.”

An assistant. As Pru looked over Saskia’s résumé, she glanced down at the young woman’s feet. She wore casual brown leather ankle boots that looked as if they’d never seen a day’s work in the soil. But her hands—Saskia displayed the telltale sign of a gardener who had smartened herself up for a meeting—dirt still under the fingernails.

Pru wondered what she could possibly ask her to do. She had experience giving orders—that was never a problem—but it had always been to an outdoor crew, and she had used action words: dig, plant, haul, weed. Inside these four walls, she couldn’t think of a single task to assign.

Saskia glanced around the office, and her eyes fell on the electric kettle. “Would you like a cup of tea or a coffee?”

Pru looked ahead to the rest of her afternoon and decided she should be as alert as possible. “Coffee, I think,” she said, relieved that Saskia had come up with her own task. “Although I haven’t had a chance to check on provisions.”

Saskia was already up and opening various tins that sat around the kettle. “Not to worry, I’ll get the kettle started and then dash over to the café and get us milk. I have an instant coffee—but it’s Italian. Do you take sugar?”

“No,” Pru said, shaking her head. “No sugar.”

And she was gone.

Pru drew another vertical line down the page in front of her, and added a third column. “Things for Saskia to do.”

A mug of coffee or tea in hand always created an opportunity for a chat. “Have you worked at the garden long?” Pru asked. She’d pushed papers aside to make room for their mugs and a large square of millionaire’s shortbread, which they split. Pru had to force five pounds on Saskia to repay her.

“I’ve been here six months,” Saskia said. “But it took me the year before that to get in—I just kept reminding them that Edinburgh was my top choice after I finished my certificate at Merrist Wood. Do you know it?”

Pru nodded. “How did you choose Edinburgh after going to school in Surrey?”

“We are one of the top educational and outreach gardens in the UK, Pru,” Saskia said, sounding like a brochure. “I knew what I wanted, and I made a plan. I always tell my old mum that you must have a plan.”

Her old mum? Saskia looked barely twenty; just how old could this mum be?

The new assistant was gone by four o’clock, back to work in the greenhouses. Alastair never showed, but Pru stayed busy until time to leave for her wedding-dress appointment. She’d mapped out her walk to Madame Fiona’s, but still had to rush to make it in time.

She found the designer’s place of business sitting comfortably between a jeweler who specialized in antiques and a wine shop on a New Town street with brightly painted doors and polished brass nameplates. Madame Fiona’s name flowed in gold script above a window that displayed cream-colored satin cascading over a backdrop and puddling into luxurious folds. At one side stood a dress form, bare except for a swath of black fabric that swept up and over one breast. When Pru opened the door, a bell tinkled.

The front part of the shop was small and without decoration except for the wallpaper, which was an intricate curlicue black design against white—a Parisian touch. A short bench sat along one wall. Pru hesitated near the door until she heard, from behind the tall partition, “Ms. Parke, is that you?”

“Yes,” Pru said to the walls.

“Come through, dearie, come through.”

Pru looked along the partition until she noticed a gap to the side. When she stepped through, she found Madame Fiona amid her craft—tables stacked high with colorful fabric; two sewing machines; a dais surrounded on three sides by mirrors; a long bench with fluffy, faux-fur pillows at one end; and two dress forms, one bare,and the other covered with a sleek black dress. Several sketches had been pinned to the wall—Pru saw a dress that reminded her of Disney’s Cinderella and another that looked like a wearable version of a Picasso painting with black and white blocks of fabric at sharp angles.

“Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said, “you’re very welcome.” Madame Fiona was dressed in a smock with a square neck lined with straight pins. A strand of long gray hair had escaped a bun. She was in her stocking feet.

“Thank you so much, M…Madame Fiona,” Pru said. Did the dressmaker have a surname? “For seeing me this afternoon. So that…you know…we can…get started.”

“And that’s just what we’ll do. Before we go any further, let’s get those measurements down.” Madame Fiona gestured toward a couple of clothes hangers. “Now, dearie, you may disrobe while I gather my instruments.”

It sounded a bit like a doctor’s appointment, but turned out to be less stressful. Madame Fiona measured this length and that circumference until Pru thought she had more numbers down in her little book than an accountant’s ledger. While she measured and jotted, they hardly spoke except for directions. “Arm straight out, Ms. Parke, straight out.” “Hold still, if you please.” Pru tried not to breathe. “Och, you’ve a long waist, Ms. Parke, very elegant.” Pru blushed.

At last, Madame Fiona said, “Right. I believe we need a cup of tea after all that, wouldn’t you agree? I’ll just put the kettle on.”

Madame Fiona disappeared through a back doorway and left Pru standing in her bra, panties, and wool socks. She hadn’t been told to get dressed—were they finished? Perhaps she’d just wait for instructions. She perched on the bench next to the pile of faux-fur pillows. One of the pillows looked up at her with beady black eyes.

“Ah!” Pru leapt up and the pillow gave a yip.

Madame Fiona called from the back. “Oh, Ms. Parke, meet my little Tassie.”

Little Tassie was a dog—a Yorkshire terrier about as big as a teacup. Pru took her seat again and gave the dog a pat. Tassie returned the favor by licking Pru’s fingers.

Madame Fiona continued to make noises in the back, and so when Pru heard the tinkle of the door, she panicked. Would someone just walk through without an invitation? She jumped up, looked left and right, and sprinted over to stand behind one of the dress forms.

“Post,” she heard a male voice call from the front.

“That’s fine,” Madame Fiona called as she emerged from the back with a tea tray. Pru heard a packet drop to the floor and the door tinkled the postman’s retreat. The dressmaker eyed her. “You may get dressed, Ms. Parke.”

They settled on the sofa each with a cup of tea and a dry Marie biscuit. “No chocolate near the fabric,” Madame Fiona explained. “Now, Ms. Parke, I want to know more about you—my designs are always a reflection of the wearer. Ms. Howard tells me you are a gardener?”

“Yes, I’m working at the botanic garden for three months—a special project.”

“You have a great love of nature, then, do you not? And your groom, Mr. Pearse—he, too, loves the outdoors? Is he a farmer?”

Pru snorted into her tea. “No, he’s with the Metropolitan Police—an inspector.”

“An inspector,” breathed Madame Fiona. “Is it a dangerous job?”

Pru flashed on Christopher crawling out on a third-story ledge to save her, and thought about the late evenings and weekends he spent working but unable to give her details. “Well,” she said in a small voice, “I suppose it can be.”

“My nephew Sandy’s…partner works at the Botanics. Although Sandy himself is in the arts—the physical arts.” An actor? Pru wondered. A trapeze artist? Perhaps he was in the circus. The term “physical arts” left a great deal to the imagination.

“Your wedding dress, Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. “We’ll need to coordinate your footwear. How do you feel about heels?”

Pru looked down at her feet, still clad in thick wool socks alone. “I’m not sure—it’s been so long.”

Madame Fiona jotted something down in her notebook. “We’ll see what we can do. Now, I prefer to have a free hand at the beginning as I let the design touch me here”—she placed a hand on her chest—“before I allow it to coalesce here”—a tap on her forehead. “When you return for a fitting, we’ll be able to smooth out any details. Will you trust me?”

As the alternative would be to shop for her own wedding dress—Pru thought about the charity shops Mrs. Murchie mentioned—she said, “Yes, of course. That will be fine. You just let me know when to come back.”

Pru put on her shoes and collected her bag as Madame Fiona gathered the tea things.

“It won’t take long, Ms. Parke,” the dressmaker said, breathing deeply, as if inhaling creative juices. “I can feel it.”