The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (13 page)

She took comfort in his arms. They didn’t speak for a while, until at last Christopher asked, “Have you eaten? Or was it just whisky for dinner?”

She laughed a little. “It was mostly whisky,” she admitted. She dragged herself away from the brink of the abyss and on to news of the evening. “Ivy was waiting for me when I got back.” She told him that Ivy had seen the Templetons’ car at the house that day. “The two of them are up and down from London so often, Davina probably forgot she’d stopped back by,” Pru said.

“There’s no reason for her to lie about it?” he asked. “Do you believe they got along with Ned?”

Pru shrugged. “She’s made a couple of odd statements before about him—as if they’d been forced into hiring him. But she never explained what that was about. And she seems really sad that he’s dead.”

Christopher grinned and kissed her hand. “Will Ivy tell Tatt?”

“She asked if it was all right to ring DS Hobbes instead—I gave her my permission.”

They returned to staring at the fire. Although she tried, Pru couldn’t keep out the voices—snatches of her conversation with Birdie, and Simon shouting that he already had a family. Finally, she lifted her head. “I’m very poor company tonight. I’m sorry.”

“You, my darling, are always the best company. Although, I’m not sure what tomorrow morning will bring.” He pulled her up. “Let’s go to bed.”

Pru heard small sounds in the kitchen the next morning. Christopher was up; she reached for his pillow and put it over her ears, hoping to stop the throbbing pain in her head.

“Coffee?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Coffee,” she said, her head still under the pillow, “would be lovely.” She peered out, squinting her eyes against the flood lamp aimed straight at her. It turned out to be only pale sunshine through the window. She sat up and took the mug, relishing its heat and the fragrance of the coffee. She took a test sip. “God. What time is it?”

“It’s after ten.” He was dressed, proving that the day had already started for some people.

“I’ll fix us breakfast?” she said, hoping he would decline the offer.

“I’ve had breakfast already.” Christopher gave her a kiss. “I have something I must do today,” he said. “I’ll be back this evening.”

“I should’ve been up earlier—I didn’t know you’d have to leave.” Their time was limited and precious, and here she had squandered some of it.

“If that bottle started out full yesterday, I’d say it’s just as well you slept in.” He took her hand. “It’s just for today.”

“If you can’t make it back, that’s all right, I’ll understand,” she said, putting on a brave, but transparent, front.

“I’ll see you,” he said, “this evening.”

Although she kept busy for most of the day, Pru ended the afternoon sitting in the kitchen, the only light in the cottage from the sofa lamp. She thought about her childhood—her happy childhood with two parents who loved her and whom she loved. She marveled at how alone she felt now that evidence of their deceit had been revealed—she belonged nowhere and to no one.

When she was about five, she had made up a sibling—a sister named Barbie who had a smooth, blond ponytail. Barbie had become her constant companion. Pru had requested two of everything—cookies, bowls of cereal—so that Barbie would have her own. She couldn’t remember how long that lasted. Had she come to her senses one day or had Barbie disappeared from her life gradually? When her mother poured Barbie a glass of Kool-Aid, did she think to herself that she could’ve been pouring it for Simon?

She thought of the black humor in that situation—she pretended she had a sibling while her mother pretended she didn’t. The betrayal cut deep—uncovering the depth of her mother’s lies opened a chasm between her and the loving woman she thought she knew, a mother who could give up her baby.

Her mind hovered in a shadowy place, and she was surprised when Christopher walked in. She hadn’t even heard his car.

He stood just inside the door. “What are you doing in the dark?”

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It’s gone five. Are you all right?”

She got up and kissed him. He winced. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

His face didn’t look right—she switched on the kitchen light for a better look.

“Oh my God, Christopher.” His right eye was black and blue and swollen almost completely shut.

“I’m all right,” he reassured her, but she could see otherwise.

“What happened?”

He put his arms around her waist and looked into her eyes. Well, one eye looked, one eye squinted. “I will tell you what happened, I promise that I will tell you,” he said, and she could tell by his tone that he wouldn’t. “I promise I will tell you,” he repeated. “Just not right now.” He continued to look and she continued to be silent. “I promise,” he said again. “All right?”

“All right,” she said in a small voice. The huge pool of misery inside her, brimming with family secrets and lies, shifted slightly to allow room now for this: worry.
An open case,
she thought. It was too easy to forget he had a dangerous job. A policeman could be injured in the line of duty at any time, and here’s proof. And he couldn’t talk about it, so she wouldn’t know until…“Not right now,” she repeated.

“I’m sorry I had to leave you today,” he said.

“I was fine,” she said. She kissed him, her lips barely touching his. “You’re the one who’s hurt.”

He gave her half a smile and began to massage that spot low on her back. “It’s just my eye. The rest of me still works.”

She cupped his uninjured cheek in her hand. “Does it?” She drew close and kissed him again, with more intent. “We’d better find out, don’t you think? Just to be sure,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

She took care pulling off his sweater, making sure it didn’t rub against his bruised face. She kissed him at the base of his throat and worked her way up to his mouth, standing on tiptoes to do so. He took care, too. He traced the shape of the fan pendant against her skin and followed the path of the chain with his lips. And when he reached for her, he took care to remind her that she did belong—she belonged with him.

Pru nestled her head into Christopher’s shoulder, his arm around her. “How is your face?” she asked. “Do you want something for the pain?”

“I’ve just had something for the pain,” he said, “and I feel much better. Shall we go into town for a meal?”

She stuck her chin out. “I cooked,” she said.

“No,” he replied with proper amazement. “What brought this on?”

“I wanted to stay busy,” she said, getting up to dress. “I rang Ivy after you left—oh dear, she was worse off than me—and she talked me through it, from going to the shops to chopping the shallots.” She acquired a lofty attitude. “I made boeuf bourguignon. Although in Texas we’d just call it beef stew.”

She waited until after he’d had seconds—the first meal she’d cooked in her cottage, and a rousing success—to tell him about the online comment, thought by the
Courier
and the police to be menacing. Christopher didn’t take it well.

“I’ll ring Hobbes,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“No, there’s nothing to it. They took the comment down, and nothing’s happened.” She put her hand over his. “I couldn’t keep it from you, but I don’t want you to worry.” She kept her eyes on him while she bit her lower lip.

“And?” he asked, realizing there was more.

“I saw Jamie at Ned’s funeral. He’s obsessed with getting Cate back,” she said, holding on to Christopher’s hand. “He’s upset about Ned’s murder—he thought Ned would sort everything out for him. He blames it on Liam. And he did make some reference to me being selected as head gardener.” She tried to throw that in as an offhand remark, but it was no good.

She could see the muscles in his jaw tightening as he stared a hole through her. She could only wait it out, until he reasoned with himself and—she hoped—came to the conclusion that she was in no danger.

He looked around the cottage. “You shouldn’t stay here alone.”

“It’ll be fine—Sergeant Hobbes said the police will be patrolling the area.”

“Why don’t you move back to your little room up at the house?” he asked.

“Davina and Bryan are gone more than they’re here these days,” she said. “I’d be no safer up there than in my own cottage. And I’ll be safe
here
. I’ll lock the door. I’ll let no one in.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“You could ring every hour to check on me.” He said nothing. “I could get a guard badger,” she said.

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Keep your phone handy.”

The winter sun did its best to blaze through the kitchen window on Sunday afternoon, reminding her of the young plants in the greenhouse. “I’d better go and open the vents a few inches,” she told him. “With the sun so bright, it’ll heat up inside, and the primroses aren’t ready for that yet.”

He stood up from arranging firewood. “I’ll come with you,” he said.

“I’ll be right back—you keep going with your building project,” Pru said, waving at the pile of kindling.

She walked through the front gate of the walled garden and into the greenhouse, pushing open the roof vents a few inches. Movement beyond the back gate caught her eye. She froze, staring at the opening, waiting. For a second, she considered going back to get Christopher, but then decided that would be excessive. This was her garden; she was in charge of who was allowed here. She crept as quietly as possible to the lower gate and peered out. The tape had been removed from the murder scene, and it was a clear view to the potting shed.

“Liam?”

He started as he emerged from the shed. “Pru, I didn’t want to disturb you. I brought the paraffin heater back.” He nodded toward the interior of the shed. She didn’t reply. “Do you remember, you asked me to collect it after it was repaired?”

“Yes, sure, of course I remember. Thanks.” Liam didn’t move. “You and Fergal are working tomorrow?”

“We’ll be here,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Hope the fine weather holds.”

“Liam,” she said, after taking a deep breath. “I want to ask you something.”

Fergal came round the far corner of the walled garden. “Right, I’m ready now. Pru.” He looked none too happy to see her, she thought. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wanted to leave the tools we borrowed—the pruning saw and those long loppers. We’ll be on our way now.”

“Do you have a few minutes? You could come up to the cottage. Christopher is here. I only want to chat.” They were as skittish as rabbits when she got them alone.

“Is everything all right?” Christopher appeared down the path from her cottage. She saw the brothers take note of his black eye but make no comment.

She smiled at him. “Everything is fine, I was just asking Liam and Fergal back for a cup of tea.”

“Sorry, we can’t stay,” Fergal said. “Come on, Liam.” He jerked his head down toward the access lane.

Her gaze followed Fergal’s gesture, and she saw their car parked on the lane. “Do you drive down this way often?” she asked.

Liam’s eyes cut back toward the track, which had begun to dry out in the clear weather. “Sometimes. I came down this way last week, didn’t I? I brought that stack of seed trays in.”

She didn’t remember but was happy to take his word for it.

Fergal was acting like a herding dog, trying to get his brother to move, but Liam didn’t budge. He said, “Christopher, when someone tells the police something that may not be exactly true—” He got no further, as Tatt came stomping through the lower gate of the garden.

He surveyed the group and said in a quiet and self-satisfied voice, “Well, well, well—what do we have here? A meeting of the minds? Getting your stories straight? And what are you doing, Pearse, coaching them?” He caught sight of Christopher’s face. “Run into a disagreement, did you?”

Pru put her hands on her hips. “Inspector Tatt, what do you want?”

“I want to know what the Duffys are doing here on a Sunday afternoon, Ms. Parke, that’s what I want. You’ve yet to account for your whereabouts,” he said, pointing to Liam. “Although others seem eager to do so.”

“Who?” Pru asked.

“And to let you know of an interesting discovery we made.” Tatt paused, took two steps back, his eyes sweeping the small group as he said, “We’ve found the victim’s mobile phone, and guess where it was? Of all places,” he said with a chuckle, “behind a stone at the Duffy cottage.”

“That’s not true,” Liam shouted, making a move toward Tatt. Fergal grabbed him.

“It is true, and I’d say we’ll have a few questions for you about it before long.” Tatt patted his stomach as if he’d just eaten a large and satisfactory meal.

“Where was it?” Christopher asked.

“Behind a loose stone,” Tatt said, sounding eager to brag. “No one had noticed before…” He caught himself. “That isn’t really any of your business, now, is it, Pearse?” He turned back to the Duffys. “And what are the two of you doing here?”

“Leaving,” Fergal said.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Pru,” Liam said.

“Sergeant Hobbes will be stopping for a visit,” Tatt called after them.

Pru could barely hold still in her fury and fear. She latched on to the one topic she could control. “Inspector, there’s nothing sinister in my gardeners coming over on a Sunday afternoon—we’ve worked plenty of weekends.” She would not let her own suspicions about Liam creep out for Tatt to discover. “We’re starting on a new phase of the garden, and we needed to go over a few details. And you’ve no right to suggest that Christopher is here for any reason other than to see me. That feels a bit like police harassment,” she said.

“Spare me your American television dramatics, Ms. Parke,” Tatt said, one hand in his pocket jangling his keys. “I was passing your cottage and decided to stop and ask about Mrs. Templeton. Did you know that she returned to Primrose House on the afternoon of the murder?”

It seemed that Ivy wasted no time. “No, I didn’t know that. As I told you, I was in Tunbridge Wells. Did you check all the places I told you I’d been?”

“Yes, yes, you are not a suspect,” Tatt replied. “Has either Mr. or Mrs. Templeton ever voiced any dissatisfaction with Bobbins or his work? Mrs. Templeton made him sound too good to be true.”

“I don’t know of any difficulties,” she replied, feeling Christopher’s eyes on her.

“Very well. Until next time, Ms. Parke. Pearse.” Tatt walked away, and Christopher stepped over to Pru’s side.

He lifted a stray strand of her hair and rested his hand on the back of her neck, caressing it lightly. “There’s something wrong about that—police just now finding Ned’s phone at Liam’s,” she said. “Did it sound suspicious to you?”

“It sounded convenient,” Christopher said as they walked back to her cottage.

“The fire is ready for you to light later. You’ll stay in this evening?”

“I’ll be here,” she said in a small voice as she stared at the cold fireplace and contemplated the quiet evening that stretched out before her—an evening full of misery, as far as she could tell. The past was waiting in the wings, eager to lay claim to her mind. Time to dwell on the stories her mother never told her.

Pru watched Christopher take the poker and move one of the logs a millimeter. “I have a few questions for Davina,” she thought as she planned to fill her week with work. “I’ll talk with Liam and Fergal, too.” Christopher stood up, and she realized she’d spoken the words aloud. “About the garden,” she added to no avail.

He saw through her. “Pru, that isn’t a good idea. Leave it to the police.”

“I can talk to Cate,” she said. “Just a friendly chat. I believe she was lying about Liam not being at her flat.”

Both his grip on the poker and his voice tightened. “You’ve been threatened, and we don’t know where it’s come from. If you push the wrong person, you could end up in danger.”

“I haven’t been threatened—it was a vague statement,” she said, unconsciously crossing her arms in defiance. “I can talk to people. I can ask questions.”

“No
.
”
He thrust the poker back onto its stand causing the whole set to rattle. “Not after this.”

“I have to stay busy,”
she shouted at him.

Silence. After a moment, he walked over to her and they held each other. She knew that her stubborn streak was rearing its ugly head, but she had no inclination to back down. He looked at her with a lopsided smile. “Come up to London next weekend. You can get away, can’t you? We’ll take Jo, Cordelia, and Lucy to dinner.”

He was throwing her a life preserver, and she willingly took hold. “To Gasparetti’s?”

“Of course.”

Her eyes widened as her mind filled with possibilities. “The Garden Museum has a new exhibit on Lawrence Johnston and Hidcote—I was hoping to see it. And we could go to the Sunday recital at Westminster.” A tiny spark of excitement ignited inside her. A weekend in the city, away from the garden, the murder, and the family history she never knew she had. She kissed him soundly.