The Skeleton Garden (22 page)

The next morning, Christopher kissed her before she was fully awake and went downstairs. Once dressed, she slipped back in the murder room to take another look at the whiteboard. Photos had been rearranged. Simon's had been added back, causing Pru a stab of panic until she could see that Christopher had created a schedule of Jack's last day. He left Stan's midmorning, talked with Peachey, visited Kitty—a stick figure stood in for a photo of her—and stopped at the Blackbird, where Ursula and Dick had heard the run-in with Simon. It was all there, albeit with wide gaps between, ending at Greenoak. Next to that, Christopher had jotted down a list of names: Stan, Pru, Peachey, Kitty. Pru's name was circled.

Her breath quickened. What did she have in common with these others? Three break-ins—Stan's house, Peachey's van, Kitty's duck-feed bin—and Pru knocked down in the parterre lawn. Each time, no one was harmed; nothing was taken.

She flew down the stairs and into a jolly scene in the kitchen, with Peachey regaling Claire and Orlando with a tale of being chased down the lane by Sonia's mother, a duck of the same ilk. Pru exchanged “good mornings” with everyone as Evelyn turned out rashers of bacon onto their plates. Christopher stood across the kitchen leaning against the counter with a cup of tea in hand. Pru sought out his gaze and locked on it, which caused him to set down his cup and nod toward the mudroom.

“I saw your list,” she said in a quiet voice. She increased her volume slightly against the laughter in the kitchen. “Greenoak was the last place Jack went that day—the very last. But I was knocked over in the parterre lawn right after Stan's place was ransacked. The break-ins, Stan, Peachey, Kitty”—she ticked them off on her fingers—“those three were in the same order as Jack saw them on his last day.”

Christopher acknowledged her deduction with a nod. “An orderly way of going about a disorderly deed.”

“He was trailing Jack's movements. He was looking for something, wasn't he? What did Jack have that this person wanted—and where is it now?” She clenched Christopher's arm. “Oh, God—Simon. If he's going in order of Jack's day, and still looking for something, he'll be after Simon next. Should we warn him? There's no guarantee that this guy won't turn violent—look what happened to Jack.”

As she spoke, Simon walked in the door, and Pru threw her arms around her brother. “Simon! Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Simon said, his voice slightly choked from Pru's bear hug, but he held her just as tightly.

Pru let him go with an attempt at a lighthearted laugh. Christopher put his hand on her back and she felt rays of calm and caution emanating from the spot. “Yes, of course you are. I'm happy to see you, that's all. Look.” Pru smiled and gestured toward the kitchen. “Orlando has returned. I wanted to ring you first so you wouldn't be too surprised,” she said, ignoring the fact that Simon had quit the garden only a few days before.

Simon smiled and lifted his chin in greeting toward the boy. “You're in good time, Orlando. Ready to get to work?”

With barely a flicker of a glance at his mother, Orlando replied, “Yes, sir. I'm ready.”

“Where's Polly?” Pru asked.

“She's at home. Look, about what I said…”

“Don't worry about it,” Pru said, shaking her head rapidly. The garden was nothing next to Simon and Polly's safety. Although—the garden—they would need to talk about it.

Christopher cut in. “I'll be off now. I've said my goodbyes to Claire. I've arranged for a patrol in the area, Simon. Don't be surprised if you see Plumb about—just a precaution.” He winked at Pru, kissed her, and left.

With a sigh of relief, Pru turned back to her brother, who had stuck his hands in his coat pockets. Pru didn't speak, hoping to first get a sense of which way the wind blew. He was there at Greenoak—that had to be a good start.

From one pocket, Simon brought out a small blue velvet box, worn at the corners. It fit in the palm of his hand, and he held it tightly. “It's just that, well, I finally had a go at it.”

Pru raised her eyebrows, waiting for more. The conversation in the kitchen had subsided; Claire had gone up, and Orlando was starting on another round of toast with Peachey joining in.

“Birdie's.” The one word held a world of meaning. Her brother had been to Birdie's house, which meant he had at last been able to face reality—the woman who had brought him up was gone and with her the last shreds of memories about their parents. Pru touched Simon's sleeve and tried to keep her chin from quivering.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, covering her hand. “I've really only started, but I wanted to bring you this. Pol thought you might like it.” He offered her the box.

“You wouldn't have a dress in there, would you?” She took it, warm from his hand, and pried it open. It was a pair of earrings—long, delicate, and gold—hanging in a fan pendant shape. Her hand flew to her chest where, underneath two layers of wool, a fan pendant necklace rested next to her skin.

“She said they're like the necklace you wear.”

Pru nodded, her eyes brimming, as she pulled out the necklace for him to see. “Christopher gave it to me when we were first together.” She held the case up so that the earrings swayed freely. “But, Simon, I couldn't take these—Birdie's jewelry should go to Polly and the girls.”

Simon chuckled. “There's plenty to go round. Birdie had quite an eye for a sparkle—or George liked buying it for her. Wait'll you see the ring Polly is wearing. But this—well, it's for you. It's to say sorry for how I've been.”

Pru waved away his concern, a tenderness welling up inside her that threatened to overflow. She took a few quick breaths and tried to replace emotion with practicality. “You had a lot on your mind, and we've been so busy in the garden…” There, she'd said the word “garden.” Now what?

“I've just poured up a fresh pot,” Evelyn called. “Are you two having your porridge?”

Good, time for breakfast.

It seemed ages since they'd been in the parterre lawn. The marquee had been removed—again—and it was time to begin repairs to the borders. Much had happened since they pulled out the little willowleaf pear tree. They'd dug up a Messerschmitt and a skeleton. Jack had died, and Pru had been knocked down by an unknown assailant. Now Simon, Pru, and Orlando stood just inside the yew hedge, viewing the expanse. The air, heavy with an early rain, smelled clean and cold.

“Why didn't you tell me what happened here—that you were attacked?” Simon asked.

“Here?” Orlando asked. “When was that?”

Pru shook her head dismissively. “I surprised someone who was nosing around, that's all. I wasn't hurt.” The bruise was almost gone, so that was practically true. “You don't need to mention this to your mother, Orlando. It was really just a tiny incident.”
Great, Pru,
she thought.
Colluding with your nephew against his mother.

“My lips are sealed,” Orlando said.

They took stock of the border perennials—not the easiest task in winter, as most had died back to little or nothing. Campanulas, sedums, and catmint were at least marked by rosettes of leaves near the earth. Simon got out his notebooks and searched for planting plans while Orlando hauled off the hebes and box that had been unearthed weeks ago and shoved against the hedge, dumping them behind the shed.

They ended the morning standing around the pit in the middle, Orlando kicking at one of the remaining mounds of soil and gravel.

“It'll be a job sifting all those chippings out,” Simon said. “But if we don't, what would we plant that wouldn't end up like the pear?”

“It wouldn't have to be a tree, would it?” Pru asked as she took her gloves off to rub feeling back into her fingers. “How about a fountain—a really big one?” She spoke without thinking, but found she rather liked the idea. “We could put in a huge shallow bowl at ground level and have a single column of water shooting up twenty feet in the air.”

Simon scratched the back of his head. “It's funny, but I'd thought the same thing. Years ago, I imagined a water feature out here. With curved benches just inside the knot design, all the way round—painted that shade of blue from Hidcote manor.”

“You'd make a massive splash in that magazine article, wouldn't you?” Orlando grinned and looked from face to face, checking to see if they got the joke.

A heavy pall dropped over them like a blackout curtain. Simon shuffled his feet but didn't speak. Pru swallowed hard and steeled herself.

“Simon, we need to talk about this.” This—Jacinta Bloom, her false pretenses for the magazine article, Simon up and quitting the garden. She twisted the garden gloves in her hands.

“I didn't know,” her brother said, not meeting her eyes.

“You didn't know,” she repeated, hoping he would continue so that she could know what he didn't know.

His eyes were sad, but not angry. “I didn't know what Jacinta Bloom wanted to do—not until yesterday. You should've told me.”
He hadn't really given her the opportunity,
Pru thought. “Seems she is carrying on with the article, regardless of what you said. The intern, Esther, rang with a question, and she mentioned the working title, ‘Murder in the Mixed Borders.' ”

A ripple of rage shook through Pru. “The nerve of that woman…”

Simon shook his head. “I said, ‘Put me through to your editor,' and I told Jacinta Bloom I wouldn't let her do that to you. I told her to forget the whole thing.”

“Bloody journalist,” Pru said. “She doesn't half have the nerve. I'm sorry. A real article on the garden would've been lovely.”

“Ah, doesn't matter.” He exhaled loudly, nodding toward the kitchen. “We'd best go in before Evelyn comes to find us.”

Orlando had made himself scarce during the exchange, and they found him indoors, already tucking into his second sandwich. Pru should have felt more lighthearted now that the truth was out, but it was her fault that Simon had lost his chance to be appreciated for a life's work—hers and Jacinta Bloom's. He still deserved a moment of fame, she thought. She stewed about it while she ate her sandwich, and with the last bite, an idea germinated, and she smiled.

After lunch, Pru and Simon sowed their first flats of sweet peas in the glasshouse while Orlando—disappointed there was no petrol-powered equipment involved—wielded loppers and pruning saw to cut the dead hebes into compost-size pieces. They finished early, and when Simon left, Orlando asked if he could go to Kitty's.

“You could come along, Aunt Pru,” he said with weak enthusiasm.

“No, I don't want to be a gooseberry,” she replied, noticing the red creeping up from his collar. “Tell Kitty I'll look in on her another time.”

You won't want to be near me tonight, I reek of leeks. As I stuck each one in the soil, I was thinking, I don't know how such tiny little green shoots can ever grow into those fat white things. Then I began to cry, thinking of little things growing big. The girls must think I'm mad.

—Letter from Home Farm, Ratley

The kitchen was empty. Pru considered going in search of Evelyn, but Christopher had suggested that they keep back this latest information about Will Donovan until it could be confirmed. And so Pru went through and upstairs, made herself a cup of tea in the bedroom, stretched out, and began reading a book about the rococo garden movement. When she woke up, the light in the sky had faded, and the room was almost dark.

After a good stretch and a splash of cold water on her face, she headed downstairs, catching a whiff of cloves—a spice Evelyn always added to her beef dishes. Christopher, Evelyn, and Peachey stood about in the kitchen. “Is there a fire yet?” Pru asked. “I could just do with a drink—won't you two stay for a bit?” The question fell into a black hole.

The three stood in a tableau round the kitchen table, the air thick with a conversation broken off at her entry. The counter was strewn with containers and lids. Pru looked at each of them in turn—Evelyn's wide eyes were locked on Peachey; Peachey, his face aflame, blinked at the floor; and Christopher's gaze was guarded as he watched them both. “What's wrong?” she whispered.

“I was just asking Peachey about his statement,” Christopher said.

“Albert, we have to tell him the truth about that evening.”

“What evening?” Pru asked, her stomach suddenly churning.

Evelyn faced Christopher with her chin up. “Albert said he was alone, but I was in the van with him when he stopped here—the evening Jack died.”

Christopher sighed. “Well, then, Peachey—” he began.

“It's my fault he didn't say so at first,” Evelyn said, kneading her hands. “Albert was trying to spare me police scrutiny. Everyone knows I've begrudged Jack all these years. Peachey counted on that railway job, and Jack Snuggs stole it from him. And then he up and quit not three months later to move to Canada.”

“Regardless,” Christopher said, “we'll need to—”

“Ev stayed in the van,” Peachey said. “I swear to that. And so what does it matter if I didn't mention it?”

“Is Evelyn in trouble?” Pru asked.

Christopher cut his eyes to her. “I never said—”

He got no further as Evelyn flung her arms out to him, her hands wide and fingers wiggling. “Take them,” she said. “Take my fingerprints, go on. Take whatever you need. I didn't do anything to Jack.”

Pru saw the corner of Christopher's mouth twitch. He held up a finger and said, “Hang on,” but an index finger could not stem the tide of protests that piled one on top of the other.

“I gave the false statement—”

“Albert only tried to protect me—”

“Go on, take me in, I'll go quietly.”

“All right, all right!” Christopher's voice rose above the clamor as his hands flew up in surrender. They fell silent, and he continued in a quieter tone. “It's a very good thing, Peachey, that you never signed your statement.”

“Was I supposed to sign it?”

“Did Martin not tell you that?”

Peachey frowned at this. “No.”

Christopher shook his head. “Right, come in to see me in the morning, and we'll sort it out. And you may keep your fingerprints to yourself, Evelyn.”

Peachey grinned. “There now, Evelyn my love, I knew it would be all right.”

The four of them made short work of boxing up the pensioners' meals, and afterward, Pru walked out with Evelyn. “We've a roast chicken for Kitty,” Evelyn said. “I'll shoo Orlando back here so he doesn't eat their entire meal. You've a cottage pie for your tea—I remember it was one of his favorites.”

“Everything you cook is his favorite,” Pru said. “But tomorrow, now, we're going into town for a meal—I don't want you taking time away from baking for the competition. Tomorrow is Cake Day.”

Evelyn stood at the back of Peachey's van holding one of the doors open for him to slide the stacks of containers in. She cocked her head but said nothing as Peachey shut the van doors and tied them together.

“Jack apologized, you know,” Peachey said with his arm around Evelyn's shoulders. “That last day he came to see me while I was working. But I told him never mind, that I enjoy what I do, being in charge of my own self and traveling around the district—and so he really did me a favor, didn't he?”

Evelyn leaned over and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek.

Pru opened the door of the cooker to check on their dinner. The cottage pie, mashed-potato top lightly browned to perfection, would hold in the warming oven until they were ready for it. She slipped off her shoes, took herself off to the library, and settled on the sofa with a whisky in hand, to watch Christopher build the fire.

“Did you know that Peachey's statement was wrong?”

“I had a suspicion—neither of them would look at me when I asked about it. Martin suspected Peachey, but it was because he hadn't asked enough questions.” As a tiny flame in the middle of the kindling began to spread, Christopher looked over his shoulder. “Kitty told me she saw Jack late that evening—after eleven—coming down the lane this way. She was up making cocoa and walked out onto her front step to speak to him.” He took his own glass of whisky and settled beside Pru.

“Hadn't Kitty told Martin that?” she asked.

“She couldn't remember if she had, and Martin hasn't filed a statement for her.” Christopher turned the glass in his hand.

Even Pru knew that it was proper police procedure to interview everyone in the vicinity of a crime; how could Martin have missed that opportunity? “It's taking far too long to get through all this,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “Martin's made a great deal of trouble for you.”

Christopher gave a small nod of agreement. “He's made a great deal of trouble for himself. And I believe he's doing it on purpose.”

“He meant to make all those mistakes?” Pru tried to puzzle this out. “I thought he was just incompetent.”

“Incompetent for a reason,” Christopher said, rubbing a hand up and down his face as if to wipe away the exasperation. “I've seen it happen before. Martin's decided he isn't cut out for police work, but he can't quit, because that would be admitting defeat. Better to get the sack for poor performance. That way, he could always blame his failure on someone else.”

“But he's playing around with people's guilt or innocence. Can you do something?”

Christopher smiled with chagrin. “I've taken the case over—officially—just as Harnett asked at the beginning.”

Pru felt a rush of relief that at last Christopher would be in charge—tempered by a pang of worry for him. “Well,” she said, putting her hand on his, “a promotion at last.”

He rubbed the back of her hand. “Martin's got to quit, or he's got to learn to be a proper detective,” Christopher said. “Either way, he must face up to it.”

“You'll have a talk with him?”

Christopher nodded. “I've left him a message to say that first thing in the morning, we'll need to go over every detail he's collected about the case.”

“Has he always been this incompetent?”

“Harnett has had reservations for a while. He believes Martin joined the police only because of his father, because Jimmy was such a hero in his eyes. It's understandable he'd want to follow in his footsteps.”

She saw Christopher's ears go pink. Ah, she thought, there's the hook. Christopher, who read natural history at Oxford, had become a policeman because his own father had died saving a child's life. His dad had been his hero, and he had wanted to follow in his footsteps. No wonder Christopher cut Martin so much slack. But it could go only so far.

They heard Orlando thundering through the hall—really, he made the most noise of anyone Pru had ever known. She had missed hearing it.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking down when he burst into the room.

“How's Kitty—all settled in?” Pru asked.

Orlando nodded. “Jemima's looking after her and, well, I didn't want to hang about. Families, you know, they need their time.”

“Too right,” Pru replied. “And so come in here to the fire and sit down.”