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‘But Jack Haines didn’t tell him where you were, I hope,’ said Detective Constable Crosby involuntarily. In
his capacity as a young police officer he had abruptly been exposed to the world of domestic violence and, still a bachelor himself, he hadn’t liked what he had seen of it.

Marilyn Potts gave a wan smile. ‘No, not Jack Haines. He would never have done a thing like that, I’m sure.’

‘Get real, Marilyn,’ said Anna Sutherland. ‘Norman could easily have found out where you were all the same. He might be a right menace but he isn’t stupid.’

‘There are always ways and means of finding someone,’ contributed Crosby obscurely, a policeman only just beginning to find out about some of the sticky slug-like trails left by human beings on the surface of the planet.

Detective Inspector Sloan, who had been considering writing his report under the heading of ‘Criminal Damage’, decided that this remit might not be quite wide enough. ‘Harassment’ might well come into it as well: it was still too soon to say. He made a note of the fact that Norman Potts knew Jack Haines too. Two greenhouses of frosted orchids couldn’t be a coincidence. Not on the same night.

Anna Sutherland said, ‘There’s no hiding place good enough for a battered wife these days.’

Sloan was a methodical man and so he ignored this and dutifully carried on. ‘Is there anyone else whom you may have reason to believe bears either of you any ill-will?’

‘You mean except Norman?’ asked Norman’s former wife.

‘I do,’ said Sloan, quite relaxed. Norman Potts might or might not be able to find Marilyn Potts but he had no
doubt at all that, should they want to, the police could find the aforementioned Norman quite quickly.

‘Not that we know of,’ Anna Sutherland answered his question sturdily. ‘Either of us.’

All that Detective Inspector Sloan knew was that that reply wasn’t going to be good enough for Police Superintendent Leeyes. The superintendent’s default setting was a toxic mixture of disbelief and irascibility.

Anthony Berra’s approach to his clients, the Lingards at Pelling Grange, was a sophisticated blend of regret and optimism. Fortunately it had been Oswald Lingard who had answered his ring at the front door.

‘I thought I’d better come over as soon as I could, Major,’ said the landscape designer, ‘because I must warn you that there’s been a bit of a problem with the plants that were being brought on for the new Mediterranean garden.’ Berra hastened to explain about the open doors of the greenhouses at the nursery.

‘Sabotage, do you think?’ asked the major. His wife had wrought many changes at Pelling Grange but even she hadn’t managed to prise Oswald Lingard out of his old tweed jacket. Patches of leather guarded the elbows but there had been nothing stopping the cuffs from fraying at the edges. ‘Wilful damage and all that?’

‘Could be,’ admitted Anthony Berra, twisting his lips wryly. ‘Too soon to say.’

‘Lot of it about these days, you know, old chap. My apples are always getting stolen. Last year the blighters even pinched half my strawberries.’

‘I think it’s most likely to be someone with a grudge against Jack Haines,’ replied Anthony Berra. He decided against going on to suggest that the strawberry thieves were more likely to have been of an avian rather than human nature.

He himself was dressed rather more carefully than his client although not much better. He didn’t suppose for a moment that Oswald Lingard would notice – let alone care – how he, Anthony Berra, dressed but Charmian Lingard certainly would. It was part of the landscape designer’s credo that people with money always knew about clothes and of necessity he tried to work with people who had money – hopefully quite a lot of it – so he always paid attention to what he wore and when.

‘All of Jack Haines’ staff, Major,’ he said, ‘are pretty certain that the gates to the nursery were properly locked up last night but you never can tell.’

‘And employees being what they are they’re not going to tell anyone if it wasn’t,’ concluded Lingard realistically, his time in the Army having left its mark on him in more ways than one. ‘So where does this leave us, Berra? My wife will be coming back any minute now and she’s sure to want to know.’

‘I do have a plan …’ began Berra.

Oswald Lingard wasn’t listening. ‘The restoration of the old garden here at the Grange means a lot to Charmian, you know. Very keen on it and all that.’ 

‘At least the medieval herb garden is working well,’ put in Berra. ‘That’s coming along nicely.’

‘And then there’s this big shindig she’s planning. A lot of people’ll be coming to that.’ Lingard hunched his shoulders and gave a little chuckle. ‘Bound to be. They’ll all want to see what she’s making of the place. And me.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Anthony Berra smoothly, omitting any mention of the effect on the garden of his own work. Clients always wanted to think the good ideas had been their own. It was something he encouraged.

‘After all,’ went on the major reflectively, ‘this garden has been pretty nearly derelict since before my
great-grandfather
’s day. It was all right up until then, of course. Gardeners were two a penny until 1914.’

‘One man to the acre then,’ said the landscape designer. ‘Those were the days.’

‘We had four of them here until the Kaiser’s war.’ Lingard tapped his knee. ‘And I couldn’t do a darn thing myself when I got home – this bit of me hasn’t been right since Helmand.’

‘Oh, I understand that all right, Major,’ responded Berra without hesitation, ‘and as I say I’ve been giving that Mediterranean garden quite a lot of thought since Haines rang me. You remember that statue that Mrs Lingard brought home from Italy …’

‘I thought she told you to call her Charmian?’ interrupted Oswald Lingard.

‘So she did,’ murmured Berra. ‘Now about the statue …’ There had been no suggestion, though, that he called the major ‘Oswald’.

‘Rather jolly, I thought it,’ said Lingard simply. ‘I
know you yourself weren’t very taken with it at the time, though.’

‘It was just that I had trouble fitting it into my original design,’ said Berra with perfect truth, the statue in question being of over-generous proportions and doubtful workmanship, ‘but I’ve been thinking that now we’re going to be without the plants that I’d planned to put in there, it could go in the bed to good effect. I’d got the ground all prepared in any case while you were away in Italy.’

Oswald Lingard gave a grunt. ‘I’m sure that Charmian’ll be pleased to have Flora, Goddess of something or other …’

‘Bounty,’ supplied Berra, ‘bountiful’ describing the statue’s ample lines very well. ‘And Jack Haines should be able to whistle up something colourful in the way of summer plants to fill the ground for this year and then next year we can put in the ones I had originally planned.’

‘So it’ll still look all right for the garden party, then?’ The major sounded anxious. ‘Charmian has set her heart on that being a success.’

‘It will indeed, I promise you.’ Berra gave what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Then, as I say, next year we can go for what I had organised in the first place.’

‘You chaps will keep on talking about next year,’ complained the major. ‘You’re as bad as that woman who was always saying that you should have come to see the garden last week when it was at its best or waited until next week when it would be even better.’

‘Ruth Draper,’ said Anthony Berra, who had heard this many times before.

It was at this juncture that Charmian Lingard swept in, a copybook picture of a lady gardener as found in the best fashion magazines: straw hat artfully tied on with a colourful scarf, elegant dress unsullied by soil and shoes that had never left the garden paths. She had that untroubled appearance of well-being only accomplished by a life totally untouched by money or any other worries. This was underlined by a chocolate-box complexion, designer clothes and excellent grooming.

‘Did I hear Ruth Draper’s name?’ she said as she came in. She was carrying a wooden trug on which reposed a sheaf of greenery already half arranged for vases in the house. ‘I’m not interested in last week or next week, Anthony. You know that. It’s this week I want the garden right for. And every week, too, of course, but especially for the party.’

Berra smiled dutifully. ‘And so it shall be, Charmian.’

She frowned. ‘What are you doing here, anyway, Anthony? I thought you were going to be over at the admiral’s today.’

‘I’m going there as soon as I can.’ He told her what had happened over at Jack Haines’ nursery, spelling out the loss of the plants he had had grown there.

Charmian Lingard took this in her stride, difficulties always having been obstacles somebody else ironed out. ‘Your problem, Anthony, not mine, but don’t forget I’ll be inviting your future in-laws and they’ll be bound to want to see what you’ve done here.’

Anthony Berra was engaged to be married to the daughter of the Bishop of Calleshire. ‘I know they will,’ he said ruefully. ‘But you’ll be pleased that now I think
we could fit Flora herself in the new garden after all …’

‘I knew you’d come round to that in the end,’ she said complacently, dumping the trug on the hall table. ‘She’ll look just right there with the peacocks on the wall behind her.’

Oswald Lingard grinned. ‘I’m not sure what the old monks would have thought of her though, Berra, are you?’ Pelling Grange had once been attached to a monastery despoiled by Henry VIII and occasional traces of the outline of the original garden had surfaced from time to time while the landscape designer had been at work. ‘Or the Bishop.’

Berra smiled politely and pressed on.

‘And I’ll put some strongly coloured plants in the bed round her as a temporary measure for this year. I think a really good Centranthus ruber would look quite well against the grey of the sculpture …’

Charmian Lingard led the way into the drawing-room. ‘Why not roses?’ she asked as Anthony Berra had known she would.

‘… and Cheiranthus cherie with deep red flowers and grey foliage. The one called “Blood Red” …’

‘Why don’t you people ever like roses?’ persisted Charmian Lingard.

‘Black spot.’ Berra swept on persuasively, ‘And there’s a really striking Centaurea dealbata I’d like to try there. It’s got deep pink flowers and a lightish green leaf.’

‘I think roses would look even better,’ said Charmian Lingard, a touch of steel creeping into her voice.

Anthony Berra, recognising this, gave in gracefully. ‘Then, Charmian, I’ll try some roses but they won’t like
the lime in the soil. We should go for varieties with good colours all the same, to lighten the stone of the statue. Now, I’ll just need to take some measurements of Flora before I go so that we can get the dimensions of her plinth in proper proportion …’

‘Flora among the flowers,’ murmured Charmian Lingard sweetly. ‘That sounds just right. Admiral Catterick hasn’t got any statues in the Park, has he?’

‘Not yet,’ Anthony Berra grinned, reading her mind without difficulty. ‘And,’ he added, prompted by an eldritch shriek from the garden wall, ‘he hasn’t got any peacocks either.’

She screwed up her face in a child-like pout. ‘He’s got that sunken garden, though.’

‘I don’t think, Charmian,’ said Anthony Berra gently, ‘that the admiral feels in any way challenged by the work you’re having done here. The Park is a very old-established garden with a character all of its own.’

‘But ours was a monastery garden and you can’t get any older than that.’

‘True,’ he said diplomatically, refraining from mentioning the Hanging Gardens of Babylon besides those of Persia and China and other plantings in antiquity, ‘but I can’t imagine the admiral minding that. Besides, I’m just keeping the Park ticking over for him now. Its glory days are over – and so are his too, come to that. He’s an old man and not a well one these days.’

‘I want him to come to the party all the same,’ said Charmian Lingard, ‘and see what I’ve done here.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ lied Anthony Berra.

Watched at a distance by both Anna Sutherland and Marilyn Potts, Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby returned to their car parked outside Capstan Purlieu Plants.

‘Now, Crosby, we need to get straight back to Pelling,’ said Sloan briskly, ‘and start enquiries about this Enid Osgathorp.’

‘I don’t know that I can remember the way backwards,’ said the constable moodily. He had been hoping to drive back to the police station and its canteen.

‘If, Crosby, baby elvers can find their way four thousand miles back to the Sargasso Sea without a route map, I think you should be able to manage it.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’

Detective Inspector Sloan toyed with the idea of saying that the elvers then grew up to be adult eels but decided against drawing the parallel. He said instead, ‘It makes sense to go back to that other nursery too while we’re about it and have a word with Jack Haines about this Norman Potts. It’ll save another journey.’ Superintendent Leeyes had left him in no doubt that economy was the watchword at the police station these days even though ‘Waste not, want not’ was not usually a police mantra. Pleasing his superior officer, though, was high on Sloan’s agenda all the while his assessment was pending. ‘You can take the foreman’s fingerprints while you’re about it.’

‘But there weren’t any fingerprints on the door handles,’ said Crosby, adding reproachfully, ‘I did tell you that, sir. They had been wiped clean.’

‘There is no need for that particular piece of information
to be disclosed at this stage of the investigation,’ said Sloan, realising that he sounded stuffy even to himself. ‘It is a basic principle of policing to give nothing away. Who knows what and who doesn’t can be useful knowledge in an investigation.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The constable sounded crestfallen. ‘But we can ask Jack Haines why he didn’t mention this character Norman Potts to us before, can’t we?’ said Crosby feelingly. ‘He ought to have done.’

‘Exactly,’ said Sloan, who had already made a mental note of the fact. ‘So just tell Control where we’re going, will you?’

The constable applied himself to his personal radio while Sloan strapped himself in the car with a quiet sigh. Greenhouse doors left open and elderly ladies who had gone walkabout weren’t quite the level of policing that he felt really came within the remit of the head of the Criminal Investigation Department of ‘F’ Division of the Calleshire County Constabulary, small though it was, and it rankled. On the other hand, what with his appraisal coming up so soon, this was no time to say so to anyone, least of all Superintendent Leeyes.

It was Crosby, though, who vocalised the sentiment. ‘Who do they think we are?’ he demanded indignantly. ‘Maids of all work?’

‘Maids of all police work,’ rejoined the detective inspector crisply. ‘Now get going, Crosby.’

Canonry Cottage at Pelling was in the middle of the village, the uncut grass in its front garden giving a clear sign to the world of the continued absence of its owner.

‘Miss Osgathorp always lets me know when she’ll be
coming back,’ said her neighbour, a large woman in a flowery apron. It had been she who had rung the police. ‘Because of getting in the milk and the bread for her.’

‘So when …’ began Sloan.

‘That’s just it, Inspector,’ said the woman. ‘This time she hasn’t either done that or come back anyway.’

‘Ah …’ said Sloan, the thought idly running through his mind that large flowers on the apron would have suited the woman better than the tiny little ones that were there. Daisies, he thought they were. Poppies would have been better. Big, blowsy ones. ‘What about her mobile phone? Have you got the number of that?’

‘She wouldn’t have one of them, Inspector. Said she’d spent all her working life answering the telephone for the doctor and she wasn’t going to do any more telephoning than she had to.’

‘No word then?’ asked Crosby, already bored.

The woman shook her head. ‘Not even a postcard and it’s been three weeks since she went now. It’s just not like Miss Osgathorp.’ She pointed towards her fireplace. ‘You can see that I’ve got a lovely row of postcards from her on the mantelpiece over there. Come from all over the place, they have.’