The Garden Plot (17 page)

“Are they bigger all over the States or just in Texas?”

She laughed. “American robins are blackbirds,” she said, and added to explain, “Well, what Americans call robins are quite close to blackbirds here, only with red breasts. We don’t have these little guys.”

They walked single file on the narrow footpath through the wheat field, which headed off at an odd angle to meet up with the road on the other side. The ground under their feet was hard, and Pru could see bits of broken crockery embedded in it—just as Oliver had mentioned, mementos of previous generations. She had been in a hurry walking to the pub the day before, so now she slowed down to look at the different colors and patterns as she walked and almost ran into Christopher who had stopped to wait for her.

He took her hand. “You aren’t looking for Rome, are you?”

“I don’t think it works to look for it on purpose,” she said. “It seems all the important finds are accidents.”

The mild early autumn temperatures—warm at least at midday—continued, so they sat outside with their pints after ordering food, and the conversation turned back around to the Roman ruins at Chedworth.

“Can you believe that such a place existed and no one knew about it—Rome under a field,” Pru said. “Just think what else might be at the Wilsons’. What if the whole block is a villa?” She’d started to dream again, and as she started thinking about the mosaic, she remembered the soil. “Do you know about rivers in London that have been covered over? The Fleet and maybe others?”

“I know the Fleet was covered for sanitary purposes, and I believe there was a river that made its way through Chelsea. It comes out—what’s left of it—at the
Embankment.”

“Do you think that there could be a tributary, some small stream, that runs along the bottom of the Wilsons’ garden? That might explain the wet soil.”

“Are you thinking about your new garden?”

She shrugged. “If the stream had always been there, why did someone put a mosaic floor over it? I suppose there could be all sorts of artifacts buried there, along with the mosaic and the coins. Do you think that’s what the murder was about? The possibility of valuable pieces hidden in the garden?”

“It’s the only connection right now,” Christopher said. “Jeremy Pendergast and Harry Wilson both love archaeology, both enjoy digging for the past. Often the pieces that are found on amateur or professional digs are donated or lent to museums, but those artifacts can go for a high price at auctions—and there are many private collectors about. However, you can’t take someone else’s property and auction it off as your own. And if something were found there, it didn’t belong to either of them.”

“But”—she couldn’t help herself—“you know that Mr. Wilson didn’t take that coin and leave it on his own desk, don’t you?” The two coins—one in the dead man’s hand and one on Mr. Wilson’s desk—seemed entirely too easy a link.

He nodded to concede her point. “It does appear too convenient that you found it there,” he said, “but that doesn’t prove that Wilson didn’t pick it up in the shed.”

She ignored that suggestion. “So, perhaps someone was trying to steal the coins—or the mosaic?” Pru realized she was giving Mr. Wilson the motive for murder—in order to stop Jeremy from cashing in or perhaps wanting to cash in himself. “Not Mr. Wilson, of course, he wouldn’t do it. What about Malcolm?”

She knew it sounded as if she were throwing Malcolm to the wolves, but she thought a broader view of suspects might weaken the spotlight on Mr. Wilson. “Malcolm could’ve come over the wall. And he’s been involved in some shady dealings.” Pru saw a smile flicker across Christopher’s face at such a trite phrase, but then it disappeared quickly, as if he thought better of it. “He blackmailed Jeremy last year.”

“Who told you that?” Christopher frowned slightly.

“The Wilsons told me,” Pru said, and then regretted it, because it made Mr. Wilson guilty of something else now: withholding evidence. “But I don’t think he actually carried out the blackmail. They said Jeremy called his bluff or something. It probably didn’t turn out to be much.”

“What else did the Wilsons tell you about Malcolm?”

“Well”—she held her new theory close to her like a prize—“the Wilsons didn’t tell me this, but I suppose you saw the ladder rungs on Malcolm’s side of the garden
wall.”

“Yes,
I
saw them,” he said, “when I questioned Mr. Crisp at his house. How was it that
you
saw them?”

How did you see them, Pru?
She wondered if the same excuse she had been ready to give Malcolm would work for Christopher: checking on the soil. He watched her with his deep, dark brown eyes. Her bravado fell apart, and, at any rate, she had always been a bad liar. “Almost every time I’m there, he pops up over the wall to chat, like a jack-in-the-box. I wanted to see what he was standing on.”

“Pru …” She could feel the lecture starting.

“Oh, Christopher, I’ve been meaning to tell you this. A few days ago, I overheard Malcolm talking with someone in his garden, and I think they were talking about the mosaic.”

Christopher looked puzzled. “You overheard … where was this?”

Pru explained the circumstances and the conversation—touching only lightly on Saxsby’s mention of Mr. Wilson as the murderer, because it sounded to her as if Saxsby was feeding Malcolm a line. She admitted to crossing the line of tape around the shed, but pointed out that she left no fingerprints and ventured no farther into the shed than just inside the door. She didn’t mention that Malcolm had seen her.

Christopher’s face took on a taut look. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I tried to phone you after it happened, but I got your voice mail. I didn’t want to leave it on a message, so I thought I’d ring later. And then it slipped my mind.” Now she was the one withholding evidence. “I thought I might try and ask Malcolm about this Saxsby. And, I will admit, I was irritated at being called ‘a bloody American gardener.’ ”

Christopher sighed. “Pru,” he said with a stern tone, “you are not a police officer. It isn’t up to you to conduct interviews or try to turn up more evidence.”

She bristled at this treatment; it felt as if he was chastising her. She was not a disobedient child, and she shot back, “I have common sense, and I can use that. I’m not in danger from Malcolm.”
But,
Pru thought,
if he’s involved in the murder and I’m a witness, maybe I am.
“And no one leapt over the garden wall to grab me by the throat.”

“Perhaps you aren’t in danger now, but you don’t know what might happen if you continue to pry.” Christopher’s voice stayed quiet, but she sensed a growing anger.

“Pry?” Pru raised her voice. “Pry? I’m not Miss Marple. If I learn something that might help …”

He interrupted. “We are pursuing several lines of inquiry and do not need your help. This is a police matter, and as much as you may wish to …” He seemed to be searching for the least offensive words. “…  be involved in the investigation, your
actions, such as listening in on conversations, may put you at risk.”

“It was broad daylight, and Sammy showed up just a few minutes later.” Pru refused to be taken care of when she knew what she was doing.
Oh, wait,
she thought. “Sammy caught a glimpse of the guy Malcolm talked to. Stringy black hair.”

“You have a description of someone discussing what could be the murder, and you wait days to tell the police. This won’t do. You are too close to this situation and may not be able to see clearly. A police inquiry does not involve emotional ties to suspects.”

Anger and confusion filled her. She chose to ignore the distinct possibility that she might be interfering on the Wilsons’ behalf only because they showed her kindness. “Surely you don’t look just at someone’s opportunity to commit a crime. Surely you take into consideration a person’s character and—”

“If you attempt to obstruct this investigation,” he began, and Pru stood up abruptly. “What I mean to say …”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Inspector.” She began to dig in her bag. “And here’s another piece of evidence I withheld—a flash drive with photos I took of the Wilsons’ garden before and after the murder.” She slapped the flash drive onto the table. “Here, go ahead, arrest me.” She turned, almost bumping into the server with their plates of food, and walked off down the footpath. She didn’t hear Christopher call after her.

Pru pouted the rest of the day, feeling as if a potentially lovely afternoon had been hijacked by official police business and—just perhaps—her own stubborn reaction to being told what to do. Jo found it impossible to get a word out of her about her lunch with Christopher. During the rest of that Sunday in the country—croquet on the lawn, tea in the garden, dinner in front of the fire—Pru kept mostly quiet; when she did talk, her cheerful demeanor bordered on manic. The next morning, Jo and Pru drove to London together; Cordelia returned with Lucy. As they started back in the rain, Jo ventured a few questions.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday?”

“No.”

“Did he stand you up?”

“No.”

“Was he mean to you?”

“No.”

“Do you want to see him again?”

“No.”

Jo sighed. “Well, this will be a pleasant drive.”

In London, Jo started to take the left turn just before Grovehill Square, but suddenly swerved and continued straight.

“Jo, why didn’t you turn?”

“What?” Jo’s face was flushed. “Oh, I wasn’t thinking, Pru, sorry. I thought that was a street too early. Here now, I’ll just go around. We’ll be there in two ticks.”

It took longer than two ticks; Jo drove what seemed to Pru far out of the way before circling back to Grovehill Square, and fifteen more minutes passed before they arrived at her door. She saw Jo glance around the square, as if doing a quick reconnaissance.

“There now,” she said, the relief evident in her voice, “home again.”

“Right,” said Pru. “Thanks, Jo, I really did have a lovely weekend.”

Jo recovered her good spirits. “You don’t have any appointments at the police station this week, do you?”

Pru smiled. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Pru took herself and her weekend bag into the front hall. Two days’ worth of post lay on the floor. She shut the door, turned on the light against the gray outside, and bent to pick up her letters. As her hand reached down, she stopped. On top of the three or four pieces of mail, which lay scattered in a small heap, was part of a large shoeprint.

Pru’s hand hovered over the mail. No postman in here. She stood up quickly and listened; quiet filled the house. She looked back at the mail; she could see something with Sarah Richards’s return address—maybe it was finally her check. For a moment, she stood looking at the floor, then she bent down and collected the letters.

Now, be sensible,
she said to herself,
how could someone get in here, and why would he want to?
She walked quietly to the back door, which was securely locked. All windows closed. The locked door to the basement—for which she had no key—still locked.

She checked every room and saw no signs of disturbance, ending up in the front room where her laptop sat on the desk, shut down but with the lid up. She held her breath and stared at it. Hadn’t she closed the lid? Doesn’t she always close the lid? No, wait, she remembered now—she forgot to close the lid one day last week, too.

She let her breath out.
Okay, no one broke in; no one is here. I’m fine.
Nothing is
gone. She checked the lock on the front door, and, without allowing herself a reason, pulled the kitchen table up against the back door and hoped there wasn’t a fire in the middle of the night and she couldn’t get out. She fixed herself a sandwich for dinner and had a glass of wine, opting for the quiet entertainment of a book instead of trying to listen for unusual sounds over the voices of the television or Radio 4.

Later, Pru rang the Wilsons to ask if she could stop by the following day, and—she had to admit—to hear a friendly voice. Mrs. Wilson said they would love to see her for tea in the afternoon.

Boars Hall

The Royal Corner

Billy Row, Crook

Durham

DL15 9UA

8 October

72 Grovehill Square

Chelsea

London SW3

No email from Lydia followed the rejection letter from Boars Hall, which was a relief to Pru only until her phone rang and she saw whose number it was: Marcus. She left the ringing phone on the kitchen counter and walked into the front room, to get as far away from it as she could. When it stopped—with no message left to ignore—she stuck it in her pocket and left for the Wilsons’.

“Harry’s joining us today, dear,” said Mrs. Wilson when Pru arrived.

Mr. Wilson had decided to take some time off work. Pru remained in the dark about Mr. Wilson’s employment; she’d learned he was a director in a company, but didn’t know what the company did. Whatever it was, he was senior enough to do as he pleased.

“Why don’t you pop downstairs, Pru, and let him know the tea is ready?”

The basement door off the front hall was open, and Pru walked down the stairs to find Mr. Wilson staring at a letter in his hand. He hadn’t noticed her.

“Mr. Wilson?”

He started. “Pru, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He folded the letter up and stuffed it into the envelope he held in his other hand. He rolled up the envelope until he was unable to roll it anymore and it resembled a fat cigar. He stuck it in his pocket. But Pru caught a glimpse of the letterhead before it disappeared in the folds: Hodges & Hodges Appraisals. She’d seen that on a letter her first visit to the Wilsons’; she remembered the announcement on the company’s website about an upcoming important auction of ancient items. She told herself Mr. Wilson must be buying, not selling.