The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (23 page)

“Get off her!”
Pru jerked forward for a moment as the hands wrenched Jamie backward and threw him to the side.

She collapsed, drew a torturous breath, and looked up. She squinted, trying to regain her vision, and saw frizzy brown and gray hair on a figure in a sheepskin coat.

“Simon!” she croaked, and broke out in a fit of coughing.

Jamie had rolled down the slope, and Simon paid him no heed. He bent down to Pru. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

She wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t an apparition. She opened her mouth to say something, but only gagged.

Over Simon’s shoulder, she saw Jamie rush up, screaming something incomprehensible, holding high her club, about to strike. Simon turned in time to catch the branch, wrench it out of his hands, and use it to give Jamie a ferocious push that threw him back down the slope once again.

“Hold it right there!” DS Hobbes came running down the stone stairs. He pointed, and two policemen, bringing up the rear, were on Jamie before he could get up. Hobbes grabbed hold of Simon.

“No, no—it’s Simon,” Pru squawked, waving her arms.

Simon didn’t try to escape Hobbes’s grasp. “I’m her brother,” he said.

The DS looked at Pru, who nodded, choked back a sob, and winced at the pain.

He let go of Simon and leaned over Pru. “Are you hurt?”

“My ankle,” she mouthed, pointing to her right foot. She began another painful coughing jag.

“More than your ankle,” Hobbes said. “I’ll get an ambulance.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Simon said, kneeling down beside Pru.

The sergeant ran up the slope, phone to his ear. Jamie was resisting the two policemen, but with little success.

“Who is he?” Simon asked her, nodding at Jamie.

“He’s Ned’s murderer,” she tried to say, without much sound coming out.

“Ah,” Simon said, observing Jamie being dragged off. “Harry told me about that. Ned—the old fellow who was killed?” He put his hand on the stone railing to stand up. “Guess I’d better watch who I’m calling an ‘old fellow.’ ”

The police activity faded to the background as, for a moment, Pru and Simon fell into an awkward silence. Finally, she whispered, “Where did you come from?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, glancing up to the several police vehicles parked on the gravel. “I drove up and down the road before I decided this was Primrose House. It wasn’t fair of me—the way I treated you. I wanted you to stay on Sunday, when you brought me the box, but I didn’t know how to ask. Birdie’s been saying I should come and talk with you, and last night Polly said it had better be soon or I’d never have another good night’s sleep. I left at first light—I didn’t want to arrive too early.”

“Not too early,” Pru rasped. “Just in time.”

DS Hobbes returned and said, “Ambulance on its way. You can wait here, Pru, and they’ll bring down a stretcher for you.”

“Here now, the two of us can carry you,” Simon said. They made a litter out of their arms; she sat up and held on to their shoulders until they got her to level ground at the kitchen corner of the house.

The ambulance pulled in, and paramedics hopped out. One of them took her shoe off and asked if she was in pain. “It’s not too bad,” she said, which was not true, but in light of such sudden joy, the pain took a momentary backseat.

When they’d got her settled in the ambulance, Simon took hold of the door handle and put his foot up to get in.

“Sorry, sir, you can’t ride in the back.”

“He’s my brother,” Pru shouted in squeaks and pops. An electric thrill shot up her spine at the very use of the word, but she realized she was practically unintelligible. She tried again. “He’s my brother.”

They had no time for familial conversation during the ambulance journey, as the paramedic began an assessment of Pru’s injuries, or upon arrival at the hospital where she was admitted into the emergency room, had an X-ray taken of her ankle, and was installed in a curtained-off alcove. At last, activity slowed while she sat up on the paper-covered bed, still in her clothes, which were smeared with manure, and waited for a doctor.

They sat in silence, Simon leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and hands clasped. “Does your foot hurt much?” he asked.

Pru, the brave little sister, shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“What’s it like—Texas?” he asked. It broke the ice, just a crack.

“Hot.” She shrugged. Breaking between every few words for a cough, and trying to swallow without screwing her face up, she said, “It’s a good place to live, but all my life I listened to my…to Mother’s stories about England, and as far back as I can remember, this is where I wanted to live.” Tears welled up and fell as she attempted to blink them away. “I always wanted a brother or sister.”

“I always wanted a brother,” Simon said. “You know, someone to kick a ball around with.” He looked hopeful. “You don’t play football, do you?”

Pru laughed. “No, but I played softball in high school.” Before she could go into the finer points of slow-pitch, the doctor walked in.

“Well, Ms….” He glanced down at the chart in his hand. “Ms. Parke, I’m Dr. Laurence.” He peered briefly at her face, neck, and ankle. A nurse had cleaned up the scrapes and wrapped her foot. “How does your throat feel?”

“It hurts,” Pru said.

“I’ve had a look at your ankle,” he said, holding the X-ray up to the ceiling as if to verify his findings, “and I’m happy to report you have no broken bones, but a rather nasty sprain, in addition to several abrasions and the bruises at your throat.” He took stock of her clothes and most likely caught a whiff of her. “Good God,” he said, “you’re the gardener.”

Well, of course the police would’ve informed him of the situation,
she thought.

Dr. Laurence wagged a finger at her wrapped ankle. “You stay off that foot,” he admonished. He turned to Simon and shook his head. “Gardeners,” he said. “They never listen. She’ll be out there tomorrow mucking about, saying the peonies need dividing or some such.”

“Hang on,” Simon protested.

The doctor looked down his nose at him. “You, too?”

“Yes, my sister and I are both gardeners.”

Pru broke out in a huge grin. “Can I go home? I’m not going back out in the garden, I promise.”
Today
.

The doctor looked skeptical, but said, “Yes, right, fine. Just give us a few minutes for paperwork.”

He left and the siblings sat in silence, until Simon cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the way I acted,” he said.

Pru shook her head. “It was a shock—for both of us. I don’t understand why they didn’t tell you. Or me.”

“They knew I’d be fine with Birdie and George—and I was. I’ve nothing to complain about, really. I’ve a good life.” He looked over at her. “Did you read those letters?”

Pru blushed. “Only a few lines. When I realized that she wrote them to you, I put them away.”

He smiled, and Pru could see their dad’s smile. Her heart lurched. “There was one toward the end where she wrote: ‘Someday she will find you.’ ” He raised his eyebrows. “And you did.”

DS Hobbes stepped into the room, carrying a flat parcel wrapped in plastic. Pru introduced Simon properly, then nodded to the package Hobbes held and said, “Is that the Red Book? Is it all right?” She would heal, but damage to her beloved Repton epistle might be irreparable.

Hobbes took the Red Book out of the plastic. “It’s not too bad, doesn’t look as if it’s torn. No mud. Good thing it wasn’t raining today.” He offered it to Pru.

“Simon, you look at it.”

Simon took the piece of history with all the reverence it deserved, as she knew he would. The hospital room around them fell away as he opened the book and read the first page, then carefully turned to look at more. “Can you still see Repton’s landscape? Is any of it left?”

Pru started to explain the Repton features she’d discovered, but Hobbes interrupted, clearing his throat. “Pru,” he began. “I’m sorry to bother you here, but I thought you should know…”

“Yes, sorry—we’ll need to give the Red Book back for now. It’s evidence, I suppose?” Simon closed the book and stroked its cover before handing it back to the sergeant. “And you’ll need statements from us. What about Jamie?” she asked.

“Looks as if there will be plenty of evidence for a murder charge,” Hobbes said. “There’s something else.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and took a deep breath before he began. “I spoke with Inspector Pearse.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Pru saw Simon sit up straight, but her mind was all on Christopher.
This can’t be good,
she thought. “Did you tell him what happened?”

“That’s the thing,” Hobbes said. “I spoke to him just before his flight left. He hadn’t been able to get hold of you.” She thought of her phone on the floor of the snug at the Two Bells. “I had gone to your cottage, looking for you,” he continued, “and then out to the walled garden. He rang just after I found the note from Mrs. Templeton and your necklace on the ground.”

Her hand flew to her throat, and she acknowledged what she had known all along—what cut off her breath when Jamie grabbed hold of her collar from behind, and what snapped to relieve the pressure was her fan pendant necklace. “Oh God, you told Christopher you’d found my necklace, but you didn’t know where I was?”

The sergeant’s red face told her more than he could say about Christopher’s reaction. “I described the necklace to him, and he said that it was yours. I told him what I saw—the ax and the note—before I realized his situation. I told him I’d ring him back, but…by the time I’d found you and tried, he’d already switched his phone off for the flight.”

Pru pictured it: Christopher on a flight for eight hours, not knowing if she was alive or dead. She covered her face with her hands.

“I left him a long message, explaining that you’re fine—well, you know. I told him what happened.” Hobbes shook his head. “But he won’t hear that for another four hours.”

“I need to ring him,” she said, automatically going for her pocket. “I need to leave him a message, too. But my phone is at the Bells.”

“Use mine.” Simon held his out.

“Thanks,” Pru said shyly as she took it. “David, can Simon give his statement soon? He drove all the way from Hampshire this morning, but I’m sure he needs to get home.”

“Yes,” the DS said, “that’s fine. You stop by the station before you go. Pru, I’ll get your phone and your necklace and deliver them to you later.”

After Hobbes left, Pru said, “Christopher is my…well, he and I are…” She could feel her face reddening.

“Oh.” Simon nodded. “Sure. Does he live round here?”

“No, he lives in London. He’s a DCI with the Met.”

Simon’s eyes grew large. “Cor,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, I know,” Pru said, acknowledging the unusual pairing of a gardener and a policeman. She fingered the phone.

“Would you like me to leave while you…?” He nodded to the phone.

“No.” Pru smiled as she made the call. “You stay.”

It was a comfort to hear Christopher’s voice, even if it was only his terse recording: “Pearse. Leave a message.”

“Christopher, I’m all right.” Regrettably, her voice did not back her up on that statement. She filled her brief message with reassurances and ended with, “Ring me when you have a chance. After you get Graham to Phyl’s house in Oxford. It’s all right, really it is.” She sighed deeply and handed the phone back to Simon. “You’ve come all this way, and we won’t really have time to talk.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “We’ll have time after today.”

Pru fiddled with the paper covering on the bed. She could feel the tears again. “I’ve taken a whole day in the garden away from you—it’s such a busy time now.”

He nodded. “I’ve just got in six new roses to plant—Vernona picked them out from an article she read.” The corner of his mouth went up. “She’s been dying to talk to me about you, but Harry told her not to interfere. She’ll be quite happy about this.” His eyes flickered to her ankle. “Well, not this, but you know what I mean.”

Pru laughed soundlessly. “You should go home.”

“I don’t want to leave you, not without anyone here, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll get you a cup of tea,” he offered. A cup of tea sounded just the trick—and Pru thought that Simon looked as if he needed a useful activity.

While he was gone, an orderly popped his head in to find out if Pru had seen the doctor yet, and after that the nurse came in to say that she would be discharged soon. In the next quiet moment, Ivy rushed in.

“Oh, Pru, I can’t believe this,” she said, taking Pru’s hands in hers. “There were police everywhere at Primrose House when I arrived—Sergeant Hobbes, too, and he told me what happened.” She noticed Simon standing in the doorway with two cups of tea. “I’m very sorry, you already have a visitor.”

“Ivy,” Pru said, beaming as she took her tea from him, “this is my brother, Simon Parke. He’s a gardener, too. He lives near Romsey—he’s the gardener for the Wilsons, my friends from London.”

Ivy did a fair job of hiding her surprise at hearing Pru had a brother, and fussed over Pru’s voice instead. Pru realized she’d now have to give a revised family history to anyone who knew her. She quite looked forward to that.

After a few polite exchanges—Simon offered his tea to Ivy, who declined—Ivy told her story. “I took Robbie in to Chaffinch’s myself this morning. That’s why I was late to Primrose House. I didn’t think it would matter, what with the Templetons off to Liverpool. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help.” Pru tried to picture just what Ivy would’ve done, and came up with an image of her going after Jamie with a frying pan.

“No, Ivy, it was all right,” Pru said. Sure, she was unable to walk, she’d been hit and choked, but after all—she was sitting here with her brother. Other than longing for Christopher to be in the room, what more could she ask?

Ivy offered Simon a lift back to Primrose House to collect his car, after which she would return to shuttle Pru to her cottage. While Ivy went off to make a phone call, Pru and Simon were alone to say goodbye. They smiled at each other, and then looked at the floor. Pru tried to figure out just how to handle this newfound intimacy.

“I’ll want to see the garden,” Simon said.

“And I want you to meet Christopher,” she said, hoping she wasn’t assuming too much.

He looked at her for a moment, smiled, and said, “Yes, of course.”

“We’ve so much to do,” Pru replied, although at that moment, not even an unfinished garden daunted her. “All that new terracing where…where you found me will have to be finished and planted up. Davina wants to have an open garden day in July. It’ll be so new, I can’t imagine who would want to see it.” She caught herself as she began to babble, and clamped her mouth shut.

“Well, we’ll be there,” Simon said.

They went on to promise visits and phone calls––and finally he leaned over and they embraced. Pru burst into tears.

“No, no,” she squeaked, laughing at the look of concern he gave her. He had three women in the house—surely he was accustomed to an occasional cry. “I’m fine. You go.”