Authors: Marty Wingate
Pearse and Pru glanced at each other then back at Mrs. Wilson and at the same time replied, “No, thank you, I can’t stay.” They looked at each other again. Pru stifled a laugh, and even Pearse smiled.
They walked to the house. “Mrs. Wilson, I’ll be back in the morning with Sammy
to mark off some beds—I won’t be digging.” She made a point of looking at Pearse. “And I’ll lock the basement on my way out,” Pru said as she walked through the house.
“Mrs. Wilson, could you ask your husband to give us a list of the members of his society?” Pearse asked.
“Oh, I can get that for you right now, Inspector,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Harry printed one out for you, it’s just in the dining room; I won’t be a moment. Toffee will keep you company. Pru, dear, I won’t be in tomorrow morning, but you come straight through and get to work.”
As she left, Pru glanced back to see Pearse. At his feet, Toffee Woof-Woof looked up expecting a treat.
The inside door to the basement was closed, and so she walked out the front door, opened the gate, and went down the outside basement steps. Pearse had left the door to the basement slightly ajar, just as she had. “When there’s been a murder and the murderer is still at large,” Pru mumbled to an imaginary Pearse, “then it’s probably not wise to …”
She walked through the basement, leaned her borrowed spade up against the wall, locked the door to the garden, and turned to head out, but something on Mr. Wilson’s makeshift desk caught her eye. Near the edge, away from his papers and copies of
Archaeology Today,
was a coin. Pru thought it must be a £2 coin, but one that had darkened so that the bronze color of the outer ring had overtaken the silver-gray center. She hadn’t noticed it on her way in, yet her eyes were drawn to it now. She bent over the desk to look closer. It was not a £2 coin. On the face of the coin was not an engraving of the queen, but a picture in relief of a man with curly hair; surrounding the head was the word “Hadrianus.”
Pru froze. This was the coin found in the dead man’s hand—but that couldn’t be, because the police took that coin with them. But then, whose coin was this sitting on Mr. Wilson’s desk? It couldn’t be his, not Mr. Wilson’s coin, because that might mean that he had something to do with …
“Ms. Parke?”
Pru whirled around. Pearse stood at the door to the outside steps.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, coming toward her.
She didn’t speak, but only looked down at the desk. He followed her gaze and as he did, Pru’s hand made an involuntary movement.
Pearse caught her wrist, and she pulled it away from him. “I wasn’t going to touch it,” she said, embarrassed, because she realized that very thought had crossed her mind. She put her hands stiffly at her sides.
He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag.
“Do you always carry plastic bags in your pocket?” asked Pru.
Pearse had to lean over in front of her, because, in a small act of defiance, she would not budge from the spot. He turned to her, entirely too close. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”
Using the bag to cover his fingers, he secured the coin and, with his other hand, patted his various pockets until he found his reading glasses. “This is the same kind of coin we found in Mr. Pendergast’s hand. Was this here when you came through earlier today?” he asked.
“No, it wasn’t. At least, I don’t think so.” She didn’t care for the ambiguity of her reply. “No, I know it wasn’t; I saw it just now, it wasn’t here earlier. I came through to lock the door, and there it was.” A happy thought came to her. “It wasn’t here when I arrived,” she said, “so someone must’ve come in while we were in the garden.” Pearse was quiet. “Did you see it when you came through?” Pru asked.
“Are you sure it wasn’t here when you arrived?” Pearse asked. “Or perhaps you might not have noticed. Isn’t that possible?”
“Did you see it?” Pru demanded.
“No,” he admitted, “I did not.”
“Then someone must have come in and planted it here. Planted evidence to try to make Mr. Wilson look bad.” Pearse didn’t speak. “Don’t you think that’s what happened?”
“It’s possible,” he said as he pressed the bag closed. “But it is also possible that Harry Wilson took this coin from the murder scene and kept it.”
“And left it out in plain view for anyone to see?” Pru hoped he could hear how ridiculous that sounded. “Are you going to ask Mrs. Wilson about it?”
“Harry Wilson is the person to ask about it—”
“He’s at work,” Pru interjected.
“But as he is not here,” Pearse continued, “I will ask Mrs. Wilson a few questions.”
Pru backed away from the table slightly as a concession. “May I come along? Please?”
“Are you worried I’m about to use harsh interrogation tactics on her?” Pru thought she detected just a bit of humor in his dry tone. “Yes, you may come along.”
They went out the basement door. Pru locked it behind them and they walked up to the front step. Pearse knocked on the door, and Mrs. Wilson showed surprise when she answered.
When asked about the coin, she said she knew nothing about it but did think it
looked a great deal like the one the police had found with Jeremy. She said Mr. Wilson never kept any coins from digs, they were usually presumed to be of some value, and, at any rate, the group’s finds mostly ended up in museums.
Although no harsh interrogation tactics were involved, Pru still thought Pearse could have been less confrontational with Mrs. Wilson, especially when it came to requesting that Mr. Wilson go down to the station again for further questioning.
Mrs. Wilson showed them to the door. “I’ll talk to you soon,” Pru said to her. “I’m sure the inspector will find out who sneaked into the basement and left that coin.” She looked at Pearse, waiting for a response, but he gave none.
When Mrs. Wilson closed the door on them, Pearse asked Pru if she would like a lift home. She was in no mood. She crossed her arms and said, “No,” after which her manners got the better of her. “Thank you, no, I can make my own way.”
“Ms. Parke,” Pearse sounded ever so slightly weary, “I am not singling out the Wilsons without reason.”
“Someone planted that coin,” Pru insisted. “You’ve got to admit that. Mr. Wilson wasn’t home. The coin wasn’t there when I arrived—or when you arrived,” she pointed out.
“And we will take all that into consideration during the investigation,” Pearse said. “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift home?”
Pru thought perhaps she’d have more time to make her case in the car. “Thank you,” she said, “I would like a lift.”
On their way to 72 Grovehill Square—Pru tried to give Pearse her address, but he said, “Yes, I remember where you live”—she began to speak in a casual way about the Wilsons.
“Mr. Wilson’s archaeology group has a university sponsor, you know,” she said. “It’s an educational endeavor, really. They do it because they love learning.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Pearse, who made no comment. “You probably saw all the awards and commendations he’s received, from people and places thanking him for what he’s done.”
“Ms. Parke,” Pearse said, “did you accept a lift from me just to give a testimonial on Harry Wilson’s behalf?”
Pru didn’t answer, and they were quiet for the last few minutes of the journey. Pearse pulled up in front of her house, stopped, and turned to her. “We are not in the habit of arresting and prosecuting innocent people,” he said. “Harry Wilson is part of this investigation, and so questions must be asked.”
“I don’t believe that Mr. Wilson murdered Jeremy Pendergast.”
“Yes, I understand that. I hope you understand that I must do my job.” Pru reached for the door handle. “Ms. Parke, please take care.”
He took her by surprise with a kind and gentle admonition instead of an officious warning. She flashed him a smile. “I will.”
Pru arrived before Sammy the next morning. She picked up the spade she’d left just inside the basement door and took it with her to the bottom of the garden, where the sun already had warmed the brick wall. She sat down with her back against the wall, surveying the view that the Wilsons would have from this end of their new garden. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face. Perhaps she did miss the Texas sunshine just a bit, but not the summer heat. With less intense sun exposure, her hair had turned from blond to its original medium brown, and she was surprised to find that now she could clearly see a dash of silvery gray at each temple.
She opened her eyes again and looked at the blue-and-white tape surrounding the shed. The forensics team had attached the tape to the brick wall, so that the small space—about two feet wide—between the shed and the wall shared with Malcolm’s garden was marked as off-limits. Still, Pru reasoned, that couldn’t really be part of the murder scene. She thought that if she put the spade in the ground behind the shed, it wouldn’t be noticed.
She would have to deal with the wet soil if she made a garden for the Wilsons, so perhaps she should investigate … the soil. Perhaps she would find out just how far the mosaic extended, but that would be secondary, she told herself, to researching the conditions for the new garden. With a cursory glance around, she ducked under the tape, and had just plunged the spade in the soil behind the shed when she heard voices.
“Listen, Saxsby.” It was Malcolm’s voice quite close on the other side of the wall. “You can’t go over there now. It’s broad daylight.” Malcolm’s voice bounced as if he were hurrying along.
“Calm down, Crisp,” said another man’s voice. “I won’t be caught breaking and entering, if that’s what you’re worried about. Look, I want this business finished up—my latest deal didn’t go through, and I’m a bit hard up right now.”
“The house? What happened?” Malcolm asked.
“Never you mind,” the man said. “Did you get in to look?”
“No, no, there’s no way in now. We’ll just have to wait until the police are finished,” Malcolm said. “Although after that, Pru will probably start on the garden.”
“Pru? Who is Pru?” Saxsby said.
“She’s the American gardener Harry and Vernona hired. It’s all right. I can handle
her—she won’t be a problem.”
“What’s Vernona doing hiring a bloody American gardener? Didn’t Pendergast tell them to leave off the garden?”
Alarmed that her name would come up in such a conversation—and annoyed to be called a “bloody American gardener”—Pru tried to breathe as quietly as possible so that they wouldn’t discover her eavesdropping.
“I said I’d take care of it.”
“Does she know something?” Saxsby asked. “Haven’t you told her she might be in danger herself around Harry?”
“I’ve tried to warn her,” Malcolm said, “but she thinks he’s harmless.”
“You just remember what I told you, Crisp,” said Saxsby. “He’s no harmless old git.” He paused for a moment, and Pru wondered if they’d left. Then Saxsby said, “Did she see what was there?”
“She might have,” Malcolm replied. “But I’m taking care of it,” he said with emphasis.
Pru had lost track of the spade in her hand as she listened in, and it slipped out of her loosened grip, hit against the wall, and landed with a
plunk
on the ground.
She heard muffled exclamations and footsteps in the gravelly soil at the base of the wall. Malcolm must be heading to his brick-wall ladder. She grabbed the spade and looked for an escape. The shed was almost flush with the wall adjoining the next garden, and so she had to slip under the tape the way she came and then into the shed—using only her elbow to edge the door open. As she turned around to pull it closed with a finger on the edge of the door, she looked up to see Malcolm peering over the wall. Their eyes met, and she waited for him to call her out, but instead he turned back to Saxsby and said, “No, I don’t see anyone. Now, do you want to be out here when they come back? We’d better go.”
Pru stuck her head out the door in time to hear the two voices retreating. She thought she heard Saxsby say, “Did you …” but she couldn’t catch the rest. After that, she heard a door close.
“Pru?” Sammy asked as he came up from the Wilsons’ basement entrance. “You aren’t supposed to be in there, are you?” She had left the basement door open again and felt a little guilty about it. She hoped Pearse wouldn’t stop by and discover her misbehavior. “Who was that with the nosy parker?”
She couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. Malcolm saw her—she was sure of that—but she didn’t know if he protected her by not revealing her presence or if he would tell Saxsby all about her eavesdropping when they were well and truly out of
earshot. And she didn’t know if she would be in more or less danger either way.
“Sammy, did you see Malcolm? Could you see the other fellow? What did he look like?” She stepped out of the shed quickly, but with a backward glance toward the mosaic, still partially uncovered, and the hole behind it, still open. The blood-soaked soil looked disturbed, as if a sample had been taken.
“I saw them go up the steps to the door, but they didn’t go in. Then they went back down again. I suppose they went down the basement steps. Yeah, I caught a quick look at him … I don’t know—he looked sort of normal.” Sammy’s powers of observation were kept for estimating the size of a load he could get into the back of his truck. “Stringy black hair, thinning. Were you hiding from them?”
“Well, I just didn’t want to be caught up in another discussion about roses,” Pru said. That was enough for Sammy, who had sat through one of those with Malcolm already. “Let’s mark off some beds.”
As they measured, Sammy had to keep reminding her what they were doing. “Pru, we’ve done that side already, haven’t we?”
“Sorry, Sammy, yes.” The questions in her mind pushed everything else out. Several times she found she’d stopped moving and stood thinking. How much more had Malcolm learned about the Roman mosaic, and how was Saxsby involved?
Saxsby seemed to be pressuring Malcolm into thinking the worst of Mr. Wilson—Pru felt sure that explained the business about warning her. Pru thought Malcolm was full of himself if he thought he could “take care of her.” The conversation she had just overheard, along with her own feelings and opinions, were getting tossed around in her head like clothes in a dryer.