Authors: Marty Wingate
“I want to know what happened,” he said.
“Let’s go sit at the kitchen table, how about that?” She picked up her brandy and
led the way. They sat across from each other, and Pru told him every detail she could think of, from the mushroom risotto, which she realized she’d left on the kitchen counter, to Archie’s plan to plant the digging spade as fake evidence to implicate Mr. Wilson.
“I suppose Malcolm saw Mr. Wilson with the spade yesterday and told Alf and he told Archie. Archie had gloves on and said that way Mr. Wilson would be the suspect again when they found me …” Her voice drifted off. Christopher’s jaw tightened, and he reached across the table to grab both her hands.
“But look,” she said, “I’m all right.”
He did look, one of those long looks that held her gaze. But he couldn’t quite let it go. “And you’re sure you aren’t hurt?”
“I have a few scrapes,” she said, “and I’ve got a huge bruise on my side where Archie shoved the pistol.” She touched the spot, tender even through the thick layer of terry cloth. Christopher watched her. “That’s all.”
They sat quietly with their own thoughts. “Christopher, I heard Mr. Wilson on the phone. Are they going to dig it up tomorrow?”
“Yes, it’s time we see what’s really there. Harry is asking his group, an archaeology firm, people from the both the British Museum and the Museum of London, and probably every academic in the city. With the earl’s permission.”
“Will you be here?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
He was called away, and Mrs. Wilson came in. “Pru, dear, I’ve made up the guest room for you. It’s at the back. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve closed the curtains so you don’t have to look out on all that. Take your brandy upstairs and get in bed now—you must be exhausted. I’ll bring you up a sandwich.”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson, thanks.” Pru realized who was missing from the scene. “Mrs. Wilson, where is Toffee?”
“Toffee is safe and sound in our bedroom, Pru. He wouldn’t want to be underfoot.”
Upstairs, Pru pulled on the nightgown Mrs. Wilson had laid out on the bed and opened the curtains halfway. She sat on a low bench by the window in the dark room and watched the activity in the back garden. The rain had let up, although everyone looked wet enough that it didn’t matter. She ate half the sandwich, used the new toothbrush left for her, closed the curtains, and crawled in bed.
Pru woke slowly from a sound sleep, and the events of the previous evening played out in her mind. She heard a general stirring downstairs. She stretched, threw back the covers, and looked down at her flannel nightgown. She thought of the state of her clothes from last night and wondered whether she would need to wear some of Mrs. Wilson’s tweeds today. There was a quiet knock on her bedroom door, followed by Jo’s equally quiet voice. “Pru? Are you awake?”
“Yes, come in.”
“I’ve brought you some clothes,” Jo said, carrying in trousers and sweater, underwear, and socks and shoes, all from Pru’s wardrobe. She set them down and gave her a hug. “Oh, Pru, I’m so sorry for what I did. When Christopher rang …”
“Jo, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were just trying to save me from worrying. If you had told me the Clarkes wanted back in the house to get something, I would’ve thought they were about to turf me out. You were only trying to help.” Pru looked into Jo’s face. “This isn’t your fault.”
“All that talk about mice in the basement,” she said sheepishly. “I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t leave.” She pulled a crumpled paper out of her bag; it was the police sketch of Romilda. “I took this,” she said. “She looked so familiar, and yet I couldn’t quite say it was Pippa. I guess I was in denial.”
“When did Christopher ring? Did he tell you everything that happened?” She hoped that Jo would forgive herself and thought that a change of subject would help.
“He rang last night and said you were safe and would stay here. He told me what happened, but of course I need to hear everything from you.” Jo sat on the bed with her. “That horrible, horrible man, and to think that I’m the one who arranged your digs.”
“It had nothing to do with you. And my only real injury is this bruise.” She pulled up the nightgown to reveal a five-inch patch of deep purple and blue on her right side. “That’s where he dug the pistol in.” Pru could feel the pressure of the gun in her side. “That was the scariest part. He’s an academic—what does he know about guns? I was afraid it might go off accidentally.”
As Pru got dressed, she related all the details to Jo that Christopher had left out—she was well able to fill in the dramatic bits now.
“Did the police let you into my … the house?” Pru asked.
“When he rang last night, Christopher said Vernona wanted you to stay here, and I told him I’d stop by and get clothes for you, and he said he’d tell his officers that I would be there. Even so, I had to be escorted,” Jo said, “and they looked through what I took. There were several of them when I left, mostly in the basement. They were looking for that silver jug Lucy said Archie stole.”
“I’ll have to get back in and start packing,” Pru said, avoiding Jo’s eyes.
“Pru, not now, please. Can’t you wait and see what happens? You could stay with me.” Jo sounded as if she had seized on the perfect solution.
“Yes,” said Pru, “and where would I sleep—under the piano? In the kitchen sink?” She thought of her one night on Jo’s tiny sofa.
“Well, you could …” Jo began.
“No!” Pru held up her finger as a caution. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.” She busied herself with her socks. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hello, we barely know each other, but is it all right if I move in?’ ” She shook her head. “I’m not twenty-five.”
“Neither is he, thank God,” Jo said, and they both laughed. “Oh, dear Pru.” Jo put her arm around Pru’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Isn’t it difficult being this stubborn?”
Pru didn’t reply. It wasn’t the first time in her life she’d been accused of that.
She glanced at the closed curtains. “Have they started up out there yet?”
“Vernona said people started arriving as soon as it was light,” Jo said. “They’re lovely people, Pru, Harry and Vernona …” Pru knew where this was going.
“They’ll be packing up and moving to Hampshire immediately, I’d say,” she intervened. “They should get their house back. And they already have a gardener.”
After Jo left, Pru had tea and toast in the kitchen, watching the parade of people come through and go to the shed. Only one or two police officers remained. Pru thought the rest of the people must be there for the thrill of the dig. She stood at the window and observed the scene outside. Everyone looked excited. There was a great deal of talking and periods of standing around quietly. In groups of two or three, they walked into the shed and out again.
Activity picked up when several people began measuring the shed, the back garden, the wall, the dead birch; they seemed to measure just about anything that held still. Several people made phone calls and others took photos. Occasionally, Mr. Wilson would stop and give her an update.
The sky was clear and the weak sun just warm enough. She stepped out the door and onto the wide landing to watch. The back garden had become an oozy, greasy-looking
mess with all the rain, made worse by Pru and Archie scuffling around, after that all the police, and now a dozen or more people squishing through. There had been little enough lawn to begin with; what remained had been crushed into oblivion.
She heard Mrs. Wilson greet Christopher. He came out to her and put his hand on the small of her back. And he knew just the right spot. “You’re looking cleaner,” he said, so that just she could hear. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you.” Pru wondered how such a perfunctory inquiry could feel so intimate. “I’ve cost you a couple of suits, haven’t I?”
He smiled. “You’re worth a couple of suits. And more.” She wished there weren’t so many people around. “And how is the dig?” he asked.
“So far”—she cleared her throat—“they’ve talked about whether or not they should remove the shed before they start digging. Some people say yes, they should, because it would give them better access to the site, while others say no, the shed is a good protection for the site against the weather. Someone suggested removing the shed, but replacing it with a large tent …” Christopher had started to gently knead the spot on her lower back, and she lost her concentration.
He had that ghost of a smile. “A tent?”
“Mmm?” She tried to refocus. “Yes, a tent. Lots of people seem to like that idea, but they haven’t quite committed to it, because there were several other people who haven’t yet arrived, and they need everyone’s approval. And then there’s the subject of how large the tent should be, who will set it up, and who will be here to monitor the whole process.” She smiled at him. “I fear we won’t see any letters from Hadrian today.”
His lips were an inch from hers. She blushed and said, “There are a lot of people here, you know.” He grinned and looked out at the activity.
“The garden’s a mess,” he said.
Pru burst out laughing, shattering the quiet contemplation of the academics. Heads turned, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, but that didn’t help—she couldn’t stop laughing, and so she retreated to the kitchen. Christopher followed.
She regained control of herself, wiped the corner of her eye, and sighed. “I guess I won’t put this job on my CV.”
One of the remaining uniformed officers called to Christopher as Mrs. Wilson said, “Coffee, Pru?”
Pru saw the trayful of mugs she had poured for everyone out back. “Let me carry that out,” she said, and took the tray. Mrs. Wilson followed with a plate of Mary’s shortbread.
“Now, let’s go in, sit down, and have our own,” Mrs. Wilson said.
Pru took a mug in to Christopher, who stood in the front room talking on his phone, before she returned to sit with Mrs. Wilson in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to build a garden for you,” Pru said, “but I’m so happy that you’re able to go back to Greenoak.”
“We’ll expect a visit from you just as soon as you can get there, dear,” she said. Vernona continued talking about their house and how she’d already phoned her old Women’s Institute chapter and been put back on the competitions committee. Pru pictured herself going down for a visit—it was all too easy a dream to dream—but found that it made her eyes prick with tears. She took a breath and turned her attention to Mrs. Wilson and the subject of finding enough WI members willing to teach knitting at the local primary school.
Christopher got off the phone and sat with them at the table just as Mr. Wilson came in to give a report.
“We’re moving slowly,” he said, “so as not to disturb anything. But we’ve found the third coin, the last one that Thomas Gaskell returned to the hole as the marker.”
“Mr. Wilson,” Pru said, “I hit something when … when Archie made me start digging.” Christopher reacted to this by grabbing her hand and holding it tight. She smiled at him. It was a memory of fear now, and not the fear itself; she squeezed his hand. “Do you think that I might have struck the actual wooden tablets?”
“We believe that there is a covering, perhaps another piece of mosaic or tile of some kind that covers the collection of tablets,” Mr. Wilson said. “But it may take us a while to get to that part of the excavation—it’s a delicate operation.” Mr. Wilson glanced out the window. “And to think that Archie was going to dump it all in shopping bags. Had he lost his mind?”
“Is he talking, Inspector?” Mrs. Wilson asked Christopher. Pru suspected that she might be a fan of detective shows.
“He isn’t talking very much at the moment,” Christopher said, with a sideways glance at Pru, “but that may be because he has several stitches in his tongue.”
Mrs. Wilson said, “You’re brave, Pru, to stand up to someone like that.”
“I got the feeling that it was Pippa who was in charge,” Pru said, “and Archie was the muscle.”
“Pippa’s been running Archie ragged since they married five years ago.” Mr. Wilson shook his head.
A man with silver-gray hair and wearing a black-and-white sweater put his head in the door. “Harry? We’re looking at where to put the poles for the marquee. Can you come out?”
Mr. Wilson stood up and said, “Everyone, this is Dr. Timothy Morrison, Oxford. You know Vernona, of course, and this is Pru Parke …”
Dr. Morrison interrupted him. “Are you the young woman who saved the tablets?”
Pru laughed at the compliment. “I’m happy to have helped.”
“And Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse.” Mr. Wilson finished the introductions and then left with Dr. Morrison to talk tent poles. Mrs. Wilson started another round of coffees.
Christopher and Pru stayed seated, holding hands. “Oh, by the way,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out an envelope that looked as if it had been rolled up. She saw the letterhead. “Do you know someone named Duxton Stewart? She apparently used your phone to ring Hodges & Hodges Appraisals.”
He watched her face. Disguising her phone number wasn’t as foolproof as she had thought. She could feel the color start to creep up her cheeks.
“It was just a phone call, Christopher. I only phoned and pretended to be her, and I only did it to find out if they would tell me what they were going to auction off and only because I wanted to make sure that Mr. Wilson had nothing to do with it, which I’m sure was the case. Wasn’t it?”
She saw that ghost of a smile. He opened the letter for her to see.
“Collingford, the man you spoke to on the phone—that is, the man Duxton Stewart spoke to—is an old school friend of Harry’s,” he said. “Knowing his interest in archaeology, Collingford wrote to say he had a client—he couldn’t name him—who wanted to set up a private auction of a few Roman items. Harry gave me the letter, and I spoke to Collingford yesterday to find out that it had been Archie trying to set something up. Harry had thought it was Alf.”
Pru read through the letter as he spoke and looked at the closing. Between “Best,” and “Gabriel Collingford” was a scribbled signature, a single name. “Christopher, did he sign it … Stinky?”