The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (14 page)

Primrose House

Monday, 1 February

Dear Pru,

We’ve thought further about the statue of Ned in the oval, and decided that perhaps that’s not the best way to honor his memory—I’ve had a vision of something so much better! I see that all the little apple trees have been delivered for the walled garden. As you had already planned to espalier these in various patterns along the wall, why don’t we spell out Ned’s name in branches? Wouldn’t that be so sweet? We’ll chat more this week.

Best,

Davina

The upcoming weekend in London shone like a beacon, guiding her through the morass of the week as she tried to untangle the three balls of knotted intrigue in her life—Ned’s murder, Jamie’s obsession with his wife and his barely disguised desire to be head gardener at Primrose House, and her own newly revised family situation. She glanced down at Davina’s note, which had been stuck in her front door that morning as usual. Under no circumstances would she let this latest wild hair divert her. Pru shuddered to think what visitors would say if they saw “BOBBINS” spelled out in branches in the walled garden.

She did, however, have something to talk with Davina about, and so while the workers, including Liam and Fergal, began preliminary excavations for leveling the terraces, she popped into the kitchen of Primrose House midmorning on Monday. Ivy had gone to the shops.

“Coffee, Pru?” Davina was poised to pour.

“Thanks.” Pru sat at the table and took a deep breath. She hoped to do this without implicating Ivy. “Davina, Inspector Tatt mentioned that you had stopped back by here on that Thursday”—“that Thursday” had emerged as the most popular euphemism for the day Ned was murdered—“you’d probably forgotten that,” she added in a rush.

Davina didn’t answer at first, instead taking an inordinate amount of time to arrange the many flowing layers of thin material around her before she sat down. She looked down into her coffee. “It didn’t seem relevant at the time,” she said. “I wonder that the inspector thought to mention it to you. Is it because Christopher is involved in the investigation?”

“No, certainly not, he has nothing to do with this.” A fear that Christopher could be reprimanded for meddling lodged in her mind. Could Tatt complain? “It’s only me—I didn’t want to pry, it’s just that I can’t help but hear things…from Tatt, of course.” Trying to appear casual, Pru took the milk and poured an extra dash into her mug, resulting in more milk than coffee, and cooling the liquid to a tepid state.

Davina waved her hand at Pru and smiled. “No, don’t mind me. How can you help but be involved in all this? You may as well know,” Davina said, her eyes bouncing around the kitchen, from table to sink to dish drainer, never hitting Pru. “I did come back—to see Ned.” Davina’s statement put a stop to all movement in the kitchen. Pru sensed that even the clock held its breath before its next tick.

“Oh,” she said.

“I rang Ned and asked him to come up to the house and see me that afternoon. I needed to talk with him.” She glanced out the window as they heard a small bulldozer roar past below the balustrade. “Bryan and I have put a lot into Primrose House—not just a great deal of money, but our time, too. We will not give up now.”

“You’ve done an amazing job on the restoration,” Pru said, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Did Ned want you to give up?”

Davina turned an even gaze on Pru. “I hope you aren’t letting all this business draw you away from what needs to be done in the garden, Pru,” she said, putting an effective end to any more talk about Ned, and causing Pru’s face to turn quite hot.

“I haven’t let it interfere in my work,” Pru said, putting her mug down. “We’re doing fine,” she added, thinking to herself what a lie that was—they were far behind schedule. “I know what needs to be done.” Davina arched an eyebrow. “In the garden,” Pru added in a rush. “I hope you know that I’m committed to having the garden ready and that I will work as many hours a day as it takes.” Pru wondered how her résumé would look if her first—and possibly only—head-gardener post lasted only three months.

Davina melted into her usual convivial self. “Of course we’re very pleased with the progress,” she said.

Pru thought Davina was also quite pleased at successfully changing the subject—away from Ned. “Well,” she said, “I’ll just get back to it, then.”

She was at the kitchen door when Davina said, “He never showed up. I waited here past our time, and I even drove down that little road you have at the bottom of the garden, but I didn’t get out of my car and I didn’t see him.” Her eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t see anything amiss, and I had to get back to London for a dinner that evening.”

Pru turned. “Did you tell the police that was why you came back?”

“God, no,” Davina said, her face flushed. “How would that look? I didn’t see him, and so it doesn’t really matter, now does it?” She watched Pru’s face, as if daring her to say it did indeed matter.

“Well, I suppose that…the police like to know…everything. Don’t they?” She couldn’t keep herself from one more reckless question.
Go ahead,
she thought,
fire me.
“What did you want to talk with him about?”

“Ned knew a great deal about this area, its history, its laws. I only wanted to” —Davina looked off into space for a moment—“chat with him about that.”

That hardly seemed a good reason for the hour’s drive from London when she’d just gone up that morning. “What would he know that—”

“You should leave this alone, Pru,” Davina cut in.

I will not leave it alone,
Pru thought, but she was prevented from asking another question when Ivy walked in carrying three shopping bags in each hand. Davina launched into a detailed conversation with her about an upcoming dinner party.

Pru left, checking in briefly with Gordon about the terracing and the next load of dairy manure—this one not quite as fresh as the first—that he would deliver and dump at the base of the balustrade terrace the following week. After that, she skirted the construction work and walked down to the meadow and beech wood. The meadow would be dug out in April—they’d found the stream source that Repton used to fill it and a new channel would be constructed.

It had occurred to her that a bench near the water would create a lovely scene from the balustrade—the bench could be a focal point if they lined it up with the central staircase through the terraced beds. It would mean a large hole cut in the yew walk, but she had lost interest in the yew and planned to cut it down drastically, creating a low hedge lining the path instead of a hallway with green walls. This wasn’t Sissinghurst, after all. She mulled over what kind of bench would get Repton’s approval, telling herself she should know his tastes by now. Then she remembered Liam’s advice to include something of herself in the garden. Perhaps she would.

She stroked the smooth gray bark of a huge beech and leaned against it, craning her head to see up through the branches. In front of her was the yew walk; beyond that and perpendicular to it, the boxwood allée ran straight down the hill. It was far enough to the side that the new terraced beds would not interfere, although she thought the boxwood had outlived its usefulness with all the new additions to the landscape. Off and up to the right she could see the terracing work and the balustrade; the ground-floor windows of the house were hidden.

She scuffed around in the thick leaf duff, and her foot caught on something. It was an archer’s bow. At first, Pru thought it must be the one Fergal made for Robbie the day he was Will Scarlet, but on closer inspection, she saw that although it wasn’t the finest quality, it was a real bow—polished wood with a leaf motif carved into it and a taut string—not the pretend variety. She picked it up and looked round for arrows or signs of target practice, but saw nothing. The land belonged to the Templetons, but a copse could attract anyone looking for a piece of woodland to enjoy. Thinking if no one claimed the bow she could give it to Robbie—sans arrows, of course, and with Ivy’s permission—she took it back with her and propped it up outside the shed.

She had arranged a video call with Lydia in Dallas for that evening. She and Lydia had known each other for many years, and Pru had practically become a member of the family—welcomed in by Lydia; her husband, Ray Morales; their daughters; and Lydia’s brother, Marcus Rojas. Pru had worked with Ray and Marcus at the Dallas Arboretum, and she and Marcus had been on-again, off-again—that’s how Pru preferred to describe it—for a few years.

They chatted awhile before Pru got to her point. “Lyd, you have all my boxes, remember?”

“All? You own next to nothing. The boxes are in the closet in the spare bedroom,” Lydia said.

“I need one of them—it’s the one with Mom’s things in it. It’s marked, you’ll know which one.” Pru took a deep breath and a sip of wine and explained why.

To Pru, the box had always been special—she thought of it as keepsakes from her mother’s girlhood in England, but she knew there was more. Pru had opened the box after her mother died, but found her grief still too fresh to examine the letters and photos without the heartache of loss. She hadn’t looked at it since, but hoped that it might hold a clue to the family’s recently uncovered past.

“Pru,
mija,
I’m so sorry for you,” Lydia said after she’d heard the story. “I never thought your mom would be one for such secrets. I’ll send it tomorrow.”

The highlight of her week, Pru decided, was her visit to Cate. She arrived in time to wave and call hello to Mrs. Sock and Trevor, who were either on their way out or just returning from a walk. When Cate came to the door, Nanda stood just behind her, peering around her mother’s leg at Pru.

Nanda saw Trevor across the road and yipped. Trevor yipped back and wagged his tail.

Nanda got over her shyness soon after Pru arrived, and that allowed Cate to get a few things done around the flat without her daughter at her heels. Cate said housekeeping was the least she could do for Francine, who had opened her home to Cate and Nanda on such short notice. Not only did Nanda talk to Pru, but by the little girl’s bedtime, she wouldn’t stop talking. She squealed in delight as Pru turned her hair clip into a monster that tried to eat Nanda up, and Pru had four tea parties with Nanda’s collection of stuffed animals, which included Paddington Bear, Madeline—with her big round hat and blue French school uniform—a giraffe, and a pig.

Christopher rang during one of the tea parties. They had time for only a short chat—Nanda kept calling to her, “Pwu, dwink your tea” in a three-year-old’s version of a motherly tone—but at least he knew she was safe and sound.

“Nanda, would like to say hello to Christopher?”

Pru held the phone out and Nanda leaned in, shouting, “Pwu is busy now!” Then she took the phone and began a long one-sided conversation that sounded as if it had something to do with Paddington Bear getting into trouble.

When Pru reached over to rescue Christopher, Nanda wandered away, phone to her ear, into her mother’s bedroom. Pru followed and watched Nanda walk over to the open closet door and drop the phone into a tall, black, high-heeled boot at the very back. “Bye-bye.” She waved down the boot.

“Nanda?” Cate called from the kitchen. Off Nanda trotted, and Pru stuck her hand down the boot.

“Pru?” She could hear Christopher’s voice coming from her phone.

Pru laughed. “Did you get all that? What’s the scoop on Paddington Bear?”

Pru was stretched out on the sofa when Cate came out from putting Nanda to bed. “I could never be a granny,” Pru said. “I don’t have the stamina.”

“You’re not old enough to be a granny, Pru,” Cate said. “You’re more like an auntie.”

Grateful for the compliment and feeling immediately younger, Pru sat up and reclipped her hair. “I didn’t realize that Hugo Jenkins was a cousin of yours,” Pru said.

“Hugo—I saw that he was writing the blog. Did he tell you his tale of woe?” she asked, sitting on the sofa. “I’ve hardly seen him in years after that hoo-ha about the pub—he’s still blaming Dad, isn’t he?”

“He did mention that your dad and his had a…disagreement.”

Cate gave a disapproving click of her tongue. “Hugo’s dad was a con man, always looking for the easiest way to make a million pounds,” she said. “This was years ago. Fred—Hugo’s dad—was going to reopen an old pub up near High Brooms. It was the ‘oldest pub in Kent and Surrey,’ he said”—Cate’s fingers wiggled air quotes—“and ‘Henry VIII stopped here.’ Honestly.” She rolled her eyes. “Fred thought it would draw in busloads of tourists. He’d bought adverts and got it written up in pub guides. Began fixing the old place up.”

“That must’ve cost him,” Pru said, picking up Nanda’s pig from the floor.

“He’d borrowed loads. Except it wasn’t the oldest pub in Kent and Surrey—that’s the Red Lion in Rusthall. Dad said it opened in 1415. That’s all he pointed out—Fred’s pub just wasn’t the oldest.” Cate set Paddington Bear and Madeline back up on their little chairs. “The whole scheme fell apart, Fred lost buckets of other people’s money, and he and Hugo blamed Dad. It was the talk of the village for a while, but then most people forgot it.”

“Hugo still seems upset.”

“I’m sorry about Fred dying. But now Hugo thinks he has to clear his dad’s name. I can’t believe anyone could hold a grudge that long,” Cate said, after which her face clouded up. “Apart from Jamie, that is.”

“Is he leaving you alone?” Pru asked.

“Mostly. I didn’t tell him I’m starting back to work”—Cate would spend a couple of evenings a week as a private nurse, with Francine minding Nanda—“I don’t want to get into that again.”

“You were brave to break away,” Pru said.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” Cate said. She pushed her sleek hair behind her ear, picked up the giraffe, and began to fiddle with its legs.

Pru took a deep breath. “Cate, I want to ask you about Liam.”

Cate’s eyes looked like huge dark pools. She hugged the giraffe to her breast. “Oh God,” she whispered. Pru could see her trembling. “I’ve made such a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake?” A wave of cold washed over Pru as she reached out a hand to calm Cate.

“It’s just that—”

Nanda cried from her room. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Cate threw down the stuffed toy, threw off her look of fear, and stood up. “Sorry, Pru. She’s having some trouble getting to sleep these days.” She turned as she got to the door of Nanda’s room. “Usually if I read her a story, she’ll drop off. I don’t know how long it will take, but you’re welcome to stay.”

Somehow that welcome did not come across in her voice. “No, I’ll be off now, and I’ll see you again soon,” Pru said, standing to gather her coat and bag.