The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (20 page)

DS Hobbes rang early. Pru had left to walk to Primrose House, but ducked into the walled garden for a moment to take the call.

“We don’t have Tanner’s fingerprints,” Hobbes reported, “and we can’t ask for them for no reason. Each time something happened in the garden, he had an alibi: he was at work early, with a witness. We couldn’t get any further.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I suppose I only suspect him—I’ve certainly no proof. But I believe it was him, even if he did have a witness. And now there’s something else.” She told him about the arrow.

“I’m coming round now. I’ll take a look—what about that bow you found the week before?”

“It’s gone. I had propped it up just outside the shed, and I checked when I got back yesterday. Should I wait for you here?”

“No, you go on to work. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

If she remained in constant motion, she decided, fatigue could not overtake her. She began her day hounding the stonemasons with innocent questions about just how long it took to set one row of stones, after which she had Liam and Fergal help her adjust the placement of the heavy pots—each one four feet high—along the balustrade terrace. She caught a glimpse of Hobbes at the edge of the wood and went down to join him. She found him scuffling along in the damp duff.

With the branches still bare, the morning sunlight shone through to the leaf litter on the ground; it looked a brighter place than it had during the late-afternoon gloom when the arrow was shot.

“It’s unlikely the bow would be here still,” he said, his eyes scanning the ground. “Where were you standing?”

Pru took her position and turned to look out of the copse, just as she had Friday afternoon. No arrow remained stuck in the beech trunk, but when she walked up to examine the bark, she could see fresh splinters bursting from the wood where it had landed and been pulled out.

“That’s where it was,” she said. “I stood with my back to the wood, and the arrow landed there.” Just a few inches and it would’ve been in the back of her head. She shivered. She didn’t know whether to be grateful that his aim was good or bad.

Hobbes collected what evidence he could and photographed the hole in the trunk. Before he left, he asked, “You won’t be out here alone again, will you?” She assured him it was the last place she would go without a companion.

Pru returned to work, throwing herself into moving rocks at one end of the terracing and directing the delivery of manure at the other—a large pile now sat just below the balustrade terrace at the kitchen end, barely out of the way of the terracing. They’d have to shift it all soon or Davina and Bryan would get a whiff every time they passed a window; even though this batch had been mixed with wood shavings and aged, there was no mistaking that aroma. Twice, as she darted from task to task, she almost landed in one of Robbie’s holes, which were scattered about. She had been reluctant to fill them; the activity kept him occupied and happy, and he always remembered where the holes were and often went back to check. But they couldn’t be left much longer.

She kept an eye on the Duffys so that they could not escape her again. At the end of the day, when she saw them turn their backs to leave, she called out. “Liam, I want to talk with you—come down to the cottage.”

“We can’t stay today, Pru,” Fergal said. “Sorry.”

“Fergal, stay or go as you like, but Liam is staying.”

Liam’s eyes flashed from his brother to Pru. “Well, I don’t know…”

Pru pointed to the path and raised her voice. “Liam, you will march right down there this minute and talk to me, do you understand?”

Liam took a step back. Whether she sounded like his mother or his boss, it didn’t matter to Pru, because off he went, remaining silent on the walk to her cottage. She heard Fergal heave a sigh as he trailed after them.

Once inside, the three of them stood in the chilly darkness, Pru thinking about how to begin.

“Would you like a fire, Pru?” Fergal asked.

“Thanks, yes, that would be great.” She really must learn to build a better fire, she thought as she put the kettle on before getting down to business.

“Liam, why won’t you tell the police where you were on that Thursday? Even after they took you in for questioning.”

He set his jaw and looked away from her, but she wouldn’t let up. “You know what this looks like,” she said, trying not to plead. “If you tell the police nothing, who knows what may happen?”

Liam jumped up out of the kitchen chair and walked to the window without speaking.

“Were you at the flat with Cate in the afternoon or the evening?” She sensed Fergal pause in his work.

Liam’s face, contorted into a massive frown, grew bright red. He thrust his chin out. “Didn’t Cate already tell the police that I wasn’t there?”

“But you were, weren’t you?” She turned her back to them while she prepared the teapot and put out remnants of a Dundee cake from Ivy.

“I wasn’t,” he snapped. Pru looked over her shoulder at him, and he took a breath. “At least, I wasn’t there the whole time,” he said. As he gave up telling the lie, his face relaxed. “I was there that evening.”

“Was it because of Jamie? Is that why she wouldn’t say?”

“Her only thought was to protect me from Tanner—she didn’t think she needed to protect me from the police.” He sat down again, resting his arms on the table, his hands clenched together. “But she shouldn’t be protecting me,” he said in a raised voice. “I should be protecting
her
.”

“She thought that if Jamie found out you were helping her, he’d go after you?”

“He’s done it before, hasn’t he?” Liam asked in a sullen tone. “And she’d seen my name in that book of his. But if the police found out that I was there and she said I wasn’t, wouldn’t she be in trouble for lying?” Liam pointed a finger at his brother. “And
you
never asked where I was.”

“I didn’t think I ought to know anything. For when they questioned me,” Fergal said as he put the tea things on the table.

She looked from brother to brother. “Liam, you didn’t tell Fergal where you were? Fergal, you had no idea where Liam was on that Thursday? What did you think?”

“I wasn’t here. I didn’t kill him,”
Liam shouted. “Do you think I’d do that? Have you been suspecting me all along?”

Pru’s “Certainly not” and Fergal’s “God, no” piled on top of each other.

Liam slumped back into his chair at the kitchen table and let out a heavy sigh. “I found a little place over near Crawley for Cate and Nanda to move to, a place of their own. I went to look at it for her. It isn’t available until next month.”

“That was in the afternoon?” Pru asked as she poured the tea and the brothers started to work on the cake. “And then you went over to the flat? For the whole evening?”

“Cate cooked a meal for us—Nanda and me.” He smiled at mention of the little girl’s name, and Pru had a sudden vision of Liam sitting down to a tea party with Nanda and her stuffed friends.

“Were you there all night?”

Liam jumped up from the table. “I was not.”

Pru raised her hands. “All right, all right—I only want to know where you were, not what you were doing.”

“He was home when I arrived home myself,” Fergal said. “But it was close to midnight.”

“Did you talk to Ned again after I heard you argue earlier that week?”

Liam shook his head. “But I tried to ring him—imagine me ringing his phone and him already dead.”

“You have a perfectly good alibi. You have to tell the police where you were.”

“I don’t want to get Cate in trouble.”

Pru ignored his chivalry for the moment. “Did anyone see you?”

Liam stared off into the sitting room, as if a witness might be hiding under the sofa. “I met the man at the Crawley place—he’s got Cate’s name down on the papers, though. That was early afternoon, just after you let us go.”

“And that’s it? What about the rest of the afternoon? You went nowhere else?”

Liam scratched the side of his face, deep in contemplation. “I stopped at the DIY in Crawley—Fergal, I checked out the cost of compressors, just in case we could afford one.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t buy anything, so I’ve no proof.”

He stood up and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket as if to verify that fact, and pulled out a few coins, a folded-up beer coaster with something scribbled on it, and a crumpled piece of paper. He stared at the assortment, picked up the paper, and smoothed it out.

“Chips!”
he shouted. “I stopped at a chippy in Crawley. Here’s the receipt.” Pru peered at the paper; she could still read the date and time stamp. She didn’t want to ask how a receipt from more than two weeks earlier could still be in his jeans pocket and still be legible. He was a single young man; she thought that was a good enough answer.

“There will be CCTV at the store,” Pru said. Most of Britain was covered by closed-circuit cameras these days. “If the chip shop doesn’t have it, at least you’ve got the timed receipt.” She looked down at the paper: five o’clock. “How long does it take to drive back from Crawley?”

“A good three-quarters of an hour,” Fergal said.

“And you went straight to Cate’s. She’s your witness there.”

“I don’t want her involved,” Liam said, straightening his shoulders.

“And would they consider her a good witness?” Fergal asked. “After all, she already said he wasn’t there.”

Liam gave his brother a dark look.

“What did you tell the police?” she asked Fergal.

“The truth. I was out with Angela,” Fergal said. “I picked her up from work in the afternoon and we went to a film in town, then to the pub near there, and then back to her flat. Liam was home when I arrived. I was away, you see,” he said, looking at his brother, “so, I couldn’t’ve said if you had been home or not.”

“Didn’t you talk when you both got home? Say where you’d been?” she asked.

Fergal snorted. “Do you think we natter on about each other’s days? And discuss what we’ll wear tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Pru said. She turned to Liam. “What time did Francine get home?”

“About eleven,” Liam said, sinking back into the chair.

“First thing tomorrow,” Pru said, wagging a finger at him, “you will ring the police and tell them all of this. How can they find the real murderer if they keep chasing you around?” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Ask for Sergeant Hobbes.”

After they left, Pru remained in front of the fire, piecing together Liam’s activities on that Thursday, and hoping that Cate wouldn’t be in trouble for first denying he had been with her. Cate’s excuse would be her fear of what Jamie might have done. That meant she would need to report his abuse to the police, which would lead to…what?

DS Hobbes had indicated that Ned’s mobile phone, stuck behind a stone in the wall of the Duffy cottage, had been dismissed as evidence against Liam. But how did it get there? And did the police know about the trouble between Ned and Hugo? She pictured Hugo skulking about at the cottage, removing a loose stone, and shoving the phone in the hole it left. What could Hugo have against Liam? Or was Liam just an easy target?

Jamie certainly had a grudge against Liam, who had dared to speak to Cate at the Two Bells. But Jamie needed Ned, and she could see no further motive to involve him in Ned’s murder. Pru thought back to one of the last times she talked with Ned. The quiet Monday he had wanted to discuss something with her, but he wouldn’t stay that day, he said, because he had something to do. That Thursday, he was dead. Had Ned cut off all ties with Jamie because of his abuse toward Cate, causing Jamie to strike back? Did Jamie have an alibi for that Thursday?

She would not wait until morning, but neither would she take Hobbes away from his family. She rang Tatt—let the inspector take care of it.

“Ms. Parke?” Tatt sounded surprised to hear her voice. She heard dishes clattering in the background, and she had a sudden image of Tatt in an apron, washing up. She stifled a giggle, and heard him sigh heavily. “I suppose you’re ringing concerning the anonymous tip we received about the Fox boy being at the scene of the crime?”

“What?” Pru shouted. “Robbie was nowhere near Primrose House that afternoon. How can you say that? Why do you even listen to these ridiculous anonymous tips? Aren’t you the least bit suspicious that—”

“All right, all right.” For once, it was Tatt who was trying to be quiet, and he replied in a furious whisper. “I do not need you to tell me how to run my investigation.”

Pru grasped at straws. “Have you questioned Jamie Tanner about Ned? He’s a relative, after all, and surely you need—”

“We talked with Tanner as a matter of course,” Tatt replied. “He seemed upset about his father-in-law, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Yes, Pru was sure that Jamie looked the picture of sanity when questioned by the police—she’d seen him flash from one emotional state to another at the flip of a switch. “Do you know where he was that afternoon?”

“He was at work,” Tatt replied in a short, loud burst, and then grew quiet again. “He was at work, checked in at the proper time, stayed all day with his co-worker as a witness, checked out late in the day after which he was at the Two Bells, confirmed by the barman. And now, Ms. Parke, are you finished with your interrogation?”

Pru missed the days when you could slam a phone receiver down.

She slept poorly again Monday night, images of the pile of manure waiting at the base of the balustrade stairs haunting her, and she woke early. It did not make for a promising day, but at least she had coffee in hand by the time Christopher rang.

“We’re flying back tomorrow,” he said, and as tired as she was, a broad smile stretched across her face.

“Will it be a problem for Graham—is there enough room for him on the plane?” She pictured his leg—the break was midthigh—in an enormous cast.

“We’ll be in first class,” Christopher said. “I told him not to expect anything for Christmas next year.”

“And you’ll see him settled in Oxford?” She infused the question with as much cheer and goodwill as possible in order to let him know she did not expect to see him immediately.

“We’ll see. What about Liam?”

She filled him in on Liam’s story. “I ordered those Duffy boys to ring DS Hobbes today,” she said. “I had no idea I could be so bossy.” A noticeable silence followed that statement. “They’ll present Liam’s complete alibi, and that should be that.”

Hugo rang as she walked out her door, sounding far too chipper for her state of mind. He had stopped by and said he was in the walled garden.

The heavy wooden gate stood ajar, and she stuck her head in. Hugo had walked up to the center bed and was nudging some of the remaining bits of yew branches with the toe of his shoe. He looked up when she approached.

“Anna said you stopped to talk with me. Sorry I was out.”

“Yes, you were busy with the pensioners,” Pru said as she reached down to pull up a few bittercress plants, remembering that Repton, big-picture man that he was, had nothing to say about weeds in the garden. “Your editor—Anna—said that you were not at work the day Ned was murdered. Or the next.”

“No,” Hugo said, “I wasn’t.” He seemed neither perturbed that Pru had asked nor willing to offer more.

“I suppose you’ve spoken to the police,” she said. “It seems as if they’d want to talk with everyone related to Ned. Did you tell them you were related?”

“Yes, they know,” he said, looking chagrined. “They know about the whole thing—Dad’s plans, the pub—and the argument I had with Ned two days before he was murdered.” He noticed her raised eyebrows. “Hadn’t you heard about it? It wasn’t exactly private. We were standing outside Sainsbury’s. As it turns out, so was Detective Sergeant Hobbes, looking into a case about stolen shopping carts.” Hugo shrugged. “I should’ve told you about my connection when we started the blog.”

“I don’t think it would have made a difference. Where were you on that Thursday?”

“I was at the National Archives and the Land Registry,” he said. “It’s easy enough to check both places—the police already have.”

Pru colored slightly. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Hugo.”

“It’s all right. I know how I sounded last time.” He gave a short laugh. “Turns out Ned was right. Of course. Dad’s pub wouldn’t have been the oldest. But I made another discovery in the stacks of ancient records—about our own village of Bells Yew Green. One that has to do with Primrose House and the Templetons.” He paused a moment. “They don’t really own it.”

“Don’t own Primrose House?” Pru asked. “That can’t be right—they bought it from Lord Hamilton; surely as earl he has the right to sell off the manor houses on his estate.”

Hugo grinned. “We’re an ancient country, Pru, with many layers of antiquated laws. Ned knew what a massive tangle they are—it was what he loved, sorting through stories, decrees, and laws hundreds of years old. He gave me the idea to look. That day we argued at Sainsbury’s, Ned made a comment about Primrose House and how no one really knew its story. I thought it would make a great series in the paper.”

“But Davina and Bryan have put so much into the restoration,” Pru said. “They wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t own the place.”

“You’re from a young country where the laws are clear,” Hugo said. “It’s likely the earl didn’t know that a freehold sale wasn’t possible, that he held only an equitable estate. It has something to do with the Court of Chancery and when the land was registered”—he shook his head slightly—“at least I think it does.”

“The Court of Chancery? Like in
Bleak House
?”

“Yeah.” Hugo laughed. “We’re all living in a Dickens novel. We may not even understand it, but Ned did. What if he told the Templetons that he knew they didn’t own the place?”

It took a moment for that to sink in. What would Davina and Bryan do if they discovered the huge amounts of money they’d spent had been for nothing? What would they do to cover up the fact that they weren’t the true owners?

Davina’s comments about Ned fell into place. Ned knew that the Templetons didn’t own the house they’d sunk so much into, but he would keep quiet—for a price. And that price involved securing a good job for his son-in-law to make sure his daughter was provided for. Maybe Ned had asked for money, too. Had Davina finally had enough of his blackmail and put a stop to it in a fit of pique? The police had found mud from the rough track on her tires—she had no reason to take that lane unless it was to get to the spot where Ned was murdered. Pru swallowed hard. “Have you told the police?”

He nodded. “Just this morning. I was looking for the last pieces, and I wanted to try to get them to agree to let me write it up—they wouldn’t, of course. Open case—the usual runaround.”

“Do you think Ned was blackmailing the Templetons?” Pru asked, hoping Hugo would convince her otherwise.

“He didn’t say so—not in so many words,” Hugo said. “When we argued—there outside the Sainsbury’s—he said something about taking care of Cate. It had been mentioned”—he cut his eyes at her—“that Cate’s husband might get the head gardener job. Before you came along, of course.”

“It was Jamie,” Pru said. “I’m sure it was—the fire, the yews. He thought that with Ned’s help and a few acts of vandalism under my watch that I would get booted out and it would pave his way to take over. But I’m not sure how to prove it. He seems to have covered his tracks well.”

Hugo surveyed the still-bare inner walls of the garden. “I’m sorry now that I didn’t write the piece about the antique apples, but maybe I can do it if we start the blog up again. Tell me, how do you grow actual trees from Victorian times?”

“Fruit-tree varieties are propagated by grafting—inserting a stem of one tree into a cut stem of another. You can take cuttings of trees and put them on new rootstock—or you could graft the stems from several different apples onto one tree. It’s an ancient practice, but still used today.”

Hugo made a couple of notes before saying he must be on his way. Pru stayed where she was. Something flitted about in her mind, and if she stood still, it might land and she could catch it. It had to do with grafting. She swept up all available memories of the subject to examine them.

She had tried her hand at grafting in a propagation class at Texas A&M. They had used a variety of tools—some specially designed for the task, some not. The knife had slipped once or twice and cut her—she rubbed the pad of her thumb unconsciously, remembering how easily the sharp blade sliced her flesh. It was an occupational hazard of those in the trade, she knew; if she had kept it up, she would have ended up with scars on her thumb, as so many grafters do. She had seen those antique grafting knives at the Garden Museum in London, but in her class, some students had used pocketknives. “Anything can be a garden tool,” Pru had told DS Hobbes.

Now she had more to tell him, but had to leave a message. “Pru again. The pocketknife—it’s a good tool for grafting. It’s for plant propagation—usually roses or fruit trees. I’m not sure if that helps, but I thought I’d let you know.” She rang off. One other bit of memory remained just out of her reach; try as she might, she could not get hold of it.