The Skeleton Garden (15 page)

An overly optimistic statement, she knew. The investigation was going nowhere. Jack's fingerprints were on the handle of the spade found in the parterre lawn, Christopher reported. So were Pru's and probably Simon's. No footprints on the chippings, no tire tracks in the lane. No piece of evidence jumped out, pointing to a prime suspect. Christopher said little as he came and went from the closet—his murder room. Pru hadn't gone back in, mostly because she didn't want to see the many photos of Jack's corpse as it lay splayed out in the garden.

On Friday morning, Pru walked into the kitchen just as her phone rang.

“Ms. Parke?” said a perky voice on the other end. “It's Jacinta Bloom, editor at
The English Garden
. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. How are you?” Pru felt light-headed and sank into a chair.

“Just grand. We here at the magazine are so very excited to be able to feature the garden made famous by such a brother-and-sister duo.” The perkiness dropped off a degree. “I did want to get in touch with you, of course, after the recent tragedy.”

Well, at least someone sees this scouting visit as a bad idea,
Pru thought. “Yes, we are quite affected by the death here at Greenoak—we all knew him, and it's difficult getting over that.”

“And that is why I wanted to extend to you my assurance that we will in no way interfere with any police matter on our visit Monday.”

Monday? “But, Ms. Bloom, I don't even know if we'll have access to all of the property by then and—”

“Not to worry, we only need to take a quick look round. I think we'll arrive by lunch—will that be all right? Oh, and”—perkiness was replaced by barely concealed curiosity—“is it true that your husband is a former DCI with the London Met?”

After they rang off, Pru dropped her head into her arms. “We'll have guests for lunch on Monday,” she said. Evelyn set a cup of tea down beside her and went back to work.

Pru stood at the corner of the house and watched Simon come up the hornbeam walk for lunch. She could see the effect the past few days had had on him. He had grown sullen and quiet. First it was Birdie, and now Jack. Polly was focusing her attention on Stan, even helping to plan the memorial service. “Stan has no one now,” Polly had said to Pru. “Simon understands.” He may tell Polly he understands, but Simon's slow step and sagging shoulders told another story. Pru knew he was hurting, and her heart hurt for him.

“Well?” he asked as he approached. “What is it?”

Burst that bubble of empathy, why don't you,
Pru thought. “The magazine editor rang. They'll be here Monday at lunch.” She waited for his reaction. Surely he could read the underlying message—you were the one who started this; you need to put a stop to it.

Simon glanced around him, a fleeting look of panic crossing his face. But he wouldn't budge. “Yeah, sure. All right.” And he walked into the kitchen.

Pru started to follow him, but stopped when Christopher's car pulled into the drive.

“Are you here for lunch?” Pru asked when he got out.

He shook his head. “I can't stay. I'm heading to Stan's—someone broke into his house,” he said.

“What? How could someone do that at a time like this? Is he all right?”

“He isn't hurt,” Christopher said. “It happened this morning when he was working out in the field. And it wasn't really a break-in—he'd left the door unlocked, as usual. When he got back, he saw papers strewn across the floor, and the attic door had been pulled open.”

“Poor Stan. How did he sound?”

“Angry. Look.” Christopher took her arm and glanced toward the house. “Is Simon around?”

Pru nodded. “He's just gone into the kitchen. Do you need to see him?”

“No, but I want to talk with you about something.” Christopher watched her for a moment and then reached for the car door. “We'll do it later.”

“Why not now?”

“It would be better this evening.”

Pru leaned against his car door and crossed her arms. “It would be better now. Or I could follow you to Stan's.”

He sighed. “Have you and Simon talked about the night Jack died?”

“No.” She frowned. “This is hard for him.”

Christopher took her hand, rubbing the top of it with his thumb. “Simon told us he didn't stop by here the night Jack died. That he decided it could wait until morning.”

She nodded.

He continued. “Peachey told Martin that he saw Simon coming out of this drive that night, about ten o'clock.”

Pru remembered to breathe. “Well, he's obviously mistaken. It was dark—how could he know it was Simon?”

“Peachey was approaching the drive as Simon pulled out—not only could he recognize the car, but he saw Simon in his lights.” Christopher squeezed her hand. “I'll look into it—it could be nothing. But at the moment, I need to see Stan. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah. Fine. You go on.” She moved out of the way and opened the car door for him.

“You won't bring this up with Simon—not yet?” Christopher asked.

“Wouldn't do me any good, would it? He'll hardly say a word to me.”

At the kitchen table, Pru played with her beef sandwich, taking small bites, tearing off little pieces of bread, and rolling them into balls between her thumb and index finger. Evelyn gave her the eye, but for once Pru didn't care—she wouldn't force-feed herself to keep the cook at bay. Simon looked over at her plate. “You going to eat that?”

Pru shook her head and pushed her plate over. Simon took half the sandwich, gave her a wink, and said, “We'll get it finished, don't worry.”

Yes, the garden. Scouting visit, Jacinta Bloom, magazine article. Pru had moved on to more pressing issues. She needed to talk with Peachey.

She stole a glance at her brother and her eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink away. He's going through a bad time, and casting aspersions on his innocence won't help any. Simon needed something to focus on that wasn't the garden or death—they all did.

She drummed her fingers on the table and watched Evelyn take a pan out of the oven and turn out a cake. Images flashed through Pru's mind of happy times. They needed something to remind themselves that they were a family—one big, extended, complicated family—and how precious that was. A joyous occasion they could all anticipate. She caught a whiff of cinnamon from Evelyn's cake, and that's when it came back to her—the dream she'd had the previous afternoon, sitting at the base of the beech tree in the wood.

Pru smiled at the image in her mind. Yes, that's what they needed.

She waited for Christopher in the kitchen, bottle of wine and two glasses poured in front of her on the pine table. He had been delayed, and now she could see deep lines on his brow telling her just how weary he was. But he smiled when he saw her, and the care melted away. She smiled back—just as tired, but now buoyed by her great plan.

He leaned over and kissed her. “You didn't need to wait for me.”

“Pasta bake with kale and chicken,” she said, nodding toward the Aga. “It's keeping warm nicely.” She pushed a glass of wine over to him and took his hand. “I wanted to talk with you about something. I've had an idea.”

“Let's hear it,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze and taking a sip of wine.

“We should have a family Christmas here at Greenoak.” She raised her eyebrows and squeaked with yuletide excitement. “What do you think?”

“Well, we are a family, and we will have Christmas here—”

“I mean
everyone,
” she said, laughing. “Simon and Polly and Miranda and Peppy. We'll ask Claire and Tommy and Orlando—even Bess and Tommy Junior if they can make it. And Graham—he could come down from Leeds. Oh”—a sudden brilliant idea hit her—“perhaps Jo could drive down from London and bring Cordelia and Lucy and little Oliver. Not just for Christmas dinner, but to have them all stay here for a few days. The house is plenty big enough.” She suppressed an urge to leap out of her chair, run upstairs, and start assigning rooms.

He listened as she ran down the guest list, and when she paused to catch her breath, he asked, “Are you sure you want such a crowd?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It'll be good for us. And after all, we do have Evelyn.”

“Right, Christmas at Greenoak it is.” He took up his glass, but before drinking, he said, “You won't need to send out the invitations just yet, will you? We can wait until things are more settled here?”

“No, I'll have to begin now. You know those young people—we've got to get down in their diaries soon, or they'll have made other plans.”

“But we don't know how the investigation will go, and I wouldn't want you to make too many plans without that wrapped up.”

The air began to seep out of her holiday balloon. “Are you afraid Simon will be locked up by Christmas?” It was a joke, but an icy feeling crept through her veins.

“I believe it's too early to make assumptions about anyone.” Christopher sat back in his chair and rolled the stem of his glass between thumb and fingers. “According to the statement Martin took, Dick Whycher at the Blackbird heard Simon and Jack arguing that evening—they were standing just outside the pub door.”

Pru's hands shook, and she stuck them in her lap so he wouldn't see. “That doesn't mean anything—an argument. I get angry with Evelyn, am I going to kill her?”

“It's the process, Pru, you understand that. It's one piece of evidence. I am not accusing Simon,” Christopher said, eyeing her carefully. “But neither am I exonerating him.”

“I understand that,” she replied, reaching out one of her shaking hands to his. “But I know he didn't do it.” Her husband had his responsibility, and she had hers.

Christopher didn't move, but she could see his jaw working, and he didn't take his eyes off her. After a few moments, he took a sharp breath and said, “All right. Prove it.” At once, he sat back as if distancing himself from his own words.

Pru broke out in a smile. “Really?”

“I shouldn't have said that.” He rubbed his hands over his face.

“Because usually you tell me to mind my own business.”

He colored up at that. “I do not want you to put yourself in a compromising situation. It's just that Harnett is off working on other cases, they're short-staffed in Romsey as it is, and now I'm trying to keep an eye on Martin.” Christopher shook his head. “The statements he takes are practically unintelligible.”

She gave him a sharp look over the top of her wineglass.

“It's his first go,” Christopher said in reply to her unspoken comment. “Martin will learn how to conduct an investigation. But I can't let him learn at the cost of someone's guilt or innocence.” He beat his fingertips on the table.

“So, now you're doing your job as special constable, teaching the practical points of carrying out an investigation to a DS who should already have those skills, and all the while running the investigation yourself behind the scenes.”

He shifted comfortably in his chair. “It's a bit frustrating.”

Pru leaned quite close to him. “Well, you're at your best when you're frustrated.” His smile returned. “And so,” she said, “let me just make sure I understand. You are encouraging me to dive into the investigation?”

“I'm admitting that there's little chance I can keep you from asking questions.” Pru suppressed a smile. “Jack's death could well have been an accident, considering his condition. Still, someone is hiding something, and we don't know to what lengths he'll go to keep it hidden.” Christopher frowned as if he was having second thoughts. “You'll be careful, won't you?”

She nodded. “Scout promise,” she said—although it was Christopher who had been the Scout. “Of course I'll be careful.” Emboldened by a purpose, she began to map out a plan. “Peachey, Dick, Simon. I'll find something for you.”

Christopher stood up and offered her his hand. “And Christmas?”

“Oh yes,” she said, taking it. “And I'll need to get started on that right away.”

We set out cabbages this morning, row after row after row until my back was breaking. But I didn't mind, because every time I settled a little plant in the ground, I remembered I was that much closer to the evening and meeting you at the Blackbird.

—Letter from Home Farm, Ratley

When Christopher came out of the shower Saturday morning, Pru was sitting up in bed with a cup of tea; she nodded to his cup on the nightstand. “Will you go into the station today?” That was a question from the past—Saturdays at the station had been given up when he left the Met. “I don't mind if you do,” she said. “I'm going up to the church hall to help sort out the table arrangement for the fête.”

“The dance isn't still a fancy dress, is it?” Christopher asked.

“Well, it's supposed to be,” Pru replied. “Not for you men—where would you find RAF uniforms? She put her teacup down on the nightstand. “I doubt if we'll have anything proper, either, but Polly swears she can give us the right hairstyles at the least.”

Voices and the sound of furniture moving came from the church hall as Pru walked through the lych-gate at the lane, but before joining the workers, she took the main path into the church to breathe in a bit of the past. Most of St. Mary's, a small stone building, dated from the mid-nineteenth century, but—according to the leaflet, fifty pence at the door—remains of the thirteenth-century church could be seen in the chancel area.

She wasn't alone. “Morning, Martin.”

Martin looked up from wiping a small bronze memorial plaque in the back corner of the sanctuary. “Morning, Pru. Just doing a bit of polishing.”

Pru walked over to read the nameplate.

In Memoriam

James Stuart Chatters

1919—1999

Father, husband, friend to all

“Your dad?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah,” he said and smiled, pointing to his stepfather's name. “He and Mum are out in the churchyard, of course, but the community paid for this. He did a great deal for folks round here, during the war and after.”

“Maybe you have a few war mementos to add to the fête? Just for decoration.”

“My dad didn't fight—he had a problem with his eyesight—but he belonged to the Home Guard. He did his part and more.”

“Yes,” Pru said. “Everyone says so.”

“After the war, he became a policeman. Finished as detective inspector in Romsey.”

“And now here you are on the same path,” Pru said. “He must've been proud to see that.”

Martin blushed as he refolded his cloth.

The beep of a car horn drew Pru's attention. She took a quick look and said, “Oh good, there's Peachey with a basket from Evelyn—I've arrived just in time for tea break.”

Not quite—there was still work to be done. Pru and Martin joined Polly and Simon, PC Gerald, the vicar, Reverend Bernadette, and a few others moving long, heavy wooden tables. There would be crafters, spinners, and weavers, a display table for the parish fund, and a reader board titled “Our Village in the Second World War” made by third-years from the local primary school—second-graders to Pru.

At last they sat down to tea and Evelyn's scones with butter and strawberry jam, but everyone hesitated midbite when Stan appeared at the door. Simon rose first to greet him and pulled another chair over. “Here you are now,” he said, “just in time for a cuppa.”

“I'm canny like that,” Stan said, accepting the chair. “It's just, I wanted to stop in and say thanks to you all. You've been very kind about Jack—especially our Polly.” He raised his cup. “This'll have to do until I've a pint in my hand,” he said. “Cheers.”

“Jack,” Peachey said, and they all murmured the same and drank.

“He would've enjoyed all this, you know,” Stan said. “Jack was fascinated with the war and all that happened round here.”

“He came to see me, Stan,” Peachey said. “That afternoon. He found me down on Mill Lane, there in town—working on a fellow's Fiat Punto. Bad exhaust. Jack sat on the edge of my van, handing me a wrench or whatever I needed from my toolbox.”

Stan smiled. “That's good of you to tell me, Peachey. I thank you.”

After a lull, Martin asked, “Kitty not here today?”

“She'll be working on preparations for her apple cake, no doubt,” Simon said.

“First place again this year, do you think?” Polly asked. “Or will Evelyn edge her out, Peachey?”

Peachey grinned. “Ah, my Ev—she's game for a competition, but she's never minded coming in second place.”

There was a moment of silent disbelief before Stan started up.

“Kitty was always fond of Jack,” Stan said. “Very tolerant of all his plans and schemes. He stopped in to see her the day he died. Said he had something he wanted to discuss with Sonia, that duck of hers.” Stan gave a sad chuckle. “He was like that—always ready with a jest. He was very lighthearted.”

The vicar put her hand over Stan's, and he nodded to her. He set his hands flat on the table, pushed himself up, and said, “Well, then.”

Everyone took this as a signal to break up. Pru and Polly collected plates; the others stacked up chairs. Martin excused himself, saying he was needed elsewhere. Polly gave him a sly look. “We'll need to meet her one day soon, Martin, or we'll begin to think she's a figment of your imagination.”

Pru caught Stan before he left. “Are you sure you're all right—after yesterday?” She hadn't wanted to bring up the break-in in front of the others.

“What was the point of it, I wonder,” Stan said, shaking his head. “Pulling out old papers from the sideboard. It's not as if I've gold and silver hidden away. Would you tell Christopher that I went through it all again, and I can't find anything missing? Someone just wanted to make a mess.”

A few of them decamped to the Blackbird, and on the short walk up, Pru told Polly about her plans for the Greenoak Christmas.

Polly stopped in the road and gave Pru a hug. “What a wonderful idea,” she said. “I'll ring the girls this evening. Peppy has a fellow now—he's a bus driver out of Hastings with an ex-wife and a little daughter. Perhaps he could come for Boxing Day and bring the girl along.” She looked over her shoulder at Simon and Dick; they lagged behind and stood pointing across the road, talking about how low the river was for that time of year. “Martin asked if he could have a look round our house.”

Pru pivoted on the spot. “What?”

Polly kept her eyes on Simon. Pru could see her face tighten and a tic appear under her left eye. “He asked if Jack had been to the house, and if so, Martin would need to make sure he'd left nothing there.”

Have a look round?
Pru thought.
What kind of police jargon is that?
“Did you let him?”

“Jack hadn't been at the house. At first, Martin said he should have a look regardless, but I asked why and then he left it.” Polly stepped closer to Pru and looked into her eyes. “Is that proper—for the police, I mean?”

Not without a search warrant it isn't,
Pru thought, as she escaped close scrutiny by looking at her feet. “Investigations.” She shrugged to rid herself of the insidious fear creeping up her spine. “It's nothing to worry about.”
Let me do the worrying instead,
she thought. Pru took a deep breath and put her arm through Polly's. “Now, oh historian of Ratley, what's this about Kitty's dad?”

Polly smiled, and with a glance over her shoulder at Simon, turned and continued walking with Pru. “Len Wheeler was his name. I don't know much, really. He was injured early on in the war and spent the rest of it here at home. From all accounts, he wasn't a pleasant sort. And I've heard Stan say that he was a spiv.”

“A what?”

“A spiv—he dealt in the black market. He owned the pub. I suspect that was his stash in the Blackbird cellars,” Polly said, and then frowned. “No, maybe not. He was disabled—I don't think he could get round well. He certainly couldn't've got up and down those stairs.”

“Kitty doesn't say much.”

“Not surprising,” Polly said. “I've heard barely a word from Kitty about him, although she can rabbit on about the war years as well as Stan.”

“And Martin's stepfather?” Pru asked. “He was a local hero?”

“Saint Jimmy?” Polly said with a laugh. “He sounds too good to be true, doesn't he?”

Polly put her hand against the brass plate, pushed open the door of the Blackbird, and continued through to the shop to take up the postal window. Dick had left the trapdoor to the cellars open with a chair in front as a guard. Pru went directly downstairs, found what she wanted, and was back in the pub just as Simon walked in. “I'll have a half of the Double Drop, Dick,” Pru said. “Simon, you'll have a pint of bitter? We need to talk.”

His eyes cut around the pub, where a few people were scattered about, reading. Simon sighed and sat down.

With their drinks in front of them, she brought out the 1942 catalog. “Look,” she said, “Suttons' Seeds—we could find some of these same flower cultivars today, I'm sure we could. It'll be a place to start with the cutting garden.”

She almost laughed at the relief on his face.
Don't get too comfortable,
she thought, as she watched him flip the pages.

“Pinks,” he said, tapping a page. “What about pinks?”

“Would they flower next year? What about sweet William instead—they would be quicker. Did they have that Sooty in the '40s? It's lovely.”

“Yeah, yeah. Larkspur?”

“Definitely. Nigella—look.”

“God, the sweet peas,” he said. “They're all old, aren't they? Miss Willmott? Wiltshire Ripple?”

We gardeners are suckers when it comes to seed catalogs and the promise of glory,
Pru thought. They began a list.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Pru said, sticking a pen back in her bag. “Christmas. We're having Christmas at Greenoak. You, Polly, the girls, their boyfriends, Orlando and his parents—everyone. You'll all be there. I've already mentioned it to Polly.”

Simon stared at the page open to delphinium and didn't speak for a moment as the conversation edged close to family matters. Pru waited and at last he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “All right.”

“Simon, did you go to Greenoak that night?”

The question popped out before she could stop it. He started and stared at her for a moment and licked his lips. “I went by. I didn't stop, though, because I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything until daylight.”

“Why didn't you say that when Christopher asked you?”

“And call attention to being there when someone did that to Jack? How would that look?”

“How does it look now that you were seen coming out of the drive?”

“Who said that?”

“You didn't notice a car when you drove out?”

Simon frowned. “Has someone been talking?”

“Why was the spade on the lawn?”

“A spade? He wasn't—”

“Hit? No, but it had Jack's fingerprints on it. Have they taken your fingerprints yet?”

“Have they taken yours?” he responded hotly.

“Why aren't you answering my questions?” she asked.

“Why aren't you answering mine?”

This wasn't going well. “My fingerprints are already on file—the police've had them for ages.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh, right.”

“What was he even doing there? Was he looking for one of us?” she asked, almost to herself. “You didn't see anything?”

Simon shook his head. “I turned in, drove around, and out. All I saw was that heap of junk Peachey said he'd take away for us. And where was he?”

Pru looked at her brother. She didn't think she was supposed to reveal sources, and so, to avoid blurting out that it was Peachey who saw him, she jumped to another topic. “Look, about the dance next week.” The wary look returned to Simon's face. “You would be doing us all a favor if you'd get over to Birdie's house and get busy.”

“You've no right to bring that up.”

“I certainly do have a right, she was my…what?” Pru had worked it out once, and then forgot.

“Great-aunt. George was Mother's uncle—her father's brother. So, George was your…our great-uncle and Birdie, our great-aunt.” He looked down at the table.

“Why won't you do it? What's stopping you?”

Simon stood up, bumping against the table, which set the glasses wobbling. “I don't have to listen to this.”

“Sit down!”
The shock wave went round the pub, freezing all conversation. Simon sat down. Pru noticed Mrs. Whycher drying a glass and watching them with a smile on her face. “You bloody well will listen to me,” Pru hissed furiously. “You're making yourself and everyone around you miserable. If you can't face up to the past, then at least have a thought for your wife. Polly said she knows Birdie has boxes of clothes put away—she's seen them. At least let us borrow something for the dance.” Pru had formed a theory that if he could break through whatever kept him from facing Birdie's death—using the fancy-dress dance as an excuse—then he could begin to heal.

Simon stood up again and made for the door. Pru followed, unable to keep her voice down as he walked out. “Do you want your wife and your sister showing up Saturday evening wearing nothing at all?” she shouted at his back. “How would that make you feel?”

She stepped back into the pub. No one looked at her, but she could see that every bowed head tried to hide a smile.

Ursula Whycher didn't attempt to disguise hers. “Ah, Dicky,” she said to her son, “isn't that lovely? They remind me of you and Helen.”

“My older sister,” Dick said to Pru. “She's a right one to deal with.”

Pru took their empty glasses up to the bar, eyeing the few other customers scattered about, who had gone back to reading. “Dick,” she said quietly, “do you mind if I ask you about what you overheard between Jack and Simon? You know, the evening that Jack died.”