The Garden Plot (28 page)

Neither a shower nor a glass of wine made her sleepy, though. She got in bed and stared at the ceiling, her head a jumble of images—Jeremy’s body, the letter, Mrs. Wilson telling her to go away, Christopher kissing her goodbye. The night seemed interminable.

She must have slept, if only briefly, because she had a nightmare. She dreamed she was back at work in Dallas; Marcus was handing her a spade that had blood on it and a wide-brimmed hat to wear against the sun. He told her she needed to prune the roses. Then Malcolm rose out of a pelican’s beak, took the shovel from her, and raised it above his head. She woke up with a shout, sweating. She heard the
click
of a door closing downstairs.

Afraid even to breathe, she crept out of bed and stood, slightly unsteady, in the doorway listening. Silence. After a few minutes, she reached for her clothes and, still standing in the doorway, put them on as quietly as possible.
Quiet clothes,
she thought.
Maybe there are badgers downstairs.
She shook her head to clear it and thought,
no, that’s not right. There are no badgers in Chelsea.
She listened again. Silence still.

Not a creak came from the stairs as she made her way down to the kitchen. Nothing seemed disturbed. She checked all the doors and windows, just as she had the day she got back from the country. Everything was locked up tight. She put her hand on the basement doorknob; that, too, remained locked. Her uneasiness subsided but only a fraction.

It was just growing light, and she wondered if it were too early to phone Christopher. She made a cup of tea, and it sat cooling as she stared at her phone. Seven messages; she didn’t listen to them.

She needed action. Grabbing her bag and phone, she headed for the door, dialing Christopher’s number while she walked down the front step. Looking up for a second, she saw Malcolm walking across the road toward her. In surprise, her bag slipped out of her hand. She bent down to pick it up, and when she stood up again, Pru saw Malcolm with his hands stretched out just before lights flashed in front of her eyes, and everything went dark.

When she opened her eyes, the world appeared in a mist of amorphous shapes. One of the shapes slowly formed itself into Christopher, who held her hand, peered into her face, and said, “Pru? How do you feel?”

In a flash, she remembered the letter, placed carefully between the pages of
Beautiful Italy
and stuffed under the cushion of the chintz sofa in her town house, and knew she must not keep this from him any longer, even if it meant giving up evidence against Mr. Wilson.
Christopher, I have the letter, the one that Jeremy emailed Mr. Wilson about. It’s what’s buried under the mosaic that’s the important part. I’ll explain why I did it, but first, you must get the letter. It’s under the sofa.

“Sofa.”

Christopher peered at her more closely. “Sofa, Pru? No, you are not at home—you’re in hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

Of course I remember what happened; I hid the letter under the sofa cushion, and I’ve been so worried about telling you and what you might think about Mr. Wilson, I didn’t eat or sleep. This morning I left. I tried to phone you on my way out the door. I saw Malcolm across the road, watching me. Then … then I don’t remember what happened, and I woke up here. But I’m okay, and you need to go to my house and look under the cushion of the sofa to find the letter.

“Sofa.”

Her vision began to clear, and she saw Christopher glance over at a nurse on the other side of the bed. “She thinks she’s on a sofa. Do you think her mind was affected by the fall? Will she be all right?”

“She’s just waking up, and she’s had a light sedative,” the nurse replied as she walked out. “Give her a few minutes, and she’ll be fine.”

Christopher looked back into Pru’s face, and then she saw, over his shoulder, Malcolm appear with a smile of concern that made Pru break out into a cold sweat.

“Pru, you had quite a fall on your step,” Malcolm said. “Good thing I was just across the road and saw you. I rang for an ambulance, and they brought you here. Do you remember that?”

Christopher, I don’t know how much Malcolm knows, and I don’t know why he was at my house this morning. If he didn’t do it, then I think he might know who did. It
could’ve been Alf, but it couldn’t have been Mr. Wilson. Please don’t think he could murder Jeremy. But Malcolm knows more than he’s saying.

“Malcolm.”

“Yes,” Christopher said, looking relieved. “Malcolm is here, he saw you faint on your front steps, and he rang 999 and then me. Good thing your head hit your bag and not the pavement.” He reached up and touched her hair.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Malcolm said. “I’ll be off now. I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as he left, Pru got her mouth in working order. “I have to get out of here,” she said. She started to push the hospital blanket off her and saw the IV in her right arm. “Please find a doctor or nurse. I’m fine, I just fainted because I hadn’t eaten in … a day or so.”

“Why be in such a hurry?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you rest?”

“No, Christopher, I can’t. There’s something … I could rest better at home.” She thought that sounded like a logical argument and tried to stand up.

“All right, all right, stay here. I’ll go find someone, and we’ll see if they’ll send you home.” He got up and started for the door, but Pru reached out her left hand.

“No, don’t leave me.”

He came to her, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “I won’t leave you, don’t worry.” Pru giggled. “Oh, not what you meant, is it?”

She giggled some more. “No. Yes—I mean, thank you, that’s very sweet. But I have to tell you something, show you something.” She began to feel nervous. “You have to understand … Can we leave now?”

“Wait, let me find someone,” he said. Giving her hand a squeeze, he walked into the hall, leaving Pru to think through what she must say to him.

He returned in a few minutes with a doctor in tow, and Pru presented her case for release.

“Ms. Parke, you were dehydrated when you arrived here. And when was the last time you ate?” the doctor asked.

“That’s why I fainted—how silly of me—I hadn’t had very much to eat since breakfast yesterday.” Nothing, that is, since half a piece of toast and one bite of currant cake. “But the detective chief inspector will make sure I eat when I go home, won’t you?” she asked Christopher, desperate for him to use whatever weight his office could throw around.

“If she is well enough to leave hospital, then I will certainly make sure she’s looked after,” he said.

The doctor agreed there was no need for Pru to remain if she would go home, drink plenty of fluids, eat something, and rest. Christopher waited out in the hall—on his phone—while the nurse took out the IV and helped her get dressed. It took a while to get her discharged, and while they waited, Pru stretched out on the bed and dozed off. She awoke to Christopher holding her hand up to his lips, watching her. She smiled, remembered what she needed to tell him, and the smile left her face.

Finally, paperwork finished, they made their way down to the street. Pru was surprised to see it was almost evening. They took a cab from the hospital; Christopher had left his car at the station, as it had been quicker to dash to the hospital in a patrol car with lights when he’d heard from Malcolm.

As they got closer to her house, her anxiety and fear returned. She kept trying to think of a good way to explain to him why she took the letter and how she believed that Harry Wilson did not kill Jeremy. Although she’d found Mr. Wilson in a state of mild hysteria yesterday, digging in the shed, it was with the fervor of an archaeologist who wanted to learn, not profit—and he had come to his senses. Christopher took her hand, and she gave him a quick smile while a jumbled mess of an explanation clogged up her mind. He looked worried.

Once inside, he tried to get her to settle down on the sofa, but the second she sat down, she jumped up again—it was the cushion with the letter underneath. He put his hands on her arms to try to hold her still. “All right, Pru, now we’re here, and you can tell me what happened yesterday. I tried to phone you. I came by—I didn’t know where you were.”

“I saw you,” she said, staring over his shoulder, remembering the image from the night before. “I was standing at the far corner of the square, and I saw you walking away from the door. It was late.”

“I came by three times looking for you, the last time near midnight. Come, sit down and tell me.” She reached under the cushion and drew out the book with the letter inside, but didn’t sit down.

She held the book close, tried to steady her breathing, and began. “I was in the basement at the Wilsons’ when you arrived yesterday.” Christopher remained still, but she felt herself trembling all over and couldn’t stop. “I heard you ask Mr. Wilson about an email and a letter from Jeremy …”

“Go on.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.” She could only whisper, her breathing becoming irregular. “I thought that it would look as if … I trust you, Christopher,” she pleaded with him to believe her, “but I thought maybe if things went a little slower, if you didn’t
find the letter right away, I might be able to help get some information, and then …” She felt a rising hysteria and tried to take big breaths, hoping to retain some control, but the breaths turned into sobs. “I took the letter—it’s here.” She opened the book to show the letter safely tucked inside and handed it all to him.

“I know it looks bad, but I know you will be fair about this. I can’t believe that Harry Wilson would murder his friend.” She gasped for breath between sobs. “You said that they don’t need the money—they have loads. He’s not greedy. He would want to share whatever the discovery is with the world.”

Christopher set the book and letter down on the sofa and wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down. “All right, all right, I know you’re afraid for them.”

“They don’t need the money, and you said that money is usually a good motive for murder,” she said, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Yes”—he stroked her hair—“money is a fine motive for murder.”

Pru laughed and sobbed again before her breathing began to steady. Calmer now that her terrible secret was out, she said, “You don’t believe he did it, do you?”

Christopher watched her closely. “Harry rang me this morning to tell me what happened last night.”

Pru looked at him with alarm. “You mean, that I stopped by and … talked with him?”

“He said that he wanted to confess”—Pru began to protest, but Christopher went on—“to knowing about the letter. And that he got carried away when he found out what might be under the mosaic, and that you stopped him before he went too far. He tried to stall yesterday when I first asked about the letter.”

Still guilt-ridden, Pru couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “He knew I was downstairs.”

“That’s what he told me today. He said you would tell me what happened, but as I was at that moment sitting beside you in hospital while you slept, I knew I’d have to wait awhile.”

“Were you there the whole time?” she asked.

“I had to leave briefly. You were asleep when I left and asleep when I arrived back, so I hoped I hadn’t missed much.”

“You don’t need to watch over me every minute,” she said, grateful that he had.

“I want to keep you safe,” he said, emphasizing every word, “and I want to do my job. It’s becoming a little difficult to do both.”

“I’m more trouble than I’m worth?” she said, half serious, half in jest.

He gave a little laugh and pulled her close. “Not quite. But you do make my life more interesting than I could’ve imagined.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. She breathed deeply and settled her head back against his chest. They were quiet for a moment.

“Better?”

“Yes,” she whispered and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Now, we’ll sit down and you can explain everything to me. Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“But first, I promised the doctor that you would eat. Does Gasparetti’s do takeaway? I could phone him.”

“I don’t know if he does takeaway, but he has a lovely minestrone.” Pru firmly believed in the restorative properties of soup. “I’ll just go splash some cold water on my face. Could you pour us some wine?” He cocked his head at her. “I’ll just sip a little until the food gets here. I’m feeling much better.”

Christopher pulled out his phone as he walked into the kitchen. Pru dashed in the loo.

It was worse than she thought. She stared in the mirror at her swollen eyes and blotchy face. She blew her nose furiously, and said aloud, “Oh, God, Pru, could you look any worse?” Cold water felt good on her face, but did little for her looks. She rinsed her mouth with a tiny squirt of toothpaste and dabbed a bit of pink gloss on her lips. She reached in a drawer for an extra hair clip—her usual clip lost in the chaos of the past two days—combed it through her hair, twisted, and reclipped. She looked in the mirror again. Little had changed. “Yes, now, didn’t that just do the trick?”

When she came out, she found Christopher on the sofa; on the coffee table in front of him sat one large glass of water and two glasses of wine.

When she sat down, he kissed her softly on the cheek and rubbed her back. She blushed and said, “Crying is such an attractive activity, don’t you think?” He kissed her again. “Is the water for me?” she asked.

“Yes, it is.”

She picked up the water glass. “Cheers,” she said and drank down half of it. “There now, that went down a treat.”

He smiled. “How much Latin do you know?” he asked.

“I know loads of Latin,” she replied. “Ask me the name of any plant, go ahead.”

He gave her an odd look. “Prunella—your name is Latin. It’s a plant, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “I’m named after a medicinal herb called selfheal. My mother always told me I could do for myself just fine.”

“Could you read this?”

“Not a word. Except for picking out Hadrian’s name.”

He had found his reading glasses and removed the letter from its plastic sleeve, opening it to the second page, the one written in Latin: