The Garden Plot (7 page)

Mr. Wilson stepped to the window for more light and held it in the palm of his hand, turning it over to see the reverse. His hand began to tremble.

Pru stood up and insinuated herself between Pearse and Mr. Wilson to get a better view. “Mr. Wilson, what is it?”

He held his palm out for her to see. The coin still had dirt on it. “It appears to be a Roman coin, a sestertius, a brass coin. Look.” He pointed at the raised image in profile, a man with curly hair. “That’s Hadrian. You can see his name along the edge, ‘Hadrianus.’ And on the reverse”—he turned the bag and coin over—“it’s an image of Britannia.” He could have been giving a college lecture.

“Excuse me, Ms. Parke.” Pearse leaned over and took the bag out of Mr. Wilson’s hand. “Is this authentic?”

“I’m unable to verify that.” Mr. Wilson’s manner became businesslike, although Pru saw that his hand, now at his side, still shook. “Where did it come from?”

“Mr. Pendergast had it clutched in his hand,” Pearse said as he put the bag in his pocket. Pru sat down again, feeling light-headed at the thought. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Well, I … he …” Mr. Wilson stumbled over the straightforward question, but Mrs. Wilson cut in.

“You were out at the dig together until yesterday.” She turned to Pearse. “They were out at the dig until yesterday, near Bishop’s Cleeve in Gloucestershire, and they were supposed to stay until Sunday but Harry decided to come back and take a look at the tiles.” She turned to Pru. “You didn’t do anything wrong, dear. How could you know something so dreadful would happen? I really thought we should do something about the garden even if Jeremy said to leave it be—well, the state of it—and it’s a good start, really it is.” She reached over and patted Pru on the knee.

Pru felt quite breathless after that explanation, which seemed to leave more questions in the air.

“Why didn’t Mr. Pendergast want the garden done up?” asked Pearse. He glanced out the window. “And what exactly did you do to it?”

Pru raised an eyebrow. She’d had only two days, after all. “I cleared out the entire back of ivy and planted all the pots on the terrace in two days—to get it ready for Mrs. Wilson’s luncheon yesterday.”

“An entire garden renovation in two days?” Pearse asked.

Pru’s eyes narrowed. Was he making fun of her? “I don’t do instant makeovers,” she said. “It’s a start on a larger project.”

Mrs. Wilson brought their attention back to the murder victim. “Harry, you showed Jeremy the mosaic Pru found in the shed?” Then she said to Pearse, “When I told Harry on the phone about the Roman tiles, he was very excited, and that’s why he and Jeremy wanted to come back. I hope that Jeremy got a good look at them before …”

Mr. Wilson set his cup down with a clatter. “Yes, Vernona, he did get to see them. You see, Inspector, Jeremy would have been very interested in any Roman ruins found here, as that was one of our main interests. We’ve been down to Fishbourne many times, studying what they’ve found, and we go off on amateur digs, helping out the professionals from time to time.”

“Would he have wanted to dig up the back garden? Excavate the whole area?”
asked Pru. She had a fleeting thought of her garden design. “Or maybe he would’ve sold the house?”

“Oh, no, dear,” Mrs. Wilson said, “Jeremy doesn’t own this house. No one owns anything around here except the earl.”

Outside the window, movement caught their attention, and they all turned to see the body, zipped up in a bag and laid out on a stretcher, being carried out of the shed, up to the back door. They heard the procession come into the hall, and saw it pass straight to the front door.

“Ms. Parke, would you take me out and show me these tiles?” asked Pearse. Pru felt sure he’d already been out to see the mosaic and hoped he wouldn’t take this opportunity to accuse her of jeopardizing artifacts from ancient Rome, too.

As they walked out, Pearse exchanged bits of information with some of his workers. Then he said to Pru quietly, “The earl Mrs. Wilson mentioned is the Earl of Cadogan. He owns much of Chelsea and Kensington. Most people just let from him.”
That’s a lot of rent to collect,
thought Pru. Pearse continued, “Fishbourne is down in Sussex, a Roman palace …”

“With a garden,” Pru interrupted him. “Parts of Fishbourne were discovered in about 1830, but nothing much was done until the 1960s. When they excavated, they discovered not just the palace, but the garden, too. The Romans brought ornamental gardening to England, and at Fishbourne they found the outlines of the original garden, then planted it up with boxwood hedges and fruit trees, modeled on the way that Pliny described his own first-century garden and the way Fishbourne might have looked.”

Pru realized she’d started to lecture, but she felt as if she needed to show Pearse that she knew something about the country. He had stopped and listened to her without interrupting. She shrugged. “I’ve been to see it. It’s amazing.”

She stopped at the door of the shed; Pearse stepped in and turned back to her. “If you could just be careful where you step.” She had trampled much of the crime scene already, so she picked her way in delicately.

Inside, battery-powered lights had been clipped up so that everyone could see everything, including the large, dark bloodstain on the ground, just next to where Pru had uncovered the tiles. She looked away and brushed off her bottom, praying she didn’t have any spots of blood on her trousers from Jeremy’s body.

“The soil was loose there”—she gestured without looking—“and I dug down about a foot and hit something hard. I wanted to find out if there was a foundation for the shed, in case the Wilsons wanted a barbecue out here. It was easy to dig a wide enough hole, and I saw the mosaic, little black and white tiles, and some red ones, too. I kept
brushing away the soil and it looked like a swirly picture of the back end of a horse. I showed Mrs. Wilson.” Pru took a breath and looked over at the area. “But I didn’t uncover this much. And it looks as if someone has dug out more under the edge of the mosaic.”

“And which spade did you find on the ground?”

“That one. Have I destroyed evidence? You’ll find my fingerprints on the handle. Do you think I covered up the murderer’s prints?” She thought for a moment. “You’ll find my fingerprints on the door latch, too, won’t you?”

“And your footprints on the ground outside and in here,” Pearse said, as if taking account of all the ways Pru had disturbed the scene. “You won’t be out here again anytime soon, will you?”

Yes,
Pru thought,
I live to compromise murder scenes.
“Not until I’m allowed.” She drew herself up. There went the big account, the big garden project, the big paycheck. “How long will that be?”

“A few days, at least. You can ring me to be sure, before you start making your own Sissinghurst here.” He handed Pru a business card as he spotted the pile of leaves in the far corner.

Pru followed his gaze. “Is that more evidence? I didn’t go in that corner.” At least she had left one corner undisturbed.

Pearse stepped around the bloodstained soil and bent down to look more closely. “Look at that, a hedgehog nest. Now, there’s a reason to leave an untidy corner of the garden—give them some space of their own. Looks like last winter’s nest, it’s empty now.” Pru observed Pearse observing the hedgehog nest: he looked nothing like an inspector now, rather more like a naturalist in the country. Now she could see where those smile lines came from.

“Is there still a scent?” Pru asked. “Toffee growled a little the first day I was out here. Maybe that’s what he growled about.”

“Toffee?”

“Toffee Woof-Woof,” Pru said, trying not to smile, “the Wilsons’ dog. He must be upstairs in a bedroom right now.” She gestured back to the house.

Pru swore she could see a ghost of a smile on Pearse’s face.

“It’s possible, if the hedgehogs have been back round here,” he said. “Toffee might have picked up the scent.”

“At first, I thought it might be a badger,” Pru said.

“Badger? In Chelsea? Might as well look for a unicorn, too.” He stood up and was once again a police officer.

Overcoming her reluctance to look at the bloody stain on the soil, Pru peered over at the dug-out area around the mosaic. “Hmmm,” she said.

Pearse looked at the ground, too, and then up at her. “What do you see?”

“The soil looks quite damp there in the hole.” She started to step closer and stopped. “Is it all right if I check?”

“Go ahead.”

Pru knelt down and saw on closer inspection that the soil wasn’t just damp, it was wet, and looked as if it got wetter the farther down it went. She reached down, gathered up a handful of soil, and squeezed. Dirty water dripped out.

“Malcolm, the neighbor in back, said he tried to grow roses against his wall down here and they died. He thought it was too wet. I wonder, could there be a stream running underground here?”

“I don’t know, Ms. Parke. Perhaps that’s something you’ll discover when you make your garden here.” Pru sensed an approaching dismissal. “You can go for now, but please take your passport by the station.”

She walked back into the kitchen, where the Wilsons had remained on the sofa.

“Mrs. Wilson, I’ll be going now,” Pru said. “Would you like the key to the basement back?”

“Not at all, dear, we still want a garden—although I suppose we’ll need to sort that out with Xanthe, Jeremy’s widow. Ex. Well, never mind. We’ll just wait until all this is finished. Would you like another cup of tea?”

“No, thanks. Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you, Pru. And I’m sorry I frightened you.”

Pearse stepped back into the room, his attention on the Wilsons. Pru tried to blend into the scenery, staying near the door, hoping to hear more that would help her understand what had happened.

“Mr. Wilson, what time did Mr. Pendergast leave yesterday evening?” Pearse asked.

“It was just before seven, I believe. We were getting ready for dinner.”

“More of a tea than dinner,” Mrs. Wilson cut in. “Really, after getting ready for my luncheon yesterday, I didn’t have a moment to cook. And Mary had left some cold chicken for us.”

“Who is Mary?” Pearse asked.

“Mary comes in a few mornings a week to help out, but I’m always here. She doesn’t have a key,” Mrs. Wilson explained.

Pearse turned back to Mr. Wilson. “Did you know Mr. Pendergast was coming
back to the house? Did you have any contact with him later yesterday evening or early this morning?”

“I didn’t see him again.” Mr. Wilson looked out at the shed, not at Pearse. “He saw the mosaic yesterday, and then we covered it back up. He left in the early evening.”

“There’s no sign of a forced entry, and the basement door to the street was locked.”

“Jeremy had his own keys to the house and basement, of course,” Mrs. Wilson said. “But he always rang before he came. He was very considerate that way.”

Pearse looked into the hall, handed the plastic bag to a policeman, and noticed Pru. “Did you need something else, Ms. Parke?”

Pru had no answer, but escaped eviction when one of the police workers came to the door. “Sir? There’s a neighbor here. He wants to talk with you.”

“Yes, ask him to come in here, if that’s all right.” Pearse turned to the Wilsons and ignored Pru. Malcolm walked in.

“Harry, Vernona, how terrible this is about Jeremy. Oh, is there tea, Vernona?” Without a word or greeting, Mrs. Wilson turned to put the kettle back on for a fresh pot.

“Are you the inspector? I’m Malcolm Crisp—I live just to the back. I’m sure you’ve got every bit of information already. Do you have any idea who did this?”

Pearse turned to the new arrival. “Mr. Crisp, we’ve just started the investigation. Did you see or hear anything unusual during the night or early this morning?” he asked.

“I don’t really keep a constant eye out the window,” Malcolm said—Pru noticed the Wilsons glance at each other. “Of course, I’m sure Harry already told you about the argument he had with Jeremy last evening out in the shed.”

“Did you and Mr. Pendergast argue, Mr. Wilson?” Pearse asked.

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing.” Malcolm’s voice contained just a trace of delight. “Just some loud voices, that’s all. I couldn’t really hear what was said, just snatches of phrases:—‘Not yet,’ and ‘I won’t let you jeopardize,’ and something about ‘What it’s worth.’ ”

“Jeremy and I discussed how to go about examining what might be there.” Mr. Wilson’s face colored up, and Pru noticed he avoided using the words “Roman” and “mosaic.” “There’s no question that it needs to be looked at, and we discussed … how best to go about that. We talked—perhaps we were loud. That’s … that’s all.”

The policeman with the plastic bag stepped in the doorway and spoke quietly with Pearse, who turned to the Wilsons. “Mr. Pendergast’s door key was still with him, and the basement door was locked. You say no one else could’ve come through?”

Silence filled the room, until Pearse noticed Pru still standing near the door. “Ms.
Parke?” he said sharply.

“Yes, Inspector, goodbye. Mrs. Wilson …”

“Pru, dear, I’ll see you tomorrow morning for coffee, shall I?”

Pru accepted graciously and then left before Pearse had her removed forcibly.

Just as well,
she thought. The Nethercotts’ topiary awaited her—seven geometric shapes, from balls to pyramids—dotted around their back garden. The Nethercotts had great hopes of turning the shapes into something more fanciful. First they had requested the center plant to be turned into a crown—they were proud monarchists—and next they thought that the two on either side of the crown could be quickly changed into lyres. After that, they hoped she could transform the balls into peacocks.
Everyone wants a peacock,
Pru thought.

They’d also asked if she could secure a window shutter; many clients assumed that if the chore took place outdoors, the gardener could do it. She needed to sift through the events of the morning, but garden tasks had piled up in the few days since she’d taken the Wilsons on, and if she wasn’t going to be raking in the money on their new garden, she’d better continue her other gigs. Standing at the bus stop, she pulled out her phone. She had to tell someone.