The Skeleton Garden (24 page)

She shut the door, breathing heavily, and leaned on it, regaining some sense. Really, there were far too many ghosts in that lane—Jack, Will. She glanced into the kitchen where Orlando sat with his laptop, looking up at her in alarm.

“Are you all right, Aunt Pru?”

She nodded and held out a hand, waiting until she could once again coordinate breathing and speaking. “Fine,” she wheezed at last. She nodded to his computer to distract him. “What are you working on?”

He grinned and pointed to the screen. “It's your website—want to have a look?”

She spent the next two hours learning about pixels, pages, click-throughs, live links, and hosts. They discussed content management, videos, and podcasts until her head swam—but at least it banished the ghosts.

When Christopher arrived home later, he barely spoke. He gave Pru a quick kiss and Orlando an admiring nod after glancing at the computer screen. He left to change clothes, and Pru heard their bedroom door close with a distant bang. So, she thought, that's how it went with Martin. She longed to follow him and hear details, but Orlando had finally arrived at talking about plants.

“Look, Aunt Pru,” he said, “you'll be able to search for a plant by time of year or by flower color or by location.” He clicked and the screen filled with bright orange flowers with a hummingbird in attendance.

Pru put a finger on the image. “The crocosmia is right, but we don't have hummingbirds in England, Orlando.”

“It's a placeholder, Aunt Pru. I pulled it off the web just for design purposes—just imagine that…All right, hang on.” In only a few seconds, the hummingbird had disappeared, and the crocosmia remained.

Past seven, as they left for their meal in town, they met Peachey dropping Evelyn off to begin her own baking. Christopher and Orlando got in the car and buckled up—deep in a conversation about the reliability of the Internet in gathering evidence—but Pru lagged behind, looking over her shoulder and imagining how tired Evelyn must be at the end of her day. The kitchen, ablaze with lights, illuminated Pru's feelings of inadequacy.

They were seated and had ordered their meals. Orlando was busy with his phone, and Pru could wait no longer. “Your meeting?”

Christopher had recovered his even temper by the time he'd come downstairs at the house, but a hardness returned to his face at her question. He shook his head and took her hand. “And you—how was your afternoon?”

She smiled and nodded. “Church hall is ready. Stalls are filled. Competition table, waiting for entries.” The competition—she lost her smile and began rearranging utensils with her free hand. She could feel the intensity of Christopher's gaze on her and tried to explain. “It's just that, well, here I am, fancy free and out for a meal while Evelyn's back at Greenoak. She's getting a late start on her own baking, because she spent all afternoon helping Kitty with her apple cakes.”

“Did you want to stay?” Christopher asked.

“Pah,” Pru scoffed. “I'd be more hindrance than help. You know that, I know that—Evelyn knows that.” Orlando looked up, and she shrugged. “I'm useless in the kitchen, as you may have noticed.” She allowed a heavy sigh to escape as she settled into a vat of self-pity.

“Doesn't mean you can't learn,” her nephew said. “Simon taught me how to plant a shrub today. He said that before you put it into the ground, you have to cut off all the roots that have grown in a circle inside the pot, or it won't do well. That was a surprise—I wouldn't've thought you should touch any of that business. But now, give me a pair of sharp secateurs and I'm on it. That'll be you before long, Aunt Pru—joint of beef, chicken-and-ham pie, spaghetti Bolognese, chocolate gateaux”—a server passed their table carrying a plate of lobster linguine and Orlando inhaled deeply—“I'm starving,” he said.

The house was dark and the kitchen clean when they returned to Greenoak. A scent of ginger lingered in the air. Pru went up directly and was looking in on her dress, tucked at the back of the wardrobe, when Christopher came in and sat on the edge of the bed as she got undressed.

“And so?” she asked. “Martin?”

“He's quite sorry, he said, for what he's done and what he hasn't done. He appreciates my guidance and wants to improve.” Christopher blinked into the distance.

“He said just what he thought you wanted to hear, in other words,” Pru said.

A small nod. “There was something else—he was jumpy, a bit distracted. He couldn't quite focus on the points of the conversation.”

“And what was the information he had for you?”

“He's pointing the finger at Dick this time.”

“Dick?”

“Martin says that Jack had been talking to Dick about the Blackbird—that Dick had borrowed heavily, is in trouble financially, and Jack was about to expose him.”

Pru let this information sift through her brain, hoping it would catch on the peg of a rebuttal. Christopher stood and shed his jacket. “Martin was at the pub the night Jack died.”

He opened the wardrobe door, but Pru took his jacket, hung it up for him, and led him away. The dress was meant to be a surprise for tomorrow.

“Yes,” she said, “Dick told me that Martin was there to look round the cellars. Dick said it was because it reminded Martin of his dad.”

“When Martin came up from the cellars—this was late, after eleven. Dick wasn't behind the bar.”

“Where was he?” Pru whispered, waiting for the brick to fall.

Christopher shrugged. “He appeared again about twenty minutes later, Martin said, but didn't say where he'd been.”

“Didn't Martin ask him?”

“Another missed opportunity.”

“It's funny,” Pru said, taken back to the night they found Jack's body. “I thought Martin was out on a date that evening. Polly and I have had this idea he has a girlfriend and he's too shy to tell anyone about her. Or bring her round.”

“I'll need to look into the Blackbird's finances, but that'll have to wait until Monday.”

“Nonsense, you don't need to wait. I'll ask Polly—she must do their books.” Christopher didn't respond, but she could see the battle in his eyes—proper police procedure versus getting what was needed as soon as possible. She put a hand on his arm. “Pretend I never said that.”

Pru stood over the enormous range in the church hall kitchen fanning herself with a tea towel as she heated the industrial-size kettle yet again to brew up more pots of tea. They were a thirsty crowd at the fête. She had taken a short break from her duties to watch the local Morris dancers out in the lane, bought a few scarves from the weavers to send off to friends for Christmas, and eaten a sandwich standing in the doorway as she observed the judges sampling the cakes.

She had cornered Reverend Bernadette, who coordinated the competition, in the kitchen first thing that morning. “Could you keep my name out of the hat? I can't be a judge.”

“Ah now, Pru,” the reverend had said, “everyone must do her part, you know.”

“Please, no, you don't understand—”she had swallowed hard, searching for some excuse that might gain traction, and rushed on—“it's because I live at Greenoak. Wouldn't it look as if I…helped Evelyn? If it looked as if one of the judges had a hand in her cake, she would be disqualified, and I would never want that.”

Bernadette had arched an eyebrow at that. “Would your cooking be mistaken for Evelyn's? I hear you're to start lessons in the new year.”

Pru had been struck dumb at the power of village gossip. “I…um…”

“Not to worry,” the reverend had said, breaking out in a smile. “I'm only winding you up. Vernona never wanted be a judge, either, so consider yourself off the hook.”

Now Pru watched from the sidelines, rooting for ginger cake one moment and apple cake the next, as the judges chewed, discussed, and jotted down notes.

When three o'clock came and it was time to award the prizes, Kitty and Evelyn arrived together, driven to the hall by Peachey. More than two bakers entered the competition, but the others knew they were only wannabes, and stood clustered to one side of the stage to allow Evelyn and Kitty room to wait as royalty should.

Pru had trouble keeping still, her nerves about the competition getting the best of her. She had caught sight of Stan out of the corner of her eye, adding a tot of something to his teacup, and she wished she'd been close enough to hold her own cup out.

A commotion out in the churchyard drew her attention. Sonia had accompanied Jemima to the fair, and when the duck spotted Orlando lounging under the lych-gate, she made a beeline for him, quacking up a storm. Pru stepped out and was brokering a peace when she heard a burst of applause in the hall—she'd missed the announcement. She ran in and saw both Evelyn and Kitty in the front of the hall, faces flushed red and smiling.

“Who won?” she asked one of the weavers standing by the door.

The weaver wasn't a local. “There was a first for the apple cake, and then another first for the ginger cake. It was a tie. How often does that happen?”

“I think it's a first,” Pru said.

“Jemima and I are going to help Mrs. Bassett set up an email account,” Orlando said. He sat on a counter in the church kitchen with a slice of winning cake in each hand. “Can you imagine she didn't have one before?”

“Shocking,” Pru said.

“We'll go the dance from there, is that all right?”

Orlando had donned one of his more lively charity-shop outfits—lime green trousers and a pale yellow jumper with a red plaid shirt underneath. She stopped short of asking, “Are you going to wear that?” and instead replied, “Of course. We'll see you at the Blackbird later.”

Christopher and Simon arrived in time to admire the stalls, have tea and cake, and congratulate the happy winners before starting in on the cleanup. Pru grabbed her coat and waved as they began shifting tables. Polly awaited her at Greenoak to get ready for the evening.

Pru and Polly began preparations by taking a couple of gin and tonics into the bedroom, where they pulled wing chairs to the window, propped their weary feet up on the sill, and relived the day in non sequiturs.

“Kitty was so pleased that she and Evelyn had made up that she wanted to give Ev the first she got for her apple cake. Ev wouldn't take it, said Kitty deserved a first, her cake was as excellent as ever. It was a mutual admiration society,” Pru said.

“Did you see those lovely mohair jumpers?”

“I ended up with a stoat made out of buttons.”

“Reverend Bernadette was selling patchwork pinnies she sewed from tea towels.”

“I bought one for Evelyn.”

“If I kept a few Angora goats, I could sell the wool to the spinners. How hard could that be?” Polly speculated. “Might fund a holiday.”

“It could do,” Pru agreed. “Polly, is Dick doing all right with the Blackbird and the shop?”

“He is, indeed. He had a downturn for a while back, but the last year or two he's been doing quite well—a real success story when you think how many pubs are closing. He brought in a new chef and reworked the menu, and now he's got three stars on the ‘Real Pubs with Fine Food in Hampshire' website.”

Pru was happy to lay that flimsy accusation of Martin's to rest. He only skimmed the surface of the inquiry, Pru thought, never asking enough questions to lead to guilt or innocence.

“We'd best get to work,” Polly said, draining her glass and sitting up. She reached over to her bag and pulled out a plastic box. “Hairpins.”

After Polly left, Pru stood in front of the bedroom mirror taking in her transformation. The dress was perfect, necklace and earrings beautiful, and her hair appropriately retro. A victory roll, Polly called it, the perfect style for a 1940s party. At either temple and running from ear to ear at the base of her neck, Polly had wound up Pru's hair into what looked very much like fat sausages, which she then secured with a massive amount of hairpins. Pru's hair wasn't the most manageable—it had a mind of its own and tended to frizz in high humidity—but it was behaving so far. When she heard the door open, she twirled, so that Christopher could get the full effect. He broke out in an enormous smile.

“My God,” he said.

“Can you believe it?” She laid the palms of her hands on her skirt. “It's a group effort,” she said, and told him about Kitty's parachute dress and Polly's skills with a hairpin. She turned her back to him and looked over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

Christopher's eyes took in her hair, the dress, and drifted down to her bare legs, where, running up the middle of each calf, was a dark brown line. He blinked a few times, and his gaze flickered up to her face and back down again. He swallowed. “Are you wearing stockings?”

His voice was hoarse, and caused a surge of heat to shoot up through Pru's body—along with a giggle that escaped before she could stop it. She took hold of the back of her skirt with both hands and slowly lifted it, until he could see that, just above her knees, the brown seam stopped.

“Polly said we should be authentic,” she said. “Stockings were terribly difficult to get hold of during the war, and so women drew seams on to make it look as if they were wearing them. It's only eyebrow pencil.” She nodded to where the stick lay on her dressing table. “Sorry.”

Christopher walked closer and stood behind her. He leaned over, and began tracing one of the brown lines on her bare legs with the tip of a finger, starting at her heel. Her skin tingled as he slowly followed the trail until the line petered out, after which his finger struck out on its own around to the front of her thigh, where it continued its upward journey.

Pru closed her eyes. “Christopher, they'll be expecting us at the pub.” She made no move to stop him.

“Will they?” he asked as he stood, his hand caught up under her skirt. She let out a tiny gasp. “When? When will they be expecting us?” His lips were to her ear and his voice barely a murmur.

She unbuttoned his shirt, and put her arms inside and around his waist. She kissed his chest and could feel his heart beat under her lips. “In a while,” she said. “Later.” He lifted her dress off and laid it over the chair. “Be careful of my hair,” she whispered. “But, you know, not too careful.”