Pru was up and out of the house almost before it was light the next morning. No time left to attempt a large project before editor Jacinta Bloom and entourage arrived for lunch, and so she busied herself with minor chores—sweeping the walk, straightening rows of nursery pots. She stamped her feet on the stone path, trying to shake the cold. Her fingers were numb as she pinched a few withered leaves off a passionflower vine trained against the wall. She checked to see if the yellow flower spikes of the mahonia had started to open. Just.
Simon emerged from the gloom. He’d been down the hornbeam walk and now stood looking at the bed where they’d planted the tulips and set out two hundred forget-me-not starts that looked like green dots against the dark soil. “We should’ve put something in here for winter,” he said when he looked up and saw Pru.
Pru stuck her hands in her pockets. “Best not to think of that now. Let’s go in.” They met Peachey coming out the kitchen door. “You go on,” she said to Simon, and accompanied Peachey to his van.
“Just collecting Ev’s shopping list,” he said, tucking his wool scarf inside his jacket. “But don’t worry, I won’t show until your magazine visitors have gone.”
Pru shook her head, glancing around the yard and wondering what it would look like to a stranger’s eyes. “You come back any time that’s convenient,” she said. “They aren’t the royal family. Listen, Peachey, you remember that you saw Simon here the night that Jack died?”
Peachey’s eyes flickered toward the kitchen and back to Pru. “I did indeed. He came out of the drive as I was about to go in.”
“And you were stopping by, because…” She waited for him to pick up the sentence.
“I finally had the time and the room in the van to collect the garden things for the jumble sale,” he said. “I’m sorry it took me so long. But that evening, I thought I’d better do it while I could.” He squinted down at her. “You don’t think anyone minded, do you? That I had a look round?”
“Had a look round where?”
“Well, you know, in the garden there,” he said, nodding toward the parterre lawn. “I knew they’d taken the marquee down, and I thought there might be something left of the plane—part of the gun mount or a piece of landing gear. Just a souvenir, you know. I didn’t find anything, of course—and I didn’t disturb it at all, only walked round a bit. Packed up and left.”
Pru went down the order of events to be certain. “You arrived as Simon left. You went in the parterre lawn—and, you didn’t see anything? I mean, Jack or…”
“No,” Peachey said, shaking his head and shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets. “The place was empty.”
“Peachey, why didn’t you say that?”
“But I did.”
“Albert,” Evelyn called out the door. “Add another packet of butter to the list, please.”
“Right-o, Ev,” he called back as Evelyn retreated into the kitchen. “I’d best be off now, Pru.”
She nodded without hearing him, her mind in full gear.
“Pru?” Now her brother stood at the mudroom door. “We’d have time to put in more of the germander after breakfast, don’t you think? Are you coming in?”
“Be right there,” she called, a silly smile of relief splashed on her face. As she turned to leave, the back of Peachey’s van caught her attention. The doors were dented—bent in at the lock—and tied together with rope. “What’s happened here?” she asked.
Peachey shook his head. “Some yob—must’ve used a crowbar to force it open. I just about caught the vandal going through my toolbox and tossing things about, but it was dark and he ran off. I don’t think he took anything. Just wanted to make a mess, I suppose. Happened last evening, right there in front of our house.”
“You’ll tell Christopher, won’t you?”
“I hate to bother him about it.”
“I’ll mention it to him.” The world seemed suddenly full of yobs.
Evelyn had the counter covered in luncheon preparations. Simon sat scraping butter across his toast, and Christopher poured a cup of tea. Pru was brimming with good news, but wanted to share it with Christopher first.
“Good morning, Evelyn,” she said.
“Good morning, Pru,” Evelyn replied, and Pru heard Simon’s knife pause in mid-scrape as he looked over at the two of them. “Would you like another pot of tea? I can just put the kettle on.”
“No,” Pru said, “you keep going there. We’ll be fine. Simon and I have a bit more to do after our breakfast, then I’ll come in and clean up.” She looked at her brother’s daily work clothes, which included a corduroy jacket with frayed cuffs and trousers streaked with soil. He was in sock feet—Evelyn made him leave his boots in the mudroom. “You’ll go home and change, won’t you?”
“It’s the garden meant to impress, not us.”
“Still, no sense in looking like ruffians,” she said, sitting down to her breakfast.
Simon stared at her for a moment. “You sounded like Birdie just then,” he said, not at all in an angry tone.
“I’ll secure the garden before I leave,” Christopher said. He had offered to tie blue-and-white police tape across each of the four openings to the parterre lawn. Better to provide only a distant view—the marquee still covered the pit, and the dug-up hebes and boxwood, pushed against the hedge, were most likely destined for the compost heap.
“Thanks.” She swallowed spoonful after spoonful of her porridge without tasting it, and it formed a mass in her stomach like a bowling ball. Christopher stood, and she put a hand up, a silent plea for him to wait for her. When they got out the door, they met Martin in the yard.
“Martin, good thing you’re here,” she said, as if she had called a meeting. “Listen to this, both of you—the night Jack died and Peachey saw Simon pulling out of the drive—Peachey walked into the parterre lawn before he left and he didn’t see anything. No Jack, nothing.” In her euphoria, she practically sang the words, filling them both in on the details of Peachey’s visit the night of Jack’s death. “So when Simon left here, nothing had happened. Is that in Peachey’s statement?”
Pru looked at Christopher, who looked at Martin, who looked at the ground.
“Well, you see,” Martin said, “that’s just why I’ve stopped here this morning, Christopher. It’s about Peachey—there’s something that doesn’t add up.”
Pru’s euphoria dissolved. She had meant to absolve her brother, not implicate Peachey. “Wait—Peachey’s van was broken into,” she said, hurrying on. “He said it happened last night. He interrupted the fellow, and he got away.”
“Did he call it in?” Christopher asked.
She shook her head. “He didn’t seem to think much of it. He said tools were scattered about, but nothing was taken.”
“I’ll ring him and take a look,” Christopher said, eyeing Martin. “Unless you’d like to?”
“I will, of course I will,” Martin said. “Could I speak to you about this other?”
Christopher kissed Pru. “Good luck today.”
She watched them drive off, longing to hear what Martin had to say, but she would have to wait until evening. As their cars pulled out of the drive, the impending visit from The English Garden staff muscled its way back into her mind.