The Garden Plot

Chapter 4

It rained Sunday. Pru wouldn’t mind if the rain always confined itself to Sundays, in order to keep her workweek dry. She considered staying in, but she’d had another email from Lydia, and she needed to avoid her computer for a while.

“Marcus says that if you call him and tell him you want the job, he’ll keep it open. Please do it soon, mija. You know we only want the best for you,” she had written. Marcus being Lydia’s brother had made for a sticky exit from Dallas, leaving her friend, ending a relationship, and escaping her former life all in one fell swoop.

She’d distract herself with Romans, she decided. Although she had visited before, Pru thought a rainy Sunday perfect for a return to the Roman rooms at the Museum of London. The museum occupied the center of what seemed like an enormous roundabout. Its front entrance was not at ground level, and was accessible only by covered raised walkways that looked like spokes of a wheel radiating from the building and extending over the busy street below. Better than dashing through traffic, Pru thought.

She wandered through rooms of ceramic amphorae, soldiers’ shoes, reddish Samian pottery. What had been part of the original Roman city wall could be seen through a glass display, although it had been altered so much over the centuries that only the foundation remained Roman. Mosaic floors helped to re-create the Londinium of the few centuries of Roman Britain. Layers and layers of civilization, she thought, just below all our feet.

But the mosaics brought to mind Jeremy’s bloody body crumpled in a corner of the shed. She shook her head to get rid of the picture and tried instead to imagine what she could do with the town house garden space. Maybe a collection of representative Roman plants, Pru thought. And something to replace that dead birch. A bay laurel would work—it could take the London climate. Boxwoods to line the rill, slicing the garden into three sections, accentuating the narrow, deep shape even more. Her mind wandered back through the centuries as she considered the possible plantings.

Pru stopped short at the end of the Roman display and, instead of continuing into the Saxon era, left for home. Walking back from the Tube station, she arrived at five o’clock to find Jo standing on her front step rapping hard on the door. “Pru? Are you in there?”

“I’m here,” she said, and Jo whirled around, her face full of worry.

“My phone got broken yesterday when I was … Come in—I’ll open a bottle of wine and explain.”

They settled in the sitting room with their glasses, but when Jo heard about the attempted bag-snatching, she jumped up and paced the room. She worried that Pru acted too flippantly about her chances of being accosted again. “What if it had something to do with the murder? There you were right out in front of the Wilsons’ house—he was obviously waiting for you. And then you walk off today all alone.”

“I was around loads of people. I was in no danger. And what do I know about the murder? Why would anyone want to hurt me? I can’t tell them anything because I don’t know anything.”

“You may know more than you realize,” Jo said mysteriously, then immediately lightened up. “Isn’t that what they always say in those novels?” She sat back on the sofa next to Pru and gasped. “I forgot my news—Cordelia’s pregnant!”

“Pregnant? Ah, Jo, you’ll be a granny.”

“Dele and Lucy have been planning it for ages—I wasn’t allowed to breathe a word until they knew for sure. They even picked out the sperm donor together.”

Pru heard a small, muffled crash from behind a closed door somewhere. “What’s that?” She turned her head around, trying to locate where the sound came from.

Jo didn’t move her head but blinked. “What?”

“Did you hear that? Didn’t it sound like it was close?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jo said.

Pru stood up and walked into the hall and listened. “Did it come from the basement? It sounded like something fell.”

Jo became engrossed in her phone. “I didn’t hear it. Are you sure it wasn’t something outside?”

“No, I … I don’t know. Maybe.” Pru stayed in the hall.

“Pru,” Jo said, looking up brightly, “maybe it’s a mouse. There might be a mouse in the basement.”

“A mouse?”

“You aren’t afraid of mice, are you?” Jo asked with a concerned look on her face.

“No,” Pru said in a faint voice, picturing the mouse running out of the Wilsons’ garden shed just before she found Jeremy’s body. “I don’t mind a mouse. Do you think it will stay down there?”

The Bank

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6AA

30 September

72 Grovehill Square

Chelsea

London SW3

Bells Yew Green

Royal Tunbridge Wells

East Sussex

TN3 9BJ

30 September

72 Grovehill Square

Chelsea

London SW3

Dear Ms. Parke,

Thank you for your application for the post of head gardener at Primrose House. We would be happy to speak with you in person about the post at your earliest convenience. Please ring us on 0871 951 9177 so that we can set up a time for your visit and interview.

We’ve included a brief leaflet about Primrose House for a little background reading.

Kind regards,

Davina and Bryan Templeton

She’d be ecstatic with a job offer, but almost as happy if one of her clients paid a bill. Fortunately, she opened the bad news first and got it over with. Pru didn’t know how much more she could take of this. Well, she did know how much more—one look at the calendar and it was all too evident that she would need to find a position in less than a month or she would be on the first boat back to the States, so to speak.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she’d forgotten all about Sir Frank Chesterton and his Victorian Gardens and Grottoes—ferneries and stumperies had never been her strong suit. But Primrose House, that felt different. Her hopes instantly swelled, and buoyant, happy images filled her mind. She wished it were as easy to steel herself for disappointment.

She phoned Primrose House in the afternoon, set up an interview for Thursday, and then checked the rail schedule. She’d take the train to Frant, just past Tunbridge Wells—only an hour’s journey—and get a cab from the station to the garden. Staring out a train window would keep her calmer than monitoring an unfamiliar bus route and worrying about the next roundabout and whether she had missed her stop.

In the meantime, she needed to get some real work done, something she could get paid for, but even before that she must take her passport in to the police station, as DCI Pearse had requested. Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her, she glanced around and thought she saw someone ducking around the corner, but when she looked again, she realized it was a young mother bending down to her child in a pram. Don’t get carried away, Pru, she told herself, no one is after you.

She had phoned Jo that morning, thinking that they could meet later in the day for a glass of wine. Pru wished it could be a more common occurrence;—it was one of the only social engagements she had, and it meant a great deal to her. But Jo had—Pru could think of no other way to describe it—brushed her off. Meetings, showing potential clients their potential office spaces, must finish the contract on so-and-so’s house let. Deserted, Pru walked up toward Fulham Road and the police station.

Preoccupied with her personal woes, she barely noticed the woman waving at her from across the road, until the second or third time she called. “Hello! Sorry, hello?”

She walked across to Pru. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m completely lost. Can you tell me where”—she glanced down at a crumpled scrap of paper in her hand—“Lecky Street is?” She looked up at Pru with a hopeful expression.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that would be. Are you trying to find a business?”

“No, I’m trying to find a flat, and I was supposed to view one there.” Her whole manner slumped. “God, this is a disaster. I don’t know anyone in London, and you’re the first person that’s stopped to talk to me.”

The woman didn’t move and continued to look at Pru, who didn’t have a remedy for her problem, although it seemed as if one were expected. “The police station isn’t far. I’m headed that way. Maybe you could ask there.”

“Police?” The woman looked left and right, and her shiny blond hair swirled around her face like a little girl twirling in a full skirt. “No, no, I don’t need that.” She smiled at Pru. “I have a map in my bag. I’ll just sit down somewhere and give it a look, shall I?” She hesitated and then said, “If you had just a moment, maybe you could look, too? I’d be ever so grateful. Could I buy you a coffee?”

Her plight struck a chord with Pru, who had known no one in London herself not long ago. “Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.”

They headed to the next corner and walked into a tiny coffee shop. Her new friend headed for a table in the corner by a large potted palm as she said over her shoulder, “I’ll have a cappuccino.” Pru wondered how the invitation got reversed.

With coffees in front of them, the blonde said, “I’m Romilda. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Romilda stuck out her hand, and Pru saw long, elegant cherry-red nails on the ends of stubby fingers.

“I’m Pru. It’s nice to meet you. You’re just moving to London?” That set Romilda off on a long tale of moving from Birmingham and finding a job inputting data at a local social-services agency. Pru got a little lost with Romilda’s detailed description of just what data she would be inputting—although she had some funny bits to tell about her interview—and she couldn’t quite follow Romilda’s story of looking for a flat. She talked fast and seemed to backtrack a great deal. She’s quite chatty, Pru thought.

Pru thought for a moment. “I thought you were from Birmingham,” she said.

Romilda’s eyes got big, and then she said, “No, no, Pru, I didn’t say that. I’m from Cronton, up near Liverpool.”

Pru didn’t think she could confuse Birmingham with Cronton, but Romilda interrupted her thoughts.

“And what kind of work are you in?” Romilda asked, giving Pru her full attention.

Pru explained her gardening. Romilda seemed to find it fascinating and asked all sorts of questions—what kind of flowers could she grow in London, what are those big trees out there, what kind of clients did Pru have, did she ever make a whole new garden for someone? Somehow, she asked so many questions that before she knew it, Pru was explaining about the murder at the Wilsons’.

She was brought up short when Romilda asked, “What kind of evidence do they have against this Wilson character? Did they find his fingerprints? What about a letter? Was there a letter from the victim, or was he able to scratch someone’s initials in the dirt?”

“I … I’m sorry, Romilda,” she stammered. “I really don’t know much about what’s going on there.” As entertaining as Romilda had been, this felt intrusive, and Pru thought she needed to get back to her life. “Look, I’ll have to be going. It was lovely to meet you. Good luck with the flat search.”

“Thanks, Pru, you’ve been such a help—cheers!” Romilda smiled and wiggled her cherry-red fingernails at Pru.

Pru got out on the sidewalk and shook her head to clear it of Romilda’s nattering. It was only as she walked that she realized they hadn’t looked at her map at all.

In the station, after getting her passport details on file, Pru looked up to see Mr. Wilson come in the door. “Mr. Wilson, is everything all right?”

“Pru, Malcolm told us someone tried to take your bag right outside our house on Saturday. You should’ve told us.”

“Oh, no, it was fine, I’m okay, and we’ve filed a description, although they haven’t caught him. That’s not why you’re here?”

“No, the inspector asked if I would come down so that they could take my fingerprints.” Mr. Wilson said in a quiet voice, “Just routine, of course.”

“My fingerprints are on the tools in the shed, of course,” he explained. “From that evening a few days ago, but surely before that, too. I must’ve gone in there at some point after we moved in, probably mucked about, thinking that I’d start on the garden. Although Jeremy had advised against that.” Pru was quiet. She didn’t think anyone had gone in the shed before she cleared away the ivy—unless that person knew the mass of vines could be peeled away so easily. But perhaps a year ago the ivy hadn’t been such a forest. Perhaps. “And good thing, too,” Mr. Wilson continued cheerfully, “because that’s your job to make us a garden.”

“Yes.” They hit on a pleasant subject at last. “I’m going over this afternoon. I won’t disturb the … shed … but I want to get a feel for the walls and the sun exposure. Will you be at home?”

“No, I’m back at work this afternoon, and Vernona is spending the day with her old aunt Libby in Wandsworth. But you have your key,” he said encouragingly, “and so you go right ahead and get started. We’ll see you when we arrive home.”

Pru started for the door, then turned and walked to the desk just as Mr. Wilson said to the sergeant, “Harry Wilson, DCI Pearse wanted my fingerprints taken in regards to the … crime at our house.”

“And you need to take my fingerprints, too,” Pru said in solidarity. She wouldn’t let him go through such an ordeal alone.

“Pru, that isn’t necessary, surely,” Mr. Wilson said to her.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Wilson. I’m just as much … I mean, I’m just as involved as you are. I was there in the shed. They need my fingerprints, too.”

“Right,” said the desk sergeant. “Let’s not all crowd up to the front. We’ve plenty of ink.”

Pru cut the grass and edged for the Hightowers as quickly as possible, swept up, put everything away in the tiny tool cupboard at the bottom of their basement stairs—she was grateful it wasn’t a shed—and headed for the Wilsons’, carrying a borrowed short-handled spade. She left a message for Sammy, hoping he could get over there and help her measure and mark some beds out in chalk lines. Through the basement and up into the back, the first thing she saw was the shed, wrapped in blue-and-white tape. It held a repulsive attraction. She wanted to go in and look around—the body, after all, had been cleared out—but knew that she’d already compromised the scene enough.

She saw no sign of movement from his house—no curtain twitching—and so she slowly walked down to the wall and looked at it closely. There were no footholds or spaces from missing bricks that would make for an easy escape from the Wilsons’ garden. I wonder what’s on Malcolm’s side, she thought.

Pru looked back at the terrace to the small table and two bistro chairs. Ah, she thought, just the thing. She fetched one of the chairs and set it against the wall. The ground underneath held firm enough so that the legs didn’t sink in too far when she stood on it. On her toes, it added just enough height to her five-foot-seven-inch frame.

Keeping a lookout on Malcolm’s curtains and readying her excuse—“Malcolm, didn’t you say that the soil down here was dampish?”—she leaned as far over the top of the wall as she could and peered into his trim, rose-filled garden. The ladder, which she had seen in the photos, did not rest upon the wall; that would be too easy. But on the wall, right at the spot where his head popped up for a chat, were four wrought-iron rungs, painted black and secured like steps up a ladder. That would give Malcolm plenty of boost not only to see, but also to climb over.

But if he had climbed into the Wilsons’ garden and killed Jeremy, how did he get out again? Perhaps his ladder—lightweight aluminum—functioned as the stairway down into the Wilsons’ garden and then back over to his own. He could have hoisted it over from his side and dragged it back when he finished. She looked at the ground on the Wilsons’ side, right where she thought Malcolm might set the ladder, but she saw no indentations in the soil. She did see some of her own footprints, though. Good move, Pru. When she picked up the chair, she smoothed over the shallow holes in the soil with the toe of her shoe.

This entirely plausible theory of how Malcolm made his way into and out of the Wilsons’ back garden kept Pru’s mind chugging along as she replaced the bistro chair and began walking out the beds, spade in hand. As she paced off four feet away from the side wall and turned to walk down to the back wall, she heard a sharp voice behind her.

“Ms. Parke?” She whipped around to face DCI Pearse. She put the spade behind her.

“You weren’t thinking of disturbing the garden yet, were you? We have not given the all clear to the Wilsons. Surely they told you that.”

There were no Wilsons at home, she thought. “I’m not digging. I’m just marking out some new beds with chalk.” She looked past him to a blank house. “How did you get in?”

What had seemed like a convenience to her sounded dangerously foolish when he described it. “I was waiting for Sammy to arrive—he helps me with big jobs in the garden. I didn’t think it would be a problem. He’s supposed to be here by now.”

He cocked his head, as if to look behind her back. “Does chalk come out the end of your spade?”

“Look, I need this job or I’m going to have to move back to the States. I realize that doesn’t make any difference to you. Yes, I have a spade—not from this shed, by the way—but I’m not digging.” Not yet, she thought. “And Sammy was only going to help me with my lines …”

Her phone rang; Pru pulled it out of her pocket and looked down. The action reminded her of that odd moment when Malcolm watched her with keen interest as she put away her phone on the bus, the day of the murder. She looked up at Pearse, who studied her.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

Irritation drove out of her mind what she was going to say to him, and she answered the phone instead. Sammy couldn’t make it, he was sorry, but he still had a load to take to the green waste and would never make it back before the end of the day.

“Ms. Parke, did you take your passport by the station?” Pearse asked.

“Yes, I did that today.” Indignation rose up. “And I saw Mr. Wilson there—why did he have his fingerprints taken? He didn’t do anything, and I can’t imagine you believe for a minute that …”

“Did you have your fingerprints taken while you were there?”

Defiant in the face of what she thought sounded like an accusation, she stuck her chin out. “Yes, I did. So, am I a suspect now?”

“Ms. Parke, you did pick up the murder weapon, didn’t you? We need to identify your fingerprints on the handle in order to eliminate them.”

“Oh.”

“Pru, dear,” Mrs. Wilson called from the back door. “Oh, Inspector, how lovely to see you. Is there something I can do? Pru, why don’t you both come in for a cup of tea?”

Pearse and Pru glanced at each other then back at Mrs. Wilson and at the same time replied, “No, thank you, I can’t stay.” They looked at each other again. Pru stifled a laugh, and even Pearse smiled.

“Mrs. Wilson, could you ask your husband to give us a list of the members of his society?” Pearse asked.

“Oh, I can get that for you right now, Inspector,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Harry printed one out for you, it’s just in the dining room; I won’t be a moment. Toffee will keep you company. Pru, dear, I won’t be in tomorrow morning, but you come straight through and get to work.”

As she left, Pru glanced back to see Pearse. At his feet, Toffee Woof-Woof looked up expecting a treat.

The inside door to the basement was closed, and so she walked out the front door, opened the gate, and went down the outside basement steps. Pearse had left the door to the basement slightly ajar, just as she had. “When there’s been a murder and the murderer is still at large,” Pru mumbled to an imaginary Pearse, “then it’s probably not wise to …”

She walked through the basement, leaned her borrowed spade up against the wall, locked the door to the garden, and turned to head out, but something on Mr. Wilson’s makeshift desk caught her eye. Near the edge, away from his papers and copies of Archaeology Today, was a coin. Pru thought it must be a £2 coin, but one that had darkened so that the bronze color of the outer ring had overtaken the silver-gray center. She hadn’t noticed it on her way in, yet her eyes were drawn to it now. She bent over the desk to look closer. It was not a £2 coin. On the face of the coin was not an engraving of the queen, but a picture in relief of a man with curly hair; surrounding the head was the word “Hadrianus.”

Pru froze. This was the coin found in the dead man’s hand—but that couldn’t be, because the police took that coin with them. But then, whose coin was this sitting on Mr. Wilson’s desk? It couldn’t be his, not Mr. Wilson’s coin, because that might mean that he had something to do with …

“Ms. Parke?”

Pru whirled around. Pearse stood at the door to the outside steps.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, coming toward her.

She didn’t speak, but only looked down at the desk. He followed her gaze and as he did, Pru’s hand made an involuntary movement.

Pearse caught her wrist, and she pulled it away from him. “I wasn’t going to touch it,” she said, embarrassed, because she realized that very thought had crossed her mind. She put her hands stiffly at her sides.

He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag.

Pearse had to lean over in front of her, because, in a small act of defiance, she would not budge from the spot. He turned to her, entirely too close. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

Using the bag to cover his fingers, he secured the coin and, with his other hand, patted his various pockets until he found his reading glasses. “This is the same kind of coin we found in Mr. Pendergast’s hand. Was this here when you came through earlier today?” he asked.

“No, it wasn’t. At least, I don’t think so.” She didn’t care for the ambiguity of her reply. “No, I know it wasn’t; I saw it just now, it wasn’t here earlier. I came through to lock the door, and there it was.” A happy thought came to her. “It wasn’t here when I arrived,” she said, “so someone must’ve come in while we were in the garden.” Pearse was quiet. “Did you see it when you came through?” Pru asked.

“Are you sure it wasn’t here when you arrived?” Pearse asked. “Or perhaps you might not have noticed. Isn’t that possible?”

“Did you see it?” Pru demanded.

“No,” he admitted, “I did not.”

“Then someone must have come in and planted it here. Planted evidence to try to make Mr. Wilson look bad.” Pearse didn’t speak. “Don’t you think that’s what happened?”

“It’s possible,” he said as he pressed the bag closed. “But it is also possible that Harry Wilson took this coin from the murder scene and kept it.”

“And left it out in plain view for anyone to see?” Pru hoped he could hear how ridiculous that sounded. “Are you going to ask Mrs. Wilson about it?”

“Harry Wilson is the person to ask about it—”

“He’s at work,” Pru interjected.

“But as he is not here,” Pearse continued, “I will ask Mrs. Wilson a few questions.”

Pru backed away from the table slightly as a concession. “May I come along? Please?”

“Are you worried I’m about to use harsh interrogation tactics on her?” Pru thought she detected just a bit of humor in his dry tone. “Yes, you may come along.”

They went out the basement door. Pru locked it behind them and they walked up to the front step. Pearse knocked on the door, and Mrs. Wilson showed surprise when she answered.

Although no harsh interrogation tactics were involved, Pru still thought Pearse could have been less confrontational with Mrs. Wilson, especially when it came to requesting that Mr. Wilson go down to the station again for further questioning.

Mrs. Wilson showed them to the door. “I’ll talk to you soon,” Pru said to her. “I’m sure the inspector will find out who sneaked into the basement and left that coin.” She looked at Pearse, waiting for a response, but he gave none.

When Mrs. Wilson closed the door on them, Pearse asked Pru if she would like a lift home. She was in no mood. She crossed her arms and said, “No,” after which her manners got the better of her. “Thank you, no, I can make my own way.”

“Ms. Parke,” Pearse sounded ever so slightly weary, “I am not singling out the Wilsons without reason.”

“Someone planted that coin,” Pru insisted. “You’ve got to admit that. Mr. Wilson wasn’t home. The coin wasn’t there when I arrived—or when you arrived,” she pointed out.

“And we will take all that into consideration during the investigation,” Pearse said. “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift home?”

Pru thought perhaps she’d have more time to make her case in the car. “Thank you,” she said, “I would like a lift.”

On their way to 72 Grovehill Square—Pru tried to give Pearse her address, but he said, “Yes, I remember where you live”—she began to speak in a casual way about the Wilsons.

“Mr. Wilson’s archaeology group has a university sponsor, you know,” she said. “It’s an educational endeavor, really. They do it because they love learning.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Pearse, who made no comment. “You probably saw all the awards and commendations he’s received, from people and places thanking him for what he’s done.”

“Ms. Parke,” Pearse said, “did you accept a lift from me just to give a testimonial on Harry Wilson’s behalf?”

Pru didn’t answer, and they were quiet for the last few minutes of the journey. Pearse pulled up in front of her house, stopped, and turned to her. “We are not in the habit of arresting and prosecuting innocent people,” he said. “Harry Wilson is part of this investigation, and so questions must be asked.”

“I don’t believe that Mr. Wilson murdered Jeremy Pendergast.”

He took her by surprise with a kind and gentle admonition instead of an officious warning. She flashed him a smile. “I will.”

Pru arrived before Sammy the next morning. She picked up the spade she’d left just inside the basement door and took it with her to the bottom of the garden, where the sun already had warmed the brick wall. She sat down with her back against the wall, surveying the view that the Wilsons would have from this end of their new garden. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face. Perhaps she did miss the Texas sunshine just a bit, but not the summer heat. With less intense sun exposure, her hair had turned from blond to its original medium brown, and she was surprised to find that now she could clearly see a dash of silvery gray at each temple.

She opened her eyes again and looked at the blue-and-white tape surrounding the shed. The forensics team had attached the tape to the brick wall, so that the small space—about two feet wide—between the shed and the wall shared with Malcolm’s garden was marked as off-limits. Still, Pru reasoned, that couldn’t really be part of the murder scene. She thought that if she put the spade in the ground behind the shed, it wouldn’t be noticed.

She would have to deal with the wet soil if she made a garden for the Wilsons, so perhaps she should investigate … the soil. Perhaps she would find out just how far the mosaic extended, but that would be secondary, she told herself, to researching the conditions for the new garden. With a cursory glance around, she ducked under the tape, and had just plunged the spade in the soil behind the shed when she heard voices.

“Listen, Saxsby.” It was Malcolm’s voice quite close on the other side of the wall. “You can’t go over there now. It’s broad daylight.” Malcolm’s voice bounced as if he were hurrying along.

“Calm down, Crisp,” said another man’s voice. “I won’t be caught breaking and entering, if that’s what you’re worried about. Look, I want this business finished up—my latest deal didn’t go through, and I’m a bit hard up right now.”

“The house? What happened?” Malcolm asked.

“Never you mind,” the man said. “Did you get in to look?”

“No, no, there’s no way in now. We’ll just have to wait until the police are finished,” Malcolm said. “Although after that, Pru will probably start on the garden.”

“Pru? Who is Pru?” Saxsby said.

“What’s Vernona doing hiring a bloody American gardener? Didn’t Pendergast tell them to leave off the garden?”

Alarmed that her name would come up in such a conversation—and annoyed to be called a “bloody American gardener”—Pru tried to breathe as quietly as possible so that they wouldn’t discover her eavesdropping.

“I said I’d take care of it.”

“Does she know something?” Saxsby asked. “Haven’t you told her she might be in danger herself around Harry?”

“I’ve tried to warn her,” Malcolm said, “but she thinks he’s harmless.”

“You just remember what I told you, Crisp,” said Saxsby. “He’s no harmless old git.” He paused for a moment, and Pru wondered if they’d left. Then Saxsby said, “Did she see what was there?”

“She might have,” Malcolm replied. “But I’m taking care of it,” he said with emphasis.

Pru had lost track of the spade in her hand as she listened in, and it slipped out of her loosened grip, hit against the wall, and landed with a plunk on the ground.

She heard muffled exclamations and footsteps in the gravelly soil at the base of the wall. Malcolm must be heading to his brick-wall ladder. She grabbed the spade and looked for an escape. The shed was almost flush with the wall adjoining the next garden, and so she had to slip under the tape the way she came and then into the shed—using only her elbow to edge the door open. As she turned around to pull it closed with a finger on the edge of the door, she looked up to see Malcolm peering over the wall. Their eyes met, and she waited for him to call her out, but instead he turned back to Saxsby and said, “No, I don’t see anyone. Now, do you want to be out here when they come back? We’d better go.”

Pru stuck her head out the door in time to hear the two voices retreating. She thought she heard Saxsby say, “Did you …” but she couldn’t catch the rest. After that, she heard a door close.

“Pru?” Sammy asked as he came up from the Wilsons’ basement entrance. “You aren’t supposed to be in there, are you?” She had left the basement door open again and felt a little guilty about it. She hoped Pearse wouldn’t stop by and discover her misbehavior. “Who was that with the nosy parker?”

“Sammy, did you see Malcolm? Could you see the other fellow? What did he look like?” She stepped out of the shed quickly, but with a backward glance toward the mosaic, still partially uncovered, and the hole behind it, still open. The blood-soaked soil looked disturbed, as if a sample had been taken.

“I saw them go up the steps to the door, but they didn’t go in. Then they went back down again. I suppose they went down the basement steps. Yeah, I caught a quick look at him … I don’t know—he looked sort of normal.” Sammy’s powers of observation were kept for estimating the size of a load he could get into the back of his truck. “Stringy black hair, thinning. Were you hiding from them?”

“Well, I just didn’t want to be caught up in another discussion about roses,” Pru said. That was enough for Sammy, who had sat through one of those with Malcolm already. “Let’s mark off some beds.”

As they measured, Sammy had to keep reminding her what they were doing. “Pru, we’ve done that side already, haven’t we?”

“Sorry, Sammy, yes.” The questions in her mind pushed everything else out. Several times she found she’d stopped moving and stood thinking. How much more had Malcolm learned about the Roman mosaic, and how was Saxsby involved?

Saxsby seemed to be pressuring Malcolm into thinking the worst of Mr. Wilson—Pru felt sure that explained the business about warning her. Pru thought Malcolm was full of himself if he thought he could “take care of her.” The conversation she had just overheard, along with her own feelings and opinions, were getting tossed around in her head like clothes in a dryer.

Just after she and Sammy were finished with their work, she phoned Pearse.

“Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse, please leave a message,” said the recording. She believed this information needed to be delivered live, not on tape, so she didn’t leave any message and decided she’d phone again later. She considered looking into it herself in the meantime—maybe she could clarify a few things they’d said and so the evidence would be more helpful to the police.

Her initial scare faded over the next couple of days in the rush to stuff four days of work into two, and although she kept meaning to phone Pearse again, she didn’t get round to it. Her mind shifted its focus to her interview at Primrose House on Thursday and spending the weekend in the Cotswolds with Jo and family, pushing aside the murder and its investigation.