The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (17 page)

“That was Cate. Liam’s been arrested.”

“Has he been charged?” Christopher asked. “Or have they taken him in for questioning?”

“He’s…they’re…I don’t know.” Pru shook her head. “I could barely understand Cate, she was crying so hard. They’ve taken him in because”—her voice caught in her throat—“remember last week they found Ned’s phone at Liam and Fergal’s cottage?” He nodded. “It was planted there. Wasn’t that obvious? That’s why they didn’t take him in at the time.” She searched his face, willing Christopher to say that this was true.

Christopher cocked his head, a noncommittal reply. “And so why take him now?”

Pru frowned. “Call records, something about Ned’s phone service being canceled and so it took a while to find the…It’s Tatt,” she spat out his name. “He’s just grandstanding. Making a big show of hauling Liam in on a Sunday.”

Christopher put his arm around her and directed her toward Parliament Square and a taxi.

“Come on, I’ll drive you back,” he said.

“No.” She stopped in her tracks to make the point. “No, you will not—there’s no reason for you to take me home, and it would put you back far too late. I’ll take the train back and go to the police station. You can’t do anything—Tatt won’t let you. Put me on the train.”

She looked away so that he wouldn’t see the longing in her eyes. She would, of course, prefer that he be there—but he couldn’t fix this, and she couldn’t ask him to try.

“And leave you to march in and fight Liam’s battle for him?” he asked. “I won’t let you do that.”

It was a standoff. She felt him watching as she looked from park bench to tree to Big Ben across the road.

“I won’t go to the police station tonight,” she said. “You’re right, there’s nothing I can do to help.” He continued to watch. “I’ll ring you when I get home. And tomorrow morning. But I want to be available for Cate.”

“What if Liam…?” he asked.

“I don’t
want
him to be guilty,” she said. “How could he have done that? How?”

“You don’t know what a moment of rage can do,” he said, “although you’ve certainly seen the results.” He sighed, put his arm back around her, and began propelling her once more toward a taxi. “Do you want to stop and get your things or can you leave them here?”

Her eyes flickered toward him, and she smiled. “Oh, I can leave them here. For some future weekend.”

“Weekends,” he said. She detected a bitter tone, and stopped before they got to the curb to look at him. “Our weekends,” he said as he took hold of her arms, “are…”

“Amazing?” she offered.

He smiled. “Not enough.” He stuck his hand out to a passing cab, which pulled over. “We need time.”

She nodded, crawled into the taxi, and settled into the roomy bench seat, tucking her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. There was nothing to discuss. What could they do? They both had responsibilities to meet that left no space to even think about spending more time together.

As they rode to the station, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “So you don’t have to wait in the pub next time. I’m sorry I didn’t have it for you last weekend.”

Her hand clasped his as she took it. “Thanks.” She dropped the key in her bag.

At the rail station, they stood just outside the gate to the platform. He took her hands. “Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can talk with Hobbes, although I don’t know if he’ll be able to tell me much.”

She nodded as she began her own mental checklist, all the while remembering that she was not a police officer.

“If Liam was with Cate, why didn’t she say so?” Christopher’s eyes cut to Pru. “You’ve tried to find that out, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Pru said, confessing her foray into the investigation. “Neither of them will say.” But she would try again, she thought.

“It’s almost certain that Ned was killed in the afternoon,” Christopher said.

“How do you know that?”

“The body was…” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“It was well past the rigor mortis stage. After twelve hours or so the stiffness begins to leave…”

She held her hand up. “Never mind.” She took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to clear from her mind the picture of Ned lying on top of the yew with a pool of blood on his chest.

“If Liam was with Cate, was it all night, or did he go home? The body had been moved after death—pushed to the side.” He searched her face. “Are you all right?”

Christopher was using her as a sounding board, talking aloud through what he knew about the case. She wouldn’t spoil the moment by becoming nauseous. “Yes,” she said. Barely. “But—when was it moved?”

“Probably sometime during the night. Do you remember the pocketknife? It could be the murderer’s—he could’ve missed it and come back to look.”

Pocketknife,
she repeated to herself.
Why is the pocketknife a clue?
“A light!” she shouted, startling not just the other people near the gate, but herself as well. “I saw a light during the night,” she finished in a frantic whisper. “I just remembered.”

“What time?”

This had completely slipped her mind. “About three, I think. I wasn’t sleeping well, and I got up to get a glass of water. When I went back to bed, I looked out the window—it faces toward the bottom of the walled garden and the wood—and I saw a light.” She frowned as she tried to remember the moment. “There’s a lot of growth between my cottage and…down where Ned was, but it’s mostly just bare branches now. The light seemed to be jumping around. I was groggy and thought that it must’ve been headlights from the lane reflecting on the tree trunks. I got back in bed and went to sleep—and forgot all about it until now.” She looked up at him. “I was at home when the murderer came back.”

That was the wrong thing to point out to him. His face grew taut, and he grabbed her and held her close. But it didn’t scare her—the discovery gave her a thrill of excitement.

“Was it headlights, do you think?” she asked. “The track is uneven, and so headlights would bounce.” Her eyes lit up. “Or it could’ve been a flashlight! If someone was looking for the pocketknife, he would need a light. That’s why the light was jumping.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his response.

“You’ll tell Hobbes about it immediately?”

“Yes, first thing tomorrow.”

“And let the police manage the rest. Please don’t…”

“Go off half-cocked?” she offered.

He laughed. “It’s ‘go off at half-cock’ here.”

She kissed him. “Is it? I’ll remember that.”

Only two other passengers were in her train carriage, both wearing ear buds, which allowed her the pretense of privacy when she rang Cate, who had little more to offer.

“They won’t tell me anything,” Cate said, sounding weepy but strong. “Fergal rang. There’s a call on Dad’s mobile from Liam. That’s all I know.”

“Cate, if Liam won’t say where he was that afternoon or evening…” Pru couldn’t finish the sentence, and Cate offered no reply. After a moment, Pru asked, “Do you know if they will keep him at the police station overnight? Is Fergal with him?”

It was Fergal who had rung Cate, and she thought that he was there, but she didn’t know when—or if—they would let Liam go. “I wanted to be there,” she said, “but I don’t want to make it worse for him.”

Or for you,
Pru thought. “You’re right to stay away,” she said. “You have to think of Nanda.”

When the train approached the Frant station, she rang Tommy, and just as Tommy pulled his taxi into her drive, she rang Christopher.

“Did you leave a light on?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said as she got out, “and everything looks fine.”

“Ask Tommy to wait until you’re inside.”

To ease his mind—and hers, too—she walked through the cottage, looked under the bed, in the shower, and she opened the wardrobe. It took all of thirty seconds.

“Right, I’m alone,” she reported as she waved Tommy on his way.

“I should be there,” Christopher said.

“Sergeant Hobbes? It’s Pru. Can you talk?”

She heard background noise from the station, then scuffling, a click, and quiet. “Yes, just for a moment. You heard, I suppose?”

“Cate rang last night. I was in London, but I’m home now. Can you tell me what happened?”

“We’ve got Ned’s mobile phone records, and they show two unanswered calls from Liam—one the evening before Ned died, and the other, the next evening.”

“After Ned had been killed? If Liam had done it, why would he try to ring Ned?”

“This is Tatt’s show, Pru, and he’s trying to make the most of it.”

“Is Liam still there?”

“We’re letting him go this afternoon.”

“So Liam isn’t a suspect?” she asked.

“He isn’t clear,” Hobbes said. “He won’t tell us where he was that afternoon or evening—just ‘out,’ he says. It’s as if he wants to make himself look suspicious.”

“Christopher said that Ned’s body had been moved,” she said, keeping her voice even and the image off the screen in her mind. “That perhaps the murderer came back looking for something—maybe the pocketknife?”

“Inspector Pearse told you that?”

“I saw a light during that night.” She explained what she’d seen and what she thought.

“A flashlight. It’s possible,” he said. “Do you keep flashlights in the shed there?”

“No,” she replied. “I have one in my cottage—you can come take a look. And one in my car. I don’t know what they might have at Primrose House.”

“Any more thoughts about the pocketknife?” he asked.

Why was the pocketknife coming back to haunt her? “No, not at the moment.”

Primrose House

9 February

Pru,

I do hate to bring this up, but I want to make sure that we are focused on our goals for the garden, and not all of this extraneous activity. I realize you are great friends with Liam and Fergal, but really you cannot let what’s happened take you away from readying the gardens for summer. How wonderful for the Duffys to have such a supporter in you, but the police must do their work, and we must do ours.

We may not be able to keep the Duffys on, of course, depending on how things turn out. I’m sure we’ll fill in with other workers eventually, but in the meantime, I hope you don’t mind picking up the slack.

Best,

Davina

The amount of daylight increased ever so slightly—sunrise was stretching itself toward seven in the morning, and sunset wasn’t upon them until five. It afforded them more time to work, and Pru, in an effort to show Davina that she took her job seriously, worked every single minute of it. Pru consulted with the workers, who still seemed to be discussing, not building, the terraced beds and stairway, and she planted half of the six dozen roses that were waiting to go in the walled garden, including English, species, and landscape. She hoped Liam and Fergal would return to work Tuesday, regardless of Davina’s threat, as she needed to put them back to work on the path between the house and the walled garden—she would have them stop just short of the approach to the brush pile. Yellow tape or no, it wasn’t a place anyone headed on purpose.

She had put the garden and murder out of her mind during the weekend in London—until the end, when word came about Liam—but now she had plenty of time to mull over the details, especially Robbie’s brief disappearance from Chaffinch’s, and Hugo’s activities on that Thursday. She picked up the plant list she’d used to write down clues, adding and amending to what she had. She underlined Hugo’s name as his whereabouts gained prominence in her mind. Perhaps the police didn’t even know Hugo and Ned were related.

Hugo had seemed a nice enough fellow, but if he had some long-term family grudge against Ned—well, hadn’t she read somewhere that most victims were murdered by a family member?

But first, as soon as she could on Monday, she rang Ivy, who had never mentioned to Pru—or the police—why she had driven past Primrose House and happened to see Davina’s car that Thursday afternoon. She had been heading for Chaffinch’s, because Robbie had gone missing for an hour. Did Ivy suspect her son had something to do with Ned’s murder?

“I thought I’d stop by at the end of the day,” Pru said on the phone, “just to say hello.” She added, “For a cup of tea.”

Ivy laughed. “Yes, we’d better stick to tea for a while, now hadn’t we?”

Ivy and Robbie lived at the edge of town in Victorian terraced housing, brick first floors and pebbledash above. Pru picked out their house at first glance: the tidy, minuscule front garden and the shiny green door set against the tatty appearance of the rest of the row was a dead giveaway. The inside of the two-up-two-down house was neat as a pin, too.

Robbie was thrilled to see Pru at his own house and took great pains to show her every special thing that he owned, from Robin Hood action figures to photos of his visit to his aunt Viola in Bristol. When his mother called him to the kitchen for his tea—their early-evening meal—Pru settled into a chair in the sitting room.

Ivy came out with two cups. “There now, he’ll be quite busy—I let him watch
Blue Peter
on the telly while he eats.” She sighed. “Tell me now, Pru, how are you doing? It seems as if you’re running a race every day in the garden.”

Pru brushed off Ivy’s concern. “Oh, we’ve a great deal to do, but I believe it will get done.” She thought for a moment. “I hope it will get done.” She put her cup down on the coffee table. “Ivy, did you know that Cate, Ned’s daughter, is staying with Francine Rosse at the moment?”

“Francine mentioned it,” Ivy said. “Isn’t she lovely to help Cate out like that?”

“She is, yes,” Pru replied, looking down in her lap. “Francine told me that there was a small problem with Robbie on that Thursday. They couldn’t find him for—for just an hour or so.” She glanced up at Ivy.

Ghostly white and with eyes like saucers, Ivy whispered, “Oh, no, Pru, he didn’t do anything. You don’t think that of Robbie, do you?”

“Certainly not,” Pru said. “But, Ivy, could someone have wanted to use him as a scapegoat? Set it up and let Robbie take the blame for what happened? After all, his jacket was wrapped around the hatchet.”

“No,” Ivy said as she shook her head. “No one could be that beastly, could they? Robbie must’ve left it somewhere and that evil person picked it up and used it.”

“Did Robbie tell you where he went?” Pru asked.

Ivy smiled and shrugged. “You know how he loves his stories,” she said. “It isn’t always easy to sort out where the Merry Men leave off and the real world begins.” She picked up the hem of her apron and ran her fingers down the edge. “You won’t say anything to Sergeant Hobbes, will you? Or that inspector?”

“But, Ivy,” Pru said, “I don’t think they would actually accuse Robbie of being involved in Ned’s murder.”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” Ivy said, shaking her head, her face pinched with anxiety. “It’s Chaffinch’s. I wouldn’t want to get them in trouble. It’s a good place, and it’s just a tiny mistake. But if Chaffinch’s gets into trouble over this, they might have to close and”—she swallowed hard, and Pru could see tears in her eyes—“then what would Robbie do? Where would he go? I could never have him with me every day while I work, and there are no other places nearby. At least none I’d send him to.”

Let others cover up murder, Ivy’s only concern was a comfortable and happy place for her son to stay while she cooked and cleaned in other people’s houses. It didn’t answer the question of where Robbie had got to for that hour, but Pru couldn’t see pursuing the matter.

“I can’t imagine one little mistake would lead to their closure, but don’t worry. I will not tell the sergeant or Inspector Tatt,” Pru said. “I hope it’s all right that I tell Christopher.”

“Oh, of course you tell your Mr. Pearse.” Ivy smiled, her good humor restored.

“Do you know all of Robbie’s mates at Chaffinch’s?” Pru asked. “It’s just that he told me something about a secret—you don’t think that had anything to do with the time he was missing?”

Ivy dismissed Pru’s question with a wave. “Oh, his secret. Yes, Robbie told me about it. He and little Andrew at Chaffinch’s—they both love to play Robin Hood. When they’re outdoors, they’ll go hide in the wood there on the grounds and call it Sherwood Forest—but it’s only about three trees. It seems to occupy them and there’s no harm in it. But Robbie likes to think no one knows, so he calls it a secret.”

Robbie’s television show had finished, and he appeared in the doorway, ready to read them a story about an adventure Robin Hood had one day when he was out hunting for acorns.

Pru stayed and had her own tea with Ivy—an enormous slice of chicken-and-leek pie. Ivy insisted that Pru take the remainder of the pie home. They wouldn’t need it, she said, because the next day, Robbie would have his pint at the Two Bells, and Ivy always gave him egg and chips for his tea on those evenings. After a feeble protest, Pru accepted.

Before she left, she remembered the archer’s bow she had found in the wood. “It isn’t his, is it?”

“No, Robbie wouldn’t have anything so fine,” Ivy said.

“If no one claims it, could he have it?” Pru asked. “Maybe he could play with it only when someone else is around? No arrows, of course.”

Pru compartmentalized her life into gardening—which took the daylight hours; asking questions about Ned’s murder—most of her other waking moments; and talking with Christopher—which she wished could take most of her time, but in reality took the least. On Tuesday, the moment she could get away from the garden, she dashed to the flat to talk with Cate. When Pru pressed the bell, she noticed the dirt under her fingernails, and wondered if there was a point to showering at all these days, as she seemed to be in the dirt more than out of it. She stuck her hands in her pockets and waited. Pru’s surprise visits weren’t going well: this was the second try and the second time Cate wasn’t home. She reached out to press the bell one more time when she heard a voice across the road.

“She’s gone out with the little miss, about an hour ago.”

It was, of course, Arabella Sock—whose country accent was as broad as her smile—with Trevor in tow. Pru walked to the end of the drive. “Thanks,” she said, wondering if Mrs. Sock was taking messages for the house now. “I’ll stop back by.”

“You’re welcome to wait here for them—I can put the kettle on.”

Mrs. Sock and Trevor looked dressed for a walk. “I don’t want to hold you up if you were about to leave,” Pru said.

“Oh, Trevor and I are in no hurry, are we now, boy?” The beagle sat down.

Well, why not?
“Thanks so much,” she said as she walked across the road and up Mrs. Sock’s front path—past twiggy spireas, thorny roses, and a tangled mass of clematis, all waiting for spring. “I’m Pru Parke, a friend of Cate’s.”

“I’m Arabella Sock, and this is Trevor.” Trevor stood and Pru knelt, putting a hand out for the dog to sniff.

“Hello, Trevor,” she said, petting him as his back half wagged. “That’s a very nice name you have.”

Pru followed her hosts down a narrow hall, careful not to jostle a wall shelf teeming with photos. On the way, Mrs. Sock pointed to a jolly-looking man standing next to a brown-and-white cow in one of the frames. “There’s my Trevor,” she said as they walked into the kitchen.

“Trevor?” Pru asked. The beagle gave a minor yip.

“My dear husband Trevor died three years ago,” Mrs. Sock said as she put the kettle on and reached for the tea tin. “So I sold our dairy farm and moved here to be near our two boys. They thought I needed a companion, seeing as how I didn’t have my own Trevor any longer, and a friend of theirs knew about this re-homing for beagles—finding homes for dogs that didn’t have a place to live. Well, when they told me they had a beagle named Trevor t’were looking for a family, I knew we were meant for each other. Isn’t that right?” Mrs. Sock looked down at Trevor, who sat at her feet and whined.

“Do you need a bickie?” she asked him. Trevor stood, his tail a metronome set on allegro; Mrs. Sock reached in the pocket of her coat and pulled out a treat.

“I think Nanda would love to meet Trevor,” Pru said, taking her own treat from the plate that Mrs. Sock put out. She remembered how Nanda and Trevor barked at each other across the road.

“She’s a cute one, that little miss,” Mrs. Sock said, pouring the tea. “And her mum is lovely. I notice she has a friend who looks in on her. I’d say he’s a mite more helpful than that other one lurking in the laurel.” She raised an eyebrow.

Whoa,
Pru thought.
Mrs. Sock really does keep an eye on things.

It was just one cup of tea and a generous slice of bakewell tart, but it was a restorative visit. They talked about gardens and cows—the Socks had raised Ayrshires. In the course of the conversation, Mrs. Sock asked Pru if she had any family. Pru opened her mouth and after a moment stumbled over a few words—“I have…We don’t…”—and the older woman carried on with another topic. When Mrs. Sock noticed Cate was home—she had an excellent view of Francine’s drive and front step from the window in her own front door—Pru stood to leave.

At the door, Mrs. Sock said, “You know, Pru, there were a good few years when my sister and I didn’t speak to each other. I don’t even remember what it was about now. But I was too proud and she was too stubborn—or maybe t’were the other way round.” Mrs. Sock smiled. “But then, one day, she rang me—or I rang her—and it was as if nothing had ever happened.” She shrugged. “Families. You just be patient.” She patted Pru’s arm.

Tears sprang to Pru’s eyes before she could stop them. She had the sudden urge to tell Arabella Sock the entire story of her family in hopes that she would ring Simon and sort it all out.

“Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Sock.”