The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) (24 page)

It was past midday before she left the hospital. Mostly she waited for her official discharge, but she did at least give her statement to DS Hobbes, who said Jamie was in a cell at the station where he alternated between threatening retaliation for his treatment and acquiescing to police requests. They at last had his fingerprints and were checking them against the partial found on the hatchet and the pocketknife. It was, for Hobbes, all in a day’s work—albeit an unusual day—and he ended on a practical note: “Are you hungry?”

Starving, she said, and asked if he could find her some soup. He brought her a cup of hot creamy vegetable—one step on the road to recovery.

She got her phone back, but not her necklace—it had apparently found its way into the hands of Inspector Tatt, who said he would return it. She stared at the screen on her phone for a few minutes, trying to figure out if it would help or hurt to leave Christopher another message. She decided against it, but while she considered, Davina rang, having heard from the police.

“Pru, my God, are you all right?”

Pru gave a brief account, but Davina had difficulty following it. “We must have a bad connection,” she said.

Happy to blame the phone service rather than go into detail about why her voice was so spotty, Pru asked Davina only one question of her own. The answer left her laughing in a wheezy fashion.

“Gloves—that was what your note was about? You left me gloves?”

“They’re lovely,” Davina said. “Suede—we picked them up in Paris. They’re gauntlet-style—to protect you when you prune the roses.”
It’s true,
Pru thought,
those ramblers can be vicious.
“I put them in the greenhouse,” Davina continued. “I thought you’d see them right off. Sorry about the mix-up.”

Pru stopped short of replying, “No harm done.”

“Rest up,” Davina said, “and we’ll have a good chin-wag when I return.”

Pru hobbled out of her bedroom after a sit-down shower taken with Cate’s assistance, and found her cottage a hive of activity. Ivy was at the Aga, standing over a pot of something with a spicy fragrance. Fergal and Liam were building a fire. Robbie was helping Cate fluff pillows. When they saw her, they all stopped what they were doing and got her settled on the sofa. Robbie rearranged the pillows behind her several times. As she rewrapped Pru’s ankle, Cate worried aloud how she would explain to Nanda what her father had done, but then hoped that perhaps she wouldn’t need to address it for a few years. As they all worked, they expressed concern over her trauma and a keen desire to hear from her own lips what had happened. Pru gave them a sketchy account, promising details later. It was late afternoon, and she was weary. She looked around at them as they worked and talked with one another and thought how much she loved them and how happy she was they were there, but the person she wanted to see the most was probably on his way to Oxford by now. Without ringing her when he landed. She had an enormous headache, her ankle throbbed, her throat hurt, and she wished everyone would be quiet.

Silence fell so suddenly, Pru was afraid she’d said that last bit aloud, but when she looked up, she saw all her guests frozen in a tableau, staring at Christopher, who stood in the doorway.

There he was, her heart’s desire made flesh. He’d been traveling for twelve hours and looked it. Robbie broke the spell with “You’re Pru’s boyfriend.” The room came to life again, as everyone spoke at once and moved to the door like a tidal wave. As Ivy grabbed both her coat and Robbie, she said, “I’ve put it in the simmer oven, Pru, and there’s bread. It’s all ready whenever you are.” Fergal said, “I’ve lit the fire just now—you should have a good blaze soon.” Liam patted her shoulder and said, “Well done.” Cate leaned over and took Pru’s clip out, arranging her hair to cover the mark on her face where Jamie had slapped her, and drew the light throw across Pru’s foot to hide her bloated purple toes. Everyone spoke to Christopher on the way out: “How’s your son?” “Was it a good flight?” “She held her own with him, you know.”

The door shut and they were alone. Pru smiled. “Hi,” she said. Her voice, a husky whisper that morning, had started to return and now she sounded more like a fourteen-year-old boy going through puberty. Christopher didn’t speak, but came to her and sat down on the sofa. He took her in his arms as if she were a delicate piece of glass.

She would not cry. She would not shed tears all over his shirt and make him feel guilty because he hadn’t been there to save her. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. She felt his breath on her shoulder like a warm breeze and heard him murmur, “My darling.”

Oh, crap.

The sobs racked her body as she clung to him, and he held her tightly. Eventually, she pulled free slightly and gave him a nod to signal that it was over. She sniffed repeatedly, and Christopher reached into his jacket pocket, producing a handkerchief. She blew her nose, and he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. That led him to push back the hair Cate had drawn forward. His face grew hard when he saw the red welt high on her cheek. His hand moved down to her sweater—apparently, DS Hobbes had given details of her injuries. Christopher peeled back the collar to reveal the thin line where her necklace had cut into her neck, and he lifted her chin to see the blue thumbprint smudges at her throat. He clenched his jaw.

She put her hand on his arm and felt his muscles stretched tight as a rubber band about to snap. “Christopher, I’m all right.”

“You are
not
all right,” he fired back. He was breathing hard. “But you’re better off than I imagined for all those hours.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry you didn’t know in time.”

“The last thing I heard from David was that he had found your necklace in the walled garden, along with the Red Book and one of Davina’s notes. You were nowhere to be seen.”

“That’s where Jamie grabbed me,” she said. “I got away and ran for the house.”

He took her hands in his. “And before that, I tried to ring you—for hours.”

She told him about her covert surveillance in the snug at the Two Bells. “I was tired and hungry—all I had for supper was two packets of crisps and a pint. And then I fell asleep. And I had a funny dream,” she said, “about a badger.”

One eyebrow shot up. “A badger?”

She could see her way now. “Yes, a badger. He sat down on one of the boxes and told me about being a Boy Scout.” She watched him as he watched her. His jaw was working. “And then Ted called time…”

“In your dream?”

“Yes…well, I don’t know, maybe that was real. Then the badger said, ‘He’ll be looking for you,’ and he walked out.” His lips twitched. “Too bad he didn’t remind me about my mobile phone.”

Christopher dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes, saying, “Oh my God.” But she could see the smile he was trying to hide. He looked at her and shook his head.

She leaned forward and paused for a moment, their lips barely touching, before kissing him. He responded in kind, reaching his arm around to the small of her back. She laid her hand against his cheek, which felt like sandpaper now at the end of a long day. “You were where you needed to be,” she said.

He took her clip from the side table and handed it to her. “No need to hide that any longer. And now, I want you to tell me what happened today with Tanner.”

She nodded. “Yes. Would you get us a drink first?”

“What would you like?” he asked as he stood, finally removing his coat and adding a log to the fire. “Wine?”

“Brandy,” she said. “I’d like a very large…oh, just bring the bottle.”

He returned with glasses and brandy, and perched again on the sofa. “You could sit on the chair,” she said. “You’d be more comfortable.”

“I am comfortable right here,” he said, handing her a glass and taking a sip from his own. He rested a hand on her thigh. They both looked into the fire.

She took a breath and carried on. She told him of her flight to Primrose House, Jamie’s appearance, and Simon showing up to save the day.

“Simon,” he marveled.

“Yes,” Pru said, feeling again the amazement and joy at her brother’s appearance. “He said he realized he wasn’t being fair to me before. All he really needed was a little persuasion.”

Christopher stopped his glass halfway to his lips. “Persuasion?”

“Birdie and Polly have been talking to him—and the letters, I know they helped.”

They sat in silence, both with their own thoughts. Christopher’s hand began kneading its way up her thigh again. She leaned back into her pillows and studied him. On her second brandy, her headache had vanished and her ankle didn’t feel half bad. All in all…

Tires on the gravel—Pru squeaked in disappointment. “Everyone’s already been here,” she said.

Everyone except Tatt. Christopher opened the door, and the inspector—in tartan overcoat and deerstalker—strolled in.

“Well, Pearse, you seem to have missed out today. Not here to rescue Ms. Parke when she needed you?”

That was enough. “Christopher was bringing his son back from Dubai, where he’d been in a car crash,” she said, running out of steam at the end and coughing before she took another sip of brandy. “Now, just what do you want, Inspector?”

Tatt sputtered briefly and said to Christopher, “I’m sorry to hear that. Is the boy all right?”

“He has some healing to do,” Christopher replied, “but he’ll be fine.”

Somewhat pacified by her ability to humble Tatt, Pru asked, “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, straightening himself up. “I only stopped to see how you were getting on. And to tell you that it was because of the message you left DS Hobbes yesterday morning that we were on to Tanner.”

Pru frowned slightly, trying to remember what she had said.

“About the pocketknife found at the murder scene,” Tatt continued. “We had looked into Tanner’s background already. He had no cautions, but his work history showed he’d put in several years at East Malling Research—grafting apple trees. You told Hobbes that the pocketknife could be used for grafting. We questioned his co-worker in Tunbridge Wells again. He confessed to lying about Tanner’s whereabouts on the afternoon of the murder—Tanner had blackmailed him over some workplace theft, which he was more than willing to confess to if it meant seeing the end of his blackmailer. We put all that together, and well, Bob’s your uncle.”

“It wasn’t quite that simple for Pru,” Christopher pointed out. “Or that easy.”

“Yes, hmm…” Tatt replied. “And Tanner, it turns out, was quite an archer in school.”

She cut her eyes to Christopher and lifted a finger. “I’ll get to that.” He regarded her but said nothing. She wasn’t finished with Tatt. “What about Robbie Fox?”

Tatt gave a concessionary nod. “One of his friends at the day care center—”

“Andrew?”

“—told a story of Robin Hood taking Fox out for a bar of chocolate. It took a great deal of time to view the CCTV recordings around town, but we finally caught Tanner and the Fox boy at a newsagent off the Mount Ephraim Road, midday. On the way into the shop, Fox was wearing his red jacket. On the way out, Tanner carried it.”

“And so Robbie was not involved.” Pru thought the point needed to be made.

“Evidence does not just fall from the sky, Ms. Parke,” Tatt said, as if to justify the time spent investigating Robbie. He cleared his throat. “Still, I am sure your support was a great comfort to his mother.”

Pru could only blink at what sounded suspiciously like a compliment.

“Well, that’s me away, then,” Tatt said, dusting off his lapels and starting for the door. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” He dug about in his coat pocket. “I told Hobbes I would return this to you.” He held out her necklace, the two broken ends swinging morosely in midair.

One hand went to her chest and the other she held out, tears welling at the sight of her precious pendant. Christopher intervened, took the necklace from Tatt, and dropped it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll have it repaired,” he said to her.

She felt quite magnanimous toward Tatt now. “Would you care for a drink, Inspector?” she asked.

She saw his eyes scan their cozy scene: glasses of brandy, flames dancing in the fireplace. She could’ve sworn he looked wistful.

He shook his head. “No, thank you. You have your dinner waiting—a curry, is it? And I do have a home to get to.” And with that, his tartan coat disappeared out the door.

“A curry it is,” Pru said. “I’m starving—how about you?”

When Simon, Polly, and daughters Miranda and Peppy pulled into the cottage drive, Pru and Christopher stood waiting for them. Pru vibrated with excitement. She had invited them for this Sunday lunch, they had accepted, and she had been immediately thrown into a panic about the garden and the menu. The garden she could handle; Ivy had taken charge of the menu.

It was one of those rare March days—the sun was shining; it might almost be considered warm—Pru could ask for nothing better. When it came time to introduce her family to Christopher, emotions overcame her and she could barely get names out.

“Christopher, I’d like you to meet my brother, Simon”—she sniffed—“and my sister-in-law, Polly.” She took a breath and cleared her throat. “And these are my nieces”—the word was almost unintelligible—“Penelope and Miranda.”

They exchanged pleasantries, and Miranda patted Pru’s arm. “It’s all right, Aunt Pru.” This prompted another outbreak. Miranda turned to Christopher. “Does she cry a great deal?”

“No, not really,” Pru said, wiping her tears away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Christopher’s eyebrows shoot up. She laughed.

Pru had been down to Hampshire twice to visit, and had met both girls. The process of breaking apart and reassembling the Parke family moved like a mule—first lunging forward and then digging in its heels as they all searched for common ground. They had yet to share even the most mundane pieces of their lives. Sugar in your tea? Mash or roast? Poached or fried? It seemed no matter how they tried, there remained a vast unexplored territory, and when they approached the edge and touched on the pain of the secret years, they would all jump away and move to safer ground.

Pru told herself again and again that it wouldn’t be easy or quick, but at least they all seemed determined and, even more amazing, they all got along. So far. Pru speculated that they were still on their best behavior. Who knew what it would be like when those last barriers fell? She could only hope for the best.

Drinks were followed by lunch of two roasted chickens, redolent with thyme and rosemary, accompanied by a spring risotto with asparagus and wild mushrooms. A pudding of rhubarb crumble—the first of the season—followed by coffee finished out the meal, after which Pru conducted a tour of the gardens.

The afternoon drew to a close with—Pru hoped she wasn’t imagining it—as much reluctance on Simon’s part as hers. She hugged her nieces, her sister-in-law, and her brother in turn, and Christopher shook everyone’s hand. While discussing with Polly her next visit to Romsey, Pru overheard Simon say to Christopher, “Again, I’m very sorry.” And Christopher’s reply, “No, don’t worry about it. There’s no need for that.”

Christopher put his arm around Pru’s shoulders, and they watched the Parkes drive away in Simon’s mud-splattered Range Rover. They walked back to the cottage; Christopher opened the door and followed her in. When he threw the latch and turned, he couldn’t move, because Pru stood directly in front of him.

“Why did Simon apologize to you?” she asked.

Christopher didn’t move, only gave her one of those penetrating looks that seemed to reach deep inside her. She didn’t move, either. He caught her hands in his and said, “I went to see Simon.”

“You went to see him—when?” she asked with a slight frown.

He took a breath and said, “The weekend you found out he was your brother. You were devastated at hearing the news and finding out that he wanted nothing to do with you.” He kneaded her hands lightly in an absentminded fashion. “I was worried about you. It wasn’t fair of him to treat you that way. I know he was shocked, but so were you, and I thought he should understand that. He should know how much this discovery meant to you.”

He stopped. She waited.

Glancing around the room, and then back at Pru, he continued, “I drove down to see him that Saturday, to talk with him.” He shrugged, and said with a grin, “You were right—he was angry.”

A snort of laughter escaped before she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Simon gave you that black eye?”

“He needed to let off steam,” Christopher said.

Her eyes grew wide. “Did you hit him back?”

“God no, I didn’t hit him back,” he said, almost laughing. “How would you feel if I got into a punch up with your new brother?”

She’d never had two men fight over her before—granted, this was not the traditional reason for it to happen, but still, she couldn’t help feeling a tiny flush of pleasure.

“It hurt to see you like that—much more than Simon’s fist hurt,” he continued. “I got up and dusted myself off. Simon apologized and I left. I didn’t think it would help to tell you at the time.”

Pru made no reply as she attempted to sort out a jumble of thoughts and emotions. Her initial shock at Simon’s anger, her love for Christopher, and his overwhelming need to take care of her—which she often paid no heed to—and the image of the two men in a fight.

“I realize that you may not like me to interfere in your family affairs, that it isn’t my place—”

She stopped him with her fingertips on his lips. “You have every right—I grant you that right. I know you were doing it for me. And perhaps your visit was part of what changed Simon’s mind.” She reached up, rested her extended arms on his shoulders, and sighed, happy the day had been a success and that it was now over.

But it also meant the end of their time together, and Christopher, unable to shake loose from his responsibilities at the Met for the entire weekend, had arrived only that morning. “Will you go back this evening?”

He sighed, too, and said, “I don’t like this. I don’t like being with you in bits and pieces.”

“You might get tired of me if you saw me all the time.”

“I might,” he said.

She laughed. “Well, so much for fishing for a compliment.”

He kissed her and said, “I don’t believe I would—but I would dearly love to find out.”

Together—the image wouldn’t go away. Good. “Surely we can come up with a solution.”

“We’ll talk about it later—when you can think of something other than the garden.”

“And in the meantime,” she said, “we always have weekends.”

Monday morning again. Pru watched Christopher drive off, closed the door, and collected their breakfast dishes. She was ready to leave for work when a knock came.

“Davina,” she said, surprised to see her employer in person, rather than finding the usual note tucked into the door. “I was just about to head up to the garden.”

Davina tilted her head slightly and smiled as she reached out and touched Pru’s arm. “Pru,” she said, “we have to talk.”