The Skeleton Garden Page 12

  Pru had learned a thing or two from Christopher about starting a fire, and soon they had a small blaze. She perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward the warmth, and Orlando sat on the floor, turning over a piece of kindling in his hands.

  “I was the one who found Gran when she died,” he said, not looking at Pru. “I’d come in from school, and she was in her chair. I thought she was asleep, but she’d always wake up when I came home, and ask me about my day. Mum was at some meeting and Dad at work. I had to ring Bess at uni.” He tossed the stick into the fire. “But Gran was old, and this fellow—well, he was old, too, but not that old. He wasn’t old enough to die, was he?”

  Pru didn’t think she was up for a discussion about the nature of life and death, and was saved by Christopher looking round the door.

  “You two all right? We’ve finally got hold of Martin. He’s on his way. The DI is here. They aren’t ready to move the body yet.”

  “I’ll come out and make more tea. Orlando,” she said, ready to ask him to stay put. He was still hunkered down by the fire, his face now red from the growing heat, but his eyes just as large. She changed her mind. “Will you come give me a hand?”

  He jumped up with a look of relief. “Yeah, I will.”

  —

  Three hours, several pots of tea, and a plateful of custard cream biscuits later, Pru still waited to hear details. Orlando, unable to get anything out of the stream of police officers that came in and out of the kitchen, had gone back to sit in front of the fire. When Pru looked in on him later, he was asleep on the sofa, one leg hanging off, and an arm thrown over his face. She took a lap blanket and covered as much of him as it would reach, and switched off all the lights except for a lamp in the corner.

  Pru knew that sleep for her was a distant country she wouldn’t be visiting anytime soon. Eventually, kitchen traffic slackened, and there was little to keep her occupied. She had washed and dried the cups and saucers and put them away and now leaned up against the counter in the kitchen. She glanced at the time: three o’clock. She felt hollow inside, as her mind hopped and skipped around the few images of Jack she’d acquired—at the Blackbird, under the marquee, in the potting shed, in the cellars with Polly, across this very kitchen table. And now gone.

  The door opened and Christopher stepped in behind a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy mustache, who was saying, “We’re a bit stretched at the moment, and I can’t get anyone else. I’d prefer you, but if you insist on doing it that way, all right then. As long as I know you’re on it. But yes, let him have his go.”

  Christopher put a hand out to her as they came in. “Let me introduce you. Pru, this is Detective Inspector Adam Harnett from the Romsey station. Adam, my wife, Pru Parke.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Pru said, holding out her hand.

  DI Harnett had a brief, firm handshake. “Christopher has spoken of you, of course. I’m sorry about the circumstances of our meeting. You knew Jack Snuggs?”

  That didn’t take long, Pru thought, straight to questioning. “I met him recently. He’d just come back from Canada. I didn’t see him at all today.”

  “Sorry,” Harnett said, shaking his head. “Professional hazard. This isn’t an interview. Look, I’m sorry about all this”—he nodded in the direction of the parterre lawn—“it’ll keep you away from your work for a few days. Christopher, I’ll be off now. We’ll stay in touch.”

  The men shook hands and the DI departed. Christopher took Pru in his arms, and rested his cheek against her hair. The cold came off him in waves. They stood silent for a few moments as she shared her warmth. Finally, she stirred.

  “Was it an accident?”

  “We can’t be sure yet, but it doesn’t look like it.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “There was bruising on the back of his neck.”

  “Did someone hit him?”

  Christopher shook his head. “The bruising looked like the imprint of a hand.”

  Pru frowned as she tried to visualize the scene. Jack lay facedown in the dirt when they found him. She took a quick breath and swallowed hard. “Someone held him down hard enough to bruise him? Did he suffocate?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “But why didn’t he fight? And what was he doing here? Do you think it had something to do with the plane—and the skeleton?” She rubbed her forehead to erase the images popping up in her mind. “Who did this?”

  “And why? Did he meet that person by chance or by design?”

  Pru studied Christopher’s face. She saw that familiar, determined set of his jaw and a gleam in his eyes that revealed an eagerness to get started on the investigation. She felt it, too. “Stan may know why Jack was here. I could talk with him.”

  Christopher narrowed his eyes at her, but he softened the look by brushing a strand of hair from her face. “This is a police matter, Pru.”

  “He was in our garden,” she said.

  “There will be an inquiry,” Christopher replied. “Finding answers isn’t your responsibility.”

  They’d been over this ground before—it had deep, well-worn ruts in it. She changed directions.

  “Has Stan been told?” she asked.

  “Martin went to see Jack’s father.”

  “Did he leave Stan on his own?”

  “I don’t know—Martin should’ve taken care of that.”

  “Martin should’ve brought him back here.”

  “Stan will need to go into Romsey for the official identification,” Christopher said.

  Ah yes, police procedure—but it was more than that. In her mind, she could see Stan in his dark kitchen, hunkered over a cold mug of tea, staring into his bleak life with his wife and only child dead. “He shouldn’t be alone. Someone needs to be with him—at least check on him.” She had thought ahead. “I could go over. Or I could ring Polly. Stan knows her and she would be good with him. But I would need to tell her about Jack.”

  “Please don’t—” He stopped himself, took a breath, and locked his brown eyes on her. She returned his steady look without blinking. “You don’t want to wait until morning?” he asked.

  Pru shook her head. “I doubt if Stan went back to bed.”

  He nodded. “Why don’t you ring Polly and say we’ll come round.”

  “What about Orlando?”

  “I’ll have one of the uniforms come in while we’re gone.”

  The uniforms. She smiled to herself. “Are you going to take this case?”

  Christopher shook his head. “No.”

  “What did DI Harnett mean about you being ‘on it’? Did he ask you to take it?”

  “He asked, but I can’t do that to Martin. This is his first”—he stopped short for a moment—“his first big case.”

  “But, Christopher, they’ll need you. It’s all well and good for Martin to work on the case, but Jack has died, and finding the person responsible shouldn’t be left to someone with no experience. They can’t expect a detective sergeant to be able to conduct a”—now she stopped short—“you know, investigation.”

  Christopher gave her a squeeze. “I told Adam I’d stay in the background, but I’d keep an eye out. I don’t want to interfere.”

  “You wouldn’t be interfering—you would be in charge as you should be.” She raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you had such a stubborn streak.”

  The corner of his mouth went up. “I’ve learned from the best.”

  —

  Christopher opened the car door for her, but Pru hesitated before getting in, glancing around the yard and drive. Two police vehicles remained, and she could see lights from the parterre lawn, but there was something else. “At last,” she said, “I knew something was different when we got home. Peachey must’ve picked up our donation for the jumble sale. It was beginning to look like a junkyard around here.”

  Martin approached them. He looked as if he’d been yanked out of bed—hair tousled, one collar button undone. Christopher explain
ed their mission.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t think about that,” Martin said, frowning and rubbing the side of his face. Pru thought he already looked stressed from his new responsibilities. “Poor old Stan. I should get someone out from the station, shouldn’t I?”

  Christopher shook his head. “No need—we’ll take care of it.” They got in and drove away down the pitch-black lane, the moon now too low in the sky to help light the way. “Did you talk to Simon when you rang?”

  “No, I rang Polly’s mobile. I didn’t tell her what it was about—just assured her it wasn’t about family. I thought it would be better to explain in person.”

  “How did she sound?”

  “She sounded awake.” Not sleepy or disoriented—Polly had sounded prepared, as if she’d been waiting for Pru to ring. “She senses things, you know,” Pru said, as she reclipped her hair in an attempt to look as if it wasn’t six hours past her bedtime. “She’s very…in tune. She’ll be a comfort to Stan, I know she will.”

  They pulled up in front of the house. Christopher switched off the engine and took Pru’s hands. “I don’t think we need to go into details with them.”

  “We don’t have any details,” Pru pointed out.

  “Yes, well. We need only say that Jack has died and that Stan needs someone to look in on him. It’s early days yet—no need for speculation. Is that all right?”

  She nodded. Christopher’s caution masked a keen police mind that had already assimilated the initial facts of the case, and she could see by the look in his eyes that those facts were leading him into a murder investigation.

  —

  Pru knew that her phone call to Polly had carried an ominous tone, and so, when they arrived, Pru didn’t see the need for preliminaries. They’d barely shed their coats when she put her hand on Polly’s arm. “It’s Jack. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Jack,” Polly said, a hand going up to her face and her eyes filling with tears. “Ah, Jack. And he had just come home.” She swooned. Simon caught her and led her to the sofa.

  “How did it happen?” Simon asked, looking down at Polly’s hand in his.

  “We’d just got back from Winchester, the three of us, and gone indoors,” Christopher said, as Pru poured the tea, which had been ready on the table. “Pru was looking into the garden from an upstairs window, and—”

  “What?” Polly’s head jerked up. “He died at Greenoak?”

  “That’s where we found him,” Christopher said.

  “What was he doing there? How did he die?”

  “Did you see him at all today?” Christopher asked.

  Pru spotted the police technique—answer a question with another question—but Polly didn’t seem to notice and only shook her head. “I was in Yeovil with a client. She wants to open a second day spa and we were going over her finances, and it took us the afternoon to—but I don’t understand. Was it an accident?”

  “At the moment, we’re unclear on the details,” Christopher said, looking first at Polly, and then at Simon.

  “Martin went to tell Stan,” Pru said, bringing them back to the point, “because the police had to be called, of course.” She could feel Christopher’s eyes on her. “But that isn’t why we came. It’s because now, Stan is alone, and it’s just that we thought he shouldn’t be. I would check on him, but he knows you better, Polly. Would you mind going to see him?”

  Simon’s gaze dropped to the floor. Pru’s face grew red. Surely Simon wasn’t annoyed that his wife would be off to take care of the father of an old flame? Pru hadn’t meant for this to be awkward.

  “You will go, won’t you, Pol?” Simon asked, standing. “Stan’ll need you. Shall I go with you?”

  “No, no,” Polly said, standing and motioning to Simon to sit. “You stay, I’ll go. I’ll be fine.” She climbed over his legs, left the room, but returned a moment later and gave Simon a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, love.”

  Three were left, and they sat without speaking. Simon stared into his teacup. A great wave of weariness swept over Pru, and she thought she might drift off to sleep right where she sat.

  “We’d better leave you now,” Christopher said, standing and offering Pru his hand.

  They donned the coats they’d so recently taken off, as Polly came into the hall and reached for her own.

  “Thanks for doing this, Polly. Will you let me know how Stan is?” Pru asked. “Oh, and, when you and Simon stopped by Greenoak to check on the plants, did either of you see anything amiss?”

  Polly shook her head. “I wasn’t at Greenoak at all—I stayed in Yeovil and had dinner with my client and her husband and came back on a late train. Didn’t get in until close to midnight.”

  Pru looked at Simon, who said, “I didn’t think about the plants until it was dark. So I just left it, thought it would be better to wait until morning light.” He adjusted the collar on Polly’s coat. “What time did Jack die?”

  “There’s still a great deal to be learned,” Christopher replied.

  Chapter 18

  Pru slept fitfully, surprised that she slept at all. If she’d had three hours of rest, it was a miracle, and as Christopher was already out of bed when she awoke, he’d probably had two. She pulled on sweats and slippers and padded down to the kitchen. She had a hand up to push open the door but hesitated when she heard Evelyn’s voice. She didn’t sound happy, and Pru didn’t think she could take Evelyn’s ire on so fragile a morning. She turned to go back to the bedroom, deciding a cup of tea from the tray would do, but Evelyn’s words stopped her.

  “And who did he think he was, Jack Snuggs, swanning up and down this lane asking how you were doing, as if he didn’t know it was him that put you there?”

  A softer voice Pru identified as Peachey said something she couldn’t make out.

  “Well, all I’m saying is that some people make their own trouble,” Evelyn replied, followed by more soft words, and then Evelyn again, “You’re too good by half, Albert.”

  Pru leaned toward the door to hear more. She remembered Evelyn’s wary greeting to Jack over the weekend—everyone in the village had a past, and Pru had yet to learn all the stories.

  Another, louder male voice asked, “There wouldn’t be a cup of tea going, Evelyn, now would there?” And Evelyn replied in a commanding voice, “Sit down, then.” This signaled an all clear to Pru, who stepped into the kitchen.

  No Peachey in sight, but a young uniformed policeman sat at the table—Pru remembered him from the assemblage overnight. He rose immediately when he saw Pru. “Good morning, Mrs. Pearse, I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “It’s Ms. Parke, Gerald,” Evelyn said as she set tea and toast down in front of him. “You’d best keep yourself straight round here.”

  “No, that’s all right, Gerald,” Pru said, hoping Evelyn wouldn’t scare the young man away.

  He didn’t seem to mind the reprimand, and reached for the pot of jam.

  “I’d say you haven’t had the opportunity to wash your hands, now have you?” Evelyn asked, and Gerald’s hand was arrested in its journey. He sighed. Evelyn nodded to the small loo off the mudroom.

  Gerald rose to follow orders, but turned back to Pru. “You see, Ms. Parke, when I was a lad, Evelyn minded me three afternoons a week, and she still hasn’t got over it.”

  Pru smiled but dropped it when she saw Evelyn standing expectantly, twisting a tea towel in her hands. “You’ve heard about Jack, Evelyn?” Pru asked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t down here to tell you—we were up most of the night, and I’m afraid I’m having a bit of a slow start to my morning.”

  “Mr. Pearse told us when we arrived,” she said. “It’s a terrible thing. I’ll go round to Stan with a steak-and-kidney pie later.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Pru said.

  “Will the boy be coming down?” Evelyn asked, glancing at the door.

  “Not anytime soon, I’d say.” When they had returned from Polly and Simon’s, Christopher and Pru found Orlando sitti
ng at the kitchen table peppering the uniform—Gerald, in fact—with questions about how evidence was cataloged. They had suggested bed, and he hadn’t argued. “Well, I’ll just go up and dress,” Pru said, and began backing out of the kitchen.

  “Ms. Parke, wouldn’t you like to have your breakfast first?”

  Tears pricked Pru’s eyes, surely a sign of how tired she was when the offer of porridge could make her cry. “Yes, thanks, Evelyn. I suppose I should.”

  “And then I’ll be able to get to the rest of my work,” Evelyn said.

  —

  The kitchen was quiet when Pru made it back downstairs. She took her coat and walked out into the yard, looking left and right, wondering which way to go and what to do with herself. One police car sat in the drive. She’d glanced out the window on the way downstairs—the marquee had reappeared. And here came Christopher, out of the garden and up the drive toward her.

  He was most certainly working, but not, apparently, as a special constable—not a shiny button in sight. Not quite as a detective inspector, either, she could see, as he wasn’t wearing a suit. Instead, he had landed somewhere between, choosing to wear his old dark trousers and tweed jacket, the one with a touch of green in it, and a wool tie. On closer inspection, she could see he also wore red-rimmed eyes from lack of sleep. They matched her own.

  He cupped her face in his hand and gave her a small, soft kiss. “You’d drifted off when I decided to get up—I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said.

  “You’re working here this morning?”

  “Just helping out on-site. Martin is conducting interviews, taking statements.”

  “Is there any news?”

  “The preliminary forensics report should be in this afternoon.” He studied her face. “Can you give us a hand? Take a look inside the shed to see if anything looks different and check round the rest of the garden—including the parterre lawn—to see if anything is amiss. Simon hasn’t arrived yet.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sure. But, can I…” She pointed to the wooden handle on the shed door.