The Skeleton Garden Page 16

  “Yeah, yeah. Larkspur?”

  “Definitely. Nigella—look.”

  “God, the sweet peas,” he said. “They’re all old, aren’t they? Miss Willmott? Wiltshire Ripple?”

  We gardeners are suckers when it comes to seed catalogs and the promise of glory, Pru thought. They began a list.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Pru said, sticking a pen back in her bag. “Christmas. We’re having Christmas at Greenoak. You, Polly, the girls, their boyfriends, Orlando and his parents—everyone. You’ll all be there. I’ve already mentioned it to Polly.”

  Simon stared at the page open to delphinium and didn’t speak for a moment as the conversation edged close to family matters. Pru waited and at last he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “All right.”

  “Simon, did you go to Greenoak that night?”

  The question popped out before she could stop it. He started and stared at her for a moment and licked his lips. “I went by. I didn’t stop, though, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything until daylight.”

  “Why didn’t you say that when Christopher asked you?”

  “And call attention to being there when someone did that to Jack? How would that look?”

  “How does it look now that you were seen coming out of the drive?”

  “Who said that?”

  “You didn’t notice a car when you drove out?”

  Simon frowned. “Has someone been talking?”

  “Why was the spade on the lawn?”

  “A spade? He wasn’t—”

  “Hit? No, but it had Jack’s fingerprints on it. Have they taken your fingerprints yet?”

  “Have they taken yours?” he responded hotly.

  “Why aren’t you answering my questions?” she asked.

  “Why aren’t you answering mine?”

  This wasn’t going well. “My fingerprints are already on file—the police’ve had them for ages.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows. “Oh, right.”

  “What was he even doing there? Was he looking for one of us?” she asked, almost to herself. “You didn’t see anything?”

  Simon shook his head. “I turned in, drove around, and out. All I saw was that heap of junk Peachey said he’d take away for us. And where was he?”

  Pru looked at her brother. She didn’t think she was supposed to reveal sources, and so, to avoid blurting out that it was Peachey who saw him, she jumped to another topic. “Look, about the dance next week.” The wary look returned to Simon’s face. “You would be doing us all a favor if you’d get over to Birdie’s house and get busy.”

  “You’ve no right to bring that up.”

  “I certainly do have a right, she was my…what?” Pru had worked it out once, and then forgot.

  “Great-aunt. George was Mother’s uncle—her father’s brother. So, George was your…our great-uncle and Birdie, our great-aunt.” He looked down at the table.

  “Why won’t you do it? What’s stopping you?”

  Simon stood up, bumping against the table, which set the glasses wobbling. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “Sit down!” The shock wave went round the pub, freezing all conversation. Simon sat down. Pru noticed Mrs. Whycher drying a glass and watching them with a smile on her face. “You bloody well will listen to me,” Pru hissed furiously. “You’re making yourself and everyone around you miserable. If you can’t face up to the past, then at least have a thought for your wife. Polly said she knows Birdie has boxes of clothes put away—she’s seen them. At least let us borrow something for the dance.” Pru had formed a theory that if he could break through whatever kept him from facing Birdie’s death—using the fancy-dress dance as an excuse—then he could begin to heal.

  Simon stood up again and made for the door. Pru followed, unable to keep her voice down as he walked out. “Do you want your wife and your sister showing up Saturday evening wearing nothing at all?” she shouted at his back. “How would that make you feel?”

  She stepped back into the pub. No one looked at her, but she could see that every bowed head tried to hide a smile.

  Ursula Whycher didn’t attempt to disguise hers. “Ah, Dicky,” she said to her son, “isn’t that lovely? They remind me of you and Helen.”

  “My older sister,” Dick said to Pru. “She’s a right one to deal with.”

  Pru took their empty glasses up to the bar, eyeing the few other customers scattered about, who had gone back to reading. “Dick,” she said quietly, “do you mind if I ask you about what you overheard between Jack and Simon? You know, the evening that Jack died.”

  Dick shrugged. “Well, I didn’t hear much. Jack had been in here having a pint, and his phone rang. He stepped out to answer. After a few minutes, he opened the door and walked back in with Simon. They were talking—or they were just finishing up talking.”

  Pru frowned. “Were they arguing?”

  “Arguing?” Dick echoed. “I suppose there was a bit of back and forth.”

  “What were they saying? Do you remember?”

  “I heard them,” Dick’s mother said, brushing a wisp of tangerine hair out of her eyes. “I was in the shop sweeping up and I had the door open. I thought Jack sounded a bit strained on the phone. ‘I’m not fond of secrets,’ he said. ‘Not at this point.’ Don’t you wonder who he was talking to?”

  Pru reached into her bag and began feeling round for a pen while keeping her eyes on Ursula. Did Christopher know about this conversation? Where was Jack’s phone—couldn’t they trace the call? She pulled a beer mat over and scribbled on it without looking.

  “And then along came Simon, and they started talking about Polly,” Mrs. Whycher continued, holding up her hands to paint the scene. “Jack said, ‘Do you think I’ve come to win her back?’ and Simon said Jack had no right to think Polly was a prize he could pluck out of a tombola. Jack said it was too late for that, but what right did Simon have to try to stop him if he did.”

  Pru’s pen paused and a wave of cold nausea washed over her as she was struck by not only how bad the story made Simon look, but also how good Ursula’s memory was. Ursula stopped short, catching sight of Pru. “Ah, sunshine,” she said, patting Pru’s hand, “wasn’t it ages ago, and what would it matter now? They were lads—the two of them—fighting over a girl.”

  “None of us is a saint,” Dick said.

  Mrs. Whycher polished one of the tap handles in a thoughtful manner. “It’s true—we all have our little hiccups. Do you recall, Dick, the sneaky way Jack tried to buy the Blackbird out from under us and how you had to go after him?”

  “Ma,” Dick said, jerking his head toward the door, “do you not have to be back in the shop?”

  She took the hint, shaking out the bar towel and hanging it up. “Well, that’s me away.”

  “Wait,” Pru said. “Ursula, did you give a statement to the police and say all that?”

  “Well, Martin asked me about it. Wasn’t he doing that with everyone?”

  Pru nodded. “Of course. Yes.” Ursula left and Pru turned her attention to Dick. “Fancy that—I didn’t know Jack wanted to buy the Blackbird,” she said.

  Dick shook his head. “Ma and I had already moved here, and suddenly Jack puts in an offer to Kitty, going over to her with his sweet talk about how he could carry on the tradition and didn’t their families have strong ties to village. It gave Ma a fright, I don’t mind saying.” His eyes flickered toward the shop door. “She’d put all we had into this—Ma needed to get out of the north, into a better climate.”

  “But Kitty rejected Jack’s offer?”

  “In the end, Kitty said she knew Jack for the rapscallion he was,” Dick said, grinning. “That’s her word, not mine—but a good one. When he was young, before he went off to Canada, he was always coming up with one grand idea after another, none of them working out.”

  “He hadn’t held on to the hope of owning the pub all these years, had he?”

  Dick looked up from the pint h
e was pulling, but didn’t answer. The door opened and a crowd of footballers swarmed up to the bar. Pru backed off and checked her notes, discovering they had come to naught as the beer mat was wet and her pen had skipped. She repeated the details in her head until she could get home and tell Christopher.

  Chapter 24

  “It was Ursula who said she heard them?” Christopher asked. They sat at the kitchen table over a dinner of leftovers. “There’s no statement from her—and I could’ve sworn I read it in Dick’s statement. I’ll go through them again.”

  “The argument between Jack and Simon—it didn’t sound like much, did it?” Pru kept her eyes on her plate and hurried on. “And you can see why Simon didn’t want to say he’d been by, can’t you? He hadn’t stopped and he didn’t see anything, and so what did it matter? I’ll talk with Peachey next.”

  “Peachey said it was about ten that he saw Simon. No one’s mentioned seeing either Jack or Simon after that.”

  “As far as you know—maybe that was something else Martin forgot. And we should check if Dick left the Blackbird at all that evening.”

  “Dick?”

  “Dick and Jack have a history—Jack tried to buy the pub out from under him,” Pru said, fiddling with her fork.

  “How did you come across that?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “I have my ways,” she said and offered the rest of the story.

  “That’s good work,” he said, giving her a nod of appreciation.

  Pru stood and took their plates to the sink. “I wonder who Jack was talking to on the phone.”

  Christopher shook his head. “There’s no sign of his mobile.”

  “Martin wanted to search Simon and Polly’s house—is that what he was looking for?”

  “A search?” A note of irritation crept into Christopher’s voice. “On what grounds? And without a warrant?”

  “Jack hadn’t even been there. Polly said Martin was a bit pushy about it.” She couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  Christopher shook his head. “Stan can’t remember seeing Jack’s mobile since he died. Jack had a Canadian phone number, and we’re waiting on them to check the call record.”

  Pru leaned against the counter, thinking about the people Jack knew and who might be responsible for his death. Perhaps someone followed him here from Canada. Yes, she thought, the convenient unknown—it might’ve been someone from another part of his life. An image appeared in her mind, like a rabbit popping out of a hat. “Joseph Hare.”

  “What?”

  “Joseph Hare.” She had forgotten all about him until that moment.

  “Who is he?”

  “Exactly,” Pru said. “Who is he?” She saw the blank look on Christopher’s face. “No one mentioned him? Well, he’d slipped my mind, too. He came looking for Jack at the Blackbird last weekend, when we found the black-market stash in the cellars.” Pru explained that Hare did not stay long, and Jack offered no explanation. “Although Jack didn’t seem happy to see him. Maybe Joseph Hare held a grudge and followed Jack back here that night.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, but why here? What was Jack doing here at Greenoak just then—we’re always back to that.”

  “There’s police work for you, more questions than answers,” Christopher said, standing up. “Fancy a walk? We could nip down to the clearing to see if there’s any activity. We might even find them on the path.” Badger watch—Christopher had thought he’d seen signs of the animals along the hornbeam walk, although he’d yet to set eyes on one.

  Pru put their dishes in the sink. “I’ll be right behind you,” she said, and waited until he’d walked out the door before pulling a heavy book from her bag. Inside the book was the photocopy she’d made of one of the pages. She’d jotted a list at the bottom. She stuffed the paper into her bag and returned the book to the kitchen shelf, hoping Evelyn hadn’t notice its brief disappearance.

  She buttoned up her coat and stepped out into the cold, dark night, exhaling clouds like a steam engine. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement—Christopher had darted into the parterre lawn through the driveway opening. So, not the hornbeam walk after all—he must be hot on the badger trail, she thought. Pru walked down the drive, keeping to the flat stone edging so that her footfalls wouldn’t make noise.

  In the parterre lawn, all was quiet. He must be on the opposite side of the marquee, out of her sight and standing quiet, so as not to disturb the badger. She would be quiet, too; she began to circle round the tent. As she passed it, a gust of wind shot through the garden and whipped the flap open with a crack. She jumped and swung around. In the shadow, a dark figure stood silhouetted against the white tent, and she opened her mouth to say “Christopher” at the same moment she knew it couldn’t be—this person was the wrong shape.

  The figure lunged and shoved her away. She fell back and landed on her bottom in the gravel, shouting in alarm. As the person ran past her toward the opening, she managed to grab his ankle, and she struggled to stand and keep hold. The figure kicked loose from her grasp, and the force sent her staggering. She caught her foot on a guy rope from the marquee, danced a few steps, and went down hard on her stomach.

  She gasped, inhaling the sweet smell of grass and soil. She got up on all fours and glanced round, but could see only stars—the kind in front of her eyes, not in the sky. She hung her head for a moment, panting, and then sat back on her heels as Christopher charged into the garden toward her.

  Pru shook her head. “He’s gone, he’s gone,” she said and coughed.

  “Who’s gone? Are you all right? What happened? I’d just started down the hornbeam walk, and I heard you shouting.” He helped her up as he peered into the darkness.

  “I thought I saw you walk in here, and I followed,” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “But it was someone else. He came out of the marquee and pushed me. I tried to get hold of him, but he got away and I fell.”

  “Are you hurt?” Christopher’s attention came back to her, and he ran his hands gently over her hair and shoulders.

  Pru shook her head. “I got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.” A dull pain began to throb in her chest where she had hit the stone edging.

  “Could you see his face?”

  “No,” she said. “He might’ve had a ski mask on—he was all dark. I should’ve tried to pull it off.”

  “Come on, let’s go inside.” He put his arm around her, pulled out his phone, and rang Martin.

  She tried to make light of it. “It was probably some yob, and I surprised him.” But she shivered as she thought it might’ve happened to Jack the same way. “Better to make sure, I know.” They walked toward the kitchen door, and she leaned into Christopher’s firm grip.

  Once inside, he discovered a light scratch along her jawline. “Did he do that?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t touch me.”

  By the time Martin and PC Gerald arrived, a heavy, cold drizzle had started to fall. Gerald was on duty and in uniform, but it didn’t look as if Martin had planned a night out in the weather. Already his shoes were soaking, and rain beaded his dark hair.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Martin.”

  Martin shook off her apology. “Not at all, Christopher was quite right to ring.”

  “I don’t think he wanted to hurt me—I think he wanted to get away from me,” she explained. “I was the one holding on.”

  She could see by Christopher’s face he remained unconvinced.

  “We’ll take a look round,” Martin said. “We wouldn’t want to miss anything.” He and Gerald carried large torches that could easily double as truncheons and headed out to the parterre lawn.

  Pru poked her head out the door and watched them as they crunched off, the rain splattering her face. Christopher hung back in the kitchen. “Go on,” she said, “I’m all right in here.”

  “No, I’ll stay.”

  She smiled at his reluctance. “You know you want to. I’m
fine. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  He made sure she locked the door. After he left and she’d made herself a cup of tea, Pru sat alone in the kitchen with her insides vibrating as she listened hard to every creak and groan in the old house, until Christopher reappeared. They’d found nothing.

  “Tea?” she asked, jumping up from the table.

  “No, thanks,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Let’s go to bed.”

  She ran herself a hot bath and added scented oil until the room steamed with the fragrance of musk rose. Christopher brought her a brandy and sat on a short dressing chair beside the tub with his own glass. When she undressed, she had discovered a bruise blooming above her right breast—where she’d hit the stone edging between gravel and grass—and now Christopher saw it, too. A hard look spread over his face as he traced the outline of the bruise. She took his fingers and kissed them. “I’ve had worse gardening.”

  A hot bath, a few ibuprofen, a brandy, and Christopher beside her—Pru marveled at what a short attention span she had for fear. She stretched her legs out, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back, letting the heat soak into her skin; she knew Christopher continued to watch her. “You think he was looking for something?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “But what?”

  In bed and deep under the covers, she nestled her backside against Christopher, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. She drifted off to sleep, waking late in the morning with a vague memory of a dream—she had pulled off her assailant’s ski mask and found the skull she’d dug up in the garden. It was odd, she thought, that it hadn’t frightened her.

  Chapter 25

  Sunday morning the last shreds of uneasiness were banished by yellow autumn sunlight shooting through the window. Pru had a big afternoon ahead of her, a solo task. Christopher stuck close by until midday, when she told him, “I need to go into Romsey and do a bit of food shopping.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “I’m going to Waitrose—I’ll be in the middle of a crowd—and I’ll come straight back. You stay here.”