Midsummer Mayhem Read online

  “So, last night, I got an email from Deirdre Gascoigne, and then she rang me this morning from their place in the South of France.”

  “Ooh.” Pru extended her index finger and gave her brother a light poke on the arm. “Lady Gascoigne rang Simon Parke—let me touch you.”

  Simon batted her hand away. “She said Jeremy’s gone off his trolley. He told the Gascoignes the actors were making a shambles of the place—wearing out the lawn and trampling the borders, destroying the rock garden, breaking through hedges. He said he wouldn’t put up with it and they could bloody well stuff the job.”

  Pru frowned. “Surely they aren’t trampling the borders?”

  “The point is,” Simon continued, “it’s put them in a bad way—the actors and the Gascoignes as well. They can’t leave the place without someone looking after it and, as it turns out, the Shakespeare company wants a bit of help. Deirdre thought to ring me because I had stepped in for a few months before they hired Jeremy.”

  Pru’s mind worked swiftly, skipping from the departure of Jeremy to the fact that Simon was the only one who had ever met either the gardener or the owners. High season was no time to leave a garden to its own devices—anyone with any sense knew that.

  “And so, they want you to fill in like you did before, until they hire a new head gardener?” This sounded intriguing—it sounded as if she might get more than a glimpse of the place.

  Simon shook his head. “Deirdre told me to take care of it any way I could. They want someone to do it—and also to work with this Shakespeare au Naturel on the outdoor set. I don’t know, probably bring in some container trees or plant up a great load of annuals, I suppose.”

  “I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,” Pru whispered. Simon raised his eyebrows, and Evelyn looked over her shoulder. Pru gave a little embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. I saw a film version of the play and remember that line. It’s so evocative, don’t you think? Shakespeare mentioned plants quite often. Well”—she became more businesslike—“you could do that for them. Hal and I can manage here.”

  “Not me.” Simon didn’t look at Pru as he reached for another roll. “This is a job for you. With your theater background, I thought you’d jump at the opportunity to hang round with a load of actors. I mean”—a sly smile spread over his face—“the fairy godmother in Cinderella. It’s a wonder you aren’t in the movies by now.”

  Pru and Simon had not shared a childhood, and had spent the past three years catching up on stories. This Cinderella tale had been one of them. Pru had fond memories of her role in a fifth-grade classroom production in which she wore a frothy blue dress and appeared from behind a portable chalkboard in a magical mist she produced by throwing a handful of flour into the air. The mist hadn’t been as successful as she’d hoped, but the experience had sparked a love of make-believe and stories that had never left her.

  “Nonsense, I don’t know anything about putting on a play,” she said, but a tiny thrill zinged through her at the thought of being involved. “You should do it, Simon—at least you know your way round the place.” She popped the last of a roll in her mouth and chased it with the rest of her coffee.

  “I don’t have the time at the moment,” her brother replied. “I’ve got that other thing.”

  That other thing was, indeed, consuming Simon’s days. The previous winter, he’d taken an art metalworking course, and in early spring, he’d decided to create his own metal sculptures for the four triangular beds inside the parterre lawn. This apparently required enormous amounts of time to think and plan. Simon would stand in the garden for hours, sketching furiously in one of his notebooks, yet when Pru attempted to look at what he’d drawn, he would snap the book shut.

  “Well, if there’s no one else to help them out, I suppose I could do it.” Pru spoke casually but shifted in her chair to quell the rising tide of excitement. Not only entrusted with a formerly hidden garden but also plunged into the world of the theater….“Should I tell someone I’m offering?”

  “I already rang the stage manager. I knew you’d say yes.”

  This green plot shall be our stage.

  3.1.3

  Chapter 3

  On the following Friday morning, Pru walked out through the library at Greenoak and onto the terrace, her vast canvas bag slung over her shoulder. The air smelled fresh and damp, and although the sky overhead had cleared, gray clouds lay to the south as if considering a return visit. Her gaze drifted past the lime walk and orchard and beyond to her destination—Coeur-de-la-Mer Priory Hall.

  “You don’t want to drive?” Christopher asked, coming out after her, cup and saucer in hand.

  “No, the exercise will do me good.” She fiddled with the button on her jacket and readjusted her bag.

  “Nervous?”

  “A bit.”

  Christopher slipped his arm round her. “Excited?”

  “Oh yes!”

  Pru had taken the walk to Coeur-de-la-Mer many times—the footpath led across two fields, along a lane, and down to the end of a long drive where, each time, she stopped at the locked gates. But this day, she would be allowed inside—part of the crew for Shakespeare au Naturel’s production.

  Arrangements had been made rather quickly. Simon had given Pru the contact details for Penelope Farthing, stage manager, who sounded delighted and more than a bit relieved to have the matter of “set decorator” settled.

  “Set decorator?” Pru had echoed. “No, I’m only providing the plants.”

  “And a worthy contribution,” Ms. Farthing had replied.

  They had agreed to meet on-site so Pru could get an idea of what was required. It shouldn’t take all day, Pru thought, and had told Evelyn she’d be back by lunch.

  “Right, then,” Christopher said. He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss. “What should I say—‘break a leg’?”

  “I think that’s only for actors,” she replied. “I’m not sure what you say to the crew. And you and Sergeant Grey. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your professional development day, mandatory though it is. ‘Psychological Profiling, Its Benefits and Drawbacks, and Its Ramifications for Policing in a Technological World.’ Sounds fascinating.”

  “Doesn’t it, though,” he replied drily. “And we’ve the second part next week—on a Saturday.”

  “Sir?”

  Police Sergeant Sophie Grey put her head round the corner of the terrace.

  “Good morning, Sophie,” Pru said.

  “Morning, Pru.” Sophie offered a smile as wide as her face. She tugged on her uniform jacket and secured her derby with its black-and-white-checkered band, causing her short hair to stick out in a ring below like a golden fringe.

  Sophie had been sent out from Southampton to the Romsey station, and, although Christopher was glad of the help, he had come home shaking his head at the fact that sergeants now came as young as his own son, Graham, who had recently turned twenty-six. The first time they’d met, two months earlier, Sophie had called Pru “ma’am,” but Pru put shed to that sort of talk in short order.

  Pru liked Sophie, who loved her job and combined eagerness to succeed with the willingness to work hard. Sophie had told them her decision to join the force had shocked her family, especially an uncle who had spent more time inside the local nick than any police officer—albeit behind bars. PS Grey barely came up to Pru’s shoulder, but the British police force had long ago given up height restrictions and what Sophie lacked in stature, she made up for in her passion to serve.

  That matched the dedication of her boss. Christopher had demoted himself from detective chief inspector in London to the lowly rank of special constable so that they could move to Hampshire, but headquarters had been quick to offer him the post of detective inspector when one became available. And he had been just as quick to accept.

  * * *

  —


  Pru followed the path through the two barley fields, brushing her hand along the tops of the stalks, tawny, rattling in the breeze, and almost ready for summer harvest. Along the lane, the hedgerows had transitioned from their May abundance of white blooms on guelder rose, hawthorn, and elder to green berries that wouldn’t color up until late summer.

  By the time she reached Coeur-de-la-Mer, just before ten o’clock, she’d walked off most of her nerves, and not even the soaring height of the gates—modern, steel, and dour—or the ten-foot brick walls that surrounded the place intimidated her, because soon she would be on the inside. When the stage manager finished with her, Pru hoped she could have a shufti through the gardens.

  Pru snickered at the police term she’d heard Christopher use—“shufti,” a look round. But it suited. She had only Simon’s description to go by, and he hadn’t laid eyes on the place for years. The house could be seen straight ahead down a gravel walk—sitting in austere silence with not a tree or a shrub nearby—but just inside the gate, the drive took an abrupt turn to the right, and this way led to the gardens. Any hint of interesting plantings had been successfully screened off by a mature variegated holly with foliage down to the ground and, behind it, a towering copper beech.

  The minutes ticked by. Pru peered through the rails at the house—circa twelfth century, she recalled. Coeur-de-la-Mer meant “heart of the sea” in French, but it would be a stretch of the imagination to associate the views in their part of Hampshire with a large body of water. Several miles south one first met the Solent—a strait that ran between the mainland and the Isle of Wight—and after that, the English Channel. Not a sea in sight.

  At thirty minutes past the hour, a shiny, orange Honda Jazz raced up the drive and came to a halt so sudden that a plume of dust rose into the air, forcing Pru to step aside before she was caught in it. Out jumped a young woman, panting as if she’d run the entire way. She put one hand to her chest and stuck the other one out.

  “Ms. Parke?” she asked. “Penelope Farthing. I’m so dreadfully sorry to be late. It’s only that at the last moment, Unc”—she coughed—“Max rang and asked me to pick up sandwiches and the queues at the Waitrose in Romsey were frightful. Do forgive me.”

  Penelope Farthing, stage manager, looked to be in her early thirties, medium height—Pru could look her in the eye—and thin, but with broad shoulders, giving her a flat, two-dimensional appearance. Her hair—a deep brown—came past her chin, and although not curly, seemed to have a mind of its own and continually needed tucking behind an ear.

  “No need to apologize,” Pru said, eliciting a smile from Penelope and banishing the slight frown she’d arrived with. “It’s a lovely day, after all. And please call me Pru.”

  “You’re very kind,” Penelope said as she reached back into the car and dragged out a fat three-ring binder stuffed full of papers and several plastic grocery bags of sandwiches and bottles of variously flavored waters. Putting up stores for the weekend rehearsals, Pru thought.

  Pru followed her to the keypad at the side of the gate, where Penelope shifted bags from one hand to the other and back again before Pru said, “Here, let me take those.”

  Penelope handed them over with a “Cheers,” lifted the cover, and quickly keyed in a long string of numbers. The light flashed red. She sighed and tried again. The light repeated its red flash. “Oh, sod it!” She flipped open her binder, pulled out a handful of papers from the pocket, and came up with a dog-eared card, which she held up next to the keypad as she typed it in. A green light flashed, and the gates slowly swung inward.

  Penelope walked through, leading with her right shoulder, as if making her way through a crowd. “You didn’t motor over, did you?” she asked Pru. “Well, no matter—but if you do next time, just leave the car outside the gate. We all do that—Jeremy didn’t like the chippings to be disturbed. I’m surprised he didn’t force us to wear carpet slippers. Although I’m not sure the Gascoignes give a fig.”

  “Do you know the Gascoignes?” Pru asked. “It’s only, we live so close, and I’ve never even seen them.”

  “They are absentee landlords, that’s for certain. No, we’re here by the grace of Max. He cast Deirdre in The Seagull for a National Theatre production yonks ago—long before she gave up acting to become Lady Gascoigne. And so, when we were turfed out of our last location, Max made a few phone calls. That’s the thing about Max—he knows people.”

  She strode off down the gravel drive, Pru at her heels. They crossed the magic line of the variegated holly—well and truly on the grounds of the place—but Pru slowed. “Should we close the gate?”

  “No, the others will be along soon—best to leave it open.”

  That brought Pru’s feet to a full stop. “Others? I didn’t realize—I thought it would be only the two of us, so that I could, you know, learn the lay of the land without getting in anyone’s way.”

  “You won’t be in the way—no one pays any attention to the crew, and Max is so looking forward to meeting you. As it’s Friday, he didn’t call the entire cast—so many of them have real jobs and wait until the last minute to take the proper time off—that’ll start next week, as we’re less than a fortnight from opening. We’re a mishmash for this production, you see—that was Max’s choice. So, we are not quite amdram”—Penelope turned back to Pru—“amateur drama, that is. There’s Ambrose, Les, and Linden. And, of course, Gabriel. What is he—amateur or professional? Don’t we all wonder.”

  Penelope resumed walking and explaining. Pru hesitated, distracted by a path to the right that she thought might lead to the rock garden, and had to trot to catch up when she heard the stage manager say, “You’ll want to watch rehearsals to get an idea of what’s required on the set. It’s the four lovers today—Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena—plus Oberon and Puck. Shouldn’t be a long day. Right, here we are.”

  They had come to the end of the gravel path, walked through a yew archway, and stood poised where the ground dipped down about two feet to a flat, even expanse as big as an American football field, the lawn clipped close like a carpet. Formal hedging rimmed the space, creating living green walls that were broken midway along by an arched opening on each side.

  “The theater lawn,” Pru said. She ticked that off her mental list of features Simon had described and glanced to her right toward the beech walk, which led to the double border and…other garden spaces. Later.

  “Yes, here it is—new home of Shakespeare au Naturel.” Penelope whipped round on Pru. “What do you think of the name of the company? What does it conjure in your mind?”

  It conjured an image of naked nymphs cavorting in an Elizabethan woodland, but Pru wouldn’t admit to that. She felt herself go pink. “Oh, well, I think of, you know, the usual sort of—”

  “Yes, don’t we all?” Penelope laughed. “It’s a recently formed company, and the trustees are probably hoping such thoughts might increase ticket sales. But we run a family-friendly production here—we could do nothing less with our little fairies.” She swept her arm wide with a flourish. “And there’s our stage.”

  On the opposite end of the theater lawn, the hedges turned left and right corners and stopped a quarter of the way in, forming the sides of the stage and leaving a wide opening in the middle. Several yards behind that, another hedge ran across like a wall. In the middle of the green, grassy stage sat a multilevel series of plywood platforms held in place by a metal pipe framework. The structure reminded Pru of the Tinkertoys of her childhood.

  “That’s quite a piece,” she remarked. “Do the actors build the set, too?”

  “God, no, it’s the great divide. No one wants to be on the crew, and everyone wants to be an actor.”

  Pru—a member of the crew and not unhappy about it at all—couldn’t help beginning her to-do list.

  “That lawn will need mowing twice a week to keep it short and green,” s
he said, more to herself than Penelope. She would ring the fellow they used at Greenoak. “The yew looks freshly sheared.” A smooth, solid surface—perhaps Jeremy used nail scissors on it.

  “Yes,” Penelope said. “Nothing like a tidy green wall—of course, the thing is, the platforms have to be both a fairy woodland and an Athenian court. At first look, you wouldn’t think they’d be terribly suited to either, but the change will happen. There’ll be a rocky outcrop for the forest scenes, and the central platform will act as Theseus’s formal court in scenes at the beginning and end.” The stage manager led Pru to the left, and they began to walk the outer perimeter path with the hedge on their right, the stage hidden from view. “It’ll be important to carry that switch off with as little fuss as possible—that, of course, is your responsibility.”

  Is it? She’d better forget about the gardens at Coeur-de-la-Mer and focus on her assignment.

  “It’s entirely up to you how you carry this out, of course,” Penelope continued.

  Pru had been thinking small—assuming she would bring in flats of thyme and honeysuckle, a few boxwood balls, and perhaps a couple of large trees and call it good. She hadn’t considered two entirely different sets. She shifted the lunches to one hand and stuck the other in her bag. “I’ll just make a few notes.”

  “Oh, here now,” Penelope said, taking the sacks. “Where’s my brain? You carry on up to the stage while I take these back. Did you see those low buildings we passed off to one side of the drive? That’s where the stables are; we use them to store costumes, props, and the like. The gardener’s cottage is there, too—that’s our green room. We were sharing the place with the gardener at first. Too bad about him leaving, isn’t it? But, of course, lucky for us you’re here.”

  Pru gave a thought to Jeremy the hermit and how his life had gone from solitude to chaos in the blink of an eye. No wonder he scarpered.