The Garden Plot Page 22

  Xanthe crossed her arms and stared at Pru. “It isn’t a subject that I find very interesting,” she said, “as it seemed to have occupied every second of Jeremy’s waking life when we were married, which is one of the reasons we were no longer.”

  I’m not helping, Pru thought. I’m no help at all. What did I think I would accomplish? “Thank you, anyway,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Are you the American in Archie and Pippa’s place?” Xanthe asked as Pru descended the small step.

  “What?” Distracted by disappointment, she had trouble focusing on the question. “Yes, yes,” she mumbled as she walked away, “that’s me. Please don’t tell me you’ve seen them, too.”

  It came to her—she must tell Christopher what she’d done. Yes, that’s what she’d do. She would explain it to him, and he would understand.

  But first, she would talk with Mr. Wilson. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She believed in his innocence, but she needed to hear it from him, and then she could tell Christopher what happened. “You are not a police officer,” she kept repeating to herself, sometimes aloud, sometimes whispered, sometimes in her mind.

  Too nervous to sit on a bus, she walked, going far out of the way, walking across Hyde Park and circling the Italian Gardens and then walking as far as Hyde Park Corner before she realized she was walking in the direction of St. James’s Park, where she and Christopher had spent such a wonderful afternoon … was it just yesterday?

  She turned back and eventually made it to Chartsworth Square. There, too, she stood at the far corner of the square, watching. Evening approached; hours had passed since she’d first taken the letter and left the Wilsons’, maybe more—she couldn’t quite tell. She walked up and rang the bell, but there was no answer. She let herself in through the basement, closing and locking the door behind her. The papers, emptied from the Harrods bag, lay scattered over the plywood-topped desk. They had looked for the letter. Pru let out a little sob, wanting to phone Christopher and explain. Her phone rang; it was he. She felt faint as she silenced the call.

  She opened the door to the back garden and looked out. The sun had disappeared behind buildings; a light shone out the cracks of the shed and the dirty windows glowed dimly. The police tape had been removed from around it; Pru hadn’t noticed that earlier in the day. She crept forward, staying near the wall and out of the line of sight from the shed door and, she hoped, from Malcolm’s upstairs window. When she got closer, she heard a metallic noise but no talking. She peeked around the edge of the door and saw Mr. Wilson on his knees with one of the short-handled spades, digging around the edge of the mosaic.

  “Mr. Wilson?” Pru said in a small voice.

  He looked up. His hair was wild, his clothes filthy, his eyes wide. “Pru? Pru, did you take it?” When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Did you take the letter and keep it safe?”

  She slipped just inside the door. “Mr. Wilson, what are you doing?”

  He stopped digging. “Did you read it, Pru? Do you know what it means?”

  “Mr. Wilson, where is your wife? Where is Mrs. Wilson?” Pru felt no fear for herself—well, maybe just a bit of fear—but concern and anxiety for Mr. Wilson’s sanity filled her. Yet, when he stood and came toward her, she backed up until she bumped her head against a shelf on the shed wall.

  “Vernona is out, Pru. She had a WI meeting in Fulham. I told her to go on—I didn’t want her to worry.” He looked down at the ground; the hole, not much deeper than it had been, still looked oozy with water. “I haven’t found the third coin yet, Pru.—Gaskell wrote that he had replaced all three as markers. I must get at least that far.”

  “Mr. Wilson, wouldn’t it be better to wait, to show someone, one of your society friends? Or your university person, someone who could help you find it … find the last coin?”

  “Hmmm?” He had gone back to the hole, taken another shovelful or two, trying to dig out under the mosaic.

  “Maybe you should wait, Mr. Wilson,” Pru said, her voice trembling. “Because you should share this find, shouldn’t you? You always want to share your discoveries.”

  Harry looked down, looked at the shovel in his hand, looked around the shed, and looked at Pru. “I shouldn’t do this now. I should tell the others … Jeremy … no, not Jeremy. Archie, I should tell Archie. He’ll want to return immediately.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson, you should. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow, when you feel better, and then you can tell them all.” Pru could see some sense return to his face.

  “Oh, Pru, forgive me, I was just so caught up in the excitement.” He stood and tried to brush the mud off his knees. “You do have the letter, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I took it, but I really shouldn’t have. I need to tell the inspector about it.” But would she? Could she? Mr. Wilson’s temporary insanity aside, he could still be arrested. Temporary insanity, Pru thought. Do they have a temporary-insanity plea in Britain?

  “But don’t give it to him, Pru, not yet. Bring it by tomorrow. We’ll want to see it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson, tomorrow. But for now, why don’t you go inside and wait for Mrs. Wilson?”

  They stepped out of the shed, and Mr. Wilson realized he still carried the spade. He turned and chucked it back in.

  “Mr. Wilson, I’ll go now. Will you be all right?”

  “Won’t you stay? Vernona won’t be too much longer.”

  The anxiety and fear began to grow again in Pru. She still had to hand damning evidence in to the police against Mr. Wilson and didn’t know how she could or how she couldn’t. “No, thank you, I’ll see you soon.”

  “We’re holding a memorial dinner for Jeremy Wednesday evening,” Mr. Wilson said. He sounded weary, but calm. “It’s at a place in Soho that he always loved. Almost the whole group will be there, wives, too.”

  “That’ll be a good way to remember him,” Pru said. It was too easy to forget that Jeremy Pendergast had friends who cared about him.

  Dusk had deepened. As they went back to the house, Pru glanced over her shoulder and saw a curtain flicker upstairs at Malcolm’s.

  When Pru left Mr. Wilson, she began walking again. She knew she must turn the letter over to Christopher, but could not gather up the will to do so. She was such a failure—she failed at saving Mr. Wilson just as surely as she had failed to find a job, failed to start a new life, failed Christopher.

  She stopped for a coffee somewhere, letting it grow cold on the table while she stared out the window at all the people passing, laughing, holding hands. She walked again, down to the Embankment and along the Thames path up to Westminster. A sharp wind came off the river and cut through her sweater. Her phone rang, but this time she didn’t even look. A few minutes after it stopped, she sent Christopher a text that said, “At Jo’s this evening.” Sick with the deception, she had to sit down, and found herself sitting at the base of the statue of Boadicea, where she and Christopher had stopped only the day before. She started walking again.

  Fatigue overcame her, but she couldn’t keep still and waited until almost midnight before going home. She stopped again at the far corner of the square, this time in dark shadows, and watched her front door. Christopher stood on the front step, and she shrunk back against the wrought-iron railing lest he look her way. Eventually, he left, walking down the sidewalk away from her. She covered her mouth to keep from crying out as she watched him leave. She waited an eternity before she went inside.

  She pulled the book out from under the cushion, took out the letter, and tried to read it, but now none of the words made sense, and so she hid it again. She needed to rest. All this would make sense tomorrow.

  Neither a shower nor a glass of wine made her sleepy, though. She got in bed and stared at the ceiling, her head a jumble of images—Jeremy’s body, the letter, Mrs. Wilson telling her to go away, Christopher kissing her goodbye. The night seemed interminable.

  She must have slept, if only briefly, because she had a nightmare. She dreamed sh
e was back at work in Dallas; Marcus was handing her a spade that had blood on it and a wide-brimmed hat to wear against the sun. He told her she needed to prune the roses. Then Malcolm rose out of a pelican’s beak, took the shovel from her, and raised it above his head. She woke up with a shout, sweating. She heard the click of a door closing downstairs.

  Afraid even to breathe, she crept out of bed and stood, slightly unsteady, in the doorway listening. Silence. After a few minutes, she reached for her clothes and, still standing in the doorway, put them on as quietly as possible. Quiet clothes, she thought. Maybe there are badgers downstairs. She shook her head to clear it and thought, no, that’s not right. There are no badgers in Chelsea. She listened again. Silence still.

  Not a creak came from the stairs as she made her way down to the kitchen. Nothing seemed disturbed. She checked all the doors and windows, just as she had the day she got back from the country. Everything was locked up tight. She put her hand on the basement doorknob; that, too, remained locked. Her uneasiness subsided but only a fraction.

  It was just growing light, and she wondered if it were too early to phone Christopher. She made a cup of tea, and it sat cooling as she stared at her phone. Seven messages; she didn’t listen to them.

  She needed action. Grabbing her bag and phone, she headed for the door, dialing Christopher’s number while she walked down the front step. Looking up for a second, she saw Malcolm walking across the road toward her. In surprise, her bag slipped out of her hand. She bent down to pick it up, and when she stood up again, Pru saw Malcolm with his hands stretched out just before lights flashed in front of her eyes, and everything went dark.

  Chapter 13

  When she opened her eyes, the world appeared in a mist of amorphous shapes. One of the shapes slowly formed itself into Christopher, who held her hand, peered into her face, and said, “Pru? How do you feel?”

  In a flash, she remembered the letter, placed carefully between the pages of Beautiful Italy and stuffed under the cushion of the chintz sofa in her town house, and knew she must not keep this from him any longer, even if it meant giving up evidence against Mr. Wilson. Christopher, I have the letter, the one that Jeremy emailed Mr. Wilson about. It’s what’s buried under the mosaic that’s the important part. I’ll explain why I did it, but first, you must get the letter. It’s under the sofa.

  “Sofa.”

  Christopher peered at her more closely. “Sofa, Pru? No, you are not at home—you’re in hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

  Of course I remember what happened; I hid the letter under the sofa cushion, and I’ve been so worried about telling you and what you might think about Mr. Wilson, I didn’t eat or sleep. This morning I left. I tried to phone you on my way out the door. I saw Malcolm across the road, watching me. Then … then I don’t remember what happened, and I woke up here. But I’m okay, and you need to go to my house and look under the cushion of the sofa to find the letter.

  “Sofa.”

  Her vision began to clear, and she saw Christopher glance over at a nurse on the other side of the bed. “She thinks she’s on a sofa. Do you think her mind was affected by the fall? Will she be all right?”

  “She’s just waking up, and she’s had a light sedative,” the nurse replied as she walked out. “Give her a few minutes, and she’ll be fine.”

  Christopher looked back into Pru’s face, and then she saw, over his shoulder, Malcolm appear with a smile of concern that made Pru break out into a cold sweat.

  “Pru, you had quite a fall on your step,” Malcolm said. “Good thing I was just across the road and saw you. I rang for an ambulance, and they brought you here. Do you remember that?”

  Christopher, I don’t know how much Malcolm knows, and I don’t know why he was at my house this morning. If he didn’t do it, then I think he might know who did. It could’ve been Alf, but it couldn’t have been Mr. Wilson. Please don’t think he could murder Jeremy. But Malcolm knows more than he’s saying.

  “Malcolm.”

  “Yes,” Christopher said, looking relieved. “Malcolm is here, he saw you faint on your front steps, and he rang 999 and then me. Good thing your head hit your bag and not the pavement.” He reached up and touched her hair.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Malcolm said. “I’ll be off now. I’ll see you soon.”

  As soon as he left, Pru got her mouth in working order. “I have to get out of here,” she said. She started to push the hospital blanket off her and saw the IV in her right arm. “Please find a doctor or nurse. I’m fine, I just fainted because I hadn’t eaten in … a day or so.”

  “Why be in such a hurry?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you rest?”

  “No, Christopher, I can’t. There’s something … I could rest better at home.” She thought that sounded like a logical argument and tried to stand up.

  “All right, all right, stay here. I’ll go find someone, and we’ll see if they’ll send you home.” He got up and started for the door, but Pru reached out her left hand.

  “No, don’t leave me.”

  He came to her, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “I won’t leave you, don’t worry.” Pru giggled. “Oh, not what you meant, is it?”

  She giggled some more. “No. Yes—I mean, thank you, that’s very sweet. But I have to tell you something, show you something.” She began to feel nervous. “You have to understand … Can we leave now?”

  “Wait, let me find someone,” he said. Giving her hand a squeeze, he walked into the hall, leaving Pru to think through what she must say to him.

  He returned in a few minutes with a doctor in tow, and Pru presented her case for release.

  “Ms. Parke, you were dehydrated when you arrived here. And when was the last time you ate?” the doctor asked.

  “That’s why I fainted—how silly of me—I hadn’t had very much to eat since breakfast yesterday.” Nothing, that is, since half a piece of toast and one bite of currant cake. “But the detective chief inspector will make sure I eat when I go home, won’t you?” she asked Christopher, desperate for him to use whatever weight his office could throw around.

  “If she is well enough to leave hospital, then I will certainly make sure she’s looked after,” he said.

  The doctor agreed there was no need for Pru to remain if she would go home, drink plenty of fluids, eat something, and rest. Christopher waited out in the hall—on his phone—while the nurse took out the IV and helped her get dressed. It took a while to get her discharged, and while they waited, Pru stretched out on the bed and dozed off. She awoke to Christopher holding her hand up to his lips, watching her. She smiled, remembered what she needed to tell him, and the smile left her face.

  Finally, paperwork finished, they made their way down to the street. Pru was surprised to see it was almost evening. They took a cab from the hospital; Christopher had left his car at the station, as it had been quicker to dash to the hospital in a patrol car with lights when he’d heard from Malcolm.

  As they got closer to her house, her anxiety and fear returned. She kept trying to think of a good way to explain to him why she took the letter and how she believed that Harry Wilson did not kill Jeremy. Although she’d found Mr. Wilson in a state of mild hysteria yesterday, digging in the shed, it was with the fervor of an archaeologist who wanted to learn, not profit—and he had come to his senses. Christopher took her hand, and she gave him a quick smile while a jumbled mess of an explanation clogged up her mind. He looked worried.

  Once inside, he tried to get her to settle down on the sofa, but the second she sat down, she jumped up again—it was the cushion with the letter underneath. He put his hands on her arms to try to hold her still. “All right, Pru, now we’re here, and you can tell me what happened yesterday. I tried to phone you. I came by—I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I saw you,” she said, staring over his shoulder, remembering the image from the night before. “I was standing at the far corner of the square
, and I saw you walking away from the door. It was late.”

  “I came by three times looking for you, the last time near midnight. Come, sit down and tell me.” She reached under the cushion and drew out the book with the letter inside, but didn’t sit down.

  She held the book close, tried to steady her breathing, and began. “I was in the basement at the Wilsons’ when you arrived yesterday.” Christopher remained still, but she felt herself trembling all over and couldn’t stop. “I heard you ask Mr. Wilson about an email and a letter from Jeremy …”

  “Go on.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight.” She could only whisper, her breathing becoming irregular. “I thought that it would look as if … I trust you, Christopher,” she pleaded with him to believe her, “but I thought maybe if things went a little slower, if you didn’t find the letter right away, I might be able to help get some information, and then …” She felt a rising hysteria and tried to take big breaths, hoping to retain some control, but the breaths turned into sobs. “I took the letter—it’s here.” She opened the book to show the letter safely tucked inside and handed it all to him.

  “I know it looks bad, but I know you will be fair about this. I can’t believe that Harry Wilson would murder his friend.” She gasped for breath between sobs. “You said that they don’t need the money—they have loads. He’s not greedy. He would want to share whatever the discovery is with the world.”

  Christopher set the book and letter down on the sofa and wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down. “All right, all right, I know you’re afraid for them.”

  “They don’t need the money, and you said that money is usually a good motive for murder,” she said, her face buried in his shoulder.

  “Yes”—he stroked her hair—“money is a fine motive for murder.”