The Skeleton Garden Page 8

  “Oh, so they haven’t abandoned him completely.” Simon wouldn’t look at her.

  Fine, Pru thought, so that’s how it’s going to be today—the black mood.

  Polly walked in, fastening the post on an earring. She put her arms around Simon’s shoulders as he sat, and said, “Will you be all right?”

  “Yeah,” Simon replied, taking hold of her hand and kissing it, “I’ll be fine.”

  They flew down the narrow lanes in Polly’s Fiat. “Simon”—Pru put a hand on the dashboard when Polly edged close to a stone wall as a Land Rover came speeding toward them—“Simon seemed a bit…subdued,” she said.

  Polly gave way to a Tesco van at the on-ramp, but then pulled ahead and barreled onto the dual carriageway. “It’s Birdie—he’s meant to go over and start on her house today.”

  It had been two months since Birdie died. “It takes awhile to go through a lifetime of things,” Pru said.

  “He hasn’t even begun,” Polly replied. “He can’t bring himself to walk in the door. He’s still both sad and quite angry. All those years of not telling him who his parents were—and that they were alive. Birdie was the only mother he’s ever known, and he loves her and misses her, but he feels betrayed. And the house—well, it’s full of her energy. He’ll have to do it sometime—her spirit needs to be set free.”

  Polly, who had been known to consult a psychic on occasion, had encouraged Simon to do so—to talk to Birdie or his parents. He had declined.

  “It’s my fault,” Pru said. “I started it—if I hadn’t appeared in his life to stir things up, he wouldn’t be going through this. He would never have known.”

  “That’s right, he would never have known,” Polly echoed. “He would never have known you or got to know his parents through you. Knowing may cause him grief, but the thought that he might never have known really scares him.” She cut her eyes at Pru as she changed lanes. “He’s investing a great deal into this magazine article—emotional investment, you know. Will it be all right?”

  “Yes. Sure. Of course.” It would have to be, wouldn’t it? She couldn’t steal that away from him, too, as she had stolen his parents. They were growing closer, brother and sister—at least Pru hoped. But she nursed a guilt—unsure of whether it belonged to her or her parents—that lived in a dark corner of her mind and knocked about like a poltergeist when Simon kept her at arm’s length.

  —

  Polly and Pru found inspiration along with tea and cake at the Inkpen fête and returned to Ratley to end the day at the Blackbird. Christopher had rung Pru to say that he and Orlando were delayed in Brighton, something about Orlando’s chance to be photographed with First Officer Cherry Bells.

  Simon, in a better mood than earlier in the day, met the women at the pub; he had managed to avoid Birdie’s house altogether by spending the day reorganizing his DVD collection.

  After their meal, Pru and Polly stood at the bar waiting for Simon, who had stayed in the other room to watch highlights of last season’s cricket championship.

  “Hello, Polly.” Pru heard the man’s voice behind her and saw her sister-in-law’s face—she looked like a little girl on Christmas morning. Pru whirled around and found a man with short, mostly gray hair that brushed his collar in back. He smiled broadly, but with his lips pressed together as if he was unsure how happy to be. Polly took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. He returned the favor.

  “Jack. You’ve come home,” she said, her eyes bright.

  “I have.”

  They continued to hold hands and look at each other until Pru could stand it no longer. She coughed, stuck her hand out, and said, “Hello, Pru Parke. I’m Polly’s sister-in-law—Simon’s sister.”

  Polly dropped half her smile as she put a hand each on Pru’s and Jack’s arms. “Yes, you two need to meet.”

  Jack grasped Pru’s hand in a firm shake. “The American side of the family—my dad told me about you. I’m Jack Snuggs.”

  “Jack is Stan’s son,” Polly explained. “He’s just returned from Canada—when did you arrive?”

  “A couple of days ago. I wanted to ring, but didn’t think that…”

  “Jack.” Simon’s voice sounded like a hammer hitting a lump of lead. He stood behind Pru, and she felt waves of displeasure emanating from him. She glanced over her shoulder; his face was a smooth, calm sea, although he had a steely look in his eye.

  “Simon.” Much of Jack’s smile drained away, but not all.

  The men thrust their hands out and shook as if they were priming a dry pump. They formed a pod of silence, the four of them, amid the cheery pub noise. Simon watched Jack watch Polly, and Pru’s gaze flitted between them until Polly broke in. “You should’ve gone to Greenoak yesterday—did you hear what they found?”

  “Dad told me later. I was upstairs sound asleep—jet lag, you know. Sorry I missed it, though.”

  “Your dad must be happy to have you back,” Polly said. “It’s ages since you visited. How long has it been?”

  “Twelve years,” Simon answered for him.

  “That was when your mum died, wasn’t it?” Polly asked.

  Jack answered her question with a nod, as someone hailed him from across the room. He reached across Polly to pick up his pint from the bar and said, “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “And how long are you staying this time?” Simon asked.

  Jack’s smile returned. “As long as it takes.”

  The three remained at the bar, watching Jack make his way through the crowd. Pru tried to assemble a few words in her mind before speaking, her fingers lightly drumming on her thighs. Certainly Simon had seen that hungry look Jack gave Polly. Pru had seen it. How should she approach this? She opened her mouth as Polly put her arm through Simon’s. “Come along, love of my life,” she said, “take me home.”

  Chapter 12

  They parted and Pru drove to Greenoak, attempting to stomp out the fires of her imagination until she could talk with Polly and find out just who this Jack Snuggs thought he was. She set her bag on the table and lingered in the kitchen, leaning up against the Aga to warm herself before heading upstairs. She hadn’t been there long before Orlando came bounding in.

  Christopher followed, closed the door, and leaned against it, inhaling deeply and expelling the air in a big huff. He wore a badge with purple blinking lights around the edge and the image of a spaceship in the middle.

  “Greetings, earthlings,” Pru said. “How was Galaxy Con?”

  “Brilliant, Aunt Pru. It was brilliant.” Orlando seemed to be at a loss for a further description, and only beamed as he held up a bag of loot. “Is it all right if I go up?”

  Pru nodded and off he went, thundering up the stairs. “You didn’t arrest any two-headed aliens while you were at Galaxy Con, did you?” she asked Christopher.

  “The queues,” he said, running his hand through his short hair. “We spent the day in lines—for autographs, to buy a cup of tea, to be on camera wearing Monstrosa’s head. And we were just about the only two people in the entire place not wearing a costume.”

  Pru snorted a giggle, and Christopher gave her a narrow look. “Sorry,” she said.

  He hung up his coat, blinking badge still attached, and went to her. “And your day?”

  She nodded and stared at her feet. “We ran into Jack Snuggs at the Blackbird this evening. He’s Stan’s son. Have you met him?”

  “No,” Christopher said, leaning against the stove next to her. “He doesn’t live round here, does he?”

  “Canada,” Pru replied. “Polly knows him. And he knows her. And Simon, of course,” she added, but not before Christopher looked over to study her face.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” she said as she took his hand and they went upstairs.

  —

  After she had crawled into bed, she began to tell him about their trip to Inkpen. “The weavers do beautiful work. I took photos—let me show
you.” She reached over and felt the pockets of her trousers. “No, I left my phone in my bag. I’ll just pop down and get it.”

  She padded downstairs and into the kitchen to find Orlando with her mobile phone in hand. He looked up, startled. After a stunned silence, she said, “What are you doing? You aren’t allowed access to a mobile.”

  He plunked it on the table and walked past her, out the door and into the hall.

  She wanted to run the other way, but she steeled herself and followed, overtaking him at the door to the library. “In here, please,” she said, slapping the light on. Orlando stomped in and crossed to the window. She took a deep breath, attempting to keep her voice calm, her heart beating a mile a minute. “You’ve gone against your parents’ wishes—they were quite clear. No computer. No mobile.”

  The light on the stairs went on as Christopher came down and caught sight of the look on her face through the doorway. “What’s this?”

  “Orlando was in the kitchen with my mobile,” she said.

  “How did that come about?” Christopher asked, his tone sharp and commanding. “Did it fall into your hands by accident?”

  “I was borrowing it—I didn’t steal it. I didn’t do anything wrong,” Orlando said, his face red.

  “And Simon’s, when he took you in to Romsey the other day—did you ‘borrow’ his as well? You broke the agreement, Orlando,” Pru replied. “You thought you could get away with it, and so you did. We’ve given you enough freedom here, but it seems as if you can’t handle that.”

  “I don’t see why I should be punished for what I did at home.”

  “You hacked into someone’s private email account,” Christopher said sharply.

  “The tosser,” Orlando said, spitting out the words. “I’m glad I showed him up—he’s the one that needs punishing. Everyone’s falling all over themselves to apologize for what I’ve done—but what about what he did to my sister?”

  “To Bess? What did he do to her?” Pru asked.

  “He led her on, told her he loved her”—Orlando shuddered—“to get inside information from the council. He’s a builder and wanted to put in the lowest bid on some project.” He smirked. “I put a stop to that. I posted his emails.”

  “You posted emails that were about your sister?”

  “No,” Orlando said, waving his hand. “I made sure Bess’s name never appeared. I posted his own confession that he was leading her on—they were emails to his wife. Yeah,” Orlando said, nodding violently, “he’s married.”

  “How did you know Bess was seeing a married man?”

  “She told us. She said he was separated and that he told her they had to keep things quiet until his divorce was official. She even brought him round. He tried to make out like he was this great fellow.” Orlando clenched his jaw. “I didn’t believe a word out of his mouth—she couldn’t see it, but he was slime, oiling his way around, patting me on the head as if I were a dog.”

  “And so you found a way to get into his private email account?” Christopher asked, interrogation in full swing.

  Orlando rolled his eyes. “Shoddy encryption code, outdated software—it was a snap to break his password.” Christopher raised his eyebrows. “But I had good reason,” Orlando said. “One day when he was leaving our house, he got twitchy when Bess said she wanted to go with him. I knew something wasn’t right, so I followed him. I saw him meet a woman—it was his wife,” Orlando said. “Didn’t look like they were having any problems at all, I can tell you.”

  “You followed him, and he didn’t notice?” Pru asked.

  Christopher answered. “Most people are oblivious to what’s going on around them. He wouldn’t have a clue he was being tailed—if it was done well.” Pru heard a note of respect creep into his voice, followed by a tiny crack in the solid front they presented to Orlando.

  “It’s true,” the boy said, nodding vigorously. “He didn’t suspect a thing. He’s too thick.”

  “But, son, why not just tell Bess?” Christopher asked. “Why make it public by posting it on his website?”

  “He was using her, and he needed to pay for it,” Orlando said. “I couldn’t let anyone do that to Bess.”

  “Oh, Orlando,” Pru whispered. He was protecting his sister, she thought. Another crack.

  “All right,” Christopher said, “you wanted to punish him—you wanted his underhanded doings revealed. But didn’t that get your sister in trouble?”

  Orlando shook his head. “Bess is in the clear. She didn’t give him any information; she would never do that.”

  “There were other ways to go about this—you didn’t have to break the law,” Christopher said.

  “Got the job done, didn’t it?” Orlando caught sight of the look on Christopher’s face and said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “Orlando,” Pru said, having found her voice. “What a wonderful, caring brother you are to want to protect your sister…” She felt Christopher’s eyes on her. She held up an index finger and continued, “Although, of course, it was not the most appropriate method.”

  Orlando swallowed. “She isn’t speaking to me.”

  “Bess?”

  “She’s angry. She’s quit her job. She says I should’ve minded my own business, that I’ve ruined her life.”

  Pru wanted to hug him, but was afraid he would bolt, so she settled for putting a hand on his arm. “Don’t you worry about that. She’ll get over it. She’ll understand why you did it. Bess loves you—she could never stay mad at such a good brother.”

  She felt him tremble. His eyes widened as he cleared his throat and said, “May I go up to my room now?”

  Christopher nodded. “Go on.”

  Orlando slipped out the door and thundered up the stairs.

  Pru turned to Christopher, her eyes full of tears. “He should have a good cry—it would make him feel better. I know he wanted to.”

  “Trust me, the last thing a teenage boy wants to do is cry.” He put his arms around Pru’s waist and she rested her head on his chest, drained. “You did well with him,” he said.

  She gave him a squeeze of gratitude. She had sometimes imagined what it would be like to have children, but she had mostly stuck to the happy images—crayon drawings on the fridge, school prizes, picking strawberries from the garden—and had judiciously avoided picturing traumatic confrontations. “Did you have trouble with Graham when he was this age?”

  “Phyl was the one who had to put up with most of it,” Christopher said, referring to his ex-wife. “I do recall that the summer he was twelve, he and a friend tried to hitchhike to Glastonbury Festival. Got turfed out of a lorry in the middle of the night after the driver relieved them of what few quid they had. They had to bang on the door of a vicarage and ask the reverend to use the phone.” He shook his head. “Well,” he said, nodding upstairs in the direction of Orlando’s room, “present danger is over.”

  We’re jaded now, the war’s gone on so long. That Messerschmitt that crashed two months ago, no one cares. I hear that the old man who lives in the house is going to bury it.

  —Letter from Home Farm, Ratley

  Chapter 13

  Garden work in the parterre lawn ceased, and the following week police created fresh chaos. The pit had been widened, and now the outer ring of boxwoods had roots sticking out of the soil. The police decided to look further afield and had dug exploratory holes in each of the four large mixed beds just to make sure they overlooked nothing. Out came the hebes in each corner, along with clumps of perennials. Pru tried to minimize damage by wrapping the rootballs in damp burlap and setting the plants near the yew hedge for protection. She considered staying close by to make sure the garden didn’t suffer any further damage, but after she heard one of the diggers say, “Bloody hell, Eddie, get your foot off that iris,” she avoided the place altogether. Her heart couldn’t take it.

  Instead, Pru and Simon focused on the new Mediterranean garden on the other side of the house, well out of the way of the police.
The masons laid the flagstones, leaving generous holes here and there for ornamental grasses and agapanthus. They set three enormous reproduction Italian olive jars in the middle and laid out the hedge plants, which looked like tiny flags waving in the breeze. They would look little different by summer, Pru thought.

  Simon would stop work occasionally, staring off into space, gripping a heavy black nursery pot between index finger and thumb. Pru decided he was having second thoughts about the magazine article, but she said nothing, wanting him to come to his own conclusion about the futility of the endeavor.

  “Should we leave the agapanthus until spring?” he asked Wednesday afternoon, nodding to the terrace where twenty pots were lined up in two rows, wide, strappy leaves bursting from each.

  “If we have a mild winter, wouldn’t it be better for them to be in the ground working on a root system?” Pru asked as she poured sand into the crevices between paving stones.

  Simon looked down at the pot he held. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  Pru didn’t look up from her task, but thought, Yes, at last. He’ll admit it’s time to chuck it in. She would try to keep the relief from her face.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he started again. “We should put in a cutting garden.”

  “What?” Pru’s head jerked up, scattering a spadeful of sand across the stones.

  “In the walled garden with the veg—on the far end where the peaches are trained against the wall. They’ve never done well there—not really enough heat for them. We could take the peaches out and put in a full-on cutting garden, great color for summer and a real eye-catcher.” He shrugged. “ ’Course we’ll need to start flats of annuals in the next month or so—and that’ll mean cleaning out the glasshouse first.”

  Pru leaned on her spade and hung her head down, hoping to restart the flow of blood to her brain before she fainted. In the real world, the “glasshouse” occupied one end of the potting shed. It had shelves fitted out for about two dozen seed trays along windows that were now crusted with moss and covered with grime. Stacks of black nursery containers and various sizes of terra-cotta pots covered the floor. Two ancient gas-powered lawn mowers and an erratic collection of hazel stems used for staking blocked any access.