The Garden Plot (16 page)

Pru layered her clothes for the evening trek; the weather might be mild, but sitting or standing still for she didn’t know how long would surely chill her. She read through the badger brochure and learned that quiet clothing—that is, clothes that didn’t rustle—decreased the possibility of startling the badgers and increased the chance of watching them do whatever badgers do when they come out at night.

She waited outside the front door, and Christopher pulled up with two other people—the other man at the booth and his wife, little Becky’s parents, Michael and Susan. “Becky wanted to come along, especially when she learned the American woman would be here, but it’s really much too late an evening for an eight-year-old, so she’s home with her older brother.”

As they drove down the country lanes, Pru turned halfway round so that she could see Susan, who talked about the fête and how more people lately seem to really care what happened in the country. Then Susan said, “Becky told us about you first, that you’re from Texas. And then Christopher told us about you, and your work and how much you know about gardens. And that your mother was English.” Pru had no idea she had made such an impression on Becky. Or Christopher. She looked over at him, but he kept his
eyes on the road.

“Here we are now,” he said, pulling off the road. “Our shelter is quite close, but we shouldn’t make any noise, and there’s no talking once we’re settled in there.”

“I’ll try to keep quiet,” Pru said.

They walked to a small wooden shed, like a duck blind. Susan took a cloth bag out and tossed peanuts and raisins around the clearing. Pru had read that would keep the badgers around for a while after they emerged. They stood quietly watching through the opening as dusk settled.

At first, Pru felt disconcerted to be among people she didn’t know well without being able to talk, but the silence, instead of growing in size and weight, actually became companionable. Looking out onto the edge of woodland brought her a sense of peace, and she found her mind quieted. As they waited, she realized she should have been closer to the opening for a better view. As she tried to stand on her toes and peer out, Christopher, standing near the edge of the window, nodded his head, silently asking her to come closer. She moved as quietly as she could to stand beside him, he put his hand on her back to guide her, and they waited. Pru tried to keep her mind on badgers.

And then they came. The badgers, their long, sleek faces accentuated by the black-and-white stripes that ran from their noses straight back over their ears and into salt-and-pepper fur, snuffled about, finding the treats left for them. They were stocky animals, and bigger in person than she imagined. She could hear them make small sounds, sort of like chuckling.
It was magical—much better than a Disney movie,
Pru thought.

The food kept them around for a while, but eventually, as it grew dark, they trundled off on their nightly routines. When they were well and gone, the four humans returned to the car as the moon rose.

“We thought we’d stop for a meal, Pru,” Susan said. “Is that all right?”

“Yes, perfect.”

The Horse & Groom held a comfortable contingent of locals, most of them standing with their pints, but a few at tables where, in the evenings, they could order food—lunch orders were taken strictly at the bar.

“They do a lovely curry,” Susan said. Pru thought she’d go along with her suggestion, as it would take her far too long to read through every item on the menu—without any reading glasses. Then—Pru noticed the soup of the day: roasted tomato bisque. She did so love soup and ordered a large bowl.

“Is that it, then?” asked the waitress.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“We’ve got wholemeal bread, baked this morning. Would you like some of that?”

“I’d love some,” Pru said.

After the waitress left, Susan asked, “Are you a vegetarian, Pru?”

“God, no,” said Pru. “It’s against the law to be a vegetarian in Texas.” They all looked at her. “That’s a joke,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Pru,” Susan said, “you don’t really sound like you’re from Texas.”

“You mean I don’t sound like a country-western singer,” Pru said.

“Might your English mother have influenced your accent?” Christopher asked.

“She might have, yes.”

Christopher told Michael and Susan where Pru’s mother came from and reminded them of Imber’s history. “It seems that some rare plants are able to survive on the plain because it’s inaccessible to the public and to grazing animals.”

“I didn’t know that,” Pru said, thinking that really should have been her line.

Christopher gave a small shrug. “I read about it recently.”

“Recently?” He glanced sideways at her. She couldn’t help thinking that “recently” meant some online research between their drink that afternoon and the badger expedition that evening. She tried not to be too pleased.

Michael and Susan lived close to the small town Stow-on-the-Wold, where Michael owned a personal-computer servicing business and Susan worked at home as a technical writer. They’d been to the States before, and so the conversation began by quizzing Pru about the business climate in Texas, of which Pru was woefully ignorant. Fortunately, the topic turned to country matters and moved from there on to Roman Britain.

“I’m going to see Chedworth tomorrow morning,” Pru said. “I’ve never been, and I’m looking forward to seeing the mosaics there, to see if they are anything like the mosaic we found in the garden where the murder took place.” She stopped and, alarmed at what she’d said, looked at Christopher beside her.

“That’s all right,” he said to her. “You certainly aren’t giving any secrets away.” To Susan and Michael he said, “That’s how Pru and I met. What I mean is, Pru was at the garden, and we met when I …”

Pru covered her smile with her napkin.

“There are no gardens at Chedworth,” she said, “but I’ve read up on the kinds of plants the Romans grew. They tried to bring plants from farther south to grow here, and that didn’t always work out well—Italian cypress may do all right in some places, but grapes and pomegranates aren’t quite so successful.”

“Ooh, pomegranates,” Susan said, “I wish we could grow them. They’re very dear
in the shops.”

“Oliver, the gardener at Grenadine Hall, is trying to grow them in the orangery, sort of in honor of the house’s name,” Pru said. “He says Natalie and John hope to make their own syrup and bottle it. But glasshouses tend to be humid, and pomegranates like it on the dry side, so I’m not sure it will work.”

“Well, if they like it on the dry side,” Susan said, “I’ll give up hope right now.”

“We’re very happy to meet you, Pru,” Susan said as they walked to the car ahead of Michael and Christopher. “We don’t see as much of Christopher as we’d like, but when he does come out, he’s always on his own.”

Pru felt she must correct any misconception. “No, we aren’t … that is, it’s just because of the case, and we happened to …” Try as she might, she couldn’t quite focus her thoughts to deny Susan’s amiable observations. And Susan ignored her attempts.

“We have a spring fair to start off the season. I hope you can come out for it.” She glanced back over her shoulder as the men approached. “We know Christopher well enough. He keeps himself to himself, if you know what I mean. But he was different this evening—he was quite relaxed, enjoying himself.”

At the house, Christopher parked and walked Pru around the corner to the kitchen door, where a light had been left on for her.

“I hope it was all right that I mentioned the mosaic at the Wilsons’,” Pru said.

“That wasn’t a problem—don’t worry about it.”

They stood outside the kitchen door. She looked up to the clear sky filled with stars, and Christopher followed her gaze. “What a gorgeous sky, we don’t see this in town,” she said.

From inside, they heard a chair scrape across the flagstone floor followed by a muffled giggle.

Pru raised her eyebrows. “My chaperones.”

“Ah,” Christopher said, “gooseberries.”

“Gooseberries?”

“It’s an old country name for an unwanted chaperone.”

“Yes, that’s what they are—they’re gooseberries. Thanks for asking me along this evening,” Pru said. “I really enjoyed it.”

“The Horse and Groom does a Sunday carvery,” he said. “Would you care to join me tomorrow?”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

“I’ll call for you at half past one.”

“That’s fine.” She glanced at the door. “Good night.” Pru let herself into the kitchen, where she found Jo and Lucy in pajamas and sitting at the table, mugs of hot chocolate in front of them.

“Well, how were the
badgers
?” Lucy asked, winking broadly.

“There’s no need for innuendo,” Pru said. “We went to see badgers—with other people—and we saw badgers.”

“You’ve been watching badgers all this time?” Jo looked up at the clock on the wall.

“And then we went for a meal,” said Pru in an offhanded manner.

“Aha—and then?” Lucy asked.

“And then they all brought me home. That’s the end of the story, girls. Good night.”

Not wanting to miss Chedworth Roman Villa nearby, Pru and Jo set off first thing in the morning, so that Pru could still meet Christopher for lunch. “I know the Romans are important to you, Pru,” Jo said in her mother voice, “but ancient Romans don’t hold a candle to a lunch date with a good-looking detective.”

Although Chedworth had no restored gardens as Fishbourne in Sussex had, the extensive mosaic floors that had been uncovered were impressive. She and Jo wandered about on the raised walkways—built to help keep the remaining mosaics intact—and admired the craftsmanship of the tiles and artistry of the designs, which included representations of winter, spring, and summer; only autumn was missing.

But Chedworth seemed to have little to do with the mosaic at the Wilsons’. Even though only a portion had been revealed, theirs appeared to be a mosaic sitting directly on soil—soil that got wetter the farther down you dug. Entire Roman floors were often set on posts, so that the space between floor and ground, called the hypocaust, Pru read on a sign, could carry heated air from the furnace. Ingenious, but unrelated, and it left her unsatisfied.

And distracted. Chedworth had been a showy, luxurious villa until the fifth century, but it was only in 1864 that two workers came upon the remains of a building while digging for a lost ferret.
Leave it to the help,
thought Pru,
to uncover such an amazing find.
As they strolled around, thoughts of the lost ferret reminded Pru of the hedgehog nest in the Wilsons’ garden shed. That led to thoughts of badgers and then straight to Christopher. She hated to admit it, to herself let alone to Jo, but she felt just a
touch of nervousness about their afternoon lunch.
It’s just a lunch,
she thought,
more than a drink, less than a dinner.
The pub has a carvery, and it’s just a lunch.

On the drive back to Grenadine Hall, Jo sensed her preoccupation. “You know, Pru,” she said, in a careful manner, “if you and Christopher begin to see more of each other, then that’s just one more reason to stay even if you don’t have a job at …”

“Oh, no,” Pru stopped her. “That’s not the deal I made.” Pru already had mentioned—just mentioned—to Jo that the end of her year drew near and that Lydia and others had already started making plans for Pru’s move back to the States.

“You mean,” said Jo, “the deal you made with yourself? Is that the deal you’re talking about?”

“I can’t wander aimlessly through life.” Pru knew this explanation would make no impression on Jo. “I made a plan, and I need to stick to it. I need to set some standards.”

“No matter how miserable you make yourself?” Jo asked, after which she changed her tone, as if to back off from the direct attack. “It’s pleasant to spend time with someone who shares some of your interests, isn’t it—nature, the country, you know?”

Pru looked at her out of the corner of her eye and said nothing.

She pulled on a nubby, rose-red cardigan, brushed off her brown corduroy trousers, took out her hair clip, combed it through, reclipped, and stood in the hall, ready to go, just before half past one. A few butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. Jo saw her waiting and intervened.

“Go stand in the library,” she shooed Pru away. “I’ll answer the door.”

“Jo, you’re not going to tell him I have a curfew, are you?” Pru joked as she stood in the doorway from hall to library.

When Christopher knocked, Pru came out of the library just in time to hear Jo say, “Hello, Christopher, let me just go and see if Pru is ready. Oh, here you are,” and she made a face at Pru as she left them.

“These gooseberries don’t give up, do they?” Pru smiled at him. He wore a dark canvas field coat and olive-green trousers, portraying the perfect country gentleman.

“You look very nice,” he said as he held the door open for her and they walked out.

“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He had walked over from the pub to fetch her; he was staying in one of their bed-and-breakfast rooms upstairs. They set out, chatting about Rome and the countryside. He asked about any family she might have in England, and she said she had none that she knew of, but told him about the Wilsons’ former gardener, Simon Parke. “I hope I can
meet him. He might be some distant cousin, you never know.”

The way to the pub ran through the grassy verge alongside the road, over a stile, and then across a field. As they neared an oak at the edge of the field, Christopher put his hand on her shoulder; they stopped, and he nodded to a low branch. After a moment, Pru could see a tiny bird, its orange-red breast bright against the dark trunk. They stood just a few feet away, and the robin hopped down the branch, edging closer and closer to them, eyeing them all the while, as curious about them as they were about him. When a car motored past, the bird flew off into the high grass.

“How did you know he was there?” Pru asked as they continued their walk.

“I could hear his
tic-tic-tic.
I knew he must be close.”

“They are so cute. American robins are much bigger,” she said.