The Garden Plot (18 page)

“Tea is ready,” she said.

While Mrs. Wilson fussed with the tea, Pru told them the funny story of running into Christopher in the country and about watching the badgers—she left off the part about stomping away from lunch. Mr. Wilson told her about some of the interesting finds he’d been involved with—the reason for all the awards covering the little tables in the hall.

“Our society, well, we’re amateurs, so we only help the real archaeologists—we never work by ourselves. A few years ago, we were a part of a group that found a collection of Roman vessels down in Wiltshire. It never ceases to amaze me to think that we come across pieces of people’s lives, the cooking pots and jewelry and stoneware from so long ago.”

“Who has the pots now?” asked Pru.

“The whole collection is in the Salisbury museum, so that everyone can learn about them and enjoy them.” Mr. Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t be any fun if what we found was just locked away in someone’s cupboard. It’s in the sharing that we
discover more.”

He was like a gardener talking about a prized collection of dahlias—you could see that light in his eye. No gardener would want to hide the fruits of her labor, that’s why there were garden open days. And for archaeologists, museums. Mr. Wilson could never be involved in the unsavory business of stealing and murder. She wished Christopher could hear Mr. Wilson talk about his activities. “Are there collectors of Roman antiquities? Like art collectors or collectors of rare books?” she asked.

“There are indeed,” said Mr. Wilson. “Just a few years ago, a fellow down in Wiltshire dug up an intact Roman helmet in fine condition—very rare, an astounding discovery. There were many museums that wanted that piece, but he wanted money, and put it up for auction, where it fetched £1 million.”

Mrs. Wilson seemed to pursue her own line of thought. “It would make a lovely weekend away for you and a friend, dear,” she said, “if you were to go down to Salisbury. Harry could show the two of you around.”

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure what friend I’d persuade to go,” Pru said.

“Oh, well,” Mrs. Wilson said, “you never know, Pru. What about the inspector?”

Mrs. Wilson as matchmaker,
Pru thought. She decided to change the subject. “You’ve both been so kind to me, when I haven’t even been able to get started on the garden. I feel quite at home here.”

“We enjoy your company, Pru, and talking about history and gardening,” said Mr. Wilson as his wife set down a plate of buns. Toffee Woof-Woof raised his head. He had been napping near his tin of treats, but now moved over to sit beside Pru.

“It feels as if we’ve known you for ages,” Mrs. Wilson said.

Some people gather up strays,
thought Pru, it’s part of their nature; and whether she was the latest in a long line of lost souls that the Wilsons acquired, or whether she was a rare occurrence, it didn’t really matter to her. As an only child, Pru made up her own family—or many families. The Wilsons felt like some favorite aunt and uncle.

“Look,” said Mrs. Wilson, nodding toward the table, “I brought something out to show you.”

A fat photo album sat on the coffee table. Mrs. Wilson opened it up to the middle and began showing her photos of their garden and house, Greenoak, in Hampshire—the one Alf owned and had booted them out of, unceremoniously, saying that he was selling it. Mrs. Wilson talked about the garden and Simon Parke, their gardener, with Mr. Wilson adding a remark or question occasionally (“Vernona, what was that tree with the pink flowers by the drive?”). As Pru readjusted the large book in her lap, an old, yellowed photo fell out of the front. Pru picked it up and saw a boy in his early teens with a smirk
on his face, dressed in an old-fashioned school uniform. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s Alf. What an old snapshot that is. He was a good boy growing up, but he did have a tendency to look for the easy way out of anything,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“Vernona is being kind. He owned that house free and clear. We paid him a lease all the years we lived there, and he’d still ask us for money. The house should’ve gone to both of you.” He nodded at his wife.

“Does Alf live in London?” asked Pru.

“We’re never very sure where he is. He may be here or down in Hampshire. It’s part of his shifty nature,” said Mr. Wilson.

Pru started to put the photo back in the album, and as she did, she flipped it over, and on the back she saw, in a child’s handwriting, the name “Alf Saxsby.”

Alf, Mrs. Wilson’s brother. Saxsby, the man she’d heard talking with Malcolm. Mrs. Wilson began a story about Alf as a lad and some silly idea he had about making money from marketing special telephones that wouldn’t need to be plugged in at home—anyone could talk anytime and anywhere. It distracted Pru for a moment
—too bad he didn’t follow through on that one,
she thought—but soon she found herself dwelling on Saxsby, and Mrs. Wilson’s story became background chatter. Alf Saxsby. Poor Mrs. Wilson. Alf, in trouble for most of his life. Alf, who lurked around one of Mr. Wilson’s digs a couple of years ago. Alf, who met Malcolm last year.

Pru pushed aside concern for how Mrs. Wilson would take the fact that her brother was involved in a murder—could Alf have murdered Jeremy?—when she remembered hearing Alf cavalierly flinging accusations. He had practically said to Malcolm that Mr. Wilson committed the murder—how could he do that to his own brother-in-law?

Alf might have wanted the mosaic for himself. Pretending it was his own, he could’ve auctioned it. Although Pru didn’t understand how you could move an entire mosaic floor and sell it without someone noticing. As Mrs. Wilson finished the story—“He still believes that the company owes him money for the idea”—Pru realized that she now had acquired more information on the case. Unintentionally, she pointed out to herself. She needed to talk with Christopher.

Her thoughts preoccupied her as she left the Wilsons’, and she didn’t notice Malcolm coming round the corner until she almost bumped into him.

“All right there, Pru? You looked a bit faraway.”

“I’m fine, Malcolm, I just stopped in for a visit at the Wilsons’.” She thought it was high time to take advantage of these “chance” encounters. “Do you have time for a
pint? I wanted to tell you about some new rose breeding I was reading about.”

She didn’t want to push her luck—perhaps he would call her out on eavesdropping, but his usual friendly manner made her think that she might get away with a few pertinent questions. Malcolm jumped at the chance to talk roses.

They found a pub partway between the Wilsons’ house and hers—the Queen Charlotte. It wasn’t one of Pru’s favorites; the pub had taken up with some consortium and now offered the same tired, microwaved menu as dozens of others around the city. “Real English food!” the chalkboard proclaimed—but it wasn’t even a real chalkboard, just painted to look like one. At least they carried a few real ales. Pru ordered a half pint of Old Speckled Hen, but Malcolm went for a Dubonnet.

He kept to the subject of roses, even though occasionally Pru tried to veer off into another area. Finally, as the topic of rose scent—tea versus fruity—came to an end, she took another go.

“Malcolm, have you known the Wilsons long?”

He answered cautiously. “Well, neighbors, you know, you’re so close, you find out a great deal about them in short order.”

If the police had questioned him about Saxsby, Malcolm would know she had been the one to tell them. But for now she could pretend that she had no idea “Alf” and “Saxsby” were the same person.

“Do they have family about?” Pru kept her voice light. “Mrs. Wilson said something about her brother … is it Alf? I believe he lives in Hampshire.”

Malcolm’s face went blank. “Well, I’ve met him, but I don’t get invited to any family dinners,” he said with a tinny laugh. “You seem to be getting close to them, though. Maybe they’re even confiding in you, Pru. Or perhaps they’ve let something slip out about Jeremy or what happened in the shed. Is that what was upsetting you earlier?”

“I don’t believe they have anything that could slip out, Malcolm,” Pru said. “Do you suspect Mr. Wilson of … murdering his friend Jeremy?”

“Pru,” he began in an instructional tone, “you shouldn’t be taken in by people who pretend to be kind to you. They could be hiding a great deal. This could be a dangerous situation for you.”

For a moment, she expected him to tell her she was not a police officer. “Malcolm, don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” She thought that his warning could apply to him just as easily as anyone else.

“They’re such a chummy bunch”—she could’ve sworn she saw him stick out his bottom lip a bit—“with their digs and their exciting finds and their ‘I have an award for this and that.’ Wouldn’t it just serve him right to be blamed for murder?”

Malcolm sounded as if he hadn’t been picked to play on their side for kickball—or cricket—hardly a reason to accuse someone of murder.

“That doesn’t really sound like evidence, does it?” she pointed out.

“There may be evidence, Pru,” he said in a low voice, looking over his shoulder as if someone listened in. But the small crowd of males in the pub stood up at the bar watching television—the replay of a soccer game from Brazil. “I just don’t want you to be hurt when it all comes out.”

He was beginning to sound like a broken record,
she thought, and decided to give the record player a kick. “Malcolm, I was checking on the soil near the wall the other day. That’s when you saw me.” He squirmed in his seat, as if the memory of the encounter made him uncomfortable.

“Pru, you shouldn’t get involved in all this.”

The barmaid had come round gathering up glasses from the surrounding tables, and Pru waited until she moved on before taking a different tack. “Is the soil at the bottom of your garden very wet? When your roses died, how far down did you dig?”

With relief clearly showing on his face, Malcolm plunged into talk about his roses again. “I went down a couple of feet and it got wetter and wetter. I knew I had to abandon any hopes of putting a Zéphirine Drouhin or Félicité Perpétue on the bottom wall.”

“That would’ve been lovely,” Pru commiserated, noting to herself that the soggy soil was not isolated to the Wilsons’ shed. “I suppose Alf knows about the wet soil in the garden,” she said and waited for a reaction.

“Alf?” asked Malcolm in surprise. “What would Alf care about soil or roses?” He thought for a moment. “In fact, I did try to show him when he visited that first time, but he just laughed. But then he got quiet for a moment,” Malcolm said with a frown, “and said that he had a boggy place in Hampshire. He knows nothing about roses.” He looked at his empty glass, with only a film of Dubonnet at the bottom. “Would you care for another half pint, Pru?”

“No thanks, Malcolm.” She knew she’d get no further. “I’d better get home.”

“Thanks for walking me back,” Pru said as they turned the corner near her house.

“Not at all, it’s on my way,” Malcolm said. “There’s nothing like gardening to make you feel better, Pru …” His voice drifted off and Pru looked up from digging in her bag for the key to see Christopher standing at her front door. He turned and saw Pru first, then Malcolm. His face became a mask.

“Ms. Parke. Mr. Crisp,” he said, clipping his words.

“Inspector,” Pru said quietly.

“Mr. Pearse,” Malcolm said, as if greeting a favorite uncle, “have you caught Jeremy’s murderer yet? Did you look into the matter of that argument between Harry and Jeremy?”

Christopher ignored Malcolm. “Ms. Parke, I stopped by to ask you a few more questions about the day of the murder.” Christopher wore khaki trousers and a heather-blue sweater with a light tan jacket, more fancy-a-pint clothes than may-I-take-your-statement. Pru regretted her outburst at the country pub and wanted to explain herself, but she had nowhere to go with both of them in front of her.
Be brave, Pru.

“Malcolm, again, thanks so much. Would you mind, I do have something to … explain to Mr. Pearse.”

“Not at all,” Malcolm said. “Now, Pru”—he placed a kind hand on her arm—“you mustn’t worry about people’s feelings when there’s a murder to sort out. You must tell the truth.” It seemed that Malcolm remained convinced that she knew something that she didn’t know.

Pru stayed on the sidewalk, and Christopher came down to stand beside her as they watched Malcolm walk off. When she was sure he was out of earshot, Pru said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you immediately about the conversation and the photos. And about looking over the wall. And I’m sorry I got angry; I sometimes think I can do everything myself.”

“Really?” The corner of Christopher’s mouth twitched. “And I’m sorry if I sounded overbearing, but this is an open investigation.” He softened slightly. “I know I’m repeating myself, but it’s important. If you try to act on information you come across, it could put you in danger. I wouldn’t want that.”

“Do you think Malcolm was involved?” She wondered if Christopher knew who Saxsby was.

He watched Malcolm’s retreating figure. “Malcolm has an alibi,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t sure he believed it. “He lives with his mother, and she said he didn’t go out at all the night before or the morning of the murder.”

“What? He lives with his mother? He’s never said a word.”

“She has limited mobility and spends her life on the ground floor of the house. During the day, she stays in the front sitting room, and at night, she sleeps in a bed at the back of the house. She’s hard of hearing but says she’s a light sleeper, and she swears that Malcolm did not go out.”

“Oh, his ‘obligation.’ ” Pru remembered what Mr. Wilson had said. “Lives with his mother. Eww. Norman Bates. Are you sure she’s alive?”

Christopher looked at her for a moment without answering and then asked, “Have
you eaten? There’s an Italian place a couple of streets over. We could stop in for a bite.”

“Gasparetti’s? That’s my favorite place.” They turned and walked up the street.

“Did you stop by to ask me about my statement?” Pru asked.

“No,” he said, “I did not,” and smiled at her.

Pru readied herself to reveal the latest bits of information she had gathered, but decided to wait until after they ordered. Christopher glanced at the menu and began patting his pockets for his reading glasses, which were in the last pocket he searched. He looked slightly sheepish as he put them on. “No glasses for you, then?” he asked.