The Garden Plot (26 page)

Pru looked down at the assortment of small plates with a strong Mediterranean flair. “No, it’s quite different. They have more seafood along the coast, but really, in most of Texas, we’re strong on beans and rice.”

“Did your mother cook English food when you were growing up?”

“Fish and chips?” she asked. “Bubble and squeak? Bangers and mash? Spotted dick?” They both laughed. “Not very often.” She thought it was time for a small confession. “I’m not really much of a cook myself.”

“Neither am I,” he said, “although I can toss a few things together for pasta.”

“There’s one thing my dad made sure I could fix,” she said with some pride, “and that’s biscuits.”

“Biscuits?” he said with a polite tone to his voice. “Shortbread, custard creams, ginger nuts?”

“No, American biscuits, not tea biscuits,” she explained. “They’re sort of like a savory scone. You put butter and jam or honey on them.”

“Well, I’d be happy to try them out.”

“I’d be happy to fix them for you.”

He paused, watching her with that small smile on his lips. “Why do Americans ‘fix’ food? Is it broken?”

“It is if I’ve made it.” She nudged his leg with her toe.

They took a cab back from the restaurant. A light mist swirled around as they stood
quietly facing each other.

“I’ve had such a lovely day,” Pru said.

“I enjoyed it, too.”

“You enjoy showing off the city, don’t you?” she asked.

“I enjoy being with you,” he said, and drew her close. She began to sink into such a delicious place, then reality yanked her back with the ring of her phone. Without meaning to, she tensed up, and Christopher pulled back slightly. She pulled the phone out, looked down, and saw Lydia’s name on the screen.

Pru stared at the screen until Christopher said, “She’s persistent, and I don’t believe you can let this go. Go ahead and answer. I won’t come in. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” and he moved to leave.

“No, come in, at least for a minute.”
Talk about a mood breaker,
she thought. They walked inside the front hall as Pru answered. “Hello, Lydia.”

“Pru, I just wanted to check with you about your flight—do you know what day you’re coming home?”

Misery wicked up through Pru’s entire being. “Lydia, maybe I could phone you tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

Lydia knew her too well. She apparently sensed some hesitancy in Pru’s voice and thought she’d better close the deal. “Pru, I know you’re a little sad now, but it’s really better this way. You know we all look forward to you coming home. Do you have your plane ticket?”

At Lydia’s use of the word “home,” Pru’s eyes welled up. Christopher had given her some space and stood in the doorway to the sitting room, studying the Constable print on the wall.

“Lydia, I know you need to know, but couldn’t we …”

“Pru,
mija,
it’s okay to say it out loud. Tell me the day.”

“Next Tuesday.” Pru stared at the floor as she replied, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Christopher turn and look at her.

“See, now, how bad was that?”

“Lydia, please …”

Pru was about to beg off the conversation when Christopher came over, put his hand on her cheek and mouthed the words, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed her softly, just beside her right eye, which made a tear leak out and trail down her cheek. He wiped it away, kissed her again, and walked out the door.

Lydia continued, “…  and Yolanda’s about to get braces. She wants you to see her before it happens—she thinks maybe her whole face will change or something.”

“Tell her she’ll still be beautiful. Give the girls my love,” Pru said. The conversation ended, but too late. She went to the door, hoping that he might be standing on the other side, but her front step and the sidewalk were both empty.

She slammed the door and heard a small crash from the basement. “Be quiet down there,” she bellowed at the basement door. Silence. She grabbed her bag and stomped upstairs, saying under her breath, “I wish I had known that was all it took to get those mice to shut up.”

Stanborough House

Church Row

Beckwithshaw

Harrogate, North Yorkshire

HG3 1QW

15 October

72 Grovehill Square

Chelsea

London SW3

Monday morning she ran late. She hadn’t slept well, flopping around in the bed like a fish on a stream bank. Her muddled dreams came back in snatches. There had been a badger in one of them; he was eating something, but she didn’t want to think about what it might have been.

The electric kettle boiled and switched off; Pru poured her tea but had time for only a few sips and half a piece of toast. She told herself she’d stop for a coffee later and maybe grab a sandwich at Pret a Manger, but in the meantime, she had the last shreds of her career as a London gardener to wrap up. She would meet a client, Ann Hordern, to conclude their association and to offer instruction on gathering berried stems in the garden without massacring the shrub. At the Craddocks’ she would sweep paths and water pots. They had found cheaper help within the family; their nanny was to become the gardener. Maybe she’d drop by the Wilsons, just for a chat, just to make sure everything was all right. Just to make sure the police—she declined to name Christopher in that role—hadn’t arrested Mr. Wilson.

She arrived behind a well-dressed woman with thick auburn hair in a chignon who clanged from all the jewelry she wore. She carried a large Harrods shopping bag overflowing with papers.

Pru hung back at the bottom of the steps, and when the door opened, she heard Mrs. Wilson say, “Oh, Xanthe, yes, do come in—Harry is just downstairs.”

“No, Vernona, I won’t come in,” the woman said. “I’m just leaving all this crap for Harry. It’s what he asked for. I certainly don’t need it, and I still have so much to clean out of Jeremy’s flat. I’ll be back at it today. Sorry for the bag, but really, he had an enormous amount of useless possessions to go through. At least he kept one filing-cabinet drawer labeled for the society. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known where to look. I got all this out just ahead of the police—as if they would care about it—and it’s been in the boot of my car for days. They took his computer, but I suppose you know that. And they wanted the extra set of keys for this house. Jeremy always kept them on a hook in the closet, but they weren’t there. I’m sure the police will ask you about that. Oh, and, Vernona, I won’t be at the dinner Wednesday.”

She didn’t wait for Mrs. Wilson to respond, but turned to leave, treating Pru as if she were a bollard in the road. Mrs. Wilson saw Pru for the first time.

“Pru, dear, what a lovely surprise, come in.” She looked down at the shopping bag
stuffed in such a haphazard fashion. “Xanthe never did care much for Jeremy’s hobby. Really, this is just a lot of meeting minutes and the like, but I’m sure Harry will appreciate receiving them.”

And then, like switching off a lamp, her entire demeanor changed, her face turned red, and she stumbled over her words. “Oh, dear. You must want coffee,” she said in a halting voice. “I’ll just drop this bag off with Harry,” and without another word, she turned and went down the basement stairs, leaving Pru standing at the open front door.

It was such an odd invitation that Pru stuck her head in the door first and looked around, in case they had company and didn’t really want her to stay. But there was no one, and so Pru went back to the kitchen as usual. Mrs. Wilson returned and stayed silent while she made coffee. For the first time, Pru felt uncomfortable in her presence, uncomfortable enough to keep her canvas bag around her shoulder, as if she weren’t invited to stay long.

Mrs. Wilson served her a slice of currant cake without speaking and returned to stand by the counter. Pru had taken only a bite when her hostess said, as if making an announcement, “Pru, we would like to thank you for all the work you’ve done here, and we want you to know that we understand that you need to move back to the States, and that you … you need to prepare for that move, and so we believe that it’s best for you and … and for us that we end our acquaintance now and we wish you well, it’s been …”

She had started to wring her hands as she spoke, and she didn’t seem able to continue. Pru wasn’t sure what was happening—it sounded as if Mrs. Wilson were breaking up with her.

“Mrs. Wilson, is something the matter?”

She had turned her back on Pru, and the cafetière fell out of her hand into the sink, where it shattered. Pru jumped up to help her, but was stopped by Mrs. Wilson’s firm refusal. “No,” she said with alarm. She did not meet Pru’s eyes. “Nothing is wrong. It’s been lovely knowing you, and now I believe you should go. And leave for Texas. I’m sure you are looking forward to that. Now.”

In her stunned silence, Pru added up each small disappointment of the past year—letter after letter of rejection, bits of garden work all over town that amounted to nothing. She had tried to make the best of it and had been comforted that here, near the end, she had found a place that felt like home. To have Mrs. Wilson, who had treated her as a member of the family since that first day, tell her to go away gave her a dull, hollow ache in her heart.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.

Mr. Wilson burst into the room, banging against the doorjamb.

“It’s the most remarkable thing … Vernona, Pru, I can hardly believe it.” His face was flushed and his hair stood on end as if he’d grabbed hold of it with one hand and molded it into place. He paced back and forth, stopping and starting. “The letter, Jeremy told me, but I didn’t have any idea that … I don’t know what to do. This is … we can’t let it be lost …”

“Harry, sit down, you’re not making sense.”

“You must see, Vernona. Pru, you must see it.”

“I’ll look at it, Mr. Wilson. Where is it? What am I looking for?” Pru, startled at Mr. Wilson’s incoherence, wondered if he were ill.

“Downstairs, on my desk, Pru. Go and look. Yes, Vernona,” he said as if to appease his wife. “Yes, I’ll sit down right here. I’m fine.”

Pru went to the basement as Mrs. Wilson insisted her husband stay seated until he calmed down. Downstairs, Pru saw that he had started to go through the papers that Xanthe delivered. Some were still in the bag—she had taken no great care to pack them—and some he had piled up on his makeshift desk. Sitting on top of the desk stack was a yellowed paper held rigid against a stiff backing and slipped into a clear plastic bag. A handwritten note on Jeremy Pendergast’s printed stationery was taped on the plastic.

The note read:

She lifted the note and saw an old-fashioned script on yellowed paper.

28 June 1841

Pru glanced through the letter, although the dated handwriting style and the fact she wasn’t wearing reading glasses made it difficult to decipher. She tried to assemble all the facts in her head: the mosaic marked the burial of something important.
Whatever it was, she thought, could probably make someone a lot of money at an auction—if it had been found on private property, not a garden owned by the Earl of Cadogan.
This involved Jeremy and Mr. Wilson, certainly, but most likely Alf, too. Her faith in Mr. Wilson still wouldn’t allow her to classify him as a real suspect. Perhaps he had
opportunity, but where was his motive? Still, the presence of this letter with Jeremy’s note attached here in Mr. Wilson’s house didn’t look good.

She scanned Jeremy’s note again: “Remember Vindolanda.” Was it a code?