The Winds of Change (11 page)

‘But Millie was askin’ about the turf. You know what a perfectionist she is. And there’s the enameled mead thing, too. Ah don’t have much truck wi’ tartin’ up the place but -’ He shrugged aside the tartish notion of enameling.

‘Tell Millie not to worry. I’m sure someone will come along, like the winter solstice.’

Macmillan didn’t appear to believe this and gave Jury a sour look as if he might be having a hand in the garden business. ‘Another thing, could ya’ please have old Abbot just stick t’ the front. He’s about here all the time, givin’ his advice.’

Declan smiled. ‘No, Mr. Macmillan, I won’t tell Abbot that. He’s been here forever, long before any of us. These grounds were his once. So you’ll just have to bear up, won’t you?’

Macmillan turned a shade of purple at being told off, then went back to his work.

Declan and Jury continued on the path. ‘What did you mean by the winter solstice?’

‘Nothing. I thought it must have something to do with the alchemy of gardening. I like to say things like that to pretend I’m not a complete dud in this line.’

Jury laughed. ‘I see you’re not.’

‘Then you’re blind. I am a complete dud.’

They were nearing the end of the garden and the yellow crime scene tape and coming up on a young woman who Jury assumed must be the daughter. Same sandy eyes and eyelashes, same gingerish (not ginger, not brown) hair, same coverall. The resemblance was quite amazing.

Declan introduced Jury again.

Millie said, ‘Mr. Scott’ - looking away at the wall that surrounded the two acres of garden - ‘you’ll want the grapes back, I expect.’ Shading her eyes, she peered off into the distance as if the grapes had made their escape through the crumbled brick to freedom. ‘There’s the two vineries in perfectly good order, so that’s no problem.’ Then she set about scattering Latin terms and other references to her work, words that Jury was sure he knew when she started, but had no idea of when she’d finished.

‘That’s fine, Millie. When will the rest of the crew be here to help clear some of this stuff?’

‘They’ll be along,’ she said, telling him nothing, but merrily. He accepted this laissez-faire attitude and continued on with Jury.

‘It seems ominous, that tape, that smiling bright yellow,’ said Declan.

Then, hearing his name called out, he turned.

A man was standing on the terrace steps waving his arms to gain attention. He came down the steps toward them. Every so often, he raised his arm as he walked, as if he would prevent them turning away as long as he could keep himself in motion and in their sights. Or at least in Scott’s.

‘Marcus Warburton. He’s the landscape chap. Does a lot of gardens around here.’

Jury was a little surprised there were enough gardens around here to do. Warburton was a tall fellow with sharp good looks, a face that was more angles than planes-thin, rather Grecian nose, a model’s cheekbones. And well dressed. The cut of the suit was of the ample Italian style-Armani, Fendi, Zegnaits material a shade somewhere between the silver and the brown of the birches. Clothes-wise Marc Warburton was not standing still, as was Declan Scott, whose tweed jacket was probably from a tailor on Jermyn Street or Savile Row, but tailored a decade ago.

When Warburton heard that Jury was a Scotland Yard superintendent, Jury fully expected him to say, ‘Oh. Yes. You.’

He smiled at Jury-the smile sharp as the rest of him-and said what Jury was sure brought him down here to the gardens, ‘It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it, Superintendent, that woman found there.’ He nodded in the direction of the stone alcove.

Jury thought it was as if the body didn’t fit in with the landscaping plans, but Warburton was stuck with it.

‘It must be serious if the Devon and Cornwall police are calling you in’.

Jury’s face was blank as he said, ‘Not really. I just happened along.’

Abruptly, Warburton laughed. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’
 

Jury smiled. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you? You knew Mrs. S
 
cott, then?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Jury couldn’t determine if that settling in of a mournful look on Warburton’s face was real or feigned. Yet why would the man want to pretend? Mary Scott had been dead for over two years. Her husband might still mourn her, but the hired help could put off the trappings of woe, surely.

Warburton began, ‘She was -’ But something in Jury’s face stopped him from saying what she was.

Declan Scott had turned away.

‘I wonder if I could speak with you sometime,’ said Jury.

Marc Warburton showed no particular discomfort at this request. He folded his arms and said, ‘Police already have. You might want to check with them.’

Even Scott raised his eyebrows at this thick-headedness.

Jury merely said, ‘I already have, Mr. Warburton, as it’s the Devon and Cornwall constabulary’s case. But details can go missing sometimes from one account to the next. Memory changes.’

Warburton was all smiles, yet his face was neither open nor friendly. ‘Of course, Superintendent. Any time. Now, if you like.’

Scott said, ‘No, not now. I’m showing the superintendent round the garden.’

Warburton nodded. ‘Well, any time, then. I’m always available. Declan knows how to reach me.’ He turned and walked up the path.

‘Marc’s very good at what he does, but he wants to control everything - even you.’

‘Especially me.’ Jury laughed. ‘He didn’t like me talking to you. At least, not on your own.’

They passed through a stand of birch trees, silver and pinkish-brown bark. ‘These were Mary’s favorite trees.’

Together, they looked at the enclosure with its stone bench.

Jury said, ‘This place could only be opportune if you live on this property.’

Declan looked surprised and then laughed. ‘Then it’s down to me. I’m the only one living here.’

‘I didn’t mean it in that way. Anyone connected with the place, staff -’

‘Ah! Then it’s down to Rebecca Owen. That’s a pity. She’s such a good cook.’

‘Staff doesn’t include your gardeners? I’m talking about people who are well acquainted with Angel Gate.’

Declan frowned. ‘That could be anyone here - well, it’s beyond belief.’

‘It’s even harder to believe that someone outside of Angel Gate would choose to meet the victim here. It’s hardly a convenient setup for a shooting. Which is what I said before: it’s not exactly opportune.’

‘I find that extremely difficult -’

‘To believe. Right. It’s always difficult, Mr. Scott.’

They walked in silence toward the terrace until Jury said,

‘You’re not extending this project around to the front of the house, apparently.’

‘No. That’s Abbot’s country. But I guess the real reason is that the woods there have been like this as long as I can remember. Well, as I said’ - Declan shrugged - ‘I hate change.’

‘I was wondering about the white crosses. Then you don’t mean to take down those trees?’

Declan stopped and looked at him. ‘That’s’ Flora’s handiwork.’

He smiled. ‘There was an itinerant tree surgeon - or so he called himself-stopped at my door and asked if we wanted them cut down.’

‘Can a surgeon be itinerant?’ Jury laughed. ‘And you said?’

‘I said no, that wasn’t the meaning of the white crosses.’

‘What was Flora’s purpose in marking them?’

‘She said it was a way to keep from getting lost. You just follow the white crosses.’

‘Getting lost on her own grounds?’ They’d continued walking.

‘Oh, I expect she thought you could get lost anywhere.’ When they reached the terrace steps, Declan stopped, hands behind his back, and looked down. ‘What, I’d like to know, constitutes an ‘intimate knowledge of turf’? I know there are different kinds of soil-acid and less acidic and so forth-but how could the subject be so extensive as to require a serious study all on its own?’

Jury’s hands were behind his back, too. Thoughtfully, he said, ‘Oddly enough, I know someone who’s quite an expert in gardening arcana. I mean, he seems to have acquired an intimate knowledge of the oddities of medieval and eighteenth-century gardening. I think I’ve even heard him talk about -’

At that moment, Rebecca Owen came out through the French doors to tell Jury that Sergeant Cody had come to pick him up. Jury said he’d be there straightaway. Then he turned back to Declan. ‘I think I’ve heard this person talk about enameling - is that it?’

‘Enameled or flowering mead, yes.’

‘So he might know about both that and the turf business.’

‘That would be very helpful. Give me his name and I’ll ring

him.’

‘Oh, I’ll ring him.’ Jury smiled. ‘I’d be happy to.’

12

While Jury was walking in the garden with Declan Scott, Melrose Plant was sitting in his living room with Agatha, a different thing altogether.

A new hermit had been installed, the previous one having taken a job with Theo Wrenn Browne. He had been hired in the hope that he would scare off Agatha, that or at least cut down on the number of her visits. It would have done, only Mr. Bramwell was so insufferable that Melrose had suggested he might be happier working with Theo Wrenn Browne (who was no stranger to insufferability) .

‘He absolutely gives me the creeps,’ said Agatha as she piled more thick cream on her scone. She was speaking this time of the new hermit, who had been vetted by Marshall Trueblood and found acceptable. Mr. Blodgett had experience; he had put in a year as hermit on the estate of Lord Thewis and could furnish references. Trueblood had sent him along to Ardry End.

Melrose immediately liked his looks - a bit small, a bit bent and asked him what he did.

‘Wot ah do? Well, wiff all due respec’, sir, ah does wot ‘ermits do. As you know.’

‘Well, the point is, my last hermit was always down in the pub, When he wasn’t complaining about the hermitage.’

It was outside of this structure that they were standing. Mr. Blodgett had inspected it and found it quite the best hermitage he had ever seen. ‘You musta got one o’ them rum ones. Give us all a bad name. Pubs is out, sir; ah sits mostly.’

‘But you can walk about, can’t you?’

‘If you requires it, sir, ah be happy to.’ He bowed, deferentially. Melrose especially liked the way he kneaded the flat cap he held in his hands.

‘Now, can you lower?’

Mr. Blodgett frowned. ‘Lower? Ah don’t believe ah know wot you’re meanin’, sir.’

‘It’s just looking sort of fierce. And wild.’

‘Mebbe you want one of them actor fellows?’

‘No, no. See, all I want you to do is creep about when my aunt is here, especially at the drawing-room windows.’

‘Ah expec’ ah could, on’y me eyes ain’t too good. How would ah know it’s her?’

‘Because it’s always her; she’s the only regular visitor I have, and she’s over here every day. It’s damned tiring.’

That had been several weeks ago, and Melrose was quite satisfied with Mr. Blodgett’s efforts. Unfortunately, with his bad eyesight, Mr. Blodgett had fallen into the duck pond one cold February morning and was still recuperating and Agatha still making her daily visits.

Melrose was at the moment contemplating his goat, which was eating breakfast (or brunch, as it was near eleven) outside the drawing-room window where he had found some tasty grass or young leaves. It was not the same as Blodgett’s being there, for the goat (if Agatha saw him at all) merely ruminated beyond the windowpane and did not present a fearsome picture. Melrose found the goat displayed rather remarkable tranquillity. Or acceptance, acceptance of its lot in life subject to the whim of any passing stranger, of being bought and sold, of being transplanted from Farmer Brown’s (or whatever his name was) meadows to the Ardry End stable as companion to Melrose’s horse. Melrose liked the goat’s face and the ruminative way it had of chewing, as if it were concerned with broader things, not food.

It had been Diane Demorney’s conviction that Melrose had to get a goat to keep the horse happy. ‘You can tell by looking at that horse he’s pining for company.’

‘You saw Aggrieved exactly once, Diane, from twenty feet away during the cocktail hour. At five o’clock you couldn’t recognize your own hands, so don’t tell me how Aggrieved looked.’

Diane didn’t care a whit for his opinion and just plowed on. ‘A goat or a cat. Genuine Risk had a cat in her stall that went with her to all the races out of town. A horse needs company.’

These comments had been offered in the Jack and Hammer back in January, during the time Richard Jury was still among them, also recuperating. The six of them - Diane, Trueblood, Vivian, Jury, Theo Wrenn Browne, and Melrose - crowded about the table in the window. Seven of them, if Mrs. Withersby insisted on standing by their table with her mop and bucket.

‘What’s his name?’ asked Marshall Trueblood, meaning the name of the goat.

‘Doesn’t have one. I can’t settle on one. I was thinking maybe Provok’d.’

‘We should have a contest,’ said Theo Wrenn Browne, who had just returned from two weeks in Ibiza, looking like he’d popped out of a toaster (and with about as much elan as a slice of bread).