BEST-LAID PLANTS an utterly charming English garden murder mystery by MARTY WINGATE

Author:MARTY WINGATE [WINGATE, MARTY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books cozy mysteries and crime
Published: 2023-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

C. planted out twelve Astrantia Hadspen Blood this afternoon, and the girl came toddling after her, pulling up each one. Replanted — this time asking for assistance from the little helping hands. I say she’ll not make a gardener and C. tells me nonsense, only that the seed may take years to germinate. BB

* * *

“Nothing,” Christopher reported. He carried two cups of tea, and Pru marveled that he’d made the trek from the kitchen to room number eight without spilling a drop. She took hers as he sat on the edge of the bed. “No badgers, no human. I’ve sent Michael home. I’ll go back now to take a better look in daylight.”

“Is this truly about badgers?” Pru asked. It had been one of a myriad of crazy ideas swirling round in her head while she hadn’t slept.

Christopher gave a sideways nod of acknowledgment. “Or is it meant as a distraction. To distract me, especially, from seeing something about this case?”

“Do you think it was Ger Crombie?”

“He’s an easy target, but what is his motive? What would he gain or what does he have to lose?”

They drank their tea, and when Christopher had drained his cup, he kissed her.

“Go back to sleep for a bit, why don’t you? I’ll stop by again before I go into the station.”

“I’ll rest for a minute,” Pru said. “I don’t think I could sleep.”

Christopher closed the door. Pru put her head on her pillow and knew no more.

* * *

Just after ten, she opened her eyes. Bright sun had begun to stretch its way across the room, touching the foot of the bed. She arose and took her time showering, arriving downstairs just before eleven.

Mrs. Draycott, resplendent in a chartreuse tracksuit, had donned kitchen gloves as she worried a stain on the counter. “Mr. Pearse thought it best to let you sleep. He has come and gone again — this time for the police station, consulting with Sergeant Appledore. He is to return” — she squinted at the clock on the range “—forthwith. Coral left early for Glebe House to meet Mr. Elkington.” Her report concluded, the landlady straightened up and said, “And now, Ms. Parke, let me cook your breakfast. Or would it be, as you Americans like to call it, brunch?”

“No, don’t bother. I’ll have a cup of tea and toast, that’s all.” Not Mr. Draycott’s toast, of course, which remained safely ensconced on the warming shelf above the cooker although it had nearly met its end the evening before. While preparing the dinner, Coral had come close to knocking the plate with the petrified piece into a saucepan. She had caught it just in time and broken out in a fit of giggles.

“I’ll do you scrambled eggs, what do you say?” Mrs. Draycott asked.

“I suppose I couldn’t say no to that. Is there any of that chutney left from dinner?” Bay-leaf-flavored orange marmalade missed the mark, but Cynthia’s chutney had been quite tasty.

“Sadly, not a smidgen,” Mrs. Draycott said, pulling off her gloves.

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