squeaking sound. She’d meant to be studied and detached and to say, “Oh, I see,” but as the brutal act played itself out graphically in her mind, she was afraid what would happen if she opened her mouth. She swallowed hard.
Pearse changed his tone, as if remembering that he wasn’t speaking to one of his officers. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parke. I’m sorry. Murder is never pleasant, but it’s easy for me to forget how terrible it really is.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you need some assistance?”
Pru blinked away the image left on the screen in her mind, wishing she didn’thave such a vivid imagination. “No, thanks, no, I’m okay.” She got out of the car and turned. “Thanks for the lift.” She hesitated. “Inspector, Mr. Wilson is genuinely upset about what happened to his friend, you know. He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him.”
Pearse held her gaze for a moment. “Keep an eye on your bag, Ms. Parke,” he said.
Stonechat Gardens
The Old Rectory
Tolpuddle
Dorset
TD2 7EX
29 September
72 Grovehill Square
Chelsea
London SW3
Dear Ms. Parke,
Thank you for your enquiry of 30 August regarding the post of head gardener at Stonechat Gardens. We regret to inform you that the post has been filled. We appreciate your interest in and enthusiasm for the Dorset landscape, and we know that you will put your knowledge and experience to good use.
We appreciate your interest in this post and wish you well in your future endeavours.
Yours very sincerely,
Arthur F. Mortimer
Stonechat Gardens at The Old Rectory
AFM/ssc
Chapter 4
It rained Sunday. Pru wouldn’t mind if the rain always confined itself to Sundays, in order to keep her workweek dry. She considered staying in, but she’d had another email from Lydia, and she needed to avoid her computer for a while.
“Marcus says that if you call him and tell him you want the job, he’ll keep it open. Please do it soon,
mija.
You know we only want the best for you,” she had written. Marcus being Lydia’s brother had made for a sticky exit from Dallas, leaving her friend, ending a relationship, and escaping her former life all in one fell swoop.
She’d distract herself with Romans, she decided. Although she had visited before, Pru thought a rainy Sunday perfect for a return to the Roman rooms at the Museum of London. The museum occupied the center of what seemed like an enormous roundabout. Its front entrance was not at ground level, and was accessible only by covered raised walkways that looked like spokes of a wheel radiating from the building and extending over the busy street below.
Better than dashing through traffic,
Pru thought.
She wandered through rooms of ceramic amphorae, soldiers’ shoes, reddish Samian pottery. What had been part of the original Roman city wall could be seen through a glass display, although it had been altered so much over the centuries that only the foundation remained Roman. Mosaic floors helped to re-create the Londinium of the few centuries of Roman Britain.
Layers and layers of civilization,
she thought,
just below all our feet.
But the mosaics brought to mind Jeremy’s bloody body crumpled in a corner of the shed. She shook her head to get rid of the picture and tried instead to imagine what she could do with the town house garden space. Maybe a collection of representative Roman plants, Pru thought. And something to replace that dead birch. A bay laurel would work—it could take the London climate. Boxwoods to line the rill, slicing the garden into three sections, accentuating the narrow, deep shape even more. Her mind wandered back through the centuries as she considered the possible plantings.
Pru stopped short at the end of the Roman display and, instead of continuing into the Saxon era, left for home. Walking back from the Tube station, she arrived at five o’clock to find Jo standing on her front step rapping hard on the door. “Pru? Are you in there?”
“I’m
Pearse changed his tone, as if remembering that he wasn’t speaking to one of his officers. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parke. I’m sorry. Murder is never pleasant, but it’s easy for me to forget how terrible it really is.” He put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you need some assistance?”
Pru blinked away the image left on the screen in her mind, wishing she didn’thave such a vivid imagination. “No, thanks, no, I’m okay.” She got out of the car and turned. “Thanks for the lift.” She hesitated. “Inspector, Mr. Wilson is genuinely upset about what happened to his friend, you know. He wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him.”
Pearse held her gaze for a moment. “Keep an eye on your bag, Ms. Parke,” he said.
Stonechat Gardens
The Old Rectory
Tolpuddle
Dorset
TD2 7EX
29 September
72 Grovehill Square
Chelsea
London SW3
Dear Ms. Parke,
Thank you for your enquiry of 30 August regarding the post of head gardener at Stonechat Gardens. We regret to inform you that the post has been filled. We appreciate your interest in and enthusiasm for the Dorset landscape, and we know that you will put your knowledge and experience to good use.
We appreciate your interest in this post and wish you well in your future endeavours.
Yours very sincerely,
Arthur F. Mortimer
Stonechat Gardens at The Old Rectory
AFM/ssc
Chapter 4
It rained Sunday. Pru wouldn’t mind if the rain always confined itself to Sundays, in order to keep her workweek dry. She considered staying in, but she’d had another email from Lydia, and she needed to avoid her computer for a while.
“Marcus says that if you call him and tell him you want the job, he’ll keep it open. Please do it soon,
mija.
You know we only want the best for you,” she had written. Marcus being Lydia’s brother had made for a sticky exit from Dallas, leaving her friend, ending a relationship, and escaping her former life all in one fell swoop.
She’d distract herself with Romans, she decided. Although she had visited before, Pru thought a rainy Sunday perfect for a return to the Roman rooms at the Museum of London. The museum occupied the center of what seemed like an enormous roundabout. Its front entrance was not at ground level, and was accessible only by covered raised walkways that looked like spokes of a wheel radiating from the building and extending over the busy street below.
Better than dashing through traffic,
Pru thought.
She wandered through rooms of ceramic amphorae, soldiers’ shoes, reddish Samian pottery. What had been part of the original Roman city wall could be seen through a glass display, although it had been altered so much over the centuries that only the foundation remained Roman. Mosaic floors helped to re-create the Londinium of the few centuries of Roman Britain.
Layers and layers of civilization,
she thought,
just below all our feet.
But the mosaics brought to mind Jeremy’s bloody body crumpled in a corner of the shed. She shook her head to get rid of the picture and tried instead to imagine what she could do with the town house garden space. Maybe a collection of representative Roman plants, Pru thought. And something to replace that dead birch. A bay laurel would work—it could take the London climate. Boxwoods to line the rill, slicing the garden into three sections, accentuating the narrow, deep shape even more. Her mind wandered back through the centuries as she considered the possible plantings.
Pru stopped short at the end of the Roman display and, instead of continuing into the Saxon era, left for home. Walking back from the Tube station, she arrived at five o’clock to find Jo standing on her front step rapping hard on the door. “Pru? Are you in there?”
“I’m
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