The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) by Marty Wingate Page B

of the man himself—short, stocky, with a florid complexion and a wide face. Five or six strands of hair that grew above his left ear stretched across the vast expanse of his bald head and were plastered down just above his right ear. His free hand was in his trouser pocket, and she could hear the metallic jingling from keys and coins. “Name’s Inspector Tatt, Ms. Parke. Sit down,” he said, indicating a chair at her kitchen table.
    She hesitated for a moment at being commanded to sit in her own house, but she sat; so did Hobbes, who had followed Tatt in. Christopher had put the kettle on, and he stood leaning against the rail of the Aga with his arms crossed. Tatt plopped himself in a chair across from her.
    “DS Hobbes tells me that one of your workers found the body—Fox?” He cocked his head at his sergeant.
    “Robbie Fox, sir,” Hobbes said.
    “Well?” Tatt barked, making Pru jump. “What happened?”
    She explained, for the first time piecing together each moment in her mind. When she arrived at Ned’s body, she stopped and swallowed.
    “The body, Ms. Parke—what did you see?” Tatt asked. She wished he would turn down his volume.
    Christopher sat and poured out mugs of tea. Pru took the milk jug, but her hand shook, and so she put the jug back down. Christopher added the milk for her, as well as a spoonful of sugar, and then covered her hand with his. “Take your time, it’s all right.”
    “It’s a straightforward question, Pearse. There’s no need to mollycoddle her.”
    Pru supposed after meeting two kind police officers—Christopher and Sergeant Hobbes—her number was up, and it was time for an annoying one. She took a sip of sweet, milky tea and described what she saw, keeping hold of Christopher’s hand.
    “Where were your workers today?” Tatt asked. “Hobbes says there are two others—Fergal and Liam Duffy,” he said, looking down at his notebook.
    “They weren’t scheduled to work.”
    “And what do you know about this Fox? Does he cause trouble around here? Get in arguments?”
    “Of course not,” she replied, her indignation on Robbie’s behalf rising to the surface. “He’s a fine boy, he’s very helpful.”
    “Boy? Hobbes”—he whirled around to his sergeant—“you told me he was twenty-three.”
    Pru answered first. “He is twenty-three, but mentally he’s more about ten. He works hard in the garden, and we like having him here.”
    “Where are the Templetons?” Tatt asked.
    “Oh God,” she said, looking at Christopher. “I should ring Davina, I forgot.”
    “Do you know when—” Christopher began.
    “Ms. Parke, pay attention.” Tatt raised his voice another few decibels.
    “I
am
paying attention.” Anger had replaced nausea, but she wished that, if she did need to throw up again, it could be on Tatt.
    “I rang her and left a message, sir,” Hobbes said.
    A knock. “Hobbes,” Tatt said, jerking his head toward the door.
    The DS got up to answer; Pru rose and stood behind him. A uniformed policeman waited outside with a large clear plastic bag containing something red. Pru backed off a step, but then realized that the red wasn’t blood. The bag held a red fleece jacket, and she was close enough to read the name written in black marker on the inside of the collar: R. Fox.
    Tatt pushed past her and stepped outside to talk. Pru peered over his shoulder and noticed that the officer held another bag, too. This one had a hatchet in it—a hatchet with a bloody blade. She felt Christopher’s hands on her shoulders.
    Tatt turned back inside and saw them clustered around the door. “What’s all this? Hobbes, get this Fox to the station for questioning.”
    “Why? Why do you need Robbie?” Pru asked. “He didn’t have anything to do with this.”
    “And how would you know that? You know very little other than what you saw. You don’t even know when the murder occurred, Ms. Parke—now do you?”
    “When?” she asked.
    “At least eighteen hours