and Mrs. Wilson both. He blinked rapidly, his rimless glasses fogging slightly in the emotional atmosphere.
“I’m fine,” Pru reassured him, although her voice shook. “Well, I mean, I’m … okay. No, Mrs. Wilson, I just arrived and walked in here and found …” Jeremy—she’d heard that name.
“Harry, is he …?” Mrs. Wilson’s question faded away.
“Yes, no pulse and his head … there’s blood everywhere.”
For a second, the Wilsons and Pru stood close to one another in the small space. Pru felt the presence of the lifeless body behind her; a cold clamminess came over her. “Can we … get out of here?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson grimly. “We should go inside. I’ll ring the police.”
It took only a few minutes after the call was made—Pru had heard Mr. Wilson on the phone in another room, talking in a low voice—before several uniformed policemen and women arrived; Pru couldn’t quite tell how many because they moved in and out of the house and garden. Following them, a woman and two men in plainclothes appeared. Mr. Wilson met them all at the door and came back to the small sitting area in the kitchen to report that the three of them needed to stay indoors for now.
You don’t have to tell me twice,
thought Pru.
Mrs. Wilson made tea, and Pru tried to make small talk with Mr. Wilson, who sat on the sofa facing the window that looked onto the back garden where the police were getting down to business. His eyes had a hollow appearance, and Pru noticed that although he faced the window, he looked everywhere but out it.
“Is he … was he a friend of yours, Mr. Wilson?”
“Jeremy.” Mr. Wilson named him. “Jeremy Pendergast. I’m sorry I startled you, Pru. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, the both of you,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Such a shock finding him like that. Pru, do you take sugar in your tea?” Milk, of course, goes without saying.
“No, thank you.” The cold clamminess she felt in the shed had been joined by a slight nausea. Was this shock? “Yes, please, one spoonful.”
It’s true that a cup of tea fills many needs. Not only does a hot drink soothe the nerves and warm the hands, but also the whole process—beginning with “I’ll put the kettle on”—speaks of order and calm and just a touch of tenderness.
The police and other workers—Pru thought one of them had to be the medical examiner—continued to come and go through the hall. Eventually Pru realized that one person had stopped in the doorway. They all looked up to see a tall man, with dark short hair flecked with gray that was—neatly parted as if it wouldn’t dare do anything else. He wore a navy suit, light overcoat, and a grim expression; well-defined features accentuated permanent lines between his brows. He waited on the threshold holding his identification for them to see. “Detective Chief Inspector Pearse. May I come in?”
As DCI Pearse entered, Mr. Wilson stood up and introduced himself and his wife. “And this is Pru,” he said. Mrs. Wilson bustled around with the teapot, pouring anothercup. Pru wasn’t sure of the protocol, so—she stood, too, and said, “I’m Pru Parke.”
“Please, everyone sit down. Thank you.” Pearse took his cup and sat on the desk chair with his back to the window. It cast his face in shadow, but he seemed to realize that and scooted the chair ninety degrees. Pru glanced at his face, which was all business, although she thought she detected a few smile lines around his eyes—brown eyes that caught her looking at him. She glanced away.
“Mr. Wilson, you knew the deceased?” Pearse asked.
“Jeremy Pendergast,” said Mr. Wilson. “We work at the same firm. He’s a friend. He’s let this house to us.”
“And he’s in your group,” Mrs. Wilson added. “Your group.” She turned to Pearse. “It’s the Amateur Archaeology Society of London. Harry’s been a member for years, and so has Jeremy. That’s how they became
“I’m fine,” Pru reassured him, although her voice shook. “Well, I mean, I’m … okay. No, Mrs. Wilson, I just arrived and walked in here and found …” Jeremy—she’d heard that name.
“Harry, is he …?” Mrs. Wilson’s question faded away.
“Yes, no pulse and his head … there’s blood everywhere.”
For a second, the Wilsons and Pru stood close to one another in the small space. Pru felt the presence of the lifeless body behind her; a cold clamminess came over her. “Can we … get out of here?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wilson grimly. “We should go inside. I’ll ring the police.”
It took only a few minutes after the call was made—Pru had heard Mr. Wilson on the phone in another room, talking in a low voice—before several uniformed policemen and women arrived; Pru couldn’t quite tell how many because they moved in and out of the house and garden. Following them, a woman and two men in plainclothes appeared. Mr. Wilson met them all at the door and came back to the small sitting area in the kitchen to report that the three of them needed to stay indoors for now.
You don’t have to tell me twice,
thought Pru.
Mrs. Wilson made tea, and Pru tried to make small talk with Mr. Wilson, who sat on the sofa facing the window that looked onto the back garden where the police were getting down to business. His eyes had a hollow appearance, and Pru noticed that although he faced the window, he looked everywhere but out it.
“Is he … was he a friend of yours, Mr. Wilson?”
“Jeremy.” Mr. Wilson named him. “Jeremy Pendergast. I’m sorry I startled you, Pru. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, the both of you,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Such a shock finding him like that. Pru, do you take sugar in your tea?” Milk, of course, goes without saying.
“No, thank you.” The cold clamminess she felt in the shed had been joined by a slight nausea. Was this shock? “Yes, please, one spoonful.”
It’s true that a cup of tea fills many needs. Not only does a hot drink soothe the nerves and warm the hands, but also the whole process—beginning with “I’ll put the kettle on”—speaks of order and calm and just a touch of tenderness.
The police and other workers—Pru thought one of them had to be the medical examiner—continued to come and go through the hall. Eventually Pru realized that one person had stopped in the doorway. They all looked up to see a tall man, with dark short hair flecked with gray that was—neatly parted as if it wouldn’t dare do anything else. He wore a navy suit, light overcoat, and a grim expression; well-defined features accentuated permanent lines between his brows. He waited on the threshold holding his identification for them to see. “Detective Chief Inspector Pearse. May I come in?”
As DCI Pearse entered, Mr. Wilson stood up and introduced himself and his wife. “And this is Pru,” he said. Mrs. Wilson bustled around with the teapot, pouring anothercup. Pru wasn’t sure of the protocol, so—she stood, too, and said, “I’m Pru Parke.”
“Please, everyone sit down. Thank you.” Pearse took his cup and sat on the desk chair with his back to the window. It cast his face in shadow, but he seemed to realize that and scooted the chair ninety degrees. Pru glanced at his face, which was all business, although she thought she detected a few smile lines around his eyes—brown eyes that caught her looking at him. She glanced away.
“Mr. Wilson, you knew the deceased?” Pearse asked.
“Jeremy Pendergast,” said Mr. Wilson. “We work at the same firm. He’s a friend. He’s let this house to us.”
“And he’s in your group,” Mrs. Wilson added. “Your group.” She turned to Pearse. “It’s the Amateur Archaeology Society of London. Harry’s been a member for years, and so has Jeremy. That’s how they became
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