friends, and that’s why they were so interested in the mosaic that Pru found in the shed. Harry’s group goes off all over the country digging around and looking for flint arrowheads and Saxon jars and Norman whatevers. They’re very good at it, and Harry has received many awards and notices about his work. County museums love to display their finds.”
“It’s just a hobby,” Mr. Wilson said weakly. “A bit of history, a bit of the outdoors.”
Pearse looked at Pru. “And why are you here?”
“Oh, Pru’s our gardener,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Well, barely our gardener—she’s only just started, clearing out the bottom of the garden, planting flowers, but she’s going to do the whole back for us, tear down the shed and build a little barbecue or something out there. Aren’t you, Pru?” Mrs. Wilson glanced out the window and away again. “Not today, of course.”
“Ms.…” Pearse began, looking at Pru.
“Parke,” said Pru.
“And Pru is short for … Prudence?”
“No, it’s Prunella.”
Wait for it,
thought Pru.
Pearse paused a moment, then looked down and wrote in his notebook without comment. “You’re American? Canadian?”
“American.”
“Are you in Britain visiting?” Pearse asked.
“No, I live here and work here. I moved to London from Texas. I’m here legally—do you need to see my passport? I have a British passport because my mother was British. I have dual citizenship. I work as a gardener. I’m legal. I have gardening clients. It’s … legal for me to be here.”
Could I be more defensive?
she thought.
“Of course she’s allowed to be here,” Mrs. Wilson said. “She’s American. How legal can she be?”
“Yes, fine, thank you,” Pearse cut in before the Pru legalfest could reach another level. “I would like to see your passport when you have the chance to bring it by the station, Ms. Parke. There is no question about your … legality, just for identification purposes. How long have you lived in London?”
Like a poorly edited film, short scenes leading up to her London move flickered through Pru’s mind: her mother’s funeral, October at the Dallas Arboretum with hundreds of pumpkins floating in the fountains, Marcus standing at her front door shouting that she was unable to make a commitment.
“Almost a year,” she said quietly.
Pearse turned his attention. “Now, Mr. Wilson, can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, I put the kettle on, then I looked out the back window, and I saw someone go in the shed. I didn’t realize it was Pru …”
“Ms. Parke, you arrived on the scene first? What time was that?”
“It was just about nine, maybe quarter past,” Pru said. “I noticed the shed door slightly open, and I went in. I was inside and I heard someone shouting—Mr. Wilson was calling as he came out—and it surprised me. I stumbled backward over the … Mr.… the body.” Jeremy something—what was his last name? “And then both Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were there …”
“I heard Harry shouting,” Mrs. Wilson filled in, “and I knew it must be Pru that he saw and perhaps he’d forgotten she was coming round again. I didn’t want him to frighten her,” she said. “Harry was off for a long weekend with the society down in Gloucestershire. When I told him on the phone yesterday morning about finding the mosaic in the shed he was so surprised he came straight home to see it. I didn’t want Pru to think there was a problem.”
“I wasn’t going to attack her, Vernona. I just didn’t realize it was her. It startled me, that’s all.” Mr. Wilson’s nervousness, gone for a few minutes when the policeman first arrived, returned.
“When did you arrive back in town, Mr. Wilson?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“Was Mr. Pendergast in Gloucestershire with you?”
“Of course he was, yes. Jeremy organizes most of our digs.”
“Mrs. Wilson, who has access to your back garden?” asked Pearse.
“Oh, no one, no one at
“It’s just a hobby,” Mr. Wilson said weakly. “A bit of history, a bit of the outdoors.”
Pearse looked at Pru. “And why are you here?”
“Oh, Pru’s our gardener,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Well, barely our gardener—she’s only just started, clearing out the bottom of the garden, planting flowers, but she’s going to do the whole back for us, tear down the shed and build a little barbecue or something out there. Aren’t you, Pru?” Mrs. Wilson glanced out the window and away again. “Not today, of course.”
“Ms.…” Pearse began, looking at Pru.
“Parke,” said Pru.
“And Pru is short for … Prudence?”
“No, it’s Prunella.”
Wait for it,
thought Pru.
Pearse paused a moment, then looked down and wrote in his notebook without comment. “You’re American? Canadian?”
“American.”
“Are you in Britain visiting?” Pearse asked.
“No, I live here and work here. I moved to London from Texas. I’m here legally—do you need to see my passport? I have a British passport because my mother was British. I have dual citizenship. I work as a gardener. I’m legal. I have gardening clients. It’s … legal for me to be here.”
Could I be more defensive?
she thought.
“Of course she’s allowed to be here,” Mrs. Wilson said. “She’s American. How legal can she be?”
“Yes, fine, thank you,” Pearse cut in before the Pru legalfest could reach another level. “I would like to see your passport when you have the chance to bring it by the station, Ms. Parke. There is no question about your … legality, just for identification purposes. How long have you lived in London?”
Like a poorly edited film, short scenes leading up to her London move flickered through Pru’s mind: her mother’s funeral, October at the Dallas Arboretum with hundreds of pumpkins floating in the fountains, Marcus standing at her front door shouting that she was unable to make a commitment.
“Almost a year,” she said quietly.
Pearse turned his attention. “Now, Mr. Wilson, can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, I put the kettle on, then I looked out the back window, and I saw someone go in the shed. I didn’t realize it was Pru …”
“Ms. Parke, you arrived on the scene first? What time was that?”
“It was just about nine, maybe quarter past,” Pru said. “I noticed the shed door slightly open, and I went in. I was inside and I heard someone shouting—Mr. Wilson was calling as he came out—and it surprised me. I stumbled backward over the … Mr.… the body.” Jeremy something—what was his last name? “And then both Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were there …”
“I heard Harry shouting,” Mrs. Wilson filled in, “and I knew it must be Pru that he saw and perhaps he’d forgotten she was coming round again. I didn’t want him to frighten her,” she said. “Harry was off for a long weekend with the society down in Gloucestershire. When I told him on the phone yesterday morning about finding the mosaic in the shed he was so surprised he came straight home to see it. I didn’t want Pru to think there was a problem.”
“I wasn’t going to attack her, Vernona. I just didn’t realize it was her. It startled me, that’s all.” Mr. Wilson’s nervousness, gone for a few minutes when the policeman first arrived, returned.
“When did you arrive back in town, Mr. Wilson?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
“Was Mr. Pendergast in Gloucestershire with you?”
“Of course he was, yes. Jeremy organizes most of our digs.”
“Mrs. Wilson, who has access to your back garden?” asked Pearse.
“Oh, no one, no one at
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