all,” rushed Mrs. Wilson. “Jeremy told us we needed to be careful about who we let in, and so no one goes through the house without one of usknowing, and no one has a key to the basement door, no one at all.” A thick silence filled the room. “Except for Pru, of course.”
Pru cut her eyes at Pearse and saw him looking at her.
“You came through alone this morning?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Was the basement door locked when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“No, I’m afraid I was thinking about the garden. I wasn’t looking for …”
“Sir?” Someone in a disposable blue coverall came to the door, relieving Pru of finishing her sentence.
Pearse went into the hall and spoke for a moment. He returned with two clear plastic bags. One contained a wallet and some keys; the other, what looked like a coin.
“It appears that Mr. Pendergast was hit at least once on the back of the head. There’s a good deal of blood. His body may have been pushed into the corner. He certainly didn’t fall there, and he has dirt on him. It’s probable he was hit with one of the spades in the shed, but if that’s the case, the murderer took care to replace the spade on its rack.”
Pru remembered the spade on the ground. “Oh, I did that. When I went in, the spade was on the ground, and it hadn’t been there the other day, and so I thought I would just … straighten up.”
“Thank you for tidying the murder scene, Ms. Parke,” Pearse said.
“I didn’t know it was a murder scene at the time,” Pru pointed out.
Pearse’s eyes lingered on Pru for two seconds—penetrating brown eyes. She dropped her gaze and he turned away and patted the pockets of his jacket and shirt until he pulled out reading glasses. He examined the contents of one of the bags for a moment before handing it to Mr. Wilson. “Do you know what this is?”
Mr. Wilson stepped to the window for more light and held it in the palm of his hand, turning it over to see the reverse. His hand began to tremble.
Pru stood up and insinuated herself between Pearse and Mr. Wilson to get a better view. “Mr. Wilson, what is it?”
He held his palm out for her to see. The coin still had dirt on it. “It appears to be a Roman coin, a sestertius, a brass coin. Look.” He pointed at the raised image in profile, a man with curly hair. “That’s Hadrian. You can see his name along the edge, ‘Hadrianus.’ And on the reverse”—he turned the bag and coin over—“it’s an image of Britannia.” He could have been giving a college lecture.
“Excuse me, Ms. Parke.” Pearse leaned over and took the bag out of Mr. Wilson’s hand. “Is this authentic?”
“I’m unable to verify that.” Mr. Wilson’s manner became businesslike, although Pru saw that his hand, now at his side, still shook. “Where did it come from?”
“Mr. Pendergast had it clutched in his hand,” Pearse said as he put the bag in his pocket. Pru sat down again, feeling light-headed at the thought. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Well, I … he …” Mr. Wilson stumbled over the straightforward question, but Mrs. Wilson cut in.
“You were out at the dig together until yesterday.” She turned to Pearse. “They were out at the dig until yesterday, near Bishop’s Cleeve in Gloucestershire, and they were supposed to stay until Sunday but Harry decided to come back and take a look at the tiles.” She turned to Pru. “You didn’t do anything wrong, dear. How could you know something so dreadful would happen? I really thought we should do something about the garden even if Jeremy said to leave it be—well, the state of it—and it’s a good start, really it is.” She reached over and patted Pru on the knee.
Pru felt quite breathless after that explanation, which seemed to leave more questions in the air.
“Why didn’t Mr. Pendergast want the garden done up?” asked Pearse. He glanced out the window. “And what exactly
Pru cut her eyes at Pearse and saw him looking at her.
“You came through alone this morning?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Was the basement door locked when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“No, I’m afraid I was thinking about the garden. I wasn’t looking for …”
“Sir?” Someone in a disposable blue coverall came to the door, relieving Pru of finishing her sentence.
Pearse went into the hall and spoke for a moment. He returned with two clear plastic bags. One contained a wallet and some keys; the other, what looked like a coin.
“It appears that Mr. Pendergast was hit at least once on the back of the head. There’s a good deal of blood. His body may have been pushed into the corner. He certainly didn’t fall there, and he has dirt on him. It’s probable he was hit with one of the spades in the shed, but if that’s the case, the murderer took care to replace the spade on its rack.”
Pru remembered the spade on the ground. “Oh, I did that. When I went in, the spade was on the ground, and it hadn’t been there the other day, and so I thought I would just … straighten up.”
“Thank you for tidying the murder scene, Ms. Parke,” Pearse said.
“I didn’t know it was a murder scene at the time,” Pru pointed out.
Pearse’s eyes lingered on Pru for two seconds—penetrating brown eyes. She dropped her gaze and he turned away and patted the pockets of his jacket and shirt until he pulled out reading glasses. He examined the contents of one of the bags for a moment before handing it to Mr. Wilson. “Do you know what this is?”
Mr. Wilson stepped to the window for more light and held it in the palm of his hand, turning it over to see the reverse. His hand began to tremble.
Pru stood up and insinuated herself between Pearse and Mr. Wilson to get a better view. “Mr. Wilson, what is it?”
He held his palm out for her to see. The coin still had dirt on it. “It appears to be a Roman coin, a sestertius, a brass coin. Look.” He pointed at the raised image in profile, a man with curly hair. “That’s Hadrian. You can see his name along the edge, ‘Hadrianus.’ And on the reverse”—he turned the bag and coin over—“it’s an image of Britannia.” He could have been giving a college lecture.
“Excuse me, Ms. Parke.” Pearse leaned over and took the bag out of Mr. Wilson’s hand. “Is this authentic?”
“I’m unable to verify that.” Mr. Wilson’s manner became businesslike, although Pru saw that his hand, now at his side, still shook. “Where did it come from?”
“Mr. Pendergast had it clutched in his hand,” Pearse said as he put the bag in his pocket. Pru sat down again, feeling light-headed at the thought. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Well, I … he …” Mr. Wilson stumbled over the straightforward question, but Mrs. Wilson cut in.
“You were out at the dig together until yesterday.” She turned to Pearse. “They were out at the dig until yesterday, near Bishop’s Cleeve in Gloucestershire, and they were supposed to stay until Sunday but Harry decided to come back and take a look at the tiles.” She turned to Pru. “You didn’t do anything wrong, dear. How could you know something so dreadful would happen? I really thought we should do something about the garden even if Jeremy said to leave it be—well, the state of it—and it’s a good start, really it is.” She reached over and patted Pru on the knee.
Pru felt quite breathless after that explanation, which seemed to leave more questions in the air.
“Why didn’t Mr. Pendergast want the garden done up?” asked Pearse. He glanced out the window. “And what exactly
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