Page 19 of A Curious Ending

He nodded his understanding. ‘You do catch the smell of smoke around here,’ he agreed. ‘I think the gardener next door is overfond of burning leaves. But it is odd – I’ll give you that – as you can only usually smell it in this spot.’

‘Umm…’ was all Lara said non-committally.

‘How’s the ankle?’ he asked, glancing down.

‘Okay, thanks. I didn’t know you did Lady Porter’s garden,’ Lara continued, leaning on the potting shed doorframe and opening the door behind her with her foot.

‘Nicely done, Miss McGregor,’ Abby murmured, as she whisked past her and into the shed.

Inside it was almost completely dark. By now the sun had sunk low in the sky and very little light penetrated the gloom of the building. Abby stood patiently staring into the darkest spot waiting for her eyes to adjust. The air smelt not unpleasantly of old leaves, apples and compost. Abby was alerted by a sudden gritty scraping sound and she turned her head towards the glow of a match. There in the corner sat the old gardener with his pipe in his hand and a mulish look on his weathered face. His mud-caked boots were planted firmly on the stone floor as if proclaiming ownership of this small world. The shed was quiet apart from the puffing of the pipe and the faint sound of conversation from outside. This was growing fainter as Joe and Lara walked together around the garden. Glancing towards the door Abby saw that Lara had propped a large flowerpot in the doorway to keep the entrance open for her.

Abby’s Aunt Augusta used to warn her that flattery was the Devil’s tongue at work. But then Abby had never liked her aunt and had definitely never heeded her warnings. ‘I very much admire your garden,’ she began, ‘I can see that there have been some alterations made in recent years – I am not sure all of them for the better – but it is clear to see that the true shape of the garden was laid down many years ago and that this has stood the test of time.’ She was rewarded by a grunt from the corner and the old man chewed more noisily, and extremely unpleasantly, on the stem of his pipe. ‘It seems that you are a true plant man and I imagine your employers were extremely grateful to have your services.’

‘What, tha’ lot?’ came the deep dissatisfied drawl from the corner.

Abby groaned inwardly. For all she knew an employer could have been responsible for his demise. She decided on a more sympathetic approach. ‘Nevertheless, anyone who has a true appreciation of gardens can see that it has been worked on by someone with rare skill.’ The ancient ghost coughed and spat on the floor. Abby had no idea if this was a good sign or not, but continued anyway, ‘I believe that my grandfather, the Earl of Dunster, would have given his prize boar to have procured the services of a man like yourself. And I do not say that lightly.’

‘A pig man, were he?’ the old gardener queried.

Abby could have clapped her hands. Instead she said, ‘He certainly was. He was one of the first to breed the Improved Essex and he swore by the British Saddleback.’ Abby blessed the fact her grandmother’s fussing had driven her to take refuge in her grandfather’s study on more than one occasion.

‘Aye, that gives a grand bit o’ bacon,’ was the promising response.

‘Ah, you are a pig man yourself… Mr...?’

‘Thomas, you can call me Thomas, Miss,’ the gardener grunted.

‘Thank you, Thomas. Did you keep pigs here in this garden?’ Abby asked, trying to steer things gradually back to the more recent occupants of Gillmore House.

Thomas nodded. ‘But tha’ be a fair few years ago, Miss, now it’s all hybrids and floribunda. Not even a decent marrow or tatty.’

‘Indeed,’ Abby agreed. ‘Tell me, Thomas, was Lady Porter a keen gardener? I presume you knew her?’

‘She be worse than some, better than most,’ he said grudgingly. ‘She liked a drink mind.’ Thomas cackled.

‘Who doesn’t?’ Abby replied.

Thomas cackled even louder at this mild sally. This brought on a bout of wheezing and coughing. Thomas cleared his throat noisily and spat into a watering can.

‘Thomas, I can see you are an observant man. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about Lady Porter?’

‘Wha’ d’you wanna know?’ Thomas asked suspiciously, shifting in his seat and sniffing loudly. Abby was beginning to wonder if Thomas’s mother had ever taught him anything, and had she had a large enough handkerchief she would most definitely have offered it to him. Instead she asked, ‘Did Lady Porter spend much time in the garden?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Come rain or shine she’d walk round t’ old place.’

‘Did she ever have other people with her?’ Abby asked, as she perched herself on a pile of crates and arranged her skirts neatly about her.

‘There was thems what was her family. I’ve seen ’em a few times.’

‘Ah, her son and his wife?’ Abby wanted to be certain.

‘Yerp, they came an’ went. Didn’t see t’ garden like she did though. Some folks is blind to what’s around ’em.’

‘To be sure,’ Abby agreed. ‘Did they get on well, would you say?’

‘Wha’ them?!’ Thomas spat again. ‘That lot never listened to ’er. She’d tried to show ’em the Camellia Japonica – that’s a rare beauty that is, Miss. Dirt great big heads the size of plates – but they just nagged on. It were, “Don’t do this, Muther, you must do this, Muther, I need more money, Muther.” There’s some that would benefit from a sharp bite when they be young ’uns. That’s what pigs do.’

And Abby felt sure in Thomas’s book, pigs knew best. ‘You mentioned they talked about money. Did they ever discuss Lady Porter’s will with her?’