The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [179]
“Greenhouse?” Emily asked softly.
“Conservatory,” Charlotte replied.
“How do you know?”
“Finial,” Charlotte whispered back. “Don’t have a finial on a greenhouse. It must be beyond, ’round the corner.”
“Are you even sure they’ve got one?”
“They must have. Every house this size has a greenhouse or a potting shed. Greenhouse would be better.”
“Why?”
“Easier to lure him to. How would you lure your husband to the potting shed in the middle of the night?”
Emily giggled nervously. “Don’t be ridiculous. Conservatory, maybe. A romantic tryst? Put on your best peignoir and languish among the lilies?”
“Hardly. If you’ve been married twenty years—and he preferred men anyway. Damnation!” This last was added as Charlotte tripped and stubbed her foot against a large, decorative stone.
“What is it?” Emily demanded.
“A stone. It’s all right.” And gingerly she resumed her very slow forward pace.
It was five minutes before either of them spoke again. By this time they were around the back of the conservatory and creeping across an open terrace towards a further dense shadow ahead.
“That must be the greenhouse,” Emily said hopefully.
“Or a summerhouse,” Charlotte added. “Maybe that would be as good. Oh—no, of course it wouldn’t. Nothing in a summerhouse to cover stains.”
“I can’t see any glass,” Emily said with a note of desperation.
“I can’t see anything at all!” Charlotte responded.
“If it were glass we should see some gleam of light on it!” Emily hissed. “It’s not that dark!”
Charlotte stopped and turned around slowly, and Emily, not having noticed, bumped into her.
“Say something!” she snapped. “Don’t do that without telling me.”
“Sorry. Look! There’s a gleam. There’s glass over there. That must be the greenhouse.” And without waiting for comment she set off in the new direction. Within moments they were outside a small building where dim panes of glass reflected the fitful gleam of the moon in a watery pattern like dull satin.
“Is it locked?” Emily asked.
Charlotte put her hand to the door and tried it. It swung open under her touch, giving a painful squeak of unoiled hinges.
Emily let out a gasp, and immediately stifled it with her hand.
“Lamp!” she ordered.
As soon as they were inside Charlotte held it up and Emily lit it again. In its warm radiance the inside of the greenhouse sprang to vision. It was a small place set aside for forcing early flowers and vegetables. Trays of lettuce and marigold, delphinium, and larkspur seedlings sat on benches. Several geraniums were in pots on another shelf.
“Floor!” Emily whispered sharply. “Never mind about the shelves.”
Charlotte held the lamp down about two feet above the wooden planks on which they were standing.
“I can’t see anything,” Emily said with acute disappointment “It looks like hard-packed earth to me. Move it a bit.” This last instruction was directed at the light.
Charlotte inched farther along, holding the lamp carefully. The corner of her skirt caught a flowerpot and sent it over with a dull thud.
“Ah!” Emily drew in her breath with a suffocated cry.
“Ssh!” Charlotte moved the light again. Then she saw it: a long dark stain on the ground near the far wall. “Oh …”
Emily bent down and peered at it “It could be anything,” she said with sharp disappointment. “Look.” Above it was a shelf with various tins and bottles containing all sorts of chemicals and mixtures of fertilizer, creosote, and poison for wasps’ and ants’ nests.
“It’s probably creosote,” Charlotte said guardedly. “But not necessarily. If I had blood all over the place I should mask it by adding something strong like that. Here, pass me that trowel.”
“What are you going to do?” Emily passed it immediately.
“Dig.”
For several moments Charlotte scratched at the hard earth, painstakingly removing the ground soaked with creosote and exposing under it a further layer whose odor, when she lifted it gingerly to her nose, was quite different There was nothing sharp or pungent about it; it was stale and a little sweet.