Midsomer Maiden |1| The Trials of Midsomer

14. Garden of Death

On a fine summer's morning, on his day off, Tom Barnaby found himself being shepherded around the famous Inkpen Manor Gardens by his wife. Not that he didn't appreciate the flowers, beautiful as they were, but he did so wish he could enjoy said flowers without having to spend half an hour navigating an utterly useless parking system first. Not to mention the prices—he had half a mind to arrest the lot of them on a charge of daylight robbery.

Now, Joyce was fully aware of this and had taken to deftly distracting him by telling him all the gossip the ladies of the manor hadn't included in the guidebook. "The Inkpens have been here since the Reformation."

"Well, they've had plenty of time to organise a decent car park, then, haven't they?" Tom remarked. He didn't like to miss an opportunity when it was staring him in the face.

Joyce continued, resolutely ignoring him. "Naomi had to sell twenty-five years ago. Her husband died, left her penniless. A stockbroker called Gerald Bennett bought the place. They're back, of course, now, the Inkpens."

"How do you know all this?" Tom asked. The guidebook she'd collected from the entrance gate wasn't nearly big enough to fit all that in.

"Desmond, from the village shop," she replied. "He delivers our organic meat."

Tom frowned. "I didn't know we'd gone organic."

"Hadn't you noticed the difference?"

"Nope."

"Oh, these euphorbias are lovely," Joyce gushed.

"Mmm." Tom sighed. "I don't suppose there's any chance of a cup of tea?"

***

Inside the manor house, Elspeth Inkpen-Thomas bumped into her daughter. "Are you going for a ride, darling?" she asked, seeing the riding crop she was carrying.

Fliss gave her a narrow-eyed look. "No, a swim." She made to go on, but her mother's voice stopped her.

"Daniel just gave me this," she said, holding up a splendid red rose. "Apparently you were making some kind of point about ageing mothers? Well, you know what they say, dear... the oldest varieties smell the sweetest." She smiled in satisfaction as Fliss stormed off, then noticed her other, more timid daughter was also there, arms full of pamphlets. "Oh, take those to the ticket office, Hilary—we're nearly out."

***

Meanwhile, Joyce had attracted the attention of the gardener, and the pair of them were discussing flora while Tom whiled away the time with his hands in his pockets. "These are beautiful," Joyce was saying.

"They're very fashionable at the moment, penstemons," Daniel Bolt told her. "That one's called White Bedder. Flowers very well right through to the autumn."

"I haven't seen them before," she admitted. "Are they hard to propagate?"

"No, not really. Just softwood cuttings from non-flowering shoots. Do you live locally?"

"Er, yes, fairly—Causton."

"I'll be doing some of these next week," Daniel told her. "I could drop you over a few if you like. What's the name?"