Bittersweet herbs, p.1
Bittersweet Herbs, page 1
Bittersweet Herbs
A Potting Shed Mystery
Marty Wingate
Bog Oak Press
Also by Marty Wingate
The Potting Shed Mysteries
The Garden Plot
The Red Book of Primrose House
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The Skeleton Garden
The Bluebonnet Betryal
Best-Laid Plants
Midsummer Mayhem
Bittersweet Herbs
* * *
The Birds of a Feather Mysteries
The Rhyme of the Magpie
Empty Nest
Every Trick in the Rook
Farewell, My Cuckoo
* * *
The First Edition Library Mysteries
The Bodies in the Library
Murder Is a Must
The Librarian Always Rings Twice
* * *
Historical fiction
Glamour Girls
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Bittersweet Herbs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2022 by Martha Wingate
All Rights Reserved
Published by Bog Oak Press
Cover design by: Phillips Covers (phillipscovers.com)
To Leighton with love
Chapter 1
* * *
Pru turned her phone on speaker and set it on her desk in the library so she could continue typing into her laptop.
“No, I really don’t think we’ll be eating garden compost,” she said. “It must’ve meant something else in medieval times. I’m looking it up now. Wait, here it is—an old English recipe with roasted fruits and vegetables pickled in vinegar and wine. They used parsnips and cabbages and turnips and raisins—that sort of thing.”
“Hmmm.” Her sister-in-law’s response was less than enthusiastic. “Well, as long as there’s wine.”
“We’ll be drinking mead,” Pru said. “I tasted mead once—at an organic farm just south of Dallas.”
“They make mead in Texas?” Polly asked.
“It’s a thing,” Pru explained. “A medieval thing, but still popular in some circles.” Possibly not her favorite drink—she remembered it being a bit heavy and sweet with honey.
“I’m beginning to see why you weren’t able to talk your husband into going to the lecture,” Polly said.
“Christopher has a community policing meet-and-greet in Dunbridge that evening, or he’d be delighted.”
“Ha!”
Pru leaned back in her chair and took the alligator clip out of her hair. Its texture, midway between slightly frizzy and barely wavy, resisted control, but still, she combed through and reclipped. “We could ask Bernadette,” she offered. “This group is raising funds to create a garden near the medieval Hospital in Winchester.” After living in Britain for several years, it still amazed Pru that something that old could be just down the road. “I’m sure they’d allow me two guests if we make a donation. It’ll be fun!”
“Do you know any of these people in the—”
“Winchester Medieval Garden Society,” Pru filled in. “No, but perhaps it’s a mass mailing to all of Hampshire.”
“Perhaps they’ve heard of you.”
By the end of their phone conversation, Polly had agreed to go to the medieval evening and said she would ring Bernadette, the vicar at St. Mary’s—the three women enjoyed the occasional night out together. Pru emailed her response to the invitation and then sat back, wondering about the group and its garden, which she had never seen or heard of. An online search brought up a single web page framed by ancient figures at war. “Vignette from the Bayeaux tapestry,” the photo credit read, accompanied by a brief message: Our mission is to re-create a medieval herb garden to accompany the Hospital of St. Cross, that venerable institution in existence since the twelfth century. Other than that explanation, there was only a note to say that the website was under construction. Pru had never visited the Hospital of St. Cross, but Winchester was a short drive. Perhaps she’d dash over for a recce before the evening event.
Polly’s comment “Perhaps they’ve heard of you” stayed with Pru, who was half-pleased and half-mortified that her name could be recognizable in the world of British gardening. But if pressed, she might admit its likelihood.
It was how she’d landed a recent writing assignment for a new magazine, Designs On Your Garden. The editor, a man named Nate Crispin who sounded too young to be editor of anything but his school newspaper, had contacted her, saying he’d read her account of renovating an eighteenth-century landscape. Would she be interested in working up an article for him? Initially flattered—it was her hope to do more writing—she was then blindsided when he’d mentioned the article’s title, “Death in the Garden.”
She knew what he meant, but long ago had had her fill of such veiled references to events in her life. Biting back the urge to tell him what she thought of his idea—Pru avoided confrontation whenever possible—she offered a subdued response, and declined his offer. He must’ve sensed her ire, because he followed hard on by saying the title was expendable and what he truly wanted was a scholarly but readable approach that would be an “inspirational synthesis explaining the enduring appeal of gardens in the historical context of both ornament and use.”
Mollified, she had agreed, but regretted it almost immediately and rang Nate Crispin back. He’d given her a pep talk, told her that the article’s direction was completely up to her, and asked for two thousand words by the end of the month.
That had been a week ago, just after New Year’s, and since then, each morning Pru had retreated to the library to stare at her blank computer screen before eventually giving up for the day. She would then make her way to the kitchen, where Evelyn, their housekeeper and cook, asked how the writing was coming along.
“Good. Fine.”
Each day so far, she had managed a plausible excuse to quit early, but her imagination had run dry at last, and at this time when Evelyn asked, Pru grasped at straws. “It occurred to me that I’d promised Simon I would clean and oil the spades, and so I’d better get to it before he arrives for coffee at eleven. Don’t you think?”
Evelyn made no reply to that, and so Pru slipped out the door, waiting until she stood on the stone threshold outside the mudroom before buttoning up her heavy coat. Perhaps a walk round the terrace. It was a fine, bright winter morning and the perfect time to admire the gardens at Greenoak—from the hardy cyclamen blooming under the hornbeam hedge to the shredded ribbon flowers of witch hazel hanging from bare branches.
Pru and Christopher had lived at Greenoak—a small manor house in the village of Ratley, and just outside the town of Romsey—since they’d married not quite three years earlier. It was where she gardened with her brother, Simon, Polly’s husband, who lived the other side of the village. The gardener siblings worked fewer hours in winter, but Simon usually appeared just in time for elevenses—coffee and one of Evelyn’s pastries always went down a treat.
Not that January was a slouch time in the garden, and the cold weather didn’t deter Pru and Simon from necessary tasks. At least it was dry. Unusually dry, causing the rhododendrons to droop and curl their leaves to protect against moisture loss. But as for work—she and Simon had already dug the remaining leeks, checked the dahlia tubers stored in sand, and salvaged a few lengths of guttering for starting the first crop of peas later.
Better get to those spades. Pru made her way to the potting shed, where she discovered all the tools already cleaned and oiled. But instead of going back inside to start on the article, she spent a few minutes rearranging seed packets until she heard Simon’s car in the drive. All the while, a tiny voice in the back of her head told her that in order to be a writer, actual writing was necessary. She ignored it. Apparently, Pru had found a new skill she was quite good at—procrastination.
“The Hospital of St. Cross and Almshouse of Noble Poverty is such a commanding name for the place,” Pru said to Christopher. “And, it lives up to it. It’s a lovely setting by the river with ornamental gardens on the grounds. There must’ve been an herb garden all those centuries ago—it makes sense to put one in again.”
She pulled on her decent pair of wool trousers and a blue sweater with a high neckline. Having taken a look at the large stone rooms at the Hospital—ancient and unheated—she knew layering was a must, and stuck her head into the wardrobe, searching for a scarf.
She turned to catch Christopher straightening the epaulets on the shoulders of his uniform. He made a dashing figure—short dark-brown hair with perhaps the suggestion of gray at his temples, that penetrating gaze, those shiny brass buttons.
“Well, Detective Inspector Pearse, you don’t wear t hat often,” she commented.
Christopher acknowledged the fact with a nod. “It’s the Women’s Institute—they asked if I’d come formal.”
“You’re a big hit with the WI.”
He sighed. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather be drinking ale with you this evening in Winchester.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere that you had to chew medieval ale before swallowing?” she asked and saw that ghost of a smile round his lips. “I tell you what, I’ll bring you home a slice of tart in ymber day. I looked it up—it’s a sort of onion pie concoction with currants and spices.”
“I believe Evelyn’s chicken and leek will do me fine,” he said, kissing her forehead and then the tip of her nose and then her lips. “Take care on the roads—as dry as it’s been, there are still icy patches.”
Pru had chosen mead from the server’s tray that passed by just after they arrived for the lecture. Polly took mead, too, but Pru persuaded Bernadette to try the ale. It came in a small taster glass and was dark and smelled malty—but at least there were no bits. The vicar sipped carefully.
“How is it?” Pru asked.
“Sort of yeasty—like bread. Do you want some?”
“No, thanks.”
But it couldn’t be that bad. As Pru drank her mead, she saw several men round the hall throwing back glasses of ale. They had a sort of determined look on their faces that reminded Pru of the tequila-drinking contests from her college days at Texas A&M—except those took place in bars full of cowboys and loud country music.
Polly pushed up her glasses with the back of her hand and surveyed the scene. “It’s a good crowd, don’t you think? There must be close to seventy people here. See anyone you know?”
“No one,” Pru replied. “I really should get out more. The least I can do is meet a few people this evening.”
Only one new person, as it turned out. The three women split up, and Pru found herself talking with a fellow who, upon learning she was a gardener, engaged her in a discussion of using paper collars on brassica seedlings to keep cabbage moths away. Across the hall, Polly perused a table with drawings and books and what might have been a three-dimensional mock-up of a walled garden. Bernadette, who was not tall and would be difficult to spot in a crowd if it weren’t for her bright-purple tunic and dog collar, stood nearby chatting with another priest.
Twenty minutes later, when a bell called them to take their seats, Pru fetched her companions and led them to the front row.
“It’s ambitious, I’ll say that,” Polly reported. “There’s a field not far from the Porter’s Lodge they want to buy—it’s outside the Hospital grounds, but close enough to be associated. The cost for the first phase alone is a million pounds. That’s without putting a shovel in the ground, but it would at least let them make an offer on the land.”
Pru hoped the society didn’t expect to raise that much this evening. But she put the money out of her mind as a short, well-dressed man stepped onto the podium and stood behind the lectern, his round head just barely clearing it. He introduced himself—Rollo Westcott, chairman of the Winchester Medieval Garden Society. He spoke of the Hospital, its creation in the twelfth century, and its founder, Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester and a grandson of William the Conqueror. He described the fifteenth-century addition of the almshouse and how the institutions were secular good works, and perhaps that was why they had been left alone during Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries.
“And now, we have a real treat this evening,” Rollo said. He turned to a woman standing at the bottom of the podium steps. She had dark skin, her black hair was pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head, and she wore a suit of deep mulberry. “Here is scholar and member of the board Acantha Morris to discuss the importance of herbs in health and well-being in medieval England.”
Rollo departed the podium, and Acantha took his place. She scanned her audience and then began.
“Look now,” she said, “I want you to put your hands in your pockets.”
There was a titter through the crowd, and she smiled. “No, I’m not asking for money—not yet, at least.” A bigger laugh. “I want you to put a hand in your pocket and tell me—do you have something in there that could save your life?”
A general stir, followed by an offer of “Four pound twenty—would that save me?”
“You couldn’t even buy a round in the pub for that, now could you?” Acantha responded, and her audience chuckled and settled back in their chairs. “But look what I have.” She pulled a handful of dried plant material from her jacket pocket, and Pru leaned forward. She saw delicate, ferny foliage with the remains of daisylike flowers attached. If Acantha crushed it, Pru thought for certain she could catch the scent of apples. It was chamomile.
“Chamomile,” Acantha said. “A tea with chamomile, dittany, scabious, and pennyroyal—our medieval brothers believed—could save you from poisoning. So, in this instance chamomile means life. But it’s also used as a comfort—a calming tea or tincture. Herbs often have more than one application. Just as rosemary can season meat, it can be combined with other strong-smelling herbs and spices, such as lavender, and exotic frankincense and myrrh to disguise unpleasant odors. To hide the smell of death. You see, medieval herb gardens had to be all things.”
“She’s sold me on the project,” Polly said at the end of Acantha’s talk as the crowd made its way into the Brethren’s Hall, where food awaited. “Doesn’t she have a wonderful way of making the past come alive?”
“I’m going to volunteer,” Pru said with a zealous rush. “What am I doing with myself—the gardens at Greenoak practically take care of themselves, and when Simon and I hire a new assistant, there’ll be even less to do.”
She didn’t mention the other decision she’d come to—that the perfect topic for the magazine article in Designs On Your Garden was, of course, the medieval herb garden. She needed to get into the reception and have a word with Acantha.
In the Brethren’s Hall, servers circled the room offering not mead or medieval ale, but glasses of wine. Polly grabbed a white as a tray passed, but Pru was driver and so chose fizzy water instead. A long table just inside the door was spread with a variety of foods, each with an accompanying label. The women—along with a handful of others—circled the table, reading and inspecting before choosing. Pru played it safe and took a payn puff – boiled fruit in pastry.
“It’s like a little hand pie,” she told Polly and Bernadette. The two abandoned what they’d chosen and each nabbed one.
Pru spotted Acantha across the room with a small crowd gathered round her, made her way over, and, when the others had drifted off, introduced herself.
“A gardener from America,” Acantha said, “wonderful. Are you on holiday?”
“No, my husband and I live near Romsey—he’s English. I so enjoyed your talk. Is your degree in garden history or medieval studies?”
Acantha shook her head. “I have no letters after my name. It was generous of Rollo to describe me as a scholar, because I was a bookkeeper for my working life. I am, as you would say, ‘self-taught.’ But I learned that just because I have no university degree, I needn’t stop learning, and now that I’m retired, I can indulge in my secret passion—the past. The long past. Medieval times, how people lived, what they grew, and how growing herbs helped not only their health, but made life more pleasant, from flavoring their food to making their houses smell better.”
“This is fascinating, and I’m interested in helping.”
“And we’d love to have you!” Acantha exclaimed.
