Page 10 of The Beekeeper's Cottage
He didn’t wait for a reply, smiling at Flora’s astonished expression as he charged past her.
It was the slope up into Grace’s garden that did for him. As he stood among the trees gasping for breath, he looked at his own watch. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to get there, but that should still give him enough time.
He dropped his head, sucking air into his lungs and trying to gather his thoughts at the same time. He was pretending to be Grace’s gardener. It was a warm day and it would be okay for him to look a little hot and bothered, but he needed to aim for nonchalant as well; look as if he were comfortable in his surroundings, industrious but not manic. He looked around, searching for a task that would give his presence credibility. With any luck there would be a shed somewhere…
If Grace had designed this garden herself she had done an incredible job. It was beautiful. Every path, hedge, flower bed and area of lawn looked like it had evolved naturally, nothing forced, nothing contrived or overly perfect; cared for but still wild and carefree. Amos had spent a considerable amount of time looking after gardens for other people and he knew none of this was a happy accident. It would have taken careful planning, back-breaking work and a lot of patience to achieve. And, in the middle of it all, elegantly framed with roses and wisteria, was the most beautiful cottage Amos had ever seen. Amos felt the line of his jaw harden, suddenly understanding perfectly why Grace wouldn’t ever want to be forced to move from such a place. He’d only just got here and he felt like he never wanted to leave. There must be some way he could help, and all he had to do was find out what that was. Keep your eyes and ears open, he thought to himself, it had always served him well in the past.
As he neared the cottage, he saw a large greenhouse sitting to one side with a shed beside it and he prayed neither would be locked. It wasn’t until he got closer, however, that Amos realised there was already a car parked on the driveway. He picked up his pace, frowning when he saw the luxurious make and model of the agent’s car; this wasn’t some friendly local agent, this was someone from a swanky city office with an expense account to match. He paused for a moment, making sure there was no one in sight, and then he sauntered over to the greenhouse looking to slide the door open with the confidence of someone who did it every day.
Fortunately, it glided back with ease on well-used runners and, sitting inside on a bench, was exactly the prop Amos needed. Reaching for the pair of secateurs, he began to whistle, looking around for something in the front garden that needed deadheading. Making his way around the side of the house, he looked around him, and then peered back at the car with narrowed eyes. He approached it cautiously, circling it as if it were a wild animal, and then looked around him once more before moving forward to peer through one of the tinted windows. Then he went around to the rear of the car, leaned nonchalantly against the boot with one foot up on the bumper and pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket.
It took less than a minute for the muddy Doc Marten boot on the bumper to have the desired effect as the front door to the house swung open and an agitated, slim man in a crisp suit came out carrying a clipboard.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Amos pointed to his chest. ‘Me?’ he mouthed, looking around. He removed his foot from the bumper and stood up. ‘Not sure it’s me that needs the help.’ He peered past the man as if to see inside the house. ‘Missus Maynard isn’t home,’ he said. ‘Mister Maynard neither. So, what you doing here then?’
The man’s eyes rolled in exasperation and then narrowed.
‘And who might you be?’ he asked.
‘The gardener,’ muttered Amos. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I know where I am and what I’m doing. It’s you I’m not sure about.’
‘I’m Evan Porter, from Porter and Robinson, Estate Agents. I’m here to value the property.’
‘But Missus Maynard didn’t say nothing about there being any visitors today.’ He frowned. ‘For all I know you could be one of these scammer people you see on them TV programmes.’
‘And they have keys, do they?’ The agent dangled a brass keyring in front of Amos. ‘I’m here because Mr Maynard instructed me.’
‘Even so. I think Missus Maynard would have mentioned summat. I’d best check with her if it’s all the same to you.’
Amos put the secateurs down on the boot of the car to get a better grip on his phone. The agent winced and shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he fished about in his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a dark-blue, square business card and handed it to Amos.
‘There, see.’
Amos studied it for a few moments. ‘Looks genuine enough, but you could have had these done somewhere. Doesn’t mean you are who you say you are.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake…’ He pulled off a piece of paper from his clipboard. ‘This is an email from Mr Maynard with his instruction to come here today. Or are you going to quibble about that and say the email could have been from anyone? And while we’re on the subject, my client didn’t mention that there would be agardenerhere today. How do I know you’re who you say you are?’
Amos bit back the sigh. And then screwed up his face and scratched his head. ‘Well now,’ he said, slowly. ‘I don’t have none of them fancy bits of paper, but see that there?’ He pointed to a fragrant plant that was climbing up the front wall of the house. ‘That’s alonicera periclymenumand, over there, that purple flower is apassiflora caerulea. Or, if you want it without the Latin, honeysuckle and passionflower. Will that do you?’
The agent nodded. Touché, thought Amos.
He looked again at the piece of paper in his hand and nodded his head, pretending to be mollified at last.
‘I reckon that all looks to be okay, Mr Porter,’ he said, handing it back. ‘And I’m sorry for giving you a hard time. No offence or nothing, but I’ve worked for the lady of the house for many a year now, and a fine lady she is too. Just looking out for the place, you understand…?’ Amos gave a wide smile, but then his face fell and he hesitated, looking a little embarrassed.
‘I didn’t know they was thinking of moving though,’ he said. ‘That’s rather set me wondering, that has, about my own job. I’m getting on a bit, Mr Porter, not as young as you, that’s for sure. Jobs aren’t always that easy to come by.’ He stared away into the distance.
The agent fidgeted with his papers. ‘Look, Mrs Maynard doesn’t actually know I’m here today, okay? Her husband is obviously thinking of selling the house or at least would like a current market value and, because he was concerned that his wife would be worried or upset about this, he arranged to have me visit on a day when she was at work. He asked me to deal only with him for the time being and I got the impression that this was so that he could pick the right moment to discuss the matter with his wife. Mr Maynard didn’t mention thatyou’dbe here today, so I think it wise if you could keep the matter to yourself, otherwise—’
Amos held up a hand. ‘I’ll not be saying anything, don’t worry. I can see how it would look bad for you if I put my big foot in it…’ He turned to stare back at the house. ‘It makes sense, I suppose. It is a mighty big house and I always said to my missus how it must cost a bomb to heat in the winter, never mind anything else. Times are hard for us all, I guess. I’ll be sad to see them go though; been here a long time, and the gardens… well, you can see for yourself. They didn’t get like this overnight.’
He pushed his phone back in his pocket and picked up the secateurs, running a hand across the boot of the car. He then leaned down to rub at where his boot had rested on the bumper, polishing away the non-existent mark.
‘Must be worth a bit though, a place like this?’
The agent nodded. ‘It’s a fine property in a very nice location.’
