At the end was a door that opened into a garden. For all that the English complained about the weather, Jack loved it. It was cool, a bit damp; the sun was bright but not broiling. The plants certainly did love the climate. The garden was a feast of greens that ranged from gold to almost black. Around the perimeter were fruit trees that had been trained to create a fence. The smell was heavenly.
Next to the house was a pergola covered in grapevines, a table and chairs beneath them.
“Wow,” Jack said, as he put everything on the table. “This place is a knockout. And I’m guessing that all these plants are edible.”
“They are,” Puck said, as they sat down at the table.
Jack opened the bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“Will you tell me what happened?” Jack didn’t think he needed to explain what he was referring to.
Puck hesitated. “What have you been told so far?”
“Very little. Your mother said—I think I understand this—that Nicky was madly in love with Diana, but the night of the party she ran off with the horse guy. And by the way, he was a thief and I look just like him.”
He was watching Puck’s profile and could see the muscle in her jaw working. Good! Anger often brought out secrets in a person.
“Later,” he continued, “Nicky was so depressed at losing Diana that he smashed his car into a tree. Or maybe one of the other party guests murdered him. Or that’s just your mother’s theory. And Nicky’s father’s.”
He was watching her but she was silent.
“Do you know what happened to the two runaways? Sara searched but could find out nothing. Kate thought maybe they changed their names, got new identities, but that seems drastic. I know that what happened to Nicky was awful, but the world is full of brokenhearted lovers.”
Jack waited but Puck just sat in silence, her profile to him, her body rigid.
He tried to stamp down his annoyance but couldn’t. He stood up. “I thank you for lunch but I need to help Kate. She—”
“It’s not true,” Puck said.
He sat back down and refilled their wineglasses. “What isn’t?”
“All of it.” She looked at him. “What people think isn’t true.”
Jack repressed a groan. He hated language that didn’t say what was meant. “Was there foul play in Nicky’s death or not?”
“I doubt it. He drank too much and drove too fast. That night he drank a lot, then stole his father’s car because he’d smashed his own the week before. The police report said he was doing over eighty when he hit the tree.”
“So your mother...?”
“Romanticizes him,” Puck said. “She practically raised him and thought he could do no wrong.”
“But she—” Jack halted himself. Mrs. Aiken had actually raised Puck, her own daughter, but she hid in trees to escape the woman. “Your mother said Nicky’s father thought one of the others murdered him.”
“One of the Pack?”
Jack nodded. “Did everyone call them that?”
“Mostly. Bertie—Nicky’s father—wanted to blame anyone he could.”
“That’s normal. He must have loved his son and—”
Puck made a scoffing sound. “Bertram Renlow loved no one, certainly not his son.” She waved her hand. “None of this matters. It’s Sean who is important.”
“And Diana, since they ran away together.”
“No,” Puck said softly. “They didn’t.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”