Chapter One
Poppy Lancaster held her breath as she watched the woman on the other side of the wooden trestle table. Her anxious gaze followed the woman’s hands as they hovered indecisively over several pots of young primroses and she felt a surge of hope as the woman lifted one of the pots at last.
“It’s very small, isn’t it?” said the woman with a sniff as she eyed the plant critically.
Poppy flushed. She knew that her bedding plants were on the small side, with spindly stems and small leaves that flopped over the edges of the pots. Somehow, despite her determined efforts and her careful study of textbooks and websites through the long winter months, she hadn’t managed to produce the trays bursting with vigorous, bushy plants that
she’d hoped to offer for sale as spring bedding.
Still, she tried not to let her chagrin show. Instead, she plastered a bright smile to her face and said, “They… they’ve got a bit of catching up to do, but once you get them in the ground or in a container, they’ll take off and grow very quickly.”
“Hmm…” The woman didn’t look convinced. “There isn’t much choice either, is there? You’ve only got two colours.” She dropped the pot back onto the bench and turned away.
Poppy’s heart sank and she struggled to keep the smile on her face. “I do have other colours, but they’re… um… still growing and not quite ready for sale yet.”
The woman cast a disparaging eye across the rest of the trestle table. “Is this it? Do you have any other stock?”
“Not at the moment,” said Poppy apologetically. “But I have more plants growing in the greenhouse and they should be ready for sale by next week or the week after—”
“What good is that to me now?” grumbled the woman. She glanced again at the pots laid out on the trestle table. “So… how much are these?”
Poppy named the price that she had finally decided on after weeks of deliberation and agonising over her business accounts.
The woman scowled. “That’s practically daylight robbery!” she complained. “I can get plants double the size for half that price at the big garden centres.”
Poppy flushed again. “Well, you see, it’s harder for small nurseries,” she tried to explain. “We haven’t got the economies of scale like the big garden centres
and—”
“Spare me the sob story,” the woman cut in. “I came here because I’d been told that it’s one of the best local nurseries, with a top selection of plants and good value for money.” She cast a contemptuous look around. “I don’t know what they were talking
about!”
She turned to leave. Poppy bit her lip, then called after the woman:
“I can give you a special deal: two for the price of one! Just to make up for the… um… slightly smaller size.”
“No thanks,” the woman said over her shoulder. “I’m going to one of the big garden centres, where I should have gone in the first place!”
Poppy stood and watched miserably as the woman marched towards the front gate. The path wound past flowerbeds which were just coming out of their winter slumber and beginning to show the lush growth and colourful blooms for which the cottage garden was famous. The roses might
just be growing their first leaves, and the other perennials only beginning to produce new shoots, but swathes of flowering bulbs were already filling the beds with rich colour.
Vivid hyacinths in jewel tones, surrounded by plump crocus blooms… clumps of jonquils and daffodils, their creamy white and lemony yellow flowers highlighted by dainty dwarf irises… and intermingled amongst the bulbs were mounds of violas, their happy little “faces” turned
towards the sun, as well as clusters of forget-me-nots providing a carpet of soft blue. For Poppy—who had no idea that all these bulbs had been lying dormant beneath the soil during the long, cold winter—seeing them emerge in the past couple of weeks and transform the bare garden had been like watching a magical spectacle unfold.
The wonder was lost on the woman, though, who walked past the flowerbeds without a single glance and pushed her way impatiently out of the wooden front gate, swinging it shut behind her with a rattle that made Poppy wince. Sighing, she turned back to the trestle table and
rearranged the pots into neat rows once again. Her shoulders slumped as she felt a wave of doubt wash over her.
Was I crazy to think that I could do this? she wondered bleakly. I could never keep anything green alive before—why did I think I could suddenly run a garden nursery, just because I’d
inherited one?
When that letter had arrived from a strange solicitor last year, telling Poppy that she had inherited Hollyhock Cottage Gardens and Nursery, it had seemed like a gift from a fairy godmother. Or—as it turned out—an estranged grandmother, in this case. Poppy had just lost her job
and her place to live in London, and she’d been needing a fresh start: a new home and new life somewhere. The quaint old cottage with its romantic, overgrown garden, in the bustling village of Bunnington, situated in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside, had been everything Poppy could have wished for.
And she had soon discovered that she’d inherited not just a property but a legacy too. Her grandmother, Mary Lancaster, had been a renowned plantswoman and Hollyhock Cottage had gained a reputation far and wide for not only being one of the best examples of a traditional English
cottage garden, but also for selling some of the healthiest, most vigorous plants in the country.
Poppy had nurtured a dream that she, too, could live up to the Lancaster name and had thrown herself into reviving her grandmother’s nursery business, which had been sadly neglected during the latter’s long illness. And—despite her inexperience—for a while, it had looked like it
wasn’t an empty dream. The summer months had been glorious, with the cottage gardens at their most beautiful, and Poppy had plunged into the world of gardening with delight. She’d embraced the Latin names of all the plants she’d come across, eagerly learned gardening skills like planting and pruning, and discovered a talent for creating gorgeous arrangements of fresh flowers cut from the garden—which had turned into an unexpected source of additional income.
Even when autumn had arrived, with the prospect of little income over the cold months of winter, Poppy had been undaunted. She had thought—naively perhaps—that if she could just sow several batches of seeds and root ample cuttings, she could produce enough young plants to be
ready for sale in spring. Somehow, she had clung to the belief that if she could just get through the winter, then things would magically fall into place when the days grew longer and warmer weather arrived.
Poppy sighed again as she looked down at the rows of spindly little plants in front of her. The reality hadn’t quite matched up to her fantasies. Producing enough healthy plants, grown to a good size and of consistent quality, had been much harder than she’d expected. Even though
she had followed all the instructions she’d found both online and in textbooks, it had still been a challenge keeping the seedlings alive and thriving in her grandmother’s greenhouse over the winter. And horticultural expertise aside, the simple business skills of managing stock and inventory were something that she had no experience in.
But she was living on the last of her savings now and she would need the nursery to start earning a decent income soon, in order to pay her bills and basic living expenses, never mind keep the business going…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front gate opening, and Poppy looked up hopefully. An elderly lady pulling a shopping trolley stepped in. She looked timidly around, then her face brightened as she spied the colourful bulbs in the flowerbeds.
Feeling her spirits lifting once more, Poppy hurried up the path to greet the old lady, saying in her best “customer service” voice:
“Welcome to Hollyhock Cottage Gardens and Nursery! Is there something in particular that I can help you with?”
“Oh yes, my dear. I was hoping to pick up some new flowers for my containers,” said the old lady, smiling at her. “I live in the village, you see, and I don’t have a car. Normally my nephew, Dennis, comes to take me to one of the big garden centres… such a good boy! Well, I say
boy, but, of course, he’s really a man now, and well into his fifties…” She wagged a finger at Poppy. “I can still remember the day he was born, you know, as clearly as if it were yesterday! We were all so excited as he was the first grandchild in the family and my sister had been trying for such a long time. And then Dennis arrived early, and my sister was horrified because he came out with his wee willy all bent on one side! Can you imagine that?”
“Er… no… not really,” stammered Poppy.
“The doctors assured her that it wouldn’t affect the function, so to speak, but my sister was still worried anyway. How was Dennis going to get a girl? After all, what woman would want a husband with a bent willy?”
“Er…” Poppy stared at the old lady, lost for words.
“Well, as it turned out, he’s been happily married for over twenty years now and has four strapping sons, so I suppose the doctors were right after all and being a bit crooked doesn’t really matter between the sheets—”
“Um… so what kind of flowers do you like?” interrupted Poppy, desperate not to hear any more about Dennis’s misshapen member.
“Ooh, I do love anything pink, dear,” the old lady declared. “Although mauve is wonderful too.”
“I’ve got some lovely purple pansies that are all ready to go in the ground, or in a pot,” said Poppy eagerly. “And some beautiful primroses too, in a bright fuchsia pink. Or if you’d like something in a more pastel shade, I’ve got some gorgeous little cyclamens. Here, let me
show you…”
She led the old lady up the path to the stone cottage in the centre of the gardens. A long trestle table had been set up in front of the cottage, with various pots of bedding plants and early flowering annuals displayed in neat rows on it. Poppy watched anxiously as the old lady
went up to the table and examined the selection with interest.
“Ooh, yes, these do look lovely,” said the old lady, picking up two pots of dainty pink cyclamens. “The pale pink flowers look so pretty against the dark green leaves.”
Poppy, who had been bracing herself for another barrage of criticism like she’d received from the last customer, relaxed and beamed at the old lady.
“Thank you! Yes, I love that shade of pink too.”
“Ooh, and you have johnny-jump-ups… aren’t they lovely?” said the old lady, moving down the trestle table and admiring the punnets of trailing violas with their distinctive yellow and purple markings. “I always think they’re so much nicer than the bigger pansies, even though
their flowers aren’t as large. They produce so many more blooms and they keep going, even when the weather gets warmer.” She moved on a few steps and picked up the primula that the previous customer had rejected. “And look at these primroses! I don’t think I’ve seen that shade of pink before… lovely!”
Watching her, Poppy felt her hopes rising. Encouraged by the old lady’s enthusiastic attitude, she mentally added up all the plants the other had admired and calculated what she would make from the total sale. Smiling with delight, Poppy said eagerly:
“Would you like two of each colour? Then you could mix and match in the different containers—”
“Oh, bless you, child, I can’t buy them all,” said the old lady, giving her a regretful smile. “I would love to, but I’m afraid my pension doesn’t leave me with very much spending money.” She reached out. “I’ll just take these two cyclamen first. Perhaps next week, I’ll be able
to pop back for some more.”
“Yes… of course…” said Poppy, trying to hide her disappointment.
Still, she was delighted to have made a sale at last, even if it was a small one, and she carefully deposited the two potted cyclamen into a shallow cardboard box, then helped the old lady place them into her shopping trolley. Then she walked her to the front gate and stood
watching as the old lady trundled away up the lane, pulling her shopping trolley behind her.
Poppy returned to the trestle table and spent a few moments fussing over the remaining pots on display, rearranging them in the most attractive fashion. Her efforts were for naught, though, as the minutes stretched slowly into hours and no new customers came through the gates.
Finally, Poppy glanced at her watch and sighed. It was nearly four-thirty—still half an hour before the nursery’s official closing time—but with the chance of anyone arriving looking slimmer by the minute, she wondered if she should call it a day.
She shivered as she stood up from the stool by the trestle table. The temperature seemed to be dropping rapidly too. Although spring was officially here, the weather was still unpredictable, and the nights could still be on the chilly side. Poppy checked over the pots one last
time, then began packing up the small, portable cash till that she’d set up at one end of the trestle table. She was just scooping the paltry amount of notes and coins out of the cash drawer when a loud rustling behind her made her pause and look over her shoulder.
She saw nothing and, after a moment, returned to her task. But within seconds, the loud rustling came again, and this time Poppy felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She spun around and stared into the shadows of the garden. Goosebumps prickled across her arms and she
felt her pulse quicken as a sudden unnerving feeling swept over her. Someone was out there, watching her…
***
FRONDS AND ENEMIES
The English Cottage Garden Mysteries ~ Book 5
Spring has come at last with cheerful daffodils and plump crocus blooms, and Poppy is hoping that the new season will magically resurrect the cottage garden nursery she's inherited. But with her stock failing to grow and a mysterious "peeping Tom" stalking the village, she's got her gardening gloves full... and that's even before her visit to the local doctor ends
with her stumbling on a dead body! Then her friend and neighbour - crime author Nick Forrest - suddenly finds himself the top suspect, and a missing garden gnome is the only lead in the case. Determined to find the real killer, Poppy sets out to do some horticultural sleuthing - helped by eccentric old inventor Bertie and a posse of nosy villagers. All she finds, however, are more questions. Was the murder simply a "crime of passion" or was it something more sinister? Is there a link to the
recent spate of creepy lingerie thefts in the village? And could the naughty ginger tomcat Oren be the key to solving the mystery?
As she grapples with spindly seedlings and cryptic clues, Poppy discovers that even a sleepy English village can be a hotbed of deceit and death...
