The Cipher Garden

Prologue

‘I thought you were dead.’

Warren Howe hadn’t seen the hooded figure approaching, hadn’t heard a footfall. He was digging in the rain and his work consumed him. Only when he put down his spade did he realise that he was not alone. Someone in a waterproof jacket stood on the ridge above the trench, someone he recognised. How long had he been watched? He didn’t care; nothing and nobody could rattle him. His jeering words were chosen to wound.

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

Warren spat on the ground. ‘You might as well be dead, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘It’s time for us to talk.’

‘Nothing to talk about.’

‘You’re wrong.’

Warren clambered out of the trench and lifted his spade in the air, a gladiator wielding a trident. The hooded figure took a step backwards, bumping into the low trailer that held the garden tools.

‘Nobody tells me I’m wrong.’

The intruder edged down the path. The rain was slackening to a drizzle, but the stone flags were as sleek as a ski run. How easy to slip and pitch head over heels into the trench or down the uneven ground towards the silent cottage.

‘You hate it that I’m here, don’t you?’

‘I couldn’t care less.’

‘What do you care about?’

Warren stabbed the sodden earth with his spade. He’d never believed in explaining himself and he wouldn’t start now. He was what he was. A plantsman, and proud of it. Plants didn’t make demands the way people did, they didn’t nag or whine or sob. Even if they shrivelled and died, it was so easy to start again. He liked heathers, sedges and rushes as well as shade-loving field roses with purple stems. Tender buds, voluptuous blooms, seductive perfumes, all were to his taste. And there was something else. Once you understood how plants behaved, you could bend them to your will.

The hooded figure inched forward, as if along a tightrope, flicking nervous glances up the fell-side. But they were alone, even the ravens had fled from the trees.

‘We need to talk.’

‘For Christ’s sake.’

‘You can’t have what you want. It’s impossible. You owe it to…’

‘Listen.’ Warren took a long stride forward, felt his visitor’s breath on his cheek. ‘Watch my lips, I don’t owe anyone anything.’

The hooded figure grasped Warren’s wrist. ‘You can’t do this.’

Warren pulled his arm away in an easy, powerful movement. ‘Go before you get hurt.’

The hooded figure reached into the trailer and yanked out the scythe. Warren’s oldest gardening tool, a favourite since he was eighteen. He’d cared for it as others might look after a much-loved pet. He’d taken pains to keep the blade clean and sharp.

‘If you could only see yourself,’ Warren scoffed. ‘In that hood and holding a scythe. Fancy yourself as the Grim Reaper?’

The scythe rose in the air, blade grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Warren folded muscular arms, showing his tattoos. Two dragons, belching fire. He stood his ground.

The scythe wavered and Warren took a pace forward, arm outstretched. His boots skidded on the greasy stone and his legs gave way under him. As he sank to the ground, he saw the blade — his lovely blade — glint in a sudden shaft of sunlight.

For so many years, to hold the scythe in his hand had made him feel strong. Powerful. The blade could not betray him now. Yet it had such a wicked edge.

The sun blinded him. He could no longer make out the face beneath the hood. His heart was thudding, his forehead moist with sweat and yet he knew he must be strong. Without strength, he was nothing.

‘You’ll never do it.’ It might have been a prayer, but he made it sound like a dare.

The blade fell and for a split second he understood his mistake. When the metal sliced against his flesh and pain bit into him, he screamed.