The Marigold Packet Witness

How it begins

Diana knew the marigolds were lying.

She tipped three seeds into her palm and compared them with the date on the packet. The handwriting was Arthur's: angular, impatient, with a peculiar backward curl on the number seven. She had watched him label seed envelopes for nine seasons.

Arthur had been dead for six weeks.

These seeds had been harvested yesterday.

"You look disappointed," Peter said. "I thought marigolds were your favorite."

He set a tray of tea beside the collection box. His committee badge was pinned upside down, which meant he had dressed without his glasses again.

"Who brought this?"

"Which one?"

She held up the packet.

"Arthur's niece, I expect. She cleared his shed."

"His niece lives in Canada."

"People travel."

"Seeds don't travel backward through time."

Peter picked up his tea and put it down without drinking. Around them, the village swap continued with its usual ferocity. Two women were negotiating over runner beans. A man in a waxed coat claimed his tomatoes required no watering. Diana had spent enough years in laboratories to recognize a statement that needed immediate independent testing.

She rubbed one seed between finger and thumb. A little green moisture marked her skin. Fresh, exactly as she had thought.

"Arthur's plants were removed after the funeral," she said.

"I know. I helped."

"Then where did these come from?"

Outside the hall, a car stopped beside the allotment gate. Its driver remained inside, watching the door. Diana recognized the estate agent's silver tie before she recognized his face. He had offered to sponsor the seed swap last month. The committee had declined when they read the small print.

Peter turned the packet over. Beneath the planting instructions, Arthur's familiar handwriting gave way to a single penciled number.

Plot eighteen.

"That plot hasn't been used for years," Peter said.

Diana folded the envelope carefully and put it in her coat.

"Then nobody will mind us having a look."