Skull and crossbones in ornate oval frame

The third crate came up from the glasshouse this morning with its lid nailed shut, which is how I knew you meant what you wrote. I have put the foxglove and the monkshood on the top shelf behind the cold frame, where the boy cannot reach them even standing on the water butt.

You ask why I will not simply burn the yew hedge, as your late husband wished. Because his grandfather planted it to keep the deer out of the kitchen garden, and a hedge that has kept faith for ninety years does not deserve to be punished for the temper of its owner. I have trimmed it square and hung the little enamel plates on each gate, the ones with the skull and the crossed bones beneath, so that nobody with a curious hand need learn the lesson the hard way.

The jar you sent back was not empty. Someone lifted the cork in the night and took a pinch of the dried seed heads for the pot of tea they say is for a bad chest. I found the tin in the potting shed under the wheelbarrow with its lid pushed askew. I have not told the constable, because I think you know who it was, and I think you would rather hear it from me.

I have enclosed a cutting of the old cameo rose, pressed flat between two sheets of blotting paper. It has no thorns to speak of. Keep it on your windowsill where the light comes in, and no one will be tempted to put their face to it.

Yours in the beds, Walter Greaves, Head Gardener