EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “In addition to our trying to identify the man, Banks suggested that one of our staff go up to Oxford to meet with him and to observe the patient. With luck, to be present during one of the man’s talking spells. He said the man’s heavily bandaged, but they’ll e-mail me some photos of him anyway.”

  “Wait a minute, Clifford. You’re not suggesting—?”

  “Here’s the rub, Lawrence. I can’t get away right now. Even if I could, I’m not the person to be involved in this. Not only that, I simply don’t have anyone to spare right now who’s qualified to deal with such a situation. It struck me that—”

  “Slow down, Clifford. What on earth do you think I could accomplish that one of your people couldn’t?”

  While Clifford had been pleading his case, Kingston was starting to have second thoughts. He was doing sod-all right now. A trip up to Oxford in the TR4 might be a nice break for a couple of days. He hadn’t visited Oxford Botanic Garden for some time, likewise Blenheim Palace and the gardens and park there. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he could also make a detour on the way back and stop off to see his old school friend Bertie Conquest, a retired army colonel who lived with his wife on a respectable spread called Pigeon Farm, near Princes Risborough, where they raised miniature horses. By the time Clifford replied, Kingston had talked himself into what was shaping up to be a week’s break. Why not?

  “Come on, Lawrence, this is right up your alley. You’ve been on plant-hunting expeditions. You know as much as or more than any of our people about botany and horticulture. Plus, I happen to know you well enough to appreciate your sense of . . . well, curiosity, shall we say. You must admit it’s a rum set of circumstances.”

  “Hmm.” Kingston had been half listening to what Clifford was saying. “I suppose they want someone to go up there immediately?”

  “They do, yes. Banks said the next forty-eight hours are critical, whether the fellow’s going to survive or not. Mind you, for all we know, the poor chap may have said all he’s going to say.”

  While listening, Kingston had been racking his brain to think of any good reasons why he should turn Clifford down. He drew a blank.

  “All right, Clifford. I’ll run up to Oxford first thing tomorrow. Dr. Banks, you said, right?” He jotted the name on the pad by the phone.

  “Yes. I’ll call him back and tell him to expect you. What time shall I say?”

  “Let’s say ten thirty to eleven. You might want to suggest that they also set up a voice-activated tape recorder in the room.”

  “Good idea. If Banks has any further questions, or the situation has changed, I’ll let you know. Give me your mobile number.”

  Kingston provided it, saying that he would report back after his meeting with Dr. Banks and having visited the “mystery” patient.

  Clifford thanked him, and the call ended.

  THREE

  Kingston’s decision to take a few days off immediately after his visit to St. George’s was looking better by the hour. The weather forecast for the rest of the week was fair and sunny, with little or no chance of rain—which, translated, meant pack an umbrella anyway. With the TR4’s top down, under white puffs of cumulus clouds bright against the blue sky, he drove out of London on the A40. Instead of merging onto the Motorway at Uxbridge, by far the fastest route to Oxford, he would stay on the A40. It was too nice a day to be in an open sports car inhaling diesel fumes, and dodging BMWs and Mercedes overtaking at 100 miles an hour.

  At ten thirty, Kingston was ushered into Dr. Banks’s office. The conversation was brief. Banks reiterated what Clifford had told him, adding that the man had a name, at least for now. He said that the police had informed him that since the man had no wallet, driver’s license, credit cards, et cetera, on his person, it was assumed that these had been carried in a tank-top bag, a practice common with bike riders. The only things in the bag that had survived the combustion were two sets of keys and scraps of metal believed to be parts of a mobile phone. The motorcycle license plates identified the owner as a Peter Mayhew, age twenty-seven, of Arundel, West Sussex. So providing somebody else wasn’t riding his bike, the police were going on the assumption, for the time being, that the patient was Mayhew.

  In answer to Kingston’s first question, the doctor said that he’d talked with one of the nurses only twenty minutes earlier, who said the patient hadn’t spoken again since his earlier ramblings. The voice-activated tape recorder was on all the time and checked every hour or so. Nothing had been recorded thus far.

  Banks suggested that first they visit the patient, and afterward Kingston could speak with Jane Churchill, the nurse who had been present when Mayhew had talked about the expedition. After declining the offer of a cup of tea or coffee, Kingston accompanied Banks through a maze of glassy-floored corridors to a lift that took them to level one, where they were buzzed into the neurological critical care unit. After checking the patient’s chart, Banks stood on one side of the bed, Kingston on the other. For a few moments, words seemed gratuitous.

  The only part of Mayhew’s body not covered by sheets, blankets, and bandages was the area of his face from his brow to just below his lower lip. His eyes were closed and he appeared, to Kingston, to be breathing normally, aided no doubt by the oxygen line to his lungs through a nasal feed. Tubes and cables of varying size, some carrying liquids, were attached to sundry parts of his anatomy. Like thick strands of spaghetti, they looped and coiled their way across and up the bed, each ending at one of the dozen instruments, monitors, and contraptions in the battery on the wall above the headboard, or at the portable stand of medical apparatus on Banks’s side of the bed. The only sound was a steady hum, accompanied by the intermittent blips of the monitors as the LCD lights blinked and flickered. In the midst of it all, Kingston spied the portable Sony tape deck, its recording light on.

  “The chap’s lucky to be alive,” said Banks, turning his gaze to Kingston.

  Rarely at a loss for words, Kingston was having difficulty framing a response that didn’t sound like a platitude. “What are the chances of his making it?” he asked after a while, looking at Banks.

  “Still too early to tell. With cases like this, it’s impossible to predict the outcome. It could go either way. On the plus side, he’s young and before the accident was no doubt in good physical condition.”

  As Banks was speaking, Kingston was wondering how long he should plan on staying in Oxford. He was booked into the Randolph Hotel for two nights, and the hospital staff were alerted to call him on his mobile the minute Mayhew spoke or regained consciousness. Even without Banks’s prognosis, just by looking at the comatose man, Kingston could tell that there was no saying when and if he might talk again. And even if he did, there was no guarantee that he would continue where he’d left off, talking about a plant-hunting expedition. In an altered state of consciousness there was no telling what he might dredge up—his childhood, his school days, almost anything. That prompted another thought, which Kingston was surprised hadn’t occurred to him before. Was it concluded that Mayhew had actually been on an expedition? Or had he been harking back on one that he’d read or heard about? Neither Clifford nor Banks had made that clear. He took one last sorry look at Mayhew. Next, he needed to talk with Nurse Jane Churchill. She was the only person who might be able to resolve that question.

  The meeting, with Banks present, took place in his office. Jane Churchill had just finished her eight-hour shift and had swapped her uniform for a fleece jacket over a turtleneck sweater, and tan slacks. After a minute or so, describing Kingston’s academic background in botany and plant sciences, and explaining to the nurse Kingston’s temporary role as a Kew designee, Banks excused himself, leaving them alone in the office. Kingston sat in Banks’s chair with a notepad in front of him, Nurse Churchill, hands clasped in her lap, facing him on the other side of the desk.

  Kingston ran a hand through his unruly mop of white hair, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “Is it all right if
I call you Jane?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “As Dr. Banks explained, this is not my usual line of work. I’m here merely as an observer in an attempt to gain further knowledge about your mystery patient, Peter Mayhew.”

  “I understand. The doctor clued me in earlier.”

  “Good.” Kingston put on his best smile. “So if I come off sounding like a policeman, just let me know.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” she replied, smiling back.

  “All right, Jane. Perhaps it’ll make it easier if I ask a few questions.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Was anybody else with you when the patient started to speak?”

  “No, I was alone.”

  “How long did the episode—for want of a clinical word— last?”

  She smiled. “Episode is fine. About a minute—two, at the most.”

  “Tell me as best as you can recall, Jane, what did the man say?”

  “First, I should make it clear that he wasn’t speaking normally. His voice was quiet, almost inaudible at times, and there were long pauses between some of the words. He never uttered a complete sentence.”

  Kingston nodded and jotted something on the notepad.

  She looked into middle space for a few seconds. “I believe his first word was ‘mountain,’ or ‘high mountains,’ perhaps. Then he mumbled something about a narrow path or trail.” She thought for a moment. “ ‘Vertigo,’ I remember that. It’s difficult for me to remember the exact sequence.”

  Kingston scribbled some more notes, then looked back at her. “What words or phrases did he use that led you to believe that he was talking about plant hunting?”

  “He mentioned ‘plants’ and ‘seeds’ and the word ‘expedition’ twice, I believe. Also the phrase ‘herb specimens.’ At least, that’s what I thought it was at the time. One of the doctors who’s into gardening told me later that it was more likely herbarium specimens.”

  “He’s right. Any others?”

  She rubbed her chin, thinking. “He referred to ‘field notes’ and to ‘bloody awful weather.’ ”

  “Anything to suggest where the expedition might have taken place? The country?”

  She shook her head. “No, there wasn’t.”

  Kingston uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “One last question, Jane, if I may. And I realize that it may be unanswerable. Thinking back on it, was there anything the man said that might have led you to believe that he’d been on an expedition? Or did you come away with the impression that he was recalling something that he’d either been told or had read about?”

  Jane looked away, mulling over the question. “Of the two,” she said, turning back to meet Kingston’s blue eyes, “I would say that he had been on an expedition. I got the distinct feeling that he was reliving it. As if it were painful to him.”

  “Good. That’s significant.” Kingston was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m sure Dr. Banks would have mentioned it, but I’ll ask anyway. Has Mayhew had any visitors?”

  “No. I would know if he had.”

  Kingston got to his feet, extending a hand. “Thank you very much, Jane. You’ve been most helpful.”

  They were at the office door when she stopped and turned to Kingston. “There was one other thing. I forgot,” she said.

  “What was that?”

  “He mentioned a man’s name, Peter. He said it twice as I recall. Soft and drawn out.”

  “Odd that that’s his name, too. Could be more than one Peter, I guess.”

  “I suppose so. I wondered about that, too.”

  “Did he say anything about this Peter? I mean, was his name part of a sentence, connected to anything?”

  “No, just the name. It was as if Mayhew were calling out to him, perhaps.”

  “To himself, maybe? But that doesn’t make sense.”

  In the corridor they said goodbye, afterward heading in opposite directions: Jane Churchill to the car park exit, and Kingston to the main entrance, where he would have Dr. Banks paged.

  Kingston checked into the Randolph Hotel at 12:30. Over the years, it had served admirably as his pied-à-terre whenever he was in Oxford. He had been told when he’d phoned in the booking that the venerable hotel had recently undergone a face-lift. Now, looking around the ornately appointed lobby and reception area, he was reassured to see that it had lost none of its former warmth and elegance.

  The Randolph was located conveniently in the heart of the city, directly opposite the famous Ashmolean Museum. Kingston knew the museum well, also. It was established originally to house curiosities collected by John Tradescant the elder, the seventeenth-century botanist and gardener to royalty. Ironically, Tradescant happened to be one of Britain’s first plant hunters.

  FOUR

  After an undisturbed night’s sleep, Kingston phoned the hospital from his room at seven thirty. Put straight through to the critical care ward, he was told that there had been no change in Mayhew’s condition and no further outpourings. The news was not surprising and suited Kingston’s immediate plan—to repair to the hotel’s dining room for a full English breakfast, the works. He picked up the Times that the hotel had provided, checked his appearance in the mirror, and left the room. Making his way down the elegant staircase, rather than taking the lift, he remembered to turn off his mobile. He doubted that the hospital would call in the next hour.

  Ten minutes later, Kingston was engaged in his daily joust with the Times crossword puzzle while tucking into his bacon and eggs, sausage, grilled tomatoes, and toast and marmalade—Cooper’s Oxford fine cut, his favorite. At the same time, three miles away on the other side of the city, Peter Mayhew had started to talk again.

  Kingston had finished his breakfast and was on his third cup of tea when he looked up from the newspaper to see one of the hotel staff approaching. He recognized the young woman as one of the receptionists.

  “Dr. Kingston?”

  He nodded.

  “Excuse the interruption, sir. St. George’s just phoned, asking for you—the hospital. They would like you to call back right away. Here’s the number.” She handed him a slip of paper.

  He thanked her and took the message.

  “I do hope everything’s all right,” she said as she turned and left.

  Kingston signed the check, left the restaurant, and headed for the lobby. He found a chair away from the reception area and phoned the number he’d been given.

  It was as he expected. The nurse, who had clearly been waiting for his call, said that approximately one hour earlier, Peter Mayhew had broken into another “talking spell.” In answer to Kingston’s questions, she said that the episode had lasted approximately one minute and was much like the first one, which she and the other nurses in the ward had been briefed about. Nurse Churchill, she added, wouldn’t be coming on duty until later that morning. To Kingston’s relief, she said that the tape recorder had been checked, and that the episode had been recorded. “His voice is really clear, and they’ve made a copy for you,” she added.

  Kingston thanked her, saying that he would be at the hospital within the half hour to listen to the tape.

  On arrival at the hospital, Kingston was directed to Dr. Banks’s office. Kingston took a seat as Banks pressed the Play button on the portable tape recorder on the desk between them, and the tape started to run.

  After a few seconds of ambient sound—the now familiar muted hum and pinging of the electronic instruments—Mayhew’s voice cut in. As the nurse had said, his voice, albeit in a low monotone, was surprisingly clear. His first two words were “too dangerous.” He repeated them a few seconds later. After a short pause, he mumbled “Peter,” the name that Nurse Churchill had mentioned. A longer pause followed, then came a jumble of words strung together: “Rosa chin [unintelligible word] . . . important . . . no, no . . . we can’t.”

  Kingston, who had been listening intently while staring at the desktop, glanced at Banks. But before he could make a com
ment, Mayhew spoke again. His voice had changed. Now it had an edge of urgency, agitation. “Turn back . . . too late now . . . David tried . . . ask Guan Yong.”

  “There’s one more bit,” Banks said during the next, longer break.

  “Call Lijiang . . . my God . . . accident . . . he’s gone.”

  “That’s it,” said Banks, stopping the tape. “What do you think?”

  “China. That’s where he was.”

  “That would be my guess, too.”

  “There’s no doubt about it. Lijiang is a town in Yunnan Province. It’s close to the northwest corner. Several years ago I was on a field trip in that region. The mountain scenery is breathtaking, and the diversity of plant species is amazing. China has more abundant plant life than any country in the world. Last time I checked, there were over thirty-two thousand plant species and nearly three thousand species of trees in China alone. To give you an idea of comparison, there are approximately eight hundred and fifty natural species of rhododendron in the world. Of those, China has six hundred–plus. As a matter of fact, Royal Botanic Garden, Edinburgh, has seen fit to establish a permanent field station in Yunnan.”

  “I’d like to hear about it one day,” said Banks. “You’re sure I can’t get you coffee or tea?”

  “No thanks. I’ve already had my morning’s quota.”

  Banks was frowning. “ ‘Guan Yong’? Do you think that he or she was one of their group?”

  “Most likely one of the guides, yes. Mayhew’s Chinese pronunciation is surprisingly good.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Banks muttered. “The accident? I wonder what that was about.”

  Kingston shrugged. “It’s a dicey business, Doctor. Traipsing through remote parts of that region can be dangerous—certainly not for the faint of heart. It’s hardly like a weekend stroll through the Dales. They were probably in an area called Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. Eighteen-thousand-foot elevations are common.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of fun,” Banks said, grimacing.