“He was a gardener, a horticulturist?”
“Yes. Early on, he took a course at Hadlow College in Kent, liked it a lot, and went on to get a BSc in commercial horticulture.” She looked at Williams tentatively. “You do know that he was my half brother?”
“Yes, the police told me.”
“Growing up, we spent a lot of time together, but in later years we didn’t see each other that often. In recent years, we lost touch altogether, sad to say. It happens with a lot of families, I suppose. It’s a shame, really, because I was very fond of Peter. He was one of those people who go out of their way to help others. Thoughtful, always upbeat, everyone took a shine to him.” She paused, as if talking about him had aroused memories that had lain dormant for too long. “That’s why I can’t tell you too much about what he did.”
“When did you learn about the expedition?” asked Williams.
“I learned about it after the fact.”
“Peter never discussed it with you before he went?”
“He didn’t, no. That didn’t surprise me, though. One of the men who’d been on the expedition phoned me and told me what had happened. At that time, it wasn’t certain if Peter was alive or not.”
“You received the phone call soon after they returned, then?” said Kingston.
Sally nodded.
“When was this, Sally? When did the expedition take place?” asked Williams.
“October, last year,” she replied. “The man who called was Julian Bell. He said that he’d just returned from an expedition in China that was aborted because of a terrible accident, and that it was almost certain that Peter, who was a member of the group, had lost his life in the accident. He’d fallen into a gorge that plunged hundreds of feet into a river. He said that they’d reported the accident to the Chinese authorities on their satellite radio and that he’d tried unsuccessfully to reach me from a nearby village when they came down off the mountain.” She gestured, as if to say that was about it.
“I can just imagine what a blow that must have been,” said Williams. To his credit, he didn’t press Sally with more questions, instead giving her breathing time before continuing. Williams made more notes then looked at her again. “I take it that Peter’s body was never recovered?”
“No. I was told later that they’d conducted an exhaustive land and helicopter search but called it off after two weeks. They said that his body was most likely washed away in the fast-flowing river.”
“Let me know whenever you want to take a break,” said Kingston diplomatically. The whistle of the teakettle was barely audible.
Williams looked at Sally. “It’s entirely up to you.”
“I’m fine. Let’s continue.”
“Very well,” said Williams, clearing his throat. “The police said that you’d given them the names of the other members of the expedition.” He consulted his notepad. “Six all told. Is that right?”
“Not counting the Chinese men, yes. Julian Bell told me that, in addition to him and Peter, there were three other botanists, all men: Spenser Graves, David Jenkins—from Cornwall, I believe— and the third—” She looked up to the ceiling for a moment. “An American, Todd something-or-other. I don’t recall his surname.”
“That’s only five.”
“You’re right. Bell said the sixth man was a photographer who was also proficient in Mandarin and knew some Chinese-Tibetan. I don’t recall his name. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure Bell mentioned it.” She looked aside briefly, then said, “I believe he was recommended by Peter.”
Kingston was tempted to interrupt, to ask Sally more questions about the botanists, such as whether Bell had told her who had initiated the expedition. But he held his tongue. Why stick his oar in when Williams was off to such a good start? So far he had handled the interview patiently and competently, building a profile of Peter Mayhew and starting to shape a picture of what had happened on the ill-fated expedition.
The reporter continued. “I understand there was an inquest. I haven’t had time to obtain copies of the notes of evidence yet. What were the findings, Sally?”
“Accidental death. But we have to wait another six years for a death certificate.”
“I read that the government may be reducing the wait to three years, as a result of the hundreds of British subjects who went missing in the great tsunami,” said Kingston.
“Seven years is a damned long time to wait,” said Williams. He looked at Sally again. “Were any of the expedition members present at the inquest?”
“Only Julian Bell. It surprised me. I believe the others were told about it. I didn’t expect the American to come, of course, but I’d have liked to have talked to the others.”
Williams put aside his pad and pencil. “Anything that you want to ask Sally before we take a break, Doctor?”
“There is, if that’s all right.” Kingston shifted his position so that he was facing Sally. “In addition to that first phone call, did this Julian Bell fellow tell you more about the expedition—at the inquest, perhaps?”
“Yes, he did, but very little, really. When we first met, about ten minutes before the inquest started, he came off as self-important. He’s a large man, with a bushy beard, a bit fierce-looking. We chatted again after the inquest, and this time he was very solicitous and kind. He suggested we go to a tea shop in the village so we could talk about it some more.”
“The least he could do one would think, under the circumstances,” said Williams.
Sally nodded, then continued. “He said that, in addition to the six members of the expedition, there were two Chinese guides and a botanist from a local institute. They’d collected quite a few specimens, seeds—or whatever it was they were looking for—during the first days. As I recall, he said that it was planned as a two-week trip but was aborted after the accident, on the ninth day. I remember his saying that the weather turned very nasty, too.”
“By chance did he mention who organized the trip? Who funded it?”
Sally shook her head.
“What about the accident itself? Did he describe how it happened?”
“Briefly, yes. He said that they were on a narrow trail, near the summit of a high mountain. A bad storm had blown in and it was raining. The rocky trail was cut from the side of the mountain, leaving a steep gorge on one side. Peter started to complain of vertigo and stumbled.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked back at Kingston. “It makes me dizzy even to think about it.”
“I know what it can be like,” Kingston said softly.
“Apparently, he insisted that he was all right and they continued. A short distance later, he stumbled again, falling to the ground. As he did so, the guide behind him lost his footing, too, and fell into the wall side of the trail, pushing Peter closer to the edge of the gorge. Before any of them could reach him, Peter got to his feet again. Bell thought he was okay, had gotten over it. Then suddenly—probably looking down into the gorge—Peter lost his balance and fell over the edge.” She pursed her lips again. “That was all,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.
A respectful silence followed. Reliving the tragedy, as recounted by Bell, was still painful to her. “I’ve read about Julian Bell,” said Kingston, recognizing that a change of subject was called for. “There was a story about him in one of the garden magazines a couple of years ago—big chap, as you say, with a full beard. Doesn’t he own a big farm somewhere in Dorset? Used to be a doctor?”
“Yes. He spent quite a bit of time talking about the place. He describes himself as strictly an amateur horticulturist, but you could tell that he’s very knowledgeable and passionate about plants and collecting them.”
“Thank you, Sally,” said Kingston. “I’m sorry all this had to be resurrected. You’ve been very patient and understanding.” He looked at Williams. “That’s all I have,” he said.
Williams nodded, then addressed Sally. “A couple more questions, then we’ll wrap it up. What about the man in the morgue
? He was riding your brother’s motorcycle.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t know who he was, I take it?”
“No. I didn’t. He looked a little older than Peter, not by much, though. I’d never seen him before.”
“This is probably a redundant question, but I’ll ask it anyway. Do you know of anyone who might have had it in for Peter? Wanted to harm him?”
“No, I don’t,” she answered emphatically.
Shortly thereafter, the meeting was adjourned and Kingston served tea in china cups accompanied by scones from a local patisserie. Before leaving, Sally Mayhew and Kingston exchanged phone numbers, promising to keep in touch.
. . .
The much-anticipated call from Clifford Attenborough came the following morning. Kingston had just finished breakfast and had put aside the Times, having finally completed the Jumbo cryptic crossword. The very last clue had stumped him all yesterday: 8 down: Round after round here? (10,4). The answer was nineteenth hole.
“Sorry to call on a Sunday,” Clifford said, “but I thought you’d like to know right away. It took longer than I’d hoped for, but we finally tracked down Mayhew’s expedition.”
“Good work.” Kingston decided to wait before telling him what he’d learned from Sally Mayhew.
“There were six chaps,” said Clifford. “Spenser Graves, from Audleigh Gardens up in Leicestershire, was one of them. I’m sure you must know him, Lawrence? The house has exceptional gardens and an impressive arboretum.”
“I’ve met him on a couple of occasions, though I can’t confess to knowing him personally. Bit of an eccentric, I recall.”
“He’s that all right. Did you ever visit his place?”
“No, but I’ve read about it. Big Victorian pile with the huge aviary and peacocks strutting the lawns.”
“Right. Anyway, second on the trip was David Jenkins, who runs a tree farm–cum–nursery in Cornwall. Can’t say that I know much about him, but apparently his place is known for its collection of dogwoods, Acers, and Stewartia. One of our chaps at Kew worked for him a few years back. Said Jenkins is a reclusive sort, collects Japanese sculptures.”
“I don’t know him, either.”
“Third was our old friend Julian Bell.”
“Yours, perhaps. I don’t know him personally. I do know about him, of course.”
“Fourth was an American, Todd Kavanagh. Interesting bloke, from all accounts. He runs Ravenscliff Botanical Garden in Mendocino County, in Northern California—quite a remarkable place, from the sound of it. A best-kept secret, carved out of the slopes of an old quarry. It’s only twenty years old but their Web site lists it as the largest collection of temperate Asian plants in North America.”
“I wonder why I’ve never heard of it.”
“I have. He’s been on expeditions with our people before.” Attenborough paused. “The fifth man was Mayhew, of course.”
“What was his background?”
“We don’t have a lot on him yet. It seems that after grammar school he worked at a nursery for a couple of years, then took a three-year horticultural course at Hadlow, getting a bachelor’s degree. Most recently he worked at Melbury Botanical Gardens, in Dorset.”
“And the sixth chap?”
“A fellow named Jeremy Lester. Mayhew roped him in to document the trip on film and, if needs be, act as interpreter. He’s fluent in Chinese. Not that they necessarily needed an interpreter; a botanist from the Kunming Institute was on the trip, along with two guides.”
“Who or ga nized the trip?”
“The Ravenscliff people, the Americans. That’s why it took this long. I just got off the phone giving Inspector Sheffield the names. He said they’ve made no progress on the case. The expedition was October, last year.”
“Yes, I know. Sally Mayhew told me.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I should have told you sooner but I wanted to see if her account jibed with yours. Yesterday a reporter for the Oxford paper interviewed the two of us about Peter’s death and the murder at the hospital.”
“Really? How did she learn all this?”
“From Julian Bell. They met at the inquest, apparently—the inquest into Peter’s death. Naturally the police have talked to her, too.”
“We should get together and compare notes, Lawrence. It’s certainly a rum affair.”
“That it is.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to run or I’ll miss my tee-off time at Sunningdale this afternoon.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen. I’ll give you a call in the next few days, Clifford.”
SEVEN
Kingston spent the rest of the day on the Internet. The first Web site he visited was Ravenscliff Botanical Garden. He was curious to find out more about their garden. The site was obviously professionally designed, providing a comprehensive picture and history of the garden with an extensive catalog of digital photographs documenting all the plants there.
Ravenscliff, he read, was in the foothills of the Mendocino Mountains on the southern border of Mendocino County where it adjoins Sonoma County, California. In 1967, Byron and Elizabeth Granger purchased seventy-five acres of the foothill land, planting vineyards in the valley floor section. Twenty years later, after her husband’s death, Elizabeth began to create a garden on the rocky hillside above the vineyards. The remains of several old quarries dot the site. In the winter months, these excavations fill with water, eventually forming ponds and waterfalls. There is no better site for a botanical garden. The ravens that nested in the tall pines had given the garden its name.
Kingston scrolled down and continued to read: The slopes of Ravenscliff are home to one of the largest collections of scientifically documented, wild-origin Asian plants in North America. For twenty years Ravenscliff has participated in annual expeditions to China, Japan, India, Nepal, and Taiwan to collect seeds and herbarium specimens. Every last plant, shrub, and tree is sown from seeds collected in Asia. The garden boasts seed-started trees that are now fifty feet tall.
Next Kingston clicked on the Staff List button, where he found a biography of Ravenscliff’s director, Todd Kavanagh. His credentials were impressive. Early in his career as a horticulturist he took a yearlong sabbatical to tour gardens in Asia and take treks into remote areas of China and Tibet. Returning to the United States, he and a partner opened a nursery and landscaping business in Mendocino County. Byron and Elizabeth Granger were among his first clients. Hired to take care of the one-acre ornamental garden surrounding the Grangers’ home, Kavanagh’s responsibilities were expanded considerably when he was asked to help create the new botanical garden. As a result he went to work full-time at Ravenscliff, eventually being promoted to director. His credentials listed him as a field associate of the Department of Botany, California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco, and an associate member of the Chinese Society for Horticultural Science. Kingston was impressed with the last line of Kavanagh’s bio: He was also an accomplished classical pianist and transpacific sailor. He leaned back, thinking. It would be interesting to meet the man.
Next Kingston Googled Audleigh Hall, home of the enigmatic Spenser Graves. Scrolling down, he found that the house and arboretum were featured in various travel, stately homes, and garden sites but there was no individual Web site. Kingston didn’t find this particularly unusual, knowing Graves’s idiosyncratic nature and reputation as a recluse.
He sat looking at the screen and a small aerial picture of the rambling old redbrick-and-tile mansion, its gravel courtyard and sweeping lawns and formal gardens that featured some of the finest herbaceous borders in Britain. He noted that the revered Graham Stuart Thomas had designed the garden of old heirloom roses. Kingston went on to discover that parts of the estate’s extensive collection of Asian art, portraits by Gainsborough and Reynolds, and works by Dutch and Flemish masters were on display to the public. After viewing more sites, seeing more pictures, and learning more about the Graveses’ family seat and its “wo
rldrenowned” collection of plants from the temperate regions of the world, Kingston had convinced himself that a visit was a must. To see the arboretum was reason enough, but with the added attraction of the art and antiques, it was just too inviting to pass up. Even better, if Spenser Graves still remembered him—it had been some years since they’d met—perhaps he could wangle an invitation. It was certainly worth a try.
Two days later, Kingston double-locked the door of his rented garage, set the alarm system, and climbed into his TR4. After the break-in and theft of his prized Triumph sports car, two years earlier, he had taken measures to make sure that it couldn’t happen again. With the top down on a bright, crisp morning, he slipped into first gear, quickly into second, and eased out of cobbled Waverley Mews into the rush-hour traffic on Belgrave Place. He was headed for the M1 Motorway and Leicestershire to visit Audleigh Hall, at the personal invitation of Spenser Graves.
When Kingston had phoned Graves two days earlier, he wasn’t expecting such an outgoing reception. Eccentric or not, there was nothing wrong with Graves’s memory. He remembered Kingston well, he insisted. Even recalled the place and occasion where they’d last met—a presentation dinner at the Savoy Hotel in the Strand, honoring the retirement of one of Kew Gardens’ directors. By the time the conversation had ended, Kingston had not only been offered a personal tour of Audleigh Hall without asking, but had been invited to join Spenser for lunch.
Two hours later, Kingston passed through the impressive wrought-iron gated entrance to Audleigh Hall. Tires crunching on the sandy gravel, he proceeded up the long serpentine drive toward the house. It was several minutes before Audleigh Hall, in all its idiosyncratic splendor, came into view. As the house loomed closer, framed by a sky of seamless blue, Kingston scanned it with a critical eye. It had once been his ambition to follow in his father’s footsteps and make architecture his career, before being swayed by botany. He could tell right away—confirming what he had read online—that the house had undergone many changes since it had been first built. Regardless, it was impressive.
EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose Page 5
