Sheffield put down the pencil and folded his arms. His demeanor had suddenly changed. He looked more serious, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Unfortunately, Doctor, it’s now one of four.”
Kingston looked at him quizzically.
“We learned a few days ago that the man murdered at St. George’s Hospital was also on the expedition. Jeremy Lester.”
TEN
God Lord.” Kingston rubbed his forehead, nonplussed by Sheffield’s bombshell, scrambling to figure out how it dovetailed into everything else.
Sheffield paused, as if on purpose, to let the news sink in. “We identified him from a thumbprint that matched a photo ID card. Single, lived in Wallingford.”
“I realize it’s not my question to ask, but have you and your people come up with any other ideas that would explain his murder? Any theories?”
“Nothing that points to a suspect or suspects, if that’s what you’re asking. Until now—although we’ve never ruled out homicide—we’ve been pursuing the line of argument that Peter Mayhew’s death was the result of an accident. Now, with Lester’s murder coupled with these letters here, that’s all changed.” He leaned back, massaging his chin. “What about you, Doctor? You’ve had time to think about it. Any bright ideas?”
The desk phone rang. Sheffield picked it up and swiveled his chair to face the window on his right. While the inspector was talking, Kingston mulled over this startling new development, trying to figure what it meant, how it fitted with what they already knew, and how to answer Sheffield’s question.
After a minute, Sheffield ended the conversation and swiveled back to face Kingston. “Where were we?” he asked. “Right,” he said with a nod. “Any theories, Doctor?”
“Not really. It would seem, as you said, that Mayhew was killed, for something he’d done either on or before the expedition—like that thing with Bell’s daughter—or it’s possible, I suppose, he could have discovered something on the trip that somebody wanted kept secret. Lord knows what that might have been, though. That part of the world is mostly wilderness.”
Sheffield smiled. “A rare plant, perhaps?”
“Nothing worth killing for, I doubt,” Kingston replied, returning the smile.
“What about Lester? He and Mayhew might have been friends.”
“Could be. Clifford Attenborough at Kew said that it was Mayhew who suggested that Lester join them on the trip as photographer and interpreter. They were close in age, too, younger than the other members. And now we know it was Lester who was driving Mayhew’s motorbike. I doubt he would have pinched it.”
“Agreed.”
“He had to get the bike somehow. Maybe Mayhew had just sold it to him.”
“If he had, the DVLA would know about it, which they don’t. Plus, there were no transfer of ownership papers, bill of sale, anything like that in Lester’s flat. According to DVLA, the bike’s still registered in Mayhew’s name.”
“So going back to what you said earlier, if Mayhew did stumble onto something, he could have confided in Lester. They could be conspirators.”
“Possibly. But Lester’s homicide perplexes me. If he weren’t murdered mistakenly for Mayhew, why would someone want him dead? It’s looking more and more as though Lester’s motorcycle accident wasn’t an accident after all.”
Kingston frowned. “Maybe the same person who wanted Mayhew dead also wanted Lester out of the way.”
“A possibility.” Sheffield sighed. “Well, think about it, Doctor.” He paused, then said, “I know you will.”
Kingston was about to get up, thinking that their conversation was ended, when the inspector surprised him with an offhand remark that was more of a question than a statement. “Graves said you were up in Leicestershire to see him?”
“Yes, I was. I’d never seen the arboretum or Audleigh House before and decided it might be worth the trip, and to renew our acquaintance. We’d met years ago, but I must say, Spenser had no trouble recalling the occasion.”
“Nothing to do with the expedition, then?”
The question was innocuous enough, but Kingston didn’t miss the veiled smile in Sheffield’s eyes as he posed it.
“Well, we talked about it, of course. Graves was quite up-front about it.”
“Did you learn anything? Anything that could help us?”
Kingston was ready for the question. He was planning to tell Sheffield anyway. “I was coming to that, actually. Graves’s recollection of Mayhew’s accident—how he said it happened—differs from Julian Bell’s.”
Sheffield squinted at him. “You’ve talked with Bell, too?”
“No I haven’t. Let me explain. Immediately after Peter Mayhew’s inquest, Julian Bell spent some time chatting with Sally Mayhew, Peter’s half sister. During their conversation at a tea shop, he recounted what had taken place on the mountain trail. According to her, he recalled it quite vividly, which doesn’t surprise me. Not something you would forget very quickly.”
“And you learned it from Sally Mayhew?”
“That’s correct.”
“When the chap from the Mail interviewed you and Miss Mayhew at your flat, right?”
“Also true,” Kingston replied. He knew that Trevor Williams would have talked to the police, too, and more likely than not, that meant Inspector Sheffield. He looked more closely at the inspector, to see if he could detect anything in his expression to suggest that he was about to get a wigging for stepping out of line, both by seeing Graves and by going to Lydiard Park.
The inspector looked impassive, pursed his lips, and gave Kingston a long gaze. “Well,” he said with a sniff, “perhaps we can get you back on the case. Not officially, of course, and not running around trying to solve things on your own. Whether you know it or not, you’ve earned yourself a bit of a reputation in that regard. And, frankly, it’s not going to be tolerated.”
Kingston knew that this was one of those situations when the less said, the better, so he simply nodded in agreement and waited for Sheffield to continue.
“I’ll be up-front with you, Doctor. Much as I would have liked to, I haven’t been able to conduct all the interviews we’ve done so far—not personally, that is. After the Cornwall police talked to him, I met with David Jenkins, the fellow from Cornwall—he came here for the interview—and I’ve conducted a phone interview with Julian Bell, who’s just returned from a trip to Taiwan, of all places. As far as I can tell, their accounts of the accident jibe. I don’t know if Graves told you, but it was our blokes up in Leicester who questioned him. They turned in their report to me, of course. An agent from the FBI field office in San Francisco is interviewing the American chap; we’re not ruling him out. I expect to get their report any day now.” He threw up a hand. “You see what I’m getting at, I’m sure?”
Kingston nodded. “I do. For one thing, you can only hope your other chaps are all asking the right questions. If they’re not, it’ll be impossible for them to pick up on small inconsistencies.”
“Exactly. That’s why I asked you up here. It’s not often we ask a member of the public to do what I’m about to suggest, but in this case I’m making an exception. There’s no question that your knowledge of these plant-hunting expeditions—all the ins and outs of how they’re organized and conducted, what you go looking for—could be of great help in our investigation. As you pointed out, it’s very often the little things—small mistakes that would otherwise go unnoticed—that eventually solve cases like these. However—”
Kingston waited for the caveat, already guessing what it might be.
“Everything you do will be under strict supervision by me. Under no circumstances—none—can you contact any persons involved in the case without my go-ahead or, heaven forbid, place yourself in any situation that might involve bodily harm to you or anyone else. Our job, Doctor, is to protect the public, and that includes you.”
Kingston took a deep breath. “Anything I can do to help, I will, Inspector.”
Sheffield nodded. “Good,” he s
aid, swiveling to one side, crossing his knees. He fixed his wrinkle-edged eyes on Kingston. “You said that you found a discrepancy in Graves’s and Bell’s accounts of the accident?”
“I did, yes. There’s also the question of the phone call from China to Sally Mayhew that Bell claims he made. He told Sally that he was unable to reach her at the time. Graves wasn’t aware of any such phone call. Given the tragic circumstances, one would surely think that they would all have known about it—if it took place, that is.”
“That’ll be enough reason to bring Bell in and have you sit in on the interview. We were going to talk to him again, anyway. We need to know where he was when Lester was murdered. Graves and Jenkins, too, for that matter.”
Kingston pulled on his earlobe, thinking. “If we do that, Bell’s going to have time to get his story straight—”
“If he’s the one who’s lying.”
“Right. May I suggest another idea? I’m going to be in Dorset in the next few days anyway. I have a niece who lives near Sherborne. She’s been at me for weeks about going down and giving her some ideas about a new garden she and her husband are putting in. Why don’t I give Julian Bell a call, see if I can talk him into a short visit?” Kingston paused. “It worked with Graves.”
Sheffield didn’t answer right away, puckering his lips, pondering Kingston’s suggestion. “It’s highly irregular, but I don’t see how it could pose a problem, as long as there’s no mention of your working with us. I mean, I can’t stop you from going, anyway. If you talk to Bell about the expedition, that’s your business, right?”
Kingston nodded in agreement.
“Only one thing, Doctor, keep it all nice and pleasant-like. And a word of advice: Whatever you do, don’t make it sound like you’re grilling him. If he’s got something to hide, he’ll spot you right off. Lastly, don’t say anything that might give him reason to think that we’ve sanctioned your visit or that you’re still working with us.”
Sheffield gave Kingston Bell’s unlisted number, and the meeting broke up a few minutes later, Kingston promising to call the inspector to report on the outcome of his assignation with Julian Bell.
On the drive back to London, Kingston thought back on their conversation. With so many ambiguities and unresolved issues shrouding the case, he had forgotten to mention to Sheffield his theory as to why the letter writer had selected Lydiard Park as the rendezvous: that it was at the halfway point between London and Cornwall, where David Jenkins lived.
ELEVEN
Though he still knew little about Julian Bell, Kingston had gained the impression that he was not one to suffer fools lightly, nor, probably, out-of-the-blue phone calls from complete strangers. However, the real possibility did exist—and Kingston was counting on it—that Bell was aware of Kingston’s credentials and would welcome a call from a fellow botanist. On the minus side, there was also the likelihood that Bell would know of Kingston’s reputation as an amateur sleuth. Given the circumstances, and the fact that the police had already interviewed him, this might not sit too well with Bell. All that said and done, Kingston had to come up with a compelling reason for calling, or he could expect to suffer the same verbal thrashing that Bell might unleash on a time-share salesman. After much thought, he’d come up with a ploy that he was confident would simultaneously satisfy Bell’s curiosity and intrigue him.
While researching Bell’s background, Kingston had found that he was particularly interested in a vanishing species of Asian maple, Acer pentaphyllum. With five narrow leaflets, it is quite distinct from the 150 species and other maple cultivars. The rare maple was discovered in 1929 by the Austrian botanist and linguist Joseph Rock in southwestern Sichuan, near Tibet. The somewhat eccentric, gifted, and self-trained scientist spent almost thirty years in China’s mountainous terrain collecting plant specimens and studying the cultures of the region’s inhabitants. Even then he had noted in his journals that stands of Acer pentaphyllum were rare.
Kingston had also read a recent paper by one of America’s foremost biologists who had contended that the world was in the midst of a sixth mass extinction that had enabled the global population to increase and eventually inhabit most of Earth. As the world’s population continued to grow at an accelerating rate, so would the rate of extinction of plant and animal life, he predicted. In the treatise, Acer pentaphyllum was mentioned as an example.
Kingston hoped that if he confessed more than a mere scholarly interest in the rare maple, and proposed that an expedition be organized, with Bell as the leader, he would agree to meet. In the meantime, Kingston would read up on the maple.
Midmorning, a day later, he finally caught up with Julian Bell on the phone.
“The celebrated Lawrence Kingston. This is a surprise,” said Bell.
Kingston wondered what he meant by “celebrated.” He hoped it referred to his reputation in the field of botany. “Do you have a couple of minutes to chat? It’s about a new project I’m working on. It concerns Acer pentaphyllum.”
“Acer pentaphyllum, eh? Sure. I’ve just returned from a trip to Taiwan. You know how that is. Still dragging a bit, but go ahead.”
“I’ve read about your research on the species, which is impressive. Over the last year or so, I’ve been doing much the same. To cut to the chase, I’m exploring the idea of forming a committee, whose task it will be to start the process of preserving and encouraging regeneration of the species. It’s a subject close to your heart, I know, and I’m calling to ask if you’ll consider serving on the committee—perhaps head it up?”
“First task will be to convince the botanical, horticultural, agricultural, and land development authorities in China to commence immediately on an educational program. That could all take time, you know.”
“All too well.” Kingston now knew that Bell was most likely coming on board.
They talked for another five minutes, during which time Kingston artfully dropped a couple of important names in the botanical world and used his gift of the gab and powers of persuasion ultimately to convince Bell that they should meet to discuss the matter further.
“I have a niece who lives near Sherborne,” said Kingston. “I was planning to see her soon, anyway. She wants me to take a look at her garden. It wouldn’t be a bother for me to come down to meet you in Dorset.”
Bell seemed to like that idea and it was agreed that they would meet on Thursday, five days hence.
Kingston was pleased with the morning’s accomplishment and started getting ready for his one o’clock lunch with Andrew. Afterward, they planned to take a bus across the Thames to Lambeth for a long-overdue visit to the Museum of Garden History. Five years had passed since Kingston’s last excursion. On that occasion, the museum was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary and he had been among the special guests.
After a two-hour lunch at a fancy West End seafood restaurant, fortified by several glasses of Vouvray—Andrew picking up the tab—they hopped on a number 3 bus headed for the museum on Lambeth Palace Road and climbed upstairs. Kingston had always enjoyed the surreptitious view of the palace gardens, possible only from the top of double-decker buses that passed along the Embankment, blocked from view at street level by an imposing stone wall. He mourned the impending demise of London’s historic Roadmaster buses, recalling the innumerable times he had leaped on and off at the back.
Over lunch, Kingston had told Andrew a little about the small museum: It was founded in 1977, when the family tomb containing two seventeenth-century plant hunters, John Tradescant father and son, was discovered in the overgrown churchyard surrounding the derelict nine-hundred-year-old church of St. Mary-at-Lambeth. The parish records began noting burials in the 1530s, and since then more than twenty-six thousand people had been interred in the church, graveyard, and adjacent burial ground in Lambeth High Street. Andrew’s interest perked up when Kingston told him that the tomb of Captain Bligh of Bounty fame was also in the churchyard.
They started their tour in the church’s na
ve, which housed the main gallery. The exhibit there featured a tool and garden-related artifacts collection plus a paper archive exhibit. The displays included prints, photographs, bills, receipts, catalogs, and brochures, some dating back to the 1700s. Andrew showed great interest in the records, which not only gave an insight into garden history but also provided a social record of the times.
The highlight of the main gallery was the library, a repository of historical botanical and horticultural treasures. Included was a 1656 copy of Musaeum Tradescantianum, diarist John Evelyn’s personal copy of the Tradescant museum catalog, and Fothergill’s Hortus siccus, a mid-seventeenth-century herbarium. The book contains over six hundred remarkably well-preserved pressed plant specimens used to teach botany. Before leaving the gallery, Kingston pointed out a small Victorian sampler hanging on the wall. It read:
There is peace within a garden
A peace so deep and calm
That when the heart is troubled
It’s like a soothing balm
There’s life within a garden
A life that still goes on
Filling the empty places
When older plants have gone
There’s glory in the garden
At every time of year
Spring summer autumn winter
To fill the heart with cheer
So ever tend your garden
Its beauty to increase
For in it you’ll find solace
And in it you’ll find peace
After an hour and a half in the museum, the two went outside for some fresh air and to explore the garden. As they strolled the path, Kingston explained that the garden was designed by the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury of Hatfield House, in a style that would have been familiar to the plant-hunting John Tradescants, the elder of whom had been the head gardener at Hatfield from 1610 to 1615. She had designed the compact space to be historically authentic, he said: a mixture of shrubs, roses, herbaceous perennials, herbs, annuals, and bulbs planted in borders surrounding the central feature, the knot garden. The symmetrical knot pattern was created with low hedging of dwarf box, filled with plantings that changed with the seasons. Farther along, Kingston pointed out Rosa x. alba “maxima,” Rosa “De Meaux, ” and Rosa gallica v. officinalis, the Apothecary rose, all blooming quite happily.
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