Before seeking out the tombs of the Tradescants, and Captain Bligh—Andrew expressing more interest in the latter—they took a break on a bench in a corner of the garden. With mention of Tradescants, the conversation turned to plant hunting. Never one to miss the chance to spin a good yarn, Kingston grabbed the opportunity to impress upon Andrew the dangers of plant hunting.
“We all grew up learning about the courageous Captain Cook and his voyages to the South Pacific and Australia, right, Andrew?”
“Sure.”
“How about Joseph Banks? Have you heard of him?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Don’t worry, few people have. When Cook set sail from Plymouth on an expedition that would cover nearly eight thousand miles and cross four continents, a young botanist by that name was aboard Cook’s ship, a converted coal transporter renamed the Endeavour. Accompanying Banks was a team of nine assistants. Their objective was to study and catalog the natural history of the continent and search for new plants.”
Andrew grinned. “I appreciate the history lesson, Lawrence, but why are you telling me this?”
“To give you an idea of how dangerous plant-hunting expeditions were in those days—and still are today.”
“Very well.”
Unfazed, Kingston continued. “Banks and the crew would suffer extreme hardships on the trip. In a snowstorm off the coast of South America, two of his team died of hypothermia, the remainder surviving after eating a raw vulture. Later, they ate dog, rat, kangaroo, and albatross.”
Andrew made a face.
“Arriving in New Zealand, members of the crew were attacked by a war party of Maori. Much to Banks’s regret, several of the natives were killed. Crossing the Great Barrier Reef, the Endeavour struck the coral and came within hours of sinking. Toward the end of the journey, scurvy, venereal disease, and fever were rampant among the crew. By the end of the voyage, the Endeavour had lost forty of her ninety-man crew.”
“How about Banks’s people?”
“Only he and two others survived.”
“Good Lord.”
“The good news is that, as a result of the expedition, Joseph Banks—later to be knighted for his work—described, cataloged, and named a staggering thirteen hundred new botanical species and a hundred and ten new genera.”
“That’s impressive, I must say.”
“There’s an interesting postscript to the account. Not many years later, Cook would select another officer for the position of sailing master on his third and fatal voyage to the Pacific. That naval officer’s name was Bligh.”
After visiting Bligh’s tomb, and before leaving the garden, Kingston and Andrew took a moment to read the epitaph atop the ornately decorated Tradescants’ tomb.
KNOW, STRANGER, ERE THOU PASS, BENEATH THIS STONE
LYE JOHN TRADESCANT, GRANDSIRE, FATHER, SON;
THE LAST DY’D IN HIS SPRING; THE OTHER TWO,
LIV’D TILL THEY HAD TRAVELL’D ORB AND NATURE THROUGH,
AS BY THEIR CHOICE COLLECTIONS MAY APPEAR,
OF WHAT IS RARE, IN LAND, IN SEA, IN AIR.
WHILST THEY (AS HOMER‘S ILIAD IN A NUT)
A WORLD OF WONDERS IN ONE CLOSET SHUT,
THESE FAMOUS ANTIQUARIANS THAT HAD BEEN
BOTH GARDINERS TO THE ROSE AND LILY QUEEN,
TRANSPLANTED NOW THEMSELVES, SLEEP HERE & WHEN
ANGELS SHALL WITH THEIR TRUMPETS WAKEN MEN,
AND FIRE SHALL PURGE THE WORLD, THESE THREE SHALL RISE
AND CHANGE THIS GARDEN THEN FOR PARADISE.
“There’s a legend that goes with it,” said Kingston, breaking the silence. “Lambeth folklore states that if the tomb is danced around twelve times, as Big Ben strikes midnight, a ghost appears.”
TWELVE
When his radio alarm woke him at six-thirty on Thursday morning, Kingston didn’t need the weather forecaster to tell him that the day would be a sizzler. Pulling aside the curtain of his bedroom window facing Cadogan Square, he saw it was already squinting bright, though the sun had not yet cleared the rooftops.
Showered and dressed appropriately for his country spin, he turned his thoughts to Julian Bell, recalling how Sally Mayhew had described him, wondering how they would hit it off and what the day would bring. Unfortunately, he’d had to scotch the idea of seeing his niece, Miranda. When he had phoned to say that he was coming down to Dorset, the house sitter had answered, telling him that Miranda and her husband were away on holiday in Spain.
Kingston had spent part of the previous afternoon and evening poring through reference books from his considerable library, and on his iMac, boning up on Acer pentaphyllum. It was evident that Bell knew of Kingston’s teaching credentials and reputation in botany, so convincing the man that he was an authority on the subject should not present a problem.
It had been several years since he’d had the pleasure of visiting Dorset. He was not only looking forward to the trip but also toying with the idea of making it a two- or even a three-day affair. His calendar was blank for the next several days—not that it was ever that full anymore. He worried sometimes that he was becoming a bit of a recluse. Were it not for Andrew, his renewed friendship with Desmond Scott, who owned the water plant nurseries, and good old Henrietta the “hussy,” he would have no social life at all. Recently Andrew had been encouraging him to date Henrietta more often, but while Kingston enjoyed her intellect and could tolerate her flamboyant nature, he could take her only in small doses. After years of knowing her, he’d never managed to summon up the nerve to tell her that he found her overt sexuality a bit offputting.
If he were asked to choose which English county he would pick for a leisurely summer’s drive in his TR4, with the top down, Dorset would likely top Kingston’s list. Wild heath land, undulating dairy country, rolling chalk downs, patchwork fields, green valleys, one pretty thatch-roofed village after another: a gentle landscape that had doubtless saved the BBC trillions of pounds in set building over the years. Home to writers Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, William Barnes, and T. E. Lawrence, little has changed in the countryside since their days. With village names like Toller Porcorum, Plush, Piddlehinton, and Up Sydling, it leaves no doubt that one is truly far from the madding crowd.
Now, after breakfast, having read the Times front to back—as he did daily—he set off for Dorset.
With Bell’s directions on the passenger seat, now memorized, Kingston turned off the A350 a mile south of Shaftesbury onto the B road that crossed Cranborne Chase, headed for a village with the whimsical name of Sixpenny Handley. Exactly one mile and a quarter after passing through the village, a gravel road would lead to Magpie Farm. Bell had said that the fingerpost was small, so to keep an eye open for it. Kingston was already getting to appreciate one of Bell’s character traits: a preference for privacy.
Five minutes later on the gravel road—really more cart track—the farm came into view. For home seekers in Britain, the word “farm” holds a certain cachet. The word, purloined by canny estate agents, is used to describe any attractive country property having sundry outbuildings. In many cases, the likelihood that the property had once been home to a plow, a tractor, or any farm animals was dubious and usually went unquestioned. So Kingston was pleasantly surprised to see what resembled a working farm. Ahead was a wide opening set in a drystone wall. On either side, sagging wooden gates were anchored permanently in a sprawl of periwinkle and ivy. Beyond, scattered around, were half a dozen outbuildings of various shapes, sizes, and age; some wooden, others built of what appeared to be local stone. These he took to be barns, stables, cowsheds, and storage buildings for supplies and farm equipment. The house, set apart from the rest, was a simple whitewashed structure with a steep thatched roof, redbrick chimneys, and a sturdy-looking plain wooden door. Late eighteenth century, Kingston judged.
He pulled into a grassy space beside the house, alongside a Jeep, got out of the TR4, and stretched. For several moments, he gazed around, the reason for his being the
re momentarily forgotten. He let the earthiness and simple beauty of the surroundings sink in: the fields, neatly subdivided by hedging, that sloped up to meet the woods in the summer-hazed distance; the small orchard on the other side of the house, the tree trunks painted white above the uncut grass; the spire of a far-off church breaking the line of trees. Any moment he expected to hear the distant chime of its bells. He wondered what kind of garden lay beyond the high stone wall surrounding the house. He inhaled deeply, taking in the wholesome sweet smells, glad to be back in the country—deep in the country. Walking up to the oak door, he rapped twice with the heavy iron knocker.
A few moments later the door swung open with a loud creak, to reveal a dumpy, silver-haired woman with shiny apple cheeks. She was smiling, ample of bosom, and wearing a frilly apron. Kingston noticed that her hand holding the door open was dusted with flour. Knowing that Bell was a bachelor, it was reasonable to conclude that the woman, who resembled the quintessential grandmother, must be the housekeeper or cook, or both.
“I’m Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Bell’s housekeeper,” she said, resolving the matter. “You must be Dr. Kingston,” she added, stepping aside to let him enter. “Mr. Bell is expecting you. He’s in the study. It’s the second door down the hall on the right.” Kingston thanked her and started down the hall. The aroma of whatever she was baking was ineluctable and tantalizingly good. He reached the study door, which was half open. He knocked anyway. “Come in,” said a booming voice.
Bell, a blacksmith of a man, was standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf occupying one entire wall—a wall at least twenty-five feet long. He held an open book, closing and replacing it on the shelf upon seeing Kingston. They crossed the room and shook hands. After exchanging greetings, Bell gestured for Kingston to be seated in an overstuffed easy chair on one side of a glass-topped coffee table strewn with magazines. Bell sat opposite, on a plaid-blanket-covered leather couch.
Observing Bell, Kingston was reminded of Sally Mayhew’s description. He was an imposing man, neatly bearded, and Kingston could see why she had used the words “fierce-looking.” What she had neglected to mention were his eyes. Under bushy eyebrows, they were deep set and, from where Kingston sat, appeared to be black, glinting when the angle of light caught them right. Though an inch or so shorter than Kingston, Bell appeared larger because of his strapping build. Unsmiling, he looked across at Kingston. “Welcome to Magpie Farm, Lawrence,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. His voice matched his appearance, deep and resonant. “You brought good weather.”
“Yes. I’d forgotten just how beautiful your part of the world is. Even more so on a day like today.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine for now.”
The small talk continued for a minute or so before Bell brought up the subject of Acer pentaphyllum, the reason for Kingston’s visit, as he put it. For a time Bell talked about how he had become interested in the species, recounting three separate trips over a span of ten years to the mountainous regions of Yunnan, Sichuan, and Gansu, where he’d had the opportunity to study them in the wild. On each successive expedition, the stands became fewer and farther between, he said. Over decades, subsistence farmers and locals had ravaged the maples, burning them for fuel. They had been further decimated by the onslaught of bulldozers and mechanical equipment employed in road building and ever-increasing construction projects that were pushing farther and farther into wilderness areas. Unless action was taken to halt the destruction, he was convinced that the rare maple would become extinct within a few years.
Kingston commiserated, slipping smoothly, and with convincing authority, into his prepared commentary, lasting four or five minutes, not a problem for someone with his silver tongue. As they went on to discuss what steps would be required to create the exploratory committee, Bell’s body language began to betray subtle signs of impatience. Kingston noticed that his expression had hardened somewhat, the beginnings of a frown starting to wrinkle his brow. His next comment caught Kingston off balance.
“Let’s be frank with each other, Doctor. Is the Acer the real reason you came here? Or did you really want to talk about the expedition? About Mayhew’s death?”
“No, that’s not the reason I’m here,” Kingston replied, shaking his head, trying to sound offended by Bell’s question, but mildly so. “I thought that was all resolved.”
“You were working on the case with the police, were you not?”
“I was, yes.” Kingston wondered how Bell knew. Had he learned it from Graves? Sally Mayhew, perhaps? He need not have given it thought.
“Spenser Graves told me.” His eyes narrowed. “You know, the police have questioned both of us about Mayhew’s accident.”
Although it was rhetorical, Kingston sidestepped the question. “You know I went up to see his arboretum last week, then?”
“I do.”
Kingston was starting to feel uncomfortable with Bell’s shift in attitude and his confrontational stare. It was time to move off the subject, but Bell was having none of that.
“Mayhew’s death was accidental, plain and simple. And if you’re proposing that it was anything else, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Kingston was thinking fast. Telling Bell that he had talked with Sally Mayhew and that, according to her, his recollection of the accident differed from Graves’s was not only pointless but liable to get Bell riled up. That was definitely not something he wanted to witness. Anyway, it no longer mattered. Graves had told Bell of Kingston’s visit and their having discussed the expedition. If, indeed, either or both were lying, they’d had plenty of time to compare notes and get their stories straight. Kingston was already thinking of making a graceful exit, but to his surprise, Bell didn’t drop the subject.
“Vertigo, most likely, or the altitude. You’ve been in those mountains, Kingston, you know damned well what it’s like.”
Kingston nodded and was about to speak, but Bell continued as if he didn’t want his train of thought deflected. “I heard a noise and turned round to see Mayhew on the ground with David and one of the guides kneeling beside him. After a few seconds, he got up, saying that he was okay, so we set off again. We’d only gone a few more steps up the trail when Mayhew fell again. He looked wobbly but managed to get to his feet. Then suddenly, before anyone could get to him, to grab him, he lost his balance, tottered a couple of steps, and went over the damned edge. That was it. Exactly as I reported it to the police.”
Kingston shook his head. “Bloody awful thing to happen.”
“Irony is, we’d just been talking about turning back. The weather was wretched and we were all dog tired.”
Kingston wanted to ask about the other guide and if he had also fallen, but that would confirm Bell’s suspicion of the real reason for his visit. He had a feeling that he’d learned all that he was going to learn. Unless Bell was going to volunteer more about the expedition—which was unlikely—then the meeting was essentially over.
But Bell went on. “Did the police tell you about my daughter and Mayhew?” he asked, his dark eyes never leaving Kingston’s.
“They did, yes.”
“Let me tell you something, Doctor. If I’d wanted to kill Peter Mayhew for what he did to Samantha, I’d have done it long ago, not waited four bloody years.”
Kingston knew he was treading on eggshells. “That’s what the police have more or less concluded,” he said.
“They didn’t tell me that.”
“I’m surprised that you agreed to go on the expedition in the first place—knowing the bad blood between you and Mayhew.”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
Now that they were on the subject, Kingston wanted to keep it going. “What changed your mind?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Graves, and Kavanagh. They insisted on it. Graves said that the others knew damned little about ancestral roses, which I found odd. It was my understanding that roses were the principal
reason for the trip. That, and because the American wanted a doctor on the trip.”
“Rosa chinensis spontanea and odorata gigantea, the two wild ancestors of the China rose?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Weren’t you worried that Mayhew could be . . . troublesome?”
“He would have far more to worry about than I, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
Bell shrugged. “As it was, we needn’t have worried. I’m not saying that there weren’t some awkward moments, but most of the time Mayhew kept pretty much to himself, except for Lester, whom I think he knew fairly well.”
A ponderous silence fell. Kingston saw his cue to leave and started to get up. Bell followed suit and for a moment the two of them stood awkwardly on each side of the coffee table.
Bell broke the stalemate. “I don’t think we have much more to talk about, Doctor. If you were hoping to discuss the aborted plant expedition in detail, I’m sorry to have disappointed you. It seems that your coming down here has been mostly a waste of time—yours and mine.” He started toward the door, then paused with one hand resting on the back of the sofa. “Should you decide to pursue the Acer pentaphyllum project, keep me informed. I may become involved. I’m not making any promises, mind you.”
“I will,” Kingston replied, following Bell into the hallway.
Few words were said at the front door. As Kingston got into his car and started the engine, he made a halfhearted wave, which Bell returned in like manner. Then Kingston drove off.
Heading north on the B road for Shaftesbury, Kingston glanced at his watch. It was still early, not yet one o’clock. Whether or not it had to do with the aroma that had wafted from Bell’s kitchen, he was suddenly hungry. When he got to Shaftesbury, he would leaf through his Egon Ronay guide and decide on a pub for lunch and a much-needed beer.
EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose Page 9
