EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “Some court documents and a letter.”

  “Really?”

  “The court documents are about a trial in which Peter was the defendant. It seems that, some years ago, he was implicated in the death of Julian Bell’s daughter. She was killed in a motorcycle accident—on the back of Peter’s bike.” After a little pause she continued, her tone even more forlorn. “He never told me about it.”

  “I imagine that he wanted to save you the grief. He had enough of his own at the time, I’m sure. All the charges were dismissed, you know. All except one.”

  “You know about it, then?”

  “Yes. Inspector Sheffield told me,” he fibbed. He wasn’t going to tell her over the phone that he’d received a letter suggesting that Peter’s death might not have been the result of an accident. Or that he’d met with Bell, who’d insisted that it had been an accident.

  “It doesn’t look too good for Julian, though, does it? The police could think that it might be revenge for his daughter’s death.”

  “That’s true. But as the police have pointed out, why would he have waited four years?”

  The silence that followed was hardly surprising. Kingston could picture her struggling not only with the upsetting revelation about Samantha’s death and how it might provide a possible motive for Peter’s murder, but at the same time undoubtedly flustered that the police and Kingston were already aware of it.

  “You mentioned a letter?” said Kingston at last.

  “Yes. It was from David Jenkins, one of the men on the expedition. It was still in the envelope addressed to Peter. The letter was to inform Peter that Julian Bell was going to join them on the trip and urging Peter to reconsider going.”

  “Was it dated?”

  “Yes. It was postmarked and dated two weeks before the expedition departure.”

  “So this could have been a last minute decision on Bell’s part?”

  “Could have been, I suppose.”

  “What else was in the letter? Did Jenkins explain why he thought it wasn’t such a good idea?”

  “No. That was about it.”

  “We’ll need to see the letter, Sally.”

  “Of course.”

  “Make a copy for yourself and then send me the original by special delivery. I’ll forward it to the police.”

  “I’ll send it tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. I’ll call you after I’ve had a chance to look it over.”

  There was another pause, this one shorter.

  “Do you ever get up to town?” Kingston asked before she could speak.

  “Occasionally. I have a friend who lives by Regent’s Park.”

  “Good. Next time you come up, give me a call and perhaps we can have lunch at Fortnum’s or the Ivy. At the least, a glass of wine.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They said goodbye and rang off. What on earth had gotten into him, asking her to lunch? For some inexplicable reason, the words had just popped right out. He shook his head and headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water. Maybe he’d been listening to Andrew too much.

  Lying awake in bed, Kingston thought about the letter and David Jenkins, and why he would want to urge Mayhew not to go on the expedition. Was it simply because Jenkins knew about Samantha’s death and thought it politic that Bell and Mayhew shouldn’t be put in a situation where they would be living in each other’s pockets, day and night, for so long? Or was there more to it? Kingston had to admit that—considering the circumstances and knowing what expeditions were like—Jenkins had a good point. It could be asking for trouble. Kingston was beginning to realize how little he knew about Jenkins. Hadn’t Clifford Attenborough said that one of the chaps from Kew Gardens had worked with him once? He would call Clifford in the morning to find out. Another thing bothered him. What had taken Sally so long to mention the letter? She, or someone, must have known about it for months. He must remember to ask her when they next talked—if they ever did.

  Drifting off to sleep, he gave one last thought to Sally Mayhew, thinking about his impetuous invitation. He hoped she didn’t get the wrong idea. What did it matter, he told himself. She’s not going to call anyway.

  The next morning, before calling Clifford Attenborough, Kingston tried to reach Alex and Kate Sheppard, his friends in Wiltshire. The phone was answered by Peg, a close friend of Kate’s. Alex and Kate were on holiday in America, she said, and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. They chatted for a few minutes, with Peg promising to tell the Sheppards that Kingston had called. Next he called Clifford.

  There was nothing wrong with Clifford’s memory. When Kingston asked about the man at Kew Gardens who had once worked with David Jenkins, he remembered his name right off the bat. It was Oliver Wilkins. Wilkins had recently retired but Clifford was certain that Kew would have a forwarding address and phone number. Explaining that he wasn’t permitted to provide the number, he said that he would call Wilkins personally and, without going into a song and dance as to why, have him phone Kingston. Knowing that Clifford was a man of his word, he wasn’t surprised when Wilkins called later that afternoon.

  “Of course I remember David,” was Wilkins’s answer to Kingston’s first question. “Nice enough bloke, once you got to know him. I heard he’s down in Cornwall now. What would you like to know about him?”

  “Sort of a character reference, I suppose you’d call it. What he was like to work with, his personality, his habits, what he does in his spare time—that sort of thing?”

  “Are you thinking of hiring him, then?”

  “No. Not at all,” Kingston replied. “I take it Attenborough didn’t tell you why I wanted to talk with you?”

  “He didn’t. No.”

  Good, thought Kingston. He offered a cobbled-up version of what had happened on the plant-hunting expedition, carefully omitting any mention of homicide or police involvement. He was going to meet Jenkins, he said, and simply wanted to get a general idea of what he was like.

  “Well, let’s see, David was intelligent, quiet, soft-spoken. I believe his father was in the diplomatic corps, so I assume he had a good education. He kept pretty much to himself mostly. Introverted, I suppose would describe him. As far as women were concerned, he didn’t have much time for them. I don’t think there were any in his life to speak of—other than his mother, of course.” He paused but Kingston didn’t interrupt.

  “He liked to watch cricket, whenever he could, particularly the test matches. He didn’t drink or smoke and was always in good physical condition, though, to the best of my knowledge, he didn’t exercise or participate in any kind of sports.”

  “What about hobbies?”

  “None that I know of. Wait—he collected those little Japanese ivory carvings, I forget what they’re called. He showed me a couple once that were erotic.”

  “Netsuke. They were functional as well as aesthetic, you know.” Kingston knew he was running the risk of sounding like a know-it-all, but went on regardless. “They acted as a toggle at the end of a silk cord suspended from an obi—kimono sash—to prevent items like tobacco pouches, pipes, and small purses, called sagemono, from slipping through. Some of the early ones fetch a pretty penny. I have a couple myself.”

  “Really?” said Wilkins, in a tone that suggested that Kingston might as well have been holding forth about the Great Plague. Kingston wished now that he hadn’t gone to the trouble of sharing this nugget of antiquarian wisdom.

  “Getting back to Jenkins, did he participate in any plant expeditions when you worked together?”

  “I don’t think so, because he talked about wanting to do it.”

  “Do you know about any of his other jobs, before you met?”

  There was a momentary silence while Wilkins considered the question. “I know that, after grammar school, he took a course at the Wellington School of Garden Design. After that he got a job with a landscape design company. Not sure where that was.” Another pause. “That’s right, he worked at a wholesal
e nursery at one time. In Surrey, I think it was. He was very good at propagating. Oh yes, and Lydiard Park. He was—”

  “He worked at Lydiard Park?”

  “Yes. As a gardener.”

  “Interesting. How long is it since you last saw him?”

  “Hmm, has to be at least five years. Maybe more.”

  “By chance, do you have an address or phone number?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. We weren’t what you’d call chums.”

  “Well, I appreciate your phoning me. If I think of anything I’ve overlooked, perhaps I could call you back?”

  “Not a problem. Give David my regards when you see him. Tell him to drop me a note sometime.”

  Wilkins gave Kingston his phone number and address and the conversation ended.

  Kingston went to the window and looked out on Cadogan Square. Rain was hammering the ink-slick pavement, mostly hidden by the colorful parade of umbrellas, black predominant, of course. But it wasn’t the weather that he was thinking about. It was that David Jenkins had once worked at Lydiard Park. It was too much of a coincidence, leaving little doubt that Jenkins had written the anonymous letters. What had he planned to divulge at the aborted meeting? Kingston wondered. Was it just to disclose that Mayhew was implicated in Samantha Bell’s death, thereby providing a motive for her father, or was there more? What else did Jenkins know? Kingston went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  With his second cup of tea, Kingston finished his third McVities’ digestive biscuit. Usually he rationed himself to two, but today was a day for breaking petty rules, including the one he’d made rather impetuously a few days ago, about suspending his inquiries into the Mayhew affair. By the time he’d taken his last sip of tea, he had decided that if the stalled investigation was to be jump-started, a face-to-face meeting with David Jenkins was imperative. But even if he were to get Jenkins’s phone number—he could hardly ask Sheffield for it—a call to him could result in his denying any knowledge of the letters. Not only that, it could slam the door shut on future conversations. Somehow Kingston had to find a way to confront him, whether Jenkins was agreeable or not. Buoyed by his decision, he was reminded that before driving all the way to Cornwall—which would require an overnight stay—he had to be certain that David Jenkins would be home or at his place of business. It was starting to look as if another foray to the country was in the offing. This time, to the land of ancient legends and myths: Celts, druids, King Arthur, pasties, and piskies—the county of Cornwall.

  FOURTEEN

  Since his chin-wag with Oliver Wilkins, Kingston had made several phone calls to various friends and acquaintances in the horticultural world, trying to find an address for David Jenkins, but without success. None of them knew of his whereabouts.

  It was the Internet that came to the rescue once again. All Kingston had to go on was “Jenkins” and “Cornwall,” which is what he typed into the search bar. Testing the mettle of the search engine’s gazillion-page memory bank managed to dredge up two Cornwall B and Bs run by folks called Jenkins, a retired county council recycling director, a Cornish smuggler of yore, authors of Ironmaking in the 14th Century and Local Sightings of the Little Egret—all Jenkins—plus umpteen hundred pages of Cornish Jenkins’s genealogy. No Jenkins with horticultural connections.

  Not one to give up easily, Kingston typed in “Cornish gardens.” Again, he scrolled through page after page on specific gardens, tourist information, accommodations, garden blogs, on and on. About to try another tack he almost missed the listing: Trevassick Tree Farm Celebrates Third Year. He clicked on it and read the item culled from the Cornish Courier.

  Fowey

  The Annual Trevassick Tree Farm and Nursery Sale will take place on Saturday and Sunday, July 7 & 8. Bargains aplenty can be had with price reductions on all trees and shrubs in stock, ranging from 20% to 35%.

  Owner David Jenkins and nursery staff will be on hand to answer all questions concerning the selection, planting, and care of your purchases.

  Complimentary tea and a variety of baked goods will be served and drawings will take place every three hours for prizes of dogwoods, Japanese maples, and other specimen trees. Delivery is available, with charges based on distance.

  Trevassick Farm is located at the end of Badgers Lane, Lostwithiel. Hours: 9:30 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. on both days.

  He was pleased and energized. The coming weekend he could motor off to the West Country, knowing that a meeting with the reclusive David Jenkins was all but guaranteed. And Sally’s package containing Jenkins’s letter certainly would arrive before then.

  Kingston’s phone conversation with Inspector Sheffield lasted only a couple of minutes. The inspector was clearly not in one of his chatty moods and listened patiently to Kingston’s report of his meeting with Julian Bell. Nor was he overly surprised when Kingston told him that Bell was emphatic that Mayhew’s death was an accident, that there was no friction between the two of them on the expedition, and that Graves’s and Bell’s versions of the accident were now the same. He agreed that it would be a good idea to question Sally Mayhew again, to see if she would stick to the description of her brother’s accident as told to her earlier by Julian Bell. While on the subject, Kingston raised the question of the guides.

  “Yes,” Sheffield replied. “We did receive copies of statements from the Chinese Bureau. One, I recall, was from a Chinese botanist who was on the trip, the other, from one of the guides. I can’t remember the exact details of the transmission without digging it out, but their versions of the accident support those given by the other members—Graves, Bell, Jenkins, and Kavanagh.”

  “Only one guide?”

  “Apparently they’ve yet to locate the second. It seems he returned to Tibet.”

  Kingston couldn’t help but notice that Sheffield’s answers were unnecessarily terse. “You received Kavanagh’s statement, then?”

  “We did, yes. The FBI, San Francisco office, sent us a transcript of their interview with Todd Kavanagh.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so. The bottom line is that Kavanagh’s account of Mayhew’s accident jibed with the others.” He paused. “I know it’s probably not what you wanted to hear, Doctor, but it appears that all of them are in the clear. It looks like Mayhew’s death was accidental after all.”

  After putting down the phone, Kingston couldn’t help thinking that Sheffield’s ambivalence gave strength to what had become a worrisome concern of Kingston’s: Sheffield’s shuffling him off to see Julian Bell had been simply to placate him, make him feel he was making a worthwhile contribution to the case. On further thought, he dismissed the idea as being crabbedness on his part. Surely Sheffield—and the police generally, for that matter—were above that sort of pettiness. Thinking back, perhaps he should have told Sheffield about his upcoming Cornwall trip. He should have also mentioned the letter that Jenkins had written to Peter Mayhew. It was too late now. As far as the letter was concerned, since he hadn’t received it yet, he felt somewhat less guilty about not having brought it up. He would probably be calling Sheffield again within the next several days, anyway, and he could tell him then.

  Sally Mayhew’s package arrived Monday afternoon. Sitting on the sofa, he opened the letter-size manila envelope and withdrew another, smaller manila envelope, bearing a white label addressed to Peter Mayhew. He noted the date stamp, September 26. Just as Sally had said, approximately two weeks before the six men left on the expedition. He withdrew Jenkins’s letter, noting that there was no return address.

  Monday, September 25

  Dear Peter,

  This week I heard from Todd Kavanagh that Julian Bell will be joining us on the China expedition. Apparently this was a last-minute decision on Bell’s part, agreed to by Todd, who was eager to have him on board because of his experience in the field with species roses and as a doctor. There was nothing I could do to forestall it.

  I and the other members of the expedition are aware of the tragic ci
rcumstances that brought you and Bell together as antagonists three years ago. For that reason alone, we feel that it is in everybody’s interest, yours in particular, that the two of you not be placed unfairly in a close-quarters situation that could well become uncomfortable, possibly confrontational.

  Much as I have been looking forward to having you with us on the trip and making your acquaintance, I am reluctantly recommending that you withdraw. I do this with regret but earnestly feel that this is for the good. I trust you will do the right thing by calling Todd and informing him of your decision.

  Cordially,

  David Jenkins

  Kingston read the letter a second time, set it aside, leaned back into the cushions, hands clasped behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, ignoring a couple of stray cobwebs. Why had Jenkins taken it upon himself to suggest that Mayhew quit? he wondered. It certainly appeared that the letter was composed without consulting the others. If, as Clifford Attenborough had said, the American was the organizer, shouldn’t such a request have come direct from him? Had Jenkins really spoken with Kavanagh? It was all very equivocal. His list of questions for Jenkins was growing.

  Kingston’s decision to drive to Cornwall on Saturday created a problem that he had to deal with right away. He’d promised Andrew that he would spend a couple of days this week at Andrew’s garden in Bourne End, helping tidy it up for a garden open house—Andrew’s first—taking place the coming Sunday. He still planned to do this but he knew Andrew wouldn’t be chuffed to learn that Kingston might not make it back in time for Sunday’s main event, particularly since he had persuaded Andrew to accept the invitation from the Chalfont St. Peter Garden Club in the first place. It was too bad because Kingston had been looking forward to it also. Nothing pleased him more than sauntering through a garden on a sunny day, a Pimms in hand, politely answering questions from little old ladies. Nevertheless, he couldn’t pass up the chance to meet Jenkins face-to-face. He might not get another opportunity like this for some time. He picked up the phone to call Andrew.