EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Kingston walked to the side of the house and unlatched the simple wooden gate set in a yew hedge. Closing it behind him, he walked down a shallow flight of stone steps that ended on the edge of a wide Yorkstone terrace that stretched across the back of the house. Above the French doors, a white canvas awning provided shade for a weathered teak table and half a dozen white-cushioned chairs. Carefully composed groupings of terra-cotta and glazed pots were spotted about, some containing polyantha roses, others plump with mixed white annuals laced with gray helichrysum and ivy. Beyond the terrace a freshly mown lawn the size of a tennis court was edged with deep herbaceous borders and backed by a high privet hedge. Two arched openings in the hedge hinted that another or other gardens lay beyond. Kingston was impressed.

  Passing through one of the openings, he followed a narrow grass path into a vegetable garden large enough to provide sustenance for the family and staff of a large manor house. Net-covered soft fruit cages stretched for thirty feet down one side. On the opposite side, rows of apple, pear, peach, and plum trees were showing fruit. At the rear of the garden a large barnlike stone structure was partially concealed by trees.

  Sauntering along the paths between the raised beds, he took his time poking and peering absently at the crop of vegetables, many ready for picking. As he did so, more questions about Jenkins’s untimely end kept tumbling into his mind. What was the cause of death? If it happened, conveniently, to be lidocaine, it would prove, almost beyond doubt, that Jenkins’s murderer was the same person who dispatched Jeremy Lester in St. George’s Hospital. That would be too much to expect, though. Besides, premeditated homicide was yet to be established. PC Truscott had said that Jenkins was slumped in his chair. That could mean anything, from a heart attack to repeated blows to the head. Had it been the latter, or if there had been a lot of blood, surely the constable would have mentioned it. Not for the first time, he wondered if his coming down to Cornwall to meet Jenkins could have anything to do with his death. If, indeed, Jenkins had written the letter proposing that they meet at Lydiard Park, he was taking a calculated risk. The subsequent letter, delivered by the boy, implied that he was no longer willing to take that risk, that it was too dangerous. So if someone—for example, one or more of the other expedition members—had found out that Jenkins was about to snitch on them, what possible reason could there be to justify silencing Jenkins? It had to be something almighty serious to resort to murder.

  Coming to the end of a row of courgettes and beets, Kingston found himself facing the stone barn, about thirty feet from where he stood. The timing was good, because at that moment, the skies opened up with a typical unheralded summer shower. Jacket over his head, he ran toward the barn, hoping to find temporary shelter under its eaves. He was surprised to find the door ajar. A heavy-duty open padlock dangled from the hasp. He noted a sturdy dead bolt, too. He could only conclude that the police had opened it, otherwise why the security? Lowering his jacket, he pushed the door open partway and peeked in. With only two small windows, both barred, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He opened the door wider and stepped in.

  SIXTEEN

  Kingston’s eyes soon adjusted to the meager light. The room was about thirty feet wide and fifteen deep, with open rafters and workbenches built into two of the walls. The benches were partially covered with boxes, cartons, and miscellaneous files and folders. The place was unusually tidy—not a tool in sight and a clean floor—more storage than workspace. Evenly spaced shelves covered the two walls above the benches, most of them lined with bottles, jars, and packages of gardening supplies: herbicides, fertilizers, seeds, and so on. Other shelves stored paint, garden pots, and cleaning supplies. He was about to turn away when he spotted some items on a lower shelf that appeared out of place. It was pottery of various shapes and sizes. Not garden pottery but decorative pieces. The majority was small pots and bowls. Some were plain terra-cotta, others painted, and a few painted and fired, with a soft glaze discernible in the low light. The finished pieces were painted blue and white. Not the classic blue-and-white striping of Cornish ware. Kingston was all too familiar with that, as anyone who had spent time in Cornwall would be. The pottery on the shelf was Asian blue-and-white, as it is referred to in the antiques trade. He recalled Wilkins saying that Jenkins collected Japanese netsuke, but he’d made no mention of ceramics. Staring at the pottery, he realized he was trying to make something out of nothing. There could be any number of explanations for the ceramics: Jenkins renting the barn to someone else, for one.

  Kingston picked up one of the small bowls. He placed it carefully on the bench and studied it. Asian ceramics was not one of his areas of expertise, but he knew a little about blue-and-white transferware, a decorative technique developed in England in the mid-1700s. These were not transferware. In his judgment they’d been hand-painted.

  He stared at the bowl. Something was not right about it. He picked it up, surprised at the lightness and the superior craftsmanship. Under the thin and transparent glaze was the design of swift-scrolling flowers in elegant cobalt blue against the white background. The brushwork was masterfully executed. Among the refined Asian ceramics he’d seen, nothing compared to this one so far. He turned it over. The underside bore six small Chinese character marks in a double circle. Even with the signs of slight wear, the bowl was in excellent condition. Not that he was a divvy, but he knew enough about antiques generally to recognize that the bowl, if genuine, was of considerable value. In the antiques trade, a divvy is a dealer who physically reacts in the presence of a bona fide antique as opposed to a forgery. Like a truffle dog, a divvy knows instinctively when an object has collectible or antique value.

  He took another bowl from the shelf. At first glance it looked the same, but it wasn’t. It bore no character marks and the design was subtly different, but still the same dark cobalt blue on a white background. He put it back on the shelf and gazed around the room. Were they real? If so, he could be looking at a small fortune in Asian ceramics. If they were forgeries—many of the bowls were neither painted nor glazed, which indicated that was likely the case—it suggested that Jenkins, or someone, was having them manufactured and palming them off as the real thing. This was obviously a storage room and they were being made elsewhere. It explained the barred windows and locks. Cornwall and Devon, he knew, had countless small potteries and individual artisans turning out highly desirable work. He was tempted to put one in his jacket pocket—purely for research, mind you—but resisted.

  He was about to leave when an idea struck him. He could take a picture with his mobile. He’d done it before, and it was easy. He took down the same bowl he’d looked at originally, picked up a cardboard box from the bench, and carried them outside, where the light was better. Under the shelter of the eave, he placed the bowl on the box, took out his mobile, and clicked off three shots, each from a different angle and focus. He replaced the bowl and box and left the barn, careful to leave the door ajar, as it was when he arrived. While he’d been inside, the shower had passed.

  Back at the house, Kingston saw a gray Rover parked outside and assumed that the inspector had arrived. Entering the living room, he saw two men talking to the constable. Not wanting to interrupt, he stood by the door. After a brief wait, Truscott spotted him, waved him over, and introduced him to Detective Inspector Hannaford and Sergeant Pascoe of Devon & Cornwall Constabulary. Both were relatively young—to Kingston’s eye, barely over forty—and casually dressed; the inspector in a brown leather jacket and tan slacks, the sergeant in a black Windbreaker and washed blue jeans. Truscott spent a minute telling the DI that Kingston had shown up unexpectedly, claiming that he was associated with the Mayhew murders case and was collaborating with Inspector Sheffield.

  “I insisted that he wait for you,” said Truscott, with a fleeting glance at Kingston.

  “That’s correct,” Kingston interjected. Truscott looked visibly relieved.

  The DI glanced at Kingston’s card, still in
his hand. “Truscott says you’re a doctor? Would that be a medical doctor?”

  “No. My field’s academic—botany.”

  Hannaford looked perplexed and changed the subject. “Thames Valley, eh?”

  Kingston nodded. “Inspector Sheffield.”

  “We’re familiar with the Mayhew case, of course.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” said the sergeant.

  Hannaford ignored the comment. “Jenkins was on the expedition. As a matter of fact, it was one of our chaps at St. Austell who interviewed him—some time ago.”

  “Yes, Sheffield mentioned at the time that you were cooperating.”

  “So how come you happened to be here today, of all days, Doctor?”

  Kingston had anticipated the question. “I came down to see David Jenkins about a letter he wrote me. It could have had some bearing on the case.”

  “I see.”

  Kingston figured this was as good a time as any to ask. “Does it appear to be a homicide?”

  “That’s for forensics to determine. We’ll know the answer when we get the postmortem results from the Home Office. We’ll inform Sheffield, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anything else, Doctor?”

  “There is, yes. I found some Chinese pottery in one of the barns. A couple of the pieces could well be of some value.”

  “Is that so?”

  Hannaford glanced at Constable Truscott. The look implied that he wasn’t too happy that Kingston had been allowed to trample all over the property. “Any particular reason you mention them—other than security?”

  “Two reasons, actually. First, given the Chinese angle to the Mayhew murders, and the fact that they could be forgeries, it’s possible, albeit remote, that there could be some connection.”

  “And the other?”

  “If burglary was the motive, those are the kind of things they might have been looking for—providing they’re genuine, of course. I’m told that Jenkins also had a collection of Japanese netsuke. They’re jade, ivory, stone, and wood carvings—quite valuable.”

  “I know what they are. No need to worry, though, we’ll be going through the house from top to bottom. And as of now, we’ll be conducting round-the-clock surveillance.”

  Kingston nodded his approval. “Are you staying in Cornwall?”

  “Not much point now,” Kingston replied. “I’ll go back to London later today.”

  “Where are you staying? Just in case we need to reach you.”

  “At the Old Quay.”

  “Nice.”

  The DI took one last glance at Kingston’s card. “Well, we know where to find you. There’s no point in your hanging around here, Doctor. You’re free to go.”

  Kingston left Larkfield and headed back to Fowey and the hotel. He wondered how long it would take for Inspector Sheffield to call. That wasn’t a worry right now, though. His mobile was off, and he would probably keep it off—for a while, anyway.

  In the hotel room, Kingston sat at a desk by the window overlooking the estuary. He was thinking about the bowls. What was it about them that bothered him? Hard as he tried, he couldn’t figure what it was. With the telephone directory and a notepad in front of him, he started making phone calls to antiques stores and potteries. His objective: first, to find out if any dealers had been offered antique Asian ceramics for purchase recently and, second, to determine if there was an organization or an individual who had extensive knowledge of the region’s potteries—the type of work each produced, and which potteries, if any, were known to take on custom assignments.

  Half an hour later, he knew it was a futile exercise. None of the seven antiques dealers he had spoken with had seen nor heard of any Asian ceramics being shopped around or put up for auction. Furthermore, his idea of tracking down someone who might be able to provide information or answers about the ceramics also produced zero results. The man he had talked with at Cornwall Artisans, an association that represented a fair number of the county’s ceramicists, was polite but of little help. All their craftspeople produced contemporary works, he said. Pressed by Kingston on the matter of reproductions, the man’s answer was deferential, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t disguise his true thoughts: Even to suggest the very idea that any of his craftspeople might be culpable of reproducing works of antiquity was tantamount to implying that one of his local artists might be knocking out the occasional Renoir for sale.

  Calls to a few local potteries elicited similar sentiments. As he thought about it, the more he realized that if Jenkins had commissioned someone to forge the antiques, he would have made damned sure that whoever was making them, and where, would be a tightly kept secret. Even if he lucked out and managed to find the pottery, those involved would certainly have covered their tracks by now, or done a bunk.

  Kingston went out to the balcony. He watched the sailboats tacking across the estuary, thinking about poor David Jenkins and the grisly fact that three of the men who were on the ill-fated plant-hunting expedition were now dead—one known to have been murdered, and the deaths of the other two highly suspicious.

  There was no point in hanging around Fowey any longer. He would have to get the results of the postmortem from Sheffield. Not that it mattered much anymore. It was up to the police now. He packed his few clothes and toiletries, surveyed the room to see if he’d forgotten anything, then went down to the desk to check out.

  The next day Sheffield called, as if on cue. Kingston had just got out of bed when the phone rang at eight o’clock. He had slept later than usual, having returned from Cornwall after midnight. Wearing his dressing gown, he took the call in the kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil.

  Not unexpectedly, Sheffield started by saying that he’d received a phone call from Inspector Hannaford, followed by the portentous words, “I’m sure you know the reason why I’m calling.” Kingston was fully prepared—though still not quite awake, and perhaps it was just as well—to be read the riot act. So he was both surprised and relieved that Sheffield had apparently chosen not to castigate him, at least not yet. In a tone measured to the gravity of the subject, the inspector expressed his regret and concern over Jenkins’s death. Hannaford had told him it that it was homicide, he said, and that the postmortem results were being forwarded.

  Kingston knew damned well that the inspector hadn’t called to tell him how upset he was about the business in Cornwall, and that the ball would bounce quickly into his court. He was right.

  “So tell me, Doctor,” asked Sheffield, “how come you just happened to be in Fowey a few hours after Jenkins died?”

  Kingston told him how he’d spotted the squib on the Internet announcing the sale, and that, secure in the knowledge that Jenkins was going to be there in person, he decided, on an impulse, to drive to Cornwall to meet him.

  Sheffield either accepted this explanation or chose not to question what he doubtlessly thought was not only an ill-advised idea on Kingston’s part but also one that flew in the face of everything the inspector had cautioned. Sheffield’s next question was not unexpected. “Anything to connect this to the Mayhew case?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “This Asian pottery Hannaford mentioned. You found it in a barn, he said. What’s that all about?”

  “I’m not quite sure. It may have no bearing whatsoever on why Jenkins was killed.”

  “What about burglary? In your estimation, were any worth stealing?”

  Kingston thought for a moment. “Let me put it this way. While I’m no expert on Chinese ceramics, there was one bowl among them that showed a patina consistent with considerable age and bore marks to suggest that it could be an original early piece. Just what the value would be if it were, I haven’t the foggiest idea. Then again, for all I know, they could all be forgeries.”

  “Hannaford didn’t say anything about forgeries.”

  “Perhaps he misconstrued what I said.”

  “Which was?”

  “I believe I
told him that I wasn’t sure if they were genuine or not.”

  “We seem to be going around in circles, Doctor.”

  “If they are forgeries, then the question is not only why, but also what were they doing in Jenkins’s barn?”

  “You tell me. Maybe he was flogging them as the real thing, and some unhappy camper wanted his money back. Argument follows—struggle—Jenkins bangs his head on a hard object. Easy as that.”

  “A reasonable supposition, I guess. But why Chinese antiques—pottery? I know that Jenkins collected Japanese ivory pieces called netsuke. I suggested that DI Hannaford search the house for them. If it does turn out to be a robbery gone wrong, they might have been stolen, too. They’re quite valuable and would be relatively easy to peddle.”

  “I must confess that antiques, generally, are not my cup of tea. But considering Jenkins was always running off to China looking for plants, what would be so unusual about his collecting Chinese antiques?”

  “Good point. Nothing at all.”

  “Well, we’ve got two homicides now, plus Peter Mayhew’s death, and not one suspect. This damned case is going nowhere fast and I’m starting to get rumbles from upstairs. If you come up with any bright ideas, Doctor, let’s have ’em.”