EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “No crime has been committed.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Is it a crime to replicate an antique bowl?”

  “It damned well is, if you plan to palm it off as the original.”

  “But we haven’t done that. Can they prove intent?”

  Kingston shook his head in exasperation. “So why, for God’s sake, ask me all the way up here, Spenser? There must be more than what you’ve been telling me for the last ten minutes.”

  Graves took a longer than usual draft of his whisky, drying his lips with the back of his hand, then leveling his now bloodshot eyes at Kingston. “I don’t expect you to understand fully, Lawrence. Putting it as simply as I can, I suppose it’s about vanity as much as anything else. Saving face, if you will. I fear it’s only a matter of time now when all this will come to a head. Every newspaper in the country, TV, the Internet, you name it will have a feeding frenzy. The names Spenser Graves and Audleigh Hall will be on everyone’s lips. The reporters and journalists will hound me, Alexandra, her friends, and our staff without mercy. It’ll be sheer hell.”

  “How can you prevent it? If, as you’ve suggested, you’re innocent of some of the charges, why not say so? You must tell the police everything you know—everything. Let them decide the degree of guilt. You have no other choice.”

  “It really doesn’t matter anymore, Lawrence. However, I’m not the person who concerns me the most in all this mess. I’m finished. I don’t give a sod now. It’s Alexandra. The humiliation, the thought of disgracing her, making her suffer for the rest of her life, because of my actions and stupidity, is more than I can bear.” He paused, his eyes never leaving Kingston’s.

  Kingston was starting to feel sorry for the man. “Why did you ask me here, Spenser?”

  “You’re right to ask the question. I thought long and hard about asking you in the first place. What purpose would it serve? Simply put, there is no one else. Sad to say, I no longer have any close friends—never did, really—only acquaintances. And, other than Alexandra, I have no family. You’re no doubt aware of my reputation, Lawrence. The reclusive Spenser Graves. The eccentric—” He held up a hand. “Well, you know what I’m talking about. Not all of it’s true, of course, but much of it has come about deservedly by my choosing to live a private life.” He gave a wan smile. “The French have a saying: ‘Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés—to live happily, live hidden.’ ” He looked away briefly, then sighed. “Anyway, I picked you to unload on.”

  Kingston waited before answering. “I don’t know what to say. I should be flattered, I suppose.”

  “Flattered be damned. I had to get it off my chest. You know as much about this wretched affair as anyone. I believe you’re a decent sort, you’re good with words, and I trust you.”

  “Why don’t you confess all of this to your daughter? She’s the one who’s going to be hurt the most.”

  Graves pursed his lips and shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Lawrence. You can call it cowardly or whatever you want, but I just couldn’t look her in the eye and tell her how badly I’ve failed her. There would be too many questions that I wouldn’t have the courage to answer with honesty.”

  “If you did, what exactly would you tell her?”

  He gave the question a moment’s thought. “Simply, that from the start, my only motive was to save Audleigh—pure and simple. With Bell’s scheme to obtain the Chinese bowl, I’d found a way to get the money to do that. The scheme was so simple as to be almost foolproof, and the risk was negligible. It wouldn’t settle the debt entirely but, with principal and interest, there would be enough to keep the estate going for quite a few years—probably for the rest of my life, anyway. I thought about it a long time. If you exclude nicking a box of pencils from a shop when I was about ten, I’ve never committed a crime of any sort in my life. Bell was persuasive, though. As long as the replica remained undiscovered in the temple—and the odds were overwhelming that it would— there was virtually no way the theft could be discovered. Maybe there’s no such thing, but this was about as close as you could get to the perfect crime. We—that is, Bell and I—could have had no idea how wrong it could all turn out.”

  A lengthy pause followed, as Graves took another gulp of scotch. Kingston was amazed that the man wasn’t plastered by now.

  “Are you saying that you want me to tell the police all this?”

  Graves put his hand over his mouth, pondering Kingston’s question. He took it down and sighed despairingly. “You can tell them everything, Lawrence. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Graves stood, and so did Kingston. They shook hands, Graves holding on to Kingston’s longer than Kingston felt necessary. “As you wish,” said Kingston, turning and heading to the door. “I’ll call you in a day or so. Perhaps you should get some rest, old chap.”

  Graves looked unsteady, propping himself up on the back of the chair. “I will,” he said. “Don’t worry about me, Lawrence. Just be on your way.”

  The wind had died down, but it was still raining. Kingston stood in the shelter of the porch for a moment, taking his umbrella from his pocket and trying to open it. The button was stuck, and it took a half minute or so of jiggling before he managed to get it open.

  He set off along the path back to his car, thinking about Graves and what would happen now. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time. At least part of the mystery was solved. Then another thought struck him. How could he have been so blind?

  That was when he heard it: the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. For a moment he thought it might be someone hunting rabbits. It wasn’t and he knew it. From his army experience, he knew it was the report of a pistol. Then it dawned on him what it meant and how it confirmed his premonition of moments earlier. He turned and ran back to the cottage.

  The door was unlocked. He walked in, his heart palpitating at the thought of what he would find. It didn’t take long. Taking a few strides across the room, he rounded the wingback that Graves had been sitting in. Kingston stopped and stared. Graves was in the chair. He was slumped sideways, blood seeping into the fabric of the chair, forming a dark patch. The blackened entry wound in his temple was small. Kingston was glad he couldn’t see where it had exited. The empty whisky glass was on the table, and a small handgun was on the carpet a few feet away. Now he knew why Graves had been drinking so heavily.

  Kingston picked up the old-fashioned phone on a sideboard and dialed 999.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kingston walked to the door for some fresh air. The room was dark and smoky, and the sight of Graves’s dead body had unnerved him. He wished that he could leave right then. He stood on the porch staring absently at the perennial garden, the usually bright colors softened by the gentle rain. Minutes ago he had been talking with Graves and now he was dead. It was the strangest feeling, one that Kingston, in his many years, had never before experienced. While he and Graves hadn’t been friends in any sense of the word, and Graves was an avowed criminal, almost certainly implicated in the deaths of Lester and Jenkins, and maybe the Chinese man—he’d forgotten to ask Graves about that incident—it did nothing to mollify the shock and despondency he was now experiencing.

  Once again, the series of events surrounding the plant-hunting expedition had taken another unexpected and tragic turn. Despite his trying to dismiss the idea as frivolous, he couldn’t help thinking of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. Of the six people who were on the expedition, only two were still alive. And with one of those out of the country, virtually free of suspicion, that left only one suspect: Julian Bell.

  He went back inside the house to the butler’s table, being careful not to look at the body. He poured himself a whisky with a splash of water and carried it to a chair that was facing away from the fireplace. He sat down, took a long drink, and waited for the police and paramedics.

  The anticipated call from Sheffield came early the next morning. It had been almost eight o’clock by the time Kingston had got
back to his flat the night before, tired, hungry, and emotionally drained. He hadn’t bothered to call Sheffield then, knowing that he would have to leave a message and that word of Graves’s suicide would soon reach the inspector anyway.

  “I got the report this morning from our blokes in Leicestershire,” said Sheffield. “Rotten business. Might I ask what you were doing there, Doctor? Seems of late that every time someone is killed, you’re Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “It was at the invitation of Graves. He wrote, asking that I go up to see him. He wanted to explain his ‘predicament,’ as he called it. Wanted to get some things off his chest. He asked that I come alone.”

  “I see.”

  “I had no idea what he had in mind. There was nothing in the letter to even remotely suggest that he was going to take his life.”

  “So what did you two talk about?”

  Kingston told Sheffield the substance of his conversation with Graves. How Graves had openly confessed to his financial problems and the impending demise of Audleigh Hall. That he had all but admitted to being implicated in, but not having committed, the murders of Lester and Jenkins. Following that, Kingston gave a much-abbreviated version of the scheme that Bell and Graves had hatched to steal the bowl from the temple. The conspiracy involving the ceramics seemed to intrigue Sheffield as much as, or more than, the more serious crimes.

  After Kingston described Graves’s last moments, Sheffield remained silent for a long moment.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to have another word with Mr. Bell,” he said. “With his alibi, he’s off the hook as far as Jenkins’s murder is concerned, but from everything Graves told you, we can bring him in on a grand theft charge. We need to talk to him again about Jeremy Lester’s death.”

  “Can he be charged with conspiracy, where the theft of the bowl is concerned?”

  “He can. Even if the act is never carried out, it’s still a crime. The Fraud Squad will probably be involved. Let’s not forget the Chinese authorities. They’ll want to press charges, too. There’s also the unsolved death of the Chinese villager.”

  “I’m sure the temple will be pleased to know that their bowl is a priceless museum piece, too.”

  “They’ll be told about it, don’t worry. One thing’s for sure, it won’t remain in the temple for a minute longer.”

  “The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, if neither Graves nor Bell killed Lester or Jenkins, who did?”

  “Someone they knew? Someone they paid? I don’t know.”

  “The American chap? Is he crossed off your list?”

  “According to the FBI, he’s remained in the States all this time. Like I said before, there’s no record of his having left the country since he returned from the expedition last year. At least, not under his own name.”

  Now was as good a time as any, thought Kingston. “Would you have any objection if I were to talk with him, Inspector? He may be innocent, but maybe he could tell us something that we don’t know. He organized the expedition.”

  A long pause followed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Doctor, at least, not for now. Let me think about it.”

  Kingston tried not to sound disgruntled. “I suppose there’s always the outside chance that when Bell learns about Graves, and is told that Graves has implicated him in the theft, maybe he’ll break down and tell his side of the story. That’s about our last hope, I guess.”

  “We’ll see, Doctor. By the way, we’ll probably need you to make a full statement detailing your conversation with Graves. If we do, I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

  Next morning, all of Britain learned about Graves’s suicide. The story was banner headlines on the front pages of the newspapers, given top billing on TV and radio newscasts, and on the Internet. Kingston was surprised at the amount and depth of the coverage. While Spenser Graves was not exactly a house hold name, he was sufficiently recognized, apparently, as one of the country’s foremost horticulturists and antiques collectors and, of course, the somewhat idiosyncratic owner of Audleigh Hall, one of the leading jewels in the crown of England’s stately homes. The reports were all positive, making him out to be one of a dying breed: a philanthropist of sorts, modern-day adventurer, horticulturist, and pillar of the Leicestershire community. Most of the stories cited overwhelming financial difficulties as the reason for his suicide, and many mentioned the tragedies that had befallen his last expedition.

  The following afternoon, Kingston was surprised to get another call from Inspector Sheffield.

  “Glad I caught you home, Doctor. We’ve got a new development.”

  “Really?”

  “We went down to Dorset this morning with a warrant to pick up Bell for questioning. According to his house keeper, he’d packed a couple of bags yesterday and left in rather a hurry. No explanation other than that he was just going away for a while. Not like him at all, she said. Looks like our Mr. Bell has done a runner. So you be careful how you tread from now on. He could be dangerous.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Graves’s funeral was held one week to the day after his death. Kingston had decided to attend, more out of deference to Alexandra than to her father. The service was held in St. Anne’s, a small church in the same parish as that of Audleigh Hall. Spenser would become the first of the fourth generation of Graveses to be interred in the churchyard. When Kingston arrived, he was guided into a field adjacent to the church used for overflow parking. The skies were sullen gray to the horizon. Mournfully appropriate, thought Kingston, but at least it wasn’t drizzling.

  Entering the church to the solemn cadence of an organ, Kingston took one of the remaining seats in the last pew. He was happy to be in the back of the nave, where he could see and not be seen. He sat next to a large lady wearing a floppy hat who had overdosed on Chanel. He prayed it would be a brief service. Watching the vicar approach the altar, he spotted a woman whom he assumed to be Alexandra, in the front pew. Driving up, he had wondered if there were others he would recognize at the service. He could come up only with Hobbs, the majordomo, and—most unlikely—Julian Bell.

  The service was mercifully short. As the somber-faced mourners slowly inched along the aisle, exiting the church, Kingston had the opportunity to scan their faces. Alexandra and Hobbs were the only two people he recognized. Outside, as is often the case, the mood among the gathering was more convivial. Kingston spotted Alexandra in the midst of a group on the edge of the crowd and made his way over. She saw him and, to his surprise, recognized him immediately.

  “Thank you for coming all the way from London, Doctor,” she said with a trace of a smile.

  He returned her smile, sympathy in his blue eyes. “Your father would be very upset were he to learn that I hadn’t,” he replied, hoping the light touch didn’t come off as facetious.

  “He would, I’m sure,” she replied.

  “I came for you, too, of course. I wish we’d had the opportunity to get to know each other sooner.”

  “You were with him when he died, I understand.”

  Kingston nodded. “I was, yes.” He wondered if he should change the topic, for her sake more than his. “I didn’t know your father that well, Alexandra,” he said. “It was only recently that we renewed our acquaintance—through Asian art, actually. He might have told you that I came up for the exhibit.”

  “He did, yes. He said he wished he’d had more time to spend with you on that occasion.” She went on to introduce the tall dark-haired man at her side as William, her fiancé, afterward introducing the rest of the small group. They chatted for another minute or so, and gradually the crowd started to disperse.

  Kingston held Alexandra’s hand briefly. “Well, goodbye, and do please keep in touch. You know where to find me.”

  “I will, Doctor. That’s a promise.” She paused, brushing a stray hair from her eyes. “There is one thing I’d like to ask.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you come up to Audleigh sometime in the next few days
? I’d like to hear what you and my father spoke about that day at the cottage.” Her voice faltered. “These last days have been difficult for all of us.”

  “I can understand,” Kingston said softly.

  “All I know, so far, is what the police have told me.”

  “Nothing would please me better. He would’ve wanted me to do that.”

  “Please call me and we’ll set a date.”

  “I will,” he replied with a nod and a quick smile.

  Kingston, Andrew, and Desmond Scott were having an early dinner at the Antelope. It was more than two months since Kingston had last seen Desmond, who lived in St. Albans, about a forty-five-minute drive from Chelsea. Two years ago, Desmond had helped Kingston identify an Amazon lily hybrid that was central to a murder case—a water lily capable of desalinating salt water. Kingston had come close to losing his life because of it.

  The three had just returned from Desmond’s water-plant nursery in Finchley. The visit had inspired Andrew to install a water feature in his country garden. Desmond, who was meeting Andrew for the first time, had offered to donate the labor, charging only for materials, plants, and fish. Talk of koi, mosquito fish, flathead minnows, and water plants ended when the dinner plates arrived.

  The waiter had whisked away the empty celebratory bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and they were now drinking an Italian red—in Desmond’s case, a beer—with their steak and ale pie. Kingston knew that it was only a matter of time before the question of his involvement in the plant-hunting murder case, and Graves’s suicide, was raised. He wouldn’t mention it, of course, for several reasons. First, he knew that it would take the rest of the evening to fully explain; second, he was tired of thinking and talking about it; and last, because Desmond would have a right old time winding him up about his “Holmes” complex. It mattered little, because Kingston knew damned well that, sooner or later, Andrew would bring it up. Not a minute later he did.