EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘I must say I’m very impressed. I should’ve had you pick the wine.’

  ‘No, you made an excellent choice.’

  ‘So, where did you work? Would I recognize the name of the winery?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s quite small. About twelve thousand cases a year. It’s called Hargrove. Near a small town called Glen Ellen.’

  ‘What varietals?’

  ‘Old Vines Zinfandel, Syrah and Merlot, mostly—but we’ve planted several acres of Carignane and Mourvedre and they’ll be ready in a couple of years.’

  ‘All reds.’

  ‘Yes. I want to start blending varietals, soon. If and when I go back, that is.’

  ‘The Rhone style varietals lend themselves to that, as I understand.’

  ‘They do. Sounds as if you know quite a lot about wine.’ He shrugged. ‘All learned by drinking it for many years, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The best way.’

  ‘I would imagine it’s a frightfully competitive business these days, with so many countries producing good wines.’

  ‘It is. And it can get expensive. We have a saying, that if you want to make ten million in the wine business, start with twenty.’

  Kingston laughed. ‘Clever,’he said. ‘You’ve been holding out on me, then? You do know something about horticulture. That’s certainly part of winemaking.’

  ‘A very big part. Most people don’t think of winemaking as farming but that’s essentially what it is. The enology part comes later and, as you know, that’s got to be right, too. But it all starts out there in the vineyard. Agriculture pure and simple—well, not quite so simple as it looks.’

  ‘Did you quit to come over here?’

  ‘No. I took a leave of absence. The couple that owns the winery, the Hargroves, treat me as if I were the daughter they never had. Neither of their two sons wanted to be in the wine business.’

  ‘So, do you plan to stay here indefinitely?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. When I first saw the estate and how big it was—’ She picked up her glass and sipped some water. ‘By the way, I don’t think I told you, David hired a helicopter that very first day. He said that was the only way I could grasp an understanding of what I owned. It was quite a trip, I can tell you. All those acres of beautiful land.’

  ‘I can imagine what a thrill it was. Good for David.’

  ‘Naturally, the first few weeks here I was really homesick. Then David told me about a winery not too far from here called Moorlynch. He took me there and I met the owners. It’s quite lovely and their wines are excellent—all whites. That’s when I got the idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘To try making wines here one day. At Wickersham.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea.’

  ‘I hadn’t brought it up so far because I want the gardens to be the only priority. But down the road, that’s what I might do.’ She smiled. ‘Providing you haven’t spent all my money by that time, Lawrence.’

  ‘Did you have a garden back home?’

  ‘I did. A tiny one, at the house I rented on a big piece of property not too far from the winery. I grew mostly herbs and perennials, a few roses, too—some climbers. Mediterranean, I suppose you’d call it.’ She grinned. ‘Stuff that’s hard to kill.’

  ‘It sounds delightful. I envy you that weather.’

  ‘Like they say, the grass is always greener—’

  ‘Which usually means the water bill is higher.’

  She chuckled. ‘How true. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve prayed for rain during our endless summers. ’

  They fell silent as the waiter arrived to take away the plates, topping up their glasses before making a polite exit.

  ‘What do the folks back home think of all your good fortune? Your friends?’

  He couldn’t miss the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. She looked away and then, as quickly, back to him. ‘My parents died quite a while ago,’ she replied softly. ‘Nearly seven years.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, glancing down at the tablecloth for a moment to give her pause to reflect. There was no point in telling her that he knew already, that Latimer had told him. He looked up at her.

  ‘No, it’s okay. It took a long time but I’m fine talking about them now.’

  ‘I know how it is, Jamie.’Aware that it would come across as an empty platitude he found himself saying it anyway, if for no other reason than to fill the void: ‘I lost my wife ten years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lawrence,’ she said. She toyed with her wineglass, looking into it as she spoke, her voice now more upbeat. ‘They were killed in a plane crash. My dad’s Cessna. They went down in a snowstorm in the Sierras. It was a crushing irony, because they were on their way back from Lake Tahoe. They’d spent the weekend there celebrating their anniversary. It was one of their favourite places.’ She looked at him with a fragile smile and eyes that tried desperately but couldn’t hide her love and her sorrow. ‘My dad fancied himself as a poker player,’ she added.

  ‘How terribly sad.’ Kingston shifted in his seat, thinking a change of subject might be prudent. But she went on talking about them for another minute or so. He learned that her mother met Jamie’s dad-to-be—Warren Arthur Gibson, nickname, Wag—in San Francisco. At the time he was vice president of a wine-importing company, her mother, a private secretary for Bechtel, the international engineering company. Within a year they married and Jamie was born the following year.

  The waiter reappeared with their main courses.

  ‘As for friends,’said Jamie, ‘I keep in touch with Todd and Suzanne Hargrove on a fairly regular basis. I’m in touch with other friends, mostly by e-mail, and once in a while, when I get really homesick, I’ll pick up the phone. Matter of fact, Matthew, one of the guys I worked with—neat guy, you’ll like him—may come over in a couple of months. He’s got three weeks’vacation due.’ She smiled. ‘I told him we were a little short on rooms but we’d fix him up somehow.’

  ‘Is he in for a surprise.’

  For several moments they ate in companionable silence.

  ‘I forgot to ask you,’ said Jamie, giving him a questioning look. ‘Did you get to talk with Jack yet?’

  Kingston shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. He didn’t show up for work this morning.’

  ‘No phone call?’

  ‘No. I tried calling him a couple of times but either he’s not answering the phone or he’s not home. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I’ll go over and find out what’s going on.’

  Jamie talked a little more about growing up in San Francisco and her time at U.C. Davis where she was on the tennis and soccer teams. But her next question was transparently shaped to steer the conversation in a new direction. She looked up from her plate and said, ‘Do you have any children, Lawrence?’

  Kingston welcomed the question, always eager to talk about his daughter. ‘Yes, a daughter, Julie. She lives in Seattle, works for Bill Gates—Microsoft. I’ve no idea exactly what it is she does but he pays her a small fortune, so I know it’s important,’ he said, with a quick smile.

  ‘Do you get to see her at all?’

  ‘Nowhere near enough but I’ve been over three times and she’s been back here once. I’m eternally grateful for e-mail. We talk on the phone every once in a while, of course.’

  Over dessert and coffee, Kingston did most of the talking. He spoke at length about his life in London, how he passed his time, and talked openly about his past. Jamie listened with keen interest as he described his work at the University of Edinburgh, where he had held the lofty position of Professor of the Institute of Cell Molecular Biology, and his eventual and reluctant retirement. He also told Jamie about his wife Megan, who had been killed in a boating accident on a lake in Switzerland, and the bleak and lonely years that followed, adjusting to and accepting life as a bachelor. He had lived in his Chelsea flat since he retired, quietly for the most part and on the whole, happily.

  After a long wait—the wai
ter had already apologized twice—the bill arrived. Kingston put on his glasses and gave it a cursory glance, reaching in his wallet for his credit card. Jamie averted her eyes, drinking what little was left of her coffee.

  ‘I meant to ask you,’ she said. ‘Did you have any problems in that storm last night? No leaks, or anything? We hardly ever get storms like that back home. I don’t mind admitting, that first crash of thunder scared the hell out of me.’

  He was grateful for the opening. Now telling her about the prowler might not make him come across as alarmist. At least, he could ease into it.

  ‘No, everything was fine,’ he answered, looking up. ‘The curtains got soaked because, foolishly, I left a window open. But otherwise, fine.’ He was about to bring up the incident but before he could get out a word she interrupted.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wondered about thatched roofs. They seem awfully primitive. ’

  ‘Primitive, maybe, but damned good. A good thatch will last at least fifty to sixty years, maybe longer.’

  ‘Really?’

  Kingston decided to give it a second go. ‘There was something else that happened last night. I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.’

  Jamie frowned. ‘Worry me?’

  ‘Well, not so much worry you, but have you think I might be making too much of what was probably a trifling matter.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Lawrence? A trifling matter? ’

  ‘Well, when I got up to close the window, I saw somebody outside. I just caught a glimpse of him.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t be certain. It was really dark. And the far-off flash of lightning lasted only a matter of seconds.’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I asked China but he said he slept through it, if you can imagine.’ He hesitated. ‘Whoever it was, was dressed like a monk.’

  ‘Are you serious? A monk?’

  ‘I’m sure I wasn’t mistaken.’

  ‘It was probably one of those hooded sweaters. A lot of young men wear them these days.’

  ‘It could have been. But the important question is who would be snooping around in pouring rain in the early hours of the morning and why?’

  Looking perplexed, Jamie pondered the question. ‘I don’t like the sound of it. I’ve always felt perfectly safe alone in the house, particularly since you’ve been here, but the idea of a prowler is a bit scary. Don’t you think we should report it?’

  ‘It might not be a bad idea. I’ll give the police a call in the morning.’

  They left the White Swan at nine fifteen.

  Back at Wickersham, under a crescent moon and hurrying clouds, Kingston said goodnight to Jamie at the front door of the house and walked to his cottage. Inserting his key in the lock, he was surprised to find the door already open. An uneasy feeling came over him as he pushed the door ajar and paused before entering the darkened room. Something was not right. He reached for the light switch and turned it on. ‘Good God!’ he gasped. ‘What in hell’s name …’

  The room was a shambles. Desk and bureau drawers had been pulled out, emptied, and thrown across the room. The wingback chair was on its side. His records, papers and books littered the floor.

  He went across the room, picked up the phone and called Jamie, then called the police. In less than two minutes she was there. After surveying the mess and speculating on who could have done it, Jamie accepted Kingston’s offer of a nightcap and they sat amidst the shambles in the small living room; he with a Macallan and she with a glass of dry sherry—the only other drink he had to offer without opening a bottle of wine.

  ‘I don’t think the police are going to learn much tomorrow, ’ said Kingston.

  ‘You’ve no idea what they could have been looking for?’

  Kingston shook his head. ‘I don’t, Jamie. Question is—why didn’t they take my camera or the sound system—or that little carriage clock up there,’ he said nodding to the mantel, ‘the things that are easily sold? They were all in full view. This obviously wasn’t your common or garden break-in.’

  ‘You think this has something to do with the paintings, don’t you?’

  Kingston didn’t answer right away. ‘I don’t think we can rule it out altogether, Jamie. You have to admit the possibility. ’

  They talked for another half-hour. At eleven fifteen Kingston walked Jamie back to the house, making sure that she was safely inside before returning to the cottage. He stayed up another ten minutes, pondering the break-in, before turning in.

  By ten the next morning Kingston had made a rough inventory. Most important among the missing items were the two Wickersham history books and one of the garden record books loaned by Ferguson. Also stolen were several folders containing plans, maps and other documents relating to the house and the estate. More perplexing, one item was replaced. The key to the chapel was back in its rightful place on the hall rack.

  Chapter Ten

  Responding to Kingston’s phone call reporting the theft, Sergeant Eldridge and a policewoman showed up the following morning and questioned him about the incident. With scant information, other than a description of the prowler, which Kingston reported to Eldridge, and no suspects that Kingston could think of, the interview was brief.

  By the time Kingston arrived in the village of Little Charrington, the earlier showers had given way to cool and blustery weather. At the post office, a cubicle not much roomier than a phone box wedged in a far corner of the newsagent’s, he got directions to Briary Avenue, where Jack Harris lived.

  There were only a dozen or so houses on the short street, so finding number 12, the house that Jack rented, was easy. In any case, ahead on his right, he could already see Jack’s red Toyota pickup parked alongside the kerb. A good sign, it signalled that his journey hadn’t been a waste of time. Pulling up behind the pickup, he turned off the engine and was unbuckling his seatbelt when the front door to number 12 opened. A stocky man wearing a leather jacket emerged, closing the door behind him. Kingston watched as the man walked the short path to the open garden gate and then to his car, a silver BMW. By the time Kingston had stepped from his car, the BMW had disappeared round the corner.

  Kingston rang the doorbell and waited. Right after a second ring, the door cracked open not more than six inches. Kingston could see part of Jack’s face and a dark bruise on his cheekbone. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’ Kingston asked. ‘We’re all worried about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jack replied. ‘Just been laid up for a couple of days, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sick? What happened?’

  ‘Fell off the bloody bike.’ Jack blinked and looked away, only for a second or so, but enough to tell Kingston that he was almost certainly lying. Even if he weren’t, something wasn’t quite right or Jack would have asked him in.

  ‘Is there anything I can do? Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, really. I’ll be back to work in a couple of days if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘I’m worried about you, Jack, not the work. That bruise looks pretty nasty.’

  ‘Look, Lawrence, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I was pretty shaken up.’ He licked his lips. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He started to ease the door closed. ‘Like I said, I’ll be back on Monday.’

  Kingston was left no choice, he could hardly barge his way in. Even if he did, what could he expect to find? ‘All right, Jack. You take care—and do me a favour. Save me the trouble of driving all the way up here and answer your damned phone from now on, will you?’ For a split second he glanced past Jack into the shadows of the hallway and noticed a coat rack. The top garment was a grey sweatshirt. It had a hood.

  ‘Yeah, okay. I will.’ With that, Jack slowly closed the door and the latch clicked shut.

  True to his word, Jack showed up for work on Monday morning at eight thirty. There was no hiding the bruises,
which were worse than Kingston expected. Right off, the men started ragging him. ‘Run into Mike Tyson, did yer?’ ‘What does the other guy look like?’ But Jack stuck to his story about falling off his bike. It seemed a credible explanation.

  At the end of the afternoon, just before Jack was leaving, Kingston asked him if he could have a word. They sat down together in the workshop, each with a beer from the small refrigerator Jamie had insisted on installing.

  Kingston took a draught of beer, wiping the foam from his lip. ‘So, what’s going on, Jack?’ he asked.

  Jack, who was drinking from the bottle, took his time answering. ‘It was just like I told you. Dumb as it may sound, I took a header off the bike.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. What I’m talking about is your being up at the chapel and asking Jamie Gibson if she could loan you money.’

  Jack’s eyes darted around the room for a couple of seconds. ‘Yep, I did ask her. Soon as I’d done it, I knew it might have been a mistake.’ He paused, his eyes finally meeting Kingston’s. ‘I assumed she had more money than she knew what to do with. Why not?’

  ‘Why did you need the money?’

  ‘It was like I told her. I’ve been getting behind in my card payments—you know, the penalties and the interest an’ all—things were starting to add up. They were going to pull my card.’

  ‘I see.’ Kingston took another sip of the Bass ale. ‘Tell me, what did you expect to find at the chapel?’

  ‘To find?’

  ‘Yes. What were you looking for?’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘You told me you were just trying to help, to see if there was another way into the chapel. Wouldn’t the logical thing have been to ask me first?’

  Jack looked uneasy. When he picked up his beer bottle, Kingston noticed the slightest tremble in his hand. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied.

  ‘Perhaps you were looking for yourself?’

  Jack shook his head.