Seeing him, Jamie looked up from the pad on her lap and put the ballpoint pen on the table by her side. ‘Hello, Lawrence. Looks like you had a good day?’
He sat down facing her. ‘I did, very good, in fact. At long last, I think I have a final list of the roses. Went over it today with Sherratt’s. There’s a couple that they might have to hunt around for but they don’t see any problems in getting the rest.’ He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, which were tired after the long drive with the sun in his face most of the way. ‘How about you?’
‘Not much to report.’ She took a sip of water from the plastic bottle, which Kingston found a little unrefined despite the fact that he knew most young people nowadays drank their water and beer that way.
‘Oh, I almost forgot, your fellow Loftus called. That’s quite an accent. He left a number.’ She leafed through the pad on her lap and tore off a sheet. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. He couldn’t help noticing the indifference in her voice. ‘Said he was up at his sister’s in Nottingham.’
Kingston glanced absently at the number. ‘Hmm. Did he say what it was about?’
‘No, just to call him.’
They were interrupted by Dot, who wanted to ask Jamie a question about laundry. The conversation was brief and soon Dot went on her way.
‘Her usual vivacious self,’ Kingston muttered.
‘Be nice, Lawrence. We can’t all be Miss Congeniality.’ Jamie got up from the chair and for a moment it looked as if she was about to say something; instead, she looked away, out to the lawns. When she turned back to Kingston, her face had taken on a serious air. Not pensive or the wrinkled-brow sort but the kind of expression that foreshadows a statement of some consequence. He’d seen it before.
‘Lawrence,’ she said, sitting down to face him. ‘I won’t beat around the bush. I’ve decided that all this business of yours digging into Ryder’s past has got to stop.’
‘But, Jamie—’
She raised a hand, palm facing him. ‘Let me just finish, please. When you and I talked earlier, I told you how I felt about your prying into the past and how it was starting to affect me. I know at the time I agreed to your meeting with Loftus mostly because it was a done deal on your part. But to tell the truth, I thought—hoped, rather—that it would lead to a dead end. That it would all eventually go away. But by the looks of it, it clearly hasn’t.’
Kingston listened, like a schoolboy having his privileges withdrawn. He knew when silence was well advised.
‘First, the body in the well, then the theft, and now this hang-up of yours about Ryder. I realize that these events are not necessarily connected in any way, much as you might want them to be, but they’re all very serious, scary, in fact. I have this horrible feeling that if we—you, that is—keep digging deeper and deeper, we might uncover things that are best left alone, things that we will come to regret.’
It was the first time Kingston had seen Jamie lose her composure. Biting her lip, she looked away from him. He thought it best, for a moment anyway, to hold his tongue.
At last, she looked back at him, the resentfulness gone, her eyes wistful. ‘What I’m trying to say, Lawrence, is that we are creating something very special here and I want it to continue that way. When you decide that the gardens are ready, it’s my plan to open them to the public, like all the big gardens. Not so much for the money—although I hope that they eventually become self-sufficient—but purely to provide pleasure. I think that gardens should be treated like the paintings that hang in museums. Everyone should be able to see and enjoy them, preferably for free. Gardens even more so than paintings because gardens are a true gift of nature.’ She cast her eyes to her lap, gently kneading her hands. ‘Lawrence, I want you to understand where I’m coming from. If, for whatever reason, I were to lose all this, I’d be sad and disappointed for one reason only, and that is not being able to finish what we’re doing here.’ She made an attempt at a chuckle, looking up at him again. ‘It’s funny, I don’t think I’ll really miss being filthy rich. You’ve come to know me, at least a little, and I’m sure you must have concluded by now that it’s not money that motivates me.’ She gave barest hint of a smile. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you to give up your deerstalker, Lawrence, but from now on you’re going to have leave all that stuff to Chief Inspector Chadwick.’
While he had been listening Kingston had also been trying to come up with some kind of response. He knew, of course, that he had little or no choice in the matter. In retrospect, perhaps he had stepped a few paces over the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, given that he was, after all, being paid to do a job. But he was also ready to give himself the benefit of the doubt inasmuch that his principal concern all along—allowing for his admitted propensity for meddling, trying to solve other people’s problems—had been for Jamie’s interests. He certainly didn’t want to let his disappointment show. If he were to admit the truth, he wasn’t really getting very far with his investigations anyway—with the exception of Ferguson’s recent information. He had planned to tell Jamie about that conversation today but it hardly seemed prudent to bring it up now.
Kingston regarded her, as she sat down and took another sip of water. Her face showed no signs of emotion. After the long silence, he spoke. ‘Jamie, I understand fully and I’m sorry. I suppose it was insensitive of me in the first place to get involved with your personal affairs but you must know that it was all done for your sake. But I can see the down side and agree with you.’ He looked past her, out of the tall windows at the failing light. ‘I agree that there is the possibility—though slim, I would think—that further examination of Ryder’s background could result in dredging up something that we least expect, as you say, something we might regret. And if that were to affect you adversely, I would never forgive myself.’ Kingston turned back to her, got up and smiled. ‘So, that said, I promise to hand the case over to Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick from now on and turn my full attention to the gardens.’ He scratched his chin, thinking. ‘I should go and return Loftus’s call though, purely as a courtesy, of course.’
Jamie responded with a faint smile, nodded and watched as he left the room.
In the cottage, ten minutes later, Kingston reached Loftus.
‘Nice to hear from you, doctor,’ he said, his tinny voice sounding even worse on the bad line.
‘How do you like Nottingham?’ Kingston asked, immediately regretting it. He hoped the innocent question wouldn’t set Loftus off on a five-minute dissertation on his sister’s medical history.
Luckily Loftus wasn’t in one of his talkative moods. ‘Very nice,’he replied. ‘Don’t miss the Smoke one bit.’
‘Jamie said you wanted to talk to me.’
‘Right. I came across something you might be interested in. Gladys, me sister, bought me some new scrapbooks and I’ve been sortin’ through all my photos. Anyway, I came across one of Sergeant Kershaw with his arm round that young soldier friend of his. The one whose name I couldn’t remember. Wondered if you’d like it.’
‘I would,’said Kingston. ‘Very much.’
‘Right then, I’ll pop it in the post.’
They chatted for a bit, said their goodbyes and Kingston put down the phone.
Two days later he received Loftus’s photo and a scribbled note. He put the note, which was almost indecipherable, aside for a moment and studied the two-by-four photo then flipped it over. On the yellowing back, in scratchy pencil, were the words, Jeremy and Kit—July 22nd 1944. Turning it over he looked at the photo again. The two smiling soldiers were in an off-duty moment, with rolled-up shirtsleeves, braces and wearing no hats. From Loftus’s description, it was immediately apparent which one was Kit. Shorter by several inches, he had close-cropped hair and next to Kershaw, whose face looked fit and tanned, Kit’s face looked a ghostly white, his eyes dark and sunken. Kingston put the photo down and continued to stare at it, Kit’s eyes staring back at him. His mind was a blank. It was another dead end. Now he knew what
Kit looked like but that wasn’t of much help. Recalling his promise to Jamie, he put the photo back in its envelope and, with considerable difficulty, deciphered the note.
Dear Doc,
It was a treat chatting with you. Hope we can meet again some day. Sorry I still can’t remember Kit’s last name. If you’re up in Nottingham any time, give me a jingle. Yours truly, Art Loftus.
Underneath was a PS.
For what it’s worth, I did remember one other thing. Just before we surrendered Kershaw took a Jerry bullet. It was nasty but as you know, he eventually pulled through okay.
Chapter Thirteen
The planning, logistics, cataloguing and physical demands of re-creating the gardens at Wickersham were now reaching a feverish pitch. Every day there were a hundred decisions to be weighed and made. Every week, more purchasing, research, experimentation, meetings to be attended and new permits to be filed, not to mention the demanding physical labour expected of everybody—Kingston included, every once in a while. Then there were the mistakes and minor disasters—not many, but each cost valuable time and manpower.
For reasons unknown, it was the reclaiming of the vegetable garden that attracted the greatest number of visiting observers from the village and neighboring hamlets. Wickersham, like it or not, was in the public eye and while Kingston frequently took the time to chat with them once in a while, to tell them what was being constructed and planted, he encouraged his workers not to be sidetracked by the inquisitive lookers-on.
The one plus-acre partially walled and hedged plot, had taken much longer to establish than any of them had anticipated. Like other parts of the garden it was hopelessly overgrown with ceiling-high brambles and volunteer shrubs and trees. The once tightly clipped boundary hedge on one side had reverted to form and was reaching up to the sky and invading the garden by a dozen feet or so. The coniferous hedge on another side had done likewise, casting shade on a large area that would need full sun. The bramble was finally cleared to reveal what was once a network of pathways. Very little remained of the row of apple trees that once lined the central path through the vegetable garden. A picture showing them that Jamie had found in one of the library books would help them re-create the charming effect. Better luck came with the unearthing of several iron arches once used to straddle another pathway. Despite their state of disrepair, they were eventually rehabilitated and painted shiny black with the help of a local smithy, reassuming their original role in the garden design.
With all the debris cleared, the entire area, save what was left of the paths, was ploughed by tractor after which the roots and other debris were laboriously removed by hand. Replacement of the paths was the next task. Traces of the original paths were still visible in some places but they had to be reconstructed entirely from scratch. This required the importation of truckloads of road base, an aggregate type material put down and rolled ready for the finish gravel or decomposed granite top surface. The paths divided the vegetable garden into four huge squares, allowing planting on a four-year crop rotation, each square representing one year of the rotation. This is done in order to nurture the soil and mitigate diseases that can lurk in the soil from one year to another. In addition to the paths, more important in fact, was the laying of new water pipes, drainage runs and ducting that would irrigate and drain the garden.
Eric Newsome, an estate gardener with four decades of experience, was brought in to finalize the layout, select the seeds and plant the garden. Eric had amassed a collection of seed catalogues and was ordering from sources all over the country. Not only vegetables but fruits, too. A bed along one side of the interior wall was double-dug with manure and ready to plant the apple and pear trees that would be espaliered along its fifty-foot length. Cages were ready for the soft fruit planting. Having no seed or plant lists, other than the information provided in Ferguson’s books, it was not possible to stay true to historical precedents where vegetable and fruit varieties were concerned. Nevertheless, if the vegetable garden was to be a productive garden, cultivated for the quality and taste of its edibles, and not simply a token showpiece, then Eric maintained it was imperative that older varieties, with their much more distinctive flavor, would be grown exclusively. Bed after bed, some half the length of a football field, were double-dug and a mountain of manure and amendments worked in to enrich the soil. Soon regimental rows of raised mounds, frames for climbing beans and peas would transform the space ready for intensive cultivation. In some rows, allowances had been made for companion planting. These wide swaths of flowers and herbs would add a welcome jumble of color to the otherwise uniform green ranks, some helping to ward off pests. Sweet William, marigolds, cosmos, chrysanthemum, comfrey and borage were among those already picked out. Before planting started, a healthy application of Eric’s age-old recipe for comfrey tea would, according to him, help discourage disease.
Kingston’s aim was to make the vegetable, fruit and flower garden the same model of self-sufficiency and responsible environmental and ecological agricultural practices, as had been the case with the original gardens.
Kingston sat in the reception area of the police station at Upper High Street in Shuttern, leafing through a six-month-old copy of Top Gear. He was waiting to see Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick. Three days earlier he had called the inspector, saying that he would be in Taunton today and asking if he could stop by for a brief visit. Without asking what it was about, Chadwick had readily agreed to see him. With Jamie’s recent dictum, Kingston was left with no choice. He now had to tell Chadwick about his aborted investigation into Ryder’s past and of Loftus’s revelations. He was still perplexed as to whether the events of that day almost sixty years ago had any bearing on Jamie’s inheritance but had a gut feeling that they were connected in some way.
Sitting waiting for Chadwick, he was beginning to think his visit might be a bit premature, that he should have waited until he had more solid information linking Ryder to Jamie. It was too late for that now, though. All he could hope for was that Chadwick wouldn’t think of his investigative efforts as being frivolous and send him on his way with an indulgent pat on the back. The more he thought about it the more he realized that he had little or no case. An experienced police officer would see that right away. As the thought was crossing his mind, the desk sergeant called his name.
In casual clothes, with his sleeves rolled up, Chadwick looked as if he had just come in from mowing the lawn. Mid-fifties, Kingston guessed. He had a high shiny forehead that sloped up to a receding hairline, kindly but tired grey eyes with dark bags that could be the result of lots of late night reading or off-hours spent in the company of Johnnie Walker. He looked more like a teacher than a copper.
‘So, how’s it going up at Wickersham, doctor?’The swivel chair squeaked as Chadwick leaned back in it. ‘Haven’t dug up any more bones, I hope?’
‘Slower than we’d all like, but very well, thanks,’ Kingston answered with a smile. ‘No more bones, thank goodness.’
‘Did those stolen books and papers ever show up? Eldridge told me about them.’
‘No. I think we can kiss those goodbye.’
‘Can’t imagine what use they could be to anyone. That’s the odd thing.’
The phone on the cluttered desk rang. Chadwick picked it up and had a brief conversation, then hung up. ‘Anything more on Ryder?’ he asked.
‘Well, yes, in a way. That’s why I’m here, in fact.’ Chadwick appeared content to sit back and listen, so Kingston went on. ‘This may sound a little Holmesian, but I’ve been conducting an investigation of sorts into Major Ryder’s background.’
‘Really? Can I ask why?’
‘I should say was. I was doing it for Jamie Gibson’s benefit, thinking she would be curious to know why Ryder left her his estate—what the connection was. But it appears that she’s opposed to resurrecting the past and has asked me, in no uncertain terms, to knock it off.’
‘What have you found out so far, then?’
For
the next five minutes Kingston proceeded to tell Chadwick of his correspondence with the Army Personnel Centre and his meeting with Loftus and about the incident with Kershaw and the young deserting soldier. When he was finished, Chadwick studied him, taking his time, thinking.
‘So,’ he said, at length, ‘have you come to any conclusions on all this?’
‘Nothing definitive, no. I thought the logical next step would be to find out more about the sergeant, Kershaw, discover what happened to him when he was released from prison, see where that led, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question now—well, for me, that is.’
‘No wild guesses?’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, my first take—and mind you, this is all predicated on Loftus’s account—was that Kershaw, having been unjustly incarcerated for twenty years because Ryder lied at the court martial, plans revenge. After serving out his term he tracks Ryder down and—by design or accident—kills him and dumps the body down the well.’
Chadwick’s answer was forthright but friendly. ‘Quite a few problems there, old chap.’
‘I know,’ Kingston replied. ‘I did say it was my first theory. But you’re right, the biggest problem being that if those bones are indeed Ryder’s, it means that Kershaw, or someone else, managed to pull off the identity switch of all time, continuing to live at Wickersham posing as Ryder.’
‘It’s asking a lot,’ said Chadwick. ‘Housekeeper, gardener probably, tradespeople, his lawyer, doctor, dentist—they would all have to be hoodwinked. Then there’s the time frame. When did Kershaw get out of prison?’
EG02 - The Lost Gardens Page 13
