EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘What was the cause of death?’ Kingston asked.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ Chadwick replied. ‘There were a number of contusions around the head and on the hands and wrists, suggesting that he was warding off an assault of some kind, but according to the medical examiner some of those were caused earlier.’

  Kingston nodded. ‘Yes, he had bruises on his face the other week. Swore he’d got them falling off his motorbike. I’d give you even money he was lying, though.’

  Chadwick leaned forward. ‘When was that, doctor?’

  Kingston told Chadwick about Jack not showing up for work and his visit to Jack’s house. ‘He did return to work the following Monday, though,’ said Kingston. ‘I know he was here last Friday. He took off early as a matter of fact.’

  Chadwick got up from the sofa. ‘Anything else?

  ‘There was, actually,’said Jamie, giving Kingston a sideways glance first. ‘He wanted me to loan him some money. Said he was strung out on his credit cards.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds.’

  ‘Hmm—not exactly small change. We’ll soon find out, though, if that’s the real reason why he wanted the money.’

  Chadwick didn’t stay long. He asked again about the stolen books and papers, Kingston telling him that none had turned up. Standing in the courtyard, the talk was mostly about progress on the restoration project. Kingston dutifully answered a question from the inspector about using Epsom salts to feed roses. Before getting in his car, Chadwick cautioned them to make sure that their security devices were all in good order and to be vigilant. They were experiencing a higher than usual incidence of burglary and break-ins, he said. Kingston’s mind flashed to the hooded figure then to his ransacked cottage. ‘Now he tells us,’ Kingston said aside to Jamie as Chadwick was closing the car door.

  Back in the living room, ensconced in his favourite wingback, Kingston shook his head and scoffed, ‘Security devices? I suppose that’s police talk for locks and bolts.’

  ‘Phew! Poor Jack,’ Jamie exclaimed. ‘What a horrible thing to happen.’ She faked a shiver. ‘I hope to God it wasn’t murder.’

  ‘Me, too, but from what Chadwick was saying, it doesn’t sound as if he’s ruling it out.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Who knows? You said that he was badly in debt. Maybe they were gambling debts, not credit cards.’

  Kingston crossed his legs and looked in Jamie’s direction but not at her. ‘There could be another explanation,’ he said, talking to himself. ‘But the question is, how?’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Lawrence? That there might be another explanation for Jack’s death?’

  ‘Possibly. You know, more and more I get the feeling that all these strange goings on here are connected in some way.’

  ‘What, you mean the theft and the skeleton?’

  ‘Ryder, too—even the paintings. I grant you it’s hard to see any connections and I know we’ve been over all this before but—’

  ‘Come on, Lawrence, certainly not between Ryder and Jack. There’s no way they could have known each other, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s all in Chadwick’s hands now—isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded.

  ‘Then there’s not much point in our losing sleep over it.’ Kingston sat with his chin resting on his fist, looking off into space. After a few moments, he looked back at Jamie, tapping his fingers on his forehead. ‘I keep forgetting to tell you about the damned watch. I must be losing it.’

  ‘What watch?’

  ‘Chadwick told me about it when I saw him at the station. I told you I’d been there. They found a watch in the debris that came up from the well.’

  ‘Bit late telling you now, isn’t it?’

  ‘That was my reaction but it doesn’t make any difference anyway. It turns out the watch belonged to a stranger. Nobody we know, that is.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It had the initials CMA on the back.’

  Jamie was about to say something, then changed her mind and simply shrugged.

  ‘I suppose you don’t happen to know anyone with those initials, do you?’

  She thought for a long moment then shook her head. ‘Nobody comes to mind right away. I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘It was quite an old watch, so there is the possibility that it could have been purchased second hand.’

  ‘If it was, then the initials would have no connection whatsoever to the wearer.’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, it was American, a Hamilton. So Chadwick is probably right. He doesn’t think it’s going to tell us anything.’

  A lengthy silence followed, then Kingston got up from his chair. ‘About the paintings. I meant to ask you, Jamie. Did you hear any more from that chap?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wasn’t really expecting to.’

  ‘You still don’t believe him, then?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘You told me the man was convinced that the paintings were here, somewhere, didn’t you? Isn’t that why I turned this place upside down?’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence,’ she said, clearly trying to hold back a smile, ‘but that was all your idea, not mine. I told you so at the time.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘I grant you it’s possible that they could have been here at one time, way back when Ryder was still involved with the dealer in Paris, but I’ll bet you anything that those paintings are long gone. Besides, if whatever his name—’

  ‘Fox or the Frenchman?’

  ‘Both of them. If they knew the paintings were here, and if they’re as valuable as Fox claims, don’t you think he’d have been calling us night and day, trying to obtain a search warrant, threatening us with a lawsuit? He would have been doing everything he possibly could to find those pictures. In any case, the first person he would call would be Latimer, surely. And why hasn’t he gone to the police? None of it makes sense.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t, Jamie. That’s the problem.’

  ‘By the way, David agrees with me. He says not to worry about it unless the man makes contact again, which he thinks rather unlikely. If Fox does call again or write, David wants to know right away.’

  With her words hanging in the air, Kingston was getting a strong message that next she would tell him that she didn’t want to hear anything more about the paintings. That, like Ryder, the subject was about to become a closed book. ‘Jamie,’ he said at length, ‘you’re probably right but listen to me, just for a moment. There could be an explanation—a good reason why Fox hasn’t got back to you.’

  Jamie mustered the slightest of smiles. ‘Somehow I knew you might have one, Lawrence,’ she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘Okay, what’s the reason?’

  ‘Well, we know that Ryder was in Paris after the war, which squares with Fox’s story about Girard working with Ryder, the two of them dealing in art. And anyone with an interest in art—paintings particularly—knows that prior to and during the war years, the Nazis misappropriated—looted might be a better word—vast numbers of paintings and works of art from individuals and private collections.’

  Jamie was looking at him like a blasé student at a required lecture. At least she hadn’t interrupted. Not wanting to give her the chance, he quickly followed up.

  ‘There came a time, towards the end and after the war, when the fleeing Nazis started to unload a lot of these paintings. Possession meant culpability and the works of art could become a liability. As a result, many of them were sold to dealers and were put back on the market, in Paris, Zurich and other European cities.’ Kingston was up and pacing now, clearly back in the old professorial groove. ‘In short, Jamie, what I’m suggesting is that the paintings that Girard is trying to locate could be stolen. That would explain why Fox was vague about them. He had to be. Surely, Girard would know the paintings intimately. He would know the artist, the subject, th
e size—all of that. No. Fox didn’t tell you all this because he didn’t want you to know how valuable the paintings really are. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were French Impressionist paintings. If that’s the case, they could be worth a bloody fortune. And that’s why you haven’t heard from him. But I have a feeling you will.’

  Already, Jamie was shaking her head and smiling. ‘You make it all sound like a movie, Lawrence. Look, I don’t want to be the one to pick holes in your thesis. And maybe there aren’t any but you seem to find the most illogical and convoluted answers to all these things. I know this whole paintings business sounds fishy but you have to admit that there might be perfectly normal explanations for all of these happenings. The man could be telling the truth. Or what he thinks is the truth. After all, he’s learned it all second hand from the Frenchman. If I were you, I’d forget all about it. If you want my opinion, I’d say we’ve seen the last of Fox.’

  Kingston returned to his chair, trying not to look too crestfallen. The jury had given its verdict before he could finish his summing-up. He knew that there would never be a better time to tell her than now. He tried to sound as detached as possible. ‘Jamie, I had a brief conversation with a lady from an organization called the Art Loss Register a while back. They have a large database of stolen art and I would imagine other records concerning specific paintings and the names of dealers and galleries involved in the exchange of artworks in the late forties and after.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d like to meet her and ask a few questions. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, of course. It’s a subject that fascinates me.’

  Jamie was smiling again. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you want to find out if Ryder was dealing in stolen art? Right?’

  ‘No, not necessarily. I want to find out if Ryder was, indeed, the guardian of those paintings that Fox is so interested in and, if so, whether they could still be here. At the least, it might corroborate the fact that the paintings in question are a lot more valuable than he would have us believe.’

  Jamie got up from her chair and made to leave. ‘If it makes you happy, go ahead, Lawrence.’ At the door, she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get to understand you Englishmen,’ she said, with an indulgent smile. With that, she left the room.

  Kingston sat staring at the polished surface of the end table. The best part was that she hadn’t said no. Nevertheless, he knew that, as far as his detective work was concerned, this was doubtless the last concession she was going to make. Anything much beyond this would be to risk alienating her and that was the very last thing he intended to do. He very much wanted her as a partner and even more, as a friend.

  He got up and headed for the kitchen to look for Jamie to tell her he was going back to the cottage. When he entered, she had her nose in a cookbook.

  ‘Well, I’m off,’he said.

  She looked up. ‘All right. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She turned away for a second. ‘I still can’t get over Jack.’

  ‘Try to forget it, Jamie. Think about roses instead. Tomorrow, we can go over my ideas for the rose garden, if you like.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said, returning to the book. ‘Thought I’d take a stab at making Cioppino tomorrow night.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Kingston, his hand on the brass doorknob. ‘What’s that? Sounds Italian.’

  ‘American, actually. It’s kind of a fish and shellfish stew.’

  ‘Sounds like bouillabaisse.’

  ‘It’s similar. Cioppino’s a true San Francisco dish. It came from the old American-Italian fishermen. My dad loved it.’

  ‘Why don’t you have Dot make it?’

  ‘I could. But I enjoy cooking once in a while. It satisfies my creative urges. I did it all the time at home.’

  ‘Maybe I can come up with a good red. Anything you might suggest?’

  ‘A nice Burgundy would work—and some French bread. I don’t suppose you can get a good sourdough here, can you?’

  ‘I doubt it. In London, but not down here—at least, I wouldn’t think so. I’ll call around, though.’

  Kingston said goodnight and left for the cottage. Entering the small living room he could see the red light flashing on the answering machine. He walked over and pressed the Message button.

  ‘It’s Andrew, Lawrence. I’ve got some bad news. Your flat’s been broken into. Bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I called the police and they came over right away. But obviously we can’t tell if anything’s been stolen. Good news is that, as far as I can tell, they didn’t take any of your rugs or the new telly or any of the paintings. By the way everything was turned upside down, the police think they were looking for money, jewellery, that sort of thing. You’d better come as soon as you can, though. I’ll keep an eye on things till you get here. Call me—cheers.’

  Kingston sat down on the sofa. ‘Jesus, what next,’he said under his breath. He picked up the phone and dialled Jamie’s number.

  ‘You’d better hold off on the Cioppino, Jamie—for me anyway,’ he said, when she answered. Then he told her what had happened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With Andrew’s help, Kingston spent the next two days sorting through his flat. Andrew’s ‘bit of a mess’ was the understatement of the year. A cyclone passing through might have wreaked less havoc. As he went about picking up the pieces and returning them to their rightful places, throwing away the few things that were broken beyond repair, he began to realize that, as yet, he hadn’t noticed anything missing. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but all the items of value appeared to be intact. He never left money laying around the house and had little or no jewellery to speak of.

  By the middle of the second day, order was more or less restored. A locksmith had replaced the front-door lock and Kingston had phoned the police to report that, as far as he could tell, nothing had been stolen. While he was relieved, he still thought that a burglary with nothing burgled was a bit out of the ordinary. But the policewoman on the phone assured him it wasn’t. Kids looking mostly for money, an interrupted burglary, there could be several explanations. They got hundreds of burglary calls a day, she said.

  Kingston had just put the phone down on Jamie after bringing her up to speed on the situation and telling her that he would be coming back down the next day. He heard the doorbell ring and glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. Andrew was his usual punctual self. Also a bachelor, Andrew was about ten years younger than Kingston and lived mainly for two things—the racetrack and good food. He had made a lunch reservation for the two of them at one o’clock, at Bibendum on the Fulham Road.

  In the living room, Andrew handed Kingston a small brown-paper–wrapped package. ‘Here,’ he said with a grin.

  Knowing Andrew’s twisted sense of humour and expecting the worst, Kingston opened the package. Inside was a box with a picture of a snarling German Shepherd on it. Above the dog’s head was the name Rex.

  ‘What is it?’ Kingston asked.

  Andrew continued grinning. ‘It’s a barking dog alarm. It’s really nifty. It can actually see through walls. The minute it detects a movement it starts barking. It’s radar activated.’

  Kingston laughed, then studied the label. ‘Where on earth do you find these things?’

  Andrew shrugged.

  ‘Well, thanks, you clever old thing. I’ll plug old Rex in before I leave tomorrow.’ He placed the box decorously on the table, rolled the brown-paper wrapping into a tight ball, then looked up at the ceiling. ‘You’d better remind me to forewarn Mrs Badger upstairs, she’ll have a conniption if she thinks I’ve got a dog down here.’

  ‘Oh, and it can make the sound of a siren, if you want,’ said Andrew, looking as pleased as Punch.

  ‘Heaven forbid,’said Kingston.

  Bibendum, in the proto-art-deco Michelin building on the Fulham Road, had its usual high-energy lunchtime buzz. Tables of wine-sipping, well-dressed business types competed with the chirp an
d chatter from isolated drifts of tourists, cranking up a decibel level that was red needling. Settled in at their table, each with a glass of wine, Andrew and Kingston had just finished studying the menu.

  ‘So, what’s this place you’re going to this afternoon?’ Andrew asked, sliding the two menus to the edge of the table.

  ‘The Art Loss Register. It’s been in operation for about fourteen years. They have offices in several cities around the world now.’

  ‘And they track down stolen art?’

  ‘That’s a big part of what they do. Their other function is to locate and return to the rightful owners works of art that were lost or looted during and after the Second World War. I looked them up on the Internet. They have a database of over 150,000 items, all stolen or missing.’

  ‘That’s a lot of loot!’

  ‘I know. It’s been called the most systematic government-supported art robbery in history. The strange thing about it is that many of the stolen items were well documented. Not only was there no attempt to conceal their activities, the Nazis actually kept track of their entire haul on—if you can believe it—index cards that meticulously described each work.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bright,’ said Andrew, trying to catch the waiter’s eye.

  Kingston shrugged. ‘I suppose it didn’t occur to them that they might lose the war and have to give them back one day.’

  The waiter finally arrived and took their orders.

  ‘Where were we?’ asked Kingston, after the waiter had left.

  ‘Keeping records.’

  ‘Right. I read that a typical card of one of the major SS art-plundering outfits would list the name of the piece, its dimensions, the artist’s name, scholarly notes on the significance of the work and sometimes—believe it or not—where and from whom it was stolen. They had lists of paintings from all over Europe and knew exactly where they were, and which ones they wanted.’