EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘That was the reason for my call. I’d like to show it to you. See what you think.’

  ‘Absolutely. Can you hold on a minute?’ After checking his diary, they arranged to meet the coming Monday at noon.

  As Kingston tidied up the kitchen, he was thinking about Chadwick’s visit that afternoon. It was going to be interesting to listen to what he had to say. Somehow he doubted that Chadwick would have come by any more information concerning Jamie’s accident—or, for that matter, Jack’s death. He also pondered the question of how much he should tell Chadwick about the chapel and Ferguson’s assertion that, at one time, underground rooms existed below Wickersham—or if he should mention it at all. He decided to wait and see how the meeting went, what kind of questions Chadwick would ask. Given all the ground to cover, it promised to be a long one.

  It looked like a nice day for a change. The unseasonable heavy rain and cold winds had slowed down outdoor work on the gardens over the last couple of days. He put on his Wellies, leather waistcoat and cap and patted his pocket, making sure he had his keys. He now locked the cottage when he was gone. The key to the chapel no longer hung on the hook in the hall. For safekeeping, it was in a zip-lock bag in the refrigerator. He glanced around the kitchen one more time, walked through the living room, closed the cottage door behind him, and started up the path to the house. Before going up to join the workmen and gardeners, he would see how Jamie was faring.

  At two forty-five, Jamie cast her eyes around the living room. Thanks to China, it looked clean and respectable. There had been a flap earlier when Dot failed to show up for work. It was unexpected because she had told Jamie yesterday that she would be in early, on account of the meeting, to get the place cleaned up and do some baking. It had happened a couple of times before, and on those occasions Dot had eventually phoned, so Jamie wasn’t unduly concerned. China had filled in and done a presentable job, taking it upon himself to clean the kitchen, too.

  Kingston made an appearance just as Jamie was about to leave the room. She told him about Dot, saying she had to go and check on things in the kitchen. After she left, knowing that it was going to be a long session, he commandeered the wingback chair before Chadwick or his sergeant could get it and picked up a copy of Country Life from the pile of magazines on the coffee table. He enjoyed it as much for the property listings in the front pages as anything else. Every time he read them, he found himself gasping at the prices.

  Inspector Chadwick and an attractive redhead he introduced as Detective Sergeant Wendy Lawson, who was taking DS Eldridge’s place, arrived a few minutes before three. Because they had just come from lunch at the Griffin, they declined Jamie’s offer of tea or coffee.

  Chadwick looked as if he had dressed for a dinner date, right down to the polka-dot hanky in his breast pocket. Kingston smiled inwardly; it was for Wendy’s benefit, he was thinking. The four of them sat in a circle of sorts, separated by the coffee table, which Jamie had cleared of magazines and other decorative bits. The DS had a notebook open on her lap.

  ‘So,’said Chadwick. ‘I’ve brought Wendy up to speed on most of what’s been going on up here, including the thoughts you expressed the last time we met, Lawrence.’ He sniffed, rubbing his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘So, to start with, why don’t we go back to the very beginning and work from there. That way, hopefully we won’t miss anything.’

  The DS sat motionless and expressionless, pen at the ready.

  ‘Makes sense,’said Kingston, more to fill the pause than anything.

  Chadwick crossed his legs, carefully adjusting the crease in his trousers. ‘First, the skeleton in the well,’ he said. ‘Not much to report there, I’m afraid. As you both know, the bones are those of a white male in his mid to late forties, approximately five-eleven, indications of healed trauma to the knee and upper tibia. Impossible to tell how long the body was down there. No soft tissue, ligaments, scraps of clothing, jewellery or any other means of identification.’ He nodded towards Kingston. ‘Other than the watch, that is, which I told you about, Lawrence. The body could’ve been there many years according to the pathologist.’

  ‘But no more than sixty-odd years?’said Kingston.

  ‘Right,’ Chadwick nodded. ‘Not before 1936, the year the watch was made.’

  Kingston had decided to let Chadwick rattle on a bit before he told him what Loftus had said about the injury to Kershaw’s knee.

  Jamie shot Kingston a glance. ‘What about dental records, inspector?’

  ‘We’ve been checking all the dentists in a fifty-mile radius. If the body has been down there for, say, less than thirty or so years, the odds are much greater of the forensic odontologist finding a match—if the man was from this area, that is. But so far, nothing.’

  ‘I know this is far-fetched,’ said Jamie, ‘but it’s been suggested that the body may be that of Major Ryder!’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence discussed that possibility with me. Given the enormity of the cover-up—that someone would have to have posed as Ryder for as long as that body’s been down the well—it is highly unlikely.’ He glanced at Kingston. ‘As I recall, I think you had given up on that idea, too, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just not possible.’

  ‘You thought it was more likely the other chap—the other soldier, Kershaw, I believe?’

  Jamie looked puzzled. Kingston knew that this was new ground as far as she was concerned. Earlier, he had told her everything he’d learned from Loftus, but hadn’t mentioned his more recent conversation that reinforced his supposition that the bones in the well were those of Sergeant Kershaw. That is, until he’d learned about the watch. But that by no means squelched his theory entirely.

  Kingston nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I learned something very recently that tends to reinforce that supposition.’

  ‘Really?’said Chadwick. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Before his company was captured Kershaw was wounded.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was shot in the knee.’

  ‘Hence the trauma.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘When did you find this out?’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  Jamie interrupted. She was frowning and clearly bewildered. ‘What’s all this about, Lawrence? Who is this Kershaw man?’

  ‘He was a soldier who fought with Ryder in the war. Loftus told me about him. A day or so before the surviving soldiers were captured by the Germans, Ryder and Kershaw got into a fight and Ryder ended up getting shot by his own gun. Kershaw got twenty years in prison for it.’ He paused, choosing his words. Right now, he didn’t want to get into a long explanation.

  Jamie looked disturbed but said nothing.

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than just that, I’m afraid,’ said Kingston. ‘Perhaps it might be best, to save the inspector’s time, if I tell you the whole story later, Jamie.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m just wondering why you didn’t tell me about all this before, Lawrence?’

  ‘I would have done. In fact, I was planning to but that was about the time you told me you didn’t want me digging any further into Ryder’s past. I thought it best to forget the whole thing.’ He nodded in Chadwick’s direction. ‘That’s when I went to see the inspector—to tell him about my suspicions—what I’d found out from Loftus.’ He looked from Jamie to Chadwick and gestured with open palms. ‘I still don’t know if this has any bearing on what’s been going on here. It’s all speculation, you know.’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Let’s continue, then,’ she said, clearly still confused.

  Chadwick looked distracted and was thinking hard. Kingston’s news about Kershaw’s injury had obviously taken the wind out of his sails. Then he launched into the subject of Jack’s death. There was little to report that they didn’t know already, he said. They had now run out of leads, and still had no idea as to who might have killed him. Items found at the house proved that he was in serious debt, some of
it credit card loans. Other evidence indicated that gambling and drugs were involved. He went on to quiz Kingston and Jamie about Jack’s work habits. What he did in his spare time, which pub he frequented, whether he had friends, relatives, anybody who had visited Wickersham, whether he had quarrelled with any of his workers. After several minutes of questioning, nothing came to light. It was looking as if Jack’s death had nothing to do with Wickersham.

  Next, Chadwick introduced the burglary of Kingston’s London flat.

  ‘I understand nothing was stolen. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s quite a lot of valuable stuff lying around, I might add.’

  ‘So, you think there could have been another reason?’

  ‘I do, despite the fact that the London police didn’t think it so unusual. They gave me several possible reasons why nothing was taken. But I’m more convinced than ever that it was done to get me away from here.’

  Chadwick’s frowned. ‘Plausible, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But why would someone want you off the estate?’

  Kingston saw the question coming. ‘That’s what baffles me, inspector. I’ve no idea.’

  Eventually Chadwick came around to the subject of Jamie’s accident.

  The answer to his first question, whether she knew anyone who might want to harm her, was a quick and emphatic, ‘No.’

  Questions about Jamie’s staff followed. Then, Kingston and Jamie took turns telling Chadwick everything they knew about Mainwaring, Fox and Ferguson—the only people they knew, other than the workers and gardeners, who had any direct connection with Wickersham. As Chadwick questioned them about the three men, the DS was busy, head down, scribbling away.

  A couple of minutes after the hall clock chimed five, Chadwick posed his last question: ‘Anybody you might know back home who could have done it?’

  Kingston shot an ‘I told you so’look at Jamie, who simply shrugged. Then she gave an account of her broken engagement. Soon after that the meeting ended.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Jamie after Chadwick and his DS had departed. The two of them were in the kitchen.

  ‘About what I figured,’said Kingston, taking a bite out of one of Jamie’s cookies. ‘Mmm, these are good.’

  ‘We don’t seem to be much further ahead.’

  ‘It looks that way but then Chadwick’s not going to tell us everything that’s going on. With an ongoing investigation there’re bound to be certain things that they’re not going to divulge.’ He picked up another cookie.

  ‘Take some back to the cottage.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘Lawrence, I’m getting very concerned about Dot. I think we should have mentioned it to the inspector. Perhaps we should still do that, or drive over to her cottage.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit premature. There could be any number of reasons. In any case Chadwick would probably advise waiting for another twenty-four hours before going looking for her.’

  ‘All right, we’ll wait. But if we haven’t heard from her by first thing tomorrow, I’m going to check up on her.’

  Before leaving, Kingston picked up his mail from the hall table. Walking along the path to his cottage, he flipped through the half-dozen or so letters, most of them bills. The second to last had the Art Loss Register logo on the envelope. As he started to open it, there was a loud clap of thunder and it started bucketing down. Stuffing the letters inside his jacket, he started to run up the path. By the time he reached the cottage door, he was drenched. He went inside, shed his jacket and dropped the letters on the coffee table. After taking a moment to wipe his face and towel his hair, he sat down on the sofa, anxious to know what Jennifer Ingels had to say.

  He opened the envelope and took out a cover letter and two follow-up sheets, listing names of individuals and companies. He read the letter.

  Dear Dr Kingston,

  Enclosed is information I have been able to access from our database concerning your recent request.

  On the matter of the art dealer named Girard, our records indicate that a Laurent Girard operated an art gallery on Rue St Dominique, Paris, from 1933 to 1946. Later that year, with a partner, named Jeremy R. Villesgrande, they moved into a larger gallery on Place du Palais-Royale. That gallery closed in 1981. We have no information as to Girard’s whereabouts or whether he is still living, facts that I am sure you should be able to determine given further research.

  Concerning your second request: other persons engaged in the purchase and selling of art in Paris during the years from 1945 to the present day, enclosed you will find a list of individuals and galleries obtained from our records.

  Should you, in the course of your search, come to suspect that any of the art concerned might have been stolen from individuals, collections, galleries or museums, please contact me immediately.

  I hope the information provided helps in your investigation.

  Your truly,

  Jennifer Ingels,

  Public Affairs Director

  Eyes following his forefinger, Kingston read slowly down the list of names typed on each of the two sheets. Ryder’s name was not there. He read them again. Girard’s name and that of his partner, Jeremy Villesgrande, were included but no Ryder. Kingston was confused and disappointed. The date when Villesgrande joined forces with Girard—late 1946—would have been right about the time that Ryder had supposedly joined Girard. Were there, perhaps, three partners? Ryder could have been a sleeping partner, who didn’t want his name associated with the gallery. What other explanations could there be? Kingston stared up at the ceiling, trying to come up with other ideas. Drawing a blank, he put the papers aside, making a mental note to drop Jennifer a note of thanks in the morning.

  Some of Kingston’s most productive hours were those spent on his back. Either on the sofa, at the end of the day—preferably with a glass of Macallan at his elbow—or later at night, in bed just before dozing off. Those were the times, usually with eyes closed, and with no extraneous pressures or distractions, when he did most of his productive thinking—when problems that might have eluded him for days were somehow solved. Now, in another of those moments, he lay on the sofa staring up at the ceiling, head resting on his clasped hands, propped up by one of Jamie’s Laura Ashley brocade pillows. The time would eventually come when his assignment would be over. That didn’t mean that the gardens would be complete. Gardens are never complete. They are, like life itself, always evolving, ever changing, never the same from one day to the next, let alone one season to the next.

  The thought took him back to his lecturing days and his repertoire of anecdotes, quotations, witticisms and jokes—all related to gardens or plants. Propagation: he had at least three anecdotes for that subject. Roses: more than a dozen. Fertilizer, pruning, mulching, soil … you name it, he had just the right saying or joke. One he used frequently had come from a lecture he once gave to a large garden club. Discussing soil amendments, he suggested that aged cow manure was an inexpensive and readily available commodity in most rural areas. Much laughter followed when an elderly, well-dressed lady thrust her hand up and asked how old the cow should be. He smiled at the recollection. All were permanently etched in his mind and he had learned to deliver them with the skill and timing of the best stand-up comic.

  He also recalled, with fondness, a quote from Margery Fish. Reputedly, at an East Lambrook Manor garden party—the now famous Somerset garden that she and her husband created in the late thirties—a visitor asked Margery’s husband when the garden would be finished. ‘Never,’was his reply. Kingston smiled. In years past, before her death, he had spent time with Margery at Lambrook, marvelling at the collection of hardy geraniums and other perennials that tumbled freely over the twisty paths and stone steps of her magical garden.

  When he and Jamie had drawn up their contract, it was mutually agreed that it would be up to him to determine when he felt his services were no longer required on a full-time basis at Wickersham, at what point the day-to-day operation of t
he gardens could be turned over to a head gardener and staff of his choosing. Up until now, he’d never thought too much about the idea of leaving Wickersham. But when that time did come, he knew it was going to be a bittersweet farewell. The hardest part would be having to say goodbye to Jamie. More than once, the idea of staying on in Somerset longer than planned—even moving down permanently—had entered his mind, but each time better judgement had prevailed. He knew, damned well, that the idea was ill advised and impractical.

  There was another thing that bothered him about leaving. After today’s meeting, it was beginning to look, more and more, as if the mysteries surrounding Wickersham were not likely to be solved in the near future. The meeting with Chadwick had revealed nothing he and Jamie didn’t know already. It came as no surprise, because he more or less knew that that would be the case. What was more frustrating was that all the threads of investigation, slender in the first place, had been played out. With no further developments or leads, it would simply become a waiting game until such time that new evidence came to light or someone blinked.

  What infuriated Kingston was that he was convinced he was close to finding answers to the riddles—at least some of them. The link between Ryder and Girard and the distinct possibility that the two of them were dealing in looted art dovetailed with Ryder’s years in Paris: everything fell into place. It would have been easy to bring the paintings over from France one at a time. Canvases could be concealed or disguised. And what could be a more convenient and secure location for Ryder to store the paintings than Wickersham? Keeping them anywhere in the house would be considered too risky, no doubt. More likely, Ryder would have stored them in a place where nobody would find them, not even by accident. Ferguson, if he was right, had unwittingly located that place: underground, in the old catacombs of the priory. It was a perfect set-up. And the chapel held the last piece of the puzzle: the way into Wickersham’s subterranean chambers.