Under different circumstances, Kingston would have told Chadwick all of this but he wanted to buy a little more time to see if he was right. Besides, he knew that with Jamie present as well as his new DS—whom he was obviously trying to impress—Chadwick could rightfully come down hard on him for not having mentioned it all much earlier. The temptation to make Kingston look like a bumbling amateur might be too hard for Chadwick to resist. For a while he could delay the inevitable but not indefinitely. One thing was certain, though. He would never leave Wickersham knowing that Jamie’s life was still endangered.
Up early the next morning, he found Jamie in the kitchen. He was surprised to see her wearing a flour-dusted apron, in the midst of preparing what appeared to be dessert of some kind—a cake maybe? It also suggested that Dot had not made an appearance.
‘Any word from Dot?’
Jamie wiped her hands on the apron. ‘No. I phoned several more times yesterday evening. Nothing. I’m scared something might have happened to her, Lawrence—an accident. She lives on her own, you know.’
‘I didn’t. No.’
‘After I’ve cleaned up here, I’m driving over to her cottage. ’
‘I’ll come with you if you like. As a matter of fact, I’ve got to pick up some emitters and parts for the irrigation system at Water Savers. We can stop there on the way back from Dot’s. Where does she live?’
‘Over by Crowcombe, I looked it up on the map. It’s off the A road that goes up to Watchet.’
‘Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. I’ll wait here till you’re ready, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure you don’t mind, Lawrence? I have to admit I would feel better having someone with me.’
‘No problem whatsoever, my dear. See how we do for time and I may treat you to lunch.’ He looked at the countertop, reached over and picked a strawberry from the bowl and popped it in his mouth.
‘Hands off,’ she said, making a mock hand-slapping gesture with the spatula in her hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Strawberry shortcake. One of my favourites.’
‘My daughter Julie’s, too. I’ve had it a couple of times when I’ve been over visiting.’
‘It was going to be for the dinner. I was going to tell you about it but I decided to cancel it—for the time being anyway. With all this weird stuff going on, it didn’t seem to be such a good idea.’
‘I can well understand.’
She wiped her hands on the striped apron. ‘I’d invited Francis and Alexandra, the couple who own the antiques shop in Bridgwater. You remember? I told you about them. It was going to be the two of them and David—David Latimer. Bella’s staying with her sister for a few days. And you and me, of course.’ She turned to stir whatever was in the pot on the Aga. ‘We’ll just have to do it some other time.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Kingston replied.
‘David’s still coming tonight, but just for drinks. When we talked on the phone I told him about the accident and some of the things that have been happening and he insisted on coming over to see me. I told him you’d join us, if that’s okay.’
Fifteen minutes later, with Kingston driving, they left for Dot’s.
Finding the cottage was easy. The village was tiny, only a scattering of houses, and the rustic Ash Tree Cottage sign hanging over the gate was hard to miss. Kingston pulled alongside the picket fence in front. The cottage stood by itself, set back from the road. Tall trees concealed the house on the northerly side. The cottage on the other side was a hundred or so feet away, partially shielded by a high yew hedge. On the left side of Dot’s cottage was a wooden gate, obviously the way to the back garden. On the right side a gravel drive, just long enough to accommodate one car. Dot’s white Honda Civic was parked there.
Kingston, with Jamie a few steps behind, walked up to the periwinkle blue front door. He lifted the lion’s head knocker and gave two sharp raps. They waited an interval of thirty seconds then he rapped again, this time even harder.
‘She’d have to be deaf not to hear that,’said Jamie.
‘And we know she’s not, right?’
Jamie nodded.
Kingston had stepped back and was looking at the windows on both sides. In all cases, the curtains were drawn. ‘Wait here, Jamie,’ he said, crossing a small patch of lawn, ‘while I go and check the back.’ He opened the side gate and went through. In less than a minute he was back. ‘It’s all locked. I took a peek in the kitchen. Nothing unusual there. The other windows are curtained, I’m afraid. Looks like a wasted trip.’
They started up the path, closing the gate behind them. For a moment they stood looking back at the cottage. ‘What do you think we should do?’ asked Jamie.
‘I suppose we should call the police. Could be any number of explanations.’
‘Well, I’m not usually one to look on the dark side but I think you’re right.’
Jamie was about to get back in the car when Kingston held his hand up. ‘Wait a moment. Let me just check her car.’
She watched him walk over to the Honda where he bent down and peered in the passenger side window. Next, she saw him try the door handle. It was clearly locked because she could see the car shaking with the force that Kingston was exerting. Quickly he tried the other doors. All were locked. As he came back to the car she could see by the grim look on his face that something was dreadfully wrong.
‘She’s in the car, Jamie. I’m afraid she’s dead.’
‘God! Are you sure?’
‘Almost certain—committed suicide by the looks of it. There’s a section of garden hose from one of the rear windows hooked up to the exhaust. Her face is unusually pink, too, one of the signs of carbon monoxide poisoning.’
Jamie already had her phone out. ‘What’s the emergency number here?’
Within fifteen minutes an ambulance arrived and shortly after, a police car. The police had the Honda door open in seconds and waited while the paramedics examined the body, quickly determining that she was dead.
When the police finally got round to questioning Kingston and Jamie, over half an hour had passed. For the next five minutes, they answered the sergeant’s questions, then provided their names, addresses and contact numbers.
‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said, folding his notepad. ‘I appreciate your patience. No need for you to stay any longer—and I’m awfully sorry about the bad news.’
Jamie sighed and shook her head. ‘A suicide. I would never have thought it.’
‘We won’t know that for sure, miss, until the medical examiner has made his report. But yes, it certainly looks that way.’
They took one last look at the policemen still going over Dot’s car and the waiting paramedics, then headed back to Wickersham. Kingston could pick up his stuff tomorrow and they had long ago abandoned the idea of lunch. A mile outside the village they heard the faint wail of a siren as the ambulance took Dot away.
Chapter Twenty
At a quarter to six, David Latimer pulled up to the front door at Wickersham just as Kingston was about to go in. They shook hands, exchanged greetings and went into the house.
With drinks served—a glass of white wine for Jamie, Dewar’s for both Latimer and Kingston—the three of them sat in the living room, Jamie doing most of the talking as they explained how they had found Dot.
‘All things considered, it’s not a bad way to go,’ said Kingston with a sigh. ‘Only have to run the engine for about fifteen minutes or so in a small car like that and you’ve got a lethal level of carbon monoxide.’
‘What an awful thing to have happened, though,’ said Latimer. ‘Had she given you any indications that she might be undergoing stress of any kind? Any unusual behaviour?’
‘No,’ Jamie replied. ‘To the contrary, she’s just been her usual grouchy self.’ Her sorrowful smile was fleeting. ‘With her, that was one thing you could always rely on.’
‘I didn’t know Dot as well as Jamie did, of course,’ said Ki
ngston, ‘but when I was with her the other day, she seemed to be—how can I put it—well, defensive. It struck me as a little odd at the time but I didn’t think too much of it. A bad hair day, maybe.’
Latimer took a sip of his scotch. ‘And Jack Harris. You say it’s still not determined exactly how he died. If it was an accident, or murder?’
‘No,’ said Jamie. ‘Inspector Chadwick thinks that it all had to do with gambling and drugs. He doesn’t think it’s connected to anything here.’ She glanced at Kingston. ‘Lawrence does, though.’
‘You think Jack’s death and Dot’s suicide are connected?’ Shaking his head, Kingston let out a long sigh. ‘God, I don’t know, David. This thing with Dot has really thrown me for a loop. I’m still convinced that Jack had something to do with all of this, though.’
Latimer put his drink down on the table. ‘Really? Do you have any hard evidence that makes you think that?’
‘I have to admit, at this point it’s all hypothetical. But it goes beyond just Jack’s and Dot’s deaths. I’m convinced that all the things that have been going on here are connected in some way: the break-ins, Jamie’s accident, that business with the paintings. Not only that, I’m sure that they all have something to do with Ryder. Something about his past—something that happened a long while ago.’
Latimer frowned. ‘The paintings?’
‘I told you about them,’ said Jamie. ‘The man that showed up saying that Ryder had some paintings that belonged to a French art dealer and they wanted them back.’
Latimer nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Of course, I remember, now. Did he call again then or come back?’
‘No,’ said Jamie.
Latimer looked at Kingston. ‘So, how do the paintings fit in with all this, then?’
Here we go again, Kingston thought. If he answered, he would probably get the same reaction from Latimer as he had from Jamie. She had already told him that David felt the same way as she did, that the paintings were long gone. He took a long sip of scotch before deciding to dodge the question for the moment, to spare Jamie the embarrassment of having to listen to a long-drawn-out hypothesis that she had heard one time too many already. But it was a good opportunity to ask Latimer the question that he’d been wanting to. He had to tread carefully though, knowing that Jamie wasn’t aware of what had happened in Latimer’s office when Mainwaring had threatened to contest the will.
‘To answer your question, I’m not sure yet how the paintings fit in. But let me ask you something, David—this Mainwaring fellow. I know that after Ryder died he took his inheritance and disappeared but I’m curious—do you know anything more about him?’
‘There’s not much more to tell, I’m afraid.’
‘You said that he was in Ryder’s employ for about fifteen years.’
‘Yes, that’s about right.’
‘In his role as butler, major-domo, whatever, how much would Ryder have confided in him? What I’m trying to get at is, how much would he have known about Ryder’s past and his business affairs?’
Latimer smiled. ‘Would he have known about the paintings? Is that what you’re asking?’
Kingston swirled the melting ice cubes in his crystal glass. ‘Not just the paintings but other things that might have taken place at Wickersham, too, not only during his tenure but before he was hired as well.’
‘That’s a vague question, Lawrence. One that I’m afraid I can’t answer. All I know is that—well, certainly in the latter years of Ryder’s life—Mainwaring pretty much ran the show here.Yes, I would imagine that he would have had access to Ryder’s business and personal affairs, but to what degree, I have no idea. He didn’t have power of attorney, that I do know.’
‘And he vanished?’
‘As far as we know.’
Jamie interrupted, asking if the two men would like another drink. Both saying yes, she went to the butler’s table that served as a bar, poured two more scotches over ice and brought them back to the coffee table with a carafe of water.
Jamie looked at Latimer and smiled. ‘You see, David, you not only found me a wonderful garden guru but a private investigator, too.’
Latimer chuckled. ‘You’re lucky, Jamie: two for the price of one. Talking of the gardens, I want to take a look at them before it gets too dark.’
‘Absolutely. You’re not going to believe what Lawrence has achieved since you were here last.’
An hour later, Jamie said goodnight to Latimer and Kingston at the front door.
The next morning Kingston woke up late. Since moving down to the country he not only slept more soundly but longer, too. Pulling aside the bedroom curtain he saw the panes were misted on the outside. A thick fog shrouded the garden, reducing it to ghostly grey shapes. He dressed warmly: a heavy wool sweater over his corduroy shirt and cavalry twill trousers. It was going to be a full day. As arranged, he was meeting Jamie at nine to go over a pile of invoices before they approved them for payment and to discuss the forthcoming visit by the director of a documentary crew who had written expressing an interest in producing a film of the gardens’renaissance. Immediately after that he was scheduled to supervise the long-awaited planting of the lime walk, a grass-verged avenue some twenty feet wide, with fifteen Tilia trees on each side. Jamie had jokingly said that was a good feng shui number, not that she believed in it. Then, at noon, Ferguson was at long last coming to visit the chapel. But most important of all, after he was through with Ferguson, Kingston was going back to the chapel to take one last shot at solving its mystery—if indeed there was one.
When he had first mentioned the lime walk, Jamie, quite naturally, thought the trees would be citrus. He had explained that while Tilia was commonly referred to as a lime tree, it was not related to the citrus, but belonged to the Linden genus—all very confusing, he admitted. Eventually the upper branches of each semi-mature tree would be pruned and trained to cross over and entwine with those of its partner on the other side of the walk to form a living trellis—or, as Kingston liked to call it, ‘a hedge in the air’. On their day out at Hidcote Jamie had fallen in love with the pleached hornbeams in the stilt garden and wanted to do something similar.
After a hasty cup of tea and a bowl of muesli, Kingston was ready to leave the cottage at a quarter to nine. He put on his Barbour jacket, wellington boots and battered waterproof hat, closed and locked the cottage door and set off for the house.
The meeting with Jamie was shorter than he’d anticipated. By eleven thirty, eight of the thirty lime trees were planted. Even with only four trees, equally spaced on each side of the walk, the visual effect was striking. Kingston left the crew to finish the planting when Ferguson arrived at noon sharp. After a brief exchange of pleasantries with Jamie, Kingston whisked him off to view the chapel.
Ferguson’s reaction was more or less exactly what Kingston had anticipated: a mixture of awe and curiosity. For the first five minutes there was little talk as the archivist went to work silently studying every inch of the chapel and the well. It wasn’t long before Ferguson asked the question that Kingston had been expecting.
‘I take it you haven’t made any progress regarding the old priory basement?’ Ferguson asked, taking a tiny silver camera from his jacket pocket.
The word ‘basement’ struck Kingston as amusing. Surely an academic could come up with a more fitting noun? ‘Unfortunately, no,’ he replied. ‘You’d have been the first to know if I had, Roger. Without some kind of documented or physical evidence to tell us the exact location of the priory, it’s going to be impossible to find the underground rooms—if they still exist, that is.’
‘You’ve gone over the chapel pretty thoroughly then?’
‘At least half a dozen times.’
‘It would have been the perfect location for a secret entrance but I can see the problem. There aren’t many places to hide it in here, that’s for sure,’ Ferguson said, gazing up and around the chapel.
‘That’s what’s so baffling. I was so damned sure t
hat the entrance to the priory cellars, catacombs or whatever you want to call them was hidden in this chapel that I could smell it. But now I think it’s most likely somewhere in the house.’
Ferguson nodded. ‘I suppose it’s still the most logical site. I don’t think, somehow, it would be anywhere else.’
‘I guess so,’ Kingston sighed. ‘But there’s no saying where those damned monks built their priory. It could have been anywhere on the entire bloody estate.’
‘What does Jamie think about all this?’
‘At first, she was—well, ambivalent I suppose is the right word. I think, in the beginning, she thought I was some kind of English Don Quixote. But lately she’s come round to the idea that there may be something to it after all. Although, I must say, she’s not one for digging into the past.’
‘She’s an exception, then. Most of the Americans I’ve met lap up anything that’s historical. English history must be on the curriculum of every college in the country. Sometimes I think they know more about us than we do ourselves.’
Kingston waited patiently while Ferguson spent the next ten minutes snapping digital photos of every inch of the chapel. It seemed a trifle excessive to Kingston but Ferguson was an archivist after all, and by the miniature size of the camera, it was reasonable to assume that it was a new toy. After a few minutes spent viewing the results on the LCD monitor, they left the chapel and went back to the house, to join Jamie for lunch. By the time Ferguson left, it was close to three.
Kingston decided to take a walk to the walled garden where the peach house was nearing completion. When discovered, it was little more than a grey skeleton of rotted wood and broken panes of filthy glass supported only by the ivy and a strangle of vines that had almost sealed its fate. Kingston was all for taking it down but was persuaded by one of the master joiners on the team that it could be refurbished. What followed in the ensuing weeks was a singular achievement of extraordinary skill, patience and love. Despite the severe rot in the wooden sections, two joiners were able to make accurate templates to rebuild the framework. Behind them two glaziers went to work installing glass that was saved from the original framework and matching panes cut from old ones found in a salvage yard. Finally, the paint crew had given it a primer coat and two top coats of white paint. The brick flooring was now being installed and soon the handsome structure, butted against the high garden wall, with its steep sloping, south-facing roof would be home to peaches, nectarines, guavas, passion fruit and pineapples as it was in its glory days.
EG02 - The Lost Gardens Page 19
