EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  Jamie ran up the steps and returned with the tool bag.

  ‘Okay, doctor,’said Fox, ‘open the padlock.’

  Kingston took the drill and triggered it on and off quickly. The small carbon bit was still in there. Gripping the lock with his left hand and twisting it into a fixed position to stop it from slipping, he started to drill. In less than a minute the shackle came free.

  Fox moved closer, the gun in one hand trained on Kingston’s back, the flashlight in the other aimed at the trunk. ‘Open it up,’ he said.

  Kingston gripped the lid with both hands and lifted it.

  Looking down into the trunk, he smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Take it all out, damn it! Empty the bloody thing!’ Fox shouted, inching closer.

  Kingston glanced briefly over his shoulder and started to remove the contents of the trunk, two and three pieces at a time. Soon, on the floor beside him was a growing pile of framed pictures. A glittering assortment of sterling, ivory, wood, gilt, bronze and silver finish frames. Nearly all of them held photos of individuals or family groups. A number of the subjects were men in military officer uniforms. Next, Kingston started to remove all manner of documents. Some looked like letters, bundled together with string or elastic bands. There were folders, cigar boxes and document cases filled with old papers. When the trunk was empty, Kingston stood and turned to Fox. ‘That’s all of it,’ he said.

  Fox motioned with the gun for Kingston to move aside and stepped up to the trunk and looked down. ‘It’s impossible, ’ he muttered. He swung round and stepped to within a foot of Kingston, glowering at him, fuming. ‘Where are the goddamned paintings? What have you done with them?’

  With Fox’s face now inches from his and the gun pointed at his stomach, Kingston fought to stay calm. ‘There were three canvases in the crate back there,’ he said staring into Fox’s menacing dark eyes. ‘That’s all. And we gave them to you.’

  ‘You’re a liar, Kingston! I saw one of those paintings and it’s not any of the three you handed over—that worthless trash. Tell me now or you’ll regret it. Where the hell are they?’

  ‘He’s telling the truth,’ Jamie cut in.

  ‘Shut up!’ Fox snapped.

  ‘You might as well give up,’ Ferguson interrupted. ‘Let us all go.’

  Fox didn’t answer right away. He had stepped away from Kingston and was sizing him up, looking at his jacket. It was evident that the two outside pockets were far too small to contain the canvases, even ones that were tightly folded.

  ‘Unzip your jacket,’he said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kingston saw Jamie flinch but Fox hadn’t noticed it.

  Slowly Kingston unzipped the jacket.

  ‘Open it up, all the way, so I can see inside.’

  Kingston did so, revealing the lining and the two inside pockets on either side, both small and obviously empty.

  After a second or so Kingston let his hands fall to his side.

  ‘So, you’re not going to tell me where you hid them? Is that it?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘They’re back there somewhere, aren’t they?’

  Silence.

  ‘Answer me, damn it!’

  ‘Why don’t you go back and take a look?’said Kingston.

  ‘Don’t be smart with me.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll come with you but let Jamie go.’

  ‘Let her go?’he scoffed. ‘You really think I’m that stupid?’

  Kingston was now determined to get Fox riled up. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen Roger slip the weighty ten-inch long black flashlight from his jacket pocket and conceal it behind his back. His intent was clear and it worried Kingston. If Roger was going to make an attempt to take Fox out it could be extremely risky and he’d only get one chance at it. Kingston needed to distract Fox and the only ways he could think of doing that were either to get him as infuriated and paranoid as possible or gain his attention by hinting where the paintings might be.

  ‘Yes, I do think you’re stupid. And let me tell you why.’ Kingston turned away from Fox and stepped back, looking at the trunk. He needed to get Fox into a position where he wasn’t looking straight on at Roger, while bringing the two of them closer.

  ‘First of all, even if you do find these fictitious paintings—which we don’t have, by the way—do you really think you’re going to walk out of here scot-free? How are you going to do that? You’ve already committed more than one capital crime down here, enough to put you behind bars for a long time. Are you going to commit more?’

  ‘I’ve had just about enough of you, Kingston,’ Fox hissed. ‘We’re staying here till I get those paintings.’

  Kingston was ready to play the only card he could come up with.

  ‘You may be overlooking something.’

  ‘What might that be?’

  ‘Well, if I were concealing something valuable in a trunk I wouldn’t lay it on the inside where everybody could see it.’

  Fox glanced at the trunk, brows furrowed. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Come on, Fox, use your bloody imagination, man.’

  Fox edged a little closer to the trunk. Off to the side, Roger inched a couple of feet closer to Fox.

  For a few seconds, Fox’s attention was focused entirely on the trunk but the gun was still levelled at Kingston and his hand wasn’t wavering.

  Fox took his eyes off the trunk and looked at Kingston. ‘A false bottom. It’s got a false bottom. Is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just guessing.’

  ‘Turn the trunk on its side, so I can see, then you examine it.’

  Kingston leaned down and upended the trunk so that the inside was visible to Fox then stood back. In the split second that Fox’s attention was on the trunk, he flashed a quick look at Roger who was now within striking distance.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, examine it, man,’ Fox said impatiently.

  Kingston approached the trunk and knelt down, peering inside and tapping the base and the sides as if he knew what he was doing. He could tell, looking at the dimensions, that a false bottom was unlikely. He was about to stand and explain that to Fox when he heard the loud thump of the heavy flashlight striking Fox, followed by an ear-splitting scream of pain. Unknown to him, Roger had missed his target. The flashlight had struck Fox’s shoulder near the neck. When Kingston turned, he saw Roger and Fox on the ground struggling for the gun still in Fox’s grip. The flashlight was close by, too risky for him or Jamie to retrieve. She had backed off knowing that any second Kingston would become involved.

  ‘Run for it, Jamie!’ Kingston shouted. ‘Call Chadwick.’

  She didn’t hesitate, leaping up the steps and disappearing into the chapel.

  As Kingston was about to join the fray, waiting for the right moment to dive into the mêlée, the gun went off.

  The blast, reverberating down the corridor, was followed by the thwack and whine of the bullet as it ricocheted off the stone floor and walls. For an instant the three of them ducked and froze, Kingston praying that the errant bullet would stray harmlessly. The brief moment was enough to allow Fox to roll free, gun still in hand. He took a wild swing with it, the barrel glancing off Roger’s forehead. Roger cried out and rolled over on his side, clutching his head. Before Kingston could grapple with Fox, Fox was on his feet running up the stairs after Jamie.

  Kingston helped Roger to his feet. The gash on his forehead was oozing blood but he insisted that he was all right. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Kingston said. ‘Fox isn’t stupid enough to let us escape, too. He’ll be back here any moment.’

  Roger nodded, touching his bleeding forehead, taking a handkerchief from his pocket.

  ‘Take your time, Roger, keep the flashlight, I have to stop that bastard from getting his hands on Jamie.’ He turned to run up the steps when a shot rang out from above.

  ‘Jesus!’ Kingston breathed.

  Roger was staring up the steps
holding a handkerchief to his forehead, his face ghostly. He looked as if he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come.

  Kingston bolted up the stairs into the chapel.

  ‘Not so fast, doctor.’

  Kingston stopped in his tracks.

  Fox was midway down the aisle, gun in hand.

  ‘Did you really think I’d leave you two before I got what I came for?’

  ‘What did you do to Jamie?’ Kingston snapped.

  ‘Never mind. Start worrying about your own health, because it’s not looking so good right now. Tell me where those paintings are and just maybe we can strike a deal.’

  ‘First, I want to know where Jamie is and if she’s all right.’

  ‘We seem to be going round in circles and frankly I’m getting tired of it. I’ve waited a long time for you to find these paintings and I want them—now!’

  Gripping the pew next to him, Kingston stared him down and said nothing.

  Fox waved the gun at him. His eyes were boring into Kingston’s, his face a mask of pent-up rage. ‘All right, if you want to play this kind of game you may end up paying a big price—all three of you. Makes no difference to me.’ He held the gun steady. ‘Well, say something goddamit!’

  ‘I’ve said all I’m going to say,’ Kingston answered in a level tone. ‘Tell me about Jamie and then we can talk about the paintings.’

  ‘Listen, Kingston. I’ve been waiting years for this moment and I’m going to get them whatever it costs. Do you understand?’

  Kingston didn’t reply. Fox had told Jamie that he had learned about the paintings right after Ryder died. What did Fox mean by waiting years?

  Fox spoke again.

  ‘You don’t look surprised. Yes, I’ve known about the paintings for a long time but unfortunately I’ve never been in a position to do much about them. But I knew that when you started to nose around, getting more and more inquisitive about Ryder and this place and why that ungrateful bastard left it all to a bloody American woman, of all people—I had a gut feel that sooner or later you’d find them. All it took was patience and a little help along the way. Oh yes, I know all about the paintings and I know damned well that I saw one of them in your possession in that room.’

  He started to walk towards Kingston, waving the gun in the direction of the steps. ‘Why don’t we do this?’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s go down and have a little talk with that idiot friend of yours. I have a feeling after that you’ll want to tell me.’

  Kingston descended the steps followed by Fox.

  At the foot of the steps, Kingston stopped. Ferguson was gone.

  ‘Looks like that talk may have to wait,’ said Kingston.

  ‘A foolish move on his part and he’ll regret it.’

  ‘I have to know. Is Jamie hurt? We heard the shot.’

  Fox didn’t reply. Clearly he was flustered, trying to figure out his next move. He moved next to the trunk and knelt beside it, looking up at Kingston. ‘Step back,’he said motioning with the gun. ‘Make a move and I’m going to use this.’

  Kingston watched as Fox examined the inside of the trunk, glancing up every few seconds to check on him.

  ‘You don’t believe me. There is no false compartment,’ said Kingston.

  Fox stood. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said, aiming the gun at Kingston. ‘Get up there.’

  Kingston started up the steps. Despite the fact that his life and quite possibly Roger’s were in jeopardy, he couldn’t stop agonizing about Jamie. The idea that Fox might even have taken a shot at her enraged him. He reached the top of the steps and entered the chapel. When he reached the aisle he stopped and, hearing Fox coming up the steps behind him, took a quick glance over his shoulder.

  He almost gasped but managed to suppress it. Fox was on the second to last step, his head and shoulders just above the chapel’s floor level. Behind him, concealed by the pew, Jamie was waiting, hands above her head, brandishing one of the bronze candleholders like a baseball bat. She’d apparently ripped it off the wall. No sooner than Kingston saw her, she brought down the candlestick with a surprising display of force on the back of Fox’s head. Kingston turned to meet Fox’s eyes just before they closed and his body slumped to the floor.

  Jamie dropped the makeshift weapon clattering to the stone floor and ran to Kingston. For a moment they embraced, her head resting on his chest. Kingston felt a huge surge of relief, followed by an impassioned desire not to let her go. He’d forgotten completely how it felt to hold a woman like this.

  At long last he let her go and held her at arm’s length, looking down into her brown eyes. ‘That’s quite a swing you’ve got,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I owe it all to softball,’ she answered.

  ‘More like hardball, if you ask me.’

  They separated and turned their attention to Fox. Kingston knelt down and checked his pulse.

  ‘He’s not dead, I hope—is he?’

  Kingston found the question strangely poignant. Unconscious in front of him was a psychopath who’d clearly demonstrated that he was not above burying people alive, maiming or killing to get what he wanted and Jamie was concerned about his health. If it had been up to Kingston, he would have given Fox a couple more whacks.

  ‘No, don’t worry, he’ll make it.’

  ‘Then I hope he spends the rest of his life locked up,’ she said.

  ‘We were terrified when we head that shot, Jamie. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was outside the chapel when I realized that, even though I had a good lead on Fox, he could still shoot me in the open. He’d know I would head for the house. So I changed my mind. I figured that if I hid in the chapel, I stood a much better chance. Seeing the chapel empty, he would conclude that I’d run outside. And that’s exactly what he did. The problem was that sooner or later he would come back and it turned out to be sooner. I was wondering what I should do, when I heard the shot, too. A few seconds later, he stormed back into the chapel and went below.’

  ‘So, he fired the shot—what, in anger?’

  ‘That’s what I think. He was so furious that I’d got away.’

  ‘You took a big risk staying here—’

  ‘—but it paid off, didn’t it?’

  Kingston nodded. ‘Certainly did.’

  Jamie’s expression changed. She looked perturbed. ‘Where’s Roger?’

  ‘He’s still down in the catacombs somewhere. He probably heard everything that Fox and I said and, knowing we were on our way back down, he did the smart thing and made himself scarce.’

  Kingston walked halfway down the steps and shouted, ‘Roger! You can come out, it’s all over.’

  It was a minute or so before Roger made an appearance. His forehead looked a mess where the blood was starting to congeal. He’d been hiding in one of the rooms close to the steps, he said. Seeing Fox’s body and the candlestick he knew quickly what had happened. ‘How did you manage it?’ he asked Kingston.

  ‘Ask Jamie,’ he replied. ‘A home run, you might say.’

  The police arrived quickly. First, a van and an incident-response car followed by an ambulance and then, five minutes later, a car with Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick and Sergeant Eldridge.

  After seeing Fox lifted on a stretcher into the ambulance, the DCI and sergeant accompanied Jamie, Ferguson and Kingston back to the house. A police constable was instructed to retrieve the trunk and its contents and anything else left in the catacombs at the foot of the stairs and bring it all up to the house.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In the dining room, Jamie sat at one end of the long dining table, Kingston at the other. Between them, on the shiny mahogany surface, was a hotchpotch of yellowing papers, envelopes, folders, documents and a couple of cigar boxes. On the floor close to Jamie stood the leather-handled trunk; next to it, strewn on the oriental carpet, the framed photographs.

  The last policeman had left fifteen minutes earlier. Since then, Jamie and Kingston had been study
ing the photos and were only now starting to examine Ryder’s personal papers, correspondence and keepsakes. For the occasion, Jamie had opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

  The photographs spanned many decades, the earliest—guessing from the style of the clothing and the military uniforms, which, it turned out, Kingston knew quite a lot about—dating back to the mid-nineteenth century. Nearly all the pictures were sepia or black and white. When they first started to look at the photos, Jamie had remarked that she felt like a voyeur looking through a one-sided mirror into a family’s private life. Kingston had no such misgivings. He viewed them dispassionately, simply as historical documents, much as he imagined Roger Ferguson would when he got to see them. Roger had left soon after they’d got to the house, complaining of a nasty headache and nausea. Jamie had volunteered to take him to the hospital to have the wound properly dressed and to get an X-ray but he had insisted that he could manage on his own.

  Here were photos of babies and children of all ages, in christening robes and sailor suits, tow-headed and pigtailed; dashing young men with starched collars; elegant ladies with parasols and fancy hats, mostly taken in various parts of the garden; wedding couples and groups; holiday snaps; uniformed soldiers, sailors and airmen; moustached and stern-looking patriarchs and their busty spouses; granite-faced, white-bearded grandfathers and frumpy grandmothers—it was an intimate family portrait spanning more than a century. Kingston had set aside all the pictures that showed parts of the garden where specific plantings or garden features could be seen. He had also separated the photos that showed men in uniform, specifically the more recent ones. Eliminating those of the young man in Royal Air Force uniform—one of the three Ryder brothers—left a handful of photos of the two other brothers. They bore a remarkable family resemblance; there was no telling which of the two was James Ryder.

  The papers and documents, and they were numerous, were like signposts through Major Ryder’s life. Despite his endeavour to preserve his anonymity, these were clearly things that he simply couldn’t bring himself to destroy. His birth certificate with a King George V stamp dated Sunday, 14 December 1919 in the Registration District of Taunton, father’s name, Randolph William Ryder, mother’s name, Elizabeth Mabel Ryder, formerly Carlisle. A suede pouch held his British passport. Kingston flipped through it checking for entry stamps of foreign countries. As expected, there were none. In his latter years Ryder hadn’t travelled out of Wickersham, let alone the country. A number of military documents tracked his service career, notably a Staff College Certificate from Sandhurst. Birthday and Christmas cards were stuffed in a manila envelope. Each contained a handwritten note of varying length, obviously of sentimental value to Ryder. There were miscellaneous letters, nearly all personal; membership cards; newspaper and magazine clippings, including several obituaries of what must have been friends and family members; a small collection of ticket stubs and programmes from various concerts and performances, equestrian events, car and horse races.