EG02 - The Lost Gardens

by Anthony Eglin

  They were nearing the last of the papers and only a few odds and ends remained in the centre of the table. All the papers, documents and memorabilia that had already been examined had been pushed to one side.

  Kingston leaned back in his chair and sipped the champagne. The chill was off but the bubbles were still coming. Sign of a good champagne, he knew. He looked at Jamie over the rim of the glass. He rarely had the chance to watch her thus, while her attention was fully taken by something else; when he could study her features at length with little risk of being caught in the act. Discreetly, he took in her body language, the graceful hand movements, the animated lips and the soft hollows below her cheekbones, all her natural beauty and little mannerisms.

  She looked up and smiled. ‘Have you gone on strike?’

  He smiled back. ‘No, not at all.’ He was about to add the word, ‘dear’ but caught himself just in time. ‘I thought I’d let you finish the rest. I was hoping that we’d find something that would shed more light on his art dealing days. But he seems to have erased that part of his life. Come to think of it, if Fox hadn’t showed up, we might never have found out about that side of his life in the first place.’

  Kingston finished the last of his champagne and watched as Jamie opened a foolscap-size envelope and turned it upside down. A small black book fell on to the table. It was about the size of a deck of cards but nowhere as thick. The leather cover was blank.

  ‘What’s that?’he asked.

  ‘Looks like some kind of diary,’ she muttered, opening it and starting to read.

  Kingston watched idly as she started turning the pages. Soon, he became aware that her expression was growing more and more perplexed. She looked up suddenly.

  ‘What is it? Kingston asked.

  ‘It’s written by a soldier.’

  ‘Really?’ Kingston got up and joined her, standing behind her chair, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Listen to this, Lawrence. This will be the fourth night we’ve been stuck in this godforsaken hole. Hawkins, Nobby Green and Stevenson all bought it today. When Terry got hit, he was not that far away from me. At least he didn’t suffer by the looks of it. That’s a blessing. I’ve lost count of how many of us are left now. It can’t be more than three dozen or so. The good news is the Jerries have stopped using mortars but their snipers are picking us off like flies. It’s quiet for the longest time, then there’s a shot and we all pray that the bugger missed. Stevenson, poor sod, told me yesterday that he’d heard we were running out of ammo. I’m beginning to hope that he was right. Then we would have to throw in the towel.’

  She flipped through it, scanned a few more pages and handed it to Kingston. ‘It’s tragic,’ she said. ‘Just to think what those men went through is enough but then, to take the time to write about it …’ Her words trailed off.

  Kingston wasn’t listening. He was now seated in the chair next to Jamie and had his eyes glued to the diary’s open pages. The descriptions were simply phrased, almost naïve, which gave them even more gravitas. The thoughts and feelings that accompanied them were like a mirror reflecting the young man’s embittered soul.

  Reading on about the soldier’s account of the catastrophic plight that had befallen him and his comrades, Kingston was transported back to those dark days in Europe sixty years ago. Suddenly he looked up. ‘This is starting to sound awfully familiar.’

  ‘Familiar? What are you thinking?’

  ‘That it could be Kershaw’s or more likely Kit’s diary.’

  ‘There’s no name in it, is there?’

  ‘I haven’t come across one so far. But think about it. How and why did it end up in Ryder’s possession?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Jamie, shaking her head. ‘Here, finish this up.’ She poured the last of the champagne into his glass. ‘There’s not much left to do with this lot, I suppose. I think I’ll leave it to you and go and have a bath.’

  ‘Wait. Listen to this:

  It’s night-time and for the first time in days it’s quiet. But the silence is terrible, perhaps worse than the fighting because all I do is lie awake and relive the horrors of the day and dread the coming of tomorrow. I can’t even begin to describe what kind of hell this place is. Every day there are more dead bodies, men with missing limbs and horrible wounds. We’re hopelessly outnumbered by the Jerries and almost out of ammo and I can’t see the point of fighting any more with just a handful of men. Another thing, I’m almost out of fags so things are getting serious!

  ‘I’d hoped against hope that we would make it out of here alive but it doesn’t look that way now because we are being ordered to fight on to the bitter end. I’ve never believed much in fate but I’m starting to now.

  ‘Cousin Jeremy has been a lifesaver but I’m beginning to see signs that even his optimism has now deserted him and though he won’t come out and say so, he knows that it will take a miracle for us to survive.’

  Kingston looked up. ‘This is the young chap who got shot, Kit. It has to be. It makes sense that he and Kershaw were cousins—it fits with what Loftus told me.’ He scratched his chin. ‘But how on earth did it come to be in Ryder’s possession?’

  ‘What about the watch? It was neither Kit’s nor Kershaw’s by the looks of it.’

  Kingston ignored her question. He was tapping his forehead, eyes momentarily closed. ‘Yes, of course. That has to be it.’

  Jamie had stopped what she was doing and was looking at Kingston eager to hear what he had to say next.

  ‘Here’s what I think happened, Jamie. Kit gives the diary to Kershaw or more likely, Kershaw finds it on Kit’s body after he was killed in that Dutch village. The page that I just read more or less confirms that that was where it was written. We now know they were cousins, too. Funny, Loftus didn’t mention that.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t want it known.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Kingston was pulling on his earlobe. ‘Let’s see. When Kershaw gets out of jail he comes to Wickersham and probably confronts Ryder on two scores. First over his imprisonment, which we’ll assume for a moment was unjust, and second, on account of the death of his cousin Kit, which he blames on Ryder. Kershaw must have had this diary with him. He’d carried it all those years.’

  ‘You may be overlooking one thing, Lawrence.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know if Kit was married or not. If he was, surely Kershaw would have given the diary to his wife?’

  Kingston thought for a moment. She had a point. ‘One explanation, Jamie, would be that Kit’s wife was no longer living when Kershaw returned to England. If she had been in London through the war, it’s quite possible she could have been killed in an air raid.’

  Jamie smiled. ‘I knew you’d come up with an answer.’

  He paused. ‘So, when he turns up at Wickersham he shows Ryder the diary.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To lay the blame at Ryder’s feet for Kit’s death, the unnecessary deaths of many of his men and his own incarceration. To make him feel guilty, ashamed of his actions.’

  ‘More likely he would’ve wanted to kill Ryder, if you ask me. Sounds like he had enough reasons. After twenty years in prison he had had plenty of time to think about it.’

  ‘Possibly. Given what he had endured, most men would want revenge.’

  ‘But if it really was Kershaw who ended up in the well, something must have gone awfully wrong.’

  ‘It looks that way. We’ll never know for sure but we do know that one way or another Kershaw ended up dead. Ryder might have done it intentionally or it could have been an accident. Either way, it appears that Ryder decided, for good reason, not to call the police but instead disposed of Kershaw’s body down the well. Most likely he would have done that from inside the house before he blocked up that passageway. In fact, come to think of it, that would be the reason why he sealed it.’

  ‘If it was an accident, why wouldn’t Ryder have called the police?’

  ‘My
guess is that it happened while Ryder was actively dealing in stolen art. And the last thing he’d want would be the police investigating a suspicious death at Wickersham; having the story splashed all over the newspapers. No, it was the perfect solution as far as he was concerned. Nobody would ever find out, certainly not in his lifetime.’

  Jamie sighed. ‘Well, we’re no closer to knowing why Ryder decided to leave me his estate. We’ll probably never know the answer to that question, either. All we seem to end up with are endless hypotheses.’

  ‘I think we will, Jamie. Now we’ve got this diary.’

  ‘What about the watch, though? The initials?’

  ‘I know,’ Kingston muttered. ‘That does complicate things. If it was Kit’s or Kershaw’s, maybe one of them bought it second hand, after all.’

  ‘You seem to be able to find an explanation for everything. You would have made a good politician, Lawrence.’

  Kingston smiled. ‘I know but at least we have more than we had before. I think we’re getting close to working this whole thing out. You must want to know now what motivated Ryder?’

  She shrugged. ‘To be truthful, I’m not so sure. All along I’ve been trying to avoid the question: forget about the past and do what I feel is best for Wickersham—something that would make the Ryder family proud. You know how I feel, Lawrence, we’ve talked enough about it. I must tell you, though, I felt a bit uncomfortable looking at all those pictures of Ryder’s family; before there were no faces and now, too many. I kept wondering where I fitted in, if I’m related in any distant way or if he chose me for some other reason. I think the photos have brought me closer to the family, I feel more a part of it. But there’s his dealing in stolen art and the possibility that he may have been responsible for doing away with Kershaw. I’m confused.’

  ‘I think we’re nearly there, Jamie. I’m convinced there’s just one small thing we’ve been overlooking. One last piece of the puzzle that, when it locks into place, will explain everything that’s happened since you arrived and long before, too.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Kingston looked out of the window of the living room, thinking of nothing in particular. Over the last forty-eight hours, he and Jamie had exhausted their post-mortem of the events in the catacombs. There was nothing more to discuss. They had heard from Roger Ferguson who was none the worse for wear, straining at the bit to return to what he warned would be a lengthy and painstaking examination, photographic documentation and cataloguing of the priory catacombs involving specialists in several sciences.

  Jamie had left the room minutes earlier to check on her baking. He thought she said Toll House cookies but couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was Tow House? She was still looking for a local woman to take Dot’s place and meanwhile making do herself.

  They were both waiting for Inspector Chadwick, who had called the day before requesting to ‘have a word’ about the incident with Fox.

  It was a particularly sparkling day. Outside Kingston could see across the new lawns and was admiring the herbaceous borders which, although now in their infancy, would fill out nicely in a season or two. The big shrubs they’d planted—including Magnolia sinensis, berberis, phlomis, cotinus and various forms of viburnum—would form a dark variegated backdrop for the smaller shrubs and flowering plants in the centre and at the front of the border: varieties of old roses, potentilla, philadelphus, abutilon, Geranium psilostemon, penstemon, knautia, hellebores, lychnis, salvia, delphinium, anchusa, iris and a dozen more.

  The day before, he’d called Jennifer Ingels at the Art Loss Register to tell her about the paintings. Naturally, she couldn’t wait to see them and offered a half-hearted apology, confessing that she had been dubious about a good part of what Kingston had told her when they met. Until ownership was established or it was determined what should be done with them, the paintings were to be stored at a fine-arts storage depot in London.

  Chadwick and Sergeant Eldridge showed up punctually at three o’clock and Jamie joined them in the living room, apologizing for keeping them waiting.

  ‘Whatever that is you’re baking in there smells frightfully good,’said Chadwick.

  ‘Just cookies,’ Jamie replied. ‘They’ll be ready in about ten minutes. We can have some with tea, later.’

  Chadwick settled into the couch and crossed his legs. ‘Well, at last I’ve got some good news for you.’

  ‘Really?’said Jamie, glancing at Kingston.

  ‘Seems that our man, Fox, is a bit of a chameleon. From what we’ve found out so far, he’s gone by at least a couple of other names—one that you’ll both recognize.’

  Kingston was frowning, at a loss to come up with a name.

  ‘Mainwaring,’ said Chadwick.

  Kingston’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Mainwaring?’

  ‘That’s right. Faced with two possible murder charges and the incarceration and attempted murder of you and Jamie, he’s been most cooperative over the last couple of days.’

  ‘Two murder charges?’ Kingston inquired.

  ‘Are you talking about Jack?’ Jamie asked.

  Chadwick nodded. ‘Dorothy Parmenter, too.’

  ‘So it wasn’t suicide?’ Kingston interjected.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. We don’t have a full confession yet but it seems that Dot had had enough of Mainwaring—particularly after Jack’s questionable death which she probably linked to Mainwaring—and was going to tell Jamie her suspicions about what was going on. Mainwaring decided to put a stop to that by doing her in and making it look like a suicide.’

  ‘Poor Dot,’ Jamie murmured.

  ‘What about Jack?’ Kingston asked.

  ‘He’s claiming that he had nothing to do with Jack’s death. He admits to having gone to Jack’s house a couple of times but swears innocence.’

  ‘That could’ve been him I saw the day I went to Jack’s. Silver BMW.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s the car he drove here,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Right,’ Chadwick cut in. ‘He knew, too, that Jack had money and drug problems and had become involved with some unsavoury characters. He befriended Jack at a pub in Spaxton and Jack agreed to help him spy on you two. He wouldn’t say how much he was paying Jack but neither did he deny paying him. Mainwaring obviously couldn’t keep you under surveillance himself; he needed people who were around the estate on a day-to-day basis. Someone on the inside.’

  ‘Enter Dot,’said Jamie.

  ‘Exactly,’ Chadwick sniffed. ‘It’s still speculation but I think it’s a reasonable assumption that, at one point, Jack came to realize that he wasn’t getting anywhere, on top of which he was starting to arouse suspicion—particularly with you, Lawrence. It became obvious that if he were going to find out anything about the paintings, he would need somebody close to you. Who better to eavesdrop than Dot? Jack was probably able to rope her in without much trouble because they knew each other from the old days, when they were both in Ryder’s employ. They may have been more than simply friends, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘She was being paid, too?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘It looks that way. When we checked out her cottage there were a lot of new things laying around—brand-new wide-screen TV, DVD player, lots of jewellery and new clothing. Some items still had the price tags on them. It all suggested that she’d recently come into money.’

  Chadwick uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘We’ve been keeping tabs on Mainwaring for a long time. I couldn’t tell you at the time, of course, but what we uncovered as we went along dovetailed into everything that was going on here. The big break came when we tracked down Mainwaring’s employer before Ryder.’

  Chadwick sniffed. ‘By the way, Mainwaring’s not his real name. He’s actually Reginald Elliot. Before he went to work for Ryder, he was employed by a private nursing home in Surrey. He’s a registered nurse by profession. While he was at the home—about twenty years ago—there was a big scandal. Some of the elderly patients were being bilked out of their savings,
on top of which there were two suspicious deaths. You know, shortage of breath and suffocation are pretty much one and the same thing. Our friend Elliot was under suspicion of causing both deaths but there wasn’t enough evidence to make a case. Mainwaring had been very clever in his modus operandi and in covering his tracks. He got the job with Ryder some time later through an employment agency that specializes in placing nursing personnel.’

  ‘How long was he with Ryder?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Going on fifteen years.’

  ‘So, he probably knew a lot about Ryder’s personal life and his business dealings,’ said Kingston.

  ‘Well, he did, yes. Towards the end, Ryder was pretty much incapacitated and he relied on Mainwaring for just about everything. One of the first things we asked Mainwaring was how he got to know about the paintings.’

  Kingston had been about to ask the same question. ‘How did he?’

  ‘He maintains that Girard had been at the house on several occasions and it was no secret that he and Ryder had been dealing in art for a long time. Mainwaring insists that he never actually saw any paintings but had been in the room a number of times when paintings and deals were discussed. He got to know about the three paintings, the ones that you discovered, directly through Girard. Right after Ryder died Mainwaring says he got a call from Girard offering his condolences on Ryder’s death and telling him about the three valuable paintings. He insisted they had been in Ryder’s possession all along and that, with Ryder’s passing, they rightfully belonged to him and that he wanted to pass them on to his son before he died. Apparently Girard had cancer and didn’t have long to live—which, unfortunately, turned out to be the case.’