“Me? Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t even know how to turn the damned thing on. The police did, though. Apparently, they didn’t find anything worth mentioning—at least for now. One of their technical people is coming back to take out the hard drive—whatever that means.”
“That figures,” he mumbled.
Becky watched, saying nothing, as Kingston—more to give the appearance that he was at least doing something—picked absently through the pieces of paper strewn across the desk, glancing at some, discarding others. He opened the top drawer of the desk to reveal a mishmash of pencils, pens, paper clips, pads, polo mints and other office-type stuff. He closed it quickly and continued to poke around. After a minute or so he gave up and was about to join Becky at the door when he glimpsed the edge of a folded newspaper tucked under two magazines. It wasn’t so much the newspaper but the all-too-familiar black and white checkerboard squares of a crossword puzzle that grabbed his attention. Not any puzzle, though—he knew, without unfolding the paper, that it was the Times Saturday jumbo puzzle. He had been doing the mind-bending cryptic puzzles for as long as he could remember. What’s more, so had Stewart. At one time they used to call each other every weekend to see who had solved the most clues. Rarely did either of them complete one.
Out of curiosity, he pulled out the paper to see how many answers were filled in. Not many—fewer than a dozen. He gazed around the small space one more time, not knowing where else to look or even what he was looking for. Remembering Becky’s remarks about the entries in Stewart’s date book, he flipped through the pages for June. Thursday, 1: Dental Appt. Saturday, 3: Lunch with Jeremy—The Cricketers. Tuesday, 6: Oil change/lube. Friday, 9: Plaster needs fixing. Then, scribbled directly under that, Fork. Kingston stopped, his hand resting on the page: Friday, June 9, the day Stewart went missing. What did “Fork” mean, he wondered. It looked somehow odd, on its own.
“Any idea what ‘Fork’ means, Becky?” he asked. “You didn’t mention it.”
“Sorry. Yes, I saw that. The policeman asked me, too. I’ve really no idea. Maybe he was going to buy one—for the garden, I mean.”
“That would make sense, I suppose,” said Kingston.
“How about Jeremy? Who is he?”
“He’s our accountant. The police said they were going to talk with him.”
Kingston took one last glance at Stewart’s untidy office before closing the door behind him. He was wondering if they should check to see how many forks Stewart already had in the garden shed, then dismissed the idea.
They went out into the garden. Warm, without the slightest murmuring of a breeze, all around them was a heady confection of color and fragrance. “I must say, Stewart’s done a marvelous job knocking this place into shape,” said Becky. “I don’t think you saw it when we first moved in. It was a wilderness, a total shambles.”
“I didn’t, no. It’s exceptionally beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. I wish now I’d brought my camera.”
They walked in silence for a moment, Kingston admiring Stewart’s well-chosen selection of plants overtaking the gravel path on both sides: catmint, lamb’s ear, cottage pinks and several hybrids of hardy geraniums intermingled with other perennials. He thought about asking Becky if he could take a peek into the garden shed to see if forks were in short supply but dismissed the idea as meaningless.
Crossing the new-mown top lawn, its distinct grassy whiff still in the air, they passed under the long wisteria-covered pergola and down the shallow flight of stone steps to the lower lawn. Kingston looked up at the thick green canopy. “Purple, lilac or white?” he asked.
“White.”
“A glorious sight, I bet.”
“It is. I only wish it would last longer.”
Kingston nodded in agreement as they continued across the lawn, the pond on their left, demarked by a curve of weeping willows. They stopped at the bottom of the garden, on the edge of the ha-ha, a deep ditch spanning the width of the garden, intended to keep the neighboring sheep from straying into the garden, at the same time maintaining an uninterrupted view of the landscape. The bucolic scene across the sheep-dotted pasture to the golden fields beyond made conversation seem superfluous. Becky broke the spell.
“That’s the village of Stoke Magna, way over there,” she said, shielding her eyes with her hand. “It won a prize several years ago as the prettiest village in Hampshire. We walk there, across the fields, for Sunday services, sometimes.” She glanced at her watch then turned to face him. “Goodness, it’s getting quite late,” she said. “I haven’t even shown you your room. We redecorated it since you were last here. You’ll be pleased, it’s not quite so frilly.” They turned and headed back to the house. “By the way, I booked the table at The King’s Head for seven o’clock,” she said. “The food’s excellent. I thought we could have a drink here before leaving. We still have that bottle of your favorite whisky.”
“Becky,” he said, taking her hand. “I don’t want you to go out of your way on my behalf. You have enough to worry about already.”
She looked up at him with a forced smile. “We do have to eat, you know. I’m just sorry I’m not up to cooking right now.”
Their table was ready when they arrived at The King’s Head. Each with a glass of Vouvray, waiting for the first course—both of them had ordered the Waldorf salad—they continued to speculate about Stewart’s disappearance and his odd behavior. Kingston did most of the talking, using his considerable way with words and soothing manner trying to convince Becky that there had to be a simple explanation for everything and, most of all, for them not to give up hope so early in the game. Soon, he became aware that he was starting to repeat himself, and by the time the salads arrived, an unspoken consent was reached: that further discussion on the subject served no useful purpose. Throughout the remainder of the meal, Kingston kept the conversation from flagging with a recounting of the year that he had spent in Somerset, restoring a large garden for a young American woman who had inherited the estate. Becky, of course, had read all about it in the newspaper, but with Kingston’s telling, it was another story entirely. The dinner ended with coffee and an updating of their respective daughters’ lives and careers: Sarah and her new baby in Shrewsbury, where her French husband owned a successful restaurant, and Kingston’s daughter Julie, who lived in Seattle and worked for Microsoft.
The next morning, after a tentative hug at the front door, they said their good-byes, and Kingston drove off. Just before the turn at the end of the short street, he looked in his rear-view mirror. Becky was still standing there waving.
He eased back into the leather bucket seat, ready for the drive home, and shook his head. He was none the wiser now than he had been when he’d arrived yesterday as to why her husband should have suddenly disappeared without a word or trace.
Notes
1
Louis: name shared by a king of France and boxer Joe Louis.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LOST GARDENS
Copyright © 2005 by Anthony Eglin.
Excerpt from The Water Lily Cross copyright © 2007 by Anthony Eglin.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
First published in Great Britain by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Cover photograph of garden © Veer. Cover photograph of flower © Robert Pickett/Corbis.
eISBN 9781429903943
First eBook Edition : December 2011
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2005054758
ISBN: 0
-312-94932-4
EAN: 9780312-94932-7
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / April 2006
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2007
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
ST. MARTIN’S/MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS TITLES BY ANTHONY EGLIN
Praise for Anthony Eglin’s English Garden Mystery Series
GET A CLUE!
Acknowledgements
The Water Lily Cross
Notes
Copyright Page
EG02 - The Lost Gardens Page 28
