“A local?”
Sid nodded. “Last I heard he was living over near Abbot’s Broomfield by the reservoir. I’m told he’s a bit of a recluse, a cantankerous old bugger.”
“What’s his line of work?”
“He’s sort of a self-appointed historian for this part of the county. Most of it related to Sturminster and the Morleys, of course. The history of the family is quite a saga, by the way.”
“So I’m gathering,” Kingston said, nodding at the book. “I’d like to meet this Veitch fellow. Any idea how I can contact him?”
“He’s probably ex-directory, but you might want to give the Post a call. That’s our local paper. They publish historical articles of his from time to time.”
At that moment, a lady wearing an apron appeared with Kingston’s ploughman’s lunch spread out on a wooden board. She placed it on the bar and vanished as quickly as she had arrived.
“Well, I’ll quit wittering on and leave you to enjoy your lunch,” said Sid. “Another Worthington’s?”
Kingston nodded. “Please,” he said, feeling chuffed with his good fortune and his decision to stop at the Red Lion in the first place. Slicing into the generous wedge of Stilton, he was already thinking about meeting Tristan Veitch.
* * *
Driving back to London, he gave thought to what he had learned from his meeting with Crawford. The skimpy background on William Endicott was a modest start but hardly thought provoking. The only thing that had struck him as remotely significant was Endicott’s job at the institute. According to Crawford, the professor’s specialty was Greek and Middle Eastern archaeology, and the Sturminster monuments were all Grecian-inspired. Coincidence? Maybe, but it could also suggest that architecture could be the common denominator that somehow linked Endicott to Sturminster and perhaps the murder. The connection was flimsy, but the institute would be on his list of places to check out.
As for the GCHQ report, after he’d had the chance to read it and had studied the copy of the scrap of paper found in Endicott’s pocket, he would probably take Crawford’s advice and compare notes with Tennant. It would seem unlikely, however, as Crawford had contended, that either would amount to much, until the missing piece of paper showed up—if it ever did.
Of everything that he’d learned or seen during his brief time at Sturminster, the Arcadian monument had interested him most. With its primitive, rough-hewn stone surround, it oozed a feeling that was otherworldly and unsettling. In stark contrast, the monument’s centerpiece had the exact opposite effect. The aesthetic beauty of its pastoral scene, delicately sculpted from white marble, was clearly meant to serve as a counterpoise, to imbue a sense of harmony and repose in those contemplating it. Then, looking more closely at it, spotting the presence of a sarcophagus in the elysian depiction, the symbolism became clear: Even in paradise, death exists. As if all that weren’t enough, there was the cryptic inscription. He wondered if Matthew Seward, the monument’s creator, had added it of his own volition, or had someone else been responsible? If the latter were the case, it would seem logical that it would have been one of the Morley brothers, who’d commissioned it in the first place, who would have conceived of adding the baffling inscription.
He could now appreciate more than ever why the Arcadian monument had provoked so much interest over the centuries and had attracted such a cultlike following of would-be code breakers and theorists. As far as the murder was concerned, it was easy to understand why it would be natural for people to jump to the conclusion that the monument had something to do with the crime. With the body discovered a stone’s throw from the monument and, on top of that, the code angle—two code angles, no less—it had all the makings of a sure thing. Though he still had reservations about it having a direct connection to the murder, he certainly wouldn’t dismiss the possibility of it having some connection, no matter how tenuous. He made a mental note to look at the other monuments more closely the next time he returned to Sturminster.
Stuck in heavy commuter traffic on the A446 in a steady rain that had started soon after he’d left the pub, Kingston could do little but twiddle his thumbs and watch the raindrops bouncing off the TR’s bonnet. His radio had gone on the blink several days ago and wouldn’t be fixed for another week. He glanced momentarily at the ugly hole in the dashboard. Why was it so devilishly hard to get anything repaired or serviced these days? he wondered. Surely it hadn’t always been like this. He was reminded once again—it happened with growing frequency of late—how much England had changed in the last few decades, and not for the better, to his way of thinking.
It wasn’t until he was rounding Marble Arch, close to home, that he remembered Mrs. Tripp, his doughty and talkative housecleaner. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s all I need.” Nothing short of Armageddon would keep her from her appointed rounds. At the stroke of nine every Friday, the doorbell would ring and there she would be, planted on the doormat like a garden gnome, with her cheery countenance and cliché-ridden greeting. When possible, he tried to make plans for Fridays. Not so much to be out of her way as to avoid her chronic and trivial jabbering. After a three-year drubbing, he had developed an impenetrable but polite self-defense system. There was no question in his mind that she was beyond cure.
When Kingston arrived at his flat at five thirty, she was still doing the ironing.
She glanced up when he entered. “There you are, Doctor. I hope you’re all right? I’ve been worried stiff about you. You’ve been gone all day,” she bleated, shaking her head.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Tripp.” He glanced at his watch. “It is getting late, you know. Perhaps you should call it a day and go home?”
“Don’t you worry yourself, Doctor,” she said breezily, continuing to iron. “I’ll just finish up here then I’ll be out of your hair. In any case, Arthur’s not coming home until later this evening. He’s going to one of his bridge club meetings. Oh, and I put the post on the coffee table for you.”
Kingston nodded. “Thank you. If you need me, I’ll be in the living room.” He started for the door, but he knew that she wasn’t about to let him escape that easily.
“Did you read that story this morning, on the front page of the Mail?”
“I didn’t,” he replied, hand on the doorknob. “I don’t read the Mail.”
“Gave me the willies, it did—about these Satan worshippers in Russia, I believe it was. Killed three people, then cooked them. Can you imagine? Goths, they called them. I got sick to my stomach when I read it. I don’t know how…”
“Mrs. Tripp, I can understand your revulsion, but there are things I must attend to, so if you’ll pardon me, I’ll say good evening and go do some catching up.”
“Of course. I understand, Doctor. I’ll see you next week then?”
“You will,” he said with a disguised sigh, before closing the door behind him.
In the living room, he placed the satchel on the floor next to the couch and picked up the post from the coffee table. Nothing of interest save a postcard from his friend Andrew depicting a large brown spotted trout on one side and a terse message—as usual—on the other:
Lousy weather, otherwise having a good time. Hope you’re staying out of trouble while I’m gone. I’ll treat you to lunch at the Anchor when I get back.
Cheers,
Andrew
An hour later, after a light dinner—with a notepad, pen, and a glass of Côtes du Rhône by his side—he placed the contents of the satchel on the coffee table. Slowly and deliberately, he started to read. Some, like transcripts of conversations with the police—written by Simon Crawford, from memory, as notated—he read twice to make sure he wasn’t missing anything that was unclear, contradictory, or ambiguous. In a few cases he made notes of statements and time lines that he would cross-check later.
When he’d finished, almost two hours later, he was left with a vague sense of disappointment. He certainly now had a clearer picture of everything that had happened on that terrible day at Sturminster and the days
that followed, but the documents had revealed nothing new. The police did indeed seem at a dead end. There was no new information that would help expand his inquiry.
He returned the papers to the satchel and took his wineglass back to the kitchen. He’d been planning to read more of Morley’s book before retiring but had concluded that the last two hours had been more than enough reading for one night. Though he’d rather not admit it, he needed a break, even if it was only a short one. An hour or so catching up on the news and sports on the telly should do the job, he decided. He nodded off in less than fifteen minutes, in the middle of the national weather report.
FIVE
Andrew, back from his fishing trip, took a long sip of wine and glared at Kingston. “For Christ’s sake, Lawrence! What the hell’s wrong with you?” His voice was loud enough to cause embarrassment, not only to Kingston but to surrounding diners as well. “The minute I turn my back you go and do something—” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I have to say it—plain stupid !”
Lunch at the Anchor had started pleasantly, Andrew talking at length about his fishing trip, which sounded a little too ho-hum for Kingston’s tastes. After ten minutes or so, the conversation had drifted, for no good reason, to an exchange of thoughts—a mutual commiseration of the growing scandal over politicians’ expense accounts and mass cabinet resignations that was dominating the headlines daily. It was then that Kingston had chosen to tell Andrew about Lord Morley’s letter and their meeting, finally breaking the news that he’d agreed to help in the Sturminster murder case.
After Andrew’s initial outburst, Kingston had summarized his trip to Staffordshire and given a short account of his meeting with Simon Crawford, with emphasis on the Arcadian monument, which he knew would appeal to Andrew’s sense of the abstruse.
Andrew had sat in an undisguised funk and listened without comment, but he was not finished, not by a long chalk. “I’m gone ten days—only ten days—and in that time you’ve visited the scene of a bloody murder, met with Lord what’s ’is name, and agreed to join in a half-assed investigation. I give up!” He spread his hands and shook them in frustration.
Kingston knew better than to try to persuade Andrew that not only was he doing the right thing but that he wanted to do it, too. He’d tried that tack before and it hadn’t worked. So why bother now? Nevertheless, it was heartening to know that Andrew thought enough of their friendship to make such a fuss about his sanity and well-being. Instead, he made an attempt to change the subject. “Isn’t your Bourne End open garden weekend coming up soon?” he asked, taking a last sip of coffee.
Andrew sighed. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”
“I have, and your disapproval is duly noted. When is it?”
“When is what?”
“The garden tour.”
“It’s the eleventh of next month. And I hope you can make it this time.”
Last year, despite promising to help Andrew host his Sunday open garden—an annual village event featuring a dozen or so local gardens—he was forced to renege at the last minute because of an unexpected turn in the plant-hunting murder case that had dragged him up to Wales.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it this time. I’ve been meaning to come and see the garden anyway. A visit is long overdue. I haven’t even seen your new rose garden yet, nor those pricey urns you got from France.”
“I know.”
From his tart reply and crotchety look, Kingston knew that Andrew wasn’t ready to give up on the Sturminster business.
“So,” said Andrew, followed by a long moment of thought, “if, as you say, the case is bogged down, what’s your plan?”
Kingston couldn’t resist an indulgent, if fleeting, smile. “It’s a stalemate now, but I doubt for long. There’ll be a break in due course. There nearly always is. New evidence surfaces, something in the victim’s background sheds new light on the case, a change-of-heart informant comes forward, perhaps an unexpected find that’s been tucked away for years in one of the crevices of the Morley family closet—or even better, someone finds the missing part of the code. It may take longer than we would like, but something will surface, mark my words. In the meantime, we must work with what little we have.”
Andrew shook his head. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d be moping around the house, feather-dusting your bibelots, for long.”
“I wasn’t planning to, Andrew. I plan on visiting the institute where Endicott worked. Perhaps have a talk with his mother—see if the police missed anything there. And then there’s a gentleman named Tristan Veitch. A historian of sorts.”
“A historian?”
“He specializes in the history of Staffordshire, particularly the area surrounding Sturminster. I’m told that he also knows a lot about the Morley family.”
“The family? Why do you want to know about them?”
“Apparently they’ve been feuding for centuries.”
“And you think this might have something to do with the murder?”
Kingston hadn’t thought about it that explicitly before, but now hearing Andrew put it so bluntly …
“Possibly. Yes,” he said, somewhat unconvincingly.
“And you’re going to step right into the middle of it? You do know that family disputes often come to a bad end, don’t you? Even the police don’t like to go on domestics.”
“I’d hardly consider a meeting with a cantankerous historian to be life threatening.”
“Have it your way.” Andrew folded his arms and looked away.
“If you’re so worried, why not come with me?”
Andrew shook his head. “No way,” he said curtly.
“You wouldn’t have to do anything. Just sit quietly and take notes. I’d enjoy the company.”
“You’re not going to persuade me, Lawrence. You can try ’til you’re blue in the face. I want no part of it. You can stick your neck out if you want, that’s your business, but I’m not that thick-skulled, and I’m sure you get my drift.”
At that moment the waitress arrived and placed the bill folder on the table, judiciously between them, then departed with a polite “thank you, gentlemen.” Andrew was quick to grab it, which brought no protest from Kingston who knew, by now, better than to argue. In any case, Andrew had offered to treat earlier.
After leaving what appeared to Kingston to be an unnecessarily large wad of bills for such a modest lunch—even taking into account the stiff price tag of the Pouilly-Fumé—they walked out of the dining room and in a couple of minutes were leaving the Anchor’s car park in Andrew’s red Mini Cooper. On the road out of the village, Andrew slipped into third gear and glanced at Kingston. “I suppose I’m going to have to accept the fact that you’re not going to change,” he said with a sigh.
“I’m not so sure about that. To be honest, if it weren’t for the money I wouldn’t have accepted the assignment. And I can drop out anytime I want. I’m not doing it just for the challenge, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Lawrence, I hate to say this, but the only time you’ll give up playing detective is if and when you meet another Megan. Someone whose life is more important to you than your own.”
Kingston put a hand to his mouth and faked a yawn. “Seems to me we’ve been over this ground before,” he said, looking out the window to avoid Andrew’s gaze.
At least a mile had whizzed by before Kingston spoke again. “Andrew, I have no information, evidence, or explanation whatsoever for making this prediction, but I have a suspicion that this case will eventually prove to be much bigger and more far-reaching in scope than any of us realize. If it makes you feel better, it could be my last hurrah.”
“When pigs have wings!”
SIX
The next morning Kingston rose early. During breakfast he read and reread the police reports and some of the other material that Crawford had given him. There was no question that, to date, the police had conducted a thorough examination, seemingly having left
no proverbial stone unturned. Nevertheless, reading between the lines it was evident that they had no idea who might have killed Endicott, and they appeared to have no leads whatsoever.
The correspondence from GCHQ was much as Crawford had described—brief and to the point: Only if the matching piece of paper were located could it be determined if codes were involved. In summation they suggested that the letters were probably a combination or password of some kind.
Breakfast finished and the dishes put away, Kingston, following Sid’s suggestion, called the Midlands Post to inquire about Tristan Veitch. Though they couldn’t give Kingston the number, they agreed to pass on a brief message to the historian letting him know that Kingston wanted to contact him regarding matters concerning Sturminster.
He had better luck finding Mrs. Endicott, the murdered man’s mother. Even though he couldn’t recall the name of the village where Crawford had said she was staying, it didn’t take long. An Internet search located the assisted-living house Kingston was looking for in the village of Rugeley. From the picture, Richmond Court more resembled a manor house than an assisted-living home. He printed the page and set it aside. He didn’t plan to phone, though. He would learn much more if he could talk to Mrs. Endicott face-to-face. As had been his practice with similar circumstances in the past, he called Richmond Court to make sure that she was still a resident there, and after learning that she was, asked what would be an appropriate time to stop by to see her. He was told that the best time would be early afternoon, sometime after two P.M.
That afternoon, Kingston rounded Richmond Court’s circular driveway and parked in a designated area on the side of the house. Stepping out of the car, he paused to admire the lovely old house and its spacious and peaceful surroundings: salubrious, as well they should be, he thought.
The front door was ajar, so he entered but rang the brass doorbell anyway. Inside, with nobody in sight, he stood in the parquet-floored entrance hall admiring the room before deciding to go in search of someone in charge. Soon he heard the clip-clop of heels coming from a hallway on his left. Odd that, in a rest home, the woman wouldn’t be wearing quieter shoes, he thought. A smiling young lady, dressed in a dark suit, approached to greet him.
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