Kingston was touched by the poignancy of her answer. He caught himself just in time, as he was about to reach out and place a hand on hers. “I realize that you hardly know me, but if there’s anything that I can do to help you through this bad patch, please say so. Whatever it might be, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“That’s kind of you and I appreciate it,” she answered, regaining her composure. “Are you headed back to London now?”
“I think so. When I left Tristan, I sensed that he wanted to tell me more, but that may have to wait. If it’s all right with you, perhaps I could come back and see him again, if he’s willing.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“There’s another possibility. I have a friend who lives near Tamworth. Since I’m up here anyway, I could call him and see if he can put me up for the night.” He smiled. “Or perhaps more aptly, put up with me for the night. If so, I could come back tomorrow.”
“That’s entirely up to the doctor and Tristan. I have no objection to your seeing him, if that’s what you’re asking. As long as it’s what he wants and it’s not affecting his well-being or peace of mind, why would I?”
“I’ll let you know, then. Perhaps you could give me a phone number where I can reach you.”
“Sure.” She took a miniature leather-bound pad from her handbag, tore off a page, jotted down her number and address, and handed it to Kingston. “That’s my mobile,” she said. “I hardly ever use the house phone anymore.”
“Thanks.” Kingston folded it once and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Amanda rose and so did he. “Thank you for coming and for your kind offer of help,” she said. “I hope you’ll understand my not wanting to stay longer but, as you know, it’s been a dreadfully long twenty-four hours.”
“I understand fully.”
“Thank you. I’ll go up and say good-bye to Tristan and then head back home. They say there’s a nasty storm coming in this afternoon, so traffic could be a mess on the Stafford stretch of the motorway. You might want to take an alternative route.”
“I will, thanks.”
Kingston walked with her to the lifts, close to the main entrance. Silently waiting, they both stared up, ritually, at the lighted floor indicator descending. Knowing that the doors would open at any moment, he turned to her. “Amanda,” he said, realizing that it was the first time that he’d addressed her by her first name.
She lowered her eyes and looked at him. “Yes?”
“I’ve been curious about something. It’s really none of my business and if you prefer not to answer, I’ll understand.”
She looked at him quizzically. “What is it?” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“What is the nature of your brother’s illness?”
The lift door opened and she stepped in and turned to face Kingston. “The doctor isn’t certain yet, but she thinks Tristan might have been poisoned,” she said.
Before he could respond, the doors had closed.
EIGHT
That night, Kingston stayed at the James Hotel in Lichfield, about twenty miles from the hospital. The “friend” in Tamworth that he’d mentioned to Amanda was, in fact, a septuagenarian uncle of Megan, whose name was Clive. Clive was a confirmed bachelor, an intolerable blowhard who’d spent his life passing himself off as an expert on everything. While Megan was alive, an uneasy truce had existed between him and Kingston, but the mere thought of spending an entire evening having to listen to Clive pontificating had never been in question. That aside, he had no idea if Clive still lived in Tamworth and had no wish to find out. The James suited him fine.
After leaving the hospital yesterday morning, he’d sat in the TR wondering how he should interpret Amanda’s answer to his question. Poisoning suggested all manner of possibilities, ranging from accidental food poisoning to a premeditated act committed with intent to kill. What kind of poison was another issue altogether. Many poisons were readily available on the open market, some of the most lethal belonging to the animal and plant worlds, as Kingston knew only too well. But Amanda had said, “He might have been poisoned,” which, if taken literally, left no doubt as to her meaning. He’d hoped he would be proved wrong, but there was plenty of reason for suspicion. If Endicott’s murder was related to Veitch’s discoveries, then it wasn’t unreasonable to conclude that the same person or persons responsible for Endicott’s death wanted Veitch out of the way, too.
Putting on his seat belt, he’d been reminded how quickly it all happened. Now that the gravity of the events was starting to sink in, he was already beginning to have mixed feelings about having taken on the inquiry. He’d dismissed that thought, reminding himself that Veitch’s startling information about the Morleys had given the case a new twist, maybe a break of sorts, much more than he’d ever hoped for when he’d knocked on Veitch’s door the day before. On the other hand, Veitch was now apparently near death; possibly poisoned by someone or someones who would stop at nothing to prevent his discovery about the Morley family from becoming public. There had been times during murder investigations that he’d worked on in the past, when his life had been in jeopardy, but in all those cases there had been physical confrontation of one kind or another. This case was different. He’d barely started and already he was uneasy about what he could be getting into. If he continued digging, would he also become a target? After thinking about it briefly, he’d concluded that now was not the time to worry about it and that further speculation was pointless. Until he received more information from either Amanda or the hospital and had the chance to give it a lot more thought, he would forget his misgivings.
Under ominous darkening skies, he’d considered whether or not to drive back to London. In the end, the storm had made the decision for him. As he’d been studying his road map, deciding which road to take out of town, the wind had picked up, hurling leaves and debris roof-high across the car park. Then it had started bucketing down. The idea of driving back to London was a nonstarter. What remained of the day called for a warm and comfortable refuge where he could sit with a drink by a cheering fireplace, savoring the prospect of a good meal and a good night’s rest, with uninterrupted time to absorb and analyze everything that had taken place in the last twenty-four hours—hence the James Hotel.
* * *
At breakfast the next morning in the hotel’s conservatory Garden Room, Kingston thought about the day to come. During the night, the storm had passed and the skies outside were now cloudless and atypically blue, even though it was summer. Earlier, while shaving, courtesy of the toiletries kit the hotel provided, he’d made up his mind that the first order of the day would be to figure how he could wangle another talk with Tristan Veitch. He might get permission simply by phoning critical care, dropping Dr. Chandra’s name, saying that he was Dr. Kingston and was on his way to revisit the patient in room five. That would be plan B; first, he must talk to Amanda. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel that he was being indifferent to what she was going through or uncaring of her brother’s plight, by taking advantage of the situation to further his own goals. As it was, he hadn’t been completely forthcoming about his reason for showing up in the first place. Sooner or later he would have to tell her what that was, but only when he felt the time and place were right.
By eight forty-five, after a satisfying breakfast and three cups of coffee, he was back in his room, the slip of paper bearing Amanda’s phone number in hand. He looked at his watch one more time. A reasonable enough hour to call, he decided. After what must have been close to ten rings—he was about to put down the phone—she answered.
“It’s Lawrence Kingston,” he said, trying not to sound overly cheerful.
“I was hoping you’d call, Doctor. I left a message on your answerphone last night.”
Something was wrong, he knew. Her words had come quickly, with an edge of agitation. “What is it?” he asked.
“The house has been ransacked.”
“Good Lord! When was this?�
�
“While I was gone yesterday. When I got back, the place was a terrible mess. I called the police right away. They were here for several hours. They’re coming back this morning to check for prints and whatever. A neighbor stayed with me last night.”
“Was it a burglary? I mean, are items of value missing?”
“Not really, at least none of my jewelry, small antiques, the usual things that are stolen. My laptop’s gone but it was really old, so that’s no great loss. Tristan’s study was hit the worst. They took his computer and iPhone, and the police say that other electronic devices could be missing, going by the cords and cables that remain. They weren’t methodical. They just trashed the place. Books all over the place, file drawers emptied, a horrible mess. Drawers in the living room were emptied, too, but the police say it was clear that Tristan was targeted, that they were looking for something of his.”
“Did they ask you what that might be?”
“They asked the obvious: Did he keep valuables in his study, large amounts of money, valuable paintings, collections of any kind, guns, anything worth stealing? Had I noticed any strangers in the neighborhood lately or had people done work on the house recently? That sort of thing.”
“What about the project that he’d been working on? The one we talked briefly about yesterday?”
“It started off as a project, but over the last several weeks it became more like an obsession. I’ve never seen Tristan get so wrapped up in any of his work before. Not only that, he had this nagging worry—almost paranoia—about it being stolen or somehow lost. He was almost afraid to leave the house.”
“Weren’t you concerned that what he was writing about could be libelous or even place him in some kind of jeopardy?”
“Those thoughts had crossed my mind. Yes. Every time I broached the subject he always said he would tell me in due course.” She paused briefly, then continued, a tinge of anger in her voice. “It’s the reason he was poisoned, isn’t it? That damned project of his.” Another pause. “The burglary—that too. They’re all somehow connected.”
“It certainly looks that way. What other reasons could there be? There’s the timing, too.” Though Amanda was probably right, Kingston knew that further conversation on this path would lead nowhere. Not only that, if it were to continue, it would be difficult to avoid having to explain the circumstances that had led to his involvement and the most likely reason why her brother was in the hospital. “As I said before, if there’s any way that I can help, I want you to ask. Whatever it is.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Doctor. Coping with Tristan being deathly sick was one thing, but this is much more. And it frightens me.”
“I can well understand. Just promise to call me if matters get worse.”
“I will. Thank you. I have to wait here for the police and I don’t know how long that will take. I was planning to see Tristan later today, but I doubt that’s going to be possible now. Perhaps it’s just as well, though. Telling him about the break-in would be out of the question. The last thing he needs. First off, he’d be worried sick about me, being home alone. If you weren’t in London, I might ask you to go in my place.”
“I’m not in London. I stayed up here last night, in Lichfield, because of the storm.”
“Really? Then if it doesn’t interfere with your plans, perhaps you could check in on him and call me later to let me know how he’s doing. You’ll have to explain that I couldn’t get away today, of course. Just tell him that I had to wait for someone to look at the roof because of storm damage, something like that.”
“I’d be more than happy to visit him, Amanda. I’ll go this morning before driving back home.”
“Good. When we hang up, I’ll ring the hospital and let them know you’ll be coming in my place. You’ll call me later?”
“I will.”
Kingston put down the phone, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the books on the bedside table, contemplating this disturbing development. The morning sun beaming through the rustling leaves of the silver birch outside the window conflicted with his mood, as it projected playful patterns on the white stucco. He’d long ago stopped concerning himself with the fickleness of the English weather, but for a brief moment it struck him as unjust that such awful news should be accompanied by such a cheerful display of nature.
* * *
The white-haired receptionist looked up as Kingston approached the hospital’s entry desk. “May I help you, sir?” she asked.
“I’m Dr. Kingston. I’m here to visit Mr. Veitch, in critical care. I’m given to understand his sister called earlier this morning, granting permission.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she replied, moistening her lips. “Dr. Chandra asked to speak with you when you arrived. I’ll see if I can locate her.” She reached for the phone.
Kingston turned away, gazing around the reception area. He was hoping against hope that Veitch was feeling well enough to continue where he’d left off. Shortly, he heard the receptionist call his name.
“She’s on her way down, Doctor.”
He’d been half expecting, for obvious reasons, that Dr. Chandra might want to talk to him about his visit with her patient, but a nagging doubt now persisted, leading him to wonder if the reason for her breaking away to talk to him was to explain why seeing Veitch today was not in the cards. Another thought crossed his mind: As happened often, she could be under the impression that he was a medical doctor. He hadn’t told Amanda or anyone else anything to the contrary.
Another minute or so passed, then he saw Dr. Chandra step out of the elevator and head toward him. As she got close, she gestured for Kingston to walk with her across the lobby. “I have bad news, I’m afraid,” she said with no inflection. “Mr. Veitch died a short while ago.”
For what seemed a long time they stood, bound by an uneasy silence, her eyes never leaving Kingston’s. Finally, he spoke.
“That is bad news. Does his sister know?”
“Yes. I spoke with her. She said you were coming.”
“I should give her a call, then.”
She smiled grimly. “We had hopes of saving him, but we got to him too late, I’m afraid.”
“Amanda … his sister said you thought it might have been poisoning?”
“It certainly looks that way. I can’t say for sure, though. We don’t have the lab report yet.”
“A copy would go to the police, I presume?”
She gave a thin smile. “I think I know what you’re getting at, Doctor. Foul play? Right?”
Kingston shrugged. “Curious, that’s all.”
“Unfortunately, this is a sensitive area that ultimately rests with the hospital’s legal department and the police. All we do, as standard procedure, is to determine if poisoning is the cause of death. If it is, then it’s the pathologist’s job to determine what kind of poison. Unless foul play is obvious, we are not bound to report it as a possible homicide. That’s for the police investigators to determine.”
“I understand.”
She pursed her lips briefly, then said, “Sorry.”
Kingston took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks for taking the time to tell me personally. I appreciate that.”
She nodded and smiled sympathetically. They shook hands, then she turned and headed back to the elevators.
NINE
Two and a half hours later, Kingston swung his garage door closed, locked it, and set the ADT security alarm. Two years earlier, his TR4 had been stolen from his rented Waverley Mews garage and he’d gone to great lengths to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
From a traffic standpoint, the drive back from Stafford had been uneventful. With dry weather and no road works or accidents, he’d had plenty of time to relive and try to sort through the shocking events of the last twenty-four hours, and to start shaping a tentative course of action for the hours and days to come. The first priority, when he got back to his flat, would be to call Amanda to offer his condo
lences. He sensed that it could be another difficult conversation for both of them.
He knew that more prying into her brother’s activities or raising the question of another visit without good reason would be a breach of etiquette and would run the risk of ending the relationship there and then. Nonetheless, he also realized that if his inquiry was to continue, he had to find a way to examine Tristan’s study, sooner rather than later. Whether he achieved that would depend on her frame of mind when they spoke. He hoped that she would be willing to cooperate. Another option, of course, was to tell her everything, including what her brother had divulged in the last few hours of his life. That would be his last alternative, he decided.
He went through the post and checked his answerphone. The first message was from Amanda. It wasn’t until he heard twenty seconds or so that he realized it was the call she’d left earlier, to tell him that the house had been ransacked. There were no other messages of importance.
There was little doubt in his mind now that the break-in was related to Veitch’s investigation into the Morley family and the potentially explosive material he’d unearthed. So the burglars would certainly have cleaned the place out, taken all of Tristan’s manuscripts, records, notes, phone records, et cetera, anything and everything that could point to complicity or guilt. The fact that they’d taken his computer and iPhone confirmed that. Nevertheless, they’d perhaps overlooked something. If that something existed, Kingston intended to find it, no matter how insignificant or minuscule. “The truth, if it exists, is in the details,” was one of the few proverbs he’d been known to use with any frequency.
EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past Page 8
