EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  If premeditated poisoning was the cause of death, it raised a lot of burning questions: Why was Tristan poisoned and by whom? When and what type of poison? How was it administered? Was it acute or chronic, that is, administered over a period of time? Considering all that, one possibility hadn’t escaped him. Much as he found the thought repellent, it couldn’t be dismissed. Had Amanda played a role? He wanted to rule out the thought summarily but knew that could end up being a mistake. From what little he knew of her and the way she had exhibited genuine concern and caring for her brother, she would seem the last possible suspect. However, having dealt with more than one murderer—two of them women, in fact—he knew better than to take things at face value, to assume anything. The police, he knew, had their own ways of looking at these things, too. The first people to come under scrutiny were usually family members or friends, particularly in husband-and-wife situations or sibling relationships like theirs.

  Kingston went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, still thinking about how he could bring her around to the idea of his visiting her without making it seem self-serving or appear that he was intruding in her personal life. If she got the impression that he was inquiring solely for his own benefit, she could easily take it the wrong way, and that would be the end of his just-begun investigation—for the time being, anyway. Waiting for the coffee to percolate, he stared out the window into the small garden below where the clematis, Perle d’Azur, was putting on a flamboyant show on the south wall facing him.

  He turned his thoughts to Veitch and his shocking indictment of unnamed members of the Morley family and the “staggering amount of money” involved, which would be in keeping with the rumor about money that Samuel Morley had embezzled from his brother. If everything Veitch had said was true—and Kingston had no reason to doubt the veracity of the historian’s claims—one or more of the Morley clan was complicit in crimes of conspiracy, larceny, and, by the sound of it, much more. Question was, which of the Morleys? Had Veitch meant those in the distant past, or present-day members? Either way, it was starting to look as if he would be knocking on Morley’s door for a chat much sooner than he thought. That he was unaware of crimes of this magnitude seemed impossible, and yet he’d sworn that there was no truth whatsoever to the rumor.

  Kingston sat on the sofa, a mug of coffee at his side, and dialed Amanda’s number. This time she was quick to answer, and he was pleased that her voice seemed normal.

  “Hello, Amanda,” he said softly but firmly. “I’m calling to offer my condolences. Dr. Chandra told me this morning, at the hospital. I just got back home, as a matter of fact. Are you okay?”

  “I am. Yes. Thanks for asking. The truism is undeniable, though: No matter how much you try to prepare yourself for this kind of news, when it happens it’s as if you’d done nothing. In a perverse way, Tristan’s study being ransacked has turned out to be a good thing of sorts. At least it’s given me something meaningful to do today.”

  “Is your friend, your neighbor, still staying with you?” Kingston asked, trying not to sound too inquisitive about the break-in so early in the conversation. She’d raised the matter of Tristan’s study, though, and he was wondering how he could keep her on the subject without making it sound contrived.

  “No. She had to get back to her shop.”

  “The police returned, I take it?”

  “Yes, they did. They spent the better part of two hours questioning me.”

  “Has cause of death been established?”

  “No. They haven’t received the coroner’s postmortem report yet.”

  “Did they offer any theories, motives, why someone would have wanted to harm him?”

  “They didn’t. No answers, just questions.”

  “Did they ask about Tristan’s line of work?”

  “They did. They wanted to know everything about him: what he’d been working on, what projects and assignments, if anyone was employing him, if he was collaborating with anyone or he’d met with anyone at the house or elsewhere in recent weeks. They also wanted to know if I knew anything about his work or had been assisting him in any way. I didn’t, by the way, and I wasn’t helping him either.”

  Kingston was thinking about asking if the police had mentioned Endicott’s name, when she cut in.

  “The police inspector was curious about you, why you wanted to meet with Tristan and what took place at the hospital. I told him that Tristan had asked to see you and that’s all I knew. Then I realized that I knew virtually nothing about you. You’ve never told me what you do or why you called Tristan in the first place. Are you mixed up in this somehow?”

  “No, I’m not, Amanda. Let me explain why I wanted to talk to him. I’m a retired professor and occasionally—”

  “You don’t have to explain your background. Inspector Wheatley told me all about you, and your reputation, your ‘inclination to meddle in police matters.’”

  Kingston nodded to himself. That answered his earlier question.

  “So why did you want to see Tristan?” she asked.

  “About three weeks ago, the patriarch of a well-known Staffordshire family retained me to conduct an inquiry into a suspicious death—a murder, in fact—that had taken place on their property.” He paused. “You might as well know the name of the family in question—it’s Morley.”

  “Really? Sturminster?”

  “The same. To begin with, I needed to learn, independently, all about the family, both past and present. By a stroke of luck, I found out that Tristan was a historian who, so I was told, probably knew more about the Morley family than anyone else in the county. That’s why I called him and how I ended up on your doorstep. That’s it, plain and simple. It turns out now that Tristan was working on a story that if published might result in a potentially devastating criminal investigation of the Morley dynasty, one that could rewrite the history books. He told me this at the hospital. He was convinced beyond doubt, it seemed, that members of the Morley family were guilty of capital crimes. I got the impression he also realized that if word got out about what he’d uncovered, the consequences could be very serious indeed. The people concerned wouldn’t hesitate to take extreme measures to prevent that from happening.”

  “So that’s why Tristan wanted to see you at the hospital?”

  “It is. He must have sensed that it might be his only chance to tell me.”

  A lengthy pause followed, which implied that she was weighing his explanation.

  “I was going to tell you all this, Amanda, but I decided it could wait, at least until after the funeral service,” he said. “If there’s to be one.”

  “I see.”

  “I only wish it were different, particularly piled on top of everything else. But you deserve to know the truth.”

  When she still didn’t answer, Kingston was starting to wonder if she might be too upset to continue and want to end the conversation. He decided not to wait any longer and simply ask, point-blank, if he could pay her a visit.

  “I’m returning to Staffordshire to visit my client in a couple of days,” he said. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition, and providing you feel well enough, of course, I’d like to spend a couple of hours with you, so we can talk this over.”

  “Don’t you think you should be telling all this to the police?”

  “I will, of course. But it’s important that I talk with you first.”

  “What purpose would that serve? It seems that you’ve told me everything already.”

  “Not everything, Amanda.”

  “Look, Doctor, I’m satisfied, for now anyway, that the police are doing all they can to get to the bottom of this and, for the time being, I think it best that we wait until we have more information. You’ve been kind and considerate, and when this is all over, perhaps we can meet again.”

  “I understand. I know how difficult it must be for you right now. I respect your wishes and hope, too, that one day we can get together. Good-bye for now.”

  Kingston lo
wered the phone and stood, thinking how he could have handled the call better, not at all happy with her unfavorable decision. The one narrow avenue of investigation that he’d pinned his hopes on was now blocked, which meant that the only remaining line of inquiry was through Lord Morley. In the coming hours he must focus on how to break the news of Veitch’s accusations to Morley, what to tell him and what to hold back. In an aberrant way, he was looking forward to that confrontation.

  * * *

  Kingston’s phone call to Morley, at nine the next morning, was directed to Simon Crawford. Morley, he said, was in Paris on a business trip and would be returning on Friday, five days hence. Kingston said that he’d come across information relevant to the murder, stressing that it was important he meet with Morley as soon as possible. Crawford seemed genuinely encouraged by the news and assured Kingston that he’d pass on the message to Morley the moment he returned.

  In the kitchen, with a fresh cup of tea, Kingston turned his thoughts to the next couple of days and what he would do with himself. He knew, without looking at his calendar, that he had no commitments, nothing that demanded his attention. A phone call to Andrew would doubtless elicit an invitation to lunch or an event of some sort. It usually did. Maybe he should suggest a visit to Andrew’s garden at Bourne End, an overnight stay. He hadn’t seen it for a long while and he really should make an effort to help Andrew shape it up before the Open Garden event. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. At least the weather had taken a turn for the better. The last couple of days had been clear and sunny—but just in case, he’d check the forecast. Andrew would want to know about his trip to Stafford, too. That would be another slanging match, he knew.

  His phone call was picked up by Andrew’s answerphone. It was his usual succinct message, so Kingston had no idea when he might expect a call back. Having recently returned from his fishing trip, it was doubtful that Andrew had wandered far from home, he assumed.

  It wasn’t until six thirty that evening that the phone finally rang. Kingston was in the kitchen with a glass of Sancerre, readying dinner: salmon fish cakes. He no longer needed Jane Grigson’s classic recipe; he knew it by heart. He wiped his breadcrumb-daubed hands with a cloth, went into the living room, and picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Andrew,” he said, trying to sound jocular.

  “This isn’t Andrew.” A long pause followed. “Is this Dr. Kingston?” It was a woman’s voice. Then he realized. It was Amanda.

  “Amanda. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “I’m calling to say I’ve changed my mind.”

  Her lackluster voice was the same one he remembered from the day they’d first met. “In what way?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me yesterday. I was up all night and I’ve thought of little else since. That’s not the only reason, though. I got a call this morning from Inspector Wheatley—the results of the postmortem, the toxicology tests. The police are convinced now that Tristan was poisoned intentionally.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Did they say what kind of poison?”

  “Yes. It was aconite.”

  “Aconite?”

  “Yes. I wrote it down. I’ve since looked it up. It comes from a plant.”

  “I know. Aconitum. It’s beautiful and grows all over the world, but it’s also one of the deadliest, if not the deadliest, plants.”

  “This changes everything. All along, I’d been hoping that it was an accident or something else entirely. Now this. It keeps going from bad to worse and I no longer know what to think or where to turn.”

  They spoke for another five minutes and it was agreed that Kingston would return to Staffordshire the next day to talk things over and attempt to make sense out of Tristan’s untimely and highly suspicious death. When he’d suggested conducting a thorough search of the house and outbuildings, looking for anything the burglars or police might have missed that might reveal more about Tristan’s research, she’d raised no objection. Staying overnight was no problem, she’d said. She also added that Tristan kept a well-stocked wine cellar, which was music to Kingston’s ears. When the conversation ended, he was left with the impression that she was now willing to help however she could to find her brother’s killer.

  TEN

  Off the top of his head, Kingston knew that Aconitum—also known as monkshood, from its hood-shaped blossoms—was a common plant that grew in the wild and was used extensively in horticulture for its bright blue flowers that, in many ways, resembled delphinium. Worldwide, there were over two hundred species of the genus, most, but not all, blue, and every part of the plant was poisonous. The poison is from the toxic alkaloid aconitine, which is concentrated mainly in the root. Kingston remembered reading that as little as 2 mg of aconitine could cause death in an adult male within four hours, and that one-fiftieth of a grain can kill a sparrow in seconds. It had always amazed him to see it growing willy-nilly in gardens all over Britain. Most nurseries nowadays caution gardeners about its toxicity and advise that it not be grown in areas where children might be present and to keep it in the background of borders. Even handling the plant improperly can cause poisoning.

  He wondered how the aconitine had been administered to Tristan. He went into his small office and woke up his Mac. Within minutes he had more information on aconitine than he could have imagined. He found that in some cases of premeditated poisonings, a tincture of aconitine—an alcoholic extract—had been mixed into a drink, usually whisky or other strong liquor, making the taste of the poison unnoticeable. This raised another question. If Tristan was reputed to be a recluse, then the odds that he was poisoned at home were far greater. So how had someone slipped him the drink or poisoned his food? And who?

  Another five minutes on the Web and he’d read all he wanted to know. It was timely, because the cordless phone next to him started ringing. He picked it up, responding with a simple “Hello.”

  “Dr. Kingston?”

  Kingston recognized the slight northern accent. “This is he.”

  “Inspector Wheatley. I’m calling concerning the recent death of Tristan Veitch. You’re still working for Lord Morley, I take it?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m sure that by now Amanda Veitch has told you that we’ve interviewed her both concerning her brother’s death and the break-in and burglary at their house.”

  “She has, yes.”

  “She tells us that four days ago you contacted her brother about a project you were working on, and subsequently he left you a phone message requesting you to meet him at their house. Is that correct, so far?”

  “It is. Except that the meeting never took place. By that time he’d been taken to the hospital.”

  “Quite. After that, at his request, you visited him in Stafford Memorial.”

  “I did.”

  “By rights, because you’re a material witness in a criminal proceeding, I should have you come in for a formal interview. But for reasons of expediency, and to save you a long trip, I decided to forgo the formality and question you on the phone. I must inform you that our conversation is being recorded, of course.”

  “I appreciate the special treatment, Inspector. I’m happy to cooperate.”

  “Excuse me a moment, Doctor.”

  Kingston waited while the inspector conferred with someone in the background. In a few seconds, he was back. “I know it was you who first called him, but I want to get this straight. It turned out that he was glad that you’d called and wanted to talk to you anyway. Quite a coincidence, I’d say. Is this pretty much what happened?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “On this phone message, did Mr. Veitch tell you why he wanted to see you?”

  “It was all rather vague. As you know, he was a historian and was working on a story about the history of Sturminster and the Morleys. It seemed he’d uncovered some sordid criminal acts that had taken place in the eighteenth century. It involved the Morley family at the time.�
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  “Was he aware that you were conducting an inquiry for Morley, or that you’d been involved in investigative work before?”

  “He said he knew of my reputation, that’s all.”

  “Tell me what happened when you arrived for the appointment.”

  “Very little. His sister, Amanda, met me at the door. She told me that she was Tristan’s sister and that he’d just been taken to the hospital. I apologized for arriving at such a bad moment, gave her my card, and left. It all happened in a couple of minutes.”

  “Had she been expecting you?”

  “Yes. Her brother had told her I was coming.”

  “What was her state of mind at the time?”

  “She was visibly upset. Genuinely so, I’d say.”

  “Did she say why he’d been hospitalized?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “How did you manage to visit Tristan Veitch in critical care at the hospital, alone?”

  Kingston had to think for a moment. “The morning after I met Amanda Veitch, she called me at home saying that her brother was in critical care and wanted to see me. The doctor had told her that Tristan didn’t have too long to live, and if I still wanted to see him, I’d best leave right away. I met her at Stafford Memorial later that morning and was able to spend about ten minutes with Veitch.”

  “She said you returned to the hospital the next day.”

  “That’s correct. After I’d seen Veitch that day, I was planning to go back home, but a bad storm came in and I decided to stay overnight in Stafford instead of driving back down.”

  “To London?”

  “Right.”

  “Where did you stay?”