EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  Putting the puzzle aside, he took another look at the five pages of Veitch’s notes on influential eighteenth-century men to determine whether anything further could be read into them or figure out why Veitch had included them.

  Rereading the section on Robert Walpole, it looked as if Veitch had copied it from a Web site—probably had, Kingston concluded. The last time he’d read anything related to that period in Britain’s history was when he was in gray-flannel shorts behind a desk with an inkwell and stained fingers. It did remind him, however, of one worthless tidbit that he’d learned about the man when in college: Walpole was partial to Bordeaux wines, in particular Lafite and Margaux, which he ordered direct from the chateaux in France in sixty-three-gallon casks known as hogsheads.

  The passage started with Walpole’s early life and career when, in 1702, he entered politics. In the years to follow, he was appointed secretary of war and, later, treasurer of the Royal Navy. Kingston stopped, jotted down this last piece of information, and continued.

  Soon thereafter, Walpole was convicted falsely of corruption and spent several months in the Tower of London. After his release, he served sequentially as paymaster, first lord of the treasury, and chancellor of the exchequer. Nearing the height of his power, he was called upon to salvage the financial wreckage resulting from the South Sea Bubble—the collapse of the stock market manipulation that eventually ruined many British investors.

  Before continuing, Kingston reflected briefly on what he’d just read. Walpole had been mentioned more than once in Oxbridge-Bell’s tome, as had Matthew Seward—reminding him that while he’d been engrossed with the incidents of the past several days, he’d forgotten all about the book. He made a mental note to finish and return it when he met Morley. But why had Veitch included such textbook historical facts on Walpole? The only connection Kingston could make, a marginal one, was that he had served twice in governmental positions of power, including that of treasurer of the navy. Had he and Admiral James Morley been friends? From memory, Kingston recalled that Morley had started his naval career in 1715, or thereabouts, so it was possible chronologically. If not close friends, they would certainly have known each other. Also, as chancellor of the exchequer, Walpole would have controlled the purse strings and must have wielded considerable influence as to how the spoils of war were apportioned. Kingston tapped his pencil on the table and looked across the room. Then Veitch’s words came to mind: “Follow the money.” Was this why he’d researched Walpole? Kingston wondered.

  He returned to the papers to learn what had piqued Veitch’s interest in the bio of Walpole’s son Horace. Here Kingston was on more familiar ground, having once read a lengthy article that described Horace Walpole’s checkered life as a dilettante and man of letters, and his brief career in politics. He read on, skipping parts that he felt were extraneous.

  Horace was born in 1717. At ten, he entered Eton College, the six-centuries-old independent public seat of learning for boys, once referred to as “the most famous public school in the world.” From Eton he went on to King’s College, Cambridge. After university, he embarked on the grand tour of the Continent with his friend poet Thomas Gray, whom he had met at Eton. Immersing themselves in the social life, they traveled extensively throughout Europe. Like many peripatetic young men at the time, Walpole was smitten with the ancient culture and archaeological sites of Rome and the ruins in Greece. About this time, he also started to develop an interest in early Greek and Roman forms of secret writings and early cipher devices now known as cryptography, from the Greek kryptos, meaning hidden or secret. Kingston stopped reading and stared into middle space. At last a reference to cryptography—albeit flimsy—but what did it mean? Reminded again that Veitch could have compiled the notes a long while ago, all Kingston could extrapolate from the mention was the possibility that Veitch could have later obtained further evidence to circumstantiate that Horace Walpole had been brought in to decipher the code on the Arcadian monument and that it did, indeed, have something to do with the age-old legend of Sturminster and Endicott’s murder as well. After clearing his muddled mind for a moment, Kingston went back to reading.

  Returning to London in 1741, Walpole embarked on a career in politics. When his father died four years later, he received a large inheritance that enabled him to purchase a fanciful castlelike villa on a forty-acre estate in Twickenham called Strawberry Hill. Here he began the monumental task of doubling its size and adding extensive gardens and landscaping. Walpole went about filling its rooms with an eclectic collection of furnishings, antiquities, and works of art, and building a special library to house his huge collection of books, historical prints, and poems and plays.

  Kingston leaned back, shaking his head. Even though he was skimming Veitch’s notes, he was already tiring of historical facts on eighteenth-century politicos. Nevertheless, he read on, not wanting to risk missing something salient.

  Suffering from gout, Walpole left England for France for a cure and stayed several years. During this time, he published his essay On Modern Gardening, about the origin and evolution of the Augustan style of garden design where classical ornament and allusion to early Roman landscapes were part of the theme. While in France, his perhaps closest friend, Thomas Gray, died. During Walpole’s lifetime his main literary efforts had been his correspondence with his friends, among them Gray, Sir Horace Mann, and Matthew Seward. Walpole died in 1797, at his house in London. His quotation, “The whole secret of life is to be interested in one thing profoundly and in a thousand things well,” was a fitting commentary for a man of so many talents.

  Though encouraged by the nugget of information on Walpole’s knowledge of cryptography, Kingston had had enough of a history lesson and decided to take a break. He could do with a cup of tea. In the kitchen with the notes, waiting for the electric kettle to boil, he thought about what he’d read. What had been Veitch’s intent when he’d saved all this information? Where was he headed with it? Kingston had hoped—perhaps with undue optimism—to find a common link among Admiral Morley, the two Walpoles, and Thomas Gray. Save for the navy connection between the admiral and Sir Robert Walpole and the cryptography link to Horace Walpole, he had read nothing to support such a connection.

  He eyeballed the next section devoted to the life of Thomas Gray—apparently another lift from the Internet. Despite its appearing all-inclusive, Kingston doubted he would learn anything he didn’t already know because he’d studied Gray in his own years at college and greatly admired his works, in particular his magnum opus Elegy. Kingston could still recite the opening verses. He decided to read on anyway. The tea ready, Kingston carried it into the living room and settled into his wingback and resumed reading.

  Thomas Gray, born 1716 in London, was one of the eighteenth century’s most important poets. This, Kingston noted, made him older than Horace Walpole by a year. At age fourteen, Gray was sent to Eton at his mother’s expense. Eton gave him companionship with other boys, especially those who shared his interests in books and poetry. Here, he made several close friends, including Horace Walpole, Richard West, son of Ireland’s lord chancellor, and Matthew Seward.

  After Eton, Gray entered Cambridge, where he studied for four years before leaving to study law at the Inner Temple in London. About that time he was invited to join his friend Horace Walpole on the grand tour. In 1739, they set out.

  Much of what followed in the biography echoed Horace Walpole’s account of the tour, so Kingston skipped several paragraphs while finishing his tea. He picked up at the point, two years later, when Gray was back in England.

  The spring and summer months of 1742 witnessed Gray’s first and most prolific period of creative activity. His poetic efforts were many, though some were incomplete. Soon he returned to his old college at Cambridge to study Greek literature and the history of ancient Greece, subjects he continued to study for five years.

  The next two sentences piqued Kingston’s interest: “Gray’s friendship with Walpole was renewed thre
e years later, and thereafter they corresponded frequently. Gray often visited Walpole at Strawberry Hill and Matthew Seward at his country house.”

  While it was revealing to Kingston that all these lives intersected, it did not help in opening up new lines of inquiry or reading Veitch’s mind when he’d composed the notes. He continued reading, anyway.

  Walpole admired Gray’s poetry and helped to get his works published. Gray’s first collection appeared in 1748. It included the lighthearted Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.

  Kingston smiled, took another sip of tea, and read on.

  Unknown to most, Gray had been working for several years on a lengthy meditative elegy to be titled Elegy, its inspiration drawn from a small church located in the hamlet of Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, where Gray had spent considerable time with his mother and aunt. Over time, the poem turned into a memento mori, a meditation and lament for the inevitable fate of all mortals.

  Work on polishing the Elegy was slow, but it was finally finished and sent to Horace Walpole, who admired it greatly and arranged to have it published. Gray’s Elegy was an instant success. It remains to this day the most celebrated poem of its century.

  After his mother’s death, Gray began taking summer tours visiting various picturesque districts of Great Britain. He focused on exploring great houses, ruined abbeys, and ancient monuments, places of interest and scenery of intrinsic beauty. In 1771, at age fifty-five, Gray died at Cambridge and was buried alongside his mother at the church in Stoke Poges.

  Kingston glanced at the remaining pages. Only two paragraphs were devoted to Matthew Seward, the architect responsible for the Grecian monuments at Sturminster. Because of his devotion to Greek architecture and the years spent in Greece, he had earned the name Matthew “Athenian” Seward. One paragraph referred to some of the monuments’ design and construction features, another mentioned Seward’s fixation on accuracy in replicating Grecian architectural details, his complaints about the workmen, and his shabby treatment by Morley’s staff.

  He came finally to the last three pages. The first page listed a sketchy bibliography and the following two, miscellaneous notes of no apparent interest. Kingston put them aside, deciding to look at them later. The line about ruined abbeys and ancient monuments had sparked his attention. Many hundreds of old monuments existed in private gardens, parks, and other public areas throughout England. He’d seen many in his travels, not the least those at Sturminster. He was trying to recall when they were built. He thought Simon Crawford had said that the last, the Arcadian monument, was built around 1750. If so, it would be reasonable to expect that Thomas Gray would likely have seen them, since he was still journeying through the English countryside until a year before his death. At that time, the monuments would have been approximately twenty years old. Their age would not have met Gray’s criteria in antiquity, but since he’d specialized in Greek literature and history at college, their anachronistic Greek Revival architecture would certainly have attracted his attention.

  Kingston leaned back and stared at the ceiling molding, trying, one more time, to figure what had been in Veitch’s mind when he’d assembled the notes; going back over the profiles of the four men, each important in his own right; grasping at wispy historical straws to determine why Veitch had determined their relationships significant.

  Placing Thomas Gray at Sturminster during the time of the Morley brothers was a good start. His friend Horace Walpole could have accompanied Gray on one or more visits. Walpole’s father was prime minister and had been treasurer of the navy, so it would be reasonable to conclude that he and Admiral James Morley would have known each other. Ergo, presumably each had visited or stayed at Sturminster during the important years of its development. Likely, too, they’d all gathered, at one time or another, at Horace Walpole’s house, and Seward’s too, no doubt. But what exactly did it all prove? He’d give it a rest and look at it again later. He checked his watch, surprised to see that it was almost twelve thirty. With half the day gone, he decided to give his overworked brain cells a rest and go about stocking the larder, do laundry, and take care of unpaid bills. He had to call Andrew, too, to discuss arrangements for the garden event at Bourne End.

  Morley’s call came in the late afternoon. He was eager to know the nature of the “important” information Kingston had uncovered, but Kingston insisted that to explain it fully would require a face-to-face meeting. Grudgingly, Morley agreed to meet with Kingston at Sturminster the coming Tuesday.

  Though there were still plenty of household chores and personal matters to take care of, he decided to spend the evening taking a second look at Veitch’s list of names, doing a Google search of each one, and finishing the remaining few pages that he’d left unread that morning. After that he was looking forward to starting a new espionage thriller he’d bought at Waterstone’s on his way home from food shopping.

  He took out the list, but first—to make sure he hadn’t missed anything when he’d glossed over them earlier—took a closer look at the list of reference books, articles, and sources that Veitch had used to compile his notes. One entry, halfway down the list, caught his eye at once: Winterborne Frieze. Frieze? Why a frieze? he wondered. Following, Veitch had written: Found during the renovation of Winterborne Manor. A biblical quotation composed of decorative alphabet tiles below the crown molding of all four walls circling the dining room. Why had that been of interest? Kingston had seen similar decorative friezes in a few other historical buildings, notably the superb one in the Gamble Room in the Victoria & Albert. It was so long since he’d seen it that he’d forgotten what the letters spelled out, other than it was a lyrical quotation. Continuing, he found another “frieze” notation, a quotation from a poem:

  Built like a temple, where pilasters round

  Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid

  With golden architrave; nor did there want

  Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven

  Milton was scribbled in pencil underneath.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Kingston muttered. Veitch must have thought there was some connection between these friezes and poets and the monuments at Sturminster, but why? And just where was this manor house?

  He made a mental note to do a search for Winterborne Manor or a place named Winterborne, though he was convinced by now that everything he’d been reading didn’t reflect Veitch’s latest findings, that it must have been random stuff that he’d saved from early in his research. After their conversation at the hospital, Kingston had come away convinced that Veitch was not only certain of his allegations but also had sufficient proof to back them up. Nothing whatsoever in what Kingston had read in the notes supported this conviction. On the whole, it had been a disappointing exercise.

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday arrived and with it the nicest weather of summer by far. Gone were the sullen drab and drizzly days of the past two weeks. Leaving his flat at nine in the morning, on the short walk to his garage, Kingston couldn’t help feeling buoyant about the day to come. The sun was already uncommonly bright, floodlighting the storefronts on the King’s Road like a movie set. Glancing up at the band of ultramarine sky daubed with white cirrus bridging the buildings on either side, he anticipated a pleasurable top-down drive to Staffordshire.

  He’d spent the weekend with Andrew at his country house in Bourne End, offering suggestions for the garden tour, tidying up the garden, eating and drinking too much, and doing his best to bring Andrew up to speed with the goings-on in Staffordshire. Those conversations never sat too well with Andrew, and they invariably developed into argumentative banter that always led to a temporary but strained détente. In the past, Kingston had adopted a habit of simply smiling when Andrew got overly exacerbated, but of late this only seemed to make matters worse.

  Kingston’s meeting with Morley was at eleven thirty at Sturminster. As soon as the meeting was over—Kingston was hoping it wouldn’t segue into lunch—he planne
d to detour on his way back to London to look at Winterborne Manor, which he had since discovered was near Banbury in Oxfordshire. As luck would have it, Banbury was on the M40, his route home.

  He’d summarized mentally what he would tell Morley, essentially sticking to the chronology of events and bare facts, leaving out irrelevant information like his growing friendship with Amanda and how he’d found Veitch’s notes on the flash drive. The latter would only lead to more questions. In any case, as far as the notes were concerned, other than the list of names, nothing in them that he could tell had any bearing on Endicott’s murder—far from it. As for the list, he would tell a white lie as to how he came by it. That wouldn’t be hard.

  The drive through parts of Sturminster’s fifteen hundred acres of parkland was always a delight. The contrived but natural-looking style of garden design developed in England at the beginning of the eighteenth century could best be described as gardening on a grand scale. At the time, all over Britain, many formal estate gardens were being torn out and replaced with what is now termed “landscape-designed” gardens. Led by designers Lancelot “Capability” Brown, John Vanbrugh, and William Kent, lands and parks surrounding many of the great houses, frequently hundreds and sometimes thousands of acres, were carefully redesigned and planted, often with full-grown trees, to create sweeping panoramas—a pleasing blend of the formal and the romantic. The topography was invariably reconfigured to create the desired effect. Undulating parkland was punctuated with carefully positioned clumps of trees; rivers were rerouted, serpentine lakes created, elegant bridges constructed; monuments, follies, and large-scale garden ornaments, many in the classical European style, were placed strategically to please the eye. Even sheep and cattle were introduced to the landscape to provide a sense of the rural. On his last visit, he’d seen a large herd of Highland cattle grazing alongside the River Swane.