EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  As to what happened to the dismantled frieze, he wasn’t sure; he had a vague recall of its being sold. He supplied Kingston with the name of the builder—the one Kingston had seen on the sign—saying that Mike Kennedy, the owner, would surely know. They chatted for another ten minutes, until a waitress approached to tell Kingston that his table was ready. He downed what remained of his beer, said good-bye to Terence, and left to enjoy his dinner.

  * * *

  The following morning, Kingston made several phone calls from his study. The first was to Kennedy & Sons, Building Services. The owner, Mike Kennedy, was happy to provide what little he knew about the frieze. He was unsure of its age but knew that parts of the house dated back to the early eighteenth century. The owners had asked him to remove the frieze because they were selling it to an antiques dealer in Brighton. He’d been reluctant to do so, though, fearing that the porcelain tiles would be too old and fragile, and he would end up being responsible for any resulting damages. In the end, the dealer came to take a look at it and together they called in an architectural salvage expert to supervise the work. It took two days, he said, but all the tiles were successfully removed with no damage. He made no comment as to why the new owners wanted to sell the frieze. He would have bought it himself, he said, but the asking price was a bit too rich. The antiques dealer’s name was Nicolson, and his company was called Artifacts Design. Kingston wrote down the name, thanked Kennedy, and the call ended.

  Next, he Googled Artifacts Brighton and up popped the listing, first on the page. He picked up the phone again and entered the number. It was one of Artifacts’ partners, Trevor Nicolson, who answered. Kingston was just thinking it must be his lucky morning when Nicolson told him that the frieze had been purchased by a client of his in San Francisco. He was wondering what possible questions he could ask next, when Nicolson asked the reason for his inquiring. He seemed satisfied with Kingston’s trumped-up answer that he was writing an article about decorative and alphabet friezes, and volunteered that he had several digital photos of the frieze, if that would be of interest. His only caveat in allowing use of the pictures was that, if they were published, Artifacts Design would receive credit.

  Fifteen minutes later Kingston received Nicolson’s e-mail with six JPEG attachments. A minute later he had the prints spread out on his desk and was admiring the artistic beauty and craftsmanship of the tile work.

  No doubt rendered on porcelain, slightly yellowed and crackled with age, each tile—a separate letter of the alphabet—was a work of art in itself. Each letter had its own individual design characteristics, no two alike. Motifs of human figures, animals, serpents, and foliage supported or twined intricately in and out of each letter. The artistry alone was magnificent; that it was painted on tile made it even more remarkable. He took his eyes off them and stared into space. All he had to do now was to figure out why Veitch had chosen to include the frieze among his notes. He let out a long sigh.

  He picked up the phone again, this time to call Amanda. For the third time, he lucked out—she answered right away, too. The main reason for his call was to ask her a question about Tristan, but it would also provide the chance to find out how she was faring, without appearing too intrusive.

  “You sound quite chipper,” he said.

  “It’s hard not to be cheerful on such a gorgeous day. It must be in the eighties up here. I’ve spent most of the morning in the garden.”

  “Wish I could be there to enjoy it with you. It’s the customary summer gray here.”

  She chuckled. “You could tell me what all these flowers and plants are that Tristan planted. I hardly recognize any of them—not that I should.”

  “I’d be more than happy to. You’ll need some hints on how to take care of them, too—pruning, watering, and feeding, that sort of stuff. Nothing too complicated, of course.”

  “That’s settled then. The next warm spell.”

  He wanted to keep the banter going but didn’t want to overdo it, and since they were talking about the garden, the timing couldn’t be better. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said, trying to keep up the lighthearted tone.

  “What is it?”

  “When you and I walked through your garden, you said that Tristan had created it, and to all intents and purposes had maintained it single-handedly ever since.”

  “That’s right. You made the comment that he was the Constant Gardener. Remember?”

  “During those years, did he ever belong to a garden club or exhibit flowers?”

  “He did,” she said. “I remember his winning a handful of awards for exhibiting flowers. Two small trophies and some ribbons, as I recall. That was quite a long time ago. Why do you ask?”

  “It was something Mrs. Endicott mentioned. One more question and then I’m finished.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did Tristan grow dahlias at one time? I don’t recall seeing any when we were in the garden, not that I was looking for them.”

  A pause followed. “Yes, he did,” she replied, hesitating. “How did you know that?”

  “William Endicott grew them, too, and exhibited them.”

  “I’m not sure that I follow—”

  “It could be a coincidence, but I think not. This suggests the distinct possibility that Tristan and William Endicott knew each other. If so, then it’s reasonable to infer that it was Endicott who was helping Tristan in his research.”

  “So you’re saying that whoever killed Endicott probably killed Tristan, too. In both cases, to silence them?”

  “That’s what I believe.”

  “If you’re right, Lawrence—and you may well be—then this gives me even more reason to tell you what I’ve been meaning to say for a while now.”

  “What is that?”

  “That you should reconsider this investigation of yours. I think you should just walk away from it. Turn all this information that you got from Tristan over to the police and have them deal with it.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about doing just that, but to live up to the terms of my agreement, I have to discuss it first with Lord Morley. I met with him yesterday, and he gave me the go-ahead to interview certain members of the Morley family.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m getting at, Lawrence. I don’t think you should do that. This nasty business could become even more dangerous than it is already, and you’re running the real risk of becoming a casualty yourself if you insist on pursuing your investigation. I can’t believe that it hasn’t occurred to you that whoever committed these two murders is quite possibly either one of the Morley family or is connected to them in some way. You’re about to poke a stick in a hornets’ nest and I’m very worried, that’s all.”

  Kingston was taken aback by this emotional outpouring of concern for his well-being. Rarely lost for words, he was scrambling to figure a way to respond that would allay her fears without it appearing that he was simply shrugging them off lightly.

  “Amanda,” he said, trying to play to her feelings, “that thought has occurred to me, and I’m touched that you would think of me that way. I also take your advice seriously. However, I don’t think that I’ve yet reached that point where I’m running undue risks, but if and when I do, I won’t hesitate to quit. There’s some unfinished business that I want to take care of first, and then I’ll decide whether or not to throw in the towel.”

  “I’m not going to ask you what this unfinished business is; you’d probably prefer not to tell me anyway. All I’m saying is just get it done quickly and then walk away from this dreadful business.”

  There was no doubting Amanda’s sincerity, but she was becoming insistent, her last sentence tantamount to an order. Was there another reason she wanted him to quit? As he was pondering the loaded question, admonishing himself that he was overreacting, she spoke again, apparently determined to have the last word.

  “All right,” she said. “If I can’t persuade you to stop, then please do one thing for me. From now on b
e extra cautious.”

  “I will, I promise.” It wasn’t lost to him that her words were almost identical to her brother’s parting words at the hospital.

  FIFTEEN

  The warm weather of the last few days was holding up, so after lunch and a half hour grappling with the Times crossword, Kingston made a snap decision to spend the afternoon outdoors and get some fresh air, rather than mope around the flat becoming more and more worked up about his inability to make tangible headway with the Sturminster murders. As it stood, his only ray of hope, as far as he could see, rested with Veitch’s list. He hoped that Morley would come through with the information that Kingston had requested and that the interviews might reveal why Veitch had considered those particular people of importance. Just what that could be, Kingston had no idea.

  Where to go? he wondered. London was full of wonderful parks, gardens, and open-air spaces, nearly all of which he’d visited since he’d made the city his home. Which of them would serve his purpose best? Which would allow him reasonable privacy—no children or tour groups—in peaceful and beautiful surroundings with ample space to wander or to simply sit quietly whenever it pleased him? After several minutes’ thought, he decided on Syon House, the London residence of the duke of Northumberland and his family. It was a little farther than most, but it was some time since he last visited the two-hundred-acre park facing Kew Gardens on the opposite bank of the Thames, with its imposing house and magnificent conservatory.

  Forty-five minutes later, Kingston alighted from the number 237 bus at Syon’s Brentlea Gate stop. Wearing his aging straw hat and carrying his jacket, he strolled into the park. Being midweek there were relatively few visitors; even so, Kingston had already chosen to start the afternoon by taking the less-traveled paths, steering clear of high-traffic areas like the Conservatory, the Butterfly House, and the Aquatic Experience.

  Walking leisurely and pausing occasionally under the shade of rare and ancient trees—the estate was originally a fourteenth-century abbey—he was blocking out in his mind all the things that had happened since he’d first met with Lord Morley that day at Jardine’s. He was soon realizing that, even though he was making little or no headway with the case, an awful lot had happened in that short space of time, not the least of which had been the death of Tristan Veitch—make that “murder,” he corrected himself.

  For ten minutes or so, he sat on a weathered bench facing the lake where chartreuse leaves on a row of weeping willow trees dipped to meet the water, making sunlit ripples. One by one, he tried to picture in his mind’s eye the several meetings and phone conversations that had taken place during that time, attempting, as best he could, to recall exactly what had been said: Morley, Crawford, Tristan Veitch, Amanda, Dr. Chandra, Dorothy Endicott, Terence at the Green Man, the builder Kennedy, and the chap at Artifacts in Brighton. Had any of them mentioned something that he’d missed or misunderstood—any small discrepancy or slip? If they had, it was eluding him. He looked off into the distance to where the tall columnar statue of Flora broke the horizon like a vertical gray pencil. With all the tension and disruption of the last several days, there was one part of the puzzle—the slip of paper, the supposed code, found in Endicott’s pocket—that, while not entirely forgotten, had been put aside. When Morley first told him about it, the discovery had struck him as an intriguing clue, a likely place to start even if it was only part of a code. But having studied it a number of times now, he’d concluded, as had GCHQ, that as it was, it was useless. Despite this, Veitch had acknowledged that a code or codes of some kind existed. How had he arrived at that conclusion? The other obvious code was the one on the Arcadian monument. But that had remained unsolved for centuries. Was it possible that someone had finally managed to solve it, after all? Horace Walpole came to mind again. Regardless, it raised several questions, first and foremost: What was it that had been of such great importance, so vital or consequential, that someone, or more than one person, had taken preventative measures by encrypting it? That prompted another thought: Could the murderers have already broken either of the codes and were now determined, come what may, to protect that information? Conversely, if they hadn’t, did they have credible reason to believe that it concealed information that would incriminate others or perhaps lead to some kind of reward—perhaps the money that Samuel Morley was rumored to have stashed somewhere at Sturminster?

  He stared down at the grass verge in front of him, more confused than ever. After a minute or so, he decided to let it go, to stop thinking about the case for the rest of the afternoon. Looking up, he watched a flock of cawing crows take off from the top of a nearby copper beech. “A murder of crows,” he muttered.

  He donned his straw hat, rose, and started walking toward the Conservatory, the crowning glory of the park. It had been some years since he’d last seen it and it would be a shame not to revisit it while he was here. For no particular reason, he started to think about Amanda, wondering how she was getting along, if she was still managing to cope as well as it had appeared when he was at the house. He was reminded that she’d said nothing about a funeral service for Tristan. During the time they’d been together—with the exception of the brief mention of her deceased husband—she hadn’t talked about her family at all, which was understandable, considering the bleak circumstances. It had hardly been the occasion to bring out the family scrapbook. On further thought, he now realized that he could have at least inquired about her well-being this morning, instead of hogging the conversation the way he had, talking mostly about himself. Next time they spoke he must remember to apologize.

  An attractive woman walking a terrier approached. It reminded him of the dear departed Winston, to whom, in a roundabout way, he owed a debt of gratitude. They exchanged “good afternoon”s and he went back to thinking about Amanda. In some ways, he wished that she lived closer to London. For one thing, he could lend a hand with her garden. He would enjoy getting his hands into the dirt again. Being on the receiving end of her culinary skills raised teasing thoughts, too. Perhaps, when sufficient time had passed, he would ask if she would like to come down to London, to stay for a couple of days. He imagined that she would enjoy that, to get away from the routine and the painful reminders of the recent past. After all, he did have a guest room with its own bathroom. As far as he could recall, in all the time he’d been there, it had been used only two or three times: once when Julie was on a visit from Seattle, and on the other occasions by Andrew—once when he had locked himself out, and the other when he was having work done on his flat. If it weren’t for Mrs. Tripp, he doubted that the towels would ever be changed. He could never understand why she insisted on washing them whether they’d been used or not. That got him to wondering what Andrew would say if Kingston were to announce that he was “entertaining” a lady for the weekend. The Conservatory came into sight and he dismissed the thoughts as frivolous.

  An hour later, Kingston was on the top deck of the bus returning home when it came to him out of the blue. He hadn’t even been thinking consciously about the code this afternoon, but a thought had just popped into his mind. What if the code Veitch had alluded to was neither the one on the scrap of paper nor that on the Arcadian monument but instead another code entirely? Kingston tried to recall exactly what it was that Veitch had said at the hospital. He remembered that when he’d asked Veitch about the letters on the scrap of paper and mentioned the word “codes,” Veitch had nodded in agreement and said “right.” That didn’t necessarily mean that he was referring to the letters on the paper found in Endicott’s possession. He’d said nothing to indicate exactly which code or codes he was referring to.

  The more Kingston thought about it, the more plausible it became that Veitch might not have been referring to the fragment. It was only natural that the police, GCHQ, and he too had theorized that the dozen or more letters on the paper could have been a fragment of a code. Now he was becoming even more confused. Another thought struck him. Was that the intent of the mysterious
scrap of paper? Had it been planted conveniently in Endicott’s pocket, after he’d been killed, making it appear like part of a coded message, with the sole purpose of leading the police off in the wrong direction? If that were so, it presented yet another problem: There had been no mention of codes anywhere among Veitch’s notes. Now he was going round in circles. The only reference he could think of that could be construed as involving a code—slender as it was—was the biblical quotation on the frieze. He must take another look at that paragraph when he got back home.

  * * *

  Hanging up his jacket in the hall closet and placing his hat on the shelf above, Kingston went into the living room. The sun was almost over the yardarm and after checking for phone messages he planned to fix himself a stiff drink. The LCD showed two messages. The first was from Andrew, wanting to know if Kingston would like to join him and a couple of friends for an upcoming special gala night of racing at Kempton Park. He went on to explain, in his typical exuberant manner, that in addition to the horse racing, there was live music and entertainment afterward. Kingston thought it might be fun and was ready for a break from the mounting frustration and his worrying about Amanda. Over the last days he’d become aware that it was all now starting to have a detrimental effect on him. He would go, he decided.

  The second message was from Simon Crawford. He had some answers regarding the list of people that Kingston had given to Morley. He asked that Kingston call him back on his private number, which he enumerated.

  “Answers” was a little too vague for Kingston’s liking. He’d been hoping, wishfully, maybe, for something positive, more encouraging. He played the message back to retrieve the number, picked up the phone, and entered it. Crawford answered right away.