“It’s Lawrence,” said Kingston. “Thanks for getting back to me so soon.”
“Not a problem. Francis has gone over the names but doesn’t think he’s going to be of much help.”
“I thought that might be the case. He probably told you that he’s not happy with the idea.”
“He did. Anyway, he’s done what you requested as far as the family members are concerned. He’s jotted notes alongside each name to explain who is who. I’m not sure about the other names. I’ll e-mail it in the next five minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“To set the record straight, I went along with Morley when he suggested hiring you. I still believe it was the right decision. You’ve worked with him before and you know how impatient he can get. He just wants to see some results.”
“I do too, but these things take time. I’ll be first to admit that progress thus far has been disappointing. But it’s only been a couple of weeks since we started. He must realize that.”
“A word of advice, Lawrence. It’ll make everyone’s life easier if you can wrap up these interviews as fast as possible and get back to the real investigation. Finding out who killed Endicott and why is number one. One other matter: Morley seems to have this thing about a connection to the distant past. Maybe you should also be trying to find out more about the historical information this Veitch fellow claims to have had. That might prove more productive.”
“I plan to do that, of course.”
“Good. I’ll do my best to keep Francis calmed down, but you know how he is. Oh, there was one more thing. He asked me if I thought you might be having second thoughts.”
“Second thoughts?”
“About wanting to continue.”
“Why would he think that?”
“He didn’t say in so many words, but I think he feels that with Endicott’s murder and now Veitch’s death, you might be wondering if you’ve taken on more than you’d bargained for, that continuing with the inquiry might now pose even greater danger and you might be concerned for your own well-being. I must say he has a good point.”
Kingston was thinking: First Amanda urging him to quit, and now Morley having doubts.
“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, Simon. It would take a lot more than that for me to get cold feet. Besides, nothing yet has happened to make me think that I might become a target or threatened in any way. I want to solve this case and, frankly, threats don’t scare me; if anything they would probably spur me on. You might want to tell Francis that.”
“I will.”
“I’ll keep you informed about the interviews, and tell Francis not to worry.”
“Good. One last thing, Lawrence, don’t go sticking your neck out. The last thing we want is for something to happen to you.”
SIXTEEN
Having dispensed with the post—no good news or money—Kingston poured a large whisky and went into his study and turned on his Mac. Crawford’s letter was in the in-box. He opened it and clicked on the attachment.
Lawrence
Here’s Francis’s list. He says that he’s been purposefully brief in identifying each person, knowing that it’s doubtful you’ll contact all seventeen to start with. If you want additional background on any of them, he’ll do his best to provide as much as he can. All ages are guesstimates.
In the next day or so, he’ll send you what phone and e-mail addresses he can gather. Physical addresses you can obtain when you contact each individual.
I hope that this leads to something that brings us closer to solving these terrible crimes.
Simon
Graham Morley
My younger brother. Barrister. Lives and practices in Torquay.
Victoria Morley
His wife of 25 years. Active in local politics and community issues.
Ethan Morley
Their son, 40. Insurance broker. Lives outside Birmingham. Single.
Bridget Morley
Their daughter, 28. Manages a Bristol restaurant. Single.
Adrian Morley
My cousin. Retired. Lives in Bath.
Nicole Morley
His wife of 20 years.
Bryce Lytton
My brother-in-law. Partner, Windrush Racing Stables, Lambourn, Berks.
Daisy Morley-Lytton
My sister. Lytton’s wife of 25 years. Antiques dealer.
Julian Heywood
Their son (by Daisy’s first marriage), 30. Salesman, Upmarket car dealership, Nottingham.
James Morley-Lytton
Their son, 23. Single. Royal Navy midshipman. Portsmouth.
Vanessa Decker
Supposedly a distant cousin. Living somewhere abroad, as I recall.
Sebastian Hurst
Partner, Windrush Racing Stables.
Oliver Henshawe
Cousin. Leicestershire County Record Office.
Jessica Henshawe
His ex-wife.
Cameron Henshawe
Their son, 29. Something to do with computers.
Molly Henshawe
Their daughter, 23. Graphic designer, London.
Roger Bartram
I believe he’s a friend of Sebastian Hurst. Connected to racing in some fashion.
Kingston took a sip of Macallan and went down the list again. It still perplexed him why Veitch had included it in his notes. If Veitch’s discovery was all about crimes committed by Morleys of the distant past, why a list of present-day family members? Was it possible that the feud existed to this day? If so, could Endicott—or Veitch, for that matter—have had anything to do with the Morleys? Perhaps with a business or some other arrangement?
Clearly, it would be out of the question to talk to all seventeen people, which wasn’t his plan in any case. Coming up with an arbitrary short list of prospects would require careful study of the names to get a clear picture of who was who, their relationships to each other, if any, with ages and places of residence or business taken into consideration but not necessarily a determining factor. He also reminded himself that he wasn’t looking for a murderer but rather anyone who might possess information that could shed even a glimmer of light on the case.
He printed the list and left the Mac on Sleep. Staring abstractedly at the seventeen names of total strangers, he was aware that reducing them to a half dozen or fewer was tantamount to drawing straws. After some thought he decided on a simple method of selection: He would divide the names into three groups. In the first—his A group—he would include those who he felt might be the most likely to provide useful information. In the B group, the next-best candidates; in C, those he would eliminate for the time being. Even then, he knew the process was based on nothing more than part intuition, part probability, and a lot of guesswork. It was an exercise that was completely foreign to him and ran counter to his customary modus operandi, which relied mostly on the power of deductive reasoning and the application of logic.
He picked up a pencil and drew three columns—A, B, and C—on a piece of paper, then started to allocate names into the columns as he saw fit.
After a first pass, he wrote “Molly Henshawe” and “Bridget Morley” in the C column. If anything was to be learned from the interviews, he somehow doubted it would come from two relatively young women, each of whom worked and presumably lived over a hundred miles from where the crimes took place. After some thought, he placed the young naval officer, James Morley-Lytton, in the C column. His parents would surely be more than willing to discuss their serviceman son. He pondered the three wives, deciding they belonged in the C column, too. Julian Heywood’s name was next. Kingston wrote him in the A column. His reasoning was simple: Julian knew Simon Crawford, had been at the estate, and worked within an hour’s drive from Sturminster.
By now he’d finished his scotch and he looked at his watch. It was almost seven and he was hungry. Somehow he didn’t fancy the idea of cooking. A glance out the window confirmed that it was one of those rare balmy London evenings when it seemed that
the denizens of the city had decided to take to the streets and parks en masse, spilling onto the pavements and roads outside pubs in shorts and shades, as if they were on the Côte d’Azur or strolling the Via del Corso in Rome. Why not join the madding crowds, he decided, and walk to the Antelope for dinner? He could continue to work on the list there.
He picked up Morley’s list, folded it, and went into the kitchen to get the unfinished Times crossword. Ten minutes later, he was sitting at a corner table in the Antelope’s upstairs bar/dining room—usually quieter than the one downstairs—with the list of names in front of him, the Times on the seat beside him, and a glass of Côtes du Rhône at his elbow. Waiting for his pasta with smoked salmon, he took a long sip of wine and started in on the list again—this time, given the dearth of information, with a less inferential attitude. By the time his check arrived, there were nine names on his A list. Nine people were still more than he would ideally like, though.
* * *
By breakfast the next morning, he’d winnowed the A list down to six: Sebastian Hurst, Julian Heywood, Bryce Lytton, Vanessa Decker, Roger Bartram, and Jessica Henshawe, Oliver Henshawe’s ex.
He was still in the kitchen, cleaning up, when the phone rang. For a moment he considered not answering it, then changed his mind on the third ring—it could be Andrew. Kingston hadn’t heard from him in some time and was feeling guilty about not having called.
“This is Kingston.”
“Glad I caught you, Doctor.”
The Midlands accent—it was Inspector Wheatley again. What did he want this time? Kingston’s mind flashed on what Morley had said, about giving up their inquiry and talking with the police. Was that why Wheatley was calling?
“Lord Morley tells me you’re still working on the Sturminster murder case.”
“I am,” Kingston replied.
“Good. I’ll come straight to the point, then. I’d like to talk to you about what, if anything, you’ve learned.”
“I’d be glad to answer any questions—”
“Not on the phone, Doctor. I think the time has come when you and I should have a face-to-face. I’m suggesting that you take a leisurely drive to Stafford in the next few days and we can—shall we say—compare notes. When can you make it?”
They settled on the coming Monday, four days hence, at eleven A.M. Wheatley provided the address, phone number, and directions—once in the city of Stafford—and the call ended on a somewhat more cordial note.
Kingston didn’t spend time thinking about the call; he’d been expecting that sooner or later Wheatley would want to talk to him personally. Instead, he went about setting up some meetings of his own: interviews with his A-list people. He started with Bryce Lytton, for two reasons: First, there was the chance that he could also get to talk to his partner, Sebastian Hurst, and learn about Roger Bartram at the same time, and second, he was the only one who didn’t require a contact number; he should be easy to reach by calling Windrush Racing Stables. Getting to Lytton was easier than he’d expected, and the man seemed happy enough to talk and agreed to see him.
* * *
Two days later, with the top down, despite a forecast of rain later in the day, Kingston was on the A4 approaching the village of Lambourn on his way to meet with Bryce Lytton at Windrush Racing Stables. When Kingston had made the appointment on the phone, he’d asked Lytton if it would be possible also to interview Sebastian Hurst, Lytton’s partner. But Hurst was in Ireland looking at a horse and wouldn’t be back until the following week. Instead he gave Kingston a phone number where Hurst could be reached in Wexford. Kingston had also inquired about Roger Bartram, to learn that a month earlier he’d been severely injured in a light aircraft accident when his Cessna had crashed on landing during a heavy rainstorm when returning from a race meeting in Scotland. He was currently in a rehab center in Reading. Lytton had offered the address, but Kingston had told him not to worry.
He was looking forward to his visit to Lambourn. He’d never been to a racing stable before though, in aggregate, he’d left a princely sum at dozens of racetracks over the years. What had been a three- or four-times-a-year flutter in his married years had become a regular happening since he’d befriended Andrew.
Following Lytton’s directions, Kingston turned off the main road and headed west on a lane crossing the rolling Berkshire Downs. The surrounding countryside couldn’t have been more English: lush pastures and wheat fields stretching to the horizon, separated by dense woods and hedgerows; leaf-canopied lanes, old stone bridges crossing streams arched with willows; flint-and-brick villages tucked into the folds of the gently sloping land, each with its omnipresent church steeple reaching to the white-clouded sky. Now and then Kingston spotted horses with helmet-clad riders cantering across the brows of the hills. In one village he had to come to a stop to allow exercising horses to trot by. Boning up on the area before he’d left, he’d read that more than thirty racing stables were situated in and around Lambourn and that fifteen hundred racehorses were based in the valley.
Fifteen minutes later he drove up the white-fenced chalk lane to Windrush Stables and parked alongside a half dozen cars up against a large wooden building. The place was both spotless and attractive. In the middle of the courtyard, a circular raised bed was filled with perennials and annuals. Other equally colorful arrangements spilled from wire baskets attached to the surrounding walls. As he got out of the car, he saw three men in conversation across the graveled courtyard. The tallest of them, wearing a Barbour vest and peaked cap, waved him over.
“Dr. Kingston?”
“Yes. And you must be Mr. Lytton.”
“Bryce, please.”
The two shook hands, then Lytton introduced him to the other men, one a trainer, the other a veterinarian. They talked for a while and when the others had left, Lytton asked Kingston if he would like a quick tour. He didn’t need asking twice. The tour started with the stables, where Kingston was introduced to several of the racehorses by name. Next was the exercise complex, where, to his surprise and amusement, one of the horses was being exercised in a doughnut-shaped equine pool. Last they walked a short distance to the ten-furlong track where two of the horses were being put through their paces.
During this time Kingston had had the chance to size up the horse trainer. Lytton seemed to be genuinely friendly and—from the couple of quick asides he’d made on their walk, one about the horse in the pool being a regular Michael Phelps—there was no doubting his sense of humor. In appearance he fitted the role: lightly tanned, leathery skin associated with men who spend much of their time outdoors, gray-streaked hair, thinning on top, and deep-set blue eyes that, at first glance, appeared black in the shadows cast by his bushy eyebrows. His voice belied his somewhat rural appearance; it was cultivated but with no affectation of class.
When they returned to Lytton’s office, the phone was ringing. Lytton took the call, leaving Kingston to look around the spacious, light-filled room, which was furnished with mostly built-in contemporary fittings and up-to-date electronics, including a sixty-inch wall-mounted plasma TV. The wall behind Lytton’s desk was filled with framed photographs, various horse-racing awards, and memorabilia. Lytton appeared in many of the photos, more often than not alongside racehorses—presumably winners—sometimes in sailing situations and, in two photos, with collector cars in the background.
Lytton ended his call and they got down to the business at hand. To begin with, Kingston was pleased to hear that Lytton was already aware of his credentials. Whether it was Morley who had told him was moot; more important, it meant that he didn’t have to waste time explaining to Lytton how he had gone from botanist to investigator.
For five minutes, in his methodical professorlike way, Kingston summarized the events that had taken place during the past three weeks, starting with Endicott’s murder. Lytton listened without comment. Even though some of the incidents had not yet been reported, Lytton showed no signs of surprise to what Kingston said. He could only ass
ume that Crawford or Morley had given Lytton a thorough briefing.
“How’s Francis taking it?” he asked when Kingston was done.
“Hard to say,” Kingston replied to the unexpected question. “Doing his best to keep Sturminster out of it and doing his damnedest to get to the bottom of it. Seems to be handling it well, everything considered. The main reason he hired me was that he was frustrated by the lack of progress with the official inquiry.”
“I see.”
“I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions?”
Lytton smiled diffidently. “I’m not a suspect, I hope?”
“Not yet.” Kingston smiled back.
“That’s good.” Lytton nodded.
“I’ll start with the obvious one. Have you ever had contact with, or know of anyone who’s had contact with, either William Endicott or Tristan Veitch, a historian who lived near Stafford?”
Lytton shook his head. “No.”
“I’ve heard people refer to a so-called Morley family feud that’s said to have started centuries ago but persists to this day. Know anything about that?”
“I’ve heard about it, sure. Who hasn’t? It’s a legend of sorts around these parts. It makes for good dinner conversation every once in a while. It usually depends on how much wine’s been consumed. It goes back a couple of hundred of years after the two Morley brothers built Sturminster—with a rift between them over the alleged missing fortune.”
“But there’s no animosity, disagreements, grudges among the family, now?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Kingston leaned back, meeting Lytton’s incurious gaze. “Do you and your wife spend much time with other members of her family?”
“Not so much anymore. I don’t want to be accused of telling stories out of school, but it’s no big secret really. Truth is, nowadays we get to see her relatives only at the holidays—Christmas, mostly. Even then, it’s only a couple of them. Daisy, my wife, goes down to Devon when she can, to see her brother Graham and his wife, Victoria. She and Daisy have always been close. But there are never big family gatherings, reunions, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “They’re just not that kind of family.”
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