Wheatley remained impassive. “Not necessarily. We’re simply interested in knowing how someone managed to poison a man who rarely wandered far from home and had few visitors. In this business we sometimes get too hung up with the small details—I’m not saying that they’re not important—but sometimes it’s what’s staring you in the face that gets overlooked. That said, we’ll be talking with Miss Veitch again in the next couple of days.”
Kingston was impatient to move on and forget Amanda for now. “I understand your reasons for suspicion and the need for diligence, Inspector,” he said. “All I’m saying is that, in all of our conversations, she has appeared deeply and genuinely disturbed by her brother’s death and the way it happened.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Wheatley got abruptly to his feet. “Thanks for coming, Doctor. And you won’t forget to send me a copy of that list and the other papers you mentioned.”
“I won’t. And from now on I’ll make sure that you’re informed of new developments as they happen and not after the fact.”
“That would be appreciated,” said Wheatley. The way he said it, Kingston couldn’t be sure whether he was being sarcastic or not.
With that, the interview ended.
NINETEEN
On the short walk to his car, Wheatley’s last words were still swimming in Kingston’s head. Did the inspector really suspect Amanda? Kingston harked back to the day that the two of them spent together. She had been so adamant and convincing in denying knowledge of the poison, aconitine, or how it could have been administered. She appeared to have been as perplexed by it all as he was. Could he have misjudged her? If Wheatley were right—which Kingston prayed would not be the case—Kingston would end up looking mighty foolish.
Settling into the bucket seat of the TR, he managed a smile. He wondered how he was going to explain all this to Andrew. He wasn’t good at baring his soul and had gone to great lengths all his life to avoid doing so. He inserted the key in the ignition and turned it on. Amanda was still the only thing on his mind, and it took several seconds before he realized that the starter motor was still grinding away. He waited for a half minute, then tried again—still no ignition. He sighed, got out, and opened the bonnet. On top of his skirmish with Wheatley this was the last thing he needed. He looked into the engine compartment to make a visual assessment, to see if he could spot any obvious problems. Then he noticed it.
Balanced atop the chrome-plated valve cover was a package the size of a small book wrapped in brown paper. His name was typed on the plain white label. “What the hell…”
He picked it up and studied it, turning it over. He wondered if he should open it, keeping in mind letter bombs, booby traps, and the like. He decided that he was being excessively cautious and that no conflagration or such could result by simply tearing off the wrapping. Even so, he removed it slowly and methodically. He tossed the wrapping paper into the car and looked at the book: Countryside Flowers of Britain. He took a quick look to see if a note was tucked inside or anything was written in the opening pages: nothing. More confused than ever, he tossed it carefully onto the passenger seat, on top of his blazer, and went back to see why the car wouldn’t start, how it had been disabled. A quick check of the obvious located the problem. The distributor cap was open and the rotor had been removed. He let out a deep sigh, knowing that he was either going to have to call for a tow or phone around to find a parts company that might have a replacement in stock—the latter most unlikely, he knew.
He closed the bonnet, slipped behind the wheel, and flipped open his mobile. He stared out the windscreen at the row of parked cars opposite, wondering whom to call first. Then he saw the rotor, sitting on top of the leather cowling above the instrument panel to his left. He was surprised that he hadn’t noticed it earlier.
A minute later, he was on the road out of the city heading home, more perplexed than ever as to why someone would want to disable his car as a way to leave a book on wildflowers in the engine compartment, of all places. Surely there had to be an easier way. It was absurd—or was he missing something? He couldn’t help thinking back on what Wheatley had said: “Sometimes it’s what’s staring you in the face that gets overlooked.” Kingston hoped that it wasn’t an omen.
* * *
After an uneventful but rainy drive home, Kingston placed the book on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. He made a mental list of the things needing action in the coming hours and days. First was to continue the interviews—Julian Heywood tomorrow, then Jessica Henshawe. He must also find a way to contact Vanessa Decker. If she was still living abroad, that could be difficult. Then there was the gardening connection. Despite Wheatley’s dismissal of a possible relationship, he wanted to sniff around some of the Staffordshire garden organizations—or, better, try to locate dahlia societies, to establish whether Veitch and Endicott were members and, if so, if they’d belonged to the same garden club. He should call Andrew, too. It had been some time.
Picking up the phone in the living room, he noticed that the flashing answerphone light showed one message. He must have missed it before. He pressed Play.
“My name’s Tyler Holbrook. My wife and I own Winterborne Manor.”
Kingston listened more closely. New England accent, he thought.
“I was talking with my builder, Mike Kennedy, last week. He said that you’d called him about the frieze in the dining room. There’s probably not much more that I can add that he hasn’t told you already, but I reminded him of something that cropped up during the demolition. He thought it might interest you and gave me your number. If you’d like to give me a call, I’ll be happy to explain.” Kingston jotted down the phone number.
Ten minutes later in his study, with a cup of just-poured tea at his side, Kingston made the call. A young child answered. With engaging candor she volunteered that her father was in the garden trying to start a lawn mower, without success, and that she would run and tell him right away that “Dr. Kingston was returning his call.”
In less than a minute, Holbrook was on the line.
“I hope it’s not a bad time?” said Kingston.
“No, not at all. Glad to take a break, actually. Libby probably told you—the damned lawn mower?”
“She did.”
“Let me tell you why I called you, Doctor. Mike Kennedy said that when you and he talked he’d neglected to tell you what we found when we started to dismantle the frieze in the dining room. For what it’s worth, I thought it might add a nice touch of interest to your story.”
“I haven’t finished the piece yet,” Kingston fibbed, “so I’d love to hear about it.”
“When I first told Mike that we were taking out the frieze, he was not only horrified but reluctant to do the work. Through a mutual friend we’d sold the tiles to an antiques dealer and, naturally, he insisted that each and every one be in mint condition. We were concerned at first that, being porcelain and old, too, it mightn’t be possible. Mike didn’t want to take responsibility for it, and I can’t say as I blame him. Eventually he called in a guy from an architectural salvage company who was expert in that sort of thing. Even then, it turned out to be a painstaking process that took several days to complete. Anyway, getting to the reason for my call—behind one of the tiles they discovered a small cubbyhole cut into the wall. Inside was a letter—three sheets of handwritten notes.”
Kingston’s pulse quickened. “Really?”
“Yes. They were yellowed with age but in remarkable shape, all things considered.”
“What were they about?”
“They referred mostly to the history of the house. I was prepared to include them with the frieze, as part of the sale, but Mike insisted that they belonged with the house.”
“So you still have them?”
“We do. As a matter of fact, we had the pages professionally preserved by an archive specialist in Oxford, chap called Lewellyn-Jones—they’re now the centerpiece of a scrapbook we’v
e put together on the property. A historical record of Winterborne.”
“Would it be possible to see them?”
“Sure. I have copies, would those do?”
“That would be fine.”
“If you want to take a look at the originals later, you’re welcome to, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have my wife, Cassie, mail them.”
“You don’t have a scanner by any chance? If you do, perhaps you could e-mail copies.”
“I do, but the computer crashed on me yesterday. It might take a couple of days.”
“That’s fine. I appreciate your going to this trouble, Mr. Holbrook.”
“Tyler’s fine—happy to be of help. We’re still a long way off from moving into the house, but when we do, I’ll give you a call and you can come down and see it.”
“I’d like that,” Kingston said, and they bid each other good-bye.
Interesting, Kingston thought—handwritten notes hidden inside the wall. Mostly about the history of the house, Holbrook had said, but still … interesting. Winterborne must have been mentioned in Veitch’s notes for good reason, but had he known about the papers? Had Veitch managed to obtain copies of the notes? He could have asked Holbrook if he’d given copies to anyone else, he supposed. He decided he would if the notes proved to contain anything of interest.
He was about to get Veitch’s list from his study, to determine whom to interview next, when the doorbell rang. It was Andrew with a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry to bother you, Lawrence, but I seem to have locked myself out. Can I borrow the spare key?”
“Come in,” said Kingston, smiling. “Where have you been, anyway? Spent all that money you won at Kempton Park on another trip? That was a great evening, by the way. I don’t think I thanked you.”
“I sold the Lagonda.”
“You did ? You said you’d never part with it.”
“I know. But it’s been garaged for twelve years and in that time I’ve driven it at most a couple of dozen times. The good thing is that its value’s kept climbing. I got an offer I couldn’t refuse, as they say. A chap down in Plymouth of all places.”
“You drove a Concours 1937 Lagonda Rapide down to Devon?”
Andrew nodded. “On the back of a flatbed lorry.”
“You continue to amaze me.”
“Good news is that I’m filthy rich again, bad news is that I got some kind of bug when I was down there and ended up in a hotel room, sicker than a dog for two days.”
“You mean you overcelebrated?”
“Wish that had been the case.”
“I’m not going to ask what you sold it for.”
“Six figures.” Andrew grinned. “About ten times what I paid for it.”
“I can see why you recovered so quickly. Care for a drink?”
“Why not?”
They went into the living room, where Kingston poured a vodka and tonic for Andrew and a whisky for himself.
Andrew slumped back on the sofa. “So,” he said with an impertinent smile, “how’s the case going? Make any sense out of those notes of Veitch’s?”
“Not as much as I’d hoped, but I’m following up on a couple of things.”
Kingston gave Andrew a blow-by-blow account of what had happened, finishing with the news that Amanda was now, of all things, a murder suspect.
Andrew finally stopped shaking his head in displeasure and took a last gulp of his drink. “What can I say, Lawrence,” he said with a sigh.
After a moment’s silence, the conversation turned to the upcoming Open Garden day. Andrew had decided to make a long weekend of it, with a blowout brunch on Monday, to which they would invite mutual friends. Andrew mentioned Henrietta’s name, which brought moans of protest from Kingston. She was a bohemian artist type who had a habit of becoming brazenly amorous after a couple gin and tonics and for some reason always targeted him. They chatted for another five minutes, after which Kingston left to get Andrew’s key, kept on a hook in the kitchen.
When he returned, Andrew was leafing through the British flower book that Kingston had left on the coffee table, planning to look at it later.
“Nice,” Andrew said, getting up. “Someone’s pressed a flower in it.”
Kingston placed the key on the table and looked over Andrew’s shoulder to see what he was talking about. His scalp tightened and tingled. The pressed flower was blue and the title on the page opposite was ACONITUM.
After Kingston had described the deadly properties of the plant, Andrew went to the butler’s table, where he refreshed their drinks—this round as much for palliative reasons. The look on his face and lack of his usual exhortations were clear signs that the threat implicit in the pressed flower had shaken him as much as it had Kingston.
“What do you plan to do now, Lawrence?” he asked soberly.
Kingston paused before answering. “I don’t know. I need time to think about it.” His eyes darted around the room as he weighed the disturbing new development.
“What the hell is there to think about? Whoever sent that is deadly serious. If you ask me, they murdered Veitch and Endicott to prevent them from revealing this big secret that they’d stumbled on and now it seems you’re in their way, so—”
“I’m not so sure it’s that simple. What if it turns out that Amanda poisoned her brother? How would that square with your rationale?”
“I thought you said that was almost out of the question.”
“I did, but now I’m wondering…”
Andrew sighed. “I never thought I’d ever hear myself say this, but I’m beginning to think that I should get a little more involved in your ill-advised activities. Which doesn’t mean to say that I’m going to risk life and limb, chasing criminals down dark alleyways, though.”
“Are you actually offering to help?”
“Up to a point, yes.”
“I appreciate that, Andrew, it’s not like you. All right, then, here’s what I suggest we do. First, we continue with the interviews. I want to talk with some of the gardening clubs and societies as well. There’s also the outcome of Wheatley’s interview with Amanda we may have to contend with. If she’s charged with murdering her brother—heaven forbid—that could change everything.”
“Do you plan to tell Inspector Wheatley about this?”
“You mean the pressed flower?”
Andrew nodded.
“Sooner or later. It’s really up to Morley. I’ll tell him first.”
“There’s something else you have to do, too.” Andrew stood and glanced down at the book one last time. “Install one of those peephole security gizmos in the front door.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Kingston.
Andrew nodded, then spoke again, in a more serious tone. “Lawrence, I’ve learned by now that, regardless of what I think, you’ll plow straight ahead anyway and do what you believe is best, despite the inherent dangers. But this time, it’s obvious you need to take extra care.”
“I will. That’s a promise.”
TWENTY
Kingston was up before daylight the next morning, having spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about the most recent turn of events, including the implicit warning in the flower book and wondering who sent it. No question, it must be someone who wanted him off the case. Although Morley was getting impatient, it was most unlikely that he—or Crawford, for that matter—would want that. Amanda was the only person he could think of who was dead set against his continuing the investigation, but for her to have sent it seemed utterly absurd. He couldn’t imagine her doing such a thing.
After breakfast, he began by Googling Dahlia Societies UK. The first listing was the National Dahlia Society. There he found a link to the Midlands Dahlia Society. On that site, he wrote an e-mail message, requesting information on William Endicott and/or Tristan Veitch. He went on to say that he’d been told that either or both had won awards from the society in past years and he was interested in know
ing which garden clubs the two men represented. He did not mention that both men had been murdered. Doubtless all the club members would be more than aware of the double tragedy by now. He signed off using his full title: Professor of Botany, University of Edinburgh (Ret.).
He was going to make more calls, but he didn’t want to be late for his midday appointment with Julian Heywood. He shut down the Mac and went to get dressed.
* * *
Performance Motors was more upmarket than Kingston had expected. On any other occasion he could easily have spent an hour ogling the spit-polished Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Audis, Porsches, Aston Martins, and the odd Bentley and Roller that paraded their distinguished marques on the showroom’s black granite floor as if jewels on velvet. The rare display of automotive pulchritude engendered no feelings of ambition or envy in Kingston. Though he could afford a few of the entry-level models, owning such cars was no longer the temptation it had been in the past. His doughty TR4 served him well, and the only way they would ever part company would be when either or both became too infirm to continue the trusty relationship.
When Julian Heywood approached, after being paged, it took Kingston a few moments to recognize him. He wore a gray chalk-stripe suit that smacked of Savile Row, with white-collared pink shirt and a neatly patterned dark blue tie. His hair appeared shorter and better groomed than when they’d last met: just the kind of person you would want to negotiate the sale of a £50,000 Jag.
“Let’s go into the showroom,” said Heywood, after introductions. “My office is a little claustrophobic.”
They settled into comfortable leather swivel seats at the end of a long modern-design table.
“I must say, your collection is impressive,” said Kingston. “Outside of the London Motor Show, I don’t recall having seen so many beautiful cars under one roof.”
“It’s the biggest in the country, actually.”
“I won’t take too much of your time—is it all right if I call you Julian?”
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