EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

“I’m not sure. She might have.”

  Kingston could hear a note of puzzlement in Holbrook’s voice and decided he’d let things go at that. Any more questions, he might start to get truly suspicious.

  “I promise not to bother you again for a while, Tyler. Thanks for being so cooperative. It means a lot to me.”

  The conversation ended there.

  Standing at the kitchen counter, looking out the window, he thought about Winterborne and Holbrook’s disclosure. A woman researching listed houses would not be unusual, but nevertheless her interest could have been more than purely architectural. As he thought about it, “researching listed houses” was a rather vague job description, but those may have been Holbrook’s wife’s words. How many women were on Veitch’s list? he asked himself. He went to his study, retrieved the list, and brought it back to the kitchen. He laid the list on the table and wrote the names of the women only on a separate piece of paper, making a brief note alongside each name to remind him who was who. He quickly eliminated the two young women, Bridget Morley and Molly Henshawe, as he’d done before, and for the same reasons. Five names remained:

  Victoria Morley

  Graham Morley’s wife. Active in local politics and community issues.

  Nicole Morley

  Wife of Adrian Morley (retired).

  Daisy Morley-Lytton

  Lytton’s wife of 25 years. Antiques dealer.

  Vanessa Decker

  Distant cousin. Living abroad?

  Jessica Henshawe

  Oliver Henshawe’s ex-wife.

  After studying them, he eliminated Victoria Morley as being too elderly and also living too far from Staffordshire, in Torquay. Then he crossed off Nicole Morley’s name for much the same reasons. He wrote a question mark by Daisy Morley-Lytton’s name and circled the remaining two, Vanessa Decker and Jessica Henshawe. Locating Jessica Henshawe shouldn’t be difficult. Her former husband would surely be able to help in that regard. Vanessa Decker was another problem entirely. If an Internet search came up empty, he would have to drop her from the list.

  He cleaned up the kitchen and went to his study. After checking for new messages in his mail program—there were none—he turned his attention to Vanessa Decker. As he’d expected, Googling her name brought up pages of Facebook and Myspace listings, nearly all of them teenagers or young women. As a shot in the dark, he tried “Vanessa Morley,” getting the same results. He might have to give up on Vanessa Decker, he decided. That left one last person to contact, Oliver Henshawe, who should know the whereabouts of his ex-wife.

  Later that afternoon, Kingston called Amanda. Dialing her number, he was embarrassed to realize that he’d been so consumed with the unexpected and unsettling events of the past days that a week had passed since they’d last talked. While he didn’t want to give her the impression that he was being oversolicitous, neither did he want her to feel that he’d forgotten her. Mostly because of the questions that Inspector Wheatley had asked about her, his guarded suspicions, Kingston had thought about the call and what he should say and had even toyed with the idea of asking her to Andrew’s lunch. She picked up after several rings, sounding out of breath.

  “I’m sorry, Lawrence. I was out in the garden.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said, trying to be as genial as possible.

  “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’ve been meaning to call all week, but Andrew returned from a trip, and between spending time with him and a wasted drive down to Berkshire for an interview, the week just disappeared. Added to that, Andrew’s Open Garden is coming up and I try to help him with it every year.”

  “Yes, I remember. You told me about it.”

  Her tone was noticeably lackluster, but Kingston remained upbeat. “Perhaps you’d come down for the day. I know you would enjoy it and Andrew would like to meet you—I’ve told him about you, of course. You could stay overnight if you like. The house has four bedrooms and he’s doing a special brunch on Monday.”

  “That would be nice—if I’m not behind bars.”

  “Behind bars?”

  Kingston winced. Wheatley had told her, then?

  “Inspector Wheatley called me a couple of days ago. He wants me to go to the police station for questioning. Frankly, I’m beginning to dislike the man. I insisted that I’ve told him everything I know and it would be a waste of time, but he got very snippy, said ‘that remains to be seen.’”

  “I met him this week. I was about to tell you. He wanted to compare notes, as he put it, and I must agree, he’s not exactly the most civil of civil servants. You’ve nothing to worry about, Amanda. It’s what they call a routine inquiry.”

  “That’s hardly how he put it.”

  Kingston tried to ease the conversation away from her upcoming interview with the inspector, but he knew by now that, despite his reassurances, her mind was elsewhere; she wasn’t the same Amanda he’d spent time with two weeks ago. He could only assume that Wheatley’s call had upset her more than she was ready to admit. She ended the conversation abruptly, promising to call Kingston after she’d met with Inspector Wheatley, to let him know how the interview went. Lowering the phone, Kingston wondered if inviting her to Andrew’s event had been a good idea. He wouldn’t tell Andrew he had done so, he decided. He thought no more of the call, and though the sun was not quite yet over the yardarm, poured himself a glass of Macallan and settled down with the crossword for a half hour or so.

  * * *

  That evening, after watching BBC News, Kingston took out the Winterborne cipher again with the faint hope that simply looking at it long enough might trigger a thought, a subtle clue, or an epiphany that would lead to finding the key phrase. He was still convinced that the arrow had been placed there to signify that there were two separate codes. For now, though, he would ignore the last seven lines and focus on the first two. Logically, the key phrase would be connected in some way to the frieze itself. He thought of the Ecclesiastes excerpt. That would certainly make sense. He pulled out the folder that contained everything connected to the case, took out the quotation and read it aloud:

  Through wisdom is an house builded; and by understanding it is established; and by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches.

  He studied it, trying to imagine which words or phrase he would select as a key phrase if he were encrypting the message. After a minute, he concluded that at least eight stood out. He took a sheet of paper and wrote down his first choice, WISDOM, followed by the remaining letters of the alphabet, excluding those that already appeared in WISDOM, as he had done when he’d demonstrated the Caesar shift to Andrew. He then placed this cipher alphabet under the plain alphabet. Under those two lines, he wrote the first two lines of the Winterborne code using a red pen.

  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

  WISDOMNPQRTUVXYZABCEFGHJKL

  HEPYEVUAOTJGOTNPGVITUGINICHUM

  ZCGIPYHUAUASJUYIGUVVEARGUOXH

  He then tried to decode the Winterborne code using WISDOM as his key phrase. He started by matching the first red letter of the Winterborne code, H, to the H on the second-line cipher alphabet. It resulted in the letter W on the upper, plain alphabet, line. This wasn’t an encouraging start because to make an English word, there were only six letters that could follow W: four consonants and the letters H and R. If the next letter in the code was none of these, then the key phrase was incorrect.

  The next letter of the code was E. He ran his fingers across the second line to find that E matched T in the upper, plain alphabet. He leaned back, disappointed. No English words started with WT. He checked his cipher alphabet to make sure he hadn’t made an error, then tried decoding it with each of the seven other words he’d chosen earlier, including ECCLESIASTES. None worked.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In his study the next morning, Kingston took out Morley’s updated list with the contact numbers. Yesterday, he’d obtained an e-mail address for Oliver Henshawe from the Leicestershire County
Record Office and dashed off a note to him, asking how he could get in touch with Jessica, his former wife. He’d explained that he was working with Lord Morley on the Sturminster case, making sure to put Henshawe’s mind at rest by stressing that it was only a routine inquiry.

  He started to think about Vanessa Decker. Tracking her down was proving to be far more difficult than he’d anticipated. Why was she the only one who was so elusive? He was going to have to start spending more time trying to locate her.

  Soon after receiving the Dahlia Society’s letter, Kingston had spoken with the Brookside Garden Club’s secretary, who had provided the name and phone number of their club’s president, Stephen Meeke. A couple of hours later Kingston reached Meeke at his home in Derby. He was familiar with Kingston’s reputation, as both a botanist and an amateur investigator, and was more than happy to meet with Kingston, to the point of insisting. Since the club had no office, it was decided that they would meet at Meeke’s house in Sunnyhill on the south side of Derby. Andrew, true to his promise, agreed to go along.

  Kingston still had no word from Amanda, so that part of his planned excursion didn’t seem as if it would happen. This was more of a disappointment than reason for concern. When they’d talked, she hadn’t said when Wheatley would interview her, so the meeting might not yet have taken place. On the plus side, not having to make the fifty-mile detour to Abbot’s Broomfield would make the day more manageable.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, with clear blue skies for a change, Kingston and Andrew arrived punctually at the modest semi-detached brick house on Waddesdon Way, Derby. There was no need to double-check the number; it was the only house on the street that could possibly be owned by a dedicated gardener. Oddly enough, though, Kingston couldn’t spot a single dahlia among the painterly mix of plants and shrubs that filled the length and breadth of the front garden. Perhaps they were showcased in the back, he thought.

  A smiling woman in her midfifties answered the doorbell. She introduced herself as Steve’s wife and led the two of them down the hall, through the kitchen and a conservatory, to the garden, where her husband and a slender well-dressed lady were chatting under a large dogwood tree. After Meeke introduced Muriel Williams, the club’s secretary, they all settled down at a teak table under a striped awning.

  Meeke leaned back and smiled. “I must say I was surprised when you called, Doctor. As you know, we’re a small club, and when I told a couple of the members including Muriel, here, that you were coming to Derby, the entire club wanted to meet you.”

  “To a lot of us gardeners, you’ve become a somewhat legendary figure,” Muriel added. “We could have sold tickets.”

  Ignoring Andrew’s quickly raised and lowered eyebrows, Kingston smiled and shrugged. “Someone once said that ‘All news is an exaggeration of life.’ But I have found the challenges rewarding.”

  Meeke’s expression clouded. “You’re aware that both the men you’re inquiring about are recently deceased?”

  “I am, yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Several weeks ago, I was retained to conduct an independent inquiry into William Endicott’s murder. Now, with Veitch’s homicide, I discover that they both belonged to your club. I grant you the connection might be flimsy, but sometimes the most mundane and seemingly normal associations eventually turn out to be significant factors in solving crimes.”

  “What would you like to know about them?” asked Meeke.

  “How long had they been members of Brookside?”

  Meeke glanced at Muriel, as if to say You may know better than I.

  “I believe William joined in 2000 or thereabouts,” she said. Then, after a pause, “And I’m pretty sure that Tristan Veitch joined in 2003. I remember because we were all amazed when he walked off with the best-of-show award at Harrogate in the summer of 2004.”

  “Did they know each other well?”

  “I would say so,” she replied.

  Meeke nodded. “Yes. They invariably sat together at meetings, and I know they’d visited each other’s gardens.”

  “How many members are there in your club?” asked Kingston, pulling on his earlobe.

  Meeke looked up at the awning briefly, thinking. “Currently, about sixty.”

  Muriel nodded.

  “And your meetings are monthly?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I’ve been told that Tristan Veitch was something of a solitary person. His sister said he kept pretty much to himself. Is that how you’d describe him?”

  “That would be reasonably accurate, I suppose,” said Meeke.

  “Not antisocial,” said Muriel, “but hardly the life-and-soul sort.”

  “How about Endicott?”

  “He was friendlier,” she replied. “Speaking as a woman, I found him a bit nosy. I’m told touchy-feely, too.” She hesitated. “I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead—but he always wanted to know everything about you.” She looked at Meeke. “Was that your impression, Steve?”

  Meeke shrugged. “‘Inquisitive,’ would be the right word, I guess.”

  “In conversations, did either of them ever mention Sturminster?”

  Both shook their heads. “No,” said Meeke emphatically.

  “I’d like you to look at a list of names, if you would,” said Kingston, taking out Veitch’s list from his inside jacket pocket. He passed it to Meeke. “Let me know if any are familiar.”

  Kingston and Andrew sat admiring the garden while the two studied the list. Kingston smiled. “Never seen so many dahlias,” he said sotto voce to Andrew. After a minute Meeke handed the list back to Kingston. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “Same here,” said Muriel.

  “Thanks.” Kingston put the list back in his pocket. “I’m particularly interested in the two women on the list—Vanessa Decker and Jessica Henshawe.”

  By their expressions and silence Kingston knew that he was at another dead end. He was about to thank them both when Mrs. Meeke arrived with a large tray, bearing a plate of scones, cups and saucers, and a pot of tea. This helped ameliorate both his disappointment and his rumbling midriff, since he’d eaten very little for breakfast. Over tea, they were talking about more mundane matters when Muriel interjected.

  “I just thought of something. We did have a member whose name was Vanessa. But her name wasn’t Decker.” She glanced at Meeke. “Do you remember her? Tallish, Scandinavian-looking blond woman.”

  “I do,” he replied. “That was quite some time ago. Did she ever give a reason for leaving?”

  “I believe she was moving,” said Muriel.

  Kingston tried to suppress his eagerness. “Was she cozy with either Endicott or Veitch?”

  Muriel chuckled. “Not with Veitch, that’s for sure. As for Endicott, it’s hard to say. Like I said, he fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. Is it important?”

  “It could be, possibly. If they were at all close, it would fit with a theory I have. Do you remember her surname?”

  Meeke looked to Muriel again. “It escapes me right now,” she said. “I know it wasn’t Decker. But it’ll be easy to go back through some of the newsletters or the minutes of meetings to find it.” She eyed Kingston knowingly. “You’re thinking that she might be the Vanessa you’re looking for?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility. Women have been known to reassume their maiden names after divorcing.”

  “Maybe that’s why she was moving,” Meeke interjected.

  Another fifteen minutes passed while they toured the garden and chatted about things horticultural and significant gardens in the area that Kingston or Andrew might not have visited—Haddon Hall, Biddulph Grange, and Elvaston Castle being three. Kingston thanked them all and he and Andrew departed.

  They were at the curb, about to drive off, when Kingston saw Muriel out of the corner of his eye, hurrying down the garden path to the gate, waving. He wound the window down as she approached.

  “I
remembered the name of the lady you were asking about: Vanessa Carlson. I’ll go through the records for an address and phone number, but can’t make any promises. It was a few years ago.”

  Kingston thanked her and, with a quick wave, he and Andrew drove off.

  “Well, that was worthwhile,” said Kingston, looking pleased.

  “It must be the same woman, don’t you think?”

  “I’d say the odds are very favorable. Hopefully, before long we’ll find out.”

  For a while, rather than chat, Andrew seemed content to enjoy the passing Derbyshire scenery, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror.

  Passing a familiar brown National Trust Gardens road sign, Kingston thought about Andrew’s Open Garden, which was now two days away. Earlier, they’d agreed on a plan: Kingston would arrive at the house in Bourne End early tomorrow prepared to tidy and spruce up the garden. He would stay overnight and act as cohost during the open house on Sunday, from ten to four, then stay overnight again for La Grande Bouffe brunch on Monday.

  “Have you finalized your guest list for the lunch yet?” he asked.

  “I think so, why? Anyone else you want to invite?”

  Kingston shook his head. “No. Just being nosy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Did you invite Henrietta?”

  “No. I decided to save you the embarrassment. Personally, though, I think she’s fun.”

  Kingston was going to mention that he’d been thinking of asking Amanda but thought better of it. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She is fun and witty, but she doesn’t drape herself all over you.”

  “I wish she would. I might enjoy it.”

  “You were very quiet today, Andrew. I’m glad you came, though.”

  “There wasn’t much for me to say or do. As someone once said, ‘It’s better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt.’”