“I’ve asked myself that same question. According to Mrs. Holbrook, the only people who knew about the hidden code were her family, the archive preservation company—oh, and the architectural salvage people—and they didn’t know what the envelope contained. I can’t answer your question.”
“How would you learn about code breaking? Where would you go? Whom would you talk to?”
“Books have been written about the subject, of course, but other than the intelligence branches of the military and the government agencies, frankly I don’t know.”
“What about Endicott? We know he was a friend of Veitch’s. He could have also been working with him.”
“To what end?”
“Think about it. He might have known about cryptology.”
“He couldn’t have learned it in the services. Conscription had ended long before then. The bottom line is that, from everything I know, Endicott seems to have had no knowledge of codes. So we’ve come full circle.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The sun had gone down and the temperature with it. Andrew was about to suggest that they go inside when Kingston muttered something, speaking to himself.
“The archive company.”
“What?”
“The people doing the preservation.”
“What about them?”
“It’s the only possible way that Veitch could have known about the Winterborne papers.”
“How, though?”
“Through the woman inquiring about the frieze—Blakely, whatever her name is.”
“I thought you said that Tyler Holbrook’s wife claimed that she didn’t tell the woman anything.”
Kingston put a hand to his forehead. “As I recall, all she said was that the papers were with a company that was preserving them. Granted, it’s not much to go on, but it could have been enough for the woman to have tracked them down and persuaded them to let her see the papers. I wouldn’t think there are too many companies of that kind around.”
Andrew didn’t look convinced. “Surely no company handling clients’ historical documents, private papers, what have you, would ever allow a complete stranger to go near them. Lawsuits would be fast and furious.”
“Unless they had the client’s permission.”
“That’s not true in this case, though. Is it?”
Kingston shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Think about it. If the Holbrooks had given permission, the archive people would have shown the woman the papers, but it would be highly unlikely that they would have shown her the envelope. Why would they?”
“You’re right.”
“Sorry to throw cold water on your theory. It’s just not plausible.”
Kingston stared intensely across the lawn to the river, now a band of gray, the graceful willows alongside silhouetted in black. When he was in one of his deep-thought moods, Andrew knew not to interrupt. Kingston suddenly turned to him. “I must pay the archive people a visit,” he pronounced, as if it must be done that very minute.
“We must pay them a visit. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I must be getting sloppy. I should have thought about it before.”
“Thought about what?”
“How Tristan Veitch learned about the Winterborne papers.”
“I thought we just settled that.”
“No. We’ve been focusing too much on the code and how Veitch managed to break it. We’re forgetting that Veitch knew nothing whatsoever about the codes until the papers were discovered. And we’ve been assuming, wrongly, that it was the Blakely woman who told him about the papers and also the code.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“It had to be someone from the archive company who told Veitch. An inquisitive employee perhaps, or even the manager or owner—someone who not only knew Veitch but also knew that he would be highly interested.”
“To the point of selling the information?”
Kingston nodded. “Maybe.”
“You could be right. I can’t see any other possibility.”
“There is none. I suggest we take a run up to Oxford on Tuesday, if that’s okay with you.”
“I don’t see why not. One of my favorite places.”
Andrew stood and picked up his glass, intimating that the subject was closed. “How about another before dinner?”
“Why not?” Kingston replied. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow,” he added, regretting the cliché.
* * *
The Open Garden at Bourne End exceeded all expectations. Unlike the previous year, when it had been gray and cool, the skies were cloudless and by noon the temperature was close to eighty—a heat wave to most, but nobody complained. Despite no official visitor count, based on food and drink consumption, Andrew guessed it at approximately two hundred—substantially more than last year and surprising for such a small village. Many guests stayed in the garden longer than usual, just to have a chance to chat with Kingston, who looked quite the Colonial gentleman in a navy linen jacket, cream slacks, and black-banded Panama.
Brunch the following day was a huge success, too. The weather continued much the same, calling for thirst quenching with larger than anticipated quantities of champagne, wine, Pimm’s, and Schweppes before, during, and after Andrew’s extravagant catered lunch. Kingston was glad when the last guest had departed and he and Andrew were able to relax at last in deck chairs on the lawn in the still of a summer’s evening and just drink soda water and make bland comments now and then. Kingston hadn’t had to spend much of the day trying to evade or repel Henrietta, for which he thanked his friend.
* * *
Arriving home just before dark, Kingston was in no mood for anything other than to glance at his mail and check his phone and e-mail messages. After that, he planned to spend an hour or so trying to finish the rest of the Oxbridge-Bell book before retiring early. In the last three days he’d eaten too much, drunk too much, talked too much, listened too much, and slept too little. He also made a mental note to remind Andrew to retire the mattress in the guest room that he’d occupied. It was like trying to sleep on a sack of tennis balls.
Finding nothing in the post that required immediate reading, he played back three phone messages. The first was from Francis Morley, asking Kingston to call. The second was from Muriel Williams, the dahlia club lady, saying that she had more information on Vanessa Carlson. And the last was from Amanda asking that he call her. From the tone of her voice and brevity of the message, he got the impression that the news wasn’t good. The e-mails could wait until morning, he decided, but returning her call was essential. It wasn’t too late and he saw no reason why she shouldn’t be pleased to hear from him.
Amanda answered after the second ring. “Thanks for calling, Lawrence,” she said.
Kingston was relieved, if only for a moment, that her voice seemed a little more sanguine than it had on her recorded message. “Just got your message. I was gone for the weekend. Andrew’s a big do at his house on the river. I arrived home literally ten minutes ago.”
“Sorry I missed it. Was it fun?”
“It was, but rather exhausting. More important,” he said in a comforting tone, “how are you? Did you meet with Inspector Wheatley?”
“Yes, I did. Last Friday. That’s why I’m calling.”
While they’d been talking, he’d been trying to gauge her mood, but the tone of her voice gave no clue. “How did it go?”
“Not at all well, I’m sorry to say.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“First, I have an apology to make—a confession, if you will.”
“To me? A confession? For what possible reason, Amanda?”
“I haven’t been completely truthful in some of the things I told you when you were here. I omitted facts I didn’t think significant, only to protect Tristan, but somehow Wheatley knew of them or is very good at guessing. He’s accusing me of withholding evidence.”
/> “These facts, what were they? What, exactly, did you withhold?”
“When I’d said that Tristan hardly ever went out, that wasn’t quite true. I realize now that it was a stupid mistake on my part. I really don’t know what I was thinking at the time. I probably thought that it might help shield him from further scrutiny. I didn’t know if what he’d been researching—this Morley family thing—had got him into some kind of trouble.”
“But Tristan didn’t exactly have a social life, did he? Lots of friends?”
“Heavens no! He preferred to keep to himself and generally shunned visitors, but he was by no means misanthropic. Occasionally he went out, and sometimes he wouldn’t tell me where or with whom. It didn’t bother me. He wasn’t the sort to get into trouble in pubs, excessive drinking, that sort of thing—and I never stayed up waiting for him to come home. It was an unspoken arrangement that might seem unusual to a lot of people, but we weren’t married. If we were, I’m sure I would have felt differently.”
“I’m a little confused, Amanda. If Tristan went out occasionally, which would entail meeting someone or other people, surely that would help substantiate your case. It would open up the possibility that someone else could have poisoned him. It shifts the burden of guilt away from you.”
“I offered the same argument. Wheatley agreed in principle, but he maintained that it still didn’t change matters that much, that I could still have done it.”
“Did you ask him what your motive was, if you had?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. He said he could think of several. That’s when he told me they were launching an investigation into our financial affairs: our respective savings, inheritances, wills, debts, and so on. I’ve grown to dislike the man. He has no social skills or tact whatsoever.”
“I don’t think they’re part of the job. But in my experience, not all policemen are like that. What else did he say?”
“He pressed me about a possible relationship between Tristan and the man who was murdered at Sturminster. Had I ever met him? If he’d been to the house at all, or had phoned?”
“William Endicott.”
“Yes.”
“Had you met him?”
“No. I hadn’t.”
“While we’re on the subject, do you know if Tristan did business with an archive preservation company, in Oxford, I believe?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Even if he had, I doubt that he would have mentioned it anyway. Is it important?”
“I’m not sure. It’s probably just another dead end.”
During the lull that followed, Kingston debated whether he should tell her that he had indeed established a connection between her brother and Endicott through the Brookside Garden Club. He decided to wait for now so as not to open up the issue for even more speculation. Then Amanda spoke again.
“I didn’t have anything to do with Tristan’s death, Lawrence. That’s the truth. The very thought of it is … repugnant.” Her voice quavered on the word “repugnant” and she paused momentarily, probably to regain her composure, Kingston guessed. Then she continued. “There was no deep brotherly-sisterly love between us—if he were with us still, he would readily admit that—but we were good friends and generally speaking got along well. We shared most things, respected each other’s needs and space, and in no possible way would either of us ever have considered harming the other.”
“I believe you. Wheatley is just trying to coerce you. Now he knows that you weren’t truthful on that one matter, he’s asking himself if you could be lying about other things, too. I doubt that he has one iota of evidence to prove your culpability.”
“You may believe that, Lawrence, but Inspector Wheatley’s last words, before we parted, were that he now considers me a prime suspect in Tristan’s murder.”
TWENTY-SIX
After Kingston put down the phone, he sat staring into space, trying to weigh the significance and implications of what Amanda had just told him. Was Wheatley simply applying undue pressure in the hope that he might get her to divulge more information about her relationship with her brother, or did he really have sound reason or plausible evidence to consider her a prime suspect? Kingston was unclear on the legal procedure but thought that, as a prime suspect, she would have been informed of her rights and been advised that she could have a solicitor present. From what she’d said, none of that had taken place. Kingston was still convinced that she was innocent, but he couldn’t do much about it other than to find out who had really murdered Tristan and Endicott.
He realized that he’d been so absorbed in Amanda’s plight that he’d forgotten the other two phone messages, particularly the one from Muriel Williams, which had sounded encouraging. He dialed her number. Her husband answered, and soon she was on the line.
“Sorry, Doctor, I was out in the garden,” she said.
Kingston smiled. It seemed that everyone he called these days was in or had been in the garden at the time. “I got your message,” he said. “You have some information on Vanessa Carlson, I believe?”
“Yes. She left the club in 2005 because she was leaving the area.”
“Was she moving abroad?”
“She didn’t say so. At the time, she wanted us to continue sending the club newsletter, and I have the forwarding address and phone number that she gave us.”
“Excellent,” said Kingston.
“If you’re ready, I’ll give it to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s The Tithe Barn, 43 Magpie Lane, Linslade, Bedfordshire, LU7 2MR. The phone number is 01525-973-214. That’s all the information I could find. I hope it will help.”
Kingston thanked her, telling her he would let her know how it worked out. “I have a question, Muriel,” he said. “Do you remember if there was anything memorable about her voice? Anything unusual?”
“Not really. It was lower than most women’s, perhaps.”
“Husky, maybe?”
“You might say that, yes.”
He thanked her again and the call ended. With the phone still in hand, he dialed the Linslade number. A man answered, an elderly man by the sound of it.
“I’d like to speak with Vanessa Carlson, please,” Kingston asked in the most congenial tone he could muster.
“Vanessa Carlson?”
“Yes. I was told this was her phone number.”
“Her phone number?”
“Right. I’d like to talk with her if she’s at home, please.”
“You’d like to talk with her?”
Kingston knew by now that the man was either deaf or senile—or both. “Vanessa Carlson,” he said, raising his voice.
“Sorry, she don’t live here no more.”
“Do you know where she went? Maybe an address?”
“Let me ask Mildred.”
The man had obviously abandoned the phone in search of his wife or caregiver, so Kingston stared at the wall and waited.
This time a woman’s voice. “Sorry about that. Dudley’s lost his hearing aid—third time this week. You were asking about one of our tenants, I believe?”
“I was, Vanessa Carlson. I’m trying to locate her, related to a police matter.”
“Lord, she’s not in trouble, I hope?”
“No. No. It’s a routine inquiry. Nothing serious. Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“She did, but I believe she’s moved again since then. Always on the go, that woman. I know where she works, though. A friend of mine ran into her a couple of weeks ago. She told me. It’s Stratford Estate Agents in Milton Keynes.”
Kingston made note of it on his pad by the phone. “Is she a single woman?”
“Yes, she is. Divorced.”
“About how old?”
“Ooh … fiftyish, I’d say.”
“Anything unusual about her voice?”
“An odd question.”
“It is, I know, but I don’t have a photo or a good description of her and I’m just trying to make sure that she�
�s the woman I’m looking for.”
“I never thought too much of it, but now you come to mention it she sounded as if she was a heavy smoker at one time, though I never saw her smoke. A bit like that American actress—her name escapes me—she was married to Humphrey Bogart, I believe.”
“Lauren Bacall.”
“That’s her. Sort of a gravelly voice.”
“Good. That’s the same description others have given me. It must be her. I’ll give Stratford Estate Agents a call. And thanks for your help. Give my regards to Dudley, too.”
“I will. Good luck.”
Kingston was pleased. It looked like his persistence in tracking down the elusive Vanessa Carlson had paid off. Once he’d verified with the estate agent’s office that she was still working there, he would pay her a visit. That would have to wait a day or so because tomorrow was spoken for. He and Andrew would be in Oxford for the best part of the day, not that it should take that long to chat with the archival people, but Andrew would never let an opportunity pass for a leisurely lunch in a good restaurant and Oxford had many.
He returned Morley’s call next. The woman who answered said that Lord Morley was in London for a few days and that she would make sure he got the message the next morning.
In bed at last, Kingston spent an hour finishing Oxbridge-Bell’s book, long overdue. Toward the end, the subject of the putative Morley “feud” was discussed. The upshot was that the author had uncovered no evidence in his considerable research to support the persistent speculative claims of serious malfeasance on the part of Samuel Morley. Despite this, it was known that while Samuel was benefiting from his brother’s largesse, he was diametrically opposed to the methods by which the moneys had been obtained. His pacifist sentiments and his association with people of like views, among them many intellectuals and liberal thinkers of the time, were well known. While hardly a revelation, this provided another possible reason for Samuel Morley’s acquaintance with Horace Walpole and Thomas Gray, both of whom seemed to fit the bill in that context.
Another curious tidbit in the closing pages concerned Matthew Seward, the architect who had designed Sturminster’s monuments and was also chummy with both Horace Walpole and Thomas Gray. Seward had disappeared soon after Sturminster’s monuments were completed, and no reports of his death had ever been presented or registered. One explanation offered for this mystery was that Seward had been a frequent traveler to various parts of Europe and the Middle East, and it has been speculated that he might have died while on one of these journeys.
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