EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  “Listen to me,” Kingston said in a hoarse voice, pulling Andrew close.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the bricks,” Kingston whispered.

  “What bricks?” Andrew whispered back.

  “On the walls. I think they’re filled with gold.”

  “Gold? ”

  “Keep your voice down. Find a way to slip back. Look at the wall behind where I was shot. You’ll see it—the gold. There’s a bullet there, lodged in the wall. Get it and keep it. Understand?”

  Andrew squeezed his hand tight. “Don’t worry, I will,” he replied.

  Now Kingston felt himself being raised into a near vertical position. The blood rushed from his head, the light-headedness and nausea returning. Then he was lying flat again, looking up at stars, being hurried across an open space and lifted into a vehicle. It cheered him that Andrew was nowhere to be seen. He breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

  He slipped into a dream: floating slowly down a river, on his back, like Millais’s Ophelia before she drowned. But unlike her, he wasn’t singing. Far off, a chorus of muted voices was singing a cappella. He was being lifted again, as if by invisible hands, carried upward toward a blissful golden light that beckoned. Yet as he drew closer, the light’s radiance dimmed and he slid into a velvety blackness, soothing and soporific.

  The pain was gone. He was asleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Seven hours later, Kingston awoke to find himself staring at a white ceiling, a blinding white that made him avert his eyes. He soon realized that the assault on his retinas had less to do with the white paint than the bright light flooding the room through a picture window. He glanced sideways, shielding his eyes, to get a better view, seeing what appeared to be the environs of a small town. He rolled his head slowly on the pillow to take in the room: He was in a hospital ward. Glancing upward, he saw the IV bag with its clear liquid hanging from the stand beside the bed, the tube taped to his arm, and various monitoring devices. It didn’t seem to be a critical-care ward, which was comforting.

  His chest was painfully sore, as he discovered when he tried to slide upward on the pillow. His ankle ached, too. He vaguely remembered falling from a ladder and ending up on a dirt floor, immobilized. As embarrassing and bathetic as that had been, it was nothing compared to what had followed. He started to reconstruct the chain of events in the subterranean room.

  Slowly it all began to fall together, scene by scene, like trying to recall a particularly bad dream, his mind blanking on the details. He remembered being shot in the chest and lying helpless on the dirt, drifting in and out of consciousness while Andrew went for help. Then he recalled seeing the bullet lodged in the brick and spotting what, at the time, he was sure was gold inside the shattered brick. Could he have imagined or invented it in his delirious state? Where was Andrew, for that matter? Had he been able to retrieve the bullet? Kingston chided himself for not having instructed him to somehow cover up the exposed gold. He should have warned him about the unknown shooter as well. Too late now, he said to himself, returning to his memory of the catastrophic night.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a man’s voice. “How are you feeling, Lawrence?”

  Kingston turned toward the door to see that two men had entered. One was young and tall, with a mop of ginger hair flopping over one eye. He was wearing a tan summer suit with a loosely knotted tie. Kingston recognized the man behind him immediately: Inspector Wheatley, looking as sartorially correct as ever.

  “I’m Dr. Anderson. I believe the inspector needs no introduction.”

  “Good morning, Doctor,” said Kingston. He gave a perfunctory nod to Wheatley. “Inspector.”

  “Well, I’ve got good news for you,” said Anderson, standing over Kingston. “I can’t say you dodged a bullet, but metaphorically you did. You’re a lucky man. Apart from tissue damage and some minor issues, you’re none the worse for wear. A few inches lower and it might have been a very different story, though. We’ll keep you here for a couple of days, and if nothing changes, you can go home.”

  “That is good news.”

  “If you feel up to it, you can see visitors, but don’t overdo it,” said Anderson, patting Kingston on his “good” shoulder. “It’s a cliché, I know, but for the next forty-eight hours you need to rest as much as possible.”

  Kingston nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “If it’s all right with you, Inspector Wheatley would like to have a word, but I’ve cautioned him to go easy on you and to keep his questions brief. How long he stays will be up to you.”

  “That’s fine,” said Kingston, eager to know what had happened in the missing several hours—if the police had found out who’d done the shooting.

  The doctor departed and Wheatley pulled up a chair.

  “I’m genuinely sorry for what’s happened to you, Lawrence, and glad for your sake that it wasn’t a lot worse,” said Wheatley in his customary terse and expressionless manner. “I won’t waste your time right now inquiring about what exactly you were doing at the temple—we can get into that later. If you don’t mind, though, perhaps you could tell me what happened from the time you and this Andrew friend of yours trespassed on Sturminster’s grounds.”

  Kingston smiled at the “trespassing” accusation. He found it hard to believe that Wheatley would let him and Andrew off so lightly. Figuring that the inspector must be feeling sorry for him, he thought no more of it and, for the next few minutes, he related what he could remember, reminding Wheatley that most of the time he was in the subterranean room he was in and out of consciousness. Though reconciled to the fact that his involvement in the case was now a thing of the past—that from now on it was in the hands of the police—he made no mention of his suspicion that the walls might contain gold ingots. Nor did he reveal that he’d asked Andrew to retrieve the bullet. If push came to shove later, and Wheatley accused him of withholding evidence, he could claim amnesia or his inability at the time to determine fact from fantasy. Unlike their first face-to-face meeting, Wheatley was patient and considerate of Kingston’s ordeal and injuries, and listened without interrupting. Kingston had expected at least a few questions after finishing his account and was surprised and thankful when Wheatley stood, as if to signal his leaving. He must have taken the doctor’s caution about brevity to heart, thought Kingston.

  “I’ve spent enough of your time, Lawrence. Thanks for your patience. I’ll leave you to get some rest. We’ll be talking again, of course. There’s still that small matter of your trespassing that needs to be addressed.”

  “I have a question, if you don’t mind,” said Kingston.

  Wheatley nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you have any idea who shot me?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question. The answer is no. As yet we don’t have a suspect. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “What about the bullet? Did the doctor retrieve it?”

  “Don’t worry, that’ll be for ballistics to worry about.”

  “What about Amanda Veitch? Is she still a suspect?”

  “For someone who almost went for a Burton, you certainly have a lot of questions. As for the Veitch woman, let’s just say that we haven’t decided to file charges yet.”

  “I understand.”

  Wheatley nodded and managed a decent smile. “Get well, Lawrence,” he said. “And leave the rest to us. You’ve done enough … for now.”

  Kingston knew the inspector wanted to say “enough damage” and respected Wheatley for resisting the temptation. “One last thing, Inspector. On your way out, could you ask the nurse if she can rustle up a copy of the Times. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Be happy to.”

  Kingston closed his eyes. The encouraging news about his gunshot wound had made him feel much better already, both physically and mentally. On several occasions in the past he’d been lectured by his now dear departed physician in Scotland about the importance of understanding and respecting t
he symbiotic relationship between the health of both the body and the mind—that they were interconnected, that one affects the other, and that neither can be separated. He was the person who had recommended that Kingston do the Times cryptic puzzles.

  This newfound burst of enthusiasm and optimism made him start thinking about the case again. His alter ego was telling him to forget it, that it was prideful, ill advised, and could well delay his recovery. On the other hand, the compulsion to bring matters to a close was unexpected and, given the trauma of the last several hours, much stronger than he would have thought possible. With the conflicting emotions tugging at his leathery conscience, he stared out the window at the pleasant view. After more staring at the ceiling and more thought, he reached a compromise. He reminded himself that, like it or not, he was confined to a hospital bed for at least two more days and that there was little or nothing he could do, anyway. In a few minutes, he drifted off to dreamless sleep.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Someone was touching his shoulder. He heard a voice—a woman’s. He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light. A nurse in a blue tunic was standing next to him, a glass of water in one hand, a pill bottle in the other.

  “The doctor wants you to take your medication.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something for the pain,” she replied with a coaxing smile.

  Kingston managed to shift himself up on the pillow into a half-sitting position, his arms outside the blanket. He looked at her more closely. She was quite tall and not unattractive, had a pleasant expression on her face, and was waiting patiently.

  So why did he suddenly feel apprehensive? Nothing unusual about the pain medication; it would be expected after surgery.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “About noon.”

  Kingston took the glass, sipping from it, trying to understand his unease. She was rather abrupt—was that it? Aren’t nurses usually a trifle more cheery, more sympathetic? After all he’d been through, he certainly deserved a little more, like a comforting “Well, how are we doing, Mr. Kingston?” or “Starting to feel better, are we?”

  She smiled again, opened the bottle, and shook out two small pink pills. He sipped more water.

  “Sorry, I’m parched,” he said. “Give me a moment.” He took another small sip. “By the way, what’s the name of this hospital?” he asked. “No one has told me.”

  “It’s the Staffordshire Memorial Hospital.”

  “And my doctor’s name?”

  Her smile vanished, replaced by an unsettling look she quickly tried to cover. “Everyone in the hospital’s here to help you, Mr. Kingston,” she said brusquely.

  Instantly, he knew.

  It’s her voice. The huskiness. That’s why she said so little.

  “I understand,” he said.

  He held out his free hand for the pills, then suddenly threw the water in her face and grabbed her wrist. The motion, though short, sent a searing pain through his chest, but he was determined not to let go.

  “Vanessa Carlson, isn’t it?” he shouted, tightening his grip. “Or would you prefer Decker?”

  “Let me go, damn you,” she sputtered, pulling back and struggling desperately to wrench herself free, dragging him across the sheet with her. Yanked by the tube in his left arm, the IV stand and bag on the other side clattered down against the bedrail.

  His eyes darted about the bed, searching in vain for the nurse’s call remote.

  “Help!” he bellowed. “Help!”

  Now half off the bed, Kingston’s chest was stabbing with needles of pain; what little strength he had was draining fast. Any minute, he would fall to the floor and it would be all over.

  She realized it, too. She fumbled in her tunic pocket with her free hand.

  A wave of panic, nausea, and raw adrenaline coursed through Kingston as he saw what she’d pulled out.

  A syringe.

  He let go of her arm and crabbed back across the bed. Immediately, she came at him, pointing the needle like a dagger. He felt for the chrome IV pole with both hands, gripped it, and shoved the bag end into her stomach. She howled and staggered back. He rolled off the bed, almost falling but managing to stay on his feet. As she recovered and came around the end of the bed, he yanked the IV catheter out of his arm, flipped the bag off its hook, and hoisted the IV stand off the floor to a horizontal position, the four-legged base away from him. The opened vein in his arm was bleeding, but he ignored it. With a primal strength and fury coming from someplace in him he didn’t know existed, he whirled and swung the stand at her. Her reflexes were quick and she dodged the first swing. But she didn’t count on it continuing full circle. Kingston was gripping the pole like an Olympic hammer, and on the next rotation the heavy base crunched into her back below her neck with a sickening thud. She collapsed like a rag doll; the syringe spun across the floor into the wall. Kingston dropped the IV stand and collapsed on the bed. He leaned over, picked up the dangling remote, and pressed the button to summon the nurse.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Kingston sat on the bed staring at Vanessa Carlson’s body, waiting anxiously for the nurse and for his heart to stop thumping. He was sweating profusely and the pain in his chest was returning with a vengeance. What a surprise was in store for the poor nurse, he thought. Not to mention Andrew. Where the hell was he? Kingston wondered.

  The door opened and a nurse entered. She stopped dead in her tracks and put a hand to her mouth. “Good God! What on earth—?” she exclaimed, wide eyed, kneeling by Carlson’s body.

  Kingston explained briefly what had happened, pointing to the syringe, and the nurse left immediately to get help. Within minutes she returned with a doctor and two orderlies and a gurney.

  They all waited silently while the doctor examined Vanessa Carlson. Kingston’s sigh of relief was audible when the doctor finally announced that she was alive. Even though she had tried to murder him, the idea that he might have killed her—even in self-defense—was repugnant to him. The doctor went on to say that the extent of her injuries wouldn’t be determined until they’d made a thorough examination, but Kingston had heard all he wanted to. The pain in his chest had subsided somewhat and he lay back gingerly on the bed, his head sinking into the crumpled pillow, and stared at the ceiling, his mind numb.

  The orderlies lifted Vanessa Carlson’s body onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency and departed with the nurse in tow. The doctor remained and turned his attention to Kingston, removing the dressing and examining the wound for tearing or damage. Satisfied that Kingston was none the worse for wear, the doctor said that the police had been informed, then offered a few cautionary words about “behaving” and resting, before giving Kingston a sedative and leaving.

  Kingston was dozing when he heard a man’s voice. He opened his eyes and saw Andrew. “About time you showed up,” he muttered, still groggy. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “With the police mostly. After they whisked you away, Sturminster’s security people put me under house arrest, I suppose you’d call it. After spending the best part of the day locked up at the house reading magazines and napping, the police interviewed me. Inspector Wheatley.”

  Kingston managed a nod. “He was here. Doesn’t seem that long ago, but I’ve lost all track of time.”

  “Hardly surprising.”

  “He didn’t tell me he’d spoken with you. Anyway, have they told you what happened here? It was bloody awful.”

  “They have.”

  “Is that all you have to say after that woman almost killed me?”

  Andrew looked away. “I don’t know what to think or say anymore, Lawrence. I know I should be thankful and relieved that you’ve survived, but at the same time I’m pissed off at you for being so damned reckless and thoughtless, ignoring everyone’s advice—all in the name of your blind ambition with this lousy case.”

  “I can’t argue with you, Andrew. Everything you’ve said is true. But you might give me—or
us, I should say—credit for solving it.”

  Andrew looked back at Kingston. “Partly solving it would be more accurate. It looks like you and Veitch were right about a fortune being buried somewhere at Sturminster. And it’s safe to assume it’s the money purloined by Samuel Morley, as we expected. We still don’t know for sure—unless I’m out of the loop—who killed Endicott and Veitch, or how this Carlson woman fits into the picture. As for the gold, sooner or later the police or Sturminster’s people will discover that the walls of that place are filled with gold ingots—if they haven’t already. Even when they do, I still have an uneasy feeling that’s not the end of it. What’s more, I don’t think we can assume that they—whoever they may be—are going to give up just yet.”

  “I have some answers—”

  “No more, please.”

  Kingston held a hand up. “I know. I know. This is not the time to discuss it. You’ll only get angrier. When I get out of here then we can talk about it more.”

  “As long as it’s just talk, that’s fine.”

  Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a misshapen bullet, holding it up for Kingston to see. “It was where you said it was. I covered up the damaged brick as best I could, and unless someone goes over the wall inch by inch, they won’t find it.”

  “Good. I was hoping you might.”

  “Here,” he said, flipping it to Kingston.

  Kingston’s reaction was slow. He dropped the bullet and it slipped off the blanket and bounced to the floor. Andrew knelt to look for it. After a few seconds he stood with the bullet in one hand, a mobile phone in the other. “Someone’s missing a mobile,” he said. “It could be that woman’s.”

  “We should be so lucky,” said Kingston. “Check the voice mail.”

  Andrew spent a few moments tinkering with the unfamiliar mobile. “There are two messages,” he said. “Hold on.”