EG02 - The Lost Gardens (10 page)

A giant cat’s cradle of pegs and strings outlining beds and borders was strung out in various parts of the garden. Many of the beds were already double-dug with manure and other additions worked in to enrich the soil.

The one-acre walled vegetable and cutting flower garden that not too many weeks ago had resembled an overgrown bombsite was starting to take shape. The nine-foot high brick wall on two sides, preserved in remarkable condition, had been cleared of all weeds, brambles and ivy and had been high-pressure washed. On sections of the inside wall, espalier and cordon wires were in place for the apple and pear trees waiting in the wings. The three glasshouses were in various stages of completion and all the cold frames and rehabilitated Victorian cloches were painted and ready to go. Outside the walls several bonfires burned, the smouldering ashes rekindled every morning with an inexhaustible supply of fuel hacked and sawn from the jungle-like gardens.

Working from sun-up often to sundown, Kingston had little or no time to dwell on the perplexing developments of the past weeks. Much as he wanted to delve into the mystery of the skeleton, the coins and Girard’s claim, it simply wasn’t possible. Every time he took pause to give them further thought, something came up in the gardens to sidetrack him. Then, of course, there was the overriding mystery of Wickersham: why did the reclusive Major Ryder elect to leave his estate to an American woman, ostensibly unknown to him?

In the coming days, however, certain items and a scrap of information would come into his possession that would further pique his curiosity, which he would be the first to admit took very little piquing.

The first happened early on a Saturday morning when Kingston was face up under the kitchen sink at the big house, trying to fix an obstinate leak. He’d insisted—now unwisely, he was beginning to think—on taking care of it when Jamie told him she was about to call a plumber. Earlier that morning she had gone into Taunton to do some shopping and have lunch at David and Bella Latimer’s. Just as he was about to apply leverage on the wrench, the doorbell rang. Cursing and extricating himself from the sink cupboard, he went to the front door and opened it. On the doorstep stood an ordinary-looking grey-haired man in his mid-sixties hugging six bound volumes close to his chest as one might carry a baby. The spectacles on the end of his nose were in danger of falling off at any moment. The books looked quite old. The man introduced himself as Roger Ferguson, an archivist at the Somerset Record Office in Taunton. Kingston ushered him into the living room where Ferguson lowered the books on to the coffee table. ‘Phew! Bloody heavy, those,’ he muttered in a West Country accent. He picked up the top book. ‘Thought these might be of help,’ he said, handing it to Kingston. Kingston took the book and opened it to the first page. His jaw dropped. It was as if the man had handed him a mint copy of the Gutenberg Bible. He was looking at a head gardener’s work book for the years 1905 to 1908. ‘They’re all from Wickersham,’ Ferguson said. ‘The other three go up to 1917. The two with the black bindings contain quite a lot of historical information on the house and the estate. I think you’ll find them most interesting.’

Ferguson, sitting on the edge of the sofa, went on to explain that he had heard about what was going on at Wickersham from Nick Sheffield, one of Jack Harris’s crew. They had met by chance at his local one night. Being a keen gardener and intrigued, Ferguson had taken it upon himself to do a little overtime research and had struck gold.

In amazingly good condition, the volumes detailed plant purchases, work and holiday schedules, invoices, and perhaps most important of all, job allocations. Important, because the job allocations specified all Wickersham’s numerous garden sites. It was a virtual map of the entire estate—a comprehensive list of all the individual gardens, the various buildings, greenhouses, structural features, the engineering of the water system: the hydraulic ram pumps, drive and supply pipes. A quick riffle through one of the black leather-bound books was all that was needed to tell Kingston that it contained a wealth of historical data, including drawings and photos—the kind of information that until now had been a distant dream. He couldn’t wait to see Jamie’s expression when he handed them to her.

It was all Kingston could do to stop himself from throwing his arms around the man and hugging him.

Over coffee and digestive biscuits, they talked for the best part of an hour. Ferguson, who was born and raised in Somerset, had always been fascinated by Wickersham. Over the years he’d read a number of articles about the house, its gardens and the more recent generations of Ryders. He had always wanted to see it, he said. It was no surprise that Kingston’s offer of a conducted tour of part of the estate close to the house was met with boyish enthusiasm.

Back at the house half an hour later, having seen Ferguson off, Kingston decided the sink would have to wait—the books were too important. He went into the living room to study them.

For the rest of the morning Kingston buried himself in the gardener’s work books. They were exactly what he had been hoping for all along. As he read on, the depth of information about the gardens back in those days astonished him. The meticulous records not only reflected a precise accountability for the upkeep and enrichment of the gardens but also demonstrated just how big a part they played in the lives of the Ryder family of that time, both aesthetically and nutritionally. The books represented an extraordinary diary, a way of country life that has been lost forever. Jamie was going to be flabbergasted.

Finally, laying the work books aside, he picked up the first of the two black volumes, the historical records, and began to read. Most of the introductory text dealt as much with county historical events and influences of the time as it did with Wickersham itself. Interspersed, were a number of stylized architectural drawings and photographic plates of passing interest. Collectively, they showed how very little the house had changed over the centuries. Sections on the chronology of the Ryder family were particularly absorbing. Jamie, who seemed to be developing a curious fondness for the family, would enjoy reading those pages.

Kingston read on, skipping parts that appeared of little interest. Finished for the time being with the first book, he picked up the second. Opening it at the contents page, he noted that, in chronological order, this was actually book one, since it commenced the history of Wickersham at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Not more than four pages into the first chapter, chronicling the Reformation period, his eyes scanned a long paragraph. He stopped, then read it again.

Between 1536 and 1539 the monasteries were dissolved and their lands and buildings either confiscated or destroyed. Throughout the violent upheaval, Thomas Cromwell combined governing genius with Machiavellian ruthlessness. The years to 1540 saw his enforcers travel the country assessing and plundering the church’s vast wealth. It was possibly the greatest act of vandalism in English history. Wickersham Priory was destroyed in 1540. Like other monasteries at the time Wickersham scrambled to protect and hide its tithe monies and priceless ecclesiastical treasures. To this day, no evidence has ever surfaced to prove that the monks of Wickersham were successful in their attempt.

Over recent years there has been much speculation on the actual site of the monastery. Archaeologists and historians are generally agreed that it was located in the vicinity of the present house which was constructed in 1758.

Kingston’s mind was in overdrive. He needed to talk to Roger Ferguson again. But he didn’t have his home phone number and, even if he did, wouldn’t disturb him at the weekend. He would call him first thing Monday morning. He went back to reading.

Two hours later, eyes strained, he took a break. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was past two. No wonder he felt so damned hungry.

Rummaging around the kitchen—it was bigger than the entire ground floor of his flat—he found some weepy Stilton and what he took for Edam in the cheese safe and a reasonably fresh cottage loaf in the bread bin. He was in luck: in the refrigerator there was a solitary bottle of Pinot Gris and on the lower shelf, of all things, a jar of Branston pickle. Dot must have bought that. Assembling an impromptu ploughman’s lunch on a china plate, he poured himself a glass of wine and took it all back to the living room.

Settling into the wingback, he opened
The Times
, folding it to the Jumbo crossword puzzle, and began his lunch. He got 1 across right away:
Horse given unsuitable diet on board ship
(10). Answer, Lipizzaner. By the time his wineglass was empty, he’d solved at least a dozen clues. Not too bad, he told himself.

He woke with a start, a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking it. He looked up and saw Jamie standing next to him.

‘Thought you might like something to eat,’ she said. ‘It’s almost six. You’ve been out since I got back at five. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

Kingston got up and rubbed his eyes. The room was dimly lit. ‘How are David and Bella?’ he asked.

‘Fine. Bella lasted longer than I thought. David took me aside when I arrived and told me that she was on her third gin and tonic of the morning.’ Jamie shrugged and smiled. ‘She conked out right after lunch. I’m amazed how tolerant David is with her. I can’t believe she’s like that all the time.’ She picked up one of the books from the coffee table. ‘What are these?’

Before she could read the title, Kingston reached over and calmly took it from her. She looked surprised.

Holding the book up as if it were prima facie evidence in a court trial, he waved it once for effect. ‘This, Jamie, is a gardener’s work book. Dated 1905 to 1908. It’s from Wickersham and there are four of them.’

‘Where—where did you get them?’

He held up a hand. ‘In a moment. There’s more.’ He put the book on the table and pick up the two black-bound volumes. ‘These chronicle the history of the house and the original priory, including the Ryder family.’

‘Really? Let me see.’ She reached out and took one of the books and started to leaf through the pages. After a few seconds she looked up. ‘These are extraordinary, Lawrence. What luck.’

‘Luck is right. A chap called Ferguson showed up on the doorstep with them this morning. He works at the Somerset Record Office in Taunton. He’d heard about what we were doing here and thought they might be of interest.’

‘
Interest?
That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Believe me, Jamie, they’re going to keep you occupied for quite some time,’ said Kingston, excusing himself. ‘I’ll be back in a half hour,’ he said, getting up and picking up the plate and glass. At the door, he paused and looked back at her, rubbing his chin. He was debating whether he should tell her about his new theory; the reason he wanted to talk to Ferguson again. He decided it could wait till later.

Monday morning, at ten thirty, after a short walk from the car park, Kingston arrived at the Somerset Record Office. Ushered into a modern and tidy office, Kingston sat across from Ferguson. ‘I somehow expected more books, more files, papers,’ said Kingston with a smile, gazing around the room. ‘Something more—Dickensian.’

Ferguson returned the smile, looking over the wire rims of his perfectly round glasses. ‘Most people do. The word “archivist” conjures up a stereotypical image, I’m afraid. All our files and records—Lord knows how many millions there are now—are stored throughout this and other buildings. All we really need at our fingertips, nowadays, is the computer.’

‘How far back do the records go?’

‘Eighth century AD up to yesterday,’ Ferguson replied.

‘Quite remarkable.’

‘So, what is it that brings you here, doctor? On the phone you sounded quite wound up.’

‘I don’t want to waste your time, Roger, so I’ll get to the point.’

Ferguson sat back and gave a brief gesture with an open palm. ‘Fine.’

‘Recently we discovered an old well at Wickersham. It’s located in a small chapel that was buried under a fifty-year tangle of ivy and brambles. My guess is that the well predates the chapel by at least a couple of centuries. So, it would seem that the chapel was built to accommodate the well.’

‘My God, that could be a
very
significant find, you know.’ Ferguson gave Kingston a questioning look over the top of his glasses. ‘I’d really like to have seen that on Saturday. Is there a reason you didn’t mention it then?’

Kingston had anticipated the question. He had since realized that it was foolish of him not to have shown it to Roger at the time. After all, he knew full well how important it was. He had to tell him about the skeleton, too. Roger would learn about it sooner or later. Skeletons didn’t show up in wells with great frequency in Somerset.

‘I didn’t mention it then because it’s the subject of a police investigation. It was locked up.’

‘
What?
’

‘You see, when the well was discovered, it was found to contain the skeleton of a man. The police pathologist has determined that the bones were down there a long time. It’s doubtful that we’ll ever know who it was.’

‘Very Agatha Christie. Do they suspect foul play?’

‘Apparently there’s no evidence to suggest there was but they’re keeping the case open. I must say, though, when I last talked to the inspector in charge, he didn’t seem too optimistic about their getting much more information. Any clues that might tell them who it was or how it came about.’

‘My goodness, a lot of excitement up there?’

Kingston nodded in agreement. ‘For a while, yes. Things are more or less back to normal now, though. We’ve all got over the initial shock.’

‘So, when would it be convenient for me to see it?’

‘Unfortunately, tomorrow’s out. Don’t worry, though, we’ll do it in the next couple of days.’

‘If it’s okay with you, I may bring a couple of other people with me.’

‘That’s fine. There’s something else,’ Kingston added. ‘Nothing to do with archaeology, nothing like that. It’s—well, we have something of a riddle on our hands, too.’