EG02 - The Lost Gardens (11 page)

‘Riddle? What kind of riddle?’

‘How shall I put this?’ Kingston drew in a long breath. ‘I mentioned that when the crew first found the chapel, it was concealed behind a three-foot thick wall of vegetation, built into the side of a small cliff. There was only one way in, through a heavy oak door. By the girth of the ivy at its base—
Hedera colochica
“Dentata” … the bloody stuff is a house eater—our crew foreman estimated, and I tend to agree with him, that the chapel was probably buried over fifty years ago. Knowing that the gardens were abandoned shortly prior to World War II would seem to corroborate the fact. In fact, that would make it over sixty years.’

Ferguson unclasped his hands and leaned forward slightly, frowning. ‘Where is this all leading?’

Kingston sniffed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so pedantic. Anyway, when we opened up the chapel, we found three coins in there, on the floor. One is dated 1963, the other two 1959.’

‘Meaning …’ Ferguson looked up to the ceiling, calculating. ‘They couldn’t have been there for more than forty years?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, if your guess is right, that is a puzzle. You said there’s no other way into the chapel?’

‘No. We’ve gone over every inch of the damned place several times. It’s quite small and austere, so another entry would be easy to find.’

Ferguson said nothing for a moment. ‘But you didn’t come all the way here to tell me just that, I take it?’

‘No, you’re right, Roger.’ Kingston got up, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and commenced pacing the small room, chin up, as if addressing an invisible jury. ‘There are two things, both related to something that I read in one of the books you lent me. There’s a section dealing with the Reformation stating that with the dissolution of the monasteries, Wickersham, like all the monastic buildings in England, was destroyed. It didn’t state if the land was sold or became the property of the Crown.’

‘That’s correct,’said Ferguson. ‘The priory church here in Taunton was destroyed around the same time.’

‘What got me thinking was a paragraph concerning the upheaval, that the churches had to scramble to protect and hide their monies and priceless treasures.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And none have ever been found.’

Ferguson laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And I doubt ever will.’

Kingston had stopped pacing and stood facing Ferguson, his back to the window. ‘Bear with me, please, Roger. There’s a reference in the same book stating that the house at Wickersham was built in 1758. Further, it states that the house was built in the vicinity of the old monastery. Jamie’s book says much the same thing, that Wickersham was built on the grounds of an old priory.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Isn’t it possible, even remotely, that part of the old priory was built underground and still exists? I know priests’ holes are not uncommon. Weren’t they devised for the same reason? To conceal things?’

‘Priests, mostly.’ He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. ‘I see what you’re getting at, though. The chapel could stand on the site of the old priory.’

Kingston returned to the chair, placing his hands squarely on the back, looking at Ferguson. ‘And about the only way of proving that, short of knocking the damned place down and excavating, would be if there were some records—drawings, maps, sketches—of the old priory which we could compare with a present-day plan of Wickersham.’ He sat down again. ‘Think you can offer any help?’

Ferguson swivelled his chair so that he was side-on to Kingston and looked up at the ceiling as he spoke. ‘The monastery at Wickersham has always been a bit of a mystery. For as long as I’ve been here—which is too long, I might add—the exact location has been subject to considerable debate. Indeed, there’s very little left of the monastery here in Taunton but there’s no question of its location and its size. It was an Augustinian priory founded in the reign of Henry I by the Bishop of Winchester.’ He frowned. ‘William Giffard, I believe his name was. That’s why we have the street names, Priory Avenue and Priory Bridge.’

Kingston was impressed but not really surprised that Ferguson had instant recall of all this information. ‘So, do you think your chaps could do some digging and see if they can turn up any more information about the location of the priory at Wickersham?’

‘I doubt seriously that we’re going to be able to find out more than we know already. It’s a subject that’s been heavily researched over the years—by historians, archaeologists, theologians, architectural types, you name it—but I don’t see the harm in conducting further searches. One never knows. That’s what we’re here for, doctor.’

At the door they shook hands. ‘Don’t you forget now,’ said Ferguson. ‘I have to see that chapel and the well—very soon.’

Chapter Eight

Kingston had been less than forthcoming when he told Ferguson about the chapel being locked up. It was, indeed, locked but it was Kingston who had the key, a very large iron key, which hung on a carved wooden rack in the hall of his cottage.

It was the day after his meeting with Ferguson and were it not for the fact that the chapel and the monastery were very much on his mind, he might not have noticed, early that morning, that the key was missing. Throughout breakfast he kept wondering about it. He decided that before going up to the house to have his usual meeting with Jamie, he would stop at the chapel first.

Arriving at the oak door, he was surprised to see it was open. He went inside, careful not to make any sound. Directly across from him, on the other side of the wellhead, his back to Kingston, was a man in a plaid shirt, shining a flashlight on the wall, running his hand over the plaster.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Kingston barked.

The man spun round. It was Jack Harris.

‘Christ! You scared the shit out of me, Lawrence.’

‘What are doing here, Jack?’

Jack passed a tongue nervously over his lips. ‘Just trying to help,’ he mumbled.

‘How?’

‘Well—you know—trying to find out how those coins got in here. Seeing if there’s another way in.You got me curious, that’s all.’

‘How did you get in here? It’s supposed to be locked.’

Jack’s eyes flickered slightly. ‘It was open, I swear.’

Kingston was about to mention the missing key but decided that it would be tantamount to an accusation. ‘Who else knows about this place?’ he asked.

‘You mean other than the crew who were here when we discovered it?’

‘Yes, who else?’

‘Well—nobody, as far as I know.’

The two of them walked out of the chapel, Kingston up to the house, Jack to the vegetable garden, where most of the crew was presently working.

The door to Jamie’s office was open. Kingston peeked in and saw her at the computer. He gave a gentle tap on the door. ‘Ready when you are, boss,’he said.

Jamie swivelled on her chair. ‘Come in, Lawrence, I’m just about done here.’

He waited while she typed in a couple more entries of whatever it was she was working on. It looked like a table of some kind.

‘Okay, done,’ she said, turning the computer off. ‘Let’s go see how the vegetable garden’s coming along.’

Outside, the sun had just come out and it had the makings of a beautiful day.

‘Just ran into Jack, up at the chapel,’ Kingston said, as they walked across the top lawn.

‘Really? What was he doing there? I thought the place was locked up.’

‘It was but the key’s missing from the rack in the cottage. Jack swore he knew nothing about it. Said that the door was open.’

‘Hmm.’

Kingston went on to tell her about their conversation, that he thought Jack was lying through his teeth.

‘I didn’t think it worth mentioning, Lawrence, but over the last couple of weeks or so, it seems like Jack has gone out of his way to be nice to me. When he was first hired, I got the distinct impression that he was trying to avoid me. I recall I told you at the time that he was a bit too macho for my liking. I put it down to resentment, the fact that a woman could have inherited such a large estate—even more so, an American woman.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Well, of late, he’s done a complete flip-flop. He couldn’t be nicer. Often, he’ll stop by the office to chat at the end of the day.’

‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that. He’s doing a good job, I must say.’

‘At one of those friendly little chats, he asked me if I could loan him some money. I should have told you, I suppose, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.’

‘Really? When was this?’

‘Three or four days ago. Said he’d got behind on his credit cards and some other debts. For a guy who’s usually so sure of himself, he was very nervous.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I was actually considering it until I asked how much he had in mind. When he told me two thousand pounds, I was shocked. I thought he was talking about fifty or a hundred pounds—that sort of thing.’

‘That’s serious money. I don’t like the sound of it at all. In any case, he should have come to me first.’

‘I think you’d better sit down and talk with him, Lawrence. Find out what’s going on.’

‘I will, Jamie. First thing tomorrow.’

The high brick wall of the vegetable garden came into view ‘There’s something I don’t like about that man,’ she said.

‘He may be hard to replace but if that’s what we have to do, we will.’

When Kingston got back to the cottage at seven o’clock that night, the letter was on the hall table. Post forwarded to him was usually held at the house. But now and then China or Eric would drop off letters—almost always bills. The front door was only locked at night.

He opened the envelope, noting the Army Personnel Centre address, and read the contents. As he did so, a smile spread across his face. Not only did it contain more information about Major Ryder, but it listed the names of eight men who had served with Ryder during the war—all of whom were believed still living. This was what he had been hoping for.

Kingston read the letter again. Ryder’s war ended on 14 July 1944 when, as a lieutenant, he was wounded in action in the Dutch town of Kleinelangstraat. After his unit was captured, he was taken to a German field hospital where he was patched up and then shipped off to an
Oflag
, a POW camp for officers. His condition worsened to a point that, to save his life, he was transferred to a hospital in Paris. After two operations and a lengthy period of rehabilitation, he was released. Awarded a Military Cross for bravery he was promoted to the rank of captain. By this time Paris had fallen to the Allied armies. Records from then on were nonexistent but the letter went on to state that, after the war, Ryder spent some time in Paris before returning to England where he eventually retired from service. Immediately, Kingston thought back to the French dealer, Girard. This tallied with what the man Fox had told Jamie: that Girard and Ryder were in business together after the war in Paris. It would explain why Ryder didn’t return to England right away after his rehabilitation.

Kingston scanned down the list of the veterans’ names on the second sheet. He would start calling in the morning. He put the letter back in its envelope, turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed. This was information that Jamie was entitled to know about. Besides, it supported his theory about the missing paintings. Before long he would have to tell her what he was up to. She was leaving early the next morning but he would tell her when he felt the time was right. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep.

A crack of thunder woke him with a start from his dream. For a few seconds, the room was harshly lit by a strobe of lightning. In the dream he had been alone in the dimly lit living room at Wickersham. The room was as he remembered it, save for the pictures. Every surface of every table, the mantelpiece, the grand piano, even the window seats were stacked with framed photographs of varying shapes and sizes. All the head and shoulder sepia tone photos were identical—each of the same man, stern-faced, and with humourless dark eyes that followed Kingston around the room. The man in the photo was wearing an army uniform with major’s pips on each epaulette. Then Kingston heard Jamie’s desperate voice calling his name.

He sat up in bed sweating, a hand on the bed rail. He could hear his heart beating. He glanced at the chartreuse-lit numerals on the alarm clock: 3:20. Then another crash of thunder, this time farther off. Now the rain was slapping against the open window, the curtain whipping like a flag. He slipped out of bed and went to the window. Reaching to close it, the rain soaking his forearm, he peered outside. It was too dark to see much at all. All he heard was the sheeting rain and the wind. He was about to return to bed when a far-off flash of lightning illuminated the sky. In seconds it was dark again. But in that brief moment Kingston was certain he saw a shadowy figure retreating into the jungle, opposite. ‘That’s strange,’ he whispered. The person’s head was covered with a hood, like a monk’s cowl.

Chapter Nine

Early the following morning Kingston examined the area outside his bedroom window at the edge of the jungle, the place where he thought he’d seen the prowler. At first, he found nothing to indicate that anyone had been there. He looked up at his window, trying to recall his angle of view last night. He started walking slowly along the edge of the jungle, eyes to the ground. A few more steps and he stopped. In front of him the grass was flattened in places. A few feet farther on he saw a muddy scuffmark that could possibly have been made by the back of a heel. This was most certainly the spot where the man had made his exit.

Arriving at the vegetable garden a few minutes later, he inquired after Jack. It soon became clear after questioning the half-dozen gardeners and labourers at the site that Jack hadn’t shown up yet. Kingston thought nothing more of it, concluding that he was probably sick. He could have his chat with Jack later.

Jamie was gone for the day. She’d left early for a dental appointment, after which she was having lunch with David Latimer and in the afternoon doing errands in Taunton, so telling her about the mysterious prowler would have to wait until tonight. It was her birthday and he was taking her out to dinner at the White Swan. At first, he had debated whether he should tell her at all. Why give her cause to worry unduly about an incident that may well be unfounded or ultimately explained? But he had decided that telling her was the right thing to do. She would want know about it.