EG02 - The Lost Gardens (13 page)

‘Is
he
in for a surprise.’

For several moments they ate in companionable silence.

‘I forgot to ask you,’ said Jamie, giving him a questioning look. ‘Did you get to talk with Jack yet?’

Kingston shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. He didn’t show up for work this morning.’

‘No phone call?’

‘No. I tried calling him a couple of times but either he’s not answering the phone or he’s not home. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, I’ll go over and find out what’s going on.’

Jamie talked a little more about growing up in San Francisco and her time at U.C. Davis where she was on the tennis and soccer teams. But her next question was transparently shaped to steer the conversation in a new direction. She looked up from her plate and said, ‘Do you have any children, Lawrence?’

Kingston welcomed the question, always eager to talk about his daughter. ‘Yes, a daughter, Julie. She lives in Seattle, works for Bill Gates—Microsoft. I’ve no idea exactly what it is she does but he pays her a small fortune, so I know it’s important,’ he said, with a quick smile.

‘Do you get to see her at all?’

‘Nowhere near enough but I’ve been over three times and she’s been back here once. I’m eternally grateful for e-mail. We talk on the phone every once in a while, of course.’

Over dessert and coffee, Kingston did most of the talking. He spoke at length about his life in London, how he passed his time, and talked openly about his past. Jamie listened with keen interest as he described his work at the University of Edinburgh, where he had held the lofty position of Professor of the Institute of Cell Molecular Biology, and his eventual and reluctant retirement. He also told Jamie about his wife Megan, who had been killed in a boating accident on a lake in Switzerland, and the bleak and lonely years that followed, adjusting to and accepting life as a bachelor. He had lived in his Chelsea flat since he retired, quietly for the most part and on the whole, happily.

After a long wait—the waiter had already apologized twice—the bill arrived. Kingston put on his glasses and gave it a cursory glance, reaching in his wallet for his credit card. Jamie averted her eyes, drinking what little was left of her coffee.

‘I meant to ask you,’ she said. ‘Did you have any problems in that storm last night? No leaks, or anything? We hardly ever get storms like that back home. I don’t mind admitting, that first crash of thunder scared the hell out of me.’

He was grateful for the opening. Now telling her about the prowler might not make him come across as alarmist. At least, he could ease into it.

‘No, everything was fine,’ he answered, looking up. ‘The curtains got soaked because, foolishly, I left a window open. But otherwise, fine.’ He was about to bring up the incident but before he could get out a word she interrupted.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to butt in,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wondered about thatched roofs. They seem awfully primitive. ’

‘Primitive, maybe, but damned good. A good thatch will last at least fifty to sixty years, maybe longer.’

‘Really?’

Kingston decided to give it a second go. ‘There was something else that happened last night. I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.’

Jamie frowned. ‘Worry me?’

‘Well, not so much worry you, but have you think I might be making too much of what was probably a trifling matter.’

‘What
are
you talking about, Lawrence? A trifling matter? ’

‘Well, when I got up to close the window, I saw somebody outside. I just caught a glimpse of him.’

‘Him?’

‘Well, I couldn’t be certain. It was really dark. And the far-off flash of lightning lasted only a matter of seconds.’

‘Who do you think it was?’

‘I’ve no idea. I asked China but he said he slept through it, if you can imagine.’ He hesitated. ‘Whoever it was, was dressed like a monk.’

‘Are you serious? A monk?’

‘I’m sure I wasn’t mistaken.’

‘It was probably one of those hooded sweaters. A lot of young men wear them these days.’

‘It could have been. But the important question is who would be snooping around in pouring rain in the early hours of the morning and why?’

Looking perplexed, Jamie pondered the question. ‘I don’t like the sound of it. I’ve always felt perfectly safe alone in the house, particularly since you’ve been here, but the idea of a prowler is a bit scary. Don’t you think we should report it?’

‘It might not be a bad idea. I’ll give the police a call in the morning.’

They left the White Swan at nine fifteen.

Back at Wickersham, under a crescent moon and hurrying clouds, Kingston said goodnight to Jamie at the front door of the house and walked to his cottage. Inserting his key in the lock, he was surprised to find the door already open. An uneasy feeling came over him as he pushed the door ajar and paused before entering the darkened room. Something was not right. He reached for the light switch and turned it on. ‘Good God!’ he gasped. ‘What in hell’s name …’

The room was a shambles. Desk and bureau drawers had been pulled out, emptied, and thrown across the room. The wingback chair was on its side. His records, papers and books littered the floor.

He went across the room, picked up the phone and called Jamie, then called the police. In less than two minutes she was there. After surveying the mess and speculating on who could have done it, Jamie accepted Kingston’s offer of a nightcap and they sat amidst the shambles in the small living room; he with a Macallan and she with a glass of dry sherry—the only other drink he had to offer without opening a bottle of wine.

‘I don’t think the police are going to learn much tomorrow, ’ said Kingston.

‘You’ve no idea what they could have been looking for?’

Kingston shook his head. ‘I don’t, Jamie. Question is—why didn’t they take my camera or the sound system—or that little carriage clock up there,’ he said nodding to the mantel, ‘the things that are easily sold? They were all in full view. This obviously wasn’t your common or garden break-in.’

‘You think this has something to do with the paintings, don’t you?’

Kingston didn’t answer right away. ‘I don’t think we can rule it out altogether, Jamie. You have to admit the possibility. ’

They talked for another half-hour. At eleven fifteen Kingston walked Jamie back to the house, making sure that she was safely inside before returning to the cottage. He stayed up another ten minutes, pondering the break-in, before turning in.

By ten the next morning Kingston had made a rough inventory. Most important among the missing items were the two Wickersham history books and one of the garden record books loaned by Ferguson. Also stolen were several folders containing plans, maps and other documents relating to the house and the estate. More perplexing, one item was replaced. The key to the chapel was back in its rightful place on the hall rack.

Chapter Ten

Responding to Kingston’s phone call reporting the theft, Sergeant Eldridge and a policewoman showed up the following morning and questioned him about the incident. With scant information, other than a description of the prowler, which Kingston reported to Eldridge, and no suspects that Kingston could think of, the interview was brief.

By the time Kingston arrived in the village of Little Charrington, the earlier showers had given way to cool and blustery weather. At the post office, a cubicle not much roomier than a phone box wedged in a far corner of the newsagent’s, he got directions to Briary Avenue, where Jack Harris lived.

There were only a dozen or so houses on the short street, so finding number 12, the house that Jack rented, was easy. In any case, ahead on his right, he could already see Jack’s red Toyota pickup parked alongside the kerb. A good sign, it signalled that his journey hadn’t been a waste of time. Pulling up behind the pickup, he turned off the engine and was unbuckling his seatbelt when the front door to number 12 opened. A stocky man wearing a leather jacket emerged, closing the door behind him. Kingston watched as the man walked the short path to the open garden gate and then to his car, a silver BMW. By the time Kingston had stepped from his car, the BMW had disappeared round the corner.

Kingston rang the doorbell and waited. Right after a second ring, the door cracked open not more than six inches. Kingston could see part of Jack’s face and a dark bruise on his cheekbone. ‘Are you all right, Jack?’ Kingston asked. ‘We’re all worried about you.’

‘I’m fine,’ Jack replied. ‘Just been laid up for a couple of days, that’s all.’

‘Are you sick? What happened?’

‘Fell off the bloody bike.’ Jack blinked and looked away, only for a second or so, but enough to tell Kingston that he was almost certainly lying. Even if he weren’t, something wasn’t quite right or Jack would have asked him in.

‘Is there anything I can do? Have you seen a doctor?’

‘No, I’m fine, really. I’ll be back to work in a couple of days if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I’m worried about
you
, Jack, not the work. That bruise looks pretty nasty.’

‘Look, Lawrence, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I was pretty shaken up.’ He licked his lips. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He started to ease the door closed. ‘Like I said, I’ll be back on Monday.’

Kingston was left no choice, he could hardly barge his way in. Even if he did, what could he expect to find? ‘All right, Jack. You take care—and do me a favour. Save me the trouble of driving all the way up here and answer your damned phone from now on, will you?’ For a split second he glanced past Jack into the shadows of the hallway and noticed a coat rack. The top garment was a grey sweatshirt. It had a hood.

‘Yeah, okay. I will.’ With that, Jack slowly closed the door and the latch clicked shut.

True to his word, Jack showed up for work on Monday morning at eight thirty. There was no hiding the bruises, which were worse than Kingston expected. Right off, the men started ragging him. ‘Run into Mike Tyson, did yer?’ ‘What does the other guy look like?’ But Jack stuck to his story about falling off his bike. It seemed a credible explanation.

At the end of the afternoon, just before Jack was leaving, Kingston asked him if he could have a word. They sat down together in the workshop, each with a beer from the small refrigerator Jamie had insisted on installing.

Kingston took a draught of beer, wiping the foam from his lip. ‘So, what’s going on, Jack?’ he asked.

Jack, who was drinking from the bottle, took his time answering. ‘It was just like I told you. Dumb as it may sound, I took a header off the bike.’

‘I don’t mean that. What I’m talking about is your being up at the chapel and asking Jamie Gibson if she could loan you money.’

Jack’s eyes darted around the room for a couple of seconds. ‘Yep, I did ask her. Soon as I’d done it, I knew it might have been a mistake.’ He paused, his eyes finally meeting Kingston’s. ‘I assumed she had more money than she knew what to do with. Why not?’

‘Why did you need the money?’

‘It was like I told her. I’ve been getting behind in my card payments—you know, the penalties and the interest an’ all—things were starting to add up. They were going to pull my card.’

‘I see.’ Kingston took another sip of the Bass ale. ‘Tell me, what did you expect to find at the chapel?’

‘To find?’

‘Yes. What were you looking for?’

‘I told you, didn’t I?’

‘You told me you were just trying to help, to see if there was another way into the chapel. Wouldn’t the logical thing have been to ask me first?’

Jack looked uneasy. When he picked up his beer bottle, Kingston noticed the slightest tremble in his hand. ‘I suppose so,’ he replied.

‘Perhaps you were looking for yourself?’

Jack shook his head.

‘Or someone else, perhaps?’

He continued to shake his head. ‘No, it was mostly curiosity on my part. That’s all.’

Five days had passed since the ransacking of the cottage. Kingston had called Ferguson and informed him of the theft of the three books. Ferguson was not too happy with the news but soon became resigned to the fact that nothing further could be done about it and that was the last he might see of them.

At eight o’clock on Tuesday morning Kingston sat at the long pine table in the kitchen of the big house reading the paper. Today, he was going up to London on the train. First stop on his list was an overdue visit to check up on his flat. After that he was to meet his accountant. Time permitting, he would try to squeeze in a haircut. Not so much a cut as a trim. He preferred to keep it a little on the shaggy side. Then, at three forty-five, he was going to meet one of the veterans on the list, a former lance corporal, Arthur Loftus, who was under Ryder’s command during the war.

Soon into their phone conversation three days earlier, it became apparent that Loftus not only had lots to talk about, but also found solace in doing so. When Kingston asked if he could pay him a visit Loftus was quick to agree. ‘Could do with a bit of company,’he said.

Kingston was waiting for Jamie, who had offered to drive him to the station in Taunton. When she came down, he would tell her everything. About his first contact with Lieutenant Colonel Jarvis in Taunton, the letter from the Personnel Centre, the phone calls and the appointment he had made to meet Loftus, who lived in Kingsbury.

Jamie entered the kitchen, humming and looking well rested. ‘Want some coffee and toast before we leave? Plenty of time,’ she said, glancing up at the wall clock.

‘Lovely,’ Kingston replied, lowering the paper.

She went to the counter, opened the cupboard door and reached up for the coffee tin.

‘You’re chipper this morning,’he said.

She looked over her shoulder, still humming. ‘Glad to see the back of you for a few hours.’

‘Now, come on.’ He smiled. ‘You haven’t seen me since yesterday morning.’

In a few minutes, coffee was poured and the toast was on the table. Kingston took a slice, spread marmalade on it and cut it in two. He looked across at her. He hoped his gaze wasn’t too searching. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Jamie,’ he said.