EG02 - The Lost Gardens (8 page)

‘It’s not uncommon for the testator to request sealed letters of a personal nature be given to one or more beneficiaries in a bequest. It could well have been a letter from Ryder explaining the reasons for his decision. Maybe he felt Mainwaring was owed that courtesy.’

‘Mainwaring didn’t open it in front of you, then?’

‘No, not that I necessarily expected him to. It was irrelevant, none of my business.’

‘He just left after that?’

‘For God’s sake, Lawrence, why on earth does all this matter, now?’

Kingston shrugged. ‘You’re right. It’s water under the bridge. Too many questions can become annoying.’

Latimer smiled. ‘So can clichés.’

The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten. Latimer continued, ‘Anyway, to answer your question, Mainwaring did leave but not before informing me that he was going to contest the will and that he would be back.’

‘And did he?’

‘No. I never expected him to, really. Never heard from him again.’

‘Did he leave the area, do you know?’

‘Come on, Lawrence, how the hell would I know that?’ Jamie and Bella came back into the room. Bella gushing about how ‘darling’ the house was. There was no more talk about Mainwaring.

The party broke up shortly after eleven. After accompanying Jamie to see David Latimer and a rather loud and legless Arabella off at the front door, Kingston walked the short distance to his cottage. Listening to Bella babbling on for the last hour, plus the wine and a stiff after-dinner cognac, had given him a mild headache. Sleep would be a welcome and merciful end to the day.

He locked the front door, turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed. He was asleep in a matter of minutes.

Kingston had just put three pound coins in the pay and display machine at the Coal Orchard car park in Taunton when his mobile rang. He took the ticket and fumbled for the phone buried in the pocket of his Barbour jacket along with loose change, miscellaneous receipts and half a roll of Polo mints. Odds were it would be Jamie because hardly anybody else knew the number. Were it not for her insistence, he wouldn’t have had the phone in the first place. He hated the damned things, particularly in the hands of drivers. He would have been just as happy with a walkie-talkie for the estate.

It
was
Jamie. She was calling to ask Kingston to pick up a book that had just come in at the library. She had also heard from Inspector Chadwick.

‘He said the bones are those of a male; approximately sixty years of age; height, five eleven.’ Jamie paused. ‘We don’t seem to have a very good connection, Lawrence.’

‘I can hear you fine,’ said Kingston, walking back towards his car. ‘Did Chadwick have any idea how long the bones had been down there?’

‘A long time, was all he said.’

‘I guessed as much. Anything else?’

‘Not really. He described the condition of individual bones but it was way over my head. You know—medical jargon. Words like sutures and ossification. He said you could call him if you like.’

‘That’s it, then?’

‘I guess so. We’ll probably never know who the poor man was.’

‘Or did ’e fall or was ’e pushed.’

‘Chadwick said that if anything else turned up—and that was unlikely—he’d let us know.’

‘Case closed then.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Okay, I should be back about fiveish.’ He said goodbye and switched off the phone. Putting it back in his pocket, he opened the driver’s side door and placed the ticket on the inside of the windscreen. He checked his watch. Five hours should be more than enough time for what he had to do, including his lunch with Malcolm Bailey, a reporter for the
Somerset Herald
.

He hadn’t told Jamie, but in addition to the lunch and a couple of small errands he was making one other stop that afternoon: the Somerset Light Infantry Office on Mount Street. He was hoping to find out more about the reclusive Major Ryder.

In due course he knew he would have to tell Jamie what he was up to, particularly if anything of interest turned up; anything that might shed light on a connection between Ryder and Jamie. But for now, surely a little innocent inquiry couldn’t hurt.

Kingston’s pub lunch with Malcolm Bailey went on longer than anticipated. He was a jovial man with a lusty appetite and, as it turned out, a hollow leg when it came to Golden Eagle bitter.

The newspaper was planning a special series on the restoration at Wickersham, to be published starting the week of the opening. Bailey, along with the paper’s gardening columnist and staff photographer, had been gathering material and taking photos since the start. A number of the gardening magazines,
Gardens Illustrated
and
The English Garden
among them, had also lined up interviews and photo sessions. Jamie had already been the subject of at least a dozen interviews.

By odd coincidence, Malcolm had been working at the
Wiltshire Gazette and Herald
when the story about the blue rose broke. He was the lead reporter on the case and had interviewed Alex and Kate Sheppard. The two men had much to talk about and it was not surprising that their lunch lasted over three hours.

After parting company outside the Masons Arms, Kingston walked to Mount Street to see what more, if anything, he could find out about Major Ryder.

His meeting with an affable Lieutenant Colonel Jarvis was brief and disappointing. Kingston learned very little. Their records confirmed that Ryder, at the time a lieutenant, was with the 4th Battalion Somerset Light Infantry. His regiment had landed in Normandy two weeks after D-day. Three months later, in Holland, his company had been separated from the battalion and had eventually been captured by the Germans but not without putting up a courageous fight. Ryder was subsequently awarded a Military Cross. That was it.

From there, Kingston walked to a bookshop in East Street where, after browsing for fifteen minutes, he bought a new thriller and an Amy Tan book, as a surprise for Jamie. A quick trip to the library and he was on his way back to Wickersham.

At three fifteen that afternoon a silver BMW pulled up to the front door at Wickersham. The man who got out of the car was average height with a compact build. Balding on top, the remainder of his grey-speckled hair was shaven, military style. He wore dark aviator glasses, a leather bomber jacket and tan trousers with a mobile phone hooked on to his belt. In several athletic strides, he reached the door and rang the bell. A wait of less than a minute and Jamie opened the door.

‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, smiling. ‘Are you Jamie Gibson?’ There was a gravelly sound to his voice, as if he were getting over a cold. Despite the fashionable five o’-clock shadow, the man looked pleasant enough.

‘Yes,’ Jamie replied, a little uncertain of what to expect.

‘Forgive me for arriving unannounced. I should have called you to let you know I was coming. I’m Julian Fox. We talked on the phone about two weeks ago.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Jamie. ‘I apologize. Now I remember. ’

‘Here,’ he said, handing her a card that he had extracted from the wallet in his hip pocket.

She did remember the phone call but not too well. The man had said something about wanting to ask her about some paintings that Major Ryder had owned jointly with an art dealer in France. She recalled agreeing to see him. She had meant to tell Latimer about the call when he was over for dinner but what with work on the gardens and all the excitement about the skeleton, it had completely slipped her mind.

‘Come on in,’ she said, letting him pass, then closing the door behind her. She showed him across the entrance hall into the living room, gesturing to the sofa. ‘Please, sit down. May I offer you some coffee?’ she asked.

‘That would be nice,’he nodded.

Jamie left the room to find Dot and within less than a minute, returned. She sat down opposite him, hands in her lap. ‘What’s this all about, then?’

Fox leaned forward slightly, ‘I’m here on behalf of a client of mine, a Monsieur Girard.’

‘Are you a lawyer?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘No—no, I’m not.’ Without further explanation as to the relationship with his client, he went on. ‘Through a mutual acquaintance we recently learned that Major Ryder had passed away. Soon after, we discovered that you had inherited his estate.’ He paused briefly, rubbing his hands together. ‘You see, many years back, Girard was in business with Major Ryder.’

As he spoke, she was conscious of looking at his eyes more than one would in an ordinary conversation. They were unnaturally blue, with rather a disconcerting frankness to them.

‘They were partners in an art gallery,’ he said.

‘An art gallery?’

‘Yes, in Paris.’ He paused. ‘You were not aware, then?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’ She had to take her eyes off his for a moment. Picking up his card, she studied it as she spoke. ‘In fact, I know very little about Major Ryder. Tell me more.’

The card was very plain. Just his name, a London address and phone number. No title or company name.

Fox leaned back in the sofa and crossed his legs. ‘After World War II, Ryder and Girard went into business together. I’m sure you’re aware that Ryder was an army officer.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, Girard had a small gallery at the time and scratched out a living but couldn’t afford to buy paintings of any importance, nothing of quality. Then Ryder came on the scene. It was evident from the start that he knew a lot about art—he said he was a collector himself. Within a short time, Ryder invested a substantial amount of money in the business, allowing them to move to a larger and better location and start purchasing and selling paintings of much better provenance, higher value.’

‘That must have taken a large amount of money, surely?’

‘Yes and no. You have to realize that this was nearly sixty years ago and there were lots of paintings and other works of art coming back on the market after the German occupation. But, yes, you’re right. I understand that Ryder’s investment was sizeable. But then again, according to Girard, he always seemed to have money when it was needed.’

Jamie was wondering what had happened to the coffee when Dot entered carrying a tray. Lowering it slowly to the coffee table, she was about to pour the coffee when Jamie told her not to worry, that she would take care of it. Dot left the room.

Jamie filled the cups and waited while Fox stirred three teaspoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asked.

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

‘There are three paintings that belong to Monsieur Girard that Major Ryder was storing for the gallery. According to Girard, they were being held here on the estate for safekeeping. Now, with Major Ryder’s passing, we would like to have those paintings returned.’

‘What kind of paintings are you talking about?’

‘They’re oil paintings and the artists are French.’

‘Are these old paintings you’re talking about? Like those up there?’ She pointed to the two eighteenth-century pictures on the facing wall.

He turned to look at the paintings. ‘No, not as old as those.’

‘If this man has retained your services to locate his paintings, it suggests that they must be valuable. What are they worth?’

‘No specific price has been mentioned. But yes, in answer to your question, they are of considerable value.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you may have come on a wild goose chase. The only paintings here,’ she gestured with a hand, ‘are the ones that you’re looking at.’

He smiled thinly. ‘I’m afraid they are not the paintings in question, Miss Gibson.’ He got up and walked over to examine one of the gilt-framed oil portraits.

‘Well, I don’t know what more to tell you,’ said Jamie, raising her voice slightly. ‘I can assure you that there are no other paintings in the house. Everything was carefully inventoried after Ryder’s death and I would certainly have been made aware of any paintings like those you’ve described. I can’t believe for one moment that anyone, least of all the lawyers, would have made a mistake or concealed the fact.’

He returned and stood by the edge of the sofa. By his expression, she could tell that he was not at all satisfied with her answer. He said nothing, just stood staring at her with those confounded eyes.

Jamie was standing now. As far as she was concerned, the interview was over, coffee finished or not. She took two steps towards the door. ‘Anyway, Mr Fox, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’ She paused for moment. ‘I only wish they
were
here.’

Jamie was fully expecting the man to thank her and politely leave but he didn’t. For an awkward moment they faced each other across the room.

Then he spoke. ‘Look, Miss Gibson,’ he said, ‘I should have told you this earlier. Monsieur Girard does not have much longer to live, a few months at the most. He is a sick old man and I have promised him that I will do everything I can to find the paintings. They mean a lot to him and he wants to pass them on to his son. He told me he was a fool for not having settled the matter with Ryder long ago but, for whatever reason, he didn’t. Now he simply wants what is rightfully his.You must agree that is not too much to ask.’

Jamie shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Much as I want to believe you, we know the paintings are here and not anywhere else. If you have any knowledge of them, please tell me now, it’ll save a lot of trouble for both of us.’

Jamie pursed her lips. How many times did she have to tell him? ‘Look, I don’t know what more I can say. I’ve told you they’re not
here
. In any case, had it occurred to you that Ryder might have sold the paintings without Girard’s knowledge?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘There were safeguards against that ever happening.’

‘Like what?’

‘Never mind, it’s not relevant. But take my word for it, Ryder could not sell the paintings without our knowing.’

‘Well, what more can I say, Mr Fox? If you’d like to talk to my lawyer, I’d be happy to give you his number.’

He shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary,’he said, offering his hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’