Garden of Secrets Past

TWELVE


Shortly before noon the following day, Kingston arrived back at his flat, impatient to see what was on Winston’s tag. It was a long shot, he knew, but if Tristan was as much a geek as Amanda believed he was—given the scratches on the plastic casing suggesting that it had been opened a number of times—there was an outside chance that he’d used the tag to store additional information, if that were feasible. After all, once the dog’s data were entered, there would seem little need to open it frequently.

Kingston inserted the Pet Tag’s USB connector into one of the ports on his Mac. In seconds a message appeared on the screen. Atop a page of computer hieroglyphics, punctuated with the word Microsoft, were the words THIS PROGRAM CANNOT BE RUN ON DOS. He had no idea what it meant in technical terms but figured that the Pet Tag inventors had decided arbitrarily either to market it to Windows users only, or had conducted a focus-group study, concluding that dog-loving Mac owners were not worthy of such innovative technology. There was a simple answer, though: Andrew. As former owner of an IT company, he’d be able to sort it out. Kingston picked up the phone.

Andrew, being Andrew, seized on Kingston’s request as another opportunity to have lunch. This suited Kingston because it was as good a time as any for him to tell Andrew everything that had happened during his time in Stafford. Andrew’s response had been as expected: exasperation followed by resignation. Three hours later, the two arrived back at Kingston’s flat where Andrew opened his laptop and inserted the Pet Tag.

“Well, we know it works,” said Andrew. A window had appeared on the screen showing a columnar template with Winston’s name and contact information. Scrolling down revealed more spaces showing his medical records, food and dietary requirements, vet and grooming information, and more.

“Let’s see what else is on here,” he said, fingers jiggling on the touch pad.

Seconds later, the screen was filled with dog photos.

“Good grief,” said Kingston, “it’s even got Winston’s holiday pictures, by the looks of it.”

For a few moments they continued to view the on-screen information in silence.

Kingston wanted to move on, to find out what else the tag contained, but he bit his tongue and watched Andrew tinker with the program and mutter to himself, technical jargon mostly. After a minute of this, Andrew glanced at Kingston. “It looks as though you may be partly right,” he said, going back to the touch pad. “I think it’s possible to add text copy into the program.” A few wordless seconds passed. “Even better,” said Andrew. “Not only that, it can be done so that it’s hidden. Unless you know where to look for it, it can’t be seen by anyone nosing around your pet’s bio. Clever.”

“Is there anything hidden on this one?” Kingston asked, his hopes building.

“Let’s see.”

Kingston sat on pins and needles while Andrew tapped away at the keyboard with impressive speed and dexterity.

He stopped suddenly and rolled his chair back. “Voilà!” he said with a grin.

Kingston moved closer to the screen. His heart skipped a beat. He was looking at a page of single-spaced text. Even at a glance he could tell that it was what he’d been hoping for: details of Veitch’s research. Andrew scrolled down through page after page of typed and scanned handwritten notes.

“This page deals with the construction of the monuments,” Kingston said.

Andrew scrolled some more.

“Correspondence between the admiral and his brother, by the looks of it.”

Andrew kept scrolling.

“Stop there,” said Kingston. “This is a letter from the architect, Seward, stating how many men he plans to hire to build one of the monuments. Amazing.”

Andrew was grinning as he watched Kingston, whose eyes were glued to the screen. “I have to give you credit, your idea wasn’t as nutty as I thought,” he said.

“Sometimes you get lucky,” said Kingston, leaning back.

Andrew sighed. “If I’d been smart, I’d have let you believe that it stored only the dog’s ID. If nothing else, it might have given you pause to at least reconsider aborting this obsessive and risky hobby of yours.”

Kingston ignored both the unintentional pun and the admonishment, and thanked Andrew for his effort. After printing the entire thirty-plus pages of Veitch’s notes and copying them onto a CD, Andrew departed, but not before reminding Kingston once more of his commitment to attend Andrew’s Open Garden at Bourne End.

For the next three hours, Kingston immersed himself in reading, organizing, and trying to piece together a coherent picture of what perhaps had led Veitch to reach his startling conclusions. He was encouraged initially by the volume of information but soon discovered that it was merely an accumulation of disparate data, facts, and observations assembled from various sources. None of it was chronological or in any particular priority. It was as if it had been compiled over a lengthy period: a sporadic scribbling of thoughts, speculative ideas, place-names, biographical references, Web sites, anything and everything that Veitch thought relevant about the Morley family from its beginnings in the early eighteenth century.

Despite several handwritten references to the “cover-up” and the “money trail,” there was no hard evidence or documentation, however tenuous, to substantiate financial malfeasance of any kind. Neither was there any evidence of criminal intent by any Morley, save for a reference to the perpetual rumor alleging grand theft by Samuel Morley: that while his legendary admiral brother James was making history and amassing a huge fortune with his great sea victories of the Seven Years’ War, Samuel was secretly salting away, for his own purposes, a goodly share of the moneys contributed by James, funds intended exclusively for the expansion of Sturminster. One entry alluded to allegations that much of that money was unaccounted for and likely hidden somewhere on the estate by Samuel Morley. Conspicuously absent was mention of the coded message that Veitch had given a nod to, or anything whatsoever to suggest that he had started, was in the middle of, or had completed a book or full-length treatise on the supposed exposé. This led Kingston to believe that if Veitch had started to write the story, he must have considered it either insufficiently developed or too premature to warrant mention when the notes were compiled. It also struck Kingston as odd in another way: If Veitch had intended all along to use the exposé for profit, a book would be the logical way to go. Why hadn’t he mentioned it?

Nearing the end of the document, Kingston was becoming reconciled to the idea that it wouldn’t provide anything like the evidence he’d hoped for: nothing even close to the incriminating information to which Veitch had alluded with such conviction on his deathbed. For all Kingston knew, he might have stored these notes on the Pet Tag months or years ago. It might have been an experiment that he’d later abandoned because of insufficient information or hard evidence. The more he thought on it, anything was possible.

It wasn’t until page twenty-three that something incongruous caught his attention. It was at the end of a two-page section describing the succession of Morleys over the years. Scrawled in barely decipherable handwriting was a list of a dozen and a half names—first and last—some crossed out, including a few with the Morley surname. The list offered no clues as to the identity of the people, if they were living or dead, how they might be connected—if they were—or why Veitch had singled them out and chosen to include them in the first place. One name jumped out at him: Julian Heywood. Could it be the same Julian he’d met at Sturminster, with Simon Crawford? Kingston remembered Crawford saying that the young man was Francis Morley’s nephew, but that didn’t mean they shared the same surname. He leaned back and considered the implication. If they were one and the same, it didn’t necessarily mean that some of the names on the list couldn’t be from past generations. But what if all of them were alive and well today? That would certainly work in Kingston’s favor.

While it was hardly a game changer, at least it was something tangible to go on. It could also have bearing on his meeting with Lord Morley. On top of dropping the bombshell about Veitch’s allegations, he must now divulge this new information. While it was only a list of names, Veitch must have had good reason for noting them. Perhaps Morley might have some thoughts on the matter. How many of them would he be able to identify? Kingston wondered.

Following the family history pages and the list of names, Kingston was perplexed to find five pages devoted to biographical notes of several notable persons living when Samuel Morley was developing Sturminster. Highlighted were Sir Robert Walpole, described as Britain’s first prime minister; his son Horace Walpole, member of Parliament, playwright, and novelist; Thomas Gray, one of the most important poets of the eighteenth century; and a passing reference to the architect Matthew Seward. Kingston knew a little about the first three but not Seward, though the name sounded familiar. Then he remembered where he’d heard it. Crawford had said that it was Matthew Seward who had designed the monuments at Sturminster. Why Veitch had thought it significant to mention these men in his notes puzzled him. He read the first page about the life of Robert Walpole and, finding it dull, he decided to read the rest of the notes in the morning.

He put the pages aside and thought about his upcoming meeting with Lord Morley. According to Crawford, Morley was returning from his trip the day after tomorrow, so Kingston could expect a call soon. He poured himself a Macallan with a splash of water and reflected on Veitch’s words at the hospital. If everything he’d said was true, casting a net in the murky waters of the Morley family could bring interesting things to the surface, even if not fish of the predatory kind. Forearmed with this potentially explosive information, his meeting with Morley was going to assume an entirely different tone. It would be illuminating to see how he would respond to Veitch’s accusations, true or not. On top of that, it would be interesting to observe his reaction when presented with Veitch’s list of names and told that it was Kingston’s plan to interview if not all, most of those on the list who were still alive.

* * *

Kingston was up with the dawn chorus of birdsong on Thursday. Chelsea was obviously nothing like the English countryside in that respect, but Cadogan Square’s plentiful greenery offered refuge to a sizable population of songsters. In addition to the ubiquitous blackbirds and sparrows, he’d spotted a growing number of gabbling starlings, finches, linnets, and the occasional house martin. Somewhere he’d read that in recent years the number of birds in and around London had increased. That rare tidbit of environmental news had pleased him no end. As a scientist, he was all for saving the planet but was beginning to tire of the incessant drumbeat of climate change and end-of-the-world hysteria.

Having been gone, on and off, for the better part of a week, chores needed tending to and shopping had to be done. The refrigerator shelves had empty spaces that he hadn’t seen for weeks, he was out of milk and bread, and his hall-closet wine cellar was getting low on reds. Over breakfast he spent a half hour trying to finish the Times crossword, with middling success. Most of that time was spent on one clue that he finally realized was a devilishly concealed anagram. The clue was: He has no plans to purchase my pub and leisure complex. The jumbled (complex) twelve letters of my pub and leisure, when rearranged, provided the answer: impulse buyer.

Putting the puzzle aside, he took another look at the five pages of Veitch’s notes on influential eighteenth-century men to determine whether anything further could be read into them or figure out why Veitch had included them.

Rereading the section on Robert Walpole, it looked as if Veitch had copied it from a Web site—probably had, Kingston concluded. The last time he’d read anything related to that period in Britain’s history was when he was in gray-flannel shorts behind a desk with an inkwell and stained fingers. It did remind him, however, of one worthless tidbit that he’d learned about the man when in college: Walpole was partial to Bordeaux wines, in particular Lafite and Margaux, which he ordered direct from the chateaux in France in sixty-three-gallon casks known as hogsheads.

The passage started with Walpole’s early life and career when, in 1702, he entered politics. In the years to follow, he was appointed secretary of war and, later, treasurer of the Royal Navy. Kingston stopped, jotted down this last piece of information, and continued.

Soon thereafter, Walpole was convicted falsely of corruption and spent several months in the Tower of London. After his release, he served sequentially as paymaster, first lord of the treasury, and chancellor of the exchequer. Nearing the height of his power, he was called upon to salvage the financial wreckage resulting from the South Sea Bubble—the collapse of the stock market manipulation that eventually ruined many British investors.

Before continuing, Kingston reflected briefly on what he’d just read. Walpole had been mentioned more than once in Oxbridge-Bell’s tome, as had Matthew Seward—reminding him that while he’d been engrossed with the incidents of the past several days, he’d forgotten all about the book. He made a mental note to finish and return it when he met Morley. But why had Veitch included such textbook historical facts on Walpole? The only connection Kingston could make, a marginal one, was that he had served twice in governmental positions of power, including that of treasurer of the navy. Had he and Admiral James Morley been friends? From memory, Kingston recalled that Morley had started his naval career in 1715, or thereabouts, so it was possible chronologically. If not close friends, they would certainly have known each other. Also, as chancellor of the exchequer, Walpole would have controlled the purse strings and must have wielded considerable influence as to how the spoils of war were apportioned. Kingston tapped his pencil on the table and looked across the room. Then Veitch’s words came to mind: “Follow the money.” Was this why he’d researched Walpole? Kingston wondered.

He returned to the papers to learn what had piqued Veitch’s interest in the bio of Walpole’s son Horace. Here Kingston was on more familiar ground, having once read a lengthy article that described Horace Walpole’s checkered life as a dilettante and man of letters, and his brief career in politics. He read on, skipping parts that he felt were extraneous.

Horace was born in 1717. At ten, he entered Eton College, the six-centuries-old independent public seat of learning for boys, once referred to as “the most famous public school in the world.” From Eton he went on to King’s College, Cambridge. After university, he embarked on the grand tour of the Continent with his friend poet Thomas Gray, whom he had met at Eton. Immersing themselves in the social life, they traveled extensively throughout Europe. Like many peripatetic young men at the time, Walpole was smitten with the ancient culture and archaeological sites of Rome and the ruins in Greece. About this time, he also started to develop an interest in early Greek and Roman forms of secret writings and early cipher devices now known as cryptography, from the Greek kryptos, meaning hidden or secret. Kingston stopped reading and stared into middle space. At last a reference to cryptography—albeit flimsy—but what did it mean? Reminded again that Veitch could have compiled the notes a long while ago, all Kingston could extrapolate from the mention was the possibility that Veitch could have later obtained further evidence to circumstantiate that Horace Walpole had been brought in to decipher the code on the Arcadian monument and that it did, indeed, have something to do with the age-old legend of Sturminster and Endicott’s murder as well. After clearing his muddled mind for a moment, Kingston went back to reading.

Returning to London in 1741, Walpole embarked on a career in politics. When his father died four years later, he received a large inheritance that enabled him to purchase a fanciful castlelike villa on a forty-acre estate in Twickenham called Strawberry Hill. Here he began the monumental task of doubling its size and adding extensive gardens and landscaping. Walpole went about filling its rooms with an eclectic collection of furnishings, antiquities, and works of art, and building a special library to house his huge collection of books, historical prints, and poems and plays.

Kingston leaned back, shaking his head. Even though he was skimming Veitch’s notes, he was already tiring of historical facts on eighteenth-century politicos. Nevertheless, he read on, not wanting to risk missing something salient.

Suffering from gout, Walpole left England for France for a cure and stayed several years. During this time, he published his essay On Modern Gardening, about the origin and evolution of the Augustan style of garden design where classical ornament and allusion to early Roman landscapes were part of the theme. While in France, his perhaps closest friend, Thomas Gray, died. During Walpole’s lifetime his main literary efforts had been his correspondence with his friends, among them Gray, Sir Horace Mann, and Matthew Seward. Walpole died in 1797, at his house in London. His quotation, “The whole secret of life is to be interested in one thing profoundly and in a thousand things well,” was a fitting commentary for a man of so many talents.

Though encouraged by the nugget of information on Walpole’s knowledge of cryptography, Kingston had had enough of a history lesson and decided to take a break. He could do with a cup of tea. In the kitchen with the notes, waiting for the electric kettle to boil, he thought about what he’d read. What had been Veitch’s intent when he’d saved all this information? Where was he headed with it? Kingston had hoped—perhaps with undue optimism—to find a common link among Admiral Morley, the two Walpoles, and Thomas Gray. Save for the navy connection between the admiral and Sir Robert Walpole and the cryptography link to Horace Walpole, he had read nothing to support such a connection.

He eyeballed the next section devoted to the life of Thomas Gray—apparently another lift from the Internet. Despite its appearing all-inclusive, Kingston doubted he would learn anything he didn’t already know because he’d studied Gray in his own years at college and greatly admired his works, in particular his magnum opus Elegy. Kingston could still recite the opening verses. He decided to read on anyway. The tea ready, Kingston carried it into the living room and settled into his wingback and resumed reading.

Thomas Gray, born 1716 in London, was one of the eighteenth century’s most important poets. This, Kingston noted, made him older than Horace Walpole by a year. At age fourteen, Gray was sent to Eton at his mother’s expense. Eton gave him companionship with other boys, especially those who shared his interests in books and poetry. Here, he made several close friends, including Horace Walpole, Richard West, son of Ireland’s lord chancellor, and Matthew Seward.

After Eton, Gray entered Cambridge, where he studied for four years before leaving to study law at the Inner Temple in London. About that time he was invited to join his friend Horace Walpole on the grand tour. In 1739, they set out.

Much of what followed in the biography echoed Horace Walpole’s account of the tour, so Kingston skipped several paragraphs while finishing his tea. He picked up at the point, two years later, when Gray was back in England.

The spring and summer months of 1742 witnessed Gray’s first and most prolific period of creative activity. His poetic efforts were many, though some were incomplete. Soon he returned to his old college at Cambridge to study Greek literature and the history of ancient Greece, subjects he continued to study for five years.

The next two sentences piqued Kingston’s interest: “Gray’s friendship with Walpole was renewed three years later, and thereafter they corresponded frequently. Gray often visited Walpole at Strawberry Hill and Matthew Seward at his country house.”

While it was revealing to Kingston that all these lives intersected, it did not help in opening up new lines of inquiry or reading Veitch’s mind when he’d composed the notes. He continued reading, anyway.

Walpole admired Gray’s poetry and helped to get his works published. Gray’s first collection appeared in 1748. It included the lighthearted Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.

Kingston smiled, took another sip of tea, and read on.

Unknown to most, Gray had been working for several years on a lengthy meditative elegy to be titled Elegy, its inspiration drawn from a small church located in the hamlet of Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, where Gray had spent considerable time with his mother and aunt. Over time, the poem turned into a memento mori, a meditation and lament for the inevitable fate of all mortals.

Work on polishing the Elegy was slow, but it was finally finished and sent to Horace Walpole, who admired it greatly and arranged to have it published. Gray’s Elegy was an instant success. It remains to this day the most celebrated poem of its century.

After his mother’s death, Gray began taking summer tours visiting various picturesque districts of Great Britain. He focused on exploring great houses, ruined abbeys, and ancient monuments, places of interest and scenery of intrinsic beauty. In 1771, at age fifty-five, Gray died at Cambridge and was buried alongside his mother at the church in Stoke Poges.

Kingston glanced at the remaining pages. Only two paragraphs were devoted to Matthew Seward, the architect responsible for the Grecian monuments at Sturminster. Because of his devotion to Greek architecture and the years spent in Greece, he had earned the name Matthew “Athenian” Seward. One paragraph referred to some of the monuments’ design and construction features, another mentioned Seward’s fixation on accuracy in replicating Grecian architectural details, his complaints about the workmen, and his shabby treatment by Morley’s staff.

He came finally to the last three pages. The first page listed a sketchy bibliography and the following two, miscellaneous notes of no apparent interest. Kingston put them aside, deciding to look at them later. The line about ruined abbeys and ancient monuments had sparked his attention. Many hundreds of old monuments existed in private gardens, parks, and other public areas throughout England. He’d seen many in his travels, not the least those at Sturminster. He was trying to recall when they were built. He thought Simon Crawford had said that the last, the Arcadian monument, was built around 1750. If so, it would be reasonable to expect that Thomas Gray would likely have seen them, since he was still journeying through the English countryside until a year before his death. At that time, the monuments would have been approximately twenty years old. Their age would not have met Gray’s criteria in antiquity, but since he’d specialized in Greek literature and history at college, their anachronistic Greek Revival architecture would certainly have attracted his attention.

Kingston leaned back and stared at the ceiling molding, trying, one more time, to figure what had been in Veitch’s mind when he’d assembled the notes; going back over the profiles of the four men, each important in his own right; grasping at wispy historical straws to determine why Veitch had determined their relationships significant.

Placing Thomas Gray at Sturminster during the time of the Morley brothers was a good start. His friend Horace Walpole could have accompanied Gray on one or more visits. Walpole’s father was prime minister and had been treasurer of the navy, so it would be reasonable to conclude that he and Admiral James Morley would have known each other. Ergo, presumably each had visited or stayed at Sturminster during the important years of its development. Likely, too, they’d all gathered, at one time or another, at Horace Walpole’s house, and Seward’s too, no doubt. But what exactly did it all prove? He’d give it a rest and look at it again later. He checked his watch, surprised to see that it was almost twelve thirty. With half the day gone, he decided to give his overworked brain cells a rest and go about stocking the larder, do laundry, and take care of unpaid bills. He had to call Andrew, too, to discuss arrangements for the garden event at Bourne End.

Morley’s call came in the late afternoon. He was eager to know the nature of the “important” information Kingston had uncovered, but Kingston insisted that to explain it fully would require a face-to-face meeting. Grudgingly, Morley agreed to meet with Kingston at Sturminster the coming Tuesday.

Though there were still plenty of household chores and personal matters to take care of, he decided to spend the evening taking a second look at Veitch’s list of names, doing a Google search of each one, and finishing the remaining few pages that he’d left unread that morning. After that he was looking forward to starting a new espionage thriller he’d bought at Waterstone’s on his way home from food shopping.

He took out the list, but first—to make sure he hadn’t missed anything when he’d glossed over them earlier—took a closer look at the list of reference books, articles, and sources that Veitch had used to compile his notes. One entry, halfway down the list, caught his eye at once: Winterborne Frieze. Frieze? Why a frieze? he wondered. Following, Veitch had written: Found during the renovation of Winterborne Manor. A biblical quotation composed of decorative alphabet tiles below the crown molding of all four walls circling the dining room. Why had that been of interest? Kingston had seen similar decorative friezes in a few other historical buildings, notably the superb one in the Gamble Room in the Victoria & Albert. It was so long since he’d seen it that he’d forgotten what the letters spelled out, other than it was a lyrical quotation. Continuing, he found another “frieze” notation, a quotation from a poem:

Built like a temple, where pilasters round

Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid

With golden architrave; nor did there want

Cornice or frieze, with bossy sculptures graven

Milton was scribbled in pencil underneath.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Kingston muttered. Veitch must have thought there was some connection between these friezes and poets and the monuments at Sturminster, but why? And just where was this manor house?

He made a mental note to do a search for Winterborne Manor or a place named Winterborne, though he was convinced by now that everything he’d been reading didn’t reflect Veitch’s latest findings, that it must have been random stuff that he’d saved from early in his research. After their conversation at the hospital, Kingston had come away convinced that Veitch was not only certain of his allegations but also had sufficient proof to back them up. Nothing whatsoever in what Kingston had read in the notes supported this conviction. On the whole, it had been a disappointing exercise.