Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTEEN


Tuesday arrived and with it the nicest weather of summer by far. Gone were the sullen drab and drizzly days of the past two weeks. Leaving his flat at nine in the morning, on the short walk to his garage, Kingston couldn’t help feeling buoyant about the day to come. The sun was already uncommonly bright, floodlighting the storefronts on the King’s Road like a movie set. Glancing up at the band of ultramarine sky daubed with white cirrus bridging the buildings on either side, he anticipated a pleasurable top-down drive to Staffordshire.

He’d spent the weekend with Andrew at his country house in Bourne End, offering suggestions for the garden tour, tidying up the garden, eating and drinking too much, and doing his best to bring Andrew up to speed with the goings-on in Staffordshire. Those conversations never sat too well with Andrew, and they invariably developed into argumentative banter that always led to a temporary but strained détente. In the past, Kingston had adopted a habit of simply smiling when Andrew got overly exacerbated, but of late this only seemed to make matters worse.

Kingston’s meeting with Morley was at eleven thirty at Sturminster. As soon as the meeting was over—Kingston was hoping it wouldn’t segue into lunch—he planned to detour on his way back to London to look at Winterborne Manor, which he had since discovered was near Banbury in Oxfordshire. As luck would have it, Banbury was on the M40, his route home.

He’d summarized mentally what he would tell Morley, essentially sticking to the chronology of events and bare facts, leaving out irrelevant information like his growing friendship with Amanda and how he’d found Veitch’s notes on the flash drive. The latter would only lead to more questions. In any case, as far as the notes were concerned, other than the list of names, nothing in them that he could tell had any bearing on Endicott’s murder—far from it. As for the list, he would tell a white lie as to how he came by it. That wouldn’t be hard.

The drive through parts of Sturminster’s fifteen hundred acres of parkland was always a delight. The contrived but natural-looking style of garden design developed in England at the beginning of the eighteenth century could best be described as gardening on a grand scale. At the time, all over Britain, many formal estate gardens were being torn out and replaced with what is now termed “landscape-designed” gardens. Led by designers Lancelot “Capability” Brown, John Vanbrugh, and William Kent, lands and parks surrounding many of the great houses, frequently hundreds and sometimes thousands of acres, were carefully redesigned and planted, often with full-grown trees, to create sweeping panoramas—a pleasing blend of the formal and the romantic. The topography was invariably reconfigured to create the desired effect. Undulating parkland was punctuated with carefully positioned clumps of trees; rivers were rerouted, serpentine lakes created, elegant bridges constructed; monuments, follies, and large-scale garden ornaments, many in the classical European style, were placed strategically to please the eye. Even sheep and cattle were introduced to the landscape to provide a sense of the rural. On his last visit, he’d seen a large herd of Highland cattle grazing alongside the River Swane.

A young woman who greeted Kingston at the front door escorted him to Lord Morley’s study. In many ways, the room resembled Simon Crawford’s: exquisite cabinetry, elegant furnishings, and brightly lit by high windows on the wall facing out to the rose garden, now in full sun. Morley got up from his desk when Kingston entered. They shook hands, chatted briefly about trivial matters, and were soon settled in comfortable chairs facing each other.

Morley smiled. “I must say you’re being awfully secretive about this information you’ve uncovered, Lawrence.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to appear that way. It’s just that what I have to tell you could be construed as unwelcome yet, at the same time, perplexing. In my judgment, too important to explain and discuss in a simple phone call.”

“It has bearing on the murder, I take it?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s just say that it could.”

Morley was no longer smiling. “All right. Go on, then,” he said flatly.

Kingston began by telling a trumped-up story of how he’d come across Tristan Veitch by accident. Telling Morley the truth—that it happened while trying to find out about his relatives—wouldn’t have gone down at all well, so Kingston had concocted a plausible explanation of how they’d met. It appeared to have worked: Morley accepted his pretext without question. For the next ten minutes Kingston recounted what had happened in the twenty-four hours that he’d spent in Stafford. All this time, Morley sat listening calmly, with no readable expression and no questions.

Kingston had reached the point where he was starting to describe his brief minutes with Veitch at the hospital. He knew it would be the defining moment in their conversation, because Morley was about to learn that the illustrious reputation of his family, his forebears, was about to be brought into serious question, that, for whatever reason, historians, politicians, and others had turned a blind eye to the alleged criminal activity and had somehow managed to keep it a well-guarded secret for two hundred–plus years. On the drive up, he’d tried to visualize how Morley would respond when he broke the news. Now he would know.

Morley listened calmly at the start, his expression and demeanor showing no hint as to what he was thinking. Kingston continued, repeating what he could remember of Veitch’s defamatory words, watching Morley’s facial expression as he did, curious for his reaction. When Kingston had finished, Morley appeared neither surprised nor affronted.

“I keep forgetting you’re new to this part of the country, Lawrence,” he said in an avuncular manner—even though Kingston was older by several years. “A rumor, a legend to that effect, has been passed down through the centuries, but no one has ever produced any evidence to give it credibility. It’s a bit like the mysterious code on the Arcadian monument. Nothing has ever surfaced to prove that it is a code, but people keep searching for the answer. Same with the missing money rumor.” He continued after a brief pause. “The name Veitch sounds familiar. Is he the one who writes occasionally for the paper?”

“Yes, he is. I get the impression that he’s well respected.”

“Is this all hearsay, or does he have reputable sources and documented evidence to support his allegations? Did you ask that question?”

“I didn’t. There was too little time. But it was my impression that there was no question in that regard. He was utterly convinced—convincing too—that what he’d uncovered was factual. Were it not, I seriously doubt he would have summoned me to his hospital bed.”

Morley shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it, but I still find it hard to swallow that some freelance historian, acting alone, has dug up specious information without offering proof of any kind. He must surely know that there are laws to prevent these kinds of spurious, unwarranted attacks on people’s integrity and reputations.” He paused, as if thinking on it further. “Why don’t you go back and ask the chap?”

“That’s not possible, I’m afraid. But anyway, it’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant? Sometimes you talk in riddles, Lawrence. Why?”

“Because Tristan Veitch is dead.”

“Dead?”

Kingston nodded. “Murdered, by the looks of it—poisoned.”

“Good grief. Why didn’t you say so in the beginning? Hasn’t this been reported?”

“It happened barely a week ago. I’m told that with poisoning—where foul play is not obvious or the motive cut-and-dried—it takes time to settle the legal and medical conflicts. The hospital staff doesn’t want to make mistakes, and they and the police investigators must arrive at a mutual agreement that murder was the intent.”

Morley looked flustered. “We should call the police.”

“I doubt that’s necessary. In any case, I already spoke on the phone with Inspector Wheatley several days ago. I was about to tell you.”

“Did you tell him all this?”

“Pretty much everything I knew. As it turned out, there wasn’t much that he didn’t already know. I believe the real reason for the call was to see if my account of events corresponded with theirs.”

Morley nodded. “I told him that we would share all our findings. I’d best make sure we live up to that promise, Lawrence.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to return.”

“I understand.”

“Let me finish,” said Kingston. He continued, telling Morley that the house was ransacked and that all of Veitch’s files, everything related to his research, his computer, and his mobile had been stolen, leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the break-in. He then ventured the opinion that it also reinforced Veitch’s contention that he was on to something and that something was highly sensitive—incriminating enough, perhaps, to incite murder.

After Kingston had finished, Morley remained stone-faced and silent, clearly weighing the implications of what he’d just heard. Kingston broke the silence.

“There was something else, Francis. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but in my conversation with Veitch, he implied that he was getting help from someone else on his research.”

“What do you mean by ‘implied’?”

“A couple of times, he used the word ‘we.’ Obviously, if we can identify that person it would no doubt answer a lot of questions. I realize that it could be just about anybody—it wasn’t his sister, by the way, that I’m sure of—but I keep asking myself, what if it had been William Endicott? If he had been working with Veitch, he would have been privy to everything that Veitch had uncovered.”

Morley’s look was quizzical. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

“It could provide a motive for Endicott’s murder.”

“You really believe that?”

“It’s only a theory, but I don’t see why not.”

“Did you also discuss this with Wheatley?”

“I might have. I can’t be sure.”

Morley leaned back. “Look, Lawrence, considering that you talked to this Veitch fellow for a mere ten minutes or so, you seem to have placed an awful lot of credence in what he claimed. Not only that, I also think that trying to link Endicott and Veitch in some kind of sinister partnership is stretching it. It appears you haven’t a shred of evidence that they even knew each other.”

“I’m aware of that, Francis.”

“I won’t argue with you that it fits neatly into your argument—too neatly, perhaps—but even you must agree that we need tangible proof that they were collaborating.”

“That’s true,” said Kingston, nodding. “I mentioned this in the first place because I want you to know not only everything I’ve uncovered so far but also what I’ve extrapolated from those findings—my thoughts in general. In that respect, there’s another matter that’s come to light. Something that requires your verification—your interpretation, perhaps.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a photocopy of Veitch’s list of names and passed it to Morley. “This was found in Veitch’s study,” he fibbed. “I’ve no idea what it means in context of the case or why members of your family are included.” He shrugged. “It could be nothing, of course.”

Morley looked at it carefully for almost a minute.

“Any idea what, if anything, they have in common?” Kingston asked.

Morley shook his head. “I don’t. May I keep it?”

“Of course.”

Morley frowned. “Curious why just these names were selected.”

“I was hoping you might know that.”

Morley, obviously lost in thought, said nothing.

“You may have noticed that Julian Heywood’s name is included. I mention that because I met him briefly when I was last here. It suggested to me that these could all be relatives who are still living.”

“They are. But what the hell does this have to do with anything? Whatever reason this historian fellow had to be interested in my family, I can’t imagine it had anything to do with Endicott’s murder. Or what happened to Veitch. Lawrence, I want you to focus on what I hired you to do. Is that clear?”

“Francis.” Kingston drew a breath, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully or Morley could easily get the wrong idea. “It’s not my business to pry into your family’s affairs. But if there has been anything family related … any incidents that have happened more recently … that you might have forgotten to mention, or might have judged insignificant or irrelevant—”

Morley sighed, interrupting. “Just because this fellow possessed a list of names, some of which happen to be family members, you seem to be determined to jump to the conclusion that it may have something to do with Endicott’s murder.”

“All I’m saying is that Veitch must have assembled the list for a reason. We’ll probably never know why, but at least I think we should try to find out.”

“If you want my opinion, it’s a waste of time.”

Kingston looked at Morley, unblinking. “Believe me, Francis—and I’ll say it one final time—the very last thing I want is to delve into matters concerning your family, but when we met at your club, you agreed to give me carte blanche when it came to interviews … that I could talk to anyone whom I suspected could provide useful information related to the case, no matter how tenuous.”

“I do. That still stands.”

“Good. Then with your permission, I’d like to talk with all the people on the list.”

“You’re a stubborn son of a gun, Kingston. I can’t see—”

“Before you raise more objections, Francis, I want to assure you that I have no additional information or motive for wanting to do this other than to learn something about their backgrounds, their interrelationships, and generally get a better understanding of each of them. Everything will be considered highly confidential, of course. I’m doing this for one reason, and one reason only: to find out why Veitch found them of particular interest. If you’re able to provide me with brief background on each—those you know—all the better.”

“I hate to repeat myself, Lawrence, but I still believe you’re placing far too much importance on this damned list. You find it in this Veitch chap’s house and you jump to the conclusion that one or more of the people on this list could be implicated in Endicott’s murder. Frankly, I find that implausible. If you really want my thoughts on this bloody mess, you could do worse than to look into the past—not this generation of Morleys, but those who created Sturminster.”

“I can’t convince you, I can see, but I still plan to conduct the interviews. As it is, it’s going to take a lot of time and it would make my life a lot easier if I had contact numbers and a brief description of the various members of the Morley family: brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles—that sort of thing.”

Morley grunted and glanced down at the sheet of paper, still in his hand. “I still say it’s pointless, but I promised you a free hand—so be it. Let me look it over and I’ll get back to you by tomorrow.”

“Excellent. I grant you, it could turn out to be a wild-goose chase, but one never knows.”