Garden of Secrets Past

FOURTEEN


Kingston left Morley and Sturminster behind, looking in his rearview mirror at the house disappearing among the huge oaks and spreading chestnuts, hoping that their confrontation wouldn’t leave any bad feelings. There was no point in dwelling on it anymore, though. Now he needed to focus on Winterborne and what he’d learned on the Internet. He wondered if he should have mentioned it to Morley, then shrugged it off as being of no consequence; after all, he had no idea if the frieze would lead to anything or not.

An hour later, as Kingston drove into Banbury, he was reciting to himself the nursery rhyme that, for centuries, has been memorized by generations of English children.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,

To see a Fyne lady ride on a white horse.

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

She shall have music wherever she goes.

Banbury, he was aware—having spent many pleasant hours in the romantic rose-filled garden at nearby Broughton Castle—dated to 200 BC when it was believed to have been an Iron Age settlement. He also knew that the “Fyne lady” is generally thought to be a member of the Fiennes family, ancestors of Lord Saye and Sele, owner of the castle.

In the middle of the town, he circled the roundabout and its famous cross, and took the road to Shipton-on-Stour. According to his AA map, Winterborne Manor was about ten miles ahead. Though it was still sunny and warm, it was nearing six o’clock and Kingston was beginning to worry that he might arrive too late. Information that he’d managed to find on the house had been rather sketchy, and phone calls had been intercepted by a short message that offered nothing more. Being the atypically English sort to simply show up and play it by ear, he hadn’t given it too much further thought at the time.

Two minutes later, he turned onto the small lane signposted Winterborne Manor, slowing his pace because it was wide enough for only one car. He’d gone about a quarter mile when he pulled to an abrupt stop. Across the road was a high chain-link fence—new, by the looks of it—with a large sign posted next to the padlocked gate. He could see Winterborne Manor through the fence some fifty yards ahead but no signs of activity. He didn’t need to get out of the car to read the sign: DANGER. CONSTRUCTION ZONE, ENTRY FORBIDDEN. Underneath, was the name of the builder, architect, and subcontractors. No phone numbers were listed. Cursing, he backed up until he came to a farm gate where he made a three-point turn and headed back to the main road. There, he turned left, back in the direction of Banbury. On the way in, he’d passed a roadhouse a couple of miles from the house. Someone there could surely tell him something about the house. He was ready for a drink anyway.

* * *

For a Tuesday evening, the Green Man was surprisingly busy. A handful of customers with drinks were standing near the entrance to what he presumed was the dining room, waiting for a table—a good sign. He was thinking that by the time he got back to Chelsea it would be too late for a full meal so, if the menu looked appealing, he would book a table. He approached the small bar and sat on one of the two empty stools. Next to him, a ruddy-faced, bulbous-nosed gent in a houndstooth sport coat, nursing a whisky, was doing the Times crossword. Seeing Kingston, he nodded briefly, took a sip of his scotch, and went back to his puzzle.

Kingston ordered a half of best bitter from the barmaid, a jolly lady who seemed to know most of the customers by their first names. Without his asking, she placed a menu on the bar where he could reach it. She was far too busy to ask about Winterborne Manor, so he sat reading the menu, taking a sly glance to see how his neighbor was doing with the puzzle—not well by the looks of it. Kingston’s beer arrived and he told the barmaid that he would like to reserve a table for dinner. At that point, the gent decided to give up on the puzzle. He folded the paper and took a sideways glance at Kingston. “Tough one, today,” he muttered, polishing off the last of his scotch and raising a finger to the barmaid for another.

“I know how it is,” said Kingston. “If you’re like me, one day you romp through it in a couple of hours and the next, you never complete it.”

The man nodded in agreement and they slipped into polite conversation.

When Kingston asked about the food, the man said he would rank it “among the best in that part of the county.” Kingston then told him what he was doing in Banbury and asked if the man knew anything about the manor house.

As luck would have it, the man, who said his name was Terence, had lived in a neighboring village for twenty-five years and knew a lot about the house and its history. He said that the Winterborne estate had been in the possession of the Wingate family for the past hundred years or so, and with the passing of the last remaining heir, the house had been sold last year to an American family. As is often the case, they had determined it necessary to make substantial changes to the house, bringing the plumbing, electrical, and heating up to modern-day standards and generally giving the old house a much needed face-lift. He went on to talk, seamlessly and in intimate detail, about the house and the surrounding estate, saying that, over the years, he’d attended several functions and dinners there.

When Terence finally stopped to take a sip of his whisky, Kingston jumped in and asked about the frieze. Terence knew it well, he said. He also knew for the best part what the quotation was and, even better, what had happened to it. When he said that it had been demolished, Kingston’s heart sank. “Oh, no!” he blurted out without thinking. It turned out that “demolished” was an ill-chosen word on Terence’s part. He corrected himself by saying, “removed, because it was of considerable value.” It was composed of foot-square ceramic tiles, each decorated with a letter of the alphabet in bas-relief. Circling the tops of the walls of the dining room, below the ceiling molding, it read, as best he could remember: Through wisdom a house is built; and by understanding it is established; and by knowledge every room shall be filled with precious and pleasant riches. It was a quotation from Ecclesiastes, he said.

As to what happened to the dismantled frieze, he wasn’t sure; he had a vague recall of its being sold. He supplied Kingston with the name of the builder—the one Kingston had seen on the sign—saying that Mike Kennedy, the owner, would surely know. They chatted for another ten minutes, until a waitress approached to tell Kingston that his table was ready. He downed what remained of his beer, said good-bye to Terence, and left to enjoy his dinner.

* * *

The following morning, Kingston made several phone calls from his study. The first was to Kennedy & Sons, Building Services. The owner, Mike Kennedy, was happy to provide what little he knew about the frieze. He was unsure of its age but knew that parts of the house dated back to the early eighteenth century. The owners had asked him to remove the frieze because they were selling it to an antiques dealer in Brighton. He’d been reluctant to do so, though, fearing that the porcelain tiles would be too old and fragile, and he would end up being responsible for any resulting damages. In the end, the dealer came to take a look at it and together they called in an architectural salvage expert to supervise the work. It took two days, he said, but all the tiles were successfully removed with no damage. He made no comment as to why the new owners wanted to sell the frieze. He would have bought it himself, he said, but the asking price was a bit too rich. The antiques dealer’s name was Nicolson, and his company was called Artifacts Design. Kingston wrote down the name, thanked Kennedy, and the call ended.

Next, he Googled Artifacts Brighton and up popped the listing, first on the page. He picked up the phone again and entered the number. It was one of Artifacts’ partners, Trevor Nicolson, who answered. Kingston was just thinking it must be his lucky morning when Nicolson told him that the frieze had been purchased by a client of his in San Francisco. He was wondering what possible questions he could ask next, when Nicolson asked the reason for his inquiring. He seemed satisfied with Kingston’s trumped-up answer that he was writing an article about decorative and alphabet friezes, and volunteered that he had several digital photos of the frieze, if that would be of interest. His only caveat in allowing use of the pictures was that, if they were published, Artifacts Design would receive credit.

Fifteen minutes later Kingston received Nicolson’s e-mail with six JPEG attachments. A minute later he had the prints spread out on his desk and was admiring the artistic beauty and craftsmanship of the tile work.

No doubt rendered on porcelain, slightly yellowed and crackled with age, each tile—a separate letter of the alphabet—was a work of art in itself. Each letter had its own individual design characteristics, no two alike. Motifs of human figures, animals, serpents, and foliage supported or twined intricately in and out of each letter. The artistry alone was magnificent; that it was painted on tile made it even more remarkable. He took his eyes off them and stared into space. All he had to do now was to figure out why Veitch had chosen to include the frieze among his notes. He let out a long sigh.

He picked up the phone again, this time to call Amanda. For the third time, he lucked out—she answered right away, too. The main reason for his call was to ask her a question about Tristan, but it would also provide the chance to find out how she was faring, without appearing too intrusive.

“You sound quite chipper,” he said.

“It’s hard not to be cheerful on such a gorgeous day. It must be in the eighties up here. I’ve spent most of the morning in the garden.”

“Wish I could be there to enjoy it with you. It’s the customary summer gray here.”

She chuckled. “You could tell me what all these flowers and plants are that Tristan planted. I hardly recognize any of them—not that I should.”

“I’d be more than happy to. You’ll need some hints on how to take care of them, too—pruning, watering, and feeding, that sort of stuff. Nothing too complicated, of course.”

“That’s settled then. The next warm spell.”

He wanted to keep the banter going but didn’t want to overdo it, and since they were talking about the garden, the timing couldn’t be better. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said, trying to keep up the lighthearted tone.

“What is it?”

“When you and I walked through your garden, you said that Tristan had created it, and to all intents and purposes had maintained it single-handedly ever since.”

“That’s right. You made the comment that he was the Constant Gardener. Remember?”

“During those years, did he ever belong to a garden club or exhibit flowers?”

“He did,” she said. “I remember his winning a handful of awards for exhibiting flowers. Two small trophies and some ribbons, as I recall. That was quite a long time ago. Why do you ask?”

“It was something Mrs. Endicott mentioned. One more question and then I’m finished.”

“Sure.”

“Did Tristan grow dahlias at one time? I don’t recall seeing any when we were in the garden, not that I was looking for them.”

A pause followed. “Yes, he did,” she replied, hesitating. “How did you know that?”

“William Endicott grew them, too, and exhibited them.”

“I’m not sure that I follow—”

“It could be a coincidence, but I think not. This suggests the distinct possibility that Tristan and William Endicott knew each other. If so, then it’s reasonable to infer that it was Endicott who was helping Tristan in his research.”

“So you’re saying that whoever killed Endicott probably killed Tristan, too. In both cases, to silence them?”

“That’s what I believe.”

“If you’re right, Lawrence—and you may well be—then this gives me even more reason to tell you what I’ve been meaning to say for a while now.”

“What is that?”

“That you should reconsider this investigation of yours. I think you should just walk away from it. Turn all this information that you got from Tristan over to the police and have them deal with it.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about doing just that, but to live up to the terms of my agreement, I have to discuss it first with Lord Morley. I met with him yesterday, and he gave me the go-ahead to interview certain members of the Morley family.”

“That’s exactly what I’m getting at, Lawrence. I don’t think you should do that. This nasty business could become even more dangerous than it is already, and you’re running the real risk of becoming a casualty yourself if you insist on pursuing your investigation. I can’t believe that it hasn’t occurred to you that whoever committed these two murders is quite possibly either one of the Morley family or is connected to them in some way. You’re about to poke a stick in a hornets’ nest and I’m very worried, that’s all.”

Kingston was taken aback by this emotional outpouring of concern for his well-being. Rarely lost for words, he was scrambling to figure a way to respond that would allay her fears without it appearing that he was simply shrugging them off lightly.

“Amanda,” he said, trying to play to her feelings, “that thought has occurred to me, and I’m touched that you would think of me that way. I also take your advice seriously. However, I don’t think that I’ve yet reached that point where I’m running undue risks, but if and when I do, I won’t hesitate to quit. There’s some unfinished business that I want to take care of first, and then I’ll decide whether or not to throw in the towel.”

“I’m not going to ask you what this unfinished business is; you’d probably prefer not to tell me anyway. All I’m saying is just get it done quickly and then walk away from this dreadful business.”

There was no doubting Amanda’s sincerity, but she was becoming insistent, her last sentence tantamount to an order. Was there another reason she wanted him to quit? As he was pondering the loaded question, admonishing himself that he was overreacting, she spoke again, apparently determined to have the last word.

“All right,” she said. “If I can’t persuade you to stop, then please do one thing for me. From now on be extra cautious.”

“I will, I promise.” It wasn’t lost to him that her words were almost identical to her brother’s parting words at the hospital.