Garden of Secrets Past

FIFTEEN


The warm weather of the last few days was holding up, so after lunch and a half hour grappling with the Times crossword, Kingston made a snap decision to spend the afternoon outdoors and get some fresh air, rather than mope around the flat becoming more and more worked up about his inability to make tangible headway with the Sturminster murders. As it stood, his only ray of hope, as far as he could see, rested with Veitch’s list. He hoped that Morley would come through with the information that Kingston had requested and that the interviews might reveal why Veitch had considered those particular people of importance. Just what that could be, Kingston had no idea.

Where to go? he wondered. London was full of wonderful parks, gardens, and open-air spaces, nearly all of which he’d visited since he’d made the city his home. Which of them would serve his purpose best? Which would allow him reasonable privacy—no children or tour groups—in peaceful and beautiful surroundings with ample space to wander or to simply sit quietly whenever it pleased him? After several minutes’ thought, he decided on Syon House, the London residence of the duke of Northumberland and his family. It was a little farther than most, but it was some time since he last visited the two-hundred-acre park facing Kew Gardens on the opposite bank of the Thames, with its imposing house and magnificent conservatory.

Forty-five minutes later, Kingston alighted from the number 237 bus at Syon’s Brentlea Gate stop. Wearing his aging straw hat and carrying his jacket, he strolled into the park. Being midweek there were relatively few visitors; even so, Kingston had already chosen to start the afternoon by taking the less-traveled paths, steering clear of high-traffic areas like the Conservatory, the Butterfly House, and the Aquatic Experience.

Walking leisurely and pausing occasionally under the shade of rare and ancient trees—the estate was originally a fourteenth-century abbey—he was blocking out in his mind all the things that had happened since he’d first met with Lord Morley that day at Jardine’s. He was soon realizing that, even though he was making little or no headway with the case, an awful lot had happened in that short space of time, not the least of which had been the death of Tristan Veitch—make that “murder,” he corrected himself.

For ten minutes or so, he sat on a weathered bench facing the lake where chartreuse leaves on a row of weeping willow trees dipped to meet the water, making sunlit ripples. One by one, he tried to picture in his mind’s eye the several meetings and phone conversations that had taken place during that time, attempting, as best he could, to recall exactly what had been said: Morley, Crawford, Tristan Veitch, Amanda, Dr. Chandra, Dorothy Endicott, Terence at the Green Man, the builder Kennedy, and the chap at Artifacts in Brighton. Had any of them mentioned something that he’d missed or misunderstood—any small discrepancy or slip? If they had, it was eluding him. He looked off into the distance to where the tall columnar statue of Flora broke the horizon like a vertical gray pencil. With all the tension and disruption of the last several days, there was one part of the puzzle—the slip of paper, the supposed code, found in Endicott’s pocket—that, while not entirely forgotten, had been put aside. When Morley first told him about it, the discovery had struck him as an intriguing clue, a likely place to start even if it was only part of a code. But having studied it a number of times now, he’d concluded, as had GCHQ, that as it was, it was useless. Despite this, Veitch had acknowledged that a code or codes of some kind existed. How had he arrived at that conclusion? The other obvious code was the one on the Arcadian monument. But that had remained unsolved for centuries. Was it possible that someone had finally managed to solve it, after all? Horace Walpole came to mind again. Regardless, it raised several questions, first and foremost: What was it that had been of such great importance, so vital or consequential, that someone, or more than one person, had taken preventative measures by encrypting it? That prompted another thought: Could the murderers have already broken either of the codes and were now determined, come what may, to protect that information? Conversely, if they hadn’t, did they have credible reason to believe that it concealed information that would incriminate others or perhaps lead to some kind of reward—perhaps the money that Samuel Morley was rumored to have stashed somewhere at Sturminster?

He stared down at the grass verge in front of him, more confused than ever. After a minute or so, he decided to let it go, to stop thinking about the case for the rest of the afternoon. Looking up, he watched a flock of cawing crows take off from the top of a nearby copper beech. “A murder of crows,” he muttered.

He donned his straw hat, rose, and started walking toward the Conservatory, the crowning glory of the park. It had been some years since he’d last seen it and it would be a shame not to revisit it while he was here. For no particular reason, he started to think about Amanda, wondering how she was getting along, if she was still managing to cope as well as it had appeared when he was at the house. He was reminded that she’d said nothing about a funeral service for Tristan. During the time they’d been together—with the exception of the brief mention of her deceased husband—she hadn’t talked about her family at all, which was understandable, considering the bleak circumstances. It had hardly been the occasion to bring out the family scrapbook. On further thought, he now realized that he could have at least inquired about her well-being this morning, instead of hogging the conversation the way he had, talking mostly about himself. Next time they spoke he must remember to apologize.

An attractive woman walking a terrier approached. It reminded him of the dear departed Winston, to whom, in a roundabout way, he owed a debt of gratitude. They exchanged “good afternoon”s and he went back to thinking about Amanda. In some ways, he wished that she lived closer to London. For one thing, he could lend a hand with her garden. He would enjoy getting his hands into the dirt again. Being on the receiving end of her culinary skills raised teasing thoughts, too. Perhaps, when sufficient time had passed, he would ask if she would like to come down to London, to stay for a couple of days. He imagined that she would enjoy that, to get away from the routine and the painful reminders of the recent past. After all, he did have a guest room with its own bathroom. As far as he could recall, in all the time he’d been there, it had been used only two or three times: once when Julie was on a visit from Seattle, and on the other occasions by Andrew—once when he had locked himself out, and the other when he was having work done on his flat. If it weren’t for Mrs. Tripp, he doubted that the towels would ever be changed. He could never understand why she insisted on washing them whether they’d been used or not. That got him to wondering what Andrew would say if Kingston were to announce that he was “entertaining” a lady for the weekend. The Conservatory came into sight and he dismissed the thoughts as frivolous.

An hour later, Kingston was on the top deck of the bus returning home when it came to him out of the blue. He hadn’t even been thinking consciously about the code this afternoon, but a thought had just popped into his mind. What if the code Veitch had alluded to was neither the one on the scrap of paper nor that on the Arcadian monument but instead another code entirely? Kingston tried to recall exactly what it was that Veitch had said at the hospital. He remembered that when he’d asked Veitch about the letters on the scrap of paper and mentioned the word “codes,” Veitch had nodded in agreement and said “right.” That didn’t necessarily mean that he was referring to the letters on the paper found in Endicott’s possession. He’d said nothing to indicate exactly which code or codes he was referring to.

The more Kingston thought about it, the more plausible it became that Veitch might not have been referring to the fragment. It was only natural that the police, GCHQ, and he too had theorized that the dozen or more letters on the paper could have been a fragment of a code. Now he was becoming even more confused. Another thought struck him. Was that the intent of the mysterious scrap of paper? Had it been planted conveniently in Endicott’s pocket, after he’d been killed, making it appear like part of a coded message, with the sole purpose of leading the police off in the wrong direction? If that were so, it presented yet another problem: There had been no mention of codes anywhere among Veitch’s notes. Now he was going round in circles. The only reference he could think of that could be construed as involving a code—slender as it was—was the biblical quotation on the frieze. He must take another look at that paragraph when he got back home.

* * *

Hanging up his jacket in the hall closet and placing his hat on the shelf above, Kingston went into the living room. The sun was almost over the yardarm and after checking for phone messages he planned to fix himself a stiff drink. The LCD showed two messages. The first was from Andrew, wanting to know if Kingston would like to join him and a couple of friends for an upcoming special gala night of racing at Kempton Park. He went on to explain, in his typical exuberant manner, that in addition to the horse racing, there was live music and entertainment afterward. Kingston thought it might be fun and was ready for a break from the mounting frustration and his worrying about Amanda. Over the last days he’d become aware that it was all now starting to have a detrimental effect on him. He would go, he decided.

The second message was from Simon Crawford. He had some answers regarding the list of people that Kingston had given to Morley. He asked that Kingston call him back on his private number, which he enumerated.

“Answers” was a little too vague for Kingston’s liking. He’d been hoping, wishfully, maybe, for something positive, more encouraging. He played the message back to retrieve the number, picked up the phone, and entered it. Crawford answered right away.

“It’s Lawrence,” said Kingston. “Thanks for getting back to me so soon.”

“Not a problem. Francis has gone over the names but doesn’t think he’s going to be of much help.”

“I thought that might be the case. He probably told you that he’s not happy with the idea.”

“He did. Anyway, he’s done what you requested as far as the family members are concerned. He’s jotted notes alongside each name to explain who is who. I’m not sure about the other names. I’ll e-mail it in the next five minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“To set the record straight, I went along with Morley when he suggested hiring you. I still believe it was the right decision. You’ve worked with him before and you know how impatient he can get. He just wants to see some results.”

“I do too, but these things take time. I’ll be first to admit that progress thus far has been disappointing. But it’s only been a couple of weeks since we started. He must realize that.”

“A word of advice, Lawrence. It’ll make everyone’s life easier if you can wrap up these interviews as fast as possible and get back to the real investigation. Finding out who killed Endicott and why is number one. One other matter: Morley seems to have this thing about a connection to the distant past. Maybe you should also be trying to find out more about the historical information this Veitch fellow claims to have had. That might prove more productive.”

“I plan to do that, of course.”

“Good. I’ll do my best to keep Francis calmed down, but you know how he is. Oh, there was one more thing. He asked me if I thought you might be having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?”

“About wanting to continue.”

“Why would he think that?”

“He didn’t say in so many words, but I think he feels that with Endicott’s murder and now Veitch’s death, you might be wondering if you’ve taken on more than you’d bargained for, that continuing with the inquiry might now pose even greater danger and you might be concerned for your own well-being. I must say he has a good point.”

Kingston was thinking: First Amanda urging him to quit, and now Morley having doubts.

“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, Simon. It would take a lot more than that for me to get cold feet. Besides, nothing yet has happened to make me think that I might become a target or threatened in any way. I want to solve this case and, frankly, threats don’t scare me; if anything they would probably spur me on. You might want to tell Francis that.”

“I will.”

“I’ll keep you informed about the interviews, and tell Francis not to worry.”

“Good. One last thing, Lawrence, don’t go sticking your neck out. The last thing we want is for something to happen to you.”