Garden of Secrets Past

EIGHTEEN


By ten A.M., the entire Midlands was under a blanket of sullen gray stratus. Now and then Kingston could hear the mutterings of thunder over the steady drone of the exhaust. Not the cheeriest of beginnings for what could turn out to be a stressful day, he thought. He spotted the Stafford exit signs ahead and moved to the inside lane. Since leaving London on the M1, he’d seized the opportunity to open up his prized TR4 and give the old gal a long-overdue workout. For him, an hour of Motorway driving was fifty-five minutes too long, so he’d planned ahead to exit early and take the less-traveled roads to Stafford and the Staffordshire police headquarters.

Half an hour later he arrived at the police station, a three-story yellow-painted building on the northeast side of the city. At the front desk, the duty sergeant said that Inspector Wheatley was waiting for him. Kingston presented his ID, signed in, and was given directions to the interview room.

Kingston knocked on the door and heard a muffled, “Come in.” When he entered, Wheatley rose from the couch where he’d been writing and crossed the room to meet Kingston.

“Thanks for coming, Doctor,” he said with a firm handshake and a spare smile.

“Lawrence is fine,” Kingston replied with a more generous smile. “I only use the handle when I need to impress someone—which is hardly ever these days.”

“That’s fine.” Wheatley gestured to an upholstered armchair by a low table. “Please sit down.”

Kingston sat and crossed his legs, observing the inspector. He shuffled his notes, preparing to sit on the opposite side of the table. Kingston reckoned that Wheatley was about ten years younger than he and looked to be in good physical shape. He was unexpectedly well dressed compared with most of the policemen Kingston had encountered in his travels: gray flannel suit, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, and tightly knotted tie—not regimental, thank goodness. There was a scrubbed look about him, as if he’d just had a hot shave, which emphasized his eyes, which were watery gray and red rimmed, giving him the appearance of being perpetually tired. He got right down to business.

“The reason we wanted to talk to you personally, Lawrence, is that we would like to know what, if anything, you’ve uncovered since you’ve been working for Morley. We only know what Morley has told us. What we don’t know is how up-to-date his information is, or how selective he’s been in, shall we say, withholding information. If you know anything that we don’t, I want to hear it now.”

Wheatley’s use of the majestic plural, as it’s often called—the use of “we” to refer to a single person—gave Kingston pause for an inner smile. He recalled the admonishment stating that its use should be restricted only to kings, poets, or people with tapeworm.

“I’d be most surprised if Morley would be guilty of that,” he replied, thinking on the question. From his previous jousts with the police, Kingston was no stranger to the methodology of police interviews and with what barristers termed “discovery,” the sharing of sensitive information.

“One of the things Lord Morley and I agreed on from the beginning was transparency, Inspector. That anything we discovered would be shared with you, that he would report my findings to you.”

“A good try, Lawrence, but it won’t wash. What concerns me is how much are you disclosing to him ? Are we getting the whole story or just what suits you?”

Wheatley’s abrupt manner was becoming a mild annoyance, but Kingston restrained himself from replying in kind. “It’s been barely a month since I started working for Morley, and in that time I’ve spoken to him four times at the most. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t report to him daily, so there have been and will in the future be times when he’s not fully informed.”

“Very well. Have you been working on the case these last few days?”

“I have.”

“Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Kingston cleared his throat. “I spoke yesterday to a man named Bryce Lytton, Morley’s brother-in-law.”

“Regarding…”

“When you and I talked on the phone, the time before last, I told you what Veitch had said when I was at the hospital: that he’d uncovered what he termed heinous crimes involving members of the Morley family, crimes of such magnitude that when his story became public it would expose not only one of the biggest cover-ups in our history but also crimes involving staggering amounts of money.”

“Yes. We know all about that. No need to rehash it. So why speak to Lytton?”

“I found a list of names in Veitch’s notes. Lytton’s was one of them.”

“Who else was on the list?”

“Mostly Morley’s relatives.”

“I see. And where did you find this list?”

“On a flash drive.”

“A what?”

“A computer storage device.”

“And this was where?”

“At Veitch’s house.”

“I see.” Wheatley scratched his cheek, obviously not fully understanding what Kingston was talking about. “You were at the house before the break-in?”

“No. I was at the hospital when it happened—staying in a hotel, in the hopes of seeing Veitch again, to be more accurate. I told you that when we talked on the phone—the James at Lichfield.”

For the first time Wheatley looked confused. “Let’s get this straight. You found this device containing Veitch’s notes after the break-in, and after our people had gone through it?”

Kingston could see why the consternation. Why hadn’t the police found it?

“Yes.”

“We missed it. Is that what you’re saying?”

Kingston was tempted to say, “It rather looks that way, doesn’t it,” but instead simply nodded.

“I’d like a copy of that list.”

“Of course.”

“So you’re planning to interview all these people?”

“Only several of them, to start.” He filled Wheatley in on what he’d learned from Lytton and Hurst, which boiled down to absolutely nothing. When Kingston explained that they both felt the Morley family feud was nothing but a legend and could have little bearing on the murders, Wheatley nodded his head impatiently.

“I must say I agree with them.” Wheatley shifted his position on the couch, which didn’t look as if it were made for comfort. “So what else was on this drive thing? Anything we should know about?”

“Several pages of historical facts and figures about people living at the time the admiral and his brother were alive: Walpole, the prime minister; his son Horace; Thomas Gray, the poet. Not much else.”

“Why them?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. He was a historian, I suppose.”

“I’d like to see them anyway.”

“I’ll send everything.”

“Good. And what about Endicott’s mother? Did you learn anything from her?”

The sudden change of subject threw Kingston for a second. He supposed that was Wheatley’s intent.

“Nothing, other than that her son was an accomplished gardener. He’d won some awards growing dahlias.”

“Then he probably belonged to a garden club. Being a botanist, that would interest you, of course.”

“Yes. Tristan Veitch was a gardener, too.”

“I gathered as much when we were at his house. The garden was quite impressive. Can’t say that much for the house, though.”

Kingston nodded.

Wheatley smiled. “I don’t need to tell you, everyone is a gardener in this country. Anyway, we explored that connection and found nothing.”

An uneasy silence followed, as Kingston waited for the next question or comment, but none came. Wheatley appeared to be immersed in thought and Kingston wondered if he’d run out of questions, but that wasn’t the case.

“How well do you know Amanda Veitch?” Wheatley asked phlegmatically, tilting back his head slightly, chin resting on his forefinger.

The question surprised Kingston and he scrambled to find an answer that was noncommittal. “Not well at all, really. As I explained, I happened to come into her life at the worst possible time—for her, that is. I simply did what I could to help her deal with the tragedy, that’s all.”

“What do you know about her? Her background, her relationship with her brother? Were they friendly?”

“As far as I know,” he replied. “Nothing she’s said or done has given me the slightest reason to suspect that there was any animosity or conflict between them, if that’s what you mean. After all, they lived together.”

“So do married couples—and we hardly raise an eyebrow when a quiet-mannered hubby slips arsenic into his abusive wife’s Ovaltine, or vice versa.”

“Are you suggesting that Amanda might have murdered her brother?” As soon as the words had left his mouth he knew that he should have phrased it differently. It gave the impression that he and Amanda were closer than he’d intimated, that he was leaping to her defense.

Wheatley remained impassive. “Not necessarily. We’re simply interested in knowing how someone managed to poison a man who rarely wandered far from home and had few visitors. In this business we sometimes get too hung up with the small details—I’m not saying that they’re not important—but sometimes it’s what’s staring you in the face that gets overlooked. That said, we’ll be talking with Miss Veitch again in the next couple of days.”

Kingston was impatient to move on and forget Amanda for now. “I understand your reasons for suspicion and the need for diligence, Inspector,” he said. “All I’m saying is that, in all of our conversations, she has appeared deeply and genuinely disturbed by her brother’s death and the way it happened.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Wheatley got abruptly to his feet. “Thanks for coming, Doctor. And you won’t forget to send me a copy of that list and the other papers you mentioned.”

“I won’t. And from now on I’ll make sure that you’re informed of new developments as they happen and not after the fact.”

“That would be appreciated,” said Wheatley. The way he said it, Kingston couldn’t be sure whether he was being sarcastic or not.

With that, the interview ended.