Garden of Secrets Past

TWENTY


Kingston was up before daylight the next morning, having spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about the most recent turn of events, including the implicit warning in the flower book and wondering who sent it. No question, it must be someone who wanted him off the case. Although Morley was getting impatient, it was most unlikely that he—or Crawford, for that matter—would want that. Amanda was the only person he could think of who was dead set against his continuing the investigation, but for her to have sent it seemed utterly absurd. He couldn’t imagine her doing such a thing.

After breakfast, he began by Googling Dahlia Societies UK. The first listing was the National Dahlia Society. There he found a link to the Midlands Dahlia Society. On that site, he wrote an e-mail message, requesting information on William Endicott and/or Tristan Veitch. He went on to say that he’d been told that either or both had won awards from the society in past years and he was interested in knowing which garden clubs the two men represented. He did not mention that both men had been murdered. Doubtless all the club members would be more than aware of the double tragedy by now. He signed off using his full title: Professor of Botany, University of Edinburgh (Ret.).

He was going to make more calls, but he didn’t want to be late for his midday appointment with Julian Heywood. He shut down the Mac and went to get dressed.

* * *

Performance Motors was more upmarket than Kingston had expected. On any other occasion he could easily have spent an hour ogling the spit-polished Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, Audis, Porsches, Aston Martins, and the odd Bentley and Roller that paraded their distinguished marques on the showroom’s black granite floor as if jewels on velvet. The rare display of automotive pulchritude engendered no feelings of ambition or envy in Kingston. Though he could afford a few of the entry-level models, owning such cars was no longer the temptation it had been in the past. His doughty TR4 served him well, and the only way they would ever part company would be when either or both became too infirm to continue the trusty relationship.

When Julian Heywood approached, after being paged, it took Kingston a few moments to recognize him. He wore a gray chalk-stripe suit that smacked of Savile Row, with white-collared pink shirt and a neatly patterned dark blue tie. His hair appeared shorter and better groomed than when they’d last met: just the kind of person you would want to negotiate the sale of a £50,000 Jag.

“Let’s go into the showroom,” said Heywood, after introductions. “My office is a little claustrophobic.”

They settled into comfortable leather swivel seats at the end of a long modern-design table.

“I must say, your collection is impressive,” said Kingston. “Outside of the London Motor Show, I don’t recall having seen so many beautiful cars under one roof.”

“It’s the biggest in the country, actually.”

“I won’t take too much of your time—is it all right if I call you Julian?”

“Of course.”

“You’re no doubt familiar with the murder of William Endicott at Sturminster and the subsequent homicide of a man named Tristan Veitch, who is now believed to have been a friend or an associate.”

Heywood nodded. “I am. I’m surprised it hasn’t received a lot of press. We don’t get too many murders around here.”

“I’m told that was a police decision. I’m not privy to the reasons why but I imagine that it has to do with shifting attention away from Sturminster. You probably know about the disaster that resulted after the ill-advised Arcadian monument–Bletchley Park public relations debacle a few years back.”

“I do. I was working there at the time. Not for long, though.”

“What were you doing?”

“General dogsbody, I suppose you’d call it.”

“That’s how you came to know Simon Crawford?”

Julian nodded. “The only decent one in the bunch.”

“By bunch, you mean—”

“The Morleys. Particularly that creep Francis.”

“Your uncle, I believe?”

“Uncle. Don’t make me laugh. The man’s a liar and a cheat, and he treats his staff like peasants.”

“I’ve heard stories to that effect.” Kingston cracked a sardonic smile. “So you quit?”

“I was fired. Morley accused me of theft.”

“Were you innocent?”

Julian nodded again. “Of course. If it hadn’t been for Simon, Morley would have filed criminal charges. That’s the kind of thing he does. One moment he’s as nice as pie, the next, a sadistic bastard.”

“Do you see much of Crawford?”

“Very little. From time to time I’ve tried to get him interested in a few of our cars—that’s about it. He always maintains that he can’t afford nice cars anymore. Maybe Sturminster’s going through a rough patch financially. I don’t know.”

For the next ten minutes Kingston asked Julian Heywood much the same fundamental questions as he had Bryce Lytton and Sebastian Hurst. Heywood’s answers were quick and terse, mostly yes or no. It reminded Kingston of his interview with Simon Crawford. The similarity in response was striking. It was time, Kingston decided, to start asking questions to which yes or no would not be adequate answers.

“How long have you known Simon Crawford?”

Heywood thought for a moment. “Must be six or seven years. Soon after he came to work for my uncle.”

“He told me that he owned an XK120.” Kingston smiled. “One of yours?”

“No. I’ve been trying to get him to part with it. It’s in Concours shape—a convertible, worth a bundle. Jaguar made three versions—roadster, convertible, and coupé.”

“Yes, I remember. Is that why you were at Sturminster the day we met?”

“Er … yes. As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Did Crawford ever discuss either of the murders with you?”

“We’d discussed Endicott’s. For a while it was the only thing everyone at Sturminster was talking about.”

“Did he offer any opinions?”

Heywood shook his head again. “Not that I recall.” He blinked restlessly, then looked away briefly. “Do you think Simon knows something about it … is he involved in some way?”

“No. I’m only trying to establish the relationship between some of you Morleys and other people close to the family or Sturminster itself. Lord Morley provided me with a list,” he said, taking it from his jacket pocket. “Mind taking a look at it and telling me who you know and who you don’t?”

Heywood studied the list for a minute, then looked up. “I know who most of them are. Not to say that I know much about them.”

“Who are you unsure of?”

“I don’t know a Vanessa Decker, or Roger Bartram.”

“Morley seems to think she’s a distant cousin, living abroad.”

Heywood shook his head. “I don’t know her.”

“Roger Bartram is an associate of Bryce Lytton, your stepfather, I believe.”

“I wouldn’t know that.”

“You sound as if you don’t want to know.”

“Let’s just say that I’m persona non grata as far as Lytton is concerned. The feeling’s mutual.”

“I see,” said Kingston, remembering Lytton’s reaction when Julian’s name was mentioned. “You wouldn’t know his partner, Sebastian Hurst, then?”

“Only by name,” he said.

“You do know Oliver and Jessica Henshawe, though?”

“I’ve met them only a couple of times—years ago. He’s related to Lord Morley, a cousin, I believe. They live in Leicester, as I recall.”

“What does his wife, Jessica, do?”

“Does she work, you mean?”

Kingston nodded.

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Did you know they were divorced?”

“I didn’t, too bad. As I said, I met them quite a few years ago.” He handed back the list.

Kingston gazed over Heywood’s shoulder, his eyes resting on a “previously owned” silver Jaguar XK8 convertible. It was distracting to be asking such probing questions surrounded by many millions of pounds’ worth of seductive cars. He wondered for a moment if Heywood had chosen the showroom for that very reason. He shrugged off the idea as overreaching and turned his attention back to Heywood who, if nothing else, was at least exhibiting patience and proper respect for the grave circumstances warranting the interview. Kingston felt uncomfortable having to ask probing personal questions but proceeded anyway.

“Forgetting Lytton, how well do you get on with your family, in general?”

Heywood swiveled his chair to and fro, pondering his answer. “Rather an odd question, since there are so many of us. With the exception of Francis Morley and Lytton, all right, I suppose. If you’ve talked with some of the Morleys already, you’ll have no doubt gathered that we may be typically British in that sense. We treat each other with respect in some cases, tolerance in others, and avoidance occasionally. Speaking for myself, I try to maintain distance and only minimal contact, enough to be considered acceptable. My late grandmother summed it up well. She used to say that families are like fudge—mostly sweet with a few nuts.”

Kingston smiled. “Any Morley nutty enough to get mixed up in this mess?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Tell me something, Julian. It seems that with almost every family member I’ve talked to these last weeks—other people, too—the rumor of a lingering family feud surfaces. You’re a younger member, I know, but have you ever heard anything that would provide evidence or give credence of such a rift ever existing?”

“Sure, I’ve heard about it. But I’ve always been given to believe that it took place centuries ago—when Admiral Morley accused his brother with walking off with money that was supposed to be used exclusively for improvements at Sturminster.”

“Yes, we know that already,” said Kingston, perhaps a trifle huffily, having heard the same refrain a half dozen times. “But what I keep asking myself is whether this feud has anything to do with recent events, whether there’s a connection of some sort—perhaps a secret that has lain dormant for two hundred and fifty years and has now been uncovered?”

“And that’s why people are being murdered?” A restrained expression of amusement passed over Heywood’s good-looking features. “Sounds positively Gothic. You think a living family member might be involved?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just say that it’s my job to find out.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll certainly let you know.” Heywood reached in his back trouser pocket and took out his wallet. Glancing inside, he said, “I seem to be out of business cards. I have some in the office. I’ll give you one before you leave.”

Kingston was out of questions anyway, so he rose, at the same time handing Heywood his card, which he’d put in his shirt pocket in anticipation. They left the airy showroom for Heywood’s office.

While Julian was taking out a box of business cards from his top drawer, Kingston looked around the cramped space. Several framed pictures of cars and a couple of plaques adorned the wall behind the desk. For the most part the room was tidy; the desk bore the usual stacks of folders, papers, computer, and two trophies, which Kingston guessed to be for sales performance. Accepting Julian’s card from across the desk, he glimpsed something that gave him pause. Next to the box of cards in the still-open drawer, among the pens, pencils, paper clips, et cetera, he wouldn’t have noticed it if not for its shiny color. It was a small gold horseshoe identical to the one that Bryce Lytton had given Kingston.