Garden of Secrets Past

TWENTY-FOUR


In his study the next morning, Kingston took out Morley’s updated list with the contact numbers. Yesterday, he’d obtained an e-mail address for Oliver Henshawe from the Leicestershire County Record Office and dashed off a note to him, asking how he could get in touch with Jessica, his former wife. He’d explained that he was working with Lord Morley on the Sturminster case, making sure to put Henshawe’s mind at rest by stressing that it was only a routine inquiry.

He started to think about Vanessa Decker. Tracking her down was proving to be far more difficult than he’d anticipated. Why was she the only one who was so elusive? He was going to have to start spending more time trying to locate her.

Soon after receiving the Dahlia Society’s letter, Kingston had spoken with the Brookside Garden Club’s secretary, who had provided the name and phone number of their club’s president, Stephen Meeke. A couple of hours later Kingston reached Meeke at his home in Derby. He was familiar with Kingston’s reputation, as both a botanist and an amateur investigator, and was more than happy to meet with Kingston, to the point of insisting. Since the club had no office, it was decided that they would meet at Meeke’s house in Sunnyhill on the south side of Derby. Andrew, true to his promise, agreed to go along.

Kingston still had no word from Amanda, so that part of his planned excursion didn’t seem as if it would happen. This was more of a disappointment than reason for concern. When they’d talked, she hadn’t said when Wheatley would interview her, so the meeting might not yet have taken place. On the plus side, not having to make the fifty-mile detour to Abbot’s Broomfield would make the day more manageable.

* * *

The next afternoon, with clear blue skies for a change, Kingston and Andrew arrived punctually at the modest semi-detached brick house on Waddesdon Way, Derby. There was no need to double-check the number; it was the only house on the street that could possibly be owned by a dedicated gardener. Oddly enough, though, Kingston couldn’t spot a single dahlia among the painterly mix of plants and shrubs that filled the length and breadth of the front garden. Perhaps they were showcased in the back, he thought.

A smiling woman in her midfifties answered the doorbell. She introduced herself as Steve’s wife and led the two of them down the hall, through the kitchen and a conservatory, to the garden, where her husband and a slender well-dressed lady were chatting under a large dogwood tree. After Meeke introduced Muriel Williams, the club’s secretary, they all settled down at a teak table under a striped awning.

Meeke leaned back and smiled. “I must say I was surprised when you called, Doctor. As you know, we’re a small club, and when I told a couple of the members including Muriel, here, that you were coming to Derby, the entire club wanted to meet you.”

“To a lot of us gardeners, you’ve become a somewhat legendary figure,” Muriel added. “We could have sold tickets.”

Ignoring Andrew’s quickly raised and lowered eyebrows, Kingston smiled and shrugged. “Someone once said that ‘All news is an exaggeration of life.’ But I have found the challenges rewarding.”

Meeke’s expression clouded. “You’re aware that both the men you’re inquiring about are recently deceased?”

“I am, yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Several weeks ago, I was retained to conduct an independent inquiry into William Endicott’s murder. Now, with Veitch’s homicide, I discover that they both belonged to your club. I grant you the connection might be flimsy, but sometimes the most mundane and seemingly normal associations eventually turn out to be significant factors in solving crimes.”

“What would you like to know about them?” asked Meeke.

“How long had they been members of Brookside?”

Meeke glanced at Muriel, as if to say You may know better than I.

“I believe William joined in 2000 or thereabouts,” she said. Then, after a pause, “And I’m pretty sure that Tristan Veitch joined in 2003. I remember because we were all amazed when he walked off with the best-of-show award at Harrogate in the summer of 2004.”

“Did they know each other well?”

“I would say so,” she replied.

Meeke nodded. “Yes. They invariably sat together at meetings, and I know they’d visited each other’s gardens.”

“How many members are there in your club?” asked Kingston, pulling on his earlobe.

Meeke looked up at the awning briefly, thinking. “Currently, about sixty.”

Muriel nodded.

“And your meetings are monthly?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’ve been told that Tristan Veitch was something of a solitary person. His sister said he kept pretty much to himself. Is that how you’d describe him?”

“That would be reasonably accurate, I suppose,” said Meeke.

“Not antisocial,” said Muriel, “but hardly the life-and-soul sort.”

“How about Endicott?”

“He was friendlier,” she replied. “Speaking as a woman, I found him a bit nosy. I’m told touchy-feely, too.” She hesitated. “I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead—but he always wanted to know everything about you.” She looked at Meeke. “Was that your impression, Steve?”

Meeke shrugged. “‘Inquisitive,’ would be the right word, I guess.”

“In conversations, did either of them ever mention Sturminster?”

Both shook their heads. “No,” said Meeke emphatically.

“I’d like you to look at a list of names, if you would,” said Kingston, taking out Veitch’s list from his inside jacket pocket. He passed it to Meeke. “Let me know if any are familiar.”

Kingston and Andrew sat admiring the garden while the two studied the list. Kingston smiled. “Never seen so many dahlias,” he said sotto voce to Andrew. After a minute Meeke handed the list back to Kingston. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

“Same here,” said Muriel.

“Thanks.” Kingston put the list back in his pocket. “I’m particularly interested in the two women on the list—Vanessa Decker and Jessica Henshawe.”

By their expressions and silence Kingston knew that he was at another dead end. He was about to thank them both when Mrs. Meeke arrived with a large tray, bearing a plate of scones, cups and saucers, and a pot of tea. This helped ameliorate both his disappointment and his rumbling midriff, since he’d eaten very little for breakfast. Over tea, they were talking about more mundane matters when Muriel interjected.

“I just thought of something. We did have a member whose name was Vanessa. But her name wasn’t Decker.” She glanced at Meeke. “Do you remember her? Tallish, Scandinavian-looking blond woman.”

“I do,” he replied. “That was quite some time ago. Did she ever give a reason for leaving?”

“I believe she was moving,” said Muriel.

Kingston tried to suppress his eagerness. “Was she cozy with either Endicott or Veitch?”

Muriel chuckled. “Not with Veitch, that’s for sure. As for Endicott, it’s hard to say. Like I said, he fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. Is it important?”

“It could be, possibly. If they were at all close, it would fit with a theory I have. Do you remember her surname?”

Meeke looked to Muriel again. “It escapes me right now,” she said. “I know it wasn’t Decker. But it’ll be easy to go back through some of the newsletters or the minutes of meetings to find it.” She eyed Kingston knowingly. “You’re thinking that she might be the Vanessa you’re looking for?”

“It’s a distinct possibility. Women have been known to reassume their maiden names after divorcing.”

“Maybe that’s why she was moving,” Meeke interjected.

Another fifteen minutes passed while they toured the garden and chatted about things horticultural and significant gardens in the area that Kingston or Andrew might not have visited—Haddon Hall, Biddulph Grange, and Elvaston Castle being three. Kingston thanked them all and he and Andrew departed.

They were at the curb, about to drive off, when Kingston saw Muriel out of the corner of his eye, hurrying down the garden path to the gate, waving. He wound the window down as she approached.

“I remembered the name of the lady you were asking about: Vanessa Carlson. I’ll go through the records for an address and phone number, but can’t make any promises. It was a few years ago.”

Kingston thanked her and, with a quick wave, he and Andrew drove off.

“Well, that was worthwhile,” said Kingston, looking pleased.

“It must be the same woman, don’t you think?”

“I’d say the odds are very favorable. Hopefully, before long we’ll find out.”

For a while, rather than chat, Andrew seemed content to enjoy the passing Derbyshire scenery, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror.

Passing a familiar brown National Trust Gardens road sign, Kingston thought about Andrew’s Open Garden, which was now two days away. Earlier, they’d agreed on a plan: Kingston would arrive at the house in Bourne End early tomorrow prepared to tidy and spruce up the garden. He would stay overnight and act as cohost during the open house on Sunday, from ten to four, then stay overnight again for La Grande Bouffe brunch on Monday.

“Have you finalized your guest list for the lunch yet?” he asked.

“I think so, why? Anyone else you want to invite?”

Kingston shook his head. “No. Just being nosy.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Did you invite Henrietta?”

“No. I decided to save you the embarrassment. Personally, though, I think she’s fun.”

Kingston was going to mention that he’d been thinking of asking Amanda but thought better of it. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She is fun and witty, but she doesn’t drape herself all over you.”

“I wish she would. I might enjoy it.”

“You were very quiet today, Andrew. I’m glad you came, though.”

“There wasn’t much for me to say or do. As someone once said, ‘It’s better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt.’”

“I can guarantee you it’ll be more fun when we track down this Vanessa Carlson woman and get to talk to Jessica Henshawe. As a matter of fact, you could do the interviews. Right up your street.”

“Be glad to.”

Thinking about the two women reminded Kingston that he hadn’t heard from Tyler or Cassie Holbrook. He’d promised to call back about the mystery woman who was so interested in the frieze.

Waiting at a traffic light, Andrew took another furtive glance in the mirror.

“Why do you keep looking in the mirror?” asked Kingston, finally curious.

“Just checking to see if we’re being followed, that’s all.”

Kingston just shook his head.

* * *

Back at his flat at five o’clock, he found a note on the coffee table from Mrs. Tripp.

Dear Doctor,

I left a little early today to take Tinker to the vet. I left a Cornish pasty in the fridge, thinking that you might not want to cook tonight after being gone all day.

I’ll see you next week.

* * *

Underneath was scrawled a large G, which stood for Gertrude—a revelation that Kingston had discovered only recently, though she’d charred for him for over five years. It mattered little because he’d never be able to call her Gertrude.

After inspecting Mrs. Tripp’s pasty—it looked authentic and appetizing, with a nice golden crust—and checking his mail, he poured himself a drink and sat on the sofa to call Tyler Holbrook. Their young daughter, whose name he recalled was Libby, answered, in the same polite manner as on his last call, saying that her daddy was not home but her mommy was and that she would go find her.

Kingston thanked her, telling her who he was.

“I remember you,” she said. “You’re the man with the nice voice.”

Cassie came on the line. “Dr. Kingston. Good to hear from you.” Kingston found the Southern drawl melodious and pleasing, much as many Americans find the English accent charming. “How’s that investigation of yours goin’?”

“Not making as much progress as I’d like, sorry to say.”

“Tyler’s back in Boston for a few days. Should I have him call you? I’ll be talking to him tonight. Pity you’re not closer to Banbury. I could have him bring you back a couple of lobsters, too.”

“That would be nice. Thanks for the thought. Actually, it’s you I wanted to talk to—to ask you a question about the frieze.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve solved the mystery of the letters on the envelope.”

“I wish I had. No, it’s about the woman who called you some time ago, inquiring about it. Your husband mentioned her. He thought it was around the beginning of the year.”

“Yes. I remember her well. She was very persistent, wanted to see it.”

“I take it you never actually met her?”

“I didn’t. She called initially asking about the house, saying that she was a freelance writer working on an article about historic houses in Oxfordshire and had found that ours was listed and could she see it. I told her that it was impossible because we were in the middle of restoring it and that there wasn’t much to see. I went on to say that we’d be happy to show it to her when we were finished— that’s when she asked about the frieze. I told her it had been taken down and sold.”

“Did she say how she’d heard about it?”

“No. I didn’t think to ask at the time. I assumed that it must have been from a history book or something of that sort.”

“Your husband said that her name was Baker, or a name sounding like that.”

“I think it was Blakely. Anne Blakely. I wouldn’t be sure, though. There was no reason for me to remember it.”

It was probably insignificant, Kingston thought. It could have easily been an alias.

“Did she leave a phone number or any way to contact her?” he asked.

“No. And I didn’t think to ask.”

“Was there anything else?”

“There was. She wanted to know if our contractor had removed the frieze or if it had been someone else, like a specialist. That’s when I started to get suspicious. It seemed an odd question for a writer.”

“Did you tell her about the secret compartment, finding the hidden envelope?”

“Odd you’d ask that, Doctor. It was as if she knew the frieze might have concealed something—she might have even mentioned ‘some papers.’ She didn’t say it in so many words, but I remember wondering at the time if she didn’t know more than she was letting on.” She paused, and Kingston could hear her daughter’s voice in the background. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Libby was asking if you were coming to see us.” She chuckled. “I’ve taken the liberty of telling her that you’re a private eye.”

“I’d best remember that, should I get to meet her.”

“In answer to your question, just to get rid of the woman, I told her that we did find some papers but they contained only historical notes related to the house and nothing else. She asked if she could get copies of them, saying that the information might be of great help to her work. I simply told her that I didn’t have them, because we were compiling a scrapbook of Winterborne, and they were with a company that was preserving them. By this time a little red light was flashing in my head warning me not to tell her anything more—to end the conversation.”

“And you did?”

“Yep.”

“Earlier, you said, ‘when she called initially.’ Did she call a second time?”

“She did. I was surprised. She said that she’d like to see Winterborne when it was completed and it was convenient, but meantime she was still anxious to learn as much as she could about the frieze. I told her that I’d told all I knew, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wasn’t exactly rude—just determined. She said she was calling back because she’d like to talk to the people we’d sold it to so that she could take a picture of it, if it was okay with us. She also asked if I would give her the name and number of the company that had dismantled it. Why she would want to talk to them, I have no idea. I told her that if she left her phone number I would ask the buyer and have him call her.”

“She didn’t leave a number, I take it?”

“She didn’t.”

“I’m not surprised. Anything else you can remember about what she said, an accent?”

“Not really. No, wait. Her voice.”

“Her voice?”

“Yes. It was husky. Like she might be a smoker. That’s all.”

At least that was something, Kingston thought, making a mental note.

“I thought Tyler had told you about all this?” Cassie said.

“No, he said he’d get back to me.”

“He must have thought I’d called. Sorry. He’s usually so dependable in that sense.”

“Not to worry, he’s a busy man by the sound of it. I do have one last question, if that’s all right?”

“Sure.”

“The cubbyhole that held the letters. Do you recall which letter tile covered it?”

Another pause followed. “Gracious me, I can’t remember. Is it important?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You know who might know? Libby. She’s been making up mystery stories about it and helping her dad with the scrapbook. They’re having a great time with it. Hold on and I’ll ask her.”

In a minute she returned. “Libby is sure it was the letter ‘P’—as in ‘Precious.’ She remembered because she thought something precious should have been hidden behind it.”

“Smart girl.”

“She said her dad thought it was for ‘Proverbs.’”

“Proverbs? Why proverbs?”

“The quotation, it’s from the book of Proverbs. I thought you knew that.”

“I was told it was from Ecclesiastes.”

“No. We looked it up. The Kings James version.”

Kingston felt like a damned fool for not having verified it in the first place, rather than relying on the memory of the bloke in the pub. He thanked Cassie, saying that what she’d told him could turn out to be more valuable than she might realize and that he would let her know if he tracked down the mystery woman. He asked her to thank Libby, too, but thought it premature to tell her that her daughter’s remembering the letter of the tile could become a factor in helping solve the riddle of the Winterborne frieze.

Kingston topped up his drink and went to his study. He took out the Winterborne code from his file and a notepad from his desk drawer.

He wrote the alphabet on one line and, underneath, PROVEBS, the key phrase, with the single repeated letter R removed.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ





PROVEBS





Then, after the S, he added the remaining letters of the alphabet, skipping any that were already in PROVEBS. He checked to make certain that all the letters of the alphabet appeared on the lower line, with none repeated. One simple slip and the ciphertext would not function. It appeared to be correct.

Next, he placed the Winterborne code below the two lines and started to transpose the matching letters of the code from the lower line, cipher alphabet, to the plain alphabet above.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ





PROVEBSTUWXYZACDFGHIJKLMNQ





HEPYEVUAOTJGOTNPGVITUGINICHUM





ZCGIPYHUAUASJUYIGUVVEARGUOXH





The first letter of the Winterborne code was H. On the second-line cipher alphabet it was paired with S on the plain alphabet above. The second letter, E, became E, and P became A. As he wrote the letters SEA on his pad, his pulse quickened. The next letter would be critical. He took a deep breath, and when he saw that the next letter, Y, was paired with L, he exhaled loudly.

He was on to something.

Within seconds he had three words: a complete phrase. SEALED IN CHURCHYARD.

He’d done it. He’d broken the first part of the code.

He looked up at the ceiling, punching his fists in the air. He wanted to call Andrew—somebody—but restrained himself. He went back to finish decrypting. Another two minutes and it was done. He leaned back and studied the full message:

HEPYEVUAOTJGOTNPGVITUGINICHUM





SEALEDINCHURCHYARDTHIRTYTOSIX





ZCGIPYHUAUASJUYIGUVVEARGUOXH





MORTALSININGUILTRIDDENBRICKS





He read it again:

Sealed in churchyard thirty to six.

Mortal sin in guilt ridden bricks

As he stared at it, trying to make out what it meant, his euphoria abated. After all this, he’d been expecting the message to provide specific information or, at the very least, some kind of direction or clue telling how to proceed.

Instead, he was looking at a damned riddle.