Garden of Secrets Past

TWENTY-SIX


After Kingston put down the phone, he sat staring into space, trying to weigh the significance and implications of what Amanda had just told him. Was Wheatley simply applying undue pressure in the hope that he might get her to divulge more information about her relationship with her brother, or did he really have sound reason or plausible evidence to consider her a prime suspect? Kingston was unclear on the legal procedure but thought that, as a prime suspect, she would have been informed of her rights and been advised that she could have a solicitor present. From what she’d said, none of that had taken place. Kingston was still convinced that she was innocent, but he couldn’t do much about it other than to find out who had really murdered Tristan and Endicott.

He realized that he’d been so absorbed in Amanda’s plight that he’d forgotten the other two phone messages, particularly the one from Muriel Williams, which had sounded encouraging. He dialed her number. Her husband answered, and soon she was on the line.

“Sorry, Doctor, I was out in the garden,” she said.

Kingston smiled. It seemed that everyone he called these days was in or had been in the garden at the time. “I got your message,” he said. “You have some information on Vanessa Carlson, I believe?”

“Yes. She left the club in 2005 because she was leaving the area.”

“Was she moving abroad?”

“She didn’t say so. At the time, she wanted us to continue sending the club newsletter, and I have the forwarding address and phone number that she gave us.”

“Excellent,” said Kingston.

“If you’re ready, I’ll give it to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s The Tithe Barn, 43 Magpie Lane, Linslade, Bedfordshire, LU7 2MR. The phone number is 01525-973-214. That’s all the information I could find. I hope it will help.”

Kingston thanked her, telling her he would let her know how it worked out. “I have a question, Muriel,” he said. “Do you remember if there was anything memorable about her voice? Anything unusual?”

“Not really. It was lower than most women’s, perhaps.”

“Husky, maybe?”

“You might say that, yes.”

He thanked her again and the call ended. With the phone still in hand, he dialed the Linslade number. A man answered, an elderly man by the sound of it.

“I’d like to speak with Vanessa Carlson, please,” Kingston asked in the most congenial tone he could muster.

“Vanessa Carlson?”

“Yes. I was told this was her phone number.”

“Her phone number?”

“Right. I’d like to talk with her if she’s at home, please.”

“You’d like to talk with her?”

Kingston knew by now that the man was either deaf or senile—or both. “Vanessa Carlson,” he said, raising his voice.

“Sorry, she don’t live here no more.”

“Do you know where she went? Maybe an address?”

“Let me ask Mildred.”

The man had obviously abandoned the phone in search of his wife or caregiver, so Kingston stared at the wall and waited.

This time a woman’s voice. “Sorry about that. Dudley’s lost his hearing aid—third time this week. You were asking about one of our tenants, I believe?”

“I was, Vanessa Carlson. I’m trying to locate her, related to a police matter.”

“Lord, she’s not in trouble, I hope?”

“No. No. It’s a routine inquiry. Nothing serious. Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“She did, but I believe she’s moved again since then. Always on the go, that woman. I know where she works, though. A friend of mine ran into her a couple of weeks ago. She told me. It’s Stratford Estate Agents in Milton Keynes.”

Kingston made note of it on his pad by the phone. “Is she a single woman?”

“Yes, she is. Divorced.”

“About how old?”

“Ooh … fiftyish, I’d say.”

“Anything unusual about her voice?”

“An odd question.”

“It is, I know, but I don’t have a photo or a good description of her and I’m just trying to make sure that she’s the woman I’m looking for.”

“I never thought too much of it, but now you come to mention it she sounded as if she was a heavy smoker at one time, though I never saw her smoke. A bit like that American actress—her name escapes me—she was married to Humphrey Bogart, I believe.”

“Lauren Bacall.”

“That’s her. Sort of a gravelly voice.”

“Good. That’s the same description others have given me. It must be her. I’ll give Stratford Estate Agents a call. And thanks for your help. Give my regards to Dudley, too.”

“I will. Good luck.”

Kingston was pleased. It looked like his persistence in tracking down the elusive Vanessa Carlson had paid off. Once he’d verified with the estate agent’s office that she was still working there, he would pay her a visit. That would have to wait a day or so because tomorrow was spoken for. He and Andrew would be in Oxford for the best part of the day, not that it should take that long to chat with the archival people, but Andrew would never let an opportunity pass for a leisurely lunch in a good restaurant and Oxford had many.

He returned Morley’s call next. The woman who answered said that Lord Morley was in London for a few days and that she would make sure he got the message the next morning.

In bed at last, Kingston spent an hour finishing Oxbridge-Bell’s book, long overdue. Toward the end, the subject of the putative Morley “feud” was discussed. The upshot was that the author had uncovered no evidence in his considerable research to support the persistent speculative claims of serious malfeasance on the part of Samuel Morley. Despite this, it was known that while Samuel was benefiting from his brother’s largesse, he was diametrically opposed to the methods by which the moneys had been obtained. His pacifist sentiments and his association with people of like views, among them many intellectuals and liberal thinkers of the time, were well known. While hardly a revelation, this provided another possible reason for Samuel Morley’s acquaintance with Horace Walpole and Thomas Gray, both of whom seemed to fit the bill in that context.

Another curious tidbit in the closing pages concerned Matthew Seward, the architect who had designed Sturminster’s monuments and was also chummy with both Horace Walpole and Thomas Gray. Seward had disappeared soon after Sturminster’s monuments were completed, and no reports of his death had ever been presented or registered. One explanation offered for this mystery was that Seward had been a frequent traveler to various parts of Europe and the Middle East, and it has been speculated that he might have died while on one of these journeys.

Kingston wondered why this wasn’t mentioned in Veitch’s notes. Given that Seward had played only what appeared to be a supporting role in the events of the time, Kingston shrugged it off as irrelevant.

Staring at the shadowy coved ceiling before dozing off, Kingston thought back on his discussion with Andrew on Saturday evening. Andrew had raised a good point when he’d questioned how Veitch had managed to get his hands on the Winterborne papers and, even more puzzling, how he’d acquired the special skills to decipher complex codes to reach his conclusions. If it hadn’t been Veitch or Endicott who’d solved them, then who? Nobody on Kingston’s list or anyone he’d contacted since working on the case appeared to have such capabilities, though he had no way to know for sure, without more questioning. The more he thought on it, the more he kept coming back to Endicott.

Because of the garden club he had gotten to know Veitch fairly well. But what reason could have persuaded Veitch to enlist Endicott’s help? Why would he want to share the potentially dangerous knowledge he’d uncovered? Kingston tried to envisage possible scenarios: Endicott had found out what Veitch had discovered and threatened to expose him to the Morley family if he didn’t share in the potential rewards? Had Endicott been blackmailing Veitch? He came up with a couple of less likely explanations before returning to Andrew’s original thought: Endicott could have been the code expert—without him Veitch could have gone no further in his investigation.

Kingston pulled the sheets up under his chin and turned on his side. Closing his eyes, he thought about tomorrow’s trip to Oxford, but not forgetting that he had to make three important phone calls, too. First, was an exploratory call to Stratford Estate Agents; next, one to the archaeology and art institute, to ask the dean if Endicott had ever exhibited any interest or skills in cryptology; and the last, to pose the same question to Mrs. Endicott. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t asked her during his visit.