Garden of Secrets Past

TWENTY-SEVEN


When Kingston and Andrew arrived in Oxford it was close to noon. Being a particularly bright and cheerful morning, with promise of a warm day ahead, they’d chosen to drive in the TR4 with the top down, taking the more scenic route through the Thames Valley towns of Maidenhead, Henley-on-Thames, and the ancient market town of Wallingford—coincidentally, once home to mystery writer Agatha Christie—where they would stop for lunch on their way back.

Shortly before leaving, Andrew had announced that he’d made a reservation at a three-star restaurant that served small dishes, taking delight in describing certain items on the menu and telling Kingston that the chef recommended that diners allow at least three hours to savor the meal.

Aubrey Lewellyn-Jones, Library and Archive Conservation, was located on Blue Boar Lane, a narrow passage tucked behind Oxford’s bustling High Street, somehow fitting for such an esoteric enterprise, thought Kingston. They entered through a nondescript door, inside of which was a brass plaque on the wall directing visitors upstairs. At the top of a narrow, perilously steep staircase covered in Oriental carpeting with brass runners, they went through the plate-glass door. Andrew muttered something about being in a Dickens novel, which Kingston ignored.

They were in a spacious, high-ceilinged workspace, naturally lighted by four skylights and a bank of iron-framed windows running the length of the far wall. Several oversize workbenches were positioned around the room; map chests and wooden file drawers circled two of the remaining walls, and in strategic areas, green-shaded lights were suspended from the ceiling by steel rods. The overall effect struck Kingston like being in the inside of a Victorian greenhouse sans plants.

As they entered, a lanky, bookish-looking man aptly attired in a dress shirt and bow tie under a tan smock stood, returned a document that he’d been studying to its cellophane sleeve, and walked over to greet them.

“How may I help you,” he asked.

“My name’s Kingston and this is my colleague, Andrew Duncan. Are you Mr. Lewellyn-Jones?”

“I am, indeed.”

“I was talking recently with a gentleman named Tyler Holbrook, who told me that you helped with preservation work on certain historic papers of his that were found concealed in a wall of his house in Banbury—Winterborne Manor.”

Lewellyn-Jones raised his eyebrows and squinted at the ceiling over the wire rims of his glasses. “Ah, yes. I remember those. An American fellow.”

“That’s him,” said Kingston, nodding.

“Interesting documents—remarkable condition, considering their age. So what brings you here?” he asked with an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you have a restoration or preservation project that you’d like to discuss?”

“Not exactly. We’re here concerning the Winterborne papers.”

The archivist gave them a quizzical look.

“Don’t worry,” said Kingston. “If it’s privacy issues you’re worried about, Tyler knows me well. As a matter of fact, I’ve been helping him with the content of the papers—educating him about the significance and relevance of the luminaries mentioned in the pages. He probably told you, he’s compiling a historical record of the house.”

The archivist looked flummoxed. “Yes, he did,” he mumbled. “So what is it that you want to know about the papers?”

“We need to know if anyone, other than you or your employees, has mentioned or shown the documents to anyone.”

Lewellyn-Jones gave a wounded look and was quick to reply. “Of course not. All customers’ documents and materials in our safekeeping are considered sacrosanct, much in the same way as with information that passes between you and your solicitor or bank manager. I can assure you, Mr. Kingston, that nobody had access to them.”

“Is it possible that another customer might have chanced on them, or that one of your employees might have become intrigued by them, then mentioned them to someone else, perhaps?”

“It seems I’m not making myself clear. We’ve been in business for twenty-five years, and not once during that time has anyone ever questioned our work or our integrity. Nothing belonging to our clients is ever left untended or placed at risk. Nothing. We simply cannot afford to do that. Most of the items left in our care are not only valuable but also irreplaceable.”

Andrew chimed in before Kingston could get another word in and make the man more offended than he already was. “I think we’d best be on our way, Lawrence,” he said, quietly. “I think you’ve provided the information we were seeking,” he said to Lewellyn-Jones with a smile, giving Kingston’s sleeve a subtle nudge.

Lewellyn-Jones appeared to be placated as he walked with them to the door. “Please give my regards to Mr. Holbrook when you next see him.”

“I will,” said Kingston.

They were walking past an open roll-top desk that Kingston assumed to be Lewellyn-Jones’s, when he stopped. A bank of framed photos and diplomas artfully arranged on the wall above the desk had caught his attention—one in particular.

“Beautiful car,” he said.

Lewellyn-Jones joined him, looking at it, too. The color photo showed three men standing in front of a shiny blue vintage car.

“It’s a 1937 Alvis Speed Twenty-Five,” said Lewellyn-Jones. “It originally belonged to Nigel Packenham, a well-known actor at the time. I was the third owner. That’s me on the right. Had a little more hair in those days.” He chuckled.

“What a beauty. Do you still have it?”

“Sadly, no. I had to sell it—about six years ago, long story.”

“That’s a shame.”

“When you have no choice, it makes it even worse.” He gave a grudging smile. “Anyway, it went to a good home,” he added.

At the door, Lewellyn-Jones bid them good-bye and they descended the stairs into Blue Boar Lane.

Walking down the street, Andrew looked at Kingston. “Well, that was a waste of—”

“Sometimes you get lucky,” said Kingston, smiling as he interrupted Andrew.

“Lucky? What do you mean? You were really starting to upset that poor man.”

“That poor man was lying through his teeth, Andrew.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The photo.”

“What about it?”

“The man in the middle. Guess who that was?”

“You tell me.”

“It was a younger Tristan Veitch.”

“You’re kidding. How do you know?”

“Because it’s the same car as the one in the picture I saw in Veitch’s office. Veitch was standing by it. I don’t think I told you about it. In that picture the only recognizable part of the car was the bonnet mascot, the eagle—used on some Alvis models. It’s the same car. There’s no doubt about it.”

“So that’s how Veitch got to know about the Winterborne code?”

Kingston nodded. “It makes sense. Veitch was a historian and, for the best part, Lewellyn-Jones’s business deals with restoring and preserving historical documents. I’d say that that rules out the possibility of coincidence, wouldn’t you?”

“You could be right,” said Andrew after thinking on it for a moment.

“I’d bet the farm on it,” Kingston replied.