Garden of Secrets Past

TWENTY-EIGHT


Lunch at the Landing, on the banks of the Thames in Wallingford, was much as Andrew had described it: a seemingly never-ending succession of small dishes accompanied with sommelier-recommended wine pairings, that dragged on over three and a half hours. Afterward, Andrew had judged it one of the best restaurants that he’d visited in the last year or so, while Kingston had found the food above average but the overall experience too labored and pretentious. Though Kingston would never dare say so—it would start an impassioned debate ending in his being labeled a culinary purist with no sense of gastronomical adventure—he would have far preferred a perfectly grilled Dover sole or perhaps Steak Diane. All that aside, he was in an especially good mood throughout the afternoon, still chuffed with the results of their chat with the mendacious Lewellyn-Jones.

On the drive home, Andrew started to complain of a toothache, saying that if it persisted, he would call his dentist’s emergency number that evening.

* * *

When Kingston rose the next morning, a near gale was buffeting the trees in the square and rain was chattering on the windowpanes. By the looks of the rivulet coursing along the gutter on the street below, the storm must have blown in several hours ago. He was planning to drive to Milton Keynes to confront Vanessa Carlson this morning and he couldn’t have chosen a worse day. Andrew had called the evening before to tell Kingston that he’d managed to get a dentist appointment at noon and wouldn’t be able to accompany Kingston, as they’d arranged. He’d reasoned with Kingston to put the trip off for one day, but Kingston had prevailed, assuring his friend that he was only going to see a woman in an estate agent’s office on Milton Keynes’s high street, and that Andrew’s presence—though he would enjoy the company—would make no difference one way or another.

Kingston planned to spend the first part of the morning catching up with phone calls—in particular to Dorothy Endicott—and taking yet another look at Veitch’s notes and the baffling Winterborne riddle. After that, depending on the storm and before it got too late, he would decide whether or not to make the journey. He figured, with normal traffic, Milton Keynes to be no more than an hour and a half’s drive, so he would still have plenty of time to do the round-trip and be back at a respectable hour. Doubtless the interview would be brief.

His call to the institute the day before had drawn a blank. The dean was as solicitous as before, regretting that he had no knowledge whatsoever to indicate that Endicott had skills in cryptography. He assured Kingston that he would inquire with all members of the faculty if Endicott had discussed anything of that nature with them and, if so, would let Kingston know.

Breakfast finished, he dialed Dorothy Endicott’s number. When he’d called yesterday, he was told that she was gone all day on a trip to London but would be returning late that evening. It was a couple of minutes before she was located, but when she answered, she sounded in the same good humor as before.

“Dr. Kingston. What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Are you coming up to see me again? I hope.”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. I’m still spending all my time on your son’s case. But I’ll have to meet with the police in Stafford sooner or later. When I do, I’ll let you know. That’s a promise. If the timing is right, I’ll take you out for a nice lunch.”

“I’d really enjoy that. Are you making any progress?”

“Very little, sad to say. Whoever said that ‘it’s the drudgery and boredom of police work that eventually solves cases’ knew what he was talking about. I called to ask you a question, Dorothy. It’s something that I should have asked you the last time.”

“Of course. I told you I would tell you everything I possibly can, if it means finding out who killed William and why.”

“At any time during William’s growing up, schooling, career path, did he ever show an interest in codes or code breaking?”

“Cryptology. Oh, yes. He was very good at it.”

“He was ? When was this? When he was younger, at school?”

“He first became interested when he was at County Grammar School. He used to do the cryptic puzzles, the ones in the newspaper. Then he started studying it more seriously. His interest continued when he went to university. I remember his telling me one day that he was considering pursuing a career where cryptology skills were required. I believe he was looking into civilian jobs with intelligence and national security agencies. I wouldn’t be sure, though.”

“That never happened, I take it?”

“No. It was a good idea at the time, but the more he learned about the modern technology involved and all the advanced computer stuff that goes with it these days, the less he liked it. He finally gave up, to pursue his original goal, which was archaeological studies, as you know.”

“Well, Dorothy,” Kingston said, trying to rein in his elation, “what you’ve told me answers a question that’s concerned me for some time.”

“I hope it helps in a good way.”

“It does.”

“Are you saying that he might have been killed because of his interest in cryptology?”

“Not necessarily.” Kingston hesitated for a moment, not knowing how much to tell her.

“You’re a nice man, Doctor—clever, too. I won’t ask any more questions. There’s not much point because I know that you wouldn’t say anything that could cause me more stress. Perhaps the less I know for now is for the best, but eventually I would like to know the real reason for William’s murder. To set my mind at rest.”

“When we know the full story, you will, Dorothy. I promise you.”

“Don’t forget to call me when you know you’re going to be in Stafford.”

“I won’t. I’m sure it will be soon.”

Kingston put the phone down feeling exuberant. At last another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Studying the science for that long, Endicott must have been exceptionally accomplished at cryptography, he thought.

* * *

Two hours later, Kingston was on the A5 approaching the sprawl of Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire. He’d decided to make the drive when the rain had stopped at ten thirty and the somber skies had magically, but not atypically, transmuted into a hazy blue with a ragged layer of low clouds. Before leaving, he’d called the estate agent’s office and had been assured by the woman who answered that Vanessa would be there most of the day.

Passing the off-ramp sign to Bletchley, he smiled. In Britain’s darkest days of the war, the little town served as headquarters of the illustrious World War II code-breaking masterminds. “Pity you couldn’t be of help,” he said to himself. He would love to have been on the team responsible for breaking the Nazis’ Enigma code and thereby shortening the duration of the war. In about fifteen minutes he would come face-to-face with the elusive Vanessa Carlson. He was rather looking forward to it.

The estate agent’s office was in the heart of town and Kingston had no trouble finding it. He opened the plate-glass front door and entered a small room that looked like every other estate agent’s office he’d seen. The lone occupant, a man Kingston guessed to be in his midforties, was seated at an empty desk. Seeing Kingston, he stood. He was a large man, with large features on his florid face, dressed in a brown leather jacket, black T-shirt, and tan jeans. Immediately Kingston sensed that something was off-kilter. Surely, even in Milton Keynes, estate agents would never dress in this fashion, he thought.

“Can I ’elp you?” he said. His voice matched his attire and wasn’t overly friendly.

“I’m here to meet Vanessa Carlson. I was told she was working today.”

“She ain’t ’ere and she’s not expected back today. Who shall I say was looking for ’er?”

Kingston was thinking fast. “Dr. Kingston. I doubt she’ll know me, though.”

“Funny. Because she told me to expect you.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Kingston, his suspicions now confirmed.

“Harassment’s not a laughin’ matter. I’ve ’alf a mind to call the police,” the man replied, sizing Kingston up with clear intent.

Kingston was now thinking of making a hasty retreat. He eyed the door, wishing it were a little closer. “You’ve got it wrong. I only want to talk to her,” he said. “I’ve never met the woman in my life.”

The man started moving closer to Kingston, arms dangling by his sides, fists half clenched. “You made a big mistake by coming ’ere, chum,” he said menacingly.

They were now separated by no more than three feet and Kingston was thinking of making a run for it. He started to inch back toward the door, about to speak, when the man’s huge fist lashed out at him. He managed to spin at the last moment. The fist missed his jaw and slammed, full force, into his left shoulder, hurling him off balance into a desk by the window, knocking a table lamp and a telephone to the floor. Half on, half off the desk with no possible means of defense, his shoulder throbbing with pain, there was little he could do as the big man loomed over him, his right fist raised. “It would give me the greatest pleasure to put you in hospital, mister. But I’ve been told not to do that. You ain’t gonna get a second chance, though. You stay away from Vanessa, or you’ll end up on a slab. Now get out of here before I change my mind,” he growled, kicking Kingston in the shin. “Bugger off and don’t come back!”

In the Pay & Display car park, Kingston sat in the TR nursing his shoulder, wincing in pain at the slightest movement. His shin hurt, too; it was bloodied but nothing serious. It would be several days of aspirin and sleepless nights, he knew, before his shoulder improved. He stared at the dashboard thinking about what had just happened. Mistake number one was not bringing Andrew along. But how was Kingston to have known he’d be meeting a gorilla instead of Vanessa Carlson? He also wondered what to make of the man’s saying that he’d been told not to mess Kingston up. What reason could they have—whoever they were—for not giving him a real going-over? Was it possible that they’d also reached an impasse in solving the code and were now forced to count on him to do so? At least he knew that he had the right woman, no question now that Carlson was the woman who had masqueraded as the researcher, quizzing Cassie Holbrook about the house and the frieze. The incident also implied that he was still under surveillance: The only way that Vanessa Carlson could have known that he planned to show up in her office was from the couple in Linslade. Even though he hadn’t left his name, Kingston’s calling the estate office to ascertain if Vanessa would be at work that day would have confirmed any suspicions she might have had.

Driving out of the car park, his thoughts turned to the Brookside Garden Club and its three members: Veitch, Endicott, and Carlson. How did each fit into the picture? he wondered. Somehow he couldn’t see them working in concert with the common cause of solving a centuries-old mystery. So what role did each play? He’d gone over this ground before but knew that if he could establish their relationships—whose side each was on—it would help answer a lot of questions. At least there was no need for more speculation on Endicott’s relationship with Veitch. Little doubt remained that they’d become partners, because Veitch needed Endicott’s cryptography skills. But something had happened, and whatever that something was had most likely led to Endicott’s murder. And what about Vanessa Carlson? How did she fit into the puzzle? Today’s fiasco left little doubt that she was implicated with the people who had been trying to prevent Veitch from publishing his discovery. Or had they been simply trying to find out exactly what it was that he’d uncovered in order to find the supposed hidden money? Maybe it was both? She had been the only one remaining who might have provided answers, but now that door had been slammed shut. Between the pain, the disappointment, and the humiliation, Kingston had had quite enough for one day. He slipped a disc into the CD slot determined to forget today’s misadventure, soon calmed, if in spirit only, by Sarah Chang’s Brahms Violin Concerto in D.

When he arrived home, there were no phone messages. He found it curious that Morley had not called. They’d been playing telephone tag for several days, and thus far in their dealings Morley had always been quick to respond. A letter from Oliver Henshawe was among the day’s post. He sat on the sofa and read it, before tending to his shoulder.

Dr. Kingston,

Regarding your inquiry about Jessica. I regret to say that six months ago she suffered a stroke and is now a resident at Larkmead Woodlands Nursing Home near Leicester. Prior to that, she had been in declining health and living with a friend in Market Harborough for a year. The address is Larkmead Woodlands, 28 the Lanes, Wynton Bassett, Leicestershire, LE3 9LH.

I wish you success in your endeavor to bring the guilty parties to justice for the terrible crimes committed at Sturminster. I’m familiar only with what I’ve read, having lost touch with Francis over these last several years.

Yours sincerely,

Oliver Henshawe

He put the letter aside, feeling a modest sense of pity for Jessica Henshawe’s misfortune but glad that he wouldn’t have to conduct another interview. Hers would have been the last, but he was tiring of asking the same questions over and over and getting little for the effort. He took two aspirin and spent the next twenty minutes applying a makeshift ice pack to his shoulder while watching the BBC News. After a supper of leftovers and two glasses of Burgundy, he went to bed early, reading for an hour before dozing off. All things considered, he managed to get a decent night’s sleep, waking once in the small hours, in the middle of a dream in which he was at an elegant party at a house that resembled Winterborne. Among the guests, in eighteenth-century attire, were Robert Walpole, Horace Walpole, and Thomas Gray. He never had the opportunity to talk to any of them, being forcibly removed as persona non grata.