Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-THREE


Kingston huddled in the corner of the dark room, his hands pressed hard against his chest. Despite the gnawing pain, he couldn’t block the chilling thought of what must surely follow. He had no idea of time—were minutes passing, or seconds? He thought he heard voices in the eerie silence but couldn’t be sure. He wanted to look up but couldn’t move and could barely open his eyes or focus them. His mind loosed its moorings, castigating itself as though already detached, summing up a life that was about to end.

What a fool you’ve been, Lawrence Alastair Kingston—stubborn, conceited, and, yes, even reckless. You wouldn’t listen to Amanda’s and Andrew’s warnings, would you? And now look where it’s got you. I only hope Andrew hasn’t been shot too. I’d have never forgiven you for that. I know what you’re thinking, though: So far, you’re the only one who’s suffered but you’ve achieved your goal, solving the mystery of Sturminster—or, at least, believe you have. But was it worth it? I can only hope so, because it looks like—

He jolted himself from his delirium, wondering how much blood he was losing. Feeling more and more light-headed, he guessed it must be plenty. All he could do now was keep pressure on the wound and pray. He was past wondering who had shot him and why he hadn’t finished the job. The next shot—if it came—would certainly be lethal.

Merciful even.

He stared up at the opening—a black square specked with stars—determined to keep his heavy-lidded eyes open and not drift away again.

More time passed. How much, he had no idea.

Voices.

Were they real?

Yes. No, wait—

He must be imagining them.

He looked through filmy eyes at the opening again. Someone was descending the ladder; others followed, carrying a stretcher.

A face loomed close to his. It was Andrew, he was certain. “Hang on, Lawrence. We’re getting you out of here,” he said in Kingston’s ear.

Kingston reached out to Andrew; he had to tell him, before the others discovered it. He found Andrew’s arm and held it for a moment, gaining strength from the simple act. The other men, three or four of them, gathered nearby, talking quietly among themselves, a stretcher off to one side. One of the men approached and kneeled beside him. It took him a moment to realize that it was Simon Crawford, Sturminster’s dapper manager. It was the casual clothes, he realized. Over a black turtleneck, his Barbour jacket had seen better days. “We’re getting you to a hospital,” he said. “Your friend’ll be with you. You’re going to be fine.”

With Andrew at his side, he was lifted onto the stretcher, a blanket laid over him, then strapped down. Crawford went up the ladder first, then called down orders. As Kingston was lifted, he tugged on Andrew’s arm, dragging him alongside the stretcher. “It’s all right, Lawrence,” Andrew comforted. “It won’t be long now.”

“Listen to me,” Kingston said in a hoarse voice, pulling Andrew close.

“What is it?”

“It’s the bricks,” Kingston whispered.

“What bricks?” Andrew whispered back.

“On the walls. I think they’re filled with gold.”

“Gold? ”

“Keep your voice down. Find a way to slip back. Look at the wall behind where I was shot. You’ll see it—the gold. There’s a bullet there, lodged in the wall. Get it and keep it. Understand?”

Andrew squeezed his hand tight. “Don’t worry, I will,” he replied.

Now Kingston felt himself being raised into a near vertical position. The blood rushed from his head, the light-headedness and nausea returning. Then he was lying flat again, looking up at stars, being hurried across an open space and lifted into a vehicle. It cheered him that Andrew was nowhere to be seen. He breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

He slipped into a dream: floating slowly down a river, on his back, like Millais’s Ophelia before she drowned. But unlike her, he wasn’t singing. Far off, a chorus of muted voices was singing a cappella. He was being lifted again, as if by invisible hands, carried upward toward a blissful golden light that beckoned. Yet as he drew closer, the light’s radiance dimmed and he slid into a velvety blackness, soothing and soporific.

The pain was gone. He was asleep.