Garden of Secrets Past

FOUR


Ten minutes after leaving Sturminster, Kingston sat at the bar of the Red Lion in the village of Longdon Green, studying the chalkboard menu, a half pint of best bitter in front of him and the Morley family book on the stool next to him. He’d spotted the thatched pub on his way up, keeping it in mind should he feel the need for something to eat before driving home.

Few customers remained in the saloon lounge. The lone waitress had left for the day, leaving a stout, balding man behind the bar—whom Kingston had pegged as the landlord—to serve the stragglers and resume what all bartenders turn to in moments of inactivity and with no one to chat up: polish the glasses. Sid’s jovial face—his name had been uttered several times since Kingston’s arrival—was as round as a soccer ball, set with a large, disjointed, and veined nose and a smile on his florid face that seemed permanent. A half dozen framed black-and-white photos on the wall behind the bar depicting rugby players readily explained the nose.

“So what’s it to be?” he asked, catching Kingston’s eye.

“The ploughman’s, please,” Kingston responded.

“Right you are,” he replied, scribbling the order on a pad. In a few seconds he was back behind the bar refilling a customer’s beer glass. That done, he turned his attention to Kingston. “Looks like more rain’s on the way,” he said.

Kingston nodded. “It was starting to spit when I drove in. As long as that’s all it is, I don’t mind.”

“Got a long drive?”

“London.”

“Long enough.”

A thought hit Kingston. It was more than likely that Sid would know something about Sturminster. The estate was only minutes away, and it was a sure bet that some of the staff frequented the pub—perhaps Crawford or, even better, Morley himself.

“I was just up at Sturminster,” he said. “Beautiful place.”

“That it is. Are you a gardening sort?”

“You might say that. But it was business related this time.”

Sid nodded. “Once in a while we do luncheons, birthday parties, and the like for the staff. We’ve catered events up there too.”

“You probably know Simon Crawford, then?”

“I do. Met him several times. Decent sort.”

“Yes, he seems to be. I met him for the first time today.”

Kingston took a sip of beer, wondering if he should tell Sid a white lie about his reason for being at Sturminster or just tell the truth. He needn’t have worried.

“You know about the murder, then?”

“I do,” Kingston replied with a quick nod.

“Rum business, that one. Something not right about it, if you ask me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When it happened, it was all over the news. Then bang—suddenly not a word.”

“It’s probably because the police have no leads, no suspects. There’s been nothing to report.” He paused to sip his beer. “Any people from Sturminster who are regulars?”

“A few, yes.”

“They must have some opinions about the case. Do they discuss it all?”

“They did at first. That was all everyone talked about for days. You wouldn’t believe some of the theories and rumors that were flying around. Not so much anymore, though; people seem to have forgotten about it. It’s back to business as usual. Understandable, when you think about it.”

Kingston sighed. “Symptomatic of the times, I’m afraid. Nothing shocks or offends that much anymore. If it does, the anger won’t last for long, simply because, around the corner, there’ll be another calamity or horror story to capture our attention.”

“You’ve got it right there,” said Sid, who turned away to answer the ringing phone.

Kingston welcomed the break, mostly because it gave him time to weigh his next question. He saw no reason why bringing up Morley’s name now should appear out of place. He couldn’t afford to appear too inquisitive, though, or Sid would rightfully question his motives.

The lunch would take awhile, so he propped up the book on the bar and started to read. It soon became clear that the early history of the Morleys was a sweeping saga, even compared with other illustrious and better-known English families of the time, such as the dukes of Wellington and Marlborough. Whereas the latter made history on the battlefield, James Morley—who started his naval career in 1712 as a fourteen-year-old volunteer aboard the frigate HMS Carnelian—carved his reputation and amassed his considerable fortunes through his exploits and victories on the high seas. His naval prowess, the efficiency of his eventual administration of the admiralty, and his many strategic reforms left an enduring mark on the British navy, his repute overshadowed only by that of Admiral Horatio Nelson.

Though James Morley had never owned the estate at Sturminster, it was solely through his endeavors and financial support that its creation was made possible. While he was engaged in naval warfare and exploration across the globe, furthering the expansion of the British Empire and later embarking on an epic four-year journey circumnavigating the world, his older brother Samuel was busy at home, developing the old family seat at Sturminster. Samuel had inherited the estate from their father in 1720. From that moment on he had dedicated his entire bachelor life to its expansion. Systematically, over thirty years, Samuel Morley had purchased freeholds, leaseholds, and copyholds of the other tenants of the manor, which included two substantial villages, a corn mill, a paper mill, and various tracts of undeveloped land. As he’d bought up the properties, he’d demolished the cottages and other structures on them. Thus, what had once been a densely built-up area was transformed piecemeal into fifteen hundred acres of open parkland, which Morley gradually converted into a model landscape by large-scale planting of trees and shrubs and erecting the eight Grecian-inspired monuments that came to distinguish Sturminster. During this time he also had a new, larger, and grander house built.

None of this would have been possible if not for the constant stream of money provided by brother James from his ever-growing war chest. Ironically, during those many years the seafaring James Morley rarely visited Sturminster. The reason for that had not been mentioned in the book, so far. Kingston wondered why.

As he was thinking on it, Sid reappeared.

“Your lunch will be here in a couple of minutes. Sorry for the delay. Bit shorthanded back there today.” He gestured to the book. “Reading up on the Morleys?”

“Yes. Between you, me, and the gatepost, I’m about to start working with Lord Morley on a project. I should really say ‘for him,’ because I doubt he’ll be directly involved.”

“You’re probably better off.”

“Why’s that?”

Sid stopped polishing and shook his head. “Blokes who work at the estate have come in and dropped a few comments. Nothing firsthand, though.” He paused, as if debating whether he should leave it at that or continue. “Word has it that he throws his weight around a bit—you know, ‘the big I am.’ He also has somewhat of a reputation for being tightfisted. Other than that, he appears to be typical of that sort, if you know what I mean.”

Kingston nodded slowly.

In the silence that followed, he decided to take the plunge and hope that Sid didn’t find his next question out of place or too nosy. “I take it you wouldn’t know much about the Morley family, then?”

Sid gave him a strange look, his smile erased. “The family?” he said, haltingly. His smile returned right away. “Oh, I think I see what you’re getting at. The never-ending Sturminster feud and the money that was supposed to have been nicked?”

Kingston was taken aback but quickly gathered his senses and nodded. “I’d heard the rumor. The reason I asked, though, was more curiosity than anything else.”

“I wouldn’t be the one to ask about that. Tristan Veitch is your man. You need to talk to him.”

“A local?”

Sid nodded. “Last I heard he was living over near Abbot’s Broomfield by the reservoir. I’m told he’s a bit of a recluse, a cantankerous old bugger.”

“What’s his line of work?”

“He’s sort of a self-appointed historian for this part of the county. Most of it related to Sturminster and the Morleys, of course. The history of the family is quite a saga, by the way.”

“So I’m gathering,” Kingston said, nodding at the book. “I’d like to meet this Veitch fellow. Any idea how I can contact him?”

“He’s probably ex-directory, but you might want to give the Post a call. That’s our local paper. They publish historical articles of his from time to time.”

At that moment, a lady wearing an apron appeared with Kingston’s ploughman’s lunch spread out on a wooden board. She placed it on the bar and vanished as quickly as she had arrived.

“Well, I’ll quit wittering on and leave you to enjoy your lunch,” said Sid. “Another Worthington’s?”

Kingston nodded. “Please,” he said, feeling chuffed with his good fortune and his decision to stop at the Red Lion in the first place. Slicing into the generous wedge of Stilton, he was already thinking about meeting Tristan Veitch.

* * *

Driving back to London, he gave thought to what he had learned from his meeting with Crawford. The skimpy background on William Endicott was a modest start but hardly thought provoking. The only thing that had struck him as remotely significant was Endicott’s job at the institute. According to Crawford, the professor’s specialty was Greek and Middle Eastern archaeology, and the Sturminster monuments were all Grecian-inspired. Coincidence? Maybe, but it could also suggest that architecture could be the common denominator that somehow linked Endicott to Sturminster and perhaps the murder. The connection was flimsy, but the institute would be on his list of places to check out.

As for the GCHQ report, after he’d had the chance to read it and had studied the copy of the scrap of paper found in Endicott’s pocket, he would probably take Crawford’s advice and compare notes with Tennant. It would seem unlikely, however, as Crawford had contended, that either would amount to much, until the missing piece of paper showed up—if it ever did.

Of everything that he’d learned or seen during his brief time at Sturminster, the Arcadian monument had interested him most. With its primitive, rough-hewn stone surround, it oozed a feeling that was otherworldly and unsettling. In stark contrast, the monument’s centerpiece had the exact opposite effect. The aesthetic beauty of its pastoral scene, delicately sculpted from white marble, was clearly meant to serve as a counterpoise, to imbue a sense of harmony and repose in those contemplating it. Then, looking more closely at it, spotting the presence of a sarcophagus in the elysian depiction, the symbolism became clear: Even in paradise, death exists. As if all that weren’t enough, there was the cryptic inscription. He wondered if Matthew Seward, the monument’s creator, had added it of his own volition, or had someone else been responsible? If the latter were the case, it would seem logical that it would have been one of the Morley brothers, who’d commissioned it in the first place, who would have conceived of adding the baffling inscription.

He could now appreciate more than ever why the Arcadian monument had provoked so much interest over the centuries and had attracted such a cultlike following of would-be code breakers and theorists. As far as the murder was concerned, it was easy to understand why it would be natural for people to jump to the conclusion that the monument had something to do with the crime. With the body discovered a stone’s throw from the monument and, on top of that, the code angle—two code angles, no less—it had all the makings of a sure thing. Though he still had reservations about it having a direct connection to the murder, he certainly wouldn’t dismiss the possibility of it having some connection, no matter how tenuous. He made a mental note to look at the other monuments more closely the next time he returned to Sturminster.

Stuck in heavy commuter traffic on the A446 in a steady rain that had started soon after he’d left the pub, Kingston could do little but twiddle his thumbs and watch the raindrops bouncing off the TR’s bonnet. His radio had gone on the blink several days ago and wouldn’t be fixed for another week. He glanced momentarily at the ugly hole in the dashboard. Why was it so devilishly hard to get anything repaired or serviced these days? he wondered. Surely it hadn’t always been like this. He was reminded once again—it happened with growing frequency of late—how much England had changed in the last few decades, and not for the better, to his way of thinking.

It wasn’t until he was rounding Marble Arch, close to home, that he remembered Mrs. Tripp, his doughty and talkative housecleaner. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s all I need.” Nothing short of Armageddon would keep her from her appointed rounds. At the stroke of nine every Friday, the doorbell would ring and there she would be, planted on the doormat like a garden gnome, with her cheery countenance and cliché-ridden greeting. When possible, he tried to make plans for Fridays. Not so much to be out of her way as to avoid her chronic and trivial jabbering. After a three-year drubbing, he had developed an impenetrable but polite self-defense system. There was no question in his mind that she was beyond cure.

When Kingston arrived at his flat at five thirty, she was still doing the ironing.

She glanced up when he entered. “There you are, Doctor. I hope you’re all right? I’ve been worried stiff about you. You’ve been gone all day,” she bleated, shaking her head.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Tripp.” He glanced at his watch. “It is getting late, you know. Perhaps you should call it a day and go home?”

“Don’t you worry yourself, Doctor,” she said breezily, continuing to iron. “I’ll just finish up here then I’ll be out of your hair. In any case, Arthur’s not coming home until later this evening. He’s going to one of his bridge club meetings. Oh, and I put the post on the coffee table for you.”

Kingston nodded. “Thank you. If you need me, I’ll be in the living room.” He started for the door, but he knew that she wasn’t about to let him escape that easily.

“Did you read that story this morning, on the front page of the Mail?”

“I didn’t,” he replied, hand on the doorknob. “I don’t read the Mail.”

“Gave me the willies, it did—about these Satan worshippers in Russia, I believe it was. Killed three people, then cooked them. Can you imagine? Goths, they called them. I got sick to my stomach when I read it. I don’t know how…”

“Mrs. Tripp, I can understand your revulsion, but there are things I must attend to, so if you’ll pardon me, I’ll say good evening and go do some catching up.”

“Of course. I understand, Doctor. I’ll see you next week then?”

“You will,” he said with a disguised sigh, before closing the door behind him.

In the living room, he placed the satchel on the floor next to the couch and picked up the post from the coffee table. Nothing of interest save a postcard from his friend Andrew depicting a large brown spotted trout on one side and a terse message—as usual—on the other:

Lousy weather, otherwise having a good time. Hope you’re staying out of trouble while I’m gone. I’ll treat you to lunch at the Anchor when I get back.

Cheers,

Andrew

An hour later, after a light dinner—with a notepad, pen, and a glass of Côtes du Rhône by his side—he placed the contents of the satchel on the coffee table. Slowly and deliberately, he started to read. Some, like transcripts of conversations with the police—written by Simon Crawford, from memory, as notated—he read twice to make sure he wasn’t missing anything that was unclear, contradictory, or ambiguous. In a few cases he made notes of statements and time lines that he would cross-check later.

When he’d finished, almost two hours later, he was left with a vague sense of disappointment. He certainly now had a clearer picture of everything that had happened on that terrible day at Sturminster and the days that followed, but the documents had revealed nothing new. The police did indeed seem at a dead end. There was no new information that would help expand his inquiry.

He returned the papers to the satchel and took his wineglass back to the kitchen. He’d been planning to read more of Morley’s book before retiring but had concluded that the last two hours had been more than enough reading for one night. Though he’d rather not admit it, he needed a break, even if it was only a short one. An hour or so catching up on the news and sports on the telly should do the job, he decided. He nodded off in less than fifteen minutes, in the middle of the national weather report.