Garden of Secrets Past

SIX


The next morning Kingston rose early. During breakfast he read and reread the police reports and some of the other material that Crawford had given him. There was no question that, to date, the police had conducted a thorough examination, seemingly having left no proverbial stone unturned. Nevertheless, reading between the lines it was evident that they had no idea who might have killed Endicott, and they appeared to have no leads whatsoever.

The correspondence from GCHQ was much as Crawford had described—brief and to the point: Only if the matching piece of paper were located could it be determined if codes were involved. In summation they suggested that the letters were probably a combination or password of some kind.

Breakfast finished and the dishes put away, Kingston, following Sid’s suggestion, called the Midlands Post to inquire about Tristan Veitch. Though they couldn’t give Kingston the number, they agreed to pass on a brief message to the historian letting him know that Kingston wanted to contact him regarding matters concerning Sturminster.

He had better luck finding Mrs. Endicott, the murdered man’s mother. Even though he couldn’t recall the name of the village where Crawford had said she was staying, it didn’t take long. An Internet search located the assisted-living house Kingston was looking for in the village of Rugeley. From the picture, Richmond Court more resembled a manor house than an assisted-living home. He printed the page and set it aside. He didn’t plan to phone, though. He would learn much more if he could talk to Mrs. Endicott face-to-face. As had been his practice with similar circumstances in the past, he called Richmond Court to make sure that she was still a resident there, and after learning that she was, asked what would be an appropriate time to stop by to see her. He was told that the best time would be early afternoon, sometime after two P.M.

That afternoon, Kingston rounded Richmond Court’s circular driveway and parked in a designated area on the side of the house. Stepping out of the car, he paused to admire the lovely old house and its spacious and peaceful surroundings: salubrious, as well they should be, he thought.

The front door was ajar, so he entered but rang the brass doorbell anyway. Inside, with nobody in sight, he stood in the parquet-floored entrance hall admiring the room before deciding to go in search of someone in charge. Soon he heard the clip-clop of heels coming from a hallway on his left. Odd that, in a rest home, the woman wouldn’t be wearing quieter shoes, he thought. A smiling young lady, dressed in a dark suit, approached to greet him.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Richmond Court. You’ve certainly brought a lovely day with you. I’m Patricia Wilkinson, service administrator.”

Kingston beamed back, suddenly realizing that she might think that he was a prospective client inquiring about future care for a relative or friend. “Good afternoon,” he replied, adopting an avuncular tone. “My name is Kingston,” he said, handing her his card in a manner where she was not likely to miss his name and title.

“Nice to meet you, Doctor. How may I be of help?”

“I’m an acquaintance of William Endicott. You’re aware, I’m sure, of his unfortunate death recently.”

She looked suitably solemn and nodded. “I am, yes.”

“I would like if possible to have a few short words with Mrs. Endicott, who I understand is one of your residents. I don’t want to disturb her unnecessarily, but I’m only in the Stafford area for a brief time. Knowing I would be within a few miles of Richmond Court I decided that, rather than talk to her on the phone, I’d do it in person. It’s always so much more pleasant.”

“Let me talk to her. I don’t think it should be a problem at all. She welcomes visitors, actually. It shouldn’t take long,” she said, flashing a Colgate smile and turning on her heels. In two minutes she returned, asking Kingston to accompany her to the terrace where, she said, Mrs. Endicott was reading.

The wisteria-covered, Yorkstone terrace—past its bloom, sadly—stretched the width of the house and faced out to a freshly mown lawn, edged on all three sides by perennial borders. Kingston was impressed. Ms. Wilkinson did the introductions, then made a polite exit, leaving them alone. Kingston pulled up a wicker chair underneath the sun umbrella and sat facing a smiling Mrs. Endicott. She was a small Dresden-like woman with meticulously coiffed hair dyed a henna color, wearing a cream-colored knitted shawl over a silk blouse. Unlike many women of her age—he guessed to be early eighties—who were prone to apply the rouge, lipstick, and powder like war paint, her makeup was applied sparingly and with obvious care. Her eyes were a periwinkle color and still had plenty of sparkle in them. He smiled, noticing the folded tabloid paper and Montblanc pen on the low table next to her. It was the Guardian’s racing form. An encouraging start, he thought.

“So, Doctor,” she said, “what brings you here? You knew my son?”

If he closed his eyes, he could have been listening to a woman half her age. She had none of the speech patterns associated with advancing age. “I didn’t,” he replied, “but I would like to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, with a quick nod.

“I never met your son, but I was friends with a man who I believe did.”

“Patricia said you were a doctor.” She smiled, playfully. “Are you here to give me a mental checkup?”

Kingston chuckled. “Goodness, no. I’m not that sort of doctor.”

“What are you here for, then?”

“I’ve been hired, among other things, to look into the death of your son. To find out why he was killed and for what reason.”

“Surely the police are doing that. At least it gives me comfort to think that they are.”

“They’re working on it all the time, I can assure you.”

Her eyes widened slightly and looked directly into his. “Are you a private detective?”

He smiled. “Not exactly, but close enough. I’m really a retired professor of botany, but somehow I keep getting roped into either helping the police or being retained by private individuals—as in this case—to assist in investigations.”

“So you want to ask me questions, I take it?”

On the drive up, Kingston had been concerned that she might be too infirm, or possibly suffering from dementia, to be willing or even able to carry on an intelligent conversation. He needn’t have worried. Time had neither dulled her quickness of mind nor blunted her humor; she was even volunteering information.

“If that’s okay. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“That’s the one thing that I’ve plenty of now—time, memories, and bad dreams.” She forced a wan smile. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but there are still times when I get up in the morning, spend time in front of the mirror, then put on some nice clothes, convinced that William will be arriving around ten o’clock to take me out for the day, like he used to.” She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and brushed her nose with it. “I’ll do my best to answer your questions, Doctor, but I would prefer that we not dwell on my son’s death.”

“I understand,” said Kingston tenderly. “I know the police will have asked you many of the same questions, so I apologize in advance if I burden you by repeating any of them.”

For the next fifteen minutes he ran through a list of questions that he’d more or less memorized, making sure that he sprinkled them with pleasant banter and the occasional witticism, which she seemed to enjoy. Running out of questions, he was starting to accept the inevitable: that his trip would prove worthless. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time, though. He’d gained a certain satisfaction from being with her. He even felt a twinge of sadness that someone so bright and full of life should be confined in a social backwater, with a prescribed circle of friends, mostly not of her choosing, and with probably few stimulating mental challenges.

The sun was warm on Kingston’s back, so he shifted his chair to one side to be farther under the umbrella. At the same time, a woman in a pale blue duster arrived, asking whether they would like cold drinks. The interruption presented him with an excuse to leave, which he was thinking of doing anyway, but Mrs. Endicott insisted that he stay and have a drink—a “grown-up” one, if he preferred. “They make a wonderful Pimm’s Cup,” she added.

With their drinks on the table—Kingston had declined the Pimm’s offer, instead settling for a mineral water with lemon—they continued talking. The easygoing conversation segued from one subject to another, often finding common ground. She’d started by commenting about the quality of the food at Richmond Court and how she’d had a hand in working with the kitchen staff to improve it. This led to several amusing anecdotes about a series of cooking classes she’d once taken in Lyon, a city with two dozen Michelin stars and almost two thousand restaurants that Kingston had visited three times. That prompted her to recommend the movie Julie & Julia, which he had not yet seen. They moved from movies to books, surprised to find that they had similar tastes in contemporary fiction. In fact, in the past year they’d both read the most recent novels by Ian McEwan, Sebastian Faulks, and Ken Follett.

After a short break in the conversation, while the staff lady refreshed their drinks, Dorothy—as she now insisted on being called—asked about Kingston’s years as an academic. He gladly complied, telling about his days at University of Edinburgh teaching botany; the all-too-early death of Megan; their travels, describing the house and garden there and raising Julie; how she’d immigrated to the United States and his subsequent visits to Seattle; his transition as a bachelor from Edinburgh to London—trying to keep it brief. Only when he’d finished, did she speak.

“Being a botanist, you must have had a wonderful garden in Scotland. Do you have one now, in London?”

“A very small one. Not much more than a handkerchief-size lawn surrounded by a few shrubs, a couple of large camellias, and some vines, all enclosed by a brick wall. It doesn’t get enough sunshine for roses, I’m afraid. The garden in Scotland was another matter entirely. It wasn’t that large, mind you—about a half of an acre—but it contained an amazing variety of plants, shrubs, and trees, lots of roses, clematis, hardy geraniums, lavender, hellebores. I wish I had some pictures to show you.”

“It must have been wrenching to leave it all behind.”

“It was. Believe me.”

“William and Danielle had a nice garden,” she said, as if the memory was dear to her.

“Danielle? I thought your son was a bachelor?”

“He was divorced several years ago. They used to live near Cannock. Lovely old timbered house, called Birchwood.”

“Danielle was the gardener, then?”

“Oh, no. It was Will’s garden.”

Kingston was thinking back to his interview with Simon Crawford. He was sure that Crawford had commented that, according to Inspector Wheatley, Endicott’s bungalow looked as though he’d never spent a penny on it. Wouldn’t that apply to the garden, too? he wondered. As he was pondering the conflicting statements, he was aware that Dorothy was looking at him with a frown.

“It was just a guess,” he said. “You know, with William busy at the college all the time.”

“Actually, Danielle wasn’t interested in the garden that much—hardly at all, in fact. It used to irk Will sometimes that she couldn’t even remember to water it during hot spells when he was gone. She wasn’t what one would call a homebody.”

“Did William care for the garden on his own, or did they have a gardener?”

“He did nearly all of it himself. A man came in every now and then, for spraying and maintenance, but Will wasn’t a checkbook gardener. He actually won some awards.”

“Really?”

“For dahlias.” She glanced up to the umbrella, frowning. “Come to think of it, I don’t recall having seen those among his belongings.”

“It must have been nice for you to have been able to spend time there.”

“It was. Most of that time, after my husband died, I was living in a small house in Wolverhampton. No garden to speak of, so I really looked forward to the weekends at Birchwood. I’ll say one thing in Danielle’s favor—she was a wonderful cook.”

Kingston glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He’d stayed much longer than he’d anticipated and doubted that he was going to learn anything more related to the case. “Well, Dorothy, I’d better be on my way. I’m planning to make a stop on my way home, so I don’t want to leave it too late. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat, and I’ll make you a promise. The next time I’m in Staffordshire, I’ll give you a ring and come and see you again.”

“That would be lovely, Doctor,” she said with a little smile.

Kingston stood, leaned over, and placed his large hand over one of hers. “Good-bye for now then, Dorothy,” he said, returning her smile.

“I’m so glad you came,” she replied.

At the open French doors to the terrace, he stopped and turned back to her. “Next time, maybe you’ll give me a couple of tips for Ascot week,” he said.

She smiled. “I’d be happy to.”

* * *

When Kingston returned home, there was one message on his answerphone. To his surprise it was Tristan Veitch.

“This is Tristan Veitch, Dr. Kingston. I’m aware of your reputation, so I presume you must be calling about the Sturminster murder case. Curiously enough, I’m most eager to talk to you about it—and about a lot of other things as well. I rarely leave the house these days and have been out of sorts lately—flu, possibly—so if you would come up here, I’d appreciate it. I can’t go into details, but it’s critical that I see you as soon as possible. Meet me at my house tomorrow at noon, if you would. The address is the Tiled House, Mulberry Lane, Abbot’s Broomfield. Take the B5013 east out of Rugeley. Believe me, you’ll want to talk to me.”

Veitch went on to give further directions. This was more than Kingston could have hoped for. Why was Veitch so keen to see him, and why the hurry? What did Veitch know about Endicott’s murder, he wondered, and what were the “other things” he’d mentioned? “Interesting,” he muttered.