Garden of Secrets Past

SEVEN


When the phone rang at eight thirty the following morning, Kingston’s first thought was that it might be Andrew wanting to know if the trip to see Mrs. Endicott had proved worthwhile or—miraculously—if he’d changed his mind about joining Kingston on his next investigative inquiry. He’d been wondering how long it would be before Inspector Wheatley called him, but the call still came as a surprise. Maybe it was the early hour.

“Dr. Kingston?”

“Yes.”

“This is Inspector Wheatley, Staffordshire police. I’m calling about the Sturminster murder case. Lord Morley has informed me that you’ve been hired to conduct an independent inquiry into the murder.”

“That’s correct.”

“We have no problem with that. That’s a matter between the two of you. However, the purpose of my call is to advise you that you are bound by law to share with us any information related to the case that you might acquire.”

“Of course. It’s been agreed that Lord Morley will pass on any information that falls into my hands. I’ll be reporting to him on a regular basis.”

While the inspector sounded cordial, Kingston knew from experience that the police—understandably so—were not generally enthusiastic about having members of the public meddling in police affairs, and that this was simply a shot across the bow. As things progressed, he knew that collaboration with the police would be as essential to his own investigation as it was to theirs.

“As you may know,” Kingston continued, “I’ve worked with the police—”

“No need to explain. We’re all too aware of your reputation, Doctor. Let me give you my phone number—direct line—where you can reach me.”

Kingston grabbed the pen by the phone. “Ready,” he said, writing down the number.

“You make sure that Morley keeps in touch with us, that’s all. We’d like to know immediately about anything you might uncover, not after the fact.”

“I know the procedure, Inspector, and you have my word on it.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Kingston a little surprised that Wheatley hadn’t asked more questions.

Thinking on the conversation, Kingston wished now that he’d asked if they had any more leads. As the days passed it would become critical to find out just how much the police knew, even if only to avoid unnecessary duplication and possible embarrassment with Morley. With Francis’s name coming up, Kingston thought about calling him, or Crawford, just to check in, but decided it was premature and, in any case, he really had nothing to report at this time. Perhaps after his meeting with Veitch—if it proved of value—he would call them.

From everything he’d learned so far about the case, knowing too that the police had apparently reached a dead end, the only possible line of investigation open to him was to continue probing into the seemingly prosaic life of William Endicott. He thought about calling the institute where Endicott had worked to learn about his academic life, but time was getting short and he decided that, time allowing after his chat with Veitch, he would stop by the institute unannounced, hoping that the dean or someone in charge would see him.

He didn’t want to be late for his appointment with Veitch. There seemed to be no questioning the veracity and earnestness inherent in Veitch’s message, but Kingston hoped that he wouldn’t end up being saddled for hours with an octogenarian historian wanting to talk about events hundreds of years in the past.

* * *

“Damn!” Kingston muttered. He was on the Edgware Road, heading out of London in a steady drizzle, and had just realized that he’d left Veitch’s directions on the kitchen table. Too late to turn back now; he would just have to rely on his memory, which was still remarkably good, certainly compared to Andrew’s, who was younger by ten years. With the village of Abbot’s Broomfield as small as it had appeared on the map, he figured it shouldn’t present a problem. He could always inquire if his memory failed him.

The village was tiny indeed, nothing more than a sprinkling of cottages set back on either side of the narrow road that curved for little more than a hundred yards through the tree-lined high street. Not a pub, post office, or shop in sight. So much for making inquiries, thought Kingston. It took a second pass through the near-deserted hamlet before he spotted the unmarked, one-car-wide lane that Veitch had said to look for. “The house is a quarter mile in but easy to miss,” he’d cautioned. Even at that, driving at a snail’s pace, Kingston almost overshot it. The house was completely shielded behind high walls of dark-leaved pittosporum, the only clue of habitation being a nearly invisible weathered picket gate set in the hedge. Kingston parked alongside the hedge, got out, and stretched his legs. The skies were cement and brooding, but least it had stopped drizzling. He passed through the gate, closing it behind him. Ahead was a handsome, if small, Victorian redbrick farmhouse with a gray slate roof. The arched doorway was flanked by two large bay windows with shiny white frames. In the absence of a knocker or doorbell—at least Kingston couldn’t see one—he rapped on the door with his knuckles. In a few seconds, it opened halfway to reveal a tall, slender woman with long ash blond hair, simply but tastefully dressed all in gray. An attractive woman, but whether it was a trick of the light or not, her face appeared to have the same gray hue as her clothing. Expecting Veitch, Kingston was taken aback momentarily.

“You’re Dr. Kingston?” she said in a colorless voice, saving him the introduction.

“I am. Mr. Veitch is expecting me,” he replied with a half smile.

The woman stood motionless, hand gripping the edge of the door, her expression and body language offering no suggestion that she might invite him in. After an unusually long pause, she said, “Yes, he told me to expect you.”

Immediately Kingston sensed that something was amiss. Though only a few words, something in how she’d said them raised doubt, a suspicion that bad news wasn’t long to follow.

“I’m sorry,” she said at length, stepping out onto the porch.

Now he could see that her face was pale and she looked troubled.

“I’m Amanda Veitch. My brother was taken to the hospital about an hour ago. I wanted to call you but couldn’t place where Tristan had put your number. I suppose it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway; you’d probably have left by then. He’d said you were coming up from London.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” said Kingston somberly. “In your brother’s phone message yesterday he mentioned that he hadn’t been feeling well. Thought he might be coming down with the flu.”

She shook her head. “It was nothing like that.”

“Then my showing up on your doorstep is the last thing you need right now,” Kingston replied. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable having this kind of stilted exchange with a woman he’d just met, about an unexplained ailment that had afflicted her brother, a man whom he’d yet to meet.

“I’m just sorry you had to drive all the way up here to find out.”

“That’s of the least concern. I’d best be on my way, you have far more important things to attend to.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to her. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to call me when your brother is discharged and has fully recovered,” he said.

“I’ll do that,” she said, unsmiling. With that, she turned and went back into the house, closing the door without a backward glance.

Sitting in the car, Kingston stared at the Triumph shield badge on the steering wheel, absorbing the bad news about Tristan Veitch. His knee-jerk reaction of disappointment had vanished before he’d even reached the car. Though Veitch was a stranger, Kingston was reminded that the poor man’s illness was not a moment for self-pity.

He glanced at his watch. Wolverhampton was nearby, and there was plenty of time left in the day for a visit to the institute where Endicott had taught. He took out his AA Road Atlas from the glove compartment and studied it for the quickest route. Satisfied, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine coughed into its satisfying rumble. He started down the lane.

Kingston’s visit with the dean of the Archaeology and Art Institute, an attentive and forthcoming man, lasted no more than fifteen minutes. He learned nothing whatsoever to suggest that Endicott was anything more than an above-average teacher, generally liked by the faculty and students, that he had no unusual traits or habits, had an excellent attendance record and, by and large, preferred to keep his private life to himself. The only snippet of dubious information that surfaced was that there had been complaints by several female staff members that Endicott was given to the occasional sexist comment and a trifle too easygoing with his hands. This Kingston already knew, though, having read it in the police report.

Navigating his way out of Wolverhampton, he thought back on the events of the day and how disappointing things had turned out—two more dead ends. Though he’d never met the man, he was beginning to understand how Inspector Wheatley must feel. He smiled, reminded of a humorous comment he’d once read: “I live on a one-way street that’s also a dead end. I’m not sure how I got there.” How he remembered these things eluded him. They did come in handy every once in a while, though, even if only to put a more cheerful spin on life. Andrew always cringed when Kingston used them. Andrew, yes—he could hear his now all too familiar “playing detective” bellyaching when they next spoke.

An hour later, the sight of Hyde Park Corner ahead made him feel better. A couple of pints and dinner at the Antelope would improve his frame of mind no end.

* * *

When the phone rings at the crack of dawn or late at night, it usually triggers an involuntary alarm that the person calling is either in a foreign time zone or, worse, is the bearer of bad news. Such were Kingston’s thoughts as he picked up the phone at six fifteen the following morning. At least he was up. He’d just retrieved the Times from the doorstep and was waiting in the kitchen for the electric teakettle to boil.

“This is Kingston,” he said curtly, trying to disguise his displeasure.

“It’s Amanda Veitch, Doctor. I apologize for calling at this hour, but I have no choice. I’m calling from Stafford Memorial Hospital,” she said, a noticeable tremble in the telling words. “I’ve been here all night with Tristan.” Her voice trailed off for a moment, then she continued, seemingly having regained her composure. “He wants to see you.”

Kingston smiled. From the minute he’d picked up the phone he’d been expecting bad news; now this lucky turn of events. Veitch must be on the mend and Kingston would get his interview after all.

“Today? Is he well enough?”

“The doctor doesn’t think so, but Tristan’s insistent.” Another pause followed, this time longer. “They’re saying he might not have long to live,” she blurted. “So if Tristan is to get his wish, you’ll have to get up here as quickly as you can.”

Kingston’s short-lived burst of optimism evaporated as he searched for words of comfort. None came. “I can leave within the next ten minutes or so,” he replied. “Where’s the hospital?”

“It’s Stafford Memorial on the A34 on the north side of town. He’s in critical care.”

“Don’t bother with directions. I’ll find it.” He glanced at his watch. “If the traffic cooperates, I should be able to make it a little after eight. You’ll be there, I take it?”

“I will. I’ll wait for you in the reception area.”

Entering the hospital an hour and twenty minutes later, Kingston saw no sign of Amanda. The only person in the reception area, other than an elderly man sitting alone in a corner reading a book propped up on his walker, was a woman who was talking to the receptionist. She must have caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye because she turned and started walking toward him. It wasn’t until she was close that Kingston recognized her as Amanda. Even then it was hard to picture her as the woman he’d met only the day before. This time she was dressed smartly, wearing a navy pea coat with a camel-color skirt, a scarf wrapped stylishly around the collar of her white blouse. Her hair was different, too, tied up in a neat chignon. And this time she wore makeup. Given the gravity of the circumstances, she looked remarkably composed.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said with a weak smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“The news is very sad. I’m sorry.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “You’d best not waste time.” She nodded to the far corner of the lobby. “Take the lift over there to the second-floor critical-care ward B, room five. They’re expecting you, so ignore the sign and just go in.” She brushed a stray hair from her brow and fixed her hazel eyes on Kingston. “If it’s all right with you, I won’t accompany you. I’ve been up most of the night and desperately need a cup of tea and a sandwich—at least something. I’ve hardly eaten a thing since yesterday. I’ll wait for you in the cafeteria.”

“Of course. I’ll see you in a while, then.” He headed for the elevators.

When Kingston entered the room and saw Tristan Veitch, he knew immediately that the man was suffering from something far more serious than the flu. He was propped up in bed, eyes closed, breathing laboriously, aided by the oxygen line to his lungs through a nasal feed. All around, a battery of medical instruments, monitors, and other devices flickered, hummed, and beeped ad nauseam as they controlled and tracked his condition and vital signs. Kingston stood at the foot of the bed, faintly disturbed by the scene: alone with a stranger whose days, even hours, could be numbered, he was having serious doubts about being there at all and wondering if he should say anything—even where to start. As he was about to speak, Veitch’s eyes opened slowly, as if he’d somehow known that his visitor had arrived that very moment.

“Dr. Kingston,” he mumbled in a scratchy near whisper, as his heavily lidded eyes swiveled slowly to meet Kingston’s.

“Yes.”

“Please. Sit down.”

Kingston dragged a nearby chair purposefully close to the side of the bed. He didn’t want to risk missing anything that Veitch had to say. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said. “To be truthful, I’m not sure that I should be here in the first place.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Veitch wheezed.

Kingston thought it a feisty remark for someone who was deathly sick. It occurred to him then that perhaps Veitch hadn’t been told just how serious his condition was. “Of course.” He nodded.

“Are you working with the police this time, too?” The question was the last thing Kingston expected. It meant that Veitch knew about him, which wouldn’t be that surprising. He wondered whether Veitch knew he was working on the Sturminster case.

“No, I’m not.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But how did you know who I was, why I wanted to talk to you?”

“When the Post called and said you’d left me a message, your name sounded vaguely familiar. Then I remembered reading about you in the papers. Historians tend to have good memories, you know—aided by a quick Internet search, of course.” He paused, as if needing to regain his breath before continuing. “The famous Professor Kingston … Sturminster … the murder: It wasn’t hard to put two and two together to realize why you were calling.”

“And you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.”

“You said you were anxious to talk about the murder? William Endicott?”

Veitch nodded. “I am.”

“For the record, have you discussed any of this with the police?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Veitch inhaled deeply, his chest rattling. “Everything’s changed now. There’s no longer reason for me to remain silent. People need to know what I know.”

“About the murder?”

“About the Morleys. Isn’t that what you wanted to know? Your timing was perfect, Doctor.” He reached to the bedside table for a water glass and took a long drink. Veitch obviously knew about the case, but then he would, living a stone’s throw from Sturminster.

“It’s too complicated to tell you everything that I’ve uncovered—you’ll find out for yourself when you read my drafts.”

“Your drafts?”

“Yes. I want you to look at what I’ve written, what I’ve discovered. It’s all there. I’ve made all the connections, the relationships,” he rasped, sucking in air.

Kingston was surprised to see a fleeting, conceited smile cross Veitch’s lips. “Unscrambling some of it wasn’t easy, but we did it,” he croaked. “The cover-ups, the people, the places—high places, I might add. It’s much bigger than I ever imagined.”

The man was rambling, his eyes bright and feverish.

“Slow down a minute,” said Kingston. “What did you unscramble? Are you talking about codes, the scrap of paper the police found on Endicott’s body? What—”

“Codes … right.” Veitch nodded and continued his rant. “I’m talking about damning information—unspeakable crimes that, if made public, would expose Sturminster’s glorious history as a sham. Crimes that would cause irreparable damage to the legacy of the Morleys.”

A fit of raspy coughing stopped Veitch at that point, long enough to make Kingston wonder if he should call a nurse. The coughing spell finally over, Veitch lay back on his pillow, eyes closed, breathing laboriously and irregularly. Kingston took the opportunity to stand and stretch his legs. The metal chair was small and uncomfortable. As he stared at the steady undulations of the ECG monitor’s glowing wavelength pattern, Kingston’s mind was in overdrive trying to fathom the implications of what Veitch had just told him and what it might have to do with Endicott’s murder.

Finally, Veitch looked up. “Where was I?” he mumbled.

“You said you’d uncovered some damaging evidence concerning the Morley family that would also cast aspersions on Sturminster’s reputation.”

“Damaging! God, that’s an understatement. These were heinous crimes. You’ve heard that old saying, ‘Follow the money’? Well, that’s what we did.”

“What money?” asked Kingston, noting the plural “we” again.

“What money? That’s a good one.” Veitch clutched the edge of the blanket, his expression even grimmer than before. “I wasn’t going to let them stop me. The story of a lifetime.” His voice was becoming weaker, but he struggled on. “One of the most egregious misdeeds in our history, Kingston. When it all comes to the surface—when people realize who was implicated … the staggering amount of money involved … the crimes committed…” He sank back into the pillow, trying to regain his breath.

Kingston heard voices in the hallway. A second later the door opened and a woman entered the room.

“Well, Mr. Veitch. And how are we doing today?” It was a woman’s voice, pleasant but authoritative. Kingston got up and turned to face a young woman. She was darkly complected and not much more than thirty years old, by his reckoning. The nurse with whom he’d talked earlier stood a few paces back.

“I’m Dr. Chandra,” she said. “And you must be Dr. Kingston.”

“Yes. I’m a friend of the family.”

“I know. Amanda Veitch told me you were coming. She told me that it was very important that her brother see you. Normally, we allow only family members in critical care, but in a few cases we bend the rules.”

“Thank you for that. I’m most grateful to have had the chance to talk with him.”

Kingston tried to smile, to stay calm, hoping she would allow him to continue his conversation with Veitch for a few more minutes.

Dr. Chandra, however, was having none of it.

“It’s time for you to leave, I’m afraid. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, brushing past him to the side of the bed.

About to leave, Kingston took a last glance at the hollow-cheeked Tristan Veitch. As the doctor started to tend to him, he held up a scrawny hand, as if to say Wait a moment, and stared across at Kingston.

“You must come back, Doctor,” he said. “I have to tell you the rest. Just be careful, that’s all.”

“I will.” Kingston nodded, then left the room.

As the lift descended, Kingston’s mind was a kaleidoscope of thoughts, emotions, and questions, all clamoring for attention. Veitch clearly knew something about Endicott’s murder—he’d said so in his phone message and again just now—yet he’d spent most of the time talking about evil things concerning the Morleys that had happened over two hundred years ago. Why was that? Another thing worried Kingston. Veitch appeared to be in bad shape, and it could become a question of time. He had to talk to the man again and very soon.

For now, trying to evaluate everything Veitch had divulged would have to wait. He had the rest of the day to do that. In less than a minute he would be with Amanda again. What, if anything, should he tell her? One question now became paramount: How long was Veitch expected to live? He knew that the question was blatantly self-serving and that by asking it he could be accused of being callous, but suddenly it had become crucial. Obviously, Veitch had put all his highly incriminating evidence to paper. As an experienced writer and historian, it was almost certain that it was well documented and perhaps backed up, too. If the right moment presented itself, perhaps he could risk asking Amanda if he could take a look at Veitch’s work.

The lift dinged and he stepped into the reception area, now much busier. One way or another, whatever it took, a follow-up meeting with Veitch had to be arranged as soon as possible, even if it meant staying in Stafford overnight. To make that happen would take Amanda’s cooperation, which he knew could be a touchy issue. He’d known her for only twenty-four hours and though up until now she’d been willing to help him, he knew that from now on he had to be careful what he said and what he asked of her. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: How much did she know about her brother’s activities?

Twice Veitch had used “we” when describing his activities. Did that mean he was working with someone or, given his unstable condition, had it been just a slip of the tongue? Was his collaborator Amanda? A possibility. In any case, if someone had been working with him regularly, she would surely have known it.

Heading for the cafeteria, he thought back to his conversation with her only yesterday and the dreadful finality of those last few words when they’d talked on the phone: “He might not have long to live.” Until now, she’d been more than accommodating to his intrusion into her life at the worst possible time. She had enough to worry about and uncertainty to deal with as it was. To add more could jeopardize their fragile relationship, and he certainly wanted to avoid that. Less important was another unanswered question that had been nettling him since they’d first met. Under normal circumstances, he would have never dreamed of asking it, but if he happened on the right moment, he would take the risk: What was the nature of her brother’s terminal illness?

Entering the sunlit cafeteria, he spotted Amanda sitting by a large window reading a magazine, an empty plate, coffee cup, and saucer on the table. Hearing him approach, she looked up and put the magazine aside. “How is he?” she asked, her eyes tired and reddened from lack of sleep and anxiety.

“Quite talkative, actually,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her.

“I’m glad, for your sake.”

“He spoke for about ten minutes. Then the doctor arrived, so I had to leave.”

“Was it Dr. Chandra?”

“Yes.”

“Did she give you an update?”

Kingston shook his head. “No. She did mention that you’d talked to her about letting me see Tristan, though. Thank you for that.”

“Was he able to help? To give you the kind of information you were hoping for?”

“Yes, he was. Frankly, I wasn’t expecting quite as much. I was surprised at how lucid he was.”

“That’s good.”

“This project he’d been working on—the one involving the Morley family—had he told you about it? Did you know what it involved?”

The slightest flicker in her eyes told Kingston all he needed to know. She looked away for a moment, fidgeting with a jade ring on her right hand. After what seemed a long time, her eyes came back to meet Kingston’s. It was a wistful look that he’d not expected. “In many ways, Tristan is a secretive man,” she said. “He’s been that way since he was a child. You never knew what he was up to until he—and only he—was satisfied that, whatever it was, it was finished to his liking. When he made those balsa-wood models of his—airplanes, mostly—it was always behind closed doors or when no one was around. Only when they were finished would he be willing to show them to any of us. He can be the most generous person in the world when it suits him, particularly when it comes to material things. But with ideas, projects, ambitions, and the like, he doesn’t much like to share. It’s as if he’s afraid that someone might come along and criticize, shoot holes in his ideas or, worse, steal them. So, in answer to your question, I know a little, but there’s probably considerably more that I don’t.” She looked down. “I’m going to miss him,” she said softly, a slight waver in her voice.

Kingston was touched by the poignancy of her answer. He caught himself just in time, as he was about to reach out and place a hand on hers. “I realize that you hardly know me, but if there’s anything that I can do to help you through this bad patch, please say so. Whatever it might be, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“That’s kind of you and I appreciate it,” she answered, regaining her composure. “Are you headed back to London now?”

“I think so. When I left Tristan, I sensed that he wanted to tell me more, but that may have to wait. If it’s all right with you, perhaps I could come back and see him again, if he’s willing.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“There’s another possibility. I have a friend who lives near Tamworth. Since I’m up here anyway, I could call him and see if he can put me up for the night.” He smiled. “Or perhaps more aptly, put up with me for the night. If so, I could come back tomorrow.”

“That’s entirely up to the doctor and Tristan. I have no objection to your seeing him, if that’s what you’re asking. As long as it’s what he wants and it’s not affecting his well-being or peace of mind, why would I?”

“I’ll let you know, then. Perhaps you could give me a phone number where I can reach you.”

“Sure.” She took a miniature leather-bound pad from her handbag, tore off a page, jotted down her number and address, and handed it to Kingston. “That’s my mobile,” she said. “I hardly ever use the house phone anymore.”

“Thanks.” Kingston folded it once and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Amanda rose and so did he. “Thank you for coming and for your kind offer of help,” she said. “I hope you’ll understand my not wanting to stay longer but, as you know, it’s been a dreadfully long twenty-four hours.”

“I understand fully.”

“Thank you. I’ll go up and say good-bye to Tristan and then head back home. They say there’s a nasty storm coming in this afternoon, so traffic could be a mess on the Stafford stretch of the motorway. You might want to take an alternative route.”

“I will, thanks.”

Kingston walked with her to the lifts, close to the main entrance. Silently waiting, they both stared up, ritually, at the lighted floor indicator descending. Knowing that the doors would open at any moment, he turned to her. “Amanda,” he said, realizing that it was the first time that he’d addressed her by her first name.

She lowered her eyes and looked at him. “Yes?”

“I’ve been curious about something. It’s really none of my business and if you prefer not to answer, I’ll understand.”

She looked at him quizzically. “What is it?” she said, after a moment’s thought.

“What is the nature of your brother’s illness?”

The lift door opened and she stepped in and turned to face Kingston. “The doctor isn’t certain yet, but she thinks Tristan might have been poisoned,” she said.

Before he could respond, the doors had closed.