EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “I see. Anything more you can think of?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “Well, Doctor, thanks for your input. Let’s hope Attenborough can track down whose expedition it was and who else was on it. Obviously, that information could be extremely helpful.”

  “Oh, they’ll track it down, all right. You couldn’t mount a plant-hunting expedition to China without leaving a paper trail. If Kew draws a blank in Britain, they’ll contact the relevant authorities in China: immigration, botanical organizations, universities, people who act as guides and drivers. I understand that they keep meticulous records. These trips require a lot of planning and liaison with officials in the country concerned.”

  “I can well understand.”

  Sheffield’s mention of the word “accident” reminded Kingston of what Dr. Banks had said about the motorcycle accident. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Inspector,” he said, “but Dr. Banks told me that you had more information about the motorcycle accident— that another vehicle was involved.”

  “That’s correct. Forensics confirmed that there was another vehicle. It’s going to be hard to track it down, though. The bike had saddlebags, which probably explains why we don’t have any cross transfer of paint on the bike parts. Otherwise, we might be able to identify the make, model, color, and year of the vehicle from the manufacturer’s paint layers. Though the accident seems suspicious, we can’t assume that it was attempted vehicular homicide—which is a bit rare, I might add, because there’s usually no guarantee that the victim will be killed. Frankly, it’s much more likely that it was a simple case of hit-and-run.”

  “What about family, next of kin?”

  Sheffield chuckled. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, Doctor. But to answer your question, we’re doing just that: trying to locate relatives, friends, and neighbors, anyone who knew him.”

  A few moments later, the conversation ended.

  Kingston sat on the sofa thinking about what Sheffield had said. Other than the vehicle that was involved in Mayhew’s accident, the police apparently knew little more than he did. He went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

  It wasn’t until the end of the afternoon that Kingston finally managed to reach Clifford Attenborough. As it turned out, Inspector Sheffield had beaten him to the punch, so there was nothing for Kingston to report that Clifford didn’t know already. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question—who sponsored the expedition to China and who was on it?—remained unanswered. Clifford said that thus far they had been unsuccessful in tracking down any information about the expedition in Britain. That led them to believe that the project might have been initiated outside the UK. Because the search was now central to a murder investigation, it had been given top priority, and a multiteam task force had been set up at Kew to come up with answers. Currently one team was working full-time contacting all listed botanical organizations and arboretums abroad, particularly those in the United States. Another team was working with counterpart authorities in China. It could take time, Clifford said.

  That day, the Oxford Mail carried a page-two story about the suspected murder at the hospital and the motorcycle accident. The report identified Peter Mayhew as the victim but made no mention of a plant-hunting expedition.

  Midmorning, two days later, a cherry-red Mini Cooper S pulled up outside Kingston’s flat. Andrew got out, bounded up the steps, and rang the doorbell. Kingston emerged seconds later and went through the now accustomed exercise of squeezing his six-foot-three-inch frame into a space the size of a small fridge. At least it was easier in the new Mini than in the old one.

  As they drove off, Andrew said cheerily, “You’re going to love this place, old chap. Word has it that Jamie Oliver practically lives there these days.” Kingston knew, of course, that they were going to lunch, but not where. Andrew always liked the element of surprise. Not that it bothered Kingston, as long as Andrew was picking up the tab. From his modest stature and unassuming build, one would be hard-pressed to know that he was such an epicurean athlete. Why he didn’t weigh 250 pounds by now was a small miracle. Kingston figured the only explanation was Andrew’s partiality for the much-ballyhooed French diet, coupled with an astonishing capacity for mostly Bordeaux and Burgundy red wines—either that or something to do with his genes.

  Forty minutes later, they were seated at a white-clothed table at Skate, a recently opened fish restaurant in Chalfont St. Giles in Buckinghamshire, thirty miles west of London. Andrew was quick to point out the obvious: There were only eleven other tables, all filled with well-dressed diners, each jam-packed with plates, cutlery, wine bottles, and enough wineglasses to stock the Ritz. By the subdued decibel level alone, it was evident that those who lunched and dined at Skate were serious about their food. Rich, too, going by the Jags, BMWs, and Mercedes in the dinky car park.

  “Superb” was the only word Kingston could come up with to describe the lunch and the 1995 Pomerol that Andrew had selected to “match” the food. Regretfully, one embarrassing incident marred the experience. Midmeal, Kingston’s mobile started ringing. He could have sworn that he’d turned it off, but there it was, sounding off in the middle of the main course. Instantly, a steely silence fell over the convivial scene. Forks, wineglasses, and voices were lowered. Heads swiveled, and withering looks zapped in Kingston’s direction like poisoned darts. What made matters worse was that his ring tone was the “Colonel Bogey March.” In no time, everyone in the restaurant, save Kingston and Andrew, was whistling—derisively.

  Afterward, in the car park, Kingston checked the missed-call message. It was from Clifford Attenborough. As Andrew drove off, Kingston turned down the volume of the concerto on the radio and thumbed in Clifford’s number. After a lengthy wait he was put through.

  “Hello, Lawrence. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem. Anything more on the plant-hunting expedition?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. It’s taking much longer than I’d anticipated. The good news is that we’re pretty sure it didn’t originate in the UK. The bad news, as you know, is that we have no idea when it took place. That’s what’s slowing us down. Don’t worry, though, we’ll have an answer soon.”

  “Let me know when you do. I’m curious.”

  “Of course I will.”

  In the following pause, Kingston was wondering why Clifford had called. Apparently it wasn’t about the expedition. His question was answered without his having to ask.

  “That wasn’t why I called, Lawrence. I just got a phone call from Inspector Sheffield, and I thought you might want to know that there’s been a new development in the case of that poor chap who was killed in the hospital. His name escapes me.”

  “Peter Mayhew.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, that’s good news. What did Sheffield say?”

  “Yesterday morning, Thames Valley Police received a phone call from a woman named Sally Mayhew saying that she was Peter Mayhew’s half sister.” Kingston was about to ask how she had learned about her brother’s death but before he could, Clifford saved him the breath.

  “It seems that a friend of hers who lives in Oxford saw the report in the Mail and read it to her over the phone.”

  “That must have been a nasty shock.”

  “In more ways than one, apparently.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, about a minute into the conversation with the officer who took the call, the woman dropped a bombshell. She said that her brother had gone missing eight months ago on a plant-hunting expedition, and that though his body was never recovered, he was presumed dead. An inquest was held some months later.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “That’s not all, Lawrence. This morning, she drove up to Oxford from Harrow—where she lives—for an interview with Sheffield and to identify the body.”

  “And did she—identify it, I mean?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I’m not sure that I follow
you. Are you saying—?”

  “That’s right. The man in the city morgue is not Peter Mayhew.”

  SIX

  Well I’ll be damned,” Kingston murmured, closing the phone.

  Andrew glanced at him, frowning. “What was all that about?”

  “It was Clifford Attenborough.”

  “Your friend at Kew?”

  “Right. He just got a call from Thames Valley Police. A woman called them claiming to be Peter Mayhew’s sister—half sister, actually.”

  “Good.”

  Kingston shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “She says that the body in the morgue is not her brother.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  Kingston gave him a hesitant look and reached to turn off the radio. “ ‘Bloody hell’ is right.”

  A short silence followed, each weighing the implications. Then Andrew spoke. “Are you saying that they killed the wrong man?”

  “That’s what it looks like. There’s no other explanation. Whoever entered the ward that night, intent on murder, had to believe that his victim was Mayhew.”

  “The hospital thought so, too, and the paper reported it. Why would he—or she, I suppose—think differently?”

  “Good question.” Kingston gazed at the road ahead, thinking.

  “What else did he say? You were talking for a good two minutes.”

  Kingston leaned back and told him everything Clifford had said. For a change—unlike when Kingston was describing his two-day Oxford experience over lunch—Andrew listened without butting in every ten seconds.

  “That’s the end of it, then?” said Andrew, his eyes watchful of the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead. “I mean, as far as you’re concerned?”

  Kingston didn’t answer right away. As he was thinking, he mumbled a grudging, “I suppose so.”

  He knew that Andrew was probably right. It was no longer just a question of trying to establish what had happened on an illfated plant expedition. It was now a murder case, and unless Clifford or the police were to ask him to collaborate further, he had no choice but to forget about it. The more he thought on it, the more he decided that it was probably a good thing. He looked at Andrew. “But if the police should ask me to help, I can hardly refuse to cooperate, can I?”

  Andrew shot him a quick glance. “What kind of question is that? If you want my opinion—and you probably don’t—let the police handle it. That’s what they do. Before you know it you could easily find yourself in another mess, like the last time.”

  Kingston nodded but said nothing. Andrew was referring to another murder case in which Kingston had become innocently embroiled. Three years ago, a former botanist colleague of his, Stewart Halliday, had gone missing and Kingston had promised the man’s wife to help in the search. Before he knew it, he too was targeted by the people responsible for the kidnapping, narrowly escaping an ignominious end in a far-off land. Though it had a favorable outcome—for some, anyway—he preferred not being reminded of it.

  Andrew continued in a lighter vein, eyes still on the road. “This is just an observation, so take it for what it’s worth. I realize that it may come off as sounding a bit rich coming from me, but . . . well . . . don’t you think the time may have come for you to, shall we say, have another woman in your life? Or at least consider it.”

  Kingston smiled. “Did you have anybody in mind?”

  “Of course not. The idea only just occurred to me.” After a pause he said, “Well, to be honest, the idea has crossed my mind a couple of times recently.”

  Kingston looked at the road ahead. “You think I’ve become a misogynist?”

  “Lord no!”

  “Look, Andrew, we’ve talked about this before. I realize that you mean well, but I’ve come to accept that I’ll probably remain a bachelor, like you. In fact, though it’s taken me a long time, I’ve learned to enjoy being single. That shouldn’t be too hard for you, of all people, to understand.”

  “I wasn’t necessarily suggesting marriage, Lawrence.”

  “Even so, a relationship is a big commitment. Mind you, I’m not saying that I’d rule it out entirely—companionship, that is. That said, I find the idea of actually looking for someone not appealing but appalling. Out of the question. If you think I’m going to go online and join one of those god-awful dating or matching services, you can forget it, Andrew.”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up, old chap.”

  Kingston looked at him and smiled. “If it were to happen, and I hit it off with some femme fatale, has it occurred to you that you could lose out, too? You wouldn’t have my scintillating company for lunch and dinner so often, and no one to help you in your garden. Not to mention your having to find a new tennis partner.”

  Andrew shrugged and shook his head. “I worry about you sometimes. That’s all.”

  They were crossing the river at Kew, close to home now, and had arrived at an unspoken meeting of the minds that there was nothing to be gained by further flogging to death either the subject of Kingston’s bachelorhood or the mystery surrounding Peter Mayhew. For his part, Kingston was content to remain mostly silent, retreating into his own thoughts. Andrew turned the radio back on, tweaked the volume up, and the joyful strains of Vivaldi burst forth from the Mini’s six speakers, drowning all other sounds.

  In no time at all, it seemed, Kingston was back at his flat, more confused than ever about the nefarious goings-on that had taken place in Oxford.

  In the days following, neither Clifford Attenborough nor Inspector Sheffield called. At first Kingston’s nose was out of joint, but he soon became reconciled to the fact that his job was done. His participation, short-lived and negligible as it had been, was no longer needed. No doubt he would hear from Clifford sooner or later and learn about the expedition—when it was, where it originated, and who was on it—but that most likely would be the end of it. The best he could do was to keep a weather eye on the telly and the Oxford Mail Web site, hoping to catch newsbreaks about the case.

  So it came as a surprise when a man named Trevor Williams called late one morning saying that he was a reporter for the Mail and was Kingston willing to be interviewed about his role in the Peter Mayhew case? With barely a blink, Kingston agreed.

  Williams asked where Kingston would like the interview to take place. He was coming down to London anyway, he said, to interview Sally Mayhew, Peter Mayhew’s sister, and for obvious reasons he would like to do both interviews on the same day. Kingston saw the opening immediately. “Would you have any objection to interviewing us together?” he asked. Williams was agreeable and they made a tentative date to meet at Kingston’s flat the coming Saturday at eleven A.M. Williams would call Sally Mayhew and let Kingston know if that suited her. An hour later he called back, saying he’d talked with her, and that it was a go.

  Kingston went to the window, looking out onto parklike Cadogan Square. He smiled. Maybe he wasn’t off the case after all—at least not for a while. He couldn’t wait to hear Sally Mayhew’s side of the story.

  On Saturday morning, Williams arrived first. He was of average height, forty-something, and didn’t fit Kingston’s mental picture of a reporter. To him, newspapermen and schoolteachers were expected to look tweedy, even a little down-at-the-heels, and be generally mild mannered. Williams was fashionably dressed, outgoing, and by most standards would be considered good-looking. Just as he and Kingston had finished their introductions, Sally Mayhew arrived.

  Kingston was off base with her, too. He had been expecting a considerably younger woman, assuming wrongly that Peter Mayhew would be the older sibling—and forgetting for the moment that the man he’d seen in the hospital wasn’t Peter. He shook her hand, surprised at the firmness of her grip, making him wonder what she did for a living; Clifford hadn’t mentioned that. She had hazel eyes, wrinkled at the corners, shoulder-length auburn hair, and save for a smudge of lip gloss wore hardly any makeup. A little might have helped, Kingston thought, as she
and Williams shook hands.

  The two visitors spent a few moments admiring Kingston’s flat, complimenting him on how it was decorated and on his eye for antiques. Williams, who did most of the talking, was clearly bowled over by the eighteenth-and nineteenth-century English furniture; the Constable, the John Sell Cotman watercolor, and other fine paintings; the book-lined walls and overabundance of artifacts and bibelots. Collectively, they were a fitting metaphor for Kingston’s refined taste, his eye for design, and his well-traveled life.

  It was agreed that tea or coffee could come later, and they all took a seat.

  “Okay if we start with you, Doctor?” asked Williams.

  Kingston nodded. “Certainly.”

  Over the next several minutes Kingston related his experience, starting from the first phone call from Clifford Attenborough asking him to act as their proxy at St. George’s Hospital, up to Clifford’s recent call with the news that the body in the Oxford morgue was not Peter Mayhew. Williams listened intently, with few questions, making notes on the pad in his lap.

  When finished, Kingston went to the kitchen, where he put the kettle on low heat and returned immediately. Next it was Sally Mayhew’s turn. Kingston leaned back in his chair, trying not to make it too obvious that he was studying her. If she took a little more care over her appearance, she could be quite attractive, he thought.

  “It must have been an awful shock to learn that your brother was a suspected murder victim,” said Williams reverentially. “I’m sorry you had to go through that ordeal.”

  Sally Mayhew pursed her lips. “Accepting his death once was heartache enough. But to be told that he had been alive all this time and then, on top of that, had just been murdered—there are no words to describe how I felt.” She made an anemic attempt to smile, then said, “I’ve gotten over it now, though.”

  “Tell me about your brother. What line of work was he in? How did he come to be on this plant-hunting expedition?”

  “Peter worked at Melbury Botanical Gardens. It’s a small place down in West Sussex, not too far from Arundel. I’m not exactly sure what his position was. Fairly important, I think.”