But gardens were not what were on his mind right now. He was thinking of Julian Bell, trying to recall what he’d read about the man. It had to be at least a couple of years since he’d read the magazine article that featured Bell and his global peregrinations in search of undiscovered and vanishing plants. He could recall only fragments: that Bell was a retired doctor and bachelor divorcé, who lived alone on a farm in Dorset, and that the writer had found him as taciturn as his darkly bearded appearance would suggest. Kingston was starting to think about a way he could have a face-to-face with Bell and get his side of the expedition story.
As Kingston crossed the Chiswick Flyover, the last thin light of day was lingering over London’s skyline. He checked his watch. It would be around eight by the time he garaged the car and could sit back and enjoy a wee drop of Macallan and watch some telly before retiring early. It had been a long day, with a lot of walking, parts of it uphill. He was reminded once again that he really must get back on his regular exercise regimen of walking at least three miles a day, five days a week. His overworked cocktail party quip, “I love long walks, especially when they’re taken by people who annoy me,” was not only wearing thin, it was becoming true. At least he wasn’t hungry. With Spenser’s hearty lunch, it was hardly surprising. If he got peckish later, the chunk of leftover Melton Mowbray pork pie in the refrigerator would have to make do.
Closing the door of his flat behind him, Kingston flicked on the hall light and picked up the post. A couple of minutes later, after having poured himself a drink and listened to his answerphone—one message only, from Andrew, asking to call—he slumped on the sofa and took a sip of whisky as he flipped through the dozen or so bills and junk mail. He extracted a small white envelope. The address was handwritten in capital letters. Curious, he opened it and took out the folded single sheet of writing paper and read the note, also handwritten in black ink and in capitals.
DR. KINGSTON,
I HAVE INFORMATION ABOUT THE EXPEDITION YOU HAVE BEEN INQUIRING ABOUT. INFORMATION THAT MIGHT EXPLAIN HOW PETER MAYHEW MET HIS DEATH.
MEET ME ON WEDNESDAY AT 2 O’CLOCK P.M., JUNE 20, AT LYDIARD PARK IN WILTSHIRE. BEHIND LYDIARD HOUSE IS A SMALL CHURCH NAMED ST. MARY’S. I WILL FIND YOU OUTSIDE. DO NOT BRING ANYONE WITH YOU, OR TELL THE POLICE.
Kingston read the note a second time. Though there was nothing in it to suggest that the writer had been on the expedition, Kingston ran through the cast of players anyway. Ruling out the American chap for the moment, and Spenser Graves—who, for some reason, he seriously doubted wrote the letter—that left Bell, Jenkins, and the photographer chap, Jeremy Lester. If it wasn’t one of those three it meant that the writer had been told about, or had come across, the information, probably from one of the three. He took another sip of whisky and gazed around the room, thinking of other possibilities. After a couple of minutes he could come up with only one other scenario: Whoever wrote the letter could still believe that it was Peter Mayhew who had been murdered at St. George’s, as first reported in the paper. He or she may not have read the subsequent correction. But the letter had mentioned the “expedition,” so it could mean only that Mayhew’s fall was not an accident and that someone had helped him over the edge.
Why choose Lydiard Park? Was it because it was a convenient rendezvous for the writer? Was he—or she, perhaps—familiar with the grand estate and its Palladian house, or maybe lived nearby? He knew Bell lived somewhere in Dorset. But he could think of nothing that might connect Bell geographically with Lydiard Park, which was near the M4 and Swindon. He scratched his head trying to recall where Jenkins lived. Seconds later it came to him—Cornwall, Clifford had said. He found himself making a mental map of the fastest route from anywhere in Cornwall to London—from where Kingston would drive to meet the informer. It was grasping at straws, perhaps, but Swindon was close to the halfway point. If it were Jenkins, had he chosen it because it was convenient for both him and Kingston? There was little point in speculating further, he decided. Wednesday was tomorrow.
That night Kingston found it impossible to dismiss the letter from his mind. Despite the admonition at the end of the letter, should he tell Inspector Sheffield about it? This wasn’t the first time he had faced this kind of dilemma. He knew that withholding information in an ongoing police investigation was a serious matter, subject to criminal charges. Regardless, he decided to put off talking with Sheffield until after the rendezvous. It made more sense that way, he rationalized, because he could have much more information by then. At least, that was his hope, and excuse.
Wednesday morning was clear and breezy. Barring unforeseen traffic problems, he figured he could make it to Lydiard Park in a shade under two hours. To be on the safe side, he was allowing an extra half hour. If he arrived early, he would visit the parish church. He had read in one of his reference books that, in addition to being one of England’s finest small churches, it was “richly packed with monuments to the St. John family.” Few would know, as did Kingston, that the name was pronounced “sin-jin”—yet another example of those nettlesome and often inexplicable English language eccentricities that had foreigners wringing their hands in exasperation, and rightfully so.
From his research, he had also learned that the interior of the thirteenth-century church held a rich collection of ecclesiastical treasures. The piece de resistance was the “Golden Cavalier, a lifesize gilded effigy of Edward St. John emerging from his tent in full battledress.” That alone could be worth the trip, he thought.
Kingston drove through the park gates at fifteen minutes before two. As he motored slowly along the wide carriageway, flanked by sweeping lawns studded with ancient cedars of Lebanon and shade trees, Lydiard’s formal parkland came into view. Taking in the utopian surroundings, he wondered why he hadn’t visited the park before. He arrived at the half-empty main car park a few minutes later, locked the TR4, and followed the signs toward Lydiard House and St. Mary’s church.
Kingston could see why the church was considered so noteworthy. He stopped to admire it. Built of soft gray stone with a lichen-crusted tile roof, it was in Early English perpendicular style, faultless in its simplicity and proportions. Below the battlements, age-worn gargoyles peered down at him with leering faces. The clock on the bell tower read seven minutes before two. He was glad that he’d allowed the extra time.
There were few people outside the church. A family with two young children was off to one side, the father taking photographs. An elderly couple sat silently on a bench staring at nothing in particular. A clutch of youngsters—students by the looks of their backpacks and notebooks—huddled by the front door as if waiting for someone. Nowhere to be seen was a furtive man or woman wearing dark glasses and a trench coat with the collar turned up.
After waiting ten minutes, Kingston was starting to feel conspicuous, not that there were any park attendants or church staff around who might become suspicious of his obvious loitering. As much for something to do as anything, he decided to suss out the small graveyard on the south side of the church, still clearly visible from the entrance. Whomever he was to meet could still spot him there.
Church graveyards had always fascinated him and St. Mary’s did not disappoint. Ancient headstones, crosses, and monuments jutted at tortured angles from the grassy sod, having come to rest after three-hundred-odd years of settling and weathering. Here and there a sprinkling of humble bouquets, a few limp and dying, added a touch of wistful color. Most of the epitaphs and markings were too worn to be decipherable. He was attempting to read a particularly elaborate inscription when he heard his name spoken.
It was the voice of a child.
Momentarily confused, he turned to see a freckle-faced boy no more than ten years old dressed in a school uniform: gray blazer with matching shorts, socks sagging to midshin, and a navy emblazoned cap. He held a white envelope in his hand. “Are you Mr. Kingston?” he mumbled.
Kingston looked down at him and nodded.
“I’m s’posed to gi
ve this to you,” he said, offering the envelope at arm’s length.
Kingston reached forward and took it. Before he could thank him, or ask the boy who had given it to him, the lad had sped away. Kingston watched, bewildered, as the boy disappeared into the park.
He sat down on a nearby bench, avoiding the bird droppings, and opened the plain white envelope, noting that it was identical to that in which the first letter had been delivered. Not coincidence, he thought. He pulled out a sheet of notepaper and placed the envelope on the bench. He recognized the printed handwriting immediately.
DOCTOR,
I AM SORRY THAT I COULDN’T MEET YOU AS PROMISED. I HAVE BEEN FOLLOWED, AND TO BE SEEN WITH YOU OR HAVING ANY KIND OF CONTACT WITH YOU COULD BE TROUBLE FOR BOTH OF US. BECAUSE OF THIS, I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO DIVULGE THE INFORMATION AS I HAD PLANNED. THE NEWSPAPER CLIPPING IS ALL I CAN OFFER RIGHT NOW.
What clipping? wondered Kingston. He picked up the envelope and looked inside. Lodged in the fold was a single-column clipping. He extracted it and read the headline.
GARDENER GETS OFF LIGHTLY
IN DEATH OF TEENAGER
Dorchester, Dorset, May 22, 2003
A verdict was announced yesterday in the Weymouth & Dorchester County Court trial of Peter Mayhew. On trial for manslaughter in the motorcycle death of 17-year-old Samantha Bell, the 22-year-old Arundel resident was exonerated of four of the five charges, all except that of endangerment of a minor.
County Court Judge Raymond Iverson sentenced Mayhew to six months of community service to commence immediately. The case received countywide attention when Samantha Bell, the daughter of prominent Dorset farmer and horticulturist Julian Bell, was killed in an accident on the A352 when she was a passenger on Mayhew’s motorcycle. Ten minutes prior to the fatal accident, the two were seen leaving the Fox & Hounds pub, in Little Wellminster. Blood alcohol level tests on both Mayhew and Miss Bell, performed at Dorchester General Hospital immediately following the accident, proved to be within legal limits.
Asked his opinion of the verdict, Julian Bell refused to comment.
Kingston stared at the church tower framed against the cloudless sky. There was no question that whoever had written the note had panicked. Though he or she had not come right out and said as much, the words suggested that the writer had good reason to think his or her life was threatened. With two murders already connected to the expedition, that wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. “Trouble for both of us” made him feel uneasy, too. He folded the note, put it back into the envelope with the clipping, and started walking to the car park. Glancing about, he wondered if he was being watched, too.
The implication of the clipping was clear. It meant that there was indeed someone on the expedition who had reason to wish harm on Peter Mayhew. But would Julian Bell go that far? Would the grief of losing his daughter, due to Mayhew’s recklessness and apparent licentious behavior, be enough for him to want to take the man’s life? There was also the question of how much time had passed between the two events—four years. If Bell wanted revenge, why wait that long? Perhaps the most perplexing question: Given their history, why on earth would they both be on the same expedition? Surely Mayhew would have never agreed to that.
Approaching the car park, Kingston passed an unoccupied Park Police car parked alongside a small building, prompting yet another question: Was Inspector Sheffield aware of Samantha Bell’s death? The police had interviewed Spenser Graves. Certainly they would have interviewed Bell and the others, including the American, he figured. For all he knew, Bell could now be a prime suspect. Calling Sheffield and telling him about the letters and the newspaper clipping was no longer a matter of choice. That was going to get him a good rollicking—for not only going to Lydiard Park but not having reported the first letter as well. The only thing in his defense was that the writer had cautioned him not to tell the police. He knew that, with Sheffield, that excuse wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on. If it wasn’t too late by the time he returned home, he would call then. If not, he would make it the first order of the day tomorrow.
Kingston unlocked his TR4 and got in. Buckled up, he drove onto the carriageway, to see a line of uniformed schoolchildren being herded along the footpath by two teachers. He thought about stopping and asking one of the teachers if he could ask freckle face a couple of questions. He decided against it.
NINE
Two days later, at eleven thirty on a rainy Friday morning, Kingston walked into the police station on St. Aldates in the city of Oxford, well prepared for his meeting with Detective Inspector Sheffield. Crossing the threshold brought back fond memories of the fictional Inspector Morse, who, with his partner, the amiable Sergeant Lewis, had solved so many crimes out of this very police station.
Their phone conversation the morning before had been much shorter than Kingston had anticipated, hardly a conversation at all, in fact. He’d presumed, erroneously, that he would get a dressing down when he told the inspector about his trip to Lydiard Park, the letters, and the newspaper clipping. Kingston was surprised when he hadn’t. Neither had Sheffield shown a great deal of interest in asking much about the incident—which he found odd—or offered, at the very least, a few crumbs of appreciation. As phlegmatic as ever, Sheffield had listened patiently to Kingston’s story. Then, with not so much as a “thank you” or a question, had said, “I think it best if you come up to Oxford, Doctor, if it’s not too much trouble—to make a proper statement, that is—and bring the letters.”
Kingston had little choice. “Of course, no problem at all,” he’d answered blithely, doubting that Sheffield would detect his salting of sarcasm.
It wasn’t the first time he’d run into this kind of reaction when trying to cooperate with law enforcement. Here he was making a sincere effort to help the police in their investigation—in a murder case, of all things—but couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being humored. Though this time, to Sheffield’s credit, he’d requested Kingston’s help, even if it had been accompanied by sternly worded caveats—which Kingston had already violated.
When Kingston entered the inspector’s office, a smiling Sheffield got up from his desk, leaned across, and shook Kingston’s hand as they exchanged greetings.
In appearance, Sheffield bore no resemblance whatsoever to Morse. Sheffield was considerably younger, lanky, and sported a trim mustache. The only feature they shared was the gray hair; however, unlike Morse’s, Sheffield’s was closely cropped.
“I appreciate your coming all the way up here, Doctor,” he said, sitting and picking up a yellow pencil that was on the desktop alongside a notepad. “Nasty morning, too.”
“Not a problem. I always manage to find things to do in Oxford.”
“Before I forget, before we get into the Mayhew business, I ran into someone a couple of weeks ago who said to say hello to you.”
Kingston frowned, at a loss to think who it could be. “Really?”
“Another copper. Robbie Carmichael, Hampshire Constabulary. We were on a three-day course together, in London. Antiterrorism seminar. Told me a few stories about you. Said you’d make a good detective.”
“Inspector Carmichael. How could I ever forget him?” Kingston smiled and leaned back. “What he actually said, if my memory serves me, was that he thought there might be a place in law enforcement for me. But then he added, don’t look for employment in Hampshire, please.”
Sheffield chuckled. “Sounds like Robbie.”
“He was being charitable. Truth be known, I probably gave him quite a few sleepless nights on that case with the water lilies. Nice chap. Good policeman.”
“He is that.” Sheffield stroked his chin. “So, did you bring those letters?”
“I did, yes.” Kingston reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out the envelopes containing the two letters, and handed them to the inspector.
Sheffield read them carefully, then placed them side by side on the desk and looked at Kingston, twiddling his pencil wi
th both hands. “A London postmark. Not much help there.” He paused, frowning. “Someone on the expedition would seem to be a rather obvious candidate.”
“Agreed. What do you make of the newspaper clipping?”
“We’re already familiar with that case. Our chaps dug it up while they were researching Bell’s background. We’ve gone back through all the trial transcripts.”
“Doesn’t it suggest that Bell could have had a motive for wanting to kill Mayhew?”
“It does, but waiting for four years to carry it out seems a bit much. Unless, that is, something else happened between him and Mayhew more recently. He vehemently denies any such thing, of course.”
“I have to agree,” said Kingston. “The time lapse does make it questionable. Also, surely Mayhew wouldn’t have considered, even for one moment, spending three weeks, or however long the trip was, in the company of Julian Bell.”
Sheffield nodded. “It would certainly be asking for trouble.”
“It would.”
“So what does this suggest?”
“Well, if someone on the expedition wrote the letters, then it narrows it down to five suspects—four, if you discount the American, unless he’s over here now.”
“We’ve been assured that he hasn’t left the States since returning from the expedition.”
“Okay.” Kingston thought for a moment, then, using his index finger to count on the fingers of the other hand, named them. “Bell, Graves, Jenkins, and the photographer chap, Jeremy Lester.” He hesitated. “If it’s none of them, we can logically assume that the writer must have got the information secondhand from one of the five.”
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