Midafternoon Saturday, under a blue sky daubed with fleecy white clouds, Kingston drove onto the Torpoint Ferry at Devonport. On the other side of the river was Cornwall. He had a special place in his heart for England’s farthest-flung county. For many centuries it had remained isolated from the rest of England, both in customs and in language. It was a Hobbit-like land of ancient lore and legend, fertile with tales of shipwrecks, smuggling, and strange happenings from the not-so-distant past when copper and tin miners toiled their way to early graves in narrow tunnels under the sea. Many was the time he’d sat in pubs listening to locals talk about the pagan rituals and mores that were still very much alive and well in that particular village and other parts.
Though it was much slower, he’d chosen to take the coastal route, the smaller roads that, once in a while, offered views of the craggy shoreline, sheltered coves, and picture-postcard fishing villages that hugged the rocks like barnacles. Whimsical place names were also part of the Cornish charm, villages like Portwrinkle, Budge’s Shop, Mevagissey, Mousehole, and Fowey. To make it even more confusing, the last two were pronounced Mowzle and Foy. It was the town of Fowey where Kingston was headed. Another twenty miles and he would be there.
Now the lanes were barely wide enough for two passing cars, on some stretches, not. Winding and sunken, with impenetrable hedges of hawthorn, dog roses, and brambles pressing in on both sides, they made driving for the uninitiated a heart-thumping adventure. He’d toured the West Country on several occasions, so this was nothing new to Kingston. He navigated the spidery roads like one of the locals. Half an hour later, on a downhill slope, he saw three cars stopped ahead, water beyond. He was almost at Fowey. The cars were waiting for the Bodinnick–Fowey car ferry. He was in luck. The ferry, not much more than a floating dock, carried only six cars. On weekends and holidays the line of waiting cars could be backed up for almost a quarter mile.
On the Fowey side, he drove through the squeaky-narrow streets flanked by medieval and Tudor cottages, cobbled walkways, and attractive shops festooned with hanging baskets spilling with bright flowers. Now and again, through gaps in the buildings, he caught a glimpse of the shimmering estuary: the naked masts of sailboats with flags snapping in the offshore breeze, the sun burnishing the portholes and windows of an armada of schooners, yachts, and motor launches moored in the harbor.
For a moment, at a traffic stop, he was transported through time to twenty-five years earlier, when he and Megan had spent a month touring the West Country. They had stayed two days in Fowey, and the memory of those golden days flooded back. The never-to-be-forgotten weekend at Padstow on May Day, when the entire fishing village—kids and dogs included—plus a jostling army of onlookers, turn out in force to celebrate the pre-Christian festival of the “ ’Obby ’Oss,” as it is spelled and pronounced by the locals. The pagan ritual defies description, and spending time to figure out what it’s all about is pointless, because the Beltane rite reaches so far back in time that its origins are so hopelessly blurred even the village elders can’t explain it in full.
To outward appearances the celebration is an excuse for an annual round-the-clock surfeit of singing, dancing, chanting, and drumming—with white-shirted locals wearing either blue or red sashes, and visitors parading through the jam-packed village behind a man wearing a bizarre black hobbyhorse costume, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to a horse. All of this revelry places a severe strain on the thirst, which is happily alleviated by the several pubs in the village. The incessant chanting and drum beating, which can be heard for miles around, goes on late into the night, by which time, the villagers, along with the remaining stragglers—mostly die-hard tourists—are too weary or inebriated to go on. To this day, Kingston remembered the first verse of the “Morning Song.” It wasn’t surprising, since he’d sung it countless times on their two trips.
Rise up, Mr. Hawken and joy to you beside,
For summer is acome unto day
And bright is your bride that lies down by your side,
In the merry morning of May.
One week later, they had lodged at a B and B for a couple of days to see the Furry, or Floral Dance, at the market town of Helston. Like Padstow, the streets had been thronged with thousands of visitors taking in the day-into-night carnival that celebrates the coming of spring and the passing of winter. The Furry Dance itself is not so much a dance but another, albeit more dignified, procession through the town’s narrow streets. The gentlemen wear morning dress with gray top hats and tails, the ladies full-length dresses and ball gowns. An added attraction is the Hal-an-Tow—an ancient Celtic song sung to a costumed performance in which St. George and St. Michael slay the dragon and the devil, cheered on by a crowd wearing Elizabethan dress.
A toot from the car behind jogged Kingston back to the present. He shook his head and smiled. Those had been wonderful times. A minute later, he pulled up outside the Old Quay House Hotel, where he dropped off his bag and picked up a prepaid permit for a nearby car park. In ten minutes he was back at the hotel, checked in and enjoying a glass of wine on the sun terrace overlooking the estuary. His plan for the evening was to take a stroll through the town, which had several art galleries, and afterward, dine in the hotel’s restaurant, which he’d already sussed out, sold on the mouthwatering menu that described the fare as a “blend of seafood, using local produce with Mediterranean flavors.” An early night, then off in the morning to meet David Jenkins at his tree farm in Lostwithiel, which, according to the concierge, who had given him directions, was little more than a ten-minute drive from the hotel.
Next morning at eight, Kingston picked up a Sunday Telegraph from the front desk—the Times were all spoken for—and sat on the terrace for a breakfast of kippers, toast with marmalade, and a pot of Earl Grey tea.
It is a little-known fact—but known to Kingston, of course—that Howick Hall, famous for its magnificent arboretum and gardens, is also the home of Earl Grey tea. In the mid-1800s, Charles, the second Earl Grey, had the tea specially blended by a Chinese mandarin, formulated to suit the water at Howick, using bergamot to offset the chalky taste of lime in the local water. Soon after, Lady Grey, who entertained frequently in London, started serving it at many of her social and political gatherings. The tea became so popular that she was asked if it could be sold to others. It is now sold worldwide, but unfortunately the Greys were not businesslike and failed to register the trademark. As a result, they have never received a penny.
Taking his last sip of tea, Kingston finished reading the sports page and was about to fold the paper when, for some inexplicable reason—he’d rarely done it in all his many years of newspaper reading—he glanced down at the horoscopes. What would today bring? he wondered. He smiled as he read it.
SAGITTARIUS
November 23–December 21
This week, travel could bring unexpected surprises. Thursday’s powerful link between the sun and your ruler, Jupiter, could bring greater understanding and help solve a problem that’s been plaguing you for some time. It could also bring, as travel is wont to do, a new friendship of the opposite sex. A surprise visit could bring unexpected repercussions. Tread carefully, Sag. All is not as it appears.
Signing the check, he wondered if perchance a ravishing young divorcée, who was rolling in it and had a thing for older men, might be staying at the hotel. What would Andrew say to that?
Kingston left the Old Quay House and set off for the car park and Lostwithiel. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his peacoat, he walked briskly, enjoying the gray morning and muffled quiet. A cool veil of sea mist embraced the houses and yet-to-open shops along Fore Street, the town’s daytime bustle and squealing chorus of gulls conspicuously absent.
Kingston cleaned the TR’s windscreen and windows with his squeegee and soon was on his way to Trevassick Tree Farm. He was looking forward to catching up with Jenkins at long last, hoping that the meeting would be more congenial and revealing than that with Bell.
Ten minu
tes later, Kingston turned off the Lostwithiel road onto Badgers Lane, which led to the tree farm. After about a quarter mile, rounding a curve, he saw the farm’s sign alongside a wide steel gate. He pulled up in front of the gate, surprised to see that it was padlocked. Then he saw the makeshift sign attached to the gate. He got out and read it.
THE SALE HAS BEEN CANCELED DUE TO AN URGENT
FAMILY MATTER. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.
PLEASE WATCH THE NEWSPAPERS FOR NEW SALE DATES.
His first reaction was anger. He’d spent all this bloody time and money to meet Jenkins, and it had come down to this. He stared at the sign. “An urgent family matter” could mean many things. The first that came to mind was that Jenkins had been called away suddenly, a sickness in the family, something like that. “Sod it,” he said, averting his eyes from the sign, debating what next. As he was about to get back in the car and return to the hotel—the only idea he could come up with on the spot—a short-haired young woman on a bicycle and wearing a yellow anorak and corduroy trousers approached the gate from the other side. “Good morning,” she said as she reached the gate, got off the bike, and unlocked the padlock. By the way she had said it, coupled with the look on her face, it was anything but a good morning as far as she was concerned. “I guess you read the sign,” she added, now on Kingston’s side of the gate. She was short and pretty but looked as if she’d lost a pound and found a penny.
“I did, yes. Quite a disappointment,” Kingston replied. “I came all the way from London for the sale. You work here, I take it?”
She nodded. “Yep.”
“Do you know if David Jenkins is here?”
She bit her lip and looked as if she might start weeping at any moment.
“I’m afraid not.” She put a hand up to her mouth. “He’s dead.”
FIFTEEN
Kingston’s jaw dropped.
She remained silent, trying to avoid his gaze. It was clear that she’d learned about it recently, was still in a state of shock herself, and didn’t want to talk about it.
Scores of questions raced through Kingston’s mind, but this was not the time to dump them on her. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said solemnly. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Was he a friend?” she asked, getting on her bike.
“No.” The question was innocent enough, but it threw Kingston off guard. He paused. “A friend of a friend, you might say.”
His last words seemed to strike a sympathetic chord with the young woman. As their glances met, he could see that the whites of her eyes were veined with red, from crying and lack of sleep, no doubt. “I must go,” she said with a sigh. “You’ve come such a long way. Why don’t you go up to the house? As far as I know, the police are still there. Perhaps you should talk to them.”
“Police?”
She nodded one more time. “Where is it? The house, I mean.”
“Go back the way you came in. About a hundred yards, you’ll see a small lane off to your right. That’ll take you to Larkfield—the house.” She released the brakes, stepped on the pedal, and took off down the lane without looking back. Kingston watched her until she disappeared, thinking about the grim news.
He drove out Badgers Lane and followed her directions. Rounding a bend, he spotted redbrick chimneys poking up from a tall holly hedge. In less than a minute the house came into view. It was a pleasant-looking structure of modest proportions, built of local stone, no doubt, with a gray slate roof and white painted trim. The plantings around the house were abundant and mature, particularly the trees. Like a well-chosen frame on a so-so painting, they made the house appear more appealing and important.
A stretch of blue-and-white crime-scene tape spanning the entire front of the house was a jarring incongruity to the otherwise inviting scene. A multicolored panda car and three other cars were parked out front. Kingston took the last parking space, got out of the TR4, ducked under the tape, and walked to the front door, which was open. He knocked and went in.
Passing through a tiled entry hall with the obligatory mirror, coat rack, and umbrella stand, he entered the living room. A young, sandy-haired uniformed policeman who was sitting at a table, writing, stood to face Kingston. He wasn’t smiling.
“Hello. I’m PC Truscott. Can I help you, sir?”
“Perhaps,” said Kingston, looking around the room, which had all the earmarks of having been recently ransacked. He wondered if he should tell the policeman, right off the bat, that he was working with the Thames Valley Police but decided not to. First he would try to find out how David Jenkins had died and why the police were involved.
“Are you a family member? A friend?”
“Neither. I drove down from London hoping to meet Mr. Jenkins, only to discover a few minutes ago that he’d just died.”
“How did you learn that, sir?”
“From the young woman at the tree farm. I just talked to her, and she suggested I see you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, sir. Unless you have information concerning Mr. Jenkins’s death, I’m afraid you must leave. This is a crime scene. You’ve already broken the law by entering this house. Why do you think we put up the tape?”
Kingston realized that if he was to gain the policeman’s confidence and learn more, he would have to play his only trump card and explain the true reason for his being there. This would certainly result, sooner or later, in a phone call from the Cornwall police to Inspector Sheffield. He was not only going to be surprised to learn that Kingston was in Fowey but also ticked off—to put it mildly—that he was investigating Jenkins’s demise, flying in the face of everything the inspector had warned him not to do.
“I’m sorry,” said Kingston, careful not to adopt a superior attitude, an impression that—because of his physical stature and silken way with words, should he choose—was often misinterpreted. “I should have told you right away. I’m consulting with Detective Inspector Sheffield of the Thames Valley Police on a murder case. Jenkins was implicated. That’s the reason I’m here. I came down from London yesterday to talk to him about it.”
“Jenkins?” The PC recoiled, looking more confused. “A murder case?” he mumbled, frowning.
“Right.” Kingston reached in his pocket and took out his wallet, withdrawing his card and handing it to the policeman. “Name’s Kingston. Dr. Lawrence Kingston.”
The constable looked at him as if he’d said “Bond, James Bond,” then glanced at the card, appearing suitably impressed. “I’m afraid I’m not the one you need to talk with, Doctor,” he said, apparently warming to the idea that Kingston wasn’t some thrill seeker who’d just wandered in off the street. “A detective inspector’s on his way from St. Austell as we speak. I was informed that he’d be here sometime around the middle of the day.”
“Can you tell me briefly what happened?”
“I think you’d best wait for the inspector, sir.”
Kingston nodded. “If you wish.” He drew himself up to his full six feet three inches and looked down at the policeman. “I don’t wish to appear obstreperous, Constable, but surely the inspector will be unable to brief me on what took place here. Not until he first hears it from you—your people. Isn’t that correct?”
It was as if the frown had never left Truscott’s brow. “I see what you’re getting at—”
“Look, I don’t need a full-blown report, just the sequence of events. Who found him? Where? When? That’s all.”
Truscott thought about it for a moment, pursing his lips like a little boy being forced to admit to scrumping. “We got a call yesterday morning,” he said at last. “From Jenkins’s partner, who said that for some time he’d been trying to reach Jenkins on his home phone and his mobile, without success.”
“Partner?”
“Business partner, I believe. Not the other kind.”
Kingston nodded. “Sorry to interrupt, go on.”
“According to the report, he became concerned because Jenkins had told him that he would
be at home that morning up until about nine or so, sorting out last-minute things before going to the sale. Not only that, but Jenkins was expecting his call.”
“Was Jenkins alone?”
“It’s believed so. Yes.”
“So this partner decided to look in on Jenkins?”
“Right. He said he got here a few minutes after eight thirty to find the place ransacked and the subject slumped on a chair in the library, dead.”
“Any signs of a break-in?”
The young policeman didn’t answer. Instead, he took another look at Kingston’s card, as if hoping to find something he’d missed earlier that would later justify to his superior why he had permitted a total stranger to enter a crime scene—and of all things, a homicide. In a way Kingston could appreciate the PC’s dilemma. Murders were hardly two a penny in Fowey. The last had probably been long before the lad was even born.
“One last question,” said Kingston. “Have you questioned any of the neighbors?”
“Just one—the only one, actually—the farm at the corner of Badgers Lane. The farmer’s wife reported hearing a motorcycle sometime after midnight, early Saturday morning. She didn’t know the exact time.”
“Hmm. Do we know if Jenkins had a motorbike?”
Truscott looked anxious. “Look, sir. I’ve got to get these reports finished before the inspector arrives. So I think you’d best leave and come back when he’s here.”
“I understand perfectly well, Constable. Mind if I look around outside while I wait—the garden?”
Truscott shrugged. “I suppose not. But for Christ’s sake, don’t touch or move anything. You do, and you can be charged with tampering with a crime scene.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Kingston assured him, smiling. Actually, the only reason he’d asked Truscott for permission to stay on the property was so that he could wait until the inspector showed up.
He left the house and walked to the gravel parking area, wondering what to do until the inspector arrived. Only then did it occur to him that he hadn’t asked Truscott what was the cause of death. He hoped he would get the chance to ask the inspector. The sea mist had evaporated, and every now and then the sun nudged its way through the gauze of cirrus. From where Kingston stood, looking at the front of the house, there was no evidence of a garden. But surely someone like Jenkins would have one. It would probably be in the back. A walk about would give him a chance to do some serious thinking. There was certainly enough to think about. Was this a classic case of an intruder—a would-be burglar—disturbing Jenkins and killing him to avoid recognition or possible capture? Had he been killed during a struggle? Or was it premeditated murder disguised to look like a break-in?
EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose Page 12