EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “You also photograph them and make notes, I take it?”

  “Yes. Each person on the expedition is usually assigned a job. One of the jobs, an important one, is to make field notes. Each plant or tree specimen is not only described, but its location is pinpointed with a GPS coordinate. Notes are then made detailing its location, habitat, and aspect. This will include whether it’s growing in sun or shade; what kind of terrain—for example, alpine, hillside, or valley; flat ground, steep, or vertical—if it’s found in forest, woodland, et cetera; what type soil; and so on.”

  During a lull in the conversation that followed, Kingston sensed that further talk about plant hunting would risk losing her interest. Pausing to take a sip of wine, he decided to sum up. “So now, Sally, you know a little more about what Peter was doing and why. Plant hunting has been going on for centuries, and were it not for all those adventuresome and inquisitive souls, our nurseries and garden centers would be sadly lacking. Many, many of the plants we enjoy today we owe to plant hunters—and to hybridizers, of course.”

  “Plant breeders?”

  “Right. Another fascinating world that’s little understood by most people, sad to say.” Kingston was about to stop there, but because he knew that he could make this part more entertaining, he continued. “For most of the general public—particularly the couch potatoes—pollen means allergies and bees mean stings. They don’t realize that for at least one out of every three bites of what they eat, they should thank a bee, wasp, butterfly, bird, or one of the many other pollinators.”

  It was now clear from the look on Sally’s face that she was trying hard to feign interest. But Kingston knew that she was close to the point where she would start examining her fingernails. He’d seen the look on students’ faces too many times in the past not to recognize it. “Let me tell you one last little plant story, Sally,” he said. “A short one, I promise.”

  “All right,” she said, clearly glad that she wouldn’t have to sit through two more courses and coffee while he rambled on about bugs, pests, and ravaging plant diseases.

  “Do you like chocolate?” asked Kingston.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, chocolate comes from cocoa trees, Theobroma cacao. They grow in the tropics and look different from most other trees. This is because they have their flowers on the trunk and lower branches. The flowers are small and inconspicuous, since they face downward. There’s good reason, though. They attract only midges. Midges are ordinarily attracted by fungus, and because the cocoa flowers smell like mushrooms, they feed on them, too. So for the cocoa tree to bear fruit, first it has to be pollinated by midges.” Kingston smiled. “So the next time you open that box of Godiva and take a bite of chocolate, pause for a moment to thank a midge.”

  Sally chuckled. “I like that.”

  Kingston glanced sideways, to see that their main courses were about to arrive. A short interval followed while the waiter placed the plates on the table, fussed with the cutlery, and topped up their water glasses.

  Silence fell as they started their meal, then Sally spoke. What she said took Kingston by surprise.

  “Are you still helping the police?”

  “Not as much, but yes. I believe you already know that the Thames Valley Police enlisted me right after the motorcycle accident—the man who was at St. George’s Hospital, the one they thought was your brother.” Kingston paused, resting his knife and fork, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, just long enough to observe her surreptitiously. He saw nothing in her eyes or body language to suggest that talking about her brother’s death still unsettled her. “I still talk to Inspector Sheffield from time to time.”

  “Have there been any breaks at all?” she asked hesitantly, with a wan smile. “It’s a silly question, I suppose. If there had been, I’m sure the police would have told me.”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s still much of a mystery. You do know that they identified the man in the hospital, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I forget his name, though.”

  “Jeremy Lester.”

  “That’s right. The inspector said it was Peter’s motorcycle he was riding.”

  “It was. That’s why, at first, they thought it was Peter who was injured in the accident. But you already know all this.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Jeremy Lester? Do you know anything about him?” Kingston asked offhandedly, slicing into his medium rare entrecôte.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “One would conclude that they were fairly close friends. Apparently, it was Peter’s idea that Lester be included on the trip.”

  “They might have been, though Peter never mentioned him. Not that he would, necessarily. Maybe they met more recently.”

  Kingston looked into her mascara-rimmed hazel eyes. “This is none of my business, but did Peter leave a will?”

  “One was never found, no. But it’s not too surprising, considering how little he owned.”

  “Did you know he had a motorcycle?”

  She smiled briefly. “Of course. Peter’s always had motorcycles, ever since he was old enough for a license.”

  “I know the answer to the question, but I’ll ask it anyway. Did you find DVLA papers or a bill of sale indicating that Peter might have sold his bike?”

  Sally shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

  Kingston stopped eating and stared briefly into space. “Then we can only assume that there was either some kind of arrangement whereby Jeremy Lester had permission to use the bike, or Peter had lent it to him,” he said, looking back at her.

  Sally shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

  A few moments of silence followed, as they turned their attention to their lunch. Kingston felt good, having invited her, pleased that she seemed to be enjoying his company, even though they were discussing the unexplained death of her brother. He couldn’t help admiring her openness and sangfroid. She spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

  “What did you think of that letter? The one I found in Peter’s belongings, the letter that David Jenkins wrote warning Peter off the trip—that, and the newspaper clipping. You did get them, didn’t you?”

  Kingston nodded. “I did, yes. I passed them on to the police. They said to thank you.”

  “You said you were going to get back to me.”

  “I was, and I apologize.” He sipped his wine, all the time looking into her eyes. “I’m curious, Sally. Jenkins sent the letter in September, right? And you went to Arundel to get Peter’s things in December or thereabouts. How come you’ve waited all this time before bringing it up?”

  “When I brought his stuff home, I put the boxes of books in my spare bedroom, under the bed. I already knew that none of them were of interest to me. I kept putting off going through them until a couple of weeks ago. I was going to give them to the library. That’s when I found the letter and the court papers. They were tucked inside a book. A book about China.”

  “I knew there must be a simple explanation.”

  “What did you think of the letter?” she asked, taking a sip of wine.

  Kingston wondered how he should reply. He might as well tell her about Jenkins. She would learn sooner or later. “I’m sorry to say that David Jenkins died a few days ago,” he said as delicately as he could.

  “Good Lord!” She paled and put down her glass. “I thought you said there hadn’t been any breaks in the case—that you only talk to the police occasionally. What happened?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you meant breaks that might shed some light on Peter’s accident.” He proceeded to tell her how he had gone to Cornwall to meet Jenkins, and what he’d encountered at the tree farm and at Jenkins’s house. “Inspector Sheffield is now collaborating with the Devon & Cornwall Constabulary,” he added. He was about to mention the Chinese ceramics but decided against it at the last moment. It was irrelevant. There was nothing yet to connect them with Jenkins’s death.

  “Are you saying he was murdered?
”

  Her question surprised him. When describing what had happened at Larkfield House, to make it easier on her, he’d purposely avoided any mention of foul play. He took his time answering. “I’m afraid it looks that way,” he said soberly. “It won’t be confirmed until they get the postmortem results, of course.”

  By the time dessert had arrived—strawberries with Jersey cream—there was little or nothing left to say in the matter of David Jenkins’s untimely demise. The letter was forgotten and the talk drifted to everyday matters. The conversation appeared to be winding down when she made a statement that took Kingston by surprise.

  “I should tell you that I’ve been toying with the idea of getting out of Harrow and London and living elsewhere.”

  “Really?” said Kingston, eyebrows raised. “What made you decide that?”

  “City life and I no longer agree. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I came to realize that it was a bigger part of my problems than I realized—the reason for my apathy, my growing dissatisfaction with life in general.”

  “You’ve no doubt given it considerable thought?”

  “I have. Yes. On top of everything else, the horrible crowding, the cost of living, I no longer feel safe in London. I should explain—”

  Kingston was about to interrupt, but she continued.

  “It was my bad luck to have been at the Edgware Road tube station when the terrorists set off those bombs.” She pursed her lips. “It was ghastly. I’ll never forget it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, and I can understand why you feel the way you do. These are dangerous times we live in.”

  She nodded.

  “What about your job? That’s of no consequence, I take it?”

  “Not really. I work for a pharmaceutical company. Accounts manager. I like the work and it pays well, but I can get by on less, which I’ll probably have to.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “With Peter gone and no other family ties, I’m thinking about living abroad for while, to see if I like it.”

  “Europe?”

  “Yes. I’m looking into what’s required in the way of EU work permits et cetera.”

  “I have to admit, there’s a lot to be said for it, not the least being the weather. And you can always come back if it doesn’t work out.”

  She smiled. “My French is atrocious and I only speak about ten words of Italian. I’m not going to worry about that, though.”

  “I hope you’ll let me know, if and when it comes about. And I trust you’ll give me a forwarding address.”

  “Of course,” she replied cheerfully.

  Half an hour later, their shared cab dropped Sally off at her friend’s house on York Terrace, facing Regent’s Park. Kingston wished her well with her plans for living abroad, she promising to keep in touch. On the cab ride back home, he mused about their lunch. He had enjoyed himself and was left with the impression that she had, too. He would be sorry if she were to move away.

  Back at his flat, Kingston played back his one phone message: Andrew had tickets for Royal Ascot the coming Friday, and would Kingston be his guest? Andrew went on to say that he had made a reservation for lunch in the Panoramic Restaurant. It was a brilliant five-course job, and if Kingston had never been there, he’d be knocked for six. Kingston had, but not lately.

  No need to check his calendar; he would go regardless. A day out with Andrew was always an adventure. There was no telling what might happen before the clock struck midnight. He smiled, recalling one such bout of serious eating and drinking. What had started as an innocent lunch in Hampstead had ended up in the small hours at a raucous houseboat party on the river at Kew. The next day, all he could remember was dancing—gyrating, more like it—on the towpath to live trad jazz. Neither could recall who had invited them, what the occasion was, or who owned the boat. It was all lost in an alcohol-induced fog. That was the only time Kingston could ever remember having suffered a headache that lasted two days.

  He sat on the sofa, debating what to do with the rest of the afternoon: whether he should go food shopping, do laundry, or clean up the flat. None had much appeal. He glanced to the sideboard, where the manila envelope containing David Jenkins’s letter sat atop a stack of books. He reached over and picked it up, deciding, for no particular reason, to reread it. He was about to open the envelope when the phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Kingston,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve some news for you, Doctor.”

  He recognized Sheffield’s regional accent right away. “About David Jenkins?”

  “Right. I heard from Hannaford this morning. Postmortem results showed burns around the mouth. It looks as though the assailant used chloroform to put him out, then finished him off with multiple blows to the head.”

  “Interesting. First, we have Lester and lidocaine, and now Jenkins and chloroform. If it’s the same person, it has to be someone who has access to drugs and knows how to administer them—in Lester’s case, with a dose intended to kill, perhaps. A pharmacist, lab technician, or—”

  “A doctor.”

  “And Julian Bell is a doctor. Or practiced, at one time.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re going to interview him again, I take it?”

  “We are. Without question.”

  “What about the Chinese pottery in the barn? Did Inspector Hannaford say anything more about that?”

  “He did indeed. As a matter of fact, we’ve talked about it since. If Jenkins was mixed up somehow in a scheme to sell phony Chinese antiques, then who else might be in cahoots with him? Another collector?”

  “Spenser Graves,” Kingston replied after a pause. Not wanting to come off sounding smart-alecky, he wasn’t about to tell the inspector that he had also made that connection—some time ago.

  “None other. Maybe, just maybe, we’re starting to get to the bottom of this damned affair.”

  “I hope so.”

  “We’re bringing Graves and Bell in for questioning.”

  “Good. Perhaps you’ll let me know how it goes?”

  “I will. It may take a few days, though.”

  Kingston put down the phone and leaned back into the sofa, trying to decide what to make of this latest development. From the beginning, he’d suspected that Jenkins’s death would turn out to be a homicide. Thinking back on Sheffield’s call, he’d forgotten to ask—now that robbery was ruled out—whether they’d found the netsuke, if Jenkins still had them.

  As he pondered Jenkins’s murder, trying to connect it with Lester’s, it struck him that both might have been killed for the same reason: Both had known something that posed a serious threat to the murderer. What’s more, there was little doubt left that the “something” had to do with the plant-hunting expedition.

  As he was thinking, he had been staring at the manila envelope. He picked it up again. He examined the white address label, to study the handwriting. He noticed that the edge of another label showed under the top one. It wasn’t much more than a fraction of a millimeter, but it was there, as if someone had gone to the trouble to conceal it with the top label. He tried to lift the corner of the top label with his little fingernail, but it was firmly affixed. He took it to the kitchen, where he poured a modest amount of water in the kettle, plugged it in, and flicked on the switch. A minute of careful steaming, and the top label peeled off clean as a whistle. The label underneath was addressed to David Jenkins, PO Box 196, Fowey, Cornwall PL23.

  Kingston leaned on the kitchen counter, looking at the envelope, trying to figure out what to make of it. His immediate thought was that Jenkins must have a little Scottish in him. But recycling envelopes wasn’t such a bad idea. For all he knew, maybe a lot of people did it. But this was taking “green” a little too far for his liking. Since the kettle had boiled, he decided he might as well make a cup of tea.

  Five minutes later, he was sitting at the kitchen table with his tea, munching on a digestive biscuit. He had just set aside th
e Times crossword after finally solving the last clue, 12 down: Memento Japanese bar will do? (8). Of course—keepsake! He looked at the envelope again. It was the postmark date that finally helped him figure out a plausible reason why David Jenkins had reused the envelope. The letter inside was dated before the expedition took place, as was the St. Austell postmark. This made sense because in the letter Jenkins urged Mayhew not to go on the trip. To outward appearances, it was all in order. But, for the sake of argument, Kingston asked himself, what if Jenkins had written and dated the letter after the expedition? How could he make it look otherwise? Kingston figured that he had reused the envelope of an old letter or document that had been addressed to him prior to the expedition—hence the first label and the early date stamp. All he had to do after the expedition was to use an identical label, address it to Mayhew, and carefully place it over the old one. This time, rather than post it—because it was already postmarked—he had to hand-deliver it. This was easy, because by now Mayhew was a missing person, presumed dead. Jenkins only had to slip it through the postal slot in Mayhew’s door for the new tenants or the landlord to find, and for one of them to put it in with Mayhew’s belongings that were waiting for Sally to pick up. Nobody would question the St. Austell postmark. If Kingston’s fanciful theory was correct, it meant that Jenkins had gone out of his way to prove, falsely, that he had warned Mayhew not to go on the planthunting trip before it took place. If Kingston was right, the question was why?

  EIGHTEEN

  Friday’s outing to Ascot turned out to be a slap-up affair all round. The weather couldn’t have been better for a day at the races, nothing but blue skies with a lingering white cloud here and there, the “going” good to firm. Observing the dress code required for Premier Admission badge holders, both Kingston and Andrew wore summer blazers, shirts and ties, and straw hats. Kingston sported a wide-brimmed Panama from the venerable Lock & Co., the St. James’s Street hatters founded in 1676, as the label attested. He had splurged on it for his honeymoon many moons ago. Each time he took it down from the dark upper recesses of his wardrobe, he admired its superb quality and timeless style. It also conjured tender memories and never failed to bring compliments.