EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Kingston got up and nodded. “I must get going, too. I’m due in Bedford in an hour.” He followed Graves to the door. This was his last chance to ask Graves if the police had interviewed him again. He decided against it.

  No words were exchanged as they walked along the hall to the room where Kingston had eavesdropped. With a curt “Goodbye, Doctor,” Graves went in and closed the door behind him. Kingston stood by the door for a moment, then shook his head, turned on his heels, and headed for the exhibit hall and the exit. At the cloakroom, he was met by a queue of visitors waiting to retrieve their raincoats and umbrellas. A frail octogenarian lady, moving at the speed of treacle running uphill in winter, was taking forever to retrieve people’s belongings. Ten minutes passed before his coat and brolly were handed over. He left her a nice tip, anyway.

  It was still raining stair rods when Kingston drove out of the car park. He was reminded, once again, that his windscreen wipers needed replacing. Seeing a car coming toward him from the direction of the house, he slowed at the junction where the two roads met. That road was no longer roped off. He let the car, a black Jeep, go first. It was the same color and model as the one he’d parked alongside that day at Bell’s farm. Kingston watched as the driver turned in front of him. Though visibility through the windscreen was blurry, Kingston got a good look at the car’s three occupants.

  The man in the passenger seat was Asian, as was the man in the backseat. The driver was Julian Bell.

  TWENTY

  On the drive back to London it was still bucketing down, with no apparent letup in sight. To the monotonous click-clack of the wipers and hiss of Michelins on the rain-slick road, Kingston hashed over his short and fractious visit with Spenser Graves, thinking how starkly different it was from his first. If Sheffield had questioned Graves, perhaps something had transpired at the interview that had caused Graves to be so tetchy. Maybe Sheffield had mentioned Kingston’s name, hence Graves’s question about his working with the police.

  It was a dead cert that the Asian men Kingston had seen in the car and the “friends” that Graves had been meeting with were one and the same. Their presence would tend to bolster the idea that Graves, Bell, and possibly Jenkins were all involved in a scheme to replicate valuable Chinese relics and sell them to unsuspecting collectors. It was looking even more as if his original premise was correct. All roads kept leading back to the same place: Someone on the expedition—most likely Mayhew—had discovered what the three were up to, threatened to expose them, and paid the price. Seeing Julian Bell at the wheel had surprised Kingston at the time. Now, after more thought, it would be reasonable to expect—if his theory were right—Bell to be in on any meeting that concerned the Chinese ceramics.

  Closer to London, the weather and crawling traffic were starting to get to Kingston. He couldn’t wait to get home to a glass of Macallan and, afterward, an early dinner at the Antelope. Maybe he’d give Andrew a call and see if he was up for it. Tomorrow, first thing, he would call Inspector Sheffield and tell him about his visit to Audleigh and his meeting with Graves.

  As he thought about his day trip, Kingston wondered just how much longer the detective inspector would put up with his telling him things after the fact. In retrospect, he really should have informed Sheffield that he was planning to go to Audleigh. On the plus side, Sheffield would find it hard to argue that Bell and Graves meeting with the two Asians was not germane to the case. When Sheffield had finished letting off steam, Kingston would inquire— delicately, of course—what had transpired at Graves’s and Bell’s sessions in the interview room. Then he would ask if the Percival David Foundation had responded with an evaluation of the bowl sent by Inspector Hannaford.

  As it turned out, Andrew had just had a root canal, so Kingston’s dinner companion that night was the Times crossword puzzle, which he almost completed. On the way back home, he rented a movie to take his mind off the day’s developments and eventually turned in at the respectable hour of ten forty-five.

  The next morning, Kingston waited until a reasonable hour before calling Inspector Sheffield. Over a breakfast of two softboiled eggs, toast, and marmalade, he had jotted down a few notes, which were now in front of him on the kitchen table. At five minutes after ten, he pressed the speed-dial number for Sheffield’s direct line—he couldn’t think why on earth he had added the policeman’s number to the short list in the first place, but he certainly couldn’t have known then that he would be calling the inspector with any frequency. In a few rings Sheffield was on the line.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” he said, in his soft brogue. “What have you been up to lately? Not sitting home watching the telly, I would imagine.”

  At least he was in good humor, thought Kingston. “When the test matches start, maybe,” he replied. “No, I’m calling because I was up at Audleigh Hall yesterday. I managed to have a chance meeting with Spenser Graves.”

  “Chance meeting, eh?”

  “Yes.” Kingston resented the skepticism in Sheffield’s voice.

  “And how did you manage that?”

  “I went up to see his exhibit of Asian art. It was written up in Country Life. It’s a subject that I’ve become more interested in over recent years.”

  “I’d heard about it. Graves mentioned it when we interviewed him.”

  So the interview had taken place. Good. He would ask how it went, but not until after he’d further explained his reason for traveling all the way to Leicestershire. “I was going up to Bedford anyway, to visit a friend,” he said. “I thought it might be worthwhile to go the extra few miles and see the collection. It turned out to be a good decision.”

  “And how is our friend Graves?”

  “He wasn’t overly friendly, I must say. Can’t say as I blame him, though. I did drop by unannounced. He happened to be in an important meeting but was decent enough to give me a few minutes of his time.”

  After a brief pause Sheffield spoke again. “Where’s all this going, Doctor?” There was a trace of impatience in his voice.

  “Well, I believe the meeting was with Julian Bell and two Asian men. The three of them left the same time as I did. I saw them drive out together.”

  “So you think that it had something to do with the Chinese pots that were found in Jenkins’s barn?”

  “The bowls. Yes, I do.” Kingston hoped his correction didn’t sound too disrespectful.

  “Well, if it helps any, I got an e-mail from Hannaford late yesterday. It included a copy of the response he’d received from the Chinese art foundation.”

  “The Percival David people. Excellent. May I ask what they said?”

  “They said the bowl was a copy.”

  “That wasn’t all, surely?”

  “No. They explained how they came to that conclusion.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask, could I get a copy of the e-mail?”

  Sheffield’s reply was a long time in coming, and Kingston thought he knew why. He just hoped the inspector wasn’t going to pull rank. He’d heard it before: “This is a police matter and we don’t give out evidence or information willy-nilly to anyone asking for it, chum.” Kingston smiled. He shouldn’t be so prejudgmental; for all he knew the inspector might have spilled his coffee in his lap.

  At length, Sheffield deigned to answer. “I have it right here. It’s not very long. Why don’t I just read it to you?”

  “That would be fine.”

  The inspector cleared his throat and started reading:

  “Dear Inspector Hannaford,

  “We are pleased to present our opinion as to the authenticity of the ceramic bowl that you submitted. The bowl is not an original work but rather a well-executed copy of a Ming Dynasty Palace bowl of Chenghua period (1465–87).

  “The size and the shape of the piece accurately replicate that of a genuine bowl, as do the scroll design and brushwork. While the Imperial character marks at first appear genuine, closer inspection proves that they have not been executed by a Chinese artisa
n. Also, the glaze, wear, and patina are not consistent with an artwork purporting to be of such age.

  “For your information, the bowl appears to be the same as, or similar to, the one depicted in photographs recently sent to us by Dr. Lawrence Kingston. We are presuming that you obtained the bowl from him.

  “I hope this answers your questions. If not, please feel free to call me and I would be happy to discuss the piece with you further. We will return the item within the next few days.

  “Yours truly, Warren Yee, Curator.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” said Kingston.

  “Nor me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t shed much light on who killed Jenkins.”

  “Or Jeremy Lester.”

  “Right. I hadn’t forgotten him.”

  Kingston knew by Sheffield’s tone and the brevity of his answers that the conversation was about to come to a close. He might just as well come right out and pop the question, no more subtlety or diplomacy. “How did the interviews with Graves and Bell go?”

  “Not much help, I’m afraid.”

  “How did they respond to Jenkins’s murder?”

  “Well, both reacted the way you would expect—shocked, upset, denied any knowledge of it. I’ll say one thing. If either were implicated in any way, they deserve bloody Oscars. Both had credible alibis that all checked out. That majordomo fellow of his, Hobbs, said he had a touch of the flu that weekend and confirmed that Graves was home the entire week of Jenkins’s murder, making last-minute touches to the exhibit. A woman who cooked for him and another staff member also confirmed that Graves was home all weekend.”

  “How about Bell?”

  “He was attending a wedding at Midhurst, in Sussex— daughter of a close friend, apparently. It all checked out, too.”

  “Hmm. By the sound of it, we’ve run out of suspects.”

  “It looks that way, I’m afraid. If you come up with any ideas, Doctor, you might want to let us know. I’ll do likewise.”

  Much as he tried over the following days, Kingston found it almost impossible to focus his thoughts on anything but the murders of Jeremy Lester and David Jenkins, and the mystery surrounding Peter Mayhew’s accident. One side of his brain said, “Let it go and get on with your life.” The other kept nagging, “There must be something you’ve overlooked. Perhaps you’re presupposing too much, and the answer is right under your nose.” If it was, then he was losing his touch. It gave him little satisfaction, too, that unless they were keeping it to themselves, the combined gray matter of the Thames Valley Police had been unable to find even a hairline crack in the case. He smiled, thinking about it. Where were Morse and Lewis when you needed them?

  As each day passed, Kingston’s enthusiasm for the case was diminishing slowly to a point where he was no longer losing sleep over it. He could remember no other time in his past when he had been so frustrated and felt so powerless.

  All that changed when he got another phone call from DI Sheffield. Kingston was halfway out his front door, headed for Lea and Sandeman, his wine merchants in Fulham Road, when the phone started ringing. He went back and picked it up.

  “It’s Sheffield, Doctor. Glad I caught you at home. Thought you might have decided to dash off somewhere for a change of scenery, being summer and all that.”

  “I was planning to spend a few days in Wiltshire with friends, but that’s been put off for a while. How are things going up there, Inspector?”

  “Well, I promised to call if there were any developments in the Mayhew case, and though it’s not exactly what you’d call a break, I thought you might like to know about it.”

  “I appreciate that, Inspector.” Kingston tried to contain his eagerness.

  “The Met got a call yesterday from the Chinese embassy in London. It seems that they received an inquiry from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation—I believe it was—in Beijing. It was regarding the remains of a body discovered recently in Yunnan, not far from the mountain pass where Mayhew lost his life.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It certainly is. In cross-checking their records, the Chinese authorities found that a group of British botanists, headed by an American, were exploring that area last October. Right away, the Met called us, knowing that we were investigating two murders involving a plant-hunting expedition that had taken place in China.”

  “Have they identified the person?”

  “Yes. It’s a male who was reported missing about the same time. He lived in a nearby village.”

  “The same time as the expedition? October?”

  “Early November, actually. Because the body is so decomposed they haven’t been able to establish a time of death, but the remains are consistent with a person having been dead and buried for that period of time. No cause of death, either.”

  “Buried, you said?”

  “He was found in a shallow grave by a construction crew surveying the region.”

  There was a long moment of silence before Sheffield spoke again. “Unlike you to run out of questions, Doctor.”

  “Sorry, Inspector, I didn’t mean to be so obtrusive. It’s just that . . . well, obviously, it must have something to do with the expedition, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “Do the Chinese authorities know what happened on the expedition? About the murders here?”

  “They do. The Met didn’t go into a lot of detail, only that we’ve been working on the case and haven’t made much progress. With this new development, we’re setting up a conference call with the Met and the Chinese police in the next twenty-four hours. Based on what we’ve told them so far, they may send investigators over here to interview Graves and Bell.”

  “Do you think one of them might have killed the man?”

  “I don’t think we can jump to that conclusion quite yet, but there is one thing that points to their being implicated. The chap I spoke with at the Met said the Chinese police told him that the crime rate for that area is exceedingly low, mostly family disputes, theft, and an occasional robbery. He said there hasn’t been a murder in that region since they started keeping records over fifty years ago.”

  “Too much of a coincidence, if you ask me,” said Kingston.

  “What next, I wonder.” Sheffield sighed. “Well, just give it some thought, Doctor.” He paused, then said, “I know you will.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  On the bus to the Fulham Road, Kingston was still thinking about his conversation with Sheffield and how the death of the man in China could be linked to the plant-hunting expedition. He could come up with only one idea: Like Mayhew, the man could have accidentally stumbled on something connected to the expedition that had cost him his life. Problem was, the only two people remaining—other than the American, Kavanagh— who might perhaps know what that “something” was were Graves and Bell. And if they did, they certainly weren’t going to reveal it. So it looked dubious that the Chinese “connection” was going to help much, after all. Maybe, just maybe, he should contrive a reason to give Kavanagh a call. From everything Sheffield had said so far, it looked like the American was in the clear. But that didn’t mean that he might not be able to shed some light on the case, to provide some information that might help put the pieces of the puzzle together. Questioning him would take some careful thought, and in order to do so, Kingston would have to get Sheffield’s go-ahead. How could he manage to do that?

  His stop was coming up, so he made his way to the back of the bus. As it slowed, he was still thinking about the American. Had he been a little hasty in writing him off as a suspect? Perhaps, before anything, he should first ask Sheffield where he now figured in their investigation.

  Half an hour later, with the help of one of Lea and Sandeman’s wine connoisseurs, Kingston had made his selections: a case each of mixed Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Rhônes, a case of Italian varietals, a mixed case of Australian and California wines, and two bottles of vintage port. They would be delivered in the next couple of da
ys.

  The delivery from Lea and Sandeman’s arrived midafternoon Monday, as promised. Carefully comparing the labels to the packing slip, it took Kingston about fifteen minutes to restock and rearrange his wine cellar. The cellar was one of the first things he had had installed after moving in. It had been constructed by making a few simple modifications to a large clothes closet. With a thermal air-seal door, full insulation, and a professional wine-cellar cooling system that controlled the temperature and humidity, it housed approximately 250 bottles, with storage space for cases.

  As he closed the cellar door, he heard the post fall through the slot in the front door. He flipped through the half dozen envelopes and junk mail on his way to the kitchen. The last envelope caused him to stop in his tracks. It bore the embossed logo of Audleigh Hall. Just about the last thing he was expecting was a letter from Spenser Graves. Kingston opened it, withdrew the handwritten letter on expensive stationery, and started reading.

  Dear Lawrence,

  A path has been reached in the police investigation into the death of Peter Mayhew that causes me serious concern. I have now been subjected to several police interviews. I have told them, to the best of my recollection, precisely what happened on the plant-hunting expedition and how Peter fell to his accidental death. They also questioned me concerning the deaths of Jeremy Lester and David Jenkins.

  Yesterday, I received yet another phone call from Detective Inspector Sheffield, Thames Valley Police. He said that the Chinese police had found the remains of a man who had met his death about the same time as our expedition, and in the same locale. He informed me that the Chinese police might also want to talk to me.

  You told me when you were here last that you were no longer helping the police on the case, not that it really makes that much difference to me. I have decided that rather than unburden myself to the police at this stage of the game, thereby risking irreparable damage to my reputation and future, I would like to talk with you and explain my predicament. There is, no doubt, little time left before the news media get hold of the story (I’m surprised they haven’t already), and when that happens, the damage will have been done.