EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  I am asking you to meet me at the cottage off the ridge path, Wednesday at 2 p.m. Come alone, and please do not visit the house before or after your visit. You can reach the cottage by parking at the end of Jackdaw Lane (off the main road to the house). It’s just a short walk from there. Please phone me if you can’t make it.

  Cordially,

  Spenser

  Kingston sat down at the kitchen table and read the letter again. What was Spenser prepared to tell him but not the police, and why? His request that they meet at the cottage, and that Kingston not visit the house, could only mean that Graves didn’t want Hobbs or any of the staff to see or talk with him. While he hadn’t asked specifically that Kingston not tell the police about the meeting, it was implicit in the letter. Last, what was the “damage” Graves mentioned? Damage to his reputation, or something of far greater consequence?

  Kingston put the letter aside and looked out the window, thinking about it for a minute or so. Was he finally going to learn exactly what happened on the slopes of that mountain in China? Or was he getting involved in something better left to the police? Graves insisting that Kingston go alone and not make his presence known to anyone at the house worried him. Somehow, though, he couldn’t imagine Spenser wanting to do him harm. These apprehensions, however, were all outweighed by the possibility that Graves might open up and disclose what, if anything, he knew about the two murders and explain what the fake ceramics were doing in Jenkins’s barn. It was an opportunity Kingston simply couldn’t pass up. The man was asking for help, and Kingston would oblige.

  Wednesday arrived, and with it somber skies and umbrellawarping winds. At eleven o’clock, dressed for nasty weather, Kingston started off for his garage. Three hours should be more than enough time to get to Audleigh Hall. With half the roads in England gummed up by road works on any given day, one never knew what kind of delays might be encountered.

  Arriving in good time, he found Jackdaw Lane without trouble, parking the TR4, as Graves had suggested, at the dead end of the road by the path leading to the cottage. No sooner had he locked the car than it started spitting rain. With his folding umbrella in the pocket of his Barbour jacket, he set off down the path, buffeted by the gusting wind. He was hoping that the weather wasn’t a portent of whatever was about to play out at the cottage.

  On the drive, he hadn’t given too much thought to the meeting; he’d done enough of that already. But now that he was about to come face-to-face with Graves, he was starting to feel trepidation. Not necessarily bad vibes, but the sense that he was about to learn something he would rather not. Something unexpected. Too late to think about that now, he said to himself as the cottage came into view. In the shelter of the big trees, smoke was curling from the chimney, a sure sign that Graves was waiting for him.

  Kingston rapped on the door with the lion’s-head knocker. It opened almost immediately, and Graves, wearing corduroy slacks and baggy cardigan sweater over a checked shirt, ushered him inside. “Come through here and sit by the fire,” he said, leading the way into a low-beamed living room with wood-plank floor and white plaster walls.

  Graves took Kingston’s wet jacket, and in a few moments was back. “Please sit down,” he said. Kingston sat in one of the two identical wingback chairs located on either side of the fireplace. While Graves stoked the fire and put on another log, Kingston looked around, admiring the comfortable room with its country pine furniture, worn Oriental rugs, and watercolor hunting prints. After the grandeur of the big house, he could see why it would be a welcome “escape.”

  Graves sat, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, and looked at Kingston, unsmiling. A Christie’s auction catalog and a halffilled glass of what Kingston guessed to be whisky—his drink of choice at their last meeting—sat on the small table at Graves’s elbow. His face was ashen and he appeared uneasy. He seemed thinner and more worn.

  “Thanks for coming all the way up here to see me, Lawrence,” he said. “To be honest, I thought you might decide against it— your having worked with the police.”

  Kingston wasn’t about to tell him that he’d had some qualms about coming. He’d driven all this way to hear what Graves had to say, so the less he said the better. “If I can be of help, Spenser, it will have been worthwhile,” Kingston replied. Before Graves could respond, he continued. “In your letter you said that you wanted to explain your . . . ‘predicament’ I believe was the word you used. I take it that this relates to Mayhew’s death and the other incidents surrounding the expedition?”

  “To some extent. Let me explain,” he said, taking a long, solicitous look at Kingston. “To start with, I want you to know that most of what I told the police was accurate and true. Despite all the speculation, to the best of my knowledge, Mayhew’s death was accidental. I saw it happen with my own eyes and so did all the others. Nevertheless, I have been guilty of withholding certain information about the case. I was forced to do so for the simple and painful reason that it would have incriminated me as an accessory in a crime.” He blinked rapidly, a tendency that Kingston hadn’t noticed when they last met. “Should that happen, I fear I would pay a very heavy price.” He picked up his glass, taking not a sip but a gulp of whisky.

  “Tell me about the—”

  “Wait, Lawrence.” Graves put down his glass and held up his hand. “This is difficult for me, but let me continue.”

  “All right.”

  As Graves lowered his hand, Kingston couldn’t help noticing the slight tremor before it came to rest on the man’s knee.

  “Six generations of Graveses have lived at Audleigh Hall, Lawrence,” he said, clenching his teeth. “And I represent the last. When I’m gone, all this will pass on to Alexandra, my daughter, whom you met. I deeply regret never having had a son and that the family name will no longer be associated with Audleigh. Not that it makes any difference, now.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t mistake me. I love Alexandra more dearly than I can ever express, but she’ll be married soon, and it’s doubtful that she and her future husband will make their home here. He works in Paris, you see.” Graves ran his tongue over his lips. “Sorry,” he said. “Rude of me. I didn’t ask if you’d like something to drink.”

  “No, I’m fine,” replied Kingston, not wanting to interrupt now that Graves was baring his soul with such unexpected candor.

  Graves continued. “Have you any idea what it costs to keep a place like Audleigh afloat, Lawrence? The house, the gardens, the taxes?”

  Kingston shook his head. “Only from what I’ve read—so many having been sold off to satisfy debts.”

  “Right. Dumfries House was the latest—or I should say, almost. One of the most spectacular historic houses in Britain, about to be broken up and sold off privately. That is, until Prince Charles intervened, forming the consortium that bought it. Dumped twenty million of his own money in it, too.”

  “I saw that.”

  “I tell you, the financial drain is intolerable. Over the last few years I’ve managed to keep Audleigh from going under, by one process or another, but the wolves will soon be at the door. It’s a bitter pill, but there’s no way to prevent it. Audleigh is finished. It will end up as a school, a corporate retreat, or a bloody sanatorium, just like all the other estates before it.”

  As moved as he was listening to Graves’s outpourings about the looming demise of the Audleigh dynasty, Kingston was starting to wonder when Graves was going to move on to the matter of the expedition and the murders. In his letter he’d mentioned his worry about the media, and what would happen when the news got out. Surely he hadn’t been referring to his personal hardships and losing Audleigh. Kingston was starting to realize that it was going to be up to him to steer the conversation to the expedition, the two murders, and the Chinese bowls. He watched Graves take another long sip of whisky, placing the glass on the table with a shaky hand. Rather than start questioning him about the murders, Kingston thought it would be easier on Graves if first he inquired about the b
owls, to see where that led. Graves was about to speak when Kingston cut him off.

  “May I ask where the forged Chinese ceramics fit into all of this, Spenser? The ones found at Jenkins’s farm?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

  The question didn’t appear to faze Graves. It was almost as if he’d been expecting it. “Yes,” he replied. “You’d know about those, of course, wouldn’t you? Your working with the police.” He shrugged. “There’s not a chance in hell of our going back, so you might as well know.”

  Kingston wondered what he meant by “going back.” He could only assume he meant back to China. He said nothing, waiting, while Graves had a brief coughing spell.

  Graves drew a long breath, as if it was going to take a while to explain, then continued. “In order to answer your question, I must hark back to an expedition that took place a year before the last one.” He leaned far into the wingback so that his face was partially concealed in shadow. The storm had now arrived in full force and windswept rain was spattering loudly on the leaded windows. The room had become quite dark, lit only by the dancing flames from the log fire. Somehow, China, snowcapped peaks, and plant-hunting expeditions seemed far removed, incongruous. Graves continued.

  “Julian Bell was on that trip, too, as was David Jenkins. It also took place in the same region as last year’s—not by accident, I might add. On that first expedition, we came across a small village temple in the mountains. You’ve been to those parts, Lawrence, you’ve probably seen them yourself.”

  Kingston nodded. “I have, yes. They’re remarkable, very colorful.”

  “Well, late one afternoon, Julian and I took off from the rest of the party to visit the temple. As you know, I’m interested in Asian antiquities and Bell has a thing for Chinese architecture, or so he told me. The temple turned out to be little different from others in the region. Rustic would describe it, I suppose. The altar, not much more than a cloth-draped table, displayed the typical color statues, gold-painted figures, various plates, bowls, and other sacred offerings. You’ve seen the likes, I’m sure, Lawrence. I’ve never figured why they keep them so dark inside, though— all those curtains.”

  Kingston was wondering why Graves was taking so long to describe the scene, but he didn’t interrupt; he sensed that Graves was leading up to something important. Graves continued.

  “Behind the altar, off-bounds to worshippers and visitors, was another table. On it, the same clutter of statues and artifacts. From where we stood it was hard to determine exactly what they were. So, since we had the place to ourselves, I decided to risk going beyond the altar to get a closer look. I was about to leave when I spotted a small bowl, partially hidden by a small statue and a couple of those familiar yak-butter flower sculptures. I moved in closer. It was a blue-and-white palace bowl. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but when I got close, lifting it down, carefully, so I could see the marks on the underside, I realized what I was holding. It was an extremely rare piece, more than five hundred years old. I’d read many articles and studied museum literature on Ming Dynasty bowls with this particular glaze and scrollwork, and knew that there were only a half dozen or so in the world. This one was in perfect condition. I remember my hands trembling as I held it. Conservatively, from what I’d read—if it was genuine, and everything told me that it was—I knew it was worth at least two million pounds. A priest arrived at that point and I hastily returned it to where it had been before he spotted us, moved away from the table, and we left.”

  A smoldering log fell onto the hearth. Graves got up slowly, using the blackened tongs to place it back on the fire, adding another log while he was at it. In moments he was back in his chair.

  “Sure I can’t get you something?” he asked.

  Kingston shook his head. “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  “So where were we?” Graves asked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. “Right. Later, I told Julian Bell more about the bowl and what I thought it was worth. He was all for taking it, the next morning, before we left the area.”

  “Stealing it—from a temple?”

  “I told him it was out of the question. I wanted no part of it. Not only that, but we’d been seen there and would be the first people the police would come looking for. On top of that, the bowl had no doubt rested in the temple for centuries without being recognized for what it was, or disturbed. If it were stolen at the same time that a group of foreign plant hunters was in the area, the jig would be up, as they say.” Graves paused and rubbed his eyes. The room was getting smoky. He picked up where he’d left off. “It wasn’t until after the expedition, when we were back in England, that Julian came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea—a way to get our hands on the bowl. I must say that the scheme was so damned ingenious that it would be doubtful the bowl’s loss would ever be noticed. So much so that we would be able to sell it, most likely to a private collector, and nobody would be the wiser.”

  Listening to Graves, Kingston was thinking that he’d been right in assuming that plain and simple forgery wasn’t the reason for the bowls in Jenkins’s barn. But for the life of him, he couldn’t guess where Graves was going with this. Whatever their scheme was, surely it had to amount to larceny—a serious crime. Kingston reflected on how often people managed somehow to rationalize actions that they knew to be illegal, unethical, or just plain wrong—as was clearly the case with the activities Graves was describing. His thoughts were interrupted by Graves, who seemed to be getting a certain amount of satisfaction in telling the story.

  “You’re wondering how we planned to pull this off, eh? It was simple, really, but I must admit it took an inordinate amount of planning and presented a lot of physical and logistical challenges. There was no need to rush, though. We had practically a year to work it all out. You see, the bowls you found at Jenkins’s place— the damned fool swore he’d destroyed them—were all prototypes. They were part of a lengthy process to create as close a replica as possible to the bowl in the temple.”

  “Just one?”

  “Right. Let me explain why: On this last expedition, Bell returned to the temple. Not to visit but to observe when it opened and closed, when the priests, the cleaners, and the villagers came and went. He was looking for a narrow window of time when we could slip in unnoticed and remain there undisturbed for no more than ten minutes. He established a time that would suit our purposes, and the next day he and I returned to the temple. We waited outside until we were certain it was empty, and then we entered. We discovered later that many of the temples remain unlocked late into evening.” Graves broke off briefly to polish off the remainder of his drink.

  “Once inside, we had to move quickly. We had a rucksack containing two jars of silicone compound to make the molds, and two small custom-made boxes to house them. The stuff reproduces the minutest detail, even a fingerprint. We had other equipment, of course. A digital camera, a battery-powered lamp, scales, micrometer, color-matching kit, and other bits and pieces: everything needed to make a perfect mold and ultimately an exact replica of the bowl. Which is what we did. It took longer than we’d anticipated, though. In fact, Bell had to sneak in the next day to take the photos. When we got back to England, it was more than six months before we finally produced a copy that was so close to the original as to be almost indistinguishable. Switched with the one in the temple—which had probably sat there for God knows how many years, maybe centuries—nobody would ever notice the difference, even if it were taken down and closely examined.”

  “Very ingenious. Where did Jenkins fit into all this?”

  “He knew a lot about ceramics and found the man to make it. We couldn’t use any old potter, for obvious reasons. First and foremost, we needed someone with exceptional skill, a person we could trust. As you know, Cornwall and Devon are crawling with artists of all kinds, plenty of them making high-quality ceramics. It didn’t take David long to find just the right man, a chap in his late seventies who’d been working with China
clay for the best part of his life. He was a widower who worked out of his house on the edge of Bodmin Moor. We offered him more money than he’d earned in his last five years working, and he swore to secrecy.”

  Kingston was impressed with the cleverness of it all, but his respect for Graves had plummeted. “So where’s the bowl now?” he asked.

  “In a safety-deposit box.”

  “Ready for your next trip when you switch them?”

  “Which will never happen now, of course.”

  “Do you know who killed David Jenkins?”

  “It wasn’t me. I was here, at Audleigh. You can ask Inspector Sheffield.”

  “Why was he killed?”

  “That I can’t tell.”

  By “can’t tell,” did Graves mean that he didn’t know or wouldn’t say? Kingston wondered.

  “And what about the other chap? Jeremy Lester?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Did Lester find out what you and Bell were up to and threaten to expose you? Maybe blackmail you?”

  Graves didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, picked up his glass, and crossed the room to a butler’s table where he poured a generous measure of Johnnie Walker Green Label into his glass, adding barely a splash of water. “How about a Schweppes? Something like that?” he asked, looking across at Kingston.

  Kingston nodded. “That would be fine.”

  In half a minute Graves was back with the drinks and settled in his chair.

  Kingston sipped his soda and looked at Graves. “Spenser, I hate to say this, but it looks like this has been a waste of my time. Frankly, I came here hoping, mostly, to learn about the murders of Lester and Jenkins. It’s obvious you know a lot more than you’re prepared to discuss. You know damned well that I’m more or less duty bound to tell the police what you’ve told me. That means they’ll know that you’ve admitted to being implicated in a scheme involving grand theft.”