“Lawrence, tell Desmond about the plant-hunting murders,” he said blithely.
Kingston sighed. “Do I really have to? You’ve read all about it in the papers, for God’s sake.”
“Unless you want to pick up the tab, you do,” said Desmond, grinning.
Kingston took a long sip of wine and started from the beginning, when he had received the first phone call from Clifford Attenborough at Kew.
Pretty soon, the first bottle of wine was empty, and Andrew had ordered another. Two glasses later, with few interruptions, Kingston was still at it. Finally, over coffee, he finished, telling them about his last call from Inspector Sheffield, warning him to be careful from now on.
Desmond looked at Kingston, shaking his head slowly. “Bloody hell! You’re barmy, Lawrence. I can’t for the life of me understand how or why you get involved in these bloody . . . misadventures. Last time, it almost cost you your life. Won’t you ever learn?”
Kingston smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, Desmond. I thought I’d made it clear that this all came about as a result of my volunteering to help an old chum at Kew. This time I’ve tried to keep my nose out of it as much as possible. One can’t change the natural course of events, dear boy.”
After a brief silence, Desmond spoke again. “What about this Bell fellow? How well do you know him, Lawrence?”
“Hardly at all. Are you asking me if I think he’s responsible for the murders?”
“Not necessarily. I was just wondering if, in your judgment, he seemed the type.”
“The mild-mannered Dr. Crippen seemed hardly the type to chop up his wife,” Kingston replied. “As far as Bell is concerned, we know for sure that he was up to his ears in the scheme to steal the Chinese bowl—in fact, he was the architect. As to the murders, the police say he had cast-iron alibis in the case of Lester and Jenkins. So no. To all appearances he didn’t commit the crimes personally. That doesn’t mean that he didn’t have a hand in them.”
“What about the poor sod in China?” Andrew asked. “Bell and Graves were involved in his death, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” Kingston replied. “The most plausible explanation is that he saw Graves and Bell handling the bowl in the temple and followed them, demanding to know what was going on. Maybe he thought they’d stolen it. Why it became necessary to kill him, I have no idea.”
“So, let’s get this straight,” said Desmond. “Graves and Bell might’ve planned the murders but didn’t commit them. The only other person on the expedition now alive is the American. But he wasn’t in England when they happened, you said.”
“That’s right. I’m only going on what the police told me. Unfortunately, they don’t like the idea of my talking to Kavanagh.”
“Then that leaves who?” Andrew held up his hand, placing the index finger of his right hand on the tip of the little finger of his left, ready to count. “Let’s see, the only other people you’ve mentioned, Lawrence, are Sally Mayhew, Graves’s house man, and—” He looked down momentarily at the table, then back to Kingston. “There is no one else. Just those two, right?”
Kingston nodded.
Desmond continued. “What about Sally Mayhew? What if she had information proving that Jeremy Lester was responsible for her brother’s death? That would certainly be motive for wanting to kill him, wouldn’t it?”
“She worked for a pharmaceutical company, too,” Andrew interjected. “You know—drugs, right?”
Kingston found himself smiling. He looked at Andrew. “I know you’re going to say that I’m a lousy judge of women, but I had lunch with her. In my mind, she’s the very last person to be party to a crime, let alone commit murder. Besides, she’s an accountant, not a bloody pharmacist. And what about Jenkins? You think she killed him, too?”
The waitress arrived with the bill on a tray. Kingston grabbed it before the others could reach it. “Maybe I can write this off as a business expense,” he said, smiling.
“Shady business,” Andrew quipped.
Kingston pushed aside the tray and downed the last of his wine.
“So, you had lunch with Sally Mayhew. You sly old dog you. Can we read something into that?”
Kingston smiled. “Anything you like, Andrew, except wedding bells. If she sticks around, I may even invite her out again. She’s very nice, and not at all unattractive, I might add.”
Andrew frowned. “Sticks around?”
Kingston grinned. “I forgot to mention. She may be leaving the country.”
Andrew shook his head and sighed. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
Desmond took over the conversation again. Evidently he was not ready to give up so easily on the murders. “All right, Lawrence,” he said. “If we discount Sally Mayhew, that leaves, what’s his name—?”
“Hobbs,” said Kingston.
“Does he have a first name?” asked Desmond.
“They never use them though, do they, those types? Like Sherlock Holmes’s Watson,” said Andrew. “Never did know his first name.”
“It was John,” said Kingston. “Hobbs’s is Arthur.”
“This Hobbs,” said Desmond. “You said he had an alibi, too?”
“That’s correct. Inspector Sheffield assured me that on the day Jenkins was murdered, Hobbs was at Audleigh Hall—all weekend, in fact. Graves confirmed that, and so did two staff members.”
“What about Lester’s death? Did he have an alibi for that, too?”
“According to the police, he did, yes.”
“So there are no suspects. Is that what you’re saying?” asked Desmond.
Kingston pulled on his ear. “That would appear to be the case.”
There was a lengthy silence, as the implausibility of Kingston’s last remark sunk in. Then Desmond spoke again.
“There’s only one other possible explanation for all this, then.”
Kingston had a pretty good idea where Desmond was going— he hadn’t overlooked it, either—but said nothing.
“Which is?” Andrew asked.
Desmond looked at Kingston. “You said that Peter Mayhew’s body was never recovered, right?”
“Whoa!” Andrew exclaimed. “You’re suggesting that he fell hundreds of feet into a ravine, with a river and rapids below, miraculously survived, climbed to safety, made his way back to England, unnoticed, then carried out the murders?” He paused. “And why? What’s his motive?”
Desmond scratched his head. “I know it’s bloody far-fetched, but do you have any other ideas?”
“I don’t,” said Kingston, smiling. “My exceptional powers of deductive reasoning seem to have failed me this time.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Let me tell you, as close as I can recall, what your father and I spoke about that day at the cottage,” said Kingston. It was a week after the funeral, and he was seated across from Alexandra Graves in the same gracious living room where he and Spenser Graves had met on his first visit to Audleigh Hall. Neither her expression nor her body language betrayed the anguish or nervousness she must have been holding back. He had declined her offer of tea or a drink, and had settled into his chair.
“First, your father wanted you to understand why he couldn’t bring himself to tell you all this face-to-face. I’m by no means qualified to judge his state of mind but, on that day, it would’ve been clear to anyone that he was emotionally unstable, guilt ridden, and deathly afraid. The problems facing him had become insurmountable and, in his mind, were beyond solving.” He paused, allowing her time, should she want to comment or ask a question. She nodded briefly, as if to say, “Go on,” so he continued.
“He said he loved you, Alexandra. ‘More dearly than I can ever express’ were his actual words. He also begged your forgiveness for what he has done, for bringing such unpardonable disgrace to his family and friends. He knew it would be the end of him, and Audleigh. He was man enough to accept full responsibility, though.”
Alexandra looked at him with a rueful smile. “I appre
ciate your doing this, Lawrence. I know it’s not easy for you, either. Please continue. There’s no point in holding anything back. I’m going to learn about it sooner or later. I’d like to know everything, please.”
Kingston was encouraged by her candor and sangfroid. He was thinking that his earlier impressions had been right. Considering the grim circumstances—and the fact that he was hardly a family friend—she was showing remarkable composure and forbearance. It was going to make his task much easier.
“Go on, then,” she said, jogging him from his momentary thought, looking at him with unwavering gray eyes.
It took almost twenty minutes for Kingston to recount the events of that day and the admissions and intimacies that Spenser Graves had unburdened on him. All that time, Alexandra had sat still, fixed on every word he said with hardly an interruption. Only once, when he was attempting to summarize her father’s words without making them sound too taxing, had she turned away briefly to brush a tear from her eye. He wanted to get up and embrace her, to comfort her, but that was the last thing she would expect or want of him.
“Well, Alexandra, that’s the best of my recollection,” said Kingston, leaning back.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” she said, softly. “Thank you for being so considerate and forthright.” She paused, as if choosing her words. “You’ve been of great help in making me understand . . . try to understand why my father chose to do what he did. Though it may sound selfish, I still can’t dispel from my mind the thought of walking down the aisle without him.”
“I have a daughter about your age. She’s still single, but I know that if and when the time comes for her to marry, that day will be one of the proudest moments of my life. So, in a small way, I can understand how heartbreaking it must be for you.”
She tried to smile. “You’re a very understanding man, and for that I’m thankful.”
“Tell me about your wedding plans,” said Kingston, sensing that she would welcome talking about it. She told him about William and the ceremony and reception, which was to take place in a villa outside Paris. She went on to tell Kingston that where Audleigh was concerned, she had already had one meeting with the family solicitor and their accountant, who were recommending cost-saving measures, which included staff cuts. “That’s going to be awfully hard, both for the help and for me,” she said. “Some of them have been on the payroll for years. Adam, one of the gardeners, has been here forever, it seems. When I was small he would take me for rides around the garden in his wheelbarrow.” She smiled at the memory. “On the bright side, all of them were provided for in the will. And I must say, considering the sad state of things, Daddy was unusually generous.”
“Better they have it than the banks,” said Kingston. While they were on the subject of the staff, he figured now was as good a time as any to mention Hobbs. “Before I leave, I’d like to have a quick word with Hobbs, if I may?”
“Unfortunately, he’s already left.”
“He has?”
“Yes. He said that, with Father gone, he felt that his services were no longer needed, and that he wanted to move back to London, where he had friends and family.”
“That’s too bad. Perhaps best for you, though, considering.”
There was no point in telling her that he was disappointed; that he had hoped to have a word with Hobbs about Graves’s activities. “Actually, there were things that your father wanted me to tell Hobbs,” he fibbed. “Mostly along the lines of how much he appreciated his loyalty and good service over the many years, that sort of thing.”
“Perhaps you could write to him. He left a temporary forwarding address. I’ll be writing to him later, of course.”
Kingston nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
“Well,” she said, standing, “why don’t we go into the conservatory? Mrs. Coggins should have lunch ready by now.”
“Mrs. Coggins? Your cook, I take it?”
She nodded.
He remembered now Sheffield’s telling him that she had vouched for Graves—and Hobbs, too—attesting that both were at Audleigh the weekend Jenkins was murdered.
“Perhaps I could have a word with her before I leave?”
“I don’t see why not,” she replied, frowning. “May I ask why?”
Kingston had anticipated the question. The last thing he wanted was to give her the impression that he was still carrying out an investigation on the side. He smiled selfconsciously, even though he knew his little fib would go unnoticed. “When I last had lunch with your father, Mrs. Coggins served salmon in pastry. It had a rather curious sweet ginger filling. I wanted to ask what the ingredients were. I was thinking of having a go at making it myself sometime.”
Alexandra smiled. “A bachelor professor of botany, a plant hunter, and a cook, too. I’m impressed.”
The lunch was as good as, or even better than the one he’d had with Graves—more reason to chat with Mrs. Coggins, to compliment her.
Afterward, Alexandra led Kingston to the kitchen, where she introduced a beaming Mrs. Coggins.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Coggins,” said Kingston. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your lunch. I should first-rate chef.”
“Maud, please,” she insisted, clearly embarrassed by the praise.
Alexandra departed, leaving Maud and Kingston seated at a ten-foot-long harvest table. Kingston went on to say that he cooked frequently himself—one of his hobbies, in fact—but he wasn’t up to her standards by any means.
Maud, still smiling, thanked him.
“I won’t keep you long,” he promised. “It’s about the visit that you had with the Leicestershire policeman when he was here making inquiries.”
“Oh yes, I remember him well. A nice man—awfully young, though.”
“If I’m correct, I believe you told him that Mr. Graves was at Audleigh the weekend in question, the one that the inspector was curious about.”
“I did, that’s right. It was the same weekend as our village fete. I always enter a few baked things. Mr. Graves came to the fete, too. He was one of its biggest supporters.”
“I believe you said that was also true of Hobbs. That he was also here that weekend, I mean.”
“Yes, Arthur was here.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded without hesitating. “I am. He was under the weather that weekend. Spent most of it in bed. It was unusual for him. He was one of those people who are hardly ever sick. Touch of the flu, I figured.”
“You saw him, then?”
She looked at him quizzically. “Well, yes, of course. I took some soup up to him. Saturday, I believe it was. He was in bed, fast asleep, or so I thought.”
Kingston frowned. “So you thought?”
“Turned out he was just dozing and had heard me come in. He asked me to leave it on the nightstand, which is what I did.”
“Did you see him again that weekend?”
“I might have done, though I couldn’t swear to it. I know that one afternoon he came down to the kitchen to get some tea, but that could’ve been Sunday.”
“Well, thanks, Maud. You’ve been most helpful,” said Kingston, getting up from the table.
She stood also and smiled. “Hope I was of help.”
“You were.” Kingston snapped his fingers noiselessly. “Oh, there was one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did Hobbs own a motorbike?”
Maud thought for a moment. “Not that I’m aware. At least, I’ve never seen him on one.”
“Thanks, Maud.” He then asked her about the salmon dish.
A few minutes later, they shook hands, and Kingston, with the scribbled recipe in his pocket, left the room to say goodbye to Alexandra.
Kingston looked in his rearview mirror as the redbrick confection of Audleigh Hall disappeared behind the tall trees on either side of the drive. What would become of it? he wondered. Though sad for Alexandra, he was feeling particularly pleased. In his pocket was also a London address
for Arthur Hobbs. It wasn’t letter writing he had in mind, however. It was a personal visit. Figuring that the address was likely to be temporary, he’d best go as soon as possible. He now had a strong suspicion that Hobbs was up to his neck in the whole business.
TWENTY-FIVE
Next morning, Kingston exited Stamford Brook tube station and set off up Goldhawk Road, heading for 25 Evelyn Close, the address Alexandra had given him. Hobbs hadn’t left a phone number, which Kingston didn’t think unusual. He was most likely renting, and before leaving Audleigh probably wouldn’t have had one to give.
In less than ten minutes, Kingston had reached the quiet residential street and number 25. The house was typical of thousands that populated London’s neighborhoods: a two-story terraced Victorian, redbrick with lace-curtained bay windows, and a low brick wall separating it from the pavement. Kingston opened the spindly wrought-iron gate, took four paces to the shiny red door, and pressed the brass doorbell.
After waiting for what must have been a minute or so, he rang the bell again. He heard it ringing inside. He was beginning to think that his trip might have been wasted, when the door was opened by a man holding a folded newspaper. He was medium height with disheveled graying hair and stubble on his chin. “Can I ’elp you?” he asked.
“I was told I could find Arthur Hobbs here.”
“You were, were you?”
Kingston felt uneasy. The man wasn’t hostile, but he certainly wasn’t overly friendly. “Yes. I was told by his former employer’s daughter, Alexandra Graves, that he might be here.”
The man looked at him for a moment, sizing him up. “What’s it about?” he said gruffly.
“Alexandra’s father committed suicide recently. I was with him that day, and he told me things that he wanted me to pass on to Mr. Hobbs. Is he here?”
“He may be, I don’t know. What’s your name?”
“Kingston. Dr. Kingston.”
The man pushed the door to, not quite closing it. “Wait here,” he said.
EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose Page 20