EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Kingston parked the TR4 behind a corrugated building, about one hundred feet from the house. He walked to the corner of the building where, hidden from view, he could see the front of the house. So far no one had come out. Ten minutes passed before the door opened and two policemen emerged. Getting into their car, one of them waved goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared on the threshold. Not until the police car had disappeared from sight did Kingston get back in his car and head for the house.

  He rapped twice on the iron knocker. Within seconds, the door creaked open to reveal Mrs. Hudson. No apron this time, no smile, and no baking aroma drifting from the kitchen. It took a moment for her to recognize Kingston. Only then did she break into a smile. “Well, I never! Dr. Kingston. What a surprise. Come on in. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  “That’s kind of you, but no thanks, I won’t be staying long. If it’s all right with you, I just want to ask you a few questions about Julian.” He used Bell’s first name because it implied that they were closer than they really were. She wasn’t to know that his last meeting with Bell had been less than cordial.

  Kingston lowered himself into the same overstuffed chair as on his last visit. Mrs. Hudson sat opposite, perched on the edge of the leather sofa, hands in her lap.

  “You’re lucky to have caught me here. I only come by twice a week now—just to check up on things, make sure there are no problems. Sad to say, we’ve had a few burglaries in the area lately.”

  “Seems to be widespread these days. Any word from Mr. Bell?” he asked offhandedly.

  “No. Nothing. The police were here a few minutes ago. You just missed them. You must have passed them on the way in.” She paused and smiled demurely. “Please, call me Maureen.”

  “All right.” Kingston nodded. “I saw them as they were leaving, yes,” he fibbed. “Did they have any news?”

  “No. It was one of their routine stops. They come by every once in a while to check on the place—me, too, I suppose. Half the time, I think all they come for is a cup of tea.”

  Kingston smiled. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “They still don’t have the foggiest idea where he is. They think he might have left the country. It’s awful, isn’t it? Mr. Bell, of all people.”

  “Have they told you why they’re looking for him?”

  “They have, yes. They came to interview me soon after Mr. Bell ran off. Said that he was involved in a swindle, trying to steal a valuable work of art in China. It gave me the collywobbles when they told me. I didn’t believe ’em at first.”

  The house keeper apparently didn’t know that Bell was also wanted for questioning on murder charges. For what ever reasons, the police had chosen not to tell her. He thought it odd, but perhaps they’d felt it was shocking enough for her to know that her boss was wanted for grand theft. He decided that he shouldn’t tell her the worst, either.

  “I can just imagine how distressing it must have been for you, Maureen,” said Kingston softly.

  Mrs. Hudson looked down at her lap for a moment. “Sorry,” she said, looking up. “I’m convinced he didn’t mean to do anything wrong. There must be some other explanation—like maybe he’s been in an accident.”

  “Who knows,” said Kingston. “It could all turn out to be a huge mistake.”

  She nodded. “I only hope so.” After a brief pause she added, “You were friends, weren’t you?”

  “Colleagues might be a better word. We were planning to work together on a botanical project. If we can find Julian, it would help me, too. To be truthful, that’s the reason I’m here. Is there anyone you can think of whom Julian might have contacted? A relative, a friend, a priest, his accountant, or maybe a lawyer?”

  Mrs. Hudson was shaking her head slowly. “The police asked me pretty much the same,” she replied, looking momentarily into the distance.

  “Did he have any relatives?”

  She nodded. “A brother, but he died about three years ago, in a climbing accident.”

  “What about friends?”

  To the best of my knowledge, he didn’t have many; kept to himself most of the time. I gave the police the names of the two or three that I knew of.”

  “Do you recall who they were?”

  She rattled off the names of two men and one woman, and Kingston jotted them down in a note pad taken from his pocket.

  “I don’t think they’ll be of much help, though. The police said that they’d interviewed each of them and none had been contacted by Mr. Bell or knew of his whereabouts.”

  After another ten minutes of solicitous probing by Kingston, it was clear that Mrs. Hudson was not going to be of any further help. He stood and smoothed his trousers, about to leave. Looking past Mrs. Hudson, who had also got up, his eye was drawn to a landscape painting on the opposite wall. He hadn’t noticed it on his last visit. From where he stood, it looked remarkably fine— good enough to have been painted by one of the nineteenth-century Barbizon School artists. He squinted at it. Not a Corot, surely? “What an excellent painting,” he said, crossing the room to get a better look.

  “Hmm. Not what I thought,” he said after a few moments. “Damned good, nevertheless.” He turned as Mrs. Hudson spoke.

  “It was painted by Mr. Bell’s brother, Timothy.”

  “Really? Was he a professional artist?”

  “I don’t think so, but he’d won several awards.”

  “I can see why. Looks like the Lake District—Scotland perhaps.”

  “Wales, I think.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I believe most of his landscape paintings were of Wales.”

  “You said he died in a climbing accident. Was that also in Wales?”

  “It was.”

  Kingston took his eyes off the painting. “Did he live there?”

  Mrs. Hudson nodded. “The last years of his life, yes.”

  Kingston smiled. “Well, Maureen, I’d better be on my way,” he said, taking out his wallet, withdrawing his card, and handing it to her. “Thanks for being so understanding and cooperative. You will let me know if you hear anything, won’t you?”

  “I will,” she replied.

  No more was said as they left the room. At the door, Kingston stopped and looked at her. “Would you by chance have the address where Timothy used to live?”

  “Unfortunately I don’t, no. The police took all Mr. Bell’s records. They left virtually nothing. All I can tell you is that the house was near Brecon, that I do know, because that’s where the funeral was held.”

  “Never mind. You’ve been very helpful,” said Kingston, thanking her one more time at the front door before driving off.

  No more than ten minutes into the drive back to London, Kingston pulled off the road into a lay-by. He studied his AA road map for a couple of minutes. Satisfied, he backed up, made a U-turn, and returned to the road, heading in the opposite direction of London. He had a plan. Tonight, he was going to stay in Bath.

  THIRTY

  Next morning at eleven o’clock, after a restful night and a continental breakfast at the Priory Hotel, Kingston crossed the Severn Bridge into Wales, headed for the town of Brecon. There, he would go to the Town Council’s offices and obtain a list of the funeral homes. Assuming that the list wouldn’t be as long as his arm, he planned to call each one, inquiring about Timothy Bell’s funeral, with the idea of finding out where he had lived. This could be his last-ditch effort, and he knew it.

  Four hours later, he was sitting at an outside café table in a back street of the old market town on his third cup of coffee. In front of him was a list of the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the Brecon area’s ten funeral homes. Eight were already crossed off. The penultimate call was to Barry and Sons. He took a last sip of tepid coffee and thumbed in the number on his mobile.

  “Barry and Sons, Trevor Barry speaking,” a benevolent voice answered.

  “Good afternoon, my name’s Kingston,” he replied. By now, his questioning was well
rehearsed and concise. “I’m trying to obtain information on the death, about three years ago, of a Timothy Bell. I’m given to understand that he lived in the area, and that the funeral service was held in Brecon.”

  “Three years ago? I’d have to go back through the records. It could take fifteen minutes or so. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  Kingston provided his mobile number.

  “Specifically, what information are you seeking, may I ask?”

  “I’d like to know the date of the service, where it was held, and—this is important—the address of the deceased at the time of his passing.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult. Mr.—”

  “Kingston.”

  “Are you a family member?”

  “No. I’m a friend of Timothy’s brother, Julian, who’s gone missing. I’m trying to help the family locate him.”

  “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ten minutes later, Trevor Barry called back. He remembered the house, he said, reading off the address. “It’s a bit remote, about five miles from the village of Llangedwyn on the B3654. Don’t sneeze, or you’ll miss it,” he added with a chuckle.

  Kingston thanked him, ending the conversation. He left a tip, picked up his notes, and left. Back at the parking lot, he studied his AA map. He found Llangedwyn quickly and, within a few minutes, the outskirts of Brecon were in his rearview mirror. What, or whom, would he find at Timothy Bell’s house? he wondered.

  About a half mile in, on a narrow lane, Kingston found the house: a simple gray stone building with a dark slate roof, partly concealed by a circle of conifers. He studied the house for a moment before approaching the front door. The curtains were drawn and no vehicles were in sight. It appeared that nobody was home; either that, or the house was at present unoccupied. He rang the brass bell that hung alongside the door. The clang was surprisingly loud, echoing through the surrounding woods. After a minute’s wait, he knocked hard on the door; still no response. The ripple of disappointment he’d felt when no one had answered the bell had passed. Now he was faced with accepting the harsh reality that the journey might have been a waste of time; that his inchoate plan was already doomed. He wouldn’t leave until he’d checked the back of the house, though.

  As he suspected, the back door was locked. Like in the front, the curtains were also drawn. This was it, then, he said to himself. His search for Bell ended. He studied the surroundings: no garden to speak of, simply a few shrubs and parched annuals dotted here and there, a threadbare lawn that ended at a small orchard of gnarled apple trees, and beyond that, woodland. Timothy certainly lacked inclination or appreciation for gardening. Unusual for an artist, thought Kingston. He looked at the back door one more time. The lock was both old and simple. He studied it closely, pulling on his earlobe. It should be relatively easy to pick, particularly since there was no hurry. He’d done it several times in the past, using skills that he’d learned on a Special Services army course. He just hoped the door wasn’t bolted inside. He went back to the car and took his Swiss Army knife out of the glove compartment. Returning to the back door, he went to work, probing and jiggling with the miniature screwdriver tool. After little more than a minute, he heard the pin click, and the door handle turned freely.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He pulled back the curtain nearest to him, filling the room with light. He was in a mudroom–cum–laundry room adjoining the kitchen. He passed through the kitchen into a hallway, where he switched on the light. A door on his left was ajar. He pushed it open to reveal a neat bedroom: single bed, sparsely furnished, a large pine wardrobe with the door partially open. It appeared to be empty. A few paces on, another bedroom on the right, this one larger. He went in and opened the armoire. Inside hung men’s clothes. Leaving the bedroom, he entered a spacious room with wood-plank flooring, throw rugs, and very little furniture. There was no need to flick on the light switch; a large skylight flooded the room. It had probably been Timothy’s studio. He hadn’t noticed it on entering, but he could now detect the faintest whiff of turpentine. Even after three years, the pong lingers, he thought. Finally, Kingston entered what he figured was the last room in the house. It must be the living room. Flicking on the wall light switch, he could see that it was. He detected a different odor. Right off, he noticed that the room-size Oriental carpet was folded back at one end, covering a bulky object. Suspicious, he walked over and nudged it with his foot. He knew immediately what was inside. He pulled back the carpet. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The body of a large man sprawled, facedown, in front of him. Blood had soaked into the carpet, leaving a dark, irregular patch. Kingston knelt by the body, took the man’s wrist, and checked for a pulse. There was none. He stood and stepped back, staring down at the corpse. He took a deep breath, bent over, and with considerable effort managed to roll the body over. He recoiled, the fine hairs on his neck crawling. He was staring down at the bearded, alabaster face of Julian Bell. His blue shirt was stained black where it appeared that more than one bullet had entered.

  Kingston backed off, holding a hand to his mouth and nose. The sickly odor was getting to him. How long had Bell been lying there? he wondered. From the color of the blood, some time, it would seem. In the relatively cold house, he could have remained like this for several days, Kingston figured. He walked outside into the welcome fresh air and called 999.

  Knowing that it would be some time before the police arrived, he decided to go back into the house and take another look around. Passing quickly through to the kitchen, he took a clean dishcloth from the rack, held it over his nose, and proceeded to examine the house. He had no idea exactly what he was looking for—anything that might offer clues to Bell’s murder, or evidence that others might have been living in the house, too. After fifteen minutes of searching, he was down to the small bedroom. By this time, he was convinced that the place had been “sanitized.” Someone had gone to the trouble of removing all personal belongings: computers, photos, files, papers, even toiletry items, like after-shaves and perfumes. The place had the orderly, scrubbed appearance of a summer rental.

  In the last bedroom, there were few places to look. The bed was made with clean sheets, the nightstand filled with paperbacks, nothing out of place. He knelt, lifted the lace bed skirt, and peered under the bed—nothing but a layer of dust. He opened the empty closet, in case it might contain an interior drawer. No drawers, just a dozen or so wire hangers bunched together. Without knowing why, he ran his hands through them. Two or three still had protective sleeves on them. As the last one slipped through his fingers, he stopped abruptly. It still had the dry cleaner’s receipt stapled to the back. He tore it off and read the handwritten slip. Date: August 6. Name: Mrs. Leslie. Phone number: 0207-938-1624. Items: 1 blouse, 1 wool twin set, 1 pair tan pants. Odd, he thought, 0207 was a London area code. Perhaps she, or her family, had rented the house for their holiday. On second thought, he couldn’t think why anyone, other than die-hard hikers or ornithologists, would want to vacation in such a remote area. As he put the slip in his pocket, he heard car doors slamming. He went outside, where two plainclothes stood talking, and two uniformed policemen were taking equipment out of their cars. An ambulance was coming up the lane to the house.

  Kingston introduced himself, handing his card to the detective inspector, a burly, tweed-jacketed man named Broadhurst. He explained that he’d discovered the body after finding the back door unlocked and entering, verifying that the deceased was Julian Bell, a fugitive wanted for grand theft and possibly murder. He went on to describe his role as a consultant of sorts to the Thames Valley Police, in the search for Bell. The DI was well aware of the case and assured Kingston that Detective Inspector Sheffield would be informed of the discovery right away. Approximately twenty minutes later, satisfied that Kingston had nothing to do with the crime, Broadhurst gave him permission to leave.

  Kingston got into his TR4 as the
police entered the house. The crime-scene tape was already in place. He took out the dry-cleaning receipt and his mobile, and punched in the number. After four rings, he heard the automatic voice mail message: 0207-938-1624 is not currently available.

  In twenty-five minutes he was back in Brecon. He parked in a short-stay lot, where he got directions to Lloyd’s Cleaners. At Lloyd’s, he introduced himself, presenting the receipt to the young woman at the desk, inquiring if anyone of their staff might know Mrs. Leslie or recall her having dropped off or picking up her clothes. He’d called the number on the receipt, with no success, he said. After the woman checked with another employee and the owner, the answer was negative. They all concurred that Mrs. Leslie was not a regular customer. They thought that she must have been an out of towner or a new resident. Kingston thanked them and left.

  Twice on the journey home he committed driving errors, rare for him. On one occasion he ran a red light in a village. Luckily no cars were crossing at the time. Over and over, he replayed what had happened at Timothy Bell’s house. Nothing made sense. Who had killed Julian Bell? Who had a motive? Why? Was it murder or the result of burglary gone wrong?

  As far as the expedition was concerned, Bell had been the last man standing. Much as he wanted to think otherwise, there was one other inescapable fact. Of all the people surrounding the case—those directly related or connected to any of the deceased—only one remained: Sally Mayhew. But she was in France—unless she’d lied. Could she have returned without telling him? It was possible. Why would she want to kill Bell, though? The only answer he could come up with was that, somehow or other, she’d found out or had concluded beyond doubt that Bell had had a hand in her brother’s death. If, indeed, he had, surely he would never admit to it, though.

  By the time Kingston reached the outskirts of London, having stopped twice to try the number again, he was even more confused than when he’d left the house in Wales. He’d been thinking too hard and was getting nowhere. It had been more than enough for one day, he decided. The mystery surrounding Bell’s poetic demise would have to wait ’til morning, when he would speak to Inspector Sheffield. Pulling into Waverley Mews he couldn’t help recalling Churchill’s apt quote: “It’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.”