He also planned to inspect the chapel again, and that made him think of Roger Ferguson. How was he coming along with his search, he wondered? Something else struck Kingston as odd, too. Why hadn’t he called? Surely there couldn’t be many other things that would have higher priority for him than the chapel. He made a mental note to ring Roger tomorrow. He spent five minutes reading the first few pages of The Times, finished his whisky, turned off the light and went upstairs to bed.
At nine o’clock the next morning, the sky was darkening like a spreading ink stain. No question a bad storm was in the offing. After spending an hour with the construction crew going over new plans for the lime walk and the summerhouse, Kingston walked up to the house. It was raining heavily now and ponderous clouds were hanging low in the sky. As he approached the house, he saw that many of the windows were lit. He found Jamie in the living room, by a table lamp, reading. She looked up when he entered.
‘Morning, Lawrence.’ She rested the book in her lap. ‘Miserable morning. I didn’t hear you last night. What time did you get back?’
‘About half ten. I was exhausted. Saw all the lights off, so I went straight to bed.’
‘Everything all right at home?’
‘Yes, fine, thanks, No problems.’
‘Good.’
Wasn’t she going to ask him about Loftus?
‘Did you get a haircut? Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Wish my barber, Jackie, could’ve heard what you just said.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Well she maintains that with a proper haircut, it shouldn’t look as if one’s just had one, nor should it look like one needs one.’
‘Very profound.’
He was beginning to feel awkward just standing there discussing his damned haircut. Perhaps he should cobble up an excuse to leave and tell her about the meeting later. She saved him the trouble.
‘The coffee’s hot in the kitchen. Why don’t you go get some and then tell me what happened with the soldier.You did meet with him?’
‘Yes, I did. He’s a very nice man. I learned quite a lot.’
Kingston returned with a mug of coffee and sat down in the wingback opposite Jamie. There were others, but somehow he always ended up in the same chair.
‘I’ve forgotten. What was the man’s name?’ asked Jamie.
‘Loftus—Arthur Loftus—a lance corporal back in the war days. It was most—’ A low rumble of distant thunder smothered the end of his sentence.
Jamie glanced to the window where the wind was picking up, slapping fat blobs of rain on the panes. She looked back at Kingston. ‘That was nearly sixty years ago. How old is he, for God’s sake?’
‘I didn’t ask. But I know he’s over eighty. Sharp as a two-edged sword, though.’ He took a sip of coffee and started to recount what Loftus had told him. She leaned forward perceptibly and for the next five minutes listened without interrupting.
‘Well, that’s about it—as near as dammit,’ said Kingston. He searched her face trying to gauge her thoughts but her expression was ambiguous. ‘Well, what do you think?’
She gave his question a few seconds’ thought before answering. ‘I’m not sure. You see, all along I’ve thought of Ryder as being a good guy. And from what you’re suggesting—I should say Loftus—that may not have been the case.’
‘True, but remember, at this point, it’s only his word we’ve got to go on.’
‘I understand, but can’t you see, this changes things. Sure, much of what I’m doing here is of my own choosing but in the back of my mind, there’s always been the other underlying reason, the question of doing what’s right, morally, that gives the entire project much more meaning and gratification. A sense of purpose.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Jamie. You’d mentioned it earlier. About “doing it as a tribute to the Ryder family,” I think you put it.’
‘That’s right. But now, if it turns out that Ryder wasn’t the war hero that we all thought and instead, was—well, someone just short of being a murderer—how do you think that makes me feel?’
‘Jamie, I think you’re getting upset needlessly,’ he said, suddenly thrown on the defensive. ‘Ryder may have had every right and good reason to shoot the chap. I don’t know what regulations would apply in a case like this but I do know that at one time, desertion in the face of the enemy meant execution on the spot.’ He paused briefly and shrugged. ‘This is one man’s account, Jamie—only Loftus’s side of the story.’
Kingston was quickly realizing that it would be unwise to pursue this line of reasoning. If he did, she would become increasingly and unnecessarily agitated. He lowered his voice. ‘Look, unless by some stroke of luck more information about Ryder comes to light, we may never know what really happened back in that Dutch village.’ He gestured to her with open palms. ‘So we might as well leave it buried in the past and get on with things. In any case, we’re talking about the Ryder family. And in that context I don’t see any reason for you to feel any differently. After all, there were two other brothers who fought and died for their country and I’m willing to bet that, if we were to research the family’s genealogy, you would find that there were other Ryders who fought gallantly in other wars. So your motivation remains just as principled as before, Jamie.’
‘All right. Maybe I am making too much of it. But there’s nothing else you’ve mentioned that further explains why Ryder did what he did—that is, name me as his heir. Isn’t that why you went to all this trouble in the first place? You may be looking for something that’s simply not there.’
‘You’re probably right,’he said, just to make her feel better but not agreeing. He glanced out of the window ready to change the subject. ‘If this rain keeps up,’ he said, ‘you may want to think twice about going up to the water tank. It’s a bit of a hike and it can get quite slippery.’
‘Let’s just wait and see, maybe it’ll clear up this afternoon. Your weather has a strange habit of doing that.’
‘Why don’t I check in with you after lunch, then?’
‘Fine—oh, I forgot to tell you. A man called for you yesterday, from the Record Office. Sounded like death warmed up—Roger, I think he said his name was.’
‘Yes, Ferguson. Did he leave a message?’
‘Just for you to call, that’s all. He left his number, I’ve got it in the office.’
Kingston was standing. ‘Don’t worry, I have his card.’For a moment he considered telling Jamie his theory about the old priory but considering her mood he thought better of it. Plus, there was the distinct risk of her thinking that he was developing a complex of some kind.
With the absence of mains water in rural areas, nearly all of Britain’s large country houses had to rely on nearby local sources for their water supply: rivers, streams, lakes and wells. Kingston had researched several such houses, including Heligan, to learn more about how the water supply was delivered to the house and how the irrigation systems worked.
From everything he’d learned, the estate at Wickersham—if it were to have employed the same water supply systems as many of its contemporaries—would have a large reservoir located in one of the highest points on the estate. He was soon proved right. Though not an early priority, it had been located quickly, approximately half a mile behind the house on the north side: a massive stone and brick holding tank that Kingston estimated would hold close to fifty thousand gallons of clean water.
The rain had stopped shortly after noon and the sun had broken through the clouds when Kingston and Jamie set off for the water tank. On the hike up they had paused on a knoll that offered a splendid 180-degree panorama of the estate.
‘There’s some of your vineyard slopes,’ said Kingston, pointing to a series of gently rolling, grass-covered hills that encompassed at least forty acres of land.
She didn’t answer right away, giving the scene what Kingston took to be a long critical appraisal. ‘Could be a great place to start,’ she said. ‘The expos
ure’s good.’
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to get access,’ said Kingston.
‘And with what we know already, irrigation shouldn’t be a problem.’
The talk for the remainder of the climb up to the reservoir was about growing grapes.
Five minutes was more than enough for them to inspect the reservoir. Jamie was polite but Kingston got the impression that she would much rather be doing a closer exploration of the land for her vineyards than looking at a stone and brick edifice full of murky water.
‘Come on,’ said Kingston. ‘I’ll show you something a trifle more interesting.’ He started up a narrow dirt path that wound its way higher up the hill. After ten minutes or so, during which they descended into a small valley, passed through dense overgrowth, and then climbed up the other side into open land, they finally arrived at a small clearing. In the centre was a three-sided structure built of stone. The two narrow long walls, only two feet high, enclosed steps that went down about five feet and then stopped; the opening was filled with mud and debris.
‘This is the ram chamber,’ said Kingston, ready to show off the knowledge that he’d gleaned from his Heligan research. ‘When we dig out all the crud, we’ll find two or three ram pumps down there, two to five inches in capacity. They’re capable of pumping close to ten gallons of water a minute, to a height of three hundred feet, over a one-mile distance.’
‘That’s an awful long way. How are they powered?’
‘That’s the beauty, Jamie. They’re powered by nature, by gravity, from the stream that feeds them.’ Kingston was already on the move again. ‘One last short climb.’
Heading north away from the ram house Jamie followed as they wound their way farther up the hill. After another five minutes they arrived at a small stone building with a sloped roof. Along one side of it was a deep trough.
‘This is the catch basin,’said Kingston.
Jamie was sitting on the edge of the stone wall of the trough, seemingly happy just to rest after the steep climb, which hadn’t seemed to affect Kingston at all.
‘Here’s how it works. When you consider that this was probably engineered well over one hundred years ago, it’s sheer genius.’ He was pointing farther up the hill. ‘Up in the valleys above us somewhere—Jack and I haven’t explored there yet—one or more streams will have been dammed and the overflow is channelled down here through large pipes, at least four inches in diameter. From here the water is directed down individual pipes called drive pipes. Each one of these is connected to the back of a hydraulic ram pump down below. Bear in mind that the system relies entirely on gravity, so the drive pipes must be set at an angle of no less than 45 degrees. This was no mean feat of engineering when you consider that back in those days the pipes had to be cut into the rock face of the hill and that meant either pickaxes or dynamite.’
‘It’s amazing,’ said Jamie.
‘The bad news is, we’re going to have our work cut out for us to bring it all back to working order. All the mud is going to have to be taken out by hand. It’s going to be a long and back-breaking bucket brigade, I’m afraid. Then we have to lug out the ram pumps and those things weigh a ton, they’re made of iron and brass.’
‘What about them? The pumps? I would imagine that they’d be in pretty bad shape after being buried in mud for sixty-plus years.’
‘That was the case at Heligan and I’m sure that’s going to be the case here. Amazingly enough, the company that built their original system in 1880 is still in operation. More unbelievable is that spare parts are still available.’
‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed that it’s the same company that built ours.’
On the way down, at Kingston’s urging, Jamie talked more about winemaking: this time about the complex steps and the decision-making that confront the winemaker once the grapes have made their journey from the vineyards to the winery.
‘Practically all red grapes and white grapes have clear colourless juice. The red pigment is the grape skins. But you probably knew that,’ she said, glancing at Kingston, who nodded. She continued. ‘I’ll try to keep it simple. Unlike white grapes that we usually press within hours of their arrival at the winery—the juice separated from the skins—red grapes require extended contact with the skin. So red wine is made by fermenting the juice, pulp and skins together. After several days of fermentation the red wine is then pressed.’ She went on to talk about the strains of yeast used in the critical multi-step biochemical process that convert the sugars into alcohol; the importance of temperature control during fermentation; the traditional use and repeat use of French or American oak barrels, the insides of which are toasted at the cooperage, and how they contribute to the flavours, aromas and complexity of the wine as it ages.
They stopped to take a pause on the knoll where they’d rested on the way up. Sitting on the grass, they looked out over the tree-studded hills and green pastures where curls of clouds were starting to creep through the divides in the valleys. Whereas it was warm on the way up, it was now cooling quickly.
‘Pinot Noir country,’ Jamie muttered.
‘You want those cool nights, eh?’
‘That’s right. It’s one of the trickiest of all wines to make well.’
‘Aren’t Burgundy wines mostly Pinot Noir?’
‘They are. It’s one of the oldest grape varieties yet one of the most demanding and elusive. Even in Burgundy a good vintage comes only once every three years.’ She smiled coyly. ‘Back home we call it Pinot Envy.’
Kingston made no comment, a little taken back.
Jamie went on. It was clear that she enjoyed these little chats about wine and Kingston was only too happy to sit and listen, his normal role reversed.
‘With Pinot, there’re so many difficulties, it’s a wonder growers struggle with it. It’s genetically unpredictable from vineyard to vineyard—you never know what offspring you’re going to get from a parent plant—big or small grapes and clusters, different aromas, flavours and levels of crop.’
‘So, once planted, you’ve got what you’ve got,’ said Kingston.
‘Exactly right. Plus it’s susceptible to just about every affliction known, including Pierce’s disease which can wipe out a vineyard in a couple of years.’ She paused to flip a pebble off the knoll. ‘Worldwide, there are only twelve identifiable clones of Cabernet Sauvignon. With Pinot Noir there’s close to a thousand.’
‘And you want to try it?’
‘I have a feeling it might do well here because one of the critical things with Pinot is the climate. It needs relatively cool weather and chalky soil that drains well. That’s why they can make such good Pinots in Oregon and the cooler parts of Northern California, like the Russian River area by the coast and Carneros in Napa and Sonoma right next to the bay.’
‘Maybe you should start with something a little more friendly?’
‘Don’t worry, Lawrence, Pinot will only be an experiment, a challenge. It can become a very expensive business. When I left, the going rate for Pinot grapes was close to three thousand dollars a ton.’
‘The more I hear you talk, the more I like your idea of developing a vineyard here, Jamie. I’d love to be around when you start in on it.’
‘You can be if you want to. I’d love to have the company. I’ve toyed with the idea of bringing a couple of people over but that can wait.’
‘You may even find who you’re looking for here, locally. There’re plenty of wineries in Britain today. I read somewhere that they number over four hundred. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Really, I had no idea there were that many.’
‘Well, if nothing else, some of those people would be aware of some of the more unusual problems of growing grapes in England. As one of our chaps once said to a French grower: “Where is it written that the sun stops shining at the Channel?” ’
She chuckled. ‘How true. Without question, I’ll be picking their brains.’
Kingston said nothing further
, having conjured a mental picture of endless rows of vines stretching off into the distant hills surrounding the estate—he and Jamie tasting their very first bottling. Wickersham Vineyards: it had a classy euphony to it. Jamie’s words woke him from his fanciful digression.
She talked about wine all the way back to the house. Kingston could tell that if there was anything at all she was missing from her old life back in California it was making wine.
It was two days before Ferguson returned Kingston’s phone call. Kingston took the call on his mobile at Sherratt’s, the wholesale nursery that was supplying most of the roses for the garden. The conversation lasted little more than a minute.
Jamie had been right about his voice; he said he’d been off work with flu.
‘It’s your lucky day,’ Ferguson said with a nasal twang. He went on to describe a single, undated document that one of his researchers had found. It was in the form of a crude fold-out plan showing the layout of the priory: the great hall, kitchen, various rooms, stables, livestock and storage areas and a garden. ‘But that’s not all,’ Ferguson said, pausing for effect by the sound of it. ‘The drawing indicates a second level plan that shows a network of rooms, vaults and passages. And most interesting of all, is that the second level is underground.’
‘Underground?’
‘That’s right. Just like you guessed. So I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that part of Wickersham is standing on the former basement of the priory, as it were. Now I have to see it.’
Chapter Twelve
Walking through the house, Kingston saw no signs of Jamie or Dot. In the living room the windows were opened wide; the lowering sun varnishing the walls and furniture tops with an amber sheen. Approaching the open french doors, he saw the back-lit silhouette of Jamie on the terrace. She was sitting on one of the Chippendale teak benches they’d bought a couple of weeks earlier. As he stepped on to the flagstones he felt a surge of pride at the sight of the three levels of lawn descending from the terrace. Though the sod had been laid barely five weeks ago, they looked surprisingly well established, almost as good as those in the old photos. He looked away with a smile. After mowing and rolling for a few decades, they would look just like those at Sissinghurst Castle garden, as smooth as bowling greens.
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