He sighed and got up, taking one last look around. As of now, it looked very much as if his exploration of the chapel was ended. He walked up the aisle, locked the door behind him and headed in the direction of the courtyard of the big house where his TR4 was parked. He was looking forward to a medium rare entrecote steak and a couple of glasses of Burgundy.
In the morning, he waited until eight thirty before calling the hospital. After several minutes, first being transferred then put on hold, he was informed that Jamie would be discharged sometime after two o’clock, and he should call again, closer to that time, just to make sure. Next, he called the police station in Taunton to find out where Jamie’s car had been towed. Spinning a convincing story about wanting to retrieve some items from the car, whose owner was in hospital, he was told that the Volvo had been towed to Larkin’s garage on William Street, a repair and storage facility under contract to the Taunton police force. Before picking up Jamie, he planned to call at Larkin’s and afterwards buy her some flowers.
He found Larkin’s with no trouble, parking in a huge yard that was surrounded by a high metal fence with security warning signs posted every twenty feet or so. Walking past rows of parked cars, many whose rubber would never see a road again, he entered the hangar-like garage. Inside, a number of cars were being worked on. Hip-hop music blared around the cavernous space. Off to his right, he saw a glass-fronted office, walked over, knocked on the door and entered.
A thin balding man, fiftyish, gestured for Kingston to sit down. The name Sean was stitched on to the chest of his oily overalls. The metal desk between them was cluttered with messages, bulging folders, stacks of papers with metal car parts as paperweights, and clipboards laid out in a shingle pattern, the work orders for the day, by the looks of it. Kingston explained why he was there.
‘The silver Volvo, right.’ Sean sniffed and continued. ‘Yeah, we did get a chance to take a quick look at it when it came in,’ he said, shaking his head. His expression telegraphed what was going to be bad news. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you too much until we’ve taken another look at it and filed a report with the police, but I can tell you one thing—it was no accident, mate.’
Chapter Eighteen
Grim-faced and shaken, Kingston left Sean and crossed Larkin’s yard. Numbed by what he had just heard, he walked right past his car without realizing. He would have called Chadwick right there and then but he’d left the damned mobile on charge at the cottage. Getting into the TR4 he glanced at the clock: it was almost one fifteen. Barely enough time to buy the flowers and be at the hospital by two to pick up Jamie. How was he going to break the news to her? There was no way to do it without avoiding the terrible truth. Someone had wanted to harm or kill her.
While he waited at a traffic signal, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, another thought crossed his mind. On the drive back from London, it had occurred to him that the burglary might have been carried out for no other reason than to get him away from Wickersham. At the time he had dismissed this idea as being a bit too far-fetched. But now, with Jamie’s accident, he wasn’t quite so sure. If that were the case there wouldn’t be much point if it were just he that were absent. But with Jamie gone, too, it would be much easier for someone to snoop around—to go over the inside of the chapel for starters. Pursuing this line of reasoning led to more questions. It would also mean that the person responsible must know about the chapel and the fact that it might hold a secret: a means of entry to the underground rooms—if, indeed, they existed. Another thing, how would they know where the key to the chapel was? It all suggested prior knowledge.
He arrived at the florist’s shop just as a Rover was pulling out of a parking spot. In the space of five minutes, he and the young florist had assembled a large bouquet. When it came to selecting flowers, Kingston didn’t waste any time. He not only knew exactly what every single flower was, by common and Latin name, but could also tell right off what was going to last and what was likely to go into terminal shock the minute it left the shop. The bouquet was made up of a dozen white old garden roses, pale peach oriental lilies, tuberose for their fragrance and ferns and salal leaves as filler. Laying the flowers carefully in the boot, he took off for the hospital.
Jamie was waiting at the front door when he arrived, the hospital bracelet still on her wrist. Pulling out of the hospital parking area, Kingston told her about his conversation with Sean. There was no point in saving it for later. She took it remarkably well. Not the reaction that he’d expected. But then again, she had had a lot of time to think about it and must have come to grips with the possibility, no matter how much she wanted to disbelieve it, that someone had purposely sabotaged her car.
‘Are they absolutely sure about the steering, Lawrence? I mean—it seems so—so inconceivable. It doesn’t make any sense. Who would do something like that—and why?’
Kingston took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. ‘There’s no question about it, I’m afraid. The chap at the garage was positive.’
‘God! I could easily have been killed.’ She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘Or someone else could have been killed.’
‘I know. Whoever did it is obviously prepared to go to any lengths to get what they want.’
Jamie leaned back in her seat. ‘So, you think this has something to do with—what?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve got one theory that makes sense but it doesn’t really explain much.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That your accident and my flat being burgled were done by the same person. To get us off the estate, away from Wickersham.’
She frowned. ‘For what purpose?’
‘So that whoever was responsible could take his or her time having a close look at the chapel.’
‘Her? Surely you don’t think Dot had anything to do with it, or poor old Gwyneth, do you?’
‘I don’t. No. But at the risk of sounding like a cracked record, I’m more convinced than ever that all these things that have been going on are not random incidents. They’re connected.’
‘I know, Lawrence, you’ve told me before, a hundred times—connected to Ryder. You have this fixation that he’s at the bottom of all this—a dead man, mind you—but who is actually doing all this stuff? Who in hell would have purposely wrecked my car? I mean it’s not as though we have a long list of suspects, do we? People ready to run the risk of attempted murder to get what they want—whatever that is.’
Kingston kept his eyes on the road. He was about to respond when she raised the question that had been on his mind. He had expected it sooner.
‘God,’ she said, shaking her head from side to side. ‘I’m beginning to wonder about Jack now. Maybe you’re right after all, and he wasn’t killed because of his debts.’
‘Right. It’s beginning to look more and more likely that that wasn’t the case. You haven’t heard from Chadwick, have you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not surprised, really. He’s probably getting a little tired of listening to my crackpot ideas. I wonder if he knows about your accident yet?’
‘He must have got a report from the garage by now, don’t you think?’
‘Probably. I think I’d better call him, anyway, when we get back.’
The conversation petered out. Jamie, clearly brooding over the accident, stared out of the window at the countryside.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Lawrence,’ she said eventually. ‘Maybe we should have somebody come in and take a look at the chapel—a contractor—whoever. One way or another, maybe we can get to the bottom of all this.’
‘I think we should.’
Another gap in the conversation, then Kingston spoke. ‘I might as well ask the question, Jamie, because I would imagine Chadwick’s going to, anyway.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Before you came to England, back home, did you have any enemies there? Well, not enemies per se but anybody you can think of that might want to harm you—get their o
wn back—that sort of thing?’
She didn’t reply right away. Then she sighed. ‘I’ve asked myself the same question and the answer is no.’ She gave him a quick glance. ‘Well—there was one thing. It’s taken me all this time to forget it but I suppose there’s no harm done in telling you,’ she said softly. ‘Several weeks before I got news of the inheritance, I broke up with a man who wanted to marry me. His name was Dominic. He was quite a few years older than me but that was fine. He was an architect, good-looking, fairly well off. We’d been going out for six months or so and it looked like the real thing, so we got engaged.’ She paused. ‘Then things started to go wrong. I won’t go into detail, but suddenly he became overly possessive and controlling, constantly pressing to get married. I told him I wanted more time to think about it. He didn’t like that. Then I found out he was following me. It started to get very ugly and I wanted out but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ She took her eyes off the road to glance at Kingston. ‘You sure you want to hear all this?’
‘Only if you want to tell me, Jamie.’
She focused on the road again. ‘Well, finally, one night at dinner in a restaurant, I told him I wasn’t going to marry him and that our relationship was over. I expected him to go ballistic but he didn’t. In fact, he hardly said a word. It turns out he’d saved it all up for the next morning when he showed up at the place where I work. He was waiting there for me, in the parking lot, when I arrived. I won’t try to describe what happened, but I couldn’t believe how someone who was supposed to love me could be so vicious. It was frightening. At one point, I was sure he was going to attack me physically. The garbage that came out of his mouth was—’
A quick glance and Kingston could see that she was clearly unsettled as the memory of it all rushed back. ‘Jamie, you don’t have to go on,’ he said.
Straightening up, she gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘It’s okay.’ She paused, then gave an apathetic shrug. ‘That was the last time I saw him.’
‘By the sounds of it, you should consider yourself lucky. From everything you’ve said, the man was clearly psychotic. ’
‘Unfortunately, it didn’t end there, Lawrence.’
‘You said that was the last time you saw him?’
‘It was, but the next day I got a phone call from his partner saying that Dominic’s car had gone off the road—off a cliff on a treacherous stretch of coast road above Bodega Bay. His Mercedes ended up on a small beach. When the paramedics eventually got down there, there was no one in the car and no sign of a body. The seatbelt was undone, too.’
‘A suicide?’
‘It looked that way because there were no skid marks.’
‘Was there an inquest?’
‘You know, I’m not sure. The police questioned me about our relationship and I told them everything, of course. Some time later, Dominic’s partner told me that the police were keeping the case open but until they had further leads, they were listing it as a suicide.’
‘From what you’ve said, I’d say the odds are it was a suicide, ’ Kingston said. But he was thinking of the American watch.
They arrived at Wickersham mid-afternoon, just as it started to rain. Dot had lit a fire and had tea on the go when they stepped into the house. No sooner had Jamie stretched out on the sofa with a blanket and Kingston was lodged in his chair, than the phone rang. Kingston walked over and picked it up. It was Inspector Chadwick. He had read a copy of the accident report, he said. The officer in charge had followed up with calls to the hospital and to Larkin’s, who confirmed what Sean had told Kingston. Chadwick’s demeanour was markedly changed from their last conversation at the police station. It was as if Jamie’s accident had sparked a much greater interest in his investigation of Wickersham. In the past he had been politely tolerant of Kingston’s theories but now he was much more solicitous.
‘Lawrence,’ he said—it was the first time in Kingston’s recollection that Chadwick hadn’t addressed him as ‘doctor’—‘I’d like to get together with you and Jamie. Tomorrow, if it’s not inconvenient—ask you a few questions related to her accident. But while we’re at it, I’d like to revisit everything that’s happened at Wickersham since Jamie moved in. I know you’ve already told me most of it, but I want to make sure I’m not missing anything.’
Kingston cupped the phone while he told Jamie about Chadwick’s request, asking her what time would work best for her. In a few seconds he was back to Chadwick. ‘How’s three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’ he asked. Chadwick agreed and the conversation ended.
Kingston returned to his chair, picked up the gold-rimmed china cup and took a sip of tea. ‘Chadwick wants a full report on everything that’s happened since you arrived here,’he said.
‘There’s not much that Chadwick doesn’t already know, is there? You said that you’d told him all about your investigations, didn’t you?’
‘I did, yes. But only things concerning Ryder and what Loftus had told me.’ Kingston frowned. ‘I don’t think he knows about Mainwaring.’
‘What about Fox? Chadwick should be told about him, too. Though I can’t imagine how he would be implicated.’
‘You never know. I would imagine that Chadwick’s going to want to know everything about everybody who’s set foot here from day one.’
‘Your friend, Ferguson. He’s another.’
Kingston nodded. ‘I have to call him. I think he might have been here yesterday, when I was with you at the hospital. From Gwyneth’s description, it sounded like him. I’m feeling a little guilty about him. He can’t wait to see the chapel.’ He thought for a moment, deciding that now was not a good time to tell Jamie about the key.
They talked more over tea, then Jamie announced that she was tired and was going to rest for a couple of hours, then take it easy for the remainder of the evening. It was Kingston’s cue to leave, which was fine by him. It had been a trying day all round. A day that may well have marked a turning point in the mysteries surrounding Wickersham.
Chapter Nineteen
After leaving Jamie the evening before, Kingston had gone back to the cottage and fixed himself a light supper: fettuccine with mushrooms and a spicy Italian sausage that was left over from a dinner three or four nights ago. With a Cleo Laine tape playing, he went about the business of sautéing the mushrooms and boiling the salted water. By the time he sat down to eat, half the bottle of Sangiovese was gone.
He was feeling good. It was just like the old days, up in London, at his flat. Experimenting with new recipes, matching wines with the food. Picking out a CD from his eclectic collection, close to five hundred discs from Poulenc to Pink Floyd, and listening with the volume turned up.Yes, it would be nice to have company sometimes; someone to clink glasses with when everything arrived at the table. But he had long ago come to grips with the single life. The times he spent with Jamie over the last months had given him pause to think about the pluses of a steady relationship. But as attractive as it sometimes seemed, he knew that it wouldn’t work. He’d been alone for too long now. He had become married to being single.
For Kingston, one of the most unsatisfying things about eating alone wasn’t so much the absence of company as the fact that the meal lasted such a short time. It was not unusual for a meal in a restaurant, with a companion, to go on for two hours. Yet the same meal served at home to just one person would probably be consumed in less than fifteen minutes. Somebody, somewhere, he mused, had doubtlessly done a study on it. Invariably, he did the crossword puzzle while he ate. At least it helped pace the meal.
Kingston cleared the table and took his plate and wineglass into the kitchen to wash them up. He never left dishes in the sink overnight. After another fifteen minutes on the crossword, finally getting 14 across: A king in the ring (5), he pencilled in LOUIS1 and then put the puzzle aside for the morning when his head would be much clearer. He read for the rest of the evening, finally dozing off with the book in his lap.
Kingston woke at seven-thirty with a he
adache—unusual for him, but after a cup of tea, two slices of buttered toast slathered with marmalade, and two aspirin, it was almost gone. He picked up the phone and dialled Ferguson’s number. To his surprise, Ferguson answered after the second ring.
‘Morning Roger, it’s Lawrence.’
‘Good to hear from you, doctor. How’s it going up there?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Kingston wondered if he should tell him about Jamie. He decided it served no purpose. ‘Sorry it took a while getting back to you,’ he said. ‘I was taking care of things up in London for a few days and it’s been frightfully hectic since I got back.’
‘No problem. I’ve been away from the office myself for a few days anyway, so your timing’s good.’
Kingston wondered why he hadn’t mentioned being at Wickersham right off the bat. Maybe it wasn’t Ferguson after all. Gwyneth’s description had been vague. No harm in asking, though.
‘By chance, were you up at the house recently?’
There was a pause before Ferguson answered. ‘Oh, yes, I was, as a matter of fact—a couple of days ago. I was about to tell you. I happened to be up in your neck of the woods that day, visiting an historian who lives in Watchet. I tried the house but there was nobody there, so I just turned around and left.’ He hesitated again. ‘Actually, I was hoping I could take a look at the chapel.’
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