“Yes, those are his.”
“Hmm, he has a good feel for it. Yes, quite a nice touch.”
Standing by the door behind him, Becky sighed. “It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?” Kingston nodded, taking in the small space. Even if he started poking through Stewart’s things, what could he possibly hope to find that could further explain Stewart’s whereabouts or what had happened to him? He turned to Becky. “Did you go into his computer?”
“Me? Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t even know how to turn the damned thing on. The police did, however. Apparently, they didn’t find anything worth mentioning—at least for now. One of their technical people is coming back to take out the hard drive—whatever that means.”
“That figures,” he mumbled.
Becky watched, saying nothing, as Kingston—more to give the appearance that he was at least doing something—picked absently through the pieces of paper strewn across the desk, glancing at some, discarding others. He opened the top drawer of the desk to reveal a mishmash of pencils, pens, paper clips, pads, Polo mints, and assorted office-type stuff. He closed it quickly and continued to poke around. After a minute or so he gave up and was about to join Becky at the door when he glimpsed the edge of a folded newspaper tucked under two magazines. It wasn’t so much the newspaper but the all too familiar black-and-white checkerboard squares of a crossword puzzle that grabbed his attention. Not any puzzle, though—he knew, without unfolding the paper, that it was The Times Saturday jumbo puzzle. He had been doing the mind-bending cryptic puzzles for as long as he could remember. What’s more, so had Stewart. At one time they used to call each other every weekend to see who had solved the most clues. Rarely did either of them complete an entire puzzle.
Out of curiosity, he pulled out the paper to see how many answers were filled in. Not many—fewer than a dozen. He gazed around the small space one more time, not knowing where else to look or even what he was looking for. Remembering Becky’s remarks about the entries in Stewart’s datebook, he flipped through the pages for June:
Thursday, 1: Dental Appt.
Saturday, 3: Lunch with Jeremy—the Cricketers.
Tuesday, 6: Oil change/lube.
Friday, 9: Plaster needs fixing.
Then, scribbled directly under that: Fork.
Kingston stopped, his hand resting on the page: Friday, June 9, the day Stewart went missing. What did “Fork” mean, he wondered? It looked somehow odd, on its own.
“Any idea what ‘Fork’ means, Becky?” he asked. “You didn’t mention it.”
“Sorry. Yes, I saw that. The policeman asked me, too. I’ve really no idea. Maybe he was going to buy one—for the garden, I mean.”
“That would make sense, I suppose,” said Kingston. “How about Jeremy? Who is he?”
“He’s our accountant. The police said they were going to talk with him.”
Kingston took one last glance at Stewart’s untidy office before closing the door behind him. He was wondering whether they should check to see how many forks Stewart already had in the garden shed, then dismissed the idea.
They went out into the garden. It was warm, though with the slightest murmuring of a breeze, and all around them was a heady confection of color and fragrance. “I must say, Stewart’s done a marvelous job knocking this place into shape,” said Becky. “I don’t think you saw it when we first moved in. It was a wilderness, a total shambles.”
“I didn’t, no. It’s exceptionally beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. I wish now I’d brought my camera.”
They walked in silence for a moment, Kingston admiring Stewart’s well-chosen selection of plants overtaking the gravel path on both sides: catmint, lamb’s ear, cottage pinks and several hybrids of hardy geraniums intermingled with other perennials.
Crossing the new-mown top lawn, its distinct grassy whiff still in the air, they passed under the long wisteria-covered pergola and down a shallow flight of stone steps to the lower lawn. Kingston looked up at the hanging clusters of lilac-blue flowers. “Gorgeous,” he said.
“It is,” Becky replied. “I only wish it would last longer.”
Kingston nodded in agreement as they continued across the lawn, the pond on their left, demarcated by a curve of weeping willows. They stopped at the bottom of the garden, on the edge of the ha-ha, a deep ditch spanning the width of the garden intended to keep the neighboring sheep from straying into the garden, while at the same time maintaining an uninterrupted view of the landscape. The bucolic scene across the sheep-dotted pasture to the golden fields beyond made conversation seem superfluous. Becky broke the spell.
“That’s the village of Stoke Magna, way over there,” she said, shielding her eyes with her hand. “It won a prize several years ago as the prettiest village in Hampshire. We walk there, across the fields, for Sunday services, sometimes.” She glanced at her watch then turned to face him. “Goodness, it getting quite late,” she said. “I haven’t even shown you your room. We redecorated it since you were last here. You’ll be pleased, it’s not quite so frilly.” They turned and headed back to the house. “By the way, I booked the table at the King’s Head for seven o’clock,” she said. “The food’s excellent. I thought we could have a drink here before leaving. We still have that bottle of your favorite whisky.”
“Becky,” he said, taking her hand. “I don’t want you to go out of your way on my behalf. You have enough to worry about already.”
She looked up at him with a forced smile. “We do have to eat, you know. I’m just sorry I’m not up to cooking right now.”
Their table was ready when they arrived at the King’s Head. Each with a glass of Vouvray, waiting for the first course—both of them had ordered the Waldorf salad—they continued to speculate about Stewart’s disappearance and his odd behavior. Kingston did most of the talking, using his considerable way with words and soothing manner to try to convince Becky that there had to be a simple explanation for everything and, most of all, for her not to give up hope so early in the game. Soon, he became aware that he was starting to repeat himself and by the time the salads arrived, an unspoken consent was reached: Further discussion on the subject served no useful purpose. Throughout the remainder of the meal, Kingston kept the conversation from flagging with a recounting of the year that he had spent in Somerset, restoring a large garden for a young American woman who had inherited an estate there. Becky, of course, had read all about it in the newspaper but with Kingston’s telling, it became another story entirely. The dinner ended with coffee and an updating of their respective daughters’ lives and careers: Sarah and her new baby in Shrewsbury, where her French husband owned a successful restaurant, and Kingston’s daughter Julie, who lived in Seattle and worked for Microsoft.
The next morning, after a tentative hug at the front door, they said their good-byes and Kingston drove off. Just before the turn at the end of the short street, he looked in his rearview mirror. Becky was still standing there waving.
He eased back into the leather bucket seat, ready for the drive home, and shook his head. He was none the wiser now than he had been when he’d arrived yesterday, as to why her husband should have suddenly disappeared without a word or trace.
TWO
With his knife, Kingston deftly removed the crown of the soft-boiled brown egg cradled on its china cup. He’d first purchased the Cornish free-range eggs a year ago at Harrods, on a whim. From that day he was hooked. It was the platonic essence of egg. Taking a bite of buttered toast, then a spoonful of egg, with the barest sprinkle of salt, he read the 9-across Times crossword clue one more time: Plain cake might be seen (7).1 It made no sense—hardly unusual. This morning, he was finding it hard to concentrate—a prerequisite for anyone entering “the territory of addictive, potentially delusional compulsions that make the puzzles anything but a harmless pastime,” as one cruciverbalist put it.
His mind kept drifting back to yesterday, to Stewart’s untidy desk, his unfinished crossword puzzle and the appointments in his
datebook. The dental visit, the lube and oil job, the lunch with Jeremy, the plastering—each was the kind of entry one would expect to find in a datebook. It was the word “Fork,” standing on its own, that still bothered him. He pushed aside the crossword and spooned the last of the egg from the shell, following it with the last of the toast and a sip of tea.
As he thought about it, “standing on its own” was not really accurate because the word “Fork” was directly underneath the reference to the plaster that needed fixing. Perhaps the two were connected? Why? The answer eluded him. On a pad, he wrote “Plaster needs fixing,” then under that, “Fork,” as he remembered seeing the words written in Stewart’s date book. He stared at the four words for a moment then glanced around his own kitchen, hoping for inspiration: the counter, the cabinets, the Aga electric range and the cream-painted plaster walls. “Plaster?” Did that mean indoor or outdoor? If, indeed, there were plaster somewhere in the house that needed repairing, wouldn’t most people be a little more specific and write, “Plaster in kitchen,” or “garage wall?” The more Kingston thought about it, knowing how precise Stewart was, the more he realized that “Plaster needs fixing” was too ambiguous, uncharacteristic.
Deciding to think about it later, he put the pad aside and started to tidy the table, picking up his plate and the folded Times. Seeing the unfinished crossword puzzle reminded him of the one in Stewart’s office. He was halfway out of the chair when it struck him. Was Stewart leaving a cryptic clue? No, that was too fanciful—but then again—why not? He put down the plate and newspaper and tapped his forehead, as if to say “dummy.” It had been staring him in the face. It must be an anagram. In the vernacular of The Times puzzles, subtle hints were always provided when the answer was an anagram. Words such as “recycled,” “roundabout,” and “translated” tip off the solver that the relevant word in the clue is an anagram of the answer. Thus for a clue that read recycled pans make a photograph, the answer would be snap. If Kingston was right—and he was now certain that he was—“needs fixing” meant that it was the word “Plaster” that needed fixing: it was an anagram of plaster. He got it immediately, there was only possible answer: Stapler. After that, it wasn’t difficult to figure that “Fork” meant “For Kingston,” for his eyes only.
He reached for the phone and his phonebook and punched in Becky’s number. Not surprisingly, she answered right away.
“It’s Lawrence,” he said. “I want you to do something for me, Becky.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Go into Stewart’s office and see if you can find a stapler there.”
“A stapler?”
“Right. You know, a hand stapler.”
“What an odd request.”
“I know. But I think I’m on to something.” He didn’t want to tell her what it was just in case he was wrong, which would make him look even more foolish.
“All right, Lawrence, I’ll go and look.”
In less than a minute Becky was back. “Okay, I have it in my hand,” she said.
“Do you know how to open it? As if you were adding more staples?”
“I believe so. Let me give it a try.”
“There should be a release catch, probably on the base.”
“Yes, here it is. Okay, Lawrence, it’s open. Now what?”
“Lift the cap that covers the staples.”
A long moment of silence followed. He pictured her struggling to open it, staples sprinkling to the floor.
“Here we go,” she said. Another pause followed.
“What is it, Becky?”
“There’s what looks like a long cigarette tucked in here.”
“Unless I’m very wrong, it’s a message.”
“I think you’re right, Lawrence. It’s a tightly rolled sheet from Stewart’s notepad.” Another pause. “It’s in his handwriting.”
“What does it say?”
“Wait a minute—it’s a list of herbs—a clue of some sort … but it makes no sense.”
“Read it to me.”
“All right, here it is: ‘Sage, thyme, marjoram, and rosemary yield secret. Dead heads will lead you to a sacred place.’After that, there are the numbers two and five in brackets.”
She read it back a second time while Kingston wrote it down on the top edge of his newspaper.
“Crafty old Stewart. It’s in the form of a crossword puzzle clue. Two words, the first, two letters, the second, five.”
“Are you serious, Lawrence? For heaven’s sake, why go to all that trouble?”
“I don’t know. The only reason I can come up with is that he wanted only you and me to know what the message says. Few people would be able to decipher the clue.”
“Can you?”
Kingston was reading it for a second time. “Hmm—I don’t know,” he muttered. “Hard to say.”
“Promise to call me the minute you do, Lawrence. I pray to God that this means that Stewart is alive and well.”
“Becky, never doubt for one moment that he is.”
Kingston read the clue one more time. It was too long to be an anagram and unlikely to contain one. The herb references were intriguing and the words “dead heads” would be familiar to rose fanciers—meaning to cut off the heads of the spent rose blossoms—a summer-long practice to encourage the growth of new flowers. And what on earth was the “sacred place”? A cemetery, a church, a mausoleum? Could be any number of places. He put the newspaper with the scribbled clue to one side and said good-bye to Becky, reassuring her that, even if he couldn’t decipher it, it should be taken as a good sign. As he put the phone down, he realized that she hadn’t asked him how he knew the message was concealed in the stapler.
Kingston looked at his watch. It was 8:43 and he’d solved the cryptogram. It had taken him a shade over ten minutes. The written answer was in front of him: ST. MARY’S. It was hidden in the heads (first letters) of each of the first seven words. St. Mary’s had to be a church. There was also the long shot that it could be a school but he ruled that out. It must be a church known to Stewart, he decided. He picked up the phone and called Becky again. As before, she answered immediately. They both knew that any news of Stewart would most likely come in the form of a phone call and clearly she wasn’t taking any chances of missing it.
Kingston told her the answer to Stewart’s clue, explaining how he’d solved it.
Not that he expected a round of applause, but her response surprised him.
“I suppose I should say that it was clever of Stewart—this and the stapler thing. But considering the fact that he’s missing and could very well be in some kind of danger, it strikes me as hardly the time for word games, Lawrence.”
“I agree with you, Becky, but whatever all this mumbo jumbo is leading to, Stewart must have had good reason for keeping it a guarded secret. Is there a St. Mary’s church anywhere near you?”
“Yes, there is. It’s in Stoke Magna, the village I pointed out when we were in the garden.”
“That’s certainly it, then. We have to go there.”
“What are we supposed to be looking for?”
“Right now, I have no idea. We can only hope that we’ll find out when we get there. Stewart wouldn’t direct us there for no reason.”
“Do you want me to go? I hate to have you drive all the way down here again.”
“No. I’ll come down first thing tomorrow. I’ll phone just before I leave.”
“I still can’t believe why Stewart would go to all this trouble,” she said. “I hope this is not some twisted joke of his.”
“I doubt it very much,” said Kingston, ending the conversation.
St. Mary’s, Stoke Magna, was lodged in a tranquil setting among towering beech and ash trees, alongside a gentle-running tributary of the river Avon. Though Becky had attended a number of services at the church she admitted to being unfamiliar with its history. After helping her out of the TR4’s cramped confines, Kingston paused to study the flint stone exterior, lookin
g up at the square tower where the St. George’s Cross, the English flag, rippled in the breeze.
“Norman, I would guess,” he said. “It probably had a spire at one time, too. Over the centuries many of the smaller churches have lost them to the ravages of time and the weather.” He took Becky’s arm, continuing his discourse, as they walked the short distance from the gravel parking lot to the church. “The only purpose they served was symbolic, really: not so much as a symbol of piety but to proclaim a perception of supreme power, to reach up toward the sky as a gesture of being closer to God and the heavens. They also served as landmarks, of course.”
Becky looked impressed but said nothing as they walked under the wooden lych-gate and up the stone path toward the humble front door. Ancient headstones and lichen-encrusted memorials were scattered haphazardly on either side of the path. They passed through the open door into the cool, hushed interior.
Save for a handful of monuments, paintings of ecclesiastical subjects, and a large floral arrangement, the vaulted interior lacked ornamentation. A soft natural light played on the worn flagstones. Kingston was examining a well-preserved painting of a saint when a door to the right of the altar opened and a dark-haired young man in an open-necked sport shirt entered. He was carrying a large book and smiled effusively as he approached.
“Good morning, I’m Patrick McGuire, the new vicar of St. Mary’s. Have you visited our church before?”
“Many times,” said Becky, frowning. “Father Riley’s no longer here, then?”
“No, he retired. He’s living in Devonshire now. He was not at all well, you know.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“How can I help you?”
“Let me do the introductions,” said Kingston. “This is Rebecca Halliday. She and her husband live in Fordingbridge. They’ve attended services here. I’m a longtime friend of theirs, Lawrence—”
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