“Looks like I won’t be meeting with Adrian Walsh, then?” Kingston said with a shrug.
“’Fraid not, sir. A good part of his house has just gone up in smoke. No point in your waiting around.”
“I’m told an ambulance left a while ago. Do you know who was in it?”
“I don’t, sir. They don’t tell me those sorts of things. In any case, even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to pass on that kind of information.”
Kingston could see he wasn’t going to learn any more about the fire or Walsh, so he thanked the constable and went back to the car. Now it had started to rain, which no doubt would please the firemen, he thought.
The drive back to London took much longer than Kingston had hoped, mostly due to the weather. After leaving Wiltshire it had gone from tolerable to miserable, then to downright nasty the closer he got to town. On the Mini’s six-speaker stereo system, a CD of Haydn’s cello concertos performed by Jacqueline du Pré had more than its usual calming effect as he pondered the events of the morning. What a rotten stroke of luck that Walsh’s house just happened to go up in smoke the very morning that Kingston was about to pay him a call. As he thought about it, he realized how selfish that was, and that he should really be feeling sorry for Walsh, a man he had never met and about whom he knew virtually nothing. The poor chap’s house was partially destroyed and for all Kingston knew, Walsh might also have been injured or burned. He hoped not.
It was going to be difficult now to find out whether Walsh’s garden and its koi pond was in fact Stewart’s aquatic laboratory—the place where he, or the two of them, had hybridized the salt-consuming water lily. From everything Oswald had said, that would appear to be the case.
Kingston considered his options, deciding to wait a few days, until the disruption resulting from the fire had subsided, then ask Inspector Carmichael if he would grant Kingston access to the grounds. With security doubtlessly heightened, walking into the garden uninvited would be out of the question.
By the time he had got off the M3 at Sunbury, Kingston had decided he needed cheering up. That meant a bottle of Chianti Classico and an early dinner in the congeniality of his favorite Italian restaurant, Il Falconiere in South Kensington, where he was treated like one of the family.
Two hours later, he was seated at a white-clothed corner table with a starter of mushrooms sautéed in garlic and fresh basil. For the main course he’d chosen one of his favorites: veal escalope with aubergine and mozzarella. Two-thirds of a bottle of wine later, he was in a much better mood than when he’d arrived, tired and feeling a bit peevish after what, to all intents and purposes, was looking very much like a wasted trip. After a chat with the maitre d’, Kingston left the restaurant to find that the weather had done a typical English about-face and the pavements were almost dry. After such a filling meal, he was happy to get a breath of fresh air on the ten-minute walk back to his flat.
For a change, there were no phone messages, which suited him just fine. At the restaurant he had reminded himself to write a much overdue letter to his daughter, Julie, when he got back to the flat. There was certainly a lot to write about. It would come as a nasty shock when she learned that “Uncle Stewart” as she still called him was missing. Growing up, she had spent many weekends with the Hallidays, playing with Sarah, who was almost the same age. Julie now lived in Seattle and worked for Microsoft as a software programmer. They e-mailed occasionally but Kingston made a point of writing a letter every now and then. For him, there was something appealing and anticipatory about getting a letter, opening the envelope, unfolding and reading it, that could never be achieved with an e-mail.
It was seven years now since Julie had broken the news to him over lunch at the Tate Gallery restaurant that she had accepted the high-paying job and would be making a new life in the States. Even now he could picture her face as she struggled to find the right words to tell him her good news and what she knew would be unwelcome news for him. At the time he had concealed his hurt as best he could, congratulating her and saying all the things one says to a daughter one loves dearly who is leaving the country, most likely for a long time. He kept reminding himself not to be so damned selfish and to think of her happiness, her life. What had made it even more of a blow was that Julie’s announcement came barely a year after the death of his wife in a freak accident while on holiday in Switzerland. The months following had been the most heartbreaking and difficult of his life. He felt doubly bereaved.
He’d made several trips to Seattle in the ensuing years and Julie had come over to see him once. He glanced across the room to the mantle where her photograph stood next to that of Megan’s, his wife of thirty-five years. He let his eyes rest on them, never minding that the photos were etched so deep in his memory that he could close his eyes and see them as clear as day: the likeness of their features and complexion, the same laughing eyes and soft dimpled smile. He smiled wistfully and looked away.
Before writing the letter, he decided to catch up on the news. He hadn’t read a newspaper for two days. He switched on the small LCD TV that sat on a shelf in the bookcase and went back to the sofa, looking for the remote, which he finally located under one of the pillows. He thumbed in the number for BBC London and sat back while a dark-haired lady with unlikely white teeth and penciled eyebrows droned through the weather report. He got up and went to the bureau, taking out a box of writing paper that also contained the pen he used exclusively for letter writing, a green and black marbled Waterman’s he’d had for thirty years.
“And now for news from other parts of the country—”
Kingston went back to the sofa, put the box beside him, fluffed up the pillow, got comfortable, and turned his attention to the news.
“Police in Wiltshire are investigating the death this morning, at his home in Upper Woodford, Wiltshire, of Adrian Walsh, chairman and former managing director of AW Construction Ltd., a commercial construction company, headquartered in Farnborough. Firemen responding to a blaze at his estate found Walsh’s body, with a gunshot wound to the head. Police have yet to determine whether his death was a result of foul play or a suicide. Damage to the house is estimated in the region of two million pounds. Investigations are continuing. And now let’s go to Audrey Wilkins at—”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Kingston muttered.
EIGHT
Kingston couldn’t recall who said it but he still remembered the quote: “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”
He hoped it wasn’t coming to that but the coincidences kept coming. No arguing that point. Whether or not they were connected to Stewart was another matter.
It was near noon and Kingston was in the kitchen preparing brunch—nearly always a fry-up on Sundays, if he was alone. As he sliced two pieces of bread to toast, waiting for the bacon to cook crispy, he was wondering how he could find out more about Walsh’s death. The Woodfords would be under the jurisdiction of the Hampshire Constabulary and he knew they wouldn’t divulge information to a stranger, least of all one inquiring about a suspicious death and fire. The only other source he could think of was Inspector Carmichael in Ringwood. Kingston was going to call him anyway, about getting access to the garden at Swallowfield. While he was at it, a casual enquiry about Walsh’s death shouldn’t come across as unreasonable, considering that it was now common knowledge. On the downside, it would be sure to raise a few questions, the first being, Why do you want to know and why are you interested in Walsh? Then Kingston would have to go into a long song and dance about his trip to the Woodfords based on a flimsy lead provided by a longhaired chap he had met at a garden club. Next he would have to explain the tenuous Walsh-Stewart connection and how Walsh might be implicated in Stewart’s disappearance. He could hear Carmichael’s reaction now: “Yes, Doctor—and if pigs could fly!” Kingston would call him anyway.
Meantime, he would start looking into Adrian Walsh’s background. He knew it was a fishing expedition and the chances of somethi
ng turning up that might connect to Stewart’s disappearance were unlikely. From all accounts, Walsh was well known in the construction industry. Add to that his standing in the horticultural world and it shouldn’t be difficult to find out more about him. It was sometimes amazing what an Internet search could reveal.
He flipped the two fried eggs and slipped them onto the plate alongside the bacon, fried tomatoes, and mushrooms. The toast popped up at just the right moment and Kingston took it all to the pine kitchen table, sat down and, without thinking, reached for The Times. If only briefly, he needed to give his mind a rest from the succession of unexplained events, ambiguities, and now a possible homicide, since Stewart went missing. Sipping his fresh-squeezed orange juice, he smoothed out The Times jumbo crossword, put on his reading glasses, and started to eat.
The clue for 33-down was Curious idyll fashioned in an absurd manner. He figured it had to be an anagram and he was right. Thirty seconds later he penciled in the answer: Ridiculously, the same twelve letters as “curious idyll.” That helped him solve a couple of the across clues. After ten minutes, his concentration was starting to falter. He couldn’t get Walsh’s death off his mind. He took a last sip of coffee, cleared the table, and went into the living room to call Becky, at Sarah’s, in Shrewsbury. Among other things, he wanted to ask her more about Stewart’s garden club activities. As he entered Sarah’s number, he was wondering how much should he tell Becky about what had been happening—the Walsh connection and his untimely death (he wouldn’t mention the possibility of murder) and the stolen tape?
Expecting Sarah to answer, he was surprised to hear Becky. It was as if she were standing by the phone waiting for it to ring.
“Hello, Becky, it’s Lawrence,” he said.
“Nice to hear from you. How are you?”
“More important, how are you? How are things in Shropshire?”
“All considered, I’m doing fine, Lawrence. Sarah’s been simply wonderful.” She paused, her voice suddenly sapped of enthusiasm. “I’m afraid there’s no more news of Stewart. I would have called you if there were. The police have rung a couple of times. It seems they haven’t made any progress; only more questions.”
There was dullness in her tone, almost resignation, as if she were becoming used to the unthinkable—that Stewart might never return.
“I wanted to ask you about the garden club that Stewart belonged to—the one in Salisbury. I went there, Wednesday evening.”
“You did? What did you hope to find?”
“I’m not sure but the club president told me that normally Stewart hardly ever missed a meeting.”
“He’s right about that. Not only the regular meetings but all the others, too.”
“What do you mean by ‘all the others,’ Becky?”
“Every week it seems he was meeting with someone or another from the club. Sometimes two or three times a week.”
“You never told me this before.”
“I did tell you about the club, didn’t I?”
“Yes. But you never said he spent a lot of time involved in their activities?”
“Well, yes, he did but I didn’t think it was that important at the time. You see, many times he would be gone when I was at the hospital. I suppose I should have mentioned it before, Lawrence. Is it important?”
“It could be. I’m not sure.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused for a moment then sighed. “You know, Lawrence, you don’t have to be doing all this for me. It must be taking up an awful lot of your time.”
“Don’t worry on my account, Becky. I’m determined to find Stewart, that’s all.”
There was a break in the conversation before Kingston spoke again. “I’m going to ask you a question, Becky. Give it some thought before you answer, all right?”
“Come on, Lawrence, you’re sounding like a policeman.”
“No, seriously. Answer me this: Was Stewart going to these meetings in the last three or four months before he went missing?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Yes. Right up to the week he disappeared,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Often, I would call from the hospital, wanting to talk to him about something or the other and many times there was no answer.”
“He could have been in the garden.”
“No. He always took the cordless phone with him. It was as if he didn’t want to miss a call.”
“And this had been going on for some time.”
“Yes, quite a long time.”
“And you never asked what these meetings were about?”
“Why would I? It was a garden club. What could be more innocuous than that?” She sighed again. “Please, Lawrence, what’s this all about?”
“When I talked to Phillip Austin, the president of the Sarum Garden Club, he said that Stewart had skipped quite a few meetings of late. Another member I spoke to afterward went further. He said that Stewart hadn’t attended any meetings for at least three months.”
“Are you saying Stewart lied to me?”
“I’m afraid it rather looks that way. The question is, where was he and what was he doing when he was supposed to be at the garden club or meeting with other members?”
“I don’t … I don’t know what to say, Lawrence. Are you sure …”
Kingston knew that the news would come as a shock to Becky and could tell that she was struggling for words, to find justification, however vague, for what he had just told her. “Becky, my dear,” he said, as gently as the three words would allow, “you don’t have to say anything now. I’ll tell the police what you’ve just told me. We can talk again tomorrow, or whenever you feel up to it.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Lawrence, this is terribly upsetting. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for it all. Stewart just wouldn’t deceive me like that.”
“I don’t think he would either, Becky. There’s usually an explanation for everything,” he said, regretting the cliché. “Just try to put it out of your mind for now.”
“All right, Lawrence, I’ll try,” she said quietly.
He sensed she was on the verge of tears.
Tomorrow was Monday, the day he and Chris Norton were going to pick up where they had left off with the aerial photography. As arranged, Andrew was going to chauffeur Kingston up to the airport in Oxford, and on his way back to London, stop in to visit his ex-wife whose husband owned a wine shop in Henley-on-Thames. He invariably came away with a case of mixed wines, which he shared with Kingston. After the day’s shooting Kingston would return to London in his TR4.
Kingston had made the decision not to reshoot Cranborne Manor and the rose garden at Mottisfont Abbey on this trip but instead to photograph at least two of the other gardens on New Eden’s list. There were two reasons: First, Inspector Chisholm, in a brief phone conversation a few days earlier, had recommended holding off for the time being, not wanting any further low-altitude aerial activity in the area while their investigation was ongoing; second, there was the long shot that the tape might show up, though Kingston doubted that very much.
This time the gardens were spread much farther apart—a triangular route of approximately 550 miles—so it was questionable whether they would have enough time to cover more than just the two. The first chosen was the ten-acre garden at Levens Hall, halfway up Britain’s west coast, in Cumbria near the Lake District. The garden was won, as the story goes, on the turn of the ace of hearts during a card game in 1688 to settle a gambling debt. Levens Hall was also judged the Christie’s and Historic Houses’Association Garden of the Year in 1995.
What made Levens so special—and Kingston was betting it would look even more breathtaking from the air—was its collection of topiaries, some almost 300 years old. The more than ninety designs, most at least twenty feet tall, included giant umbrellas, chess pieces, peacocks, crowns, a judge’s wig, and a jug of ale—all clipped by hand out of box and yew. The garden also boasted an original Great Beech hedge planted in 1694 still surviving, and othe
r gardens within gardens, including one with only plants known to exist in the seventeenth century.
Not that it was relevant, but Kingston had learned from the present owner, on a visit in 1996, that Levens had a resident ghost. The story, mostly concerning the owner’s father, was that forty years ago a priest named Stonor had stopped at Levens to visit a sick person in an upstairs bedroom. Passing through the main hall, which was unusually dark, he noticed someone in a room to one side playing a harpsichord under the light of an electric lamp. Taking care not to disturb the player, he went upstairs to see his patient.
Coming downstairs twenty minutes later, the person was still playing. As the priest was about to leave, he noticed a glimmer of light from under one of the doors and heard muted voices. Entering the room, he found the owner’s mother entertaining guests by candlelight. Inquiring why they were in candlelight, she told him that there was a power failure, apparently frequent in those days. When he told her about the harpsichord player, she and her guests rushed from the room, finding no electric light and no player.
The mother then told the priest at that time that no one present could play the harpsichord except her husband, and he was away on business, due to return the next day. Both her first reaction and that of the priest was that he might have been killed in a car crash or an accident and they had seen his ghost. If he were dead, there would be no way to verify it immediately.
As arranged, the priest returned the very next day to meet the woman’s husband. The moment the priest saw the husband he confirmed it was, without question, he who had been playing the harpsichord. Indeed, the priest maintained that he would be able to recognize the piece played, should the husband go through his repertoire. The husband, only too happy to comply, sat down and started playing. The third piece was a rondo, a musical canon in which the bass line constantly repeats. Immediately, the priest said: “That’s it. That’s the piece you were playing the other night.”
EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 8