“How could that be?” said the husband, “I wasn’t here.”
Or had he been?
Kingston always enjoyed retelling that story.
The other garden scheduled was one of Kingston’s favorites, the National Trust garden at Powis Castle in Wales. For sheer drama, it was hard to beat. From the valley floor the salmon-colored gritstone castle perches on top of a near vertical rocky slope looking eastward to England. Built in 1200 by Welsh princes, the castle’s main attraction is its hanging gardens comprising four grand terraces. Constructed in 1682, the lushly planted terraces form bands across the steep castle slope, each connected by stairs to the next. The top terrace is overhung with a row of enormous clipped yew hedges. In part, the gardens are historic because they feature the remains of a great formal garden of the seventeenth century. Laid out under the influence of Italian and French styles of the day, the gardens feature an orangery, an aviary, and early Flemish life-sized lead statues. Kingston could picture the dramatic visual effect achieved by hovering over the cliff face in the helicopter and panning across the colorful terraces.
Right now he had no qualms about going up again with Chris. He hoped he felt the same way when they lifted off tomorrow morning. The weather forecast was favorable: warming and clear for the next three days or so. At least they were lucky in that department.
Kingston spent the rest of the day catching up: replying to e-mails that had piled up over the last several days; searching the Internet trying to compile a dossier on Adrian Walsh; paying his bills online—a new experience, encouraged by his daughter; and finishing the latest Peter Robinson mystery. He’d also called Inspector Carmichael, leaving a message when told he was out for the day. Dinner was leftover pasta from two nights before, washed down with a couple of glasses of an Australian Penfolds Shiraz and a slice of fruit tart made by Andrew, who fancied himself a pastry chef. When Andrew wasn’t cooking or lunching at the current restaurant du jour, he could likely be found at the racetrack.
Kingston had read enough for one day; his eyelids were beginning to droop. He closed the current issue of Gardens Illustrated and was about to switch off the bedroom light when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock: ten thirty. “Bit late to be calling someone,” he muttered under his breath, as he reached for the cordless phone.
“Hi, Lawrence, It’s Desmond. Sorry to call so late.”
Kingston could hear a buzz of chatter and clinking glasses in the background.
“Where the hell are you?”
“Right now I’m at the—”
Desmond’s voice became muffled; he was evidently questioning someone nearby.
“The Barley Mow, Baker Street—sorry, it’s bloody noisy in here. I’m staying at a friend’s place in the back of Marylebone High Street for a couple of days. Wondered if you’d like to have lunch or a jar sometime tomorrow or Tuesday? My treat.”
“Tomorrow’s out, I’m afraid, I’m going to be up in a helicopter with a video camera. Tuesday would be fine.”
“A helicopter? This I’ve got to hear about. But Tuesday, great—where do you want to meet?”
Kingston thought for a moment. “Look, why don’t you cab it over here and I’ll order something in. There’s a good deli around the corner. How does that sound?”
“Not like you, Lawrence, to turn down a free lunch. But that’s fine by me, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. How does noonish sound? Do you still remember where my flat is?”
“Lawrence, it’s been over a year since I was last invited. Don’t worry, though. It’s all in my little black book.”
“Tuesday it is then. If there’s time afterward, we could run over to Kew. I want to look up an old colleague who works there. While we’re at it, we can take a look at those giant lilies. I believe they have both cruziana and Longwood hybrid, a cross of amazonica.”
“I’d enjoy that. Haven’t been to Kew for ages. By the way, I’ve got more thoughts about your salt-sucking water lily. Has your friend shown up, by the way?” Before Kingston could answer he said, “Sorry, I suppose I should have asked that first.”
“No. Stewart’s still missing, I’m afraid. I’ve been doing a little nosing around myself, though. I’ll tell you about it.”
“Who’d have guessed? See you Tuesday—bright and early, one or the other. Cheers.”
Kingston hardly recognized Desmond when he arrived at the flat. He wasn’t used to seeing Desmond in anything but jeans and grubby T-shirts, and here he was looking as though he’d just stepped out of an Austin Reed catalog: stone-colored linen jacket, navy and camel check button-down shirt, and tan chino slacks. Even his hair was less of a tangle than usual.
They sat in the high-ceilinged living room, Kingston sitting cross-legged in a leather wingback, Desmond leaning back on the sofa, each with a glass of Heineken. The decor was unmistakably masculine. Overstuffed and leather seating, antique furniture, books everywhere, gilt-framed oil paintings and watercolors, family photographs, artifacts and military memorabilia dotted around. Despite the clutter there was surprising orderliness. A large vase of white roses, lilies, and freesias atop a French sideboard was the only feminine touch. Megan had always loved flowers in the house and Kingston had preserved the custom.
“So what brings you to town?” Kingston asked.
“I’m looking for money.”
“Hope that’s not why you’re here, old chap.”
Desmond smiled. “I know better than that. No—I came down to meet a loan officer at the bank. They’re putting together a loan package for me. I’m expanding, Lawrence.”
“More space?”
“No, a second location. I did a bunch of due diligence and figured another location closer to London would be a no-brainer. Searching for a place big enough, in a good area, was a problem but I’ve found a super location, near Finchley.”
“Good for you, Desmond. I’m surprised there’s that much interest in water plants. By the way, I hope you’re not calling it ‘Across the Pond Two,’ are you?”
Desmond grinned. “What else?”
Kingston rolled his eyes in resignation and took a longer than normal sip of beer. “I’ll pull lunch together when we’ve finished these.”
Desmond leaned forward, glass resting on one knee. “So, how did it go yesterday?”
“As far as I can tell, very well. Unlike the first time, uneventful, thank goodness. The gardens looked extraordinary from the air. Particularly Powis. Have you been there?”
Desmond nodded.
“Well, I can tell you, that hovering opposite the cliff face with the terraces in full color, the massive yew hedges, and the castle towering above it all was spectacular. I can’t wait to see the footage.”
Desmond was frowning. “You said ‘the first time.’You went up before?”
Kingston suddenly realized that Desmond knew nothing about the ill-fated first trip and the stolen tape. He had been so preoccupied over the last days that he’d forgotten all about Desmond. So, for the next five minutes, making it sound a touch James Bond-ish, he told Desmond about the helicopter crash and the tape theft, finishing with a mention of his visit to the Woodfords and Walsh’s death. Desmond listened stone-faced until Kingston was finished.
“This is serious stuff, Lawrence. You should really think twice about getting more involved.”
“You may be right, but given what we know now, the helicopter thing was going to happen anyway—unavoidable.” He drained his glass and put it on the coffee table. “I’m getting really worried about Stewart, though. It’s been almost three weeks.”
“Be careful, Lawrence, that’s all. If this chap Walsh’s death wasn’t a suicide and he was connected somehow to Stewart’s disappearance, then these people—whoever they are—aren’t the kind of people you want to mess with. Given everything you’ve told me, I would knock it off if I were you, before they start singling you out.”
Kingston stood and picked up their empty glasses. “You�
��re probably right, Desmond.” He paused before leaving. “Though I should tell you that I still plan to take a look at Walsh’s garden if I can. Want to come along?”
Desmond sighed, closing his eyes momentarily while shaking his head. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll probably have company, anyway. I’ve left a message for Inspector Carmichael. I’m sure he’ll give me permission. He may even want to join me.” He clapped his hands. “Anyway, let’s have some lunch. Help yourself to another beer, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
In short order, Kingston returned, balancing two plates with lox and cream cheese, bagels, a bowl of crisps, and a wad of napkins. “You said you had more thoughts about the water lily?” he asked, placing it all on the coffee table.
“Right.” Desmond bit into his bagel and wiped his mouth, not too daintily, with the cloth napkin. “I did a little more research. I’m not so sure now that Victoria cruziana would be my first choice. It’s more likely Victoria amazonica. At first I rejected amazonica because I was under the impression that it was an annual. It turns out it’s not. I read that in its native habitat, where there is little change in water level, plants can last for several years.” He paused to take another bite, munching a few seconds before finishing his thought. “Also, it’s bigger—up to six or seven feet across—and much beefier. So, if size has anything to do with it, that’s your water lily. The one Stewart most likely crossed.” He took a gulp of beer and continued. “You do realize, of course—providing this is not some perverse stunt cobbled up by your friend to cover up his real reason for going AWOL—that cultivation would have to be done under glass. The water would have to be heated. Oxygenated, too.”
“I’d hardly overlooked that,” said Kingston. “Give me some credit, Desmond. We all know a tropical water lily wouldn’t last five minutes in Hampshire’s climate.”
“Keep your hair on, chum. I’m just trying … well, not to overlook anything.”
Mollified, Kingston continued. “As you say, size would have quite a bearing when you think about it. To desalinate large volumes of water, one would have to propagate a helluva lot of plants, so the bigger the better, so to speak.”
“And that raises the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. What kind of facility? What kind of setup and where?”
“You’re asking me? You’re supposed to be the water plant expert.” Kingston looked aside for a moment, pondering the question, then back at Desmond. “I don’t know. A humongous glasshouse doesn’t quite seem the answer. I visualize a system of large pools with glass or Plexi coverings that open and close mechanically. More than likely it could be camouflaged. To be practical, it would have to be reasonably near salt water, almost certainly along the south coast somewhere.”
“That’s an awful lot of territory.”
“I know—but if the shooting was intended to scare us off, then the facility has to be somewhere in that neck of the woods.”
“You said that the police flew over the area?”
Kingston nodded. “The Air Support observers relay video footage back to a control room as they over fly. They have tapes of it.”
“What would they be looking for?”
“Good question. I don’t know. All they asked was whether I noticed anything out of the ordinary on the ground at the time of the shooting.”
“You didn’t, I take it?”
“No.”
“Will they let you look at the footage?”
“I was told it’s doubtful because it’s part of an ongoing criminal investigation. There may be some way around it, though. I have to call Chisholm back.”
Kingston and Desmond came out of Kew Gardens tube station, walked across the street and took the short walk alongside the gardens to Kew’s magnificent ornamental wrought iron main gate. They were headed for Clifford Attenborough’s office. He was Kew’s project manager for plant cultures and a longtime friend of Kingston’s.
The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, shouldering the south bank of the Thames near the borough of Richmond in southwest London was founded in 1759. The original botanical gardens were created for Augusta, the Princess of Wales, around her home, Kew Palace. Seven years later, Augusta’s son, “Mad King” George III, substantially enlarged the gardens. Following his death, the gardens fell into decline, and the estate was handed over to the public to become a place for the scientific study of horticulture. It now contains the largest collection of plants in the world.
Today, the scope of Kew’s collections and worldwide influence is immense. The numbers alone are staggering. Kew employs more than a thousand people, and houses almost a half million species of plants. It also functions as a botanical research centre, with multiple laboratories, and a library containing nearly a million volumes.
The 500-acre gardens and landscape boast no less than seven magnificent glasshouses. The Palm House, the centerpiece of the Kew Gardens, was built in the mid-nineteenth-century to house tropical trees, shrubs and palms. It is a classic example of Victorian architecture. The Waterlily House, built a few years later, is the hottest and most humid glasshouse at Kew. In the summer it houses tropical ornamental aquatic plants and climbers, plus plants such as rice, taro, and lemongrass. The newer, hi-tech Princess of Wales Conservatory, with its enormous multispan roof, houses ten different environmental zones, each with its own climate. It displays Kew’s collection of tropical herbaceous plants. Conditions within each zone are controlled and continually monitored by a computer, which adjusts the heating, misting, ventilation, and lighting systems accordingly.
They found Attenborough’s office with no trouble. Kingston introduced Desmond and they made themselves comfortable in Clifford’s neat, spacious office. Attenborough looked like a scientist: thinning white hair, pink complexion, rimless glasses, and wearing a bowtie and unbuttoned cardigan. He and Kingston had once worked together and had not seen each other for a while, so there was some catching up to do in matters personal. That out of the way, Kingston told Attenborough the second reason for his visit—Stewart’s disappearance and the likelihood that he might have stumbled across an ecological breakthrough while hybridizing water lilies. He avoided all mention of the purported desalination process, and had prepped Desmond, on the walk from the tube station, to be careful not to mention it. If word got out at Kew, of all places, about water lilies that could desalinate seawater it would be front-page headlines in all the following morning’s newspapers. Before the meeting ended, Attenborough called the curator of the Princess of Wales Conservatory to tell him that Kingston and Desmond would be over in a few minutes and to make sure they got the red carpet treatment.
In the warm and humid climate simulating that of South America’s Amazon basin, Kingston and Desmond looked over the railing, gazing at the extraordinary sight below. A serene, dark pool was covered edge to edge with the giant water lilies called Victoria “Longwood” hybrid.’ Spread out like monstrous green platters with upturned red rims, some of the lily pads were more than five feet wide, looking for all the world like something from another planet, mesmerizing in their size, color, form, and beauty. The curator had told them earlier that the pads were thick, like elephant’s flesh, and with their underside of sharp inch-long spines in a ribbed pattern, could support a weight of almost a hundred pounds. First discovered in Bolivia in 1901 and named in honor of Queen Victoria, the species has fragrant white flowers the size of soccer balls that turn purple after being pollinated. The pollinators, the curator said, are large scarab beetles that are drawn not only to the flower’s scent and pure white color but also to its warmth. The beetles crawl inside to stay warm and consume the sugar and starch. Later, at night, the flowers close and the beetles are trapped inside. Throughout the next day, the beetles stay inside to feast, gathering pollen as they do so.
After several minutes, Kingston and Desmond turned away from the extraordinary spectacle. “Seems hard to imagine those buggers growing somewhere in Hampshire,” said Des
mond.
“It certainly does,” said Kingston with a smile. “In Hertford, Hereford, and Hampshire, it would hardly happen.”
NINE
After leaving Kew, Kingston and Desmond stopped at the Antelope for a quick drink. Desmond had to return to his friend’s flat in Marylebone to pick up his bag before driving back to St. Albans and wanted to get an early start to avoid the rush-hour traffic.
Over beers, they agreed that the subject of Stewart’s disappearance and his putative discovery had been flogged to death. To placate Desmond, Kingston submitted that, despite his own investigative forays and best intentions to help Becky, the answers to all their questions would most likely come as a result of police work or a lucky break. This led to another plea from Desmond, who pressed Kingston not to get further involved, which, in turn, led to a not-too-convincing promise from Kingston that he would follow Desmond’s advice—which he wouldn’t, of course. They parted five minutes later, under darkening skies and rumblings of thunder. Desmond hopped into a cab and Kingston, sans brolly, made haste for his flat before the skies opened.
Walking home, he wondered again about how Patrick knew to phone him, how he knew about the photo shoot and the tape. Henley Air had received no inquiries. The only possibility that he could think of was that the helicopter crash had been reported in the paper and his name had been mentioned.
Too late for tea and too early to think about dinner, Kingston went into the small bedroom he’d converted into an office, turned on his iMac and logged on to the Internet.
In the search engine he typed in Wiltshire Times and was directed to the paper’s online site: This is Wiltshire. He clicked on archives and entered “helicopter crash.” There it was:
EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 9