EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  “It was a medical problem. I’m sure you can understand why I’m not able to give you details.”

  “Of course. How long ago was that?”

  There was a pause while Gordon thought. “I would say about four or five months.”

  “Could I ask if she was married?”

  “Not as far as we were concerned. Her employment records listed her as a single woman.”

  “Has anyone talked with her since?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure but I could ask around.”

  “Can you tell me her name?”

  “I see no reason why not. It was Marian Taylor.”

  “Hmm. Petite, dark hair, blue eyes?”

  “Smallish, blue eyes, yes—but I would’ve said lighter hair, more brownish. But that would describe her adequately, I suppose.”

  Kingston knew what the answer would be, but he asked the question anyway. “You wouldn’t have an address by any chance, would you?”

  Gordon’s answer was emphatic. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Mr. Gordon. If I have further questions perhaps I could call you back?”

  “Anytime. Well, good luck with your inquiry, Doctor.”

  Kingston put the phone down and looked up at the ceiling. “Quite a chameleon, our Alison,” he mumbled to himself.

  He picked up his drink, got up, and walked over to the window. Outside the rain was showing no signs of letting up, spattering off the shiny pavement as pedestrians slanted their umbrellas against the wind. Absently, he found himself looking for anybody who might be watching the flat. He was thinking: In the movies, it’s always a shadowy figure that slips away into the night. Daft idea, he decided. Anyone keeping an eye on him would have seen him come in and would have given up watching long ago, particularly on a night like this. He took once last glance but everybody appeared to be hurrying and nobody loitering.

  Back at the fireplace, he stoked it and added more anthracite briquettes. He was about to sit down when the phone rang. It could be Desmond, he thought; he’d said he would call over the weekend about Monday’s lunch. Kingston picked up the phone. It was Desmond.

  “I’m calling about Monday, Lawrence.”

  “Still okay for lunch?”

  “I’m not, unfortunately. I was supposed to meet a contractor in Finchley—you know, the new nursery—to go over some construction plans, but he can’t make it. So I won’t be coming into town until next week.”

  “Not a problem. Next week’s wide open.”

  “I’ll let you know what day. Any news of your friend, Stewart?”

  “Not a word.”

  “No more sleuthing, I hope?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Not really? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Just a couple of loose ends, that’s all.” Having given Desmond his word of honor that he was aborting his investigation, he would rather not tell him about his trip to the cottage and the phone call to AW Construction.

  “Loose ends, my foot. I know you better than that, Lawrence.”

  Kingston didn’t respond quickly enough.

  “Come on. What’s going on? Tell your uncle Desmond.”

  “All right. It’s no big deal. I found out that Alison Greer, Adrian Walsh’s former secretary, is not who she says she is. Her real name is Marian Taylor and she left AW Construction—Walsh’s company—on sick leave, before Walsh was murdered.”

  “Which means?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Have you talked with the police again?”

  “I haven’t, no. And if they’d turned up anything I’m sure they would have called me.”

  Desmond’s next words were lost on Kingston who was distracted by the doorbell ringing. “Can you hold on for a moment, Desmond? Someone’s at the front door.”

  Kingston put the phone down, went to the hall door, and opened it part way. Facing him were two men; the older white-haired, wearing a tan raincoat with the collar up, the other in a black waxed jacket. Both looked like they’d just walked through a car wash.

  “Doctor Kingston? Lawrence Kingston?” the older man inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Crosbie. This is DS Phillips,” he said, nodding to the sergeant, brushing a raindrop off the end of his nose. “May we have a word?”

  “Of course,” Kingston replied, opening the door and standing aside to let them in. “You’d … you’d better come in.”

  The three stood in the narrow hallway, Kingston watching with barely concealed displeasure at the steady drip of water from their sopping coats that was forming a puddle on the hardwood floor that he had slavishly cleaned and polished only yesterday. “Come on in,” he said. “You’d better give me those coats. I’ll put them in the back and get a mop.”

  Discombobulated by the arrival of the two policemen, he’d forgotten all about Desmond. “Excuse me—I’ve got someone on the phone.” He ushered the policemen into the living room and went to dispose of their coats. Back in the living room, he picked up the phone off the table, half expecting Desmond to have hung up. “Desmond?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m still here. Do you want me to call you back?”

  “If you would, old chap. Right now I have to talk to two policemen who just showed up.”

  “Policemen?”

  “Right.”

  “Dammit, Lawrence, can’t you stay out of trouble for five minutes?”

  Kingston glanced at the detective inspector, whose eyes were roaming around the room, appraising the many antiques, bibelots, and artifacts.

  “Don’t worry, they haven’t read me my rights, yet, Desmond. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  Kingston put the phone down and faced the two policemen. “Please, sit down,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  Crosbie sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped between his legs. “We’re investigating the death, the day before yesterday, of a Mr. Miles Everard.” He pursed his lips, clearly waiting to see what effect his announcement would have. Despite the perturbing news, Kingston managed to rein in his surprise. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  Sergeant Phillips spoke for the first time. “You knew the man, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘knew’ him, no. As a matter of fact I’d never met him.”

  “What was your relationship, then?” asked Crosbie.

  “I was told that he might have been in partnership with Stewart Halliday, a friend of mine. I wanted to find out more about him.” He was about to add that Stewart had gone missing when Crosbie interrupted.

  “We’re informed that you were at Everard’s offices in Bakers Landing approximately two weeks ago. I believe you told the receptionist and one of his executives that you wanted to speak to Everard about a missing persons case you were working on with the—police?” Crosbie paused, eyeing Kingston. “Would that be an accurate statement, sir?”

  Kingston hesitated before replying. This didn’t seem to concern Crosbie, who sat rubbing his thumbs together, seemingly nonchalant.

  “It would,” Kingston replied, nodding.

  “So, Doctor, who is this missing person and which police authority are you working with, might I ask?” His tone was calculated, stopping just short of doubt, and of … accusation.

  “The missing person is a friend and former colleague named Stewart Halliday. The case is under the jurisdiction of the Hampshire Constabulary. Detective Inspector Carmichael at Ringwood police station is the officer in charge of the case.”

  The sergeant pulled a small pad from his pocket and wrote something down—doubtless the names.

  Kingston thought his concise answer to Crosbie’s question would have a positive effect but the inspector remained as phlegmatic as before. “Has your friend been found?” he asked.

  “Not yet, and I’m afraid it doesn’t bode well. It’s been too long now.”

  The sergeant cut in. “You never got to see Everard that
day and you said you’d never met him.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was there any other communication between the two of you? Letters, phone conversations, e-mails?”

  “There was, actually. He called me only a few days ago, apologizing for not having seen me when I visited his offices. Frankly, I was surprised. I thought it was considerate of him—unusual for someone in his position. I asked him if he knew my friend and if he’d had any business dealings with him.”

  “And what was his response?”

  “He denied having any knowledge whatsoever of Stewart.”

  “You believed him?”

  “I did, yes. I had no reason not to.”

  A moment of silence followed, neither policeman showing any signs that the interview was over. Kingston seized the opportunity to pop the question he’d wanted to ask ever since they’d sat down. “Can you tell me how Everard died?”

  Crosbie glanced at the sergeant then back to Kingston. “No harm in your knowing, I suppose. It’ll probably be in the papers anyway. He fell from a ninth floor balcony—his office.”

  “Good God! An accident?”

  “We don’t know yet, sir.”

  Kingston was tempted to tell them more but decided that now was not a good time. Moreover, if he did he would have to explain about giant water lilies that could desalinate water. He wasn’t about to give them even the slightest impression that he was some crackpot professor type. If and when he was ready to talk to the police, Inspector Carmichael would be the person he would go to. And that, he was now realizing, should be as soon as possible.

  Crosbie stood. Taking his cue so did the sergeant. “Well, thanks Doctor Kingston. If we have further questions we’ll be in touch.”

  “Let me get your coats,” said Kingston, already halfway out the door, happy that the interview was over.

  Returning with the soggy, though no longer dripping coats, he handed them over. Crosbie gave Kingston his card and started to leave. At the hall entrance, he stopped and looked around the room one more time. “Nice place you have here, Doctor. Impressive antiques. I particularly like the two Sepik River, New Guinea, masks. And that oil painting above the chest—it’s almost good enough to be a Constable.”

  “It is,” said Kingston with a smile.

  SIXTEEN

  Kingston sat at the pine breakfast table working on his second cup of tea. Finding it hard to concentrate, he pushed the newspaper aside, still unable to dispel from his thoughts the news of Everard’s inauspicious demise. Yesterday, after the policemen had left, he had thought back to his and Everard’s brief phone conversation. Nothing Everard had said had given Kingston cause to think he might have been involved with Stewart and Walsh in any way. To further bolster Everard’s claim of innocence, there was the matter of his height. He’d said he was five foot nine but Kingston distinctly remembered Alison Greer describing him as being tall, “not quite as tall” as Kingston. There was always the possibility that, being diminutive, Alison had misjudged Everard’s height but Kingston was convinced that wasn’t the case. He was six-three, a six-inch difference from five-nine.

  Kingston took a sip of tea, wiping a stray tealeaf from his lower lip. He always used loose tea—another one of his pet preferences. Loose leaves, he insisted, brewed a superior cup of tea and he would never be convinced otherwise. Many blends of tea were not available in tea bags and with the loose leaves he purchased from the venerable Drury Tea & Coffee Company he knew exactly what he was getting. Plus, with loose leaves he was free to experiment with his own blends. He placed the china cup on its saucer and fiddled with his propelling pencil, thinking.

  Assuming that the man he had talked with on the phone had been the real Everard, then the man Alison Greer had described was an imposter. Either that or the woman had lied, which wouldn’t be at all surprising given her track record. Trusting his first-impression judgment, Kingston had concluded that Everard was who he had claimed to be and had absolutely nothing to do with the desalination project. Why, then, had his name been introduced by Alison Greer? The only logical reason he could come up with was that it was intended as a red herring, to steer Kingston in the wrong direction.

  He got up from the table, taking his cup and saucer to the sink and rinsing it. Drying his hands, he glanced at his small leather-bound calendar standing on the granite countertop. Thursday was only two days away. Martin at New Eden Productions would be back from his holiday then and would be anxious to know the status of the aerial photography. Kingston had already spoken with Henley Air Services and had booked a tentative date, one week hence, to shoot the remaining two gardens, those at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent and Hatfield House in Hertfordshire.

  After taking his daily calcium and vitamin pills, he went into his office where he took down a book from the top shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The title: Sissinghurst, Portrait of a Garden. It had been several years since Kingston had visited the legendary garden and he thought it might be a good idea to take a quick refresher course on its content and layout. He settled back into his chair, put on his glasses and opened the book and started to leaf through its pages. Quickly, he found himself once again under the spell of this storied garden and its two gifted and charismatic creators.

  Sissinghurst was originally a great Tudor and Elizabethan mansion. It acquired its “Castle” cachet in the mid-1700s, when it was used to detain French prisoners of war and the name stuck. In 1930, when it was purchased by the writer Vita Sackville-West and her diplomat husband Harold Nicolson, it was a fraction of its former size, and a partially demolished ruin. Undaunted, the Nicolsons went about restoring the great house and shaping the beginnings of what would come to be considered by many, the most famous garden in the world.

  Today, the six-acre garden at Sissinghurst is divided into ten separate gardens, or “rooms” as they are called. These include the Rose Garden, with its collection of old roses and perennials; the Cottage Garden, with an exuberance of colorful flowers; the Herb Garden; the Spring Garden and Lime Walk; and the fabled White Garden. This small garden has been replicated by gardeners all over the world, in some cases right down to the last daisy. As the author, Jane Brown, put it, “The White Garden is more than part of garden legend; it has transcended into general folklore, to be celebrated by painters, poets, photographers and essayists.”

  The design of the garden was the achievement of Harold Nicolson. He created the stage on which his wife, Vita, assembled a star-studded cast of plants, shrubs and trees to create one of the most extraordinary masterpieces in the annals of gardening.

  Kingston put the book down and stared at its cover, caught up in Sissinghurst’s subtle witchery. His last visit had been almost ten years ago, yet it was as vivid and touching in his mind as if it had been yesterday. Nicolson’s and Sackville-West’s son Nigel had been there that day to personally escort him through the gardens. Regrettably, Nigel Nicolson had since passed away but Kingston would be forever thankful that the kind and courteous man had given up almost his entire day, indulging Kingston with a behind-the-scenes tour of the garden; reminiscing about the garden’s early days and growing up at Sissinghurst as a child, and offering intimate recollections of his celebrated parents, about whom he had written several books.

  The last property to be featured in New Eden’s one-hour program was Hatfield House and its historic gardens. In this case Kingston had no need to go to his bookshelf. Located just north of London, less than an hour from his flat, he had visited the gardens many times and knew them well.

  Hatfield House is perhaps the finest example of Jacobean architecture in Britain. Centered in its own 4,000 acres of parkland, it was built at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Throughout four centuries, the gardens at Hatfield have undergone many changes, particularly over the last thirty years, during which the present Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury has imbued them with new life. Next to the house, a rambling extravaganza of red brick, are formal gardens, the origins of
which go back more than three hundred years. These large gardens retain their ancient ancestry with designs sympathetic to the house: formal in nature, with avenues of clipped trees, Italianate statuary, symmetrical box-edged flower beds, fountains, lawns, and gravel walks.

  The garden on the west side of the house is less formal. The center feature is a large circular lily pool with an elaborate fountain. In the summer, the beds that are cut out of the grass walks are crammed with a hodge-podge of multi-colored perennials.

  Flanking the Privy Garden is the Old Palace, the childhood home of Elizabeth I. In front of the medieval brick façade is the Knot Garden, planted with three knots of low box and a foot maze around a central fountain. Such gardens were designed for viewing from the upper windows of the house, from which position a greater appreciation of the patterns is possible.

  Hatfield also boasts a scented garden, a kitchen garden, an orchard, a pool garden, and a wilderness garden.

  Kingston was looking forward to seeing, and capturing it all from the air. He sat for a moment, thinking back to the day he’d been at Hatfield to interview Lady Salisbury for a story in The English Garden magazine. It was yet another day he had tucked away in his memory bank, for keeps.

  Kingston’s idea of doing an aerial search for the reservoir on Google Earth—not that he knew what it would prove—had been unsuccessful. He had mentioned this to Desmond—telling a white lie as to why he had been doing it—who had suggested an alternative: to try Land Registry. He said that he had used the government department’s Web site, Land Register Online, on one occasion and was confident that Kingston would find it helpful.

  Forsaking thoughts of gardens, Kinston turned on his computer and quickly located the site. It was as Desmond described it, and looked promising. He found that, for a modest fee, the service enabled the general public to obtain and download the title register and title plan of registered properties in England and Wales, simply by providing a postal address. The title register would show who owns the land, and or property, price paid information, and any rights of way or restrictions. There was only one problem: he had no address.