EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

by Anthony Eglin

  “Too much of a damned long shot, if you ask me,” said Carmichael. “My money says it’s a duplicate. The Jerries probably knocked out hundreds of these things—even back in those days. What year did you say it was made?”

  “Late 1800s would be my guess,” Kingston replied.

  Carmichael shrugged. “We could easily find out, I suppose.”

  Kingston nodded. “Yes. Meissen would have records, I’m sure. All I can tell you is that it’s the real thing, all right—authentic, first quality, that is. If it were a reject there would be an incised mark across the swords. If the defects were bad, more incised crosses. Meissen insisted on perfection.”

  Carmichael sniffed. “How come you know all this stuff?”

  “Love of old china and selective memory, I guess.”

  Carmichael raised his eyebrows and did not deign reply.

  All this time, Sergeant Winters had been silent, quietly examining the porcelain figure. He looked up. “There’s a bit of problem, though, isn’t there, boss?”

  “And what’s that?” asked Carmichael, a trifle too condescendingly for Kingston’s liking.

  “Stewart Halliday wasn’t abducted from the house, was he?”

  “Oh, come on Winters, we know that,” Carmichael said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  The sergeant wasn’t going to be put off that easily. “What I’m trying to say is, if he had been, I could see him grabbing the drummer boy, knowing that it might be associated with him, his wife, and the doctor, here. But he hadn’t been kidnapped from the house, so why on earth would he have had the figurine on his possession that day? It’s not like he knew he was going to be kidnapped.”

  Carmichael nodded begrudgingly, knowing that Winters was right.

  Kingston had already figured the same and remained silent, thinking of other possibilities.

  “Well,” said Carmichael, “we’ll know the answer when we get word from Becky Halliday, won’t we? No point in our staying here any longer. Wrap the damned thing up, Sergeant,” he said, nodding at the drummer boy. “And try not to drop it.”

  A few minutes later, Carmichael thanked Mrs. Murdoch for her cooperation and bade her farewell at the front door. When the inspector inquired after Gavin Blake, she said that he had left for London soon after he had provided Sergeant Winters with his contact information.

  Fifty minutes later, the three arrived at Ringwood police station. After a brief chat in the parking lot, they parted with Kingston promising to call the minute he heard from Becky.

  With the wipers on full speed and the inside of the windscreen fogging up, he headed up the A31 on his way home and to a steaming hot bath. It would be a couple more miles before the TR4’s heater could demist the windscreen. In the meantime, he had to make do with a dustcloth, which was always in the glove compartment.

  Kingston called Becky the minute he got back to his flat. He was on tenterhooks waiting to find out about the drummer boy. Getting no reply, he tried her daughter Sarah’s number. He got her answerphone, leaving a message saying it was urgent that Becky call him as soon as possible.

  On the drive home, he’d decided it was time to tell Becky about his investigation and that he was now working hand in hand with the police on Stewart’s case. He knew that informing her would give her plenty of reasons for consternation but he saw no further point in keeping her in the dark. He was going to have to ask her about the figurine anyway, which would undoubtedly open a floodgate of questions.

  He poured a stiff Macallan and flipped through the mail: as usual, mostly bills and junk mail. He took off his sweater and went to the bathroom to run his bath. As the water was running he heard the phone ringing. He turned the taps off, hurried back to the living room and grabbed the phone. He breathed a sigh of relief and took another sip of whisky. Good, he said to himself, Sarah must have reached Becky. “Hello, Becky?”

  “This is Marian Taylor.”

  For an unbalanced moment, the name didn’t register. His grip on the phone tightened.

  “About time,” he said, surprised that he was still moved by the sound of her voice.

  “You called Rookshill about me.”

  “Yes, you know I did. The Merryweather woman told me you used to go riding there.”

  “You remembered my photo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smart of you. Lawrence. A mistake on my part.”

  “Why are you doing all this?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m calling to tell you to stop searching for me. It’ll do you no good.”

  “It looks like I’ve found you.”

  Her voice took on a sudden urgency. “You haven’t. And I’m asking you—begging you—to stop what you’re doing.”

  Kingston told himself to remain calm. Getting her riled up wouldn’t help. She could easily hang up on him. “You have a lot of explaining to do,” he said evenly. “You’ve been lying to me since the day you first called.”

  “I know that’s what it looks like but you must believe me, I had no choice. I only wish I could tell you the truth.”

  “The truth?” Kingston wanted to raise his voice but held his resentment in check. “I suppose the charade at your cottage—which we both know wasn’t your cottage at all—that wasn’t a lie? Is that what you’re telling me? And Alison Greer—what’s that all about? Another lie, isn’t it, Marian?”

  Kingston waited for her answer, too long in coming. “I think you owe me an apology and an explanation,” he said calmly.

  “You’re right,” she said finally. “And you’ve every reason to be angry. But now you must forget me. Forget I ever existed. If you don’t, it could prove to be disastrous for both of us.”

  “This is all about Stewart Halliday, isn’t it?”

  “Lawrence,” she said, followed by a lengthy silence.

  Kingston detected a trace of tenderness in the way she had spoken his name—a subtle slip that she was probably regretting. He sensed she really wanted to confide in him, disclose her true feelings, what it was that she was holding back so desperately.

  “You must believe me,” she said taking a breath. Her voice was now subdued and self-controlled, as though she were about to say something that she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I’m taking a big risk phoning you as it is—I’m calling from a phone box by the way.” She paused again. “I don’t want to sound melodramatic but if these people find out I’m talking to you, you may not hear from me again.”

  “Who are ‘these people’? If your life is in danger—which I assume is what you’re suggesting—why don’t you call the police?”

  “I can’t do that and I can’t tell you why.”

  “All very convenient. Just like the lie about Everard.”

  He heard her inhale quickly. He must have struck a nerve.

  “It was the truth. Unfortunately for him, he became involved, too.”

  “That’s not what he told me.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  “I did. And he flatly denied knowing anything about Stewart or Walsh—or you.”

  She waited a few seconds. “He would have said that.”

  “You just said ‘unfortunately for him.’ You know he’s dead, then?”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied, in an almost whisper.

  “Good God.”

  “I’m going to hang up, Lawrence. How I wish you’d never become involved. That things could have been different.”

  “Very well, I’ll do as you say, Marian. But you must call the police.”

  “I told you, that’s out of the question,” she exclaimed. Then her voice softened, quavering slightly. “Whatever you do, don’t try to find me—please.”

  Kingston heard the phone go dead.

  Early the next morning, while he was shaving, Kingston received the much-awaited call from Becky.

  “Thanks for returning my call, Becky. Are you at home or still with Sarah?” he asked. He dearly wanted to inquire about the Meissen figurine right away but told
himself to be patient, and let her establish the ebb and flow of the conversation, until the right moment presented itself.

  “I’m at Sarah’s but I really do have to get back home soon. Sarah and Jim, her husband, have been simply wonderful. I don’t know what I would have done without them. But I can’t lump myself on them forever. I’m sure they’re getting a bit fed up with me by now.” She paused. “They never say anything, of course. But I really do have to get back down to Hampshire and pick up the pieces.”

  “When do you think that might be?”

  “Next week, I think.”

  “I’ll come down again, if you want. It looks as if I’m going to have some time on my hands for a change. I could give you a hand with the garden. I would imagine it needs some more attention by now.”

  “I’m sure it does—but how about you? Sarah told me you said it was urgent. Is everything all right, Lawrence?”

  He noted that she hadn’t mentioned Stewart. Was that intentional? “I’ve been quite busy,” he replied, knowing that he would quickly run out of small talk. Now was as good a time as any to tell Becky about his investigation, but not before he asked about the figurine. “You remember that little Meissen drummer boy figurine I gave you for your anniversary a few years ago?” In the silence that followed, he could almost hear her thinking.

  “What an odd question. Why, yes. What about it?”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Of course we do. We love it. Why on earth do you ask?”

  “Well, one just like it has shown up in a house near New Milton.”

  “Surely they made more than one of them, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Yes, there’s little doubt about that. But it seemed such a coincidence. Tell me, Becky, I want you to think hard. Is it possible—even remotely—that Stewart could have had it with him the day he went missing?”

  She paused again then said “No, that’s not possible.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  “You still have it, then?”

  “Not right now, no. It’s at an antiques shop being repaired.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, as if she were tiring of his questions, she blurted, “For heaven’s sake, Lawrence, what’s this all about?”

  “Repaired, you said?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately it was broken. The little chap’s hand got knocked off when I was dusting—”

  “Did you take it in or did Stewart?”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Lawrence.”

  “Bear with me, I wil … did you take it to be repaired?”

  “I did.”

  “Did they say how long it would take?”

  “No. The man just said they were frightfully busy and it would be some time before he could get to it. He’d call when it was ready.”

  “And he hasn’t, I take it?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  As he was about to ask his next question, she interrupted. “Do you mind telling me what all this is about, Lawrence? Can you get to the point?”

  “I’m sorry, I apologize. It could be very crucial.”

  “I’m confused, Lawrence. Why is it so important?”

  “If I can be sure that Stewart had the drummer boy in his possession when he went missing, it would prove—or certainly suggest—that he was at the house I mentioned. It all depends whether your figurine is the one that was at the house.”

  “Oh, my God!” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Listen, Becky,” Kingston interjected in the most avuncular tone he could muster. “This might or might not lead us to Stewart. It’s an important break but there’s still a lot we don’t know. I can’t explain it all to you right now. It would take far too long. Why don’t you call me when you get back to The Willows next week and we’ll set aside a couple of days when I can come down and tell you the whole story—that’s a promise. By then I hope to know a lot more.”

  “Lawrence, you can’t expect me to wait that long. I need to know now. Are you saying that Stewart could be all right … that he could still be … alive?”

  “That’s our hope, Becky.” He was trying to sound as compassionate as he could. “I can’t promise more than that, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand, Lawrence,” she said, in a halting voice that implied that she really didn’t and was saying it just for him.

  During the wait that followed, Kingston could visualize her trying to grasp the slender lifeline he had just thrown, struggling to make sense of what he had just told her. He heard the slightest sniffle and when she spoke her voice had brightened, as if she were making the effort for his sake.

  “Who would have thought that a little statue would be so important?” she said softly.

  “Let’s just hope we’re right, Becky. Where is this antiques shop? What’s its name?”

  “It’s a funny little place on one of those little backstreets in Salisbury, near the cathedral gate—someone’s Antiques Repairs. The man’s surname, as I recall. I’ve still got the receipt. When I get home I’ll phone you.”

  “If you would. In the meantime, I’ll call a couple of antiques dealers in Salisbury. They’ll know all the restorers in the area. The police will want to talk with whoever repaired it.”

  Less than five minutes after their conversation ended, Kingston had tracked down the Antiques Repair shop in Salisbury and was speaking with the owner, a pleasant-sounding chap named Alistair. “Charming little piece, remember it well,” he had commented when Kingston inquired about the drummer boy. In less than a minute, Alistair had checked his record book and confirmed that restoration of Mrs. Halliday’s Meissen figurine was completed on Tuesday, June 6 and had been picked up on Friday, June 9.

  “Do you recall who picked it up?” asked Kingston.

  “I do, yes. It was Mr. Halliday. Nice man. We talked about hellebores, as I recall.”

  “Was it Stewart Halliday you spoke to on the phone, when you called to say the figurine was ready to be picked up?”

  Kingston waited while Alistair was thinking. “Yes, that’s right, I remember, it was Mr. Halliday.”

  Two minutes after they’d hung up, Kingston was talking to Carmichael. Trying hard not to sound too pleased with himself, he told the inspector what he’d learned from Becky and Alistair. If Carmichael was encouraged by the news, his tone of voice didn’t show it. Kingston accepted his matter-of-fact attitude, assuming that it was standard procedure for the police officers not to get too optimistic about such matters, particularly when dealing with the public.

  Carmichael thanked Kingston for calling, offering a modest apology for his earlier doubt, saying that an investigation was already under way into Viktor Zander’s possible involvement in the disappearance of Stewart Halliday. This, he said, would most certainly involve the Metropolitan Police.

  They said their good-byes and Kingston put down the phone. At last things are looking up he said to himself, as he went into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.

  TWENTY

  The Chelsea Physic Garden is a four-acre horticultural and botanical jewel, set on the Chelsea Embankment of the Thames, a fifteen-minute walk from Kingston’s flat on Cadogan Square. It was founded in 1673 by the Society of Apothecaries to promote the study of botany in relation to medicine, at the time known as the “physic” or healing arts.

  Whenever Kingston felt hemmed in by London’s gray walls and jostling throngs, he knew that in Chelsea Physic’s sensual embrace he would always find solace and time for purging inconsequential thoughts from his mind; a respite to focus on the problem at hand. In short, it had become “his” garden.

  He had taken his customary stroll through the garden, his keen eye observing, admiring, and noting changes from his last visit three months ago. He was in no hurry—one never should be in a garden—and had reached the place on the pathway where it had become his custom to take a break. He sat on the wooden bench, crossed his legs, and gazed up at the imposing statue of Sir
Hans Sloane. More than three hundred years ago, Sloane, a noted physician, scientist and collector, had leased the garden its land for the generous sum of £5 per year in perpetuity.

  What would Sloane, and all the other botanical trailblazers that followed say if they were told that a water lily had been discovered that could extract salt from the water in which it grew? On further thought, he decided that, compared to some of the wonders that they had encountered and discovered in remote parts of the world in the last several centuries, the water lily might not raise eyebrows that high.

  He looked at his watch: almost four. He got up and headed along the path toward the exit. Walking with a lighter step and a smile in his heart, he passed the perfumery border, inhaling the bewitching fragrances, the murmuring and droning of the insects loud in the air. He recalled Thomas Hill’s words, written more than four hundred years ago: “The garden is a ground plot for the mind.” How true, he thought. Once again, Chelsea Physic had worked its magic.

  Turning the key in his front door, Kingston could hear the faint ringing of the phone. Closing the door behind him, he hurried across the living room and picked it up. “Hello,” he said, expecting it to be Andrew, whom he was meeting that evening.

  “Mr. Kingston? Lawrence Kingston?”

  “It is,” Kingston replied, not recognizing the man’s voice.

  “This is Chelsea Police Station, Sergeant Jarvis.”

  Why on earth would the local police be calling? “Yes,” he said, uneasily.

  “We just received a report from one of our patrol cars that a garage on Waverley Mews had been broken into. A neighbor discovered it and told us you park your car there, a Triumph TR4. Is that correct, sir?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “We’d like you come down to the garage, if you would. We have a unit waiting there.”

  “What about my car? Has it been stolen?”

  “It looks that way, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Kingston, putting down the phone.

  Kingston managed the normal ten-minute walk to his garage in almost half the time. He’d already prepared himself for the worst, but when he turned the corner into the mews, perspiring and out of breath, seeing the gaping double doors and the empty garage, he had a hard time stifling his anger.