Rearranging the pillow and turning on his side had no effect; his muddled thoughts drifted to Emma, and the packet of notes she’d given him, and what a stroke of luck it was that Inspector Sheffield had suggested that she participate.
As he pulled the covers over his eyes, an idea suddenly took shape. The pragmatic and reasoning voice in his head told him that the likelihood of it coming to fruition was tenuous at best. But if he could pull it off, everyone would profit—him, Andrew, and Emma.
His last coherent thought before slipping into the arms of Morpheus was the hope that he would still remember the idea when he woke in the morning.
The next morning at seven thirty, as was customary, Kingston was seated at the kitchen table, with whole wheat toast and marmalade and a second cup of tea, tackling the Times crossword puzzle. He was stuck on 24 Across: Vive la difference with the beginning of renaissance brings about another renaissance (7)
He was determined not to quit until he’d solved it. By the time the solution dawned on him, his half-finished tea was lukewarm. It was an anagram of VIVE LA (different) plus R (beginning letter of renaissance). VIVELA + R = REVIVAL (another renaissance). Pleased with himself, he put the paper aside and glanced up at the wall clock: eight o’clock. A good time to call the United States.
In his office, with the newspaper article in front of him, Kingston was surprised to reach Greg Robinson, the rosarian who had first spotted the rose, right away at his nursery in California. They had a lengthy, amiable chat about the discovery, and though Kingston learned a little more than had been reported, he came away with no information or clues to shed further light on the mystery.
His call to Andy Harris produced much the same results. The Alcatraz historian was exceptionally friendly and interested in everything that Kingston asked about the globetrotting rose. He talked at length about his experience growing up on the island as the son of a correctional officer, describing in detail the few gardens on the island at the time it was a federal penitentiary. He elaborated on the warden’s garden, the few privileged inmates who were allowed to work in the gardens, as well other aspects of life inside the walls of America’s most notorious prison. Yet like Greg Robinson, in the end he could offer no rational explanation of how the rose had ended up there. He did promise to let Kingston know if any further thoughts occurred to him or if new information came to light. Harris also encouraged him to call back anytime with further questions.
Little did Kingston know that he wasn’t through with America. Not for today, anyway.
That afternoon, when he returned from Smith & Hunter Garage in Kensington (where the TR was being fitted with new front tires), he found another e-mail from his daughter, Julie.
Hello Dad,
The big news! Brandon and I got engaged last week, so you’ll soon be getting a son-in-law. He can’t wait to meet you.
Glad to know that the airline tickets arrived okay, so all you have to do is pack your bags and bring lots of English tea. We’ll pick you up at the airport—if your flight plans change let me know. The attached photo was taken at the restaurant where Brandon popped the question. Don’t know if I mentioned it, but he’s got a nice sailboat, a Cheoy Lee ketch, so bring along some deck shoes and shorts.
I apologize for such a short letter, Dad, but I’m sure you understand. I can’t wait to see you—it’s been far too long.
Love and kisses,
Julie
Kingston opened the attachment and gazed fondly at the photo of the smiling happy couple, toasting with champagne glasses. She looks more like her mother every day, he thought, just as beautiful and elegant.
The planned trip, his third since Julie had left for Seattle and a job with Microsoft, had been a gift to celebrate his birthday. Julie had recently been promoted to a senior position and had told him that her new salary “had more zeros attached than she could have ever thought possible.”
He made a mental note that a visit to Austin Reed was in order to purchase a couple of items of clothing—and now some deck shoes.
There was one other item that needed tending to—Emma’s notes.
Comfortably settled in his worn leather wingback, Kingston spent the next half hour reading them. As he’d expected, they were well organized and written with noteworthy clarity. In chronological order she had laid out the events of each day, starting with the morning of September 12, 2003, when Fiona McGuire had left the house, dropping off Letty at Molly’s, as she often did, never to return.
Interviews conducted in the days and weeks that followed were all listed, showing the date, the approximate time, the persons questioned, their calling and relationship to the McGuires—if any—and a brief summary of their statements. Every now and then, she had added a comment, an explanation, or a question to herself.
After two passes, he was satisfied that, as far as he could tell, there was nothing in the dozen or so pages that appeared even mildly unusual or inconsistent. It seemed there was no need for further conjecture on his part, that the investigation was as Emma and her superior officer had stated: unsolved as a result of lack of evidence and viable leads. He put the papers back in the envelope and placed it in a desk drawer. He couldn’t think of any reason why he would want, or need, to refer to them again.
In the kitchen, he put the kettle on for tea and glanced at the crossword again. It was a particularly tough one, and he had a hunch who had composed it: an old nemesis “setter” whose clues were fiendishly clever. As he was pondering what to do for dinner, the phone rang. He went to the living room, and picked it up.
“This is Kingston,” he said, a trifle more politely than normal.
“Oh, hello, Lawrence. It’s Emma.”
“Emma.” He smiled. “Surprised to hear from you so soon.”
“Yes. I just got back from Cheltenham about twenty minutes ago.”
“It went well, then?”
“Exceptionally well, I’d say. I was with Letty for over two hours.”
Kingston listened raptly as Emma described their conversation. When she was finished, he was convinced that their chat had more than achieved its desired result.
“She’ll never forget her mum, nor should she, of course,” Emma said. “But she promised me—hands on the Bible—that from now on she’d work every day on training her mind to think of herself, and her future.”
“You make it sound all too easy. Though I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“You’re right.” Emma sighed. “At least not to begin with. Then I told her about an experience I’d had when I was younger—when my closest friend was killed in a car accident. To this day, I still hold myself partly responsible.”
“I’m sorry.” Kingston didn’t know what more to say; they were both silent for a minute.
“May I ask what happened?” he said finally. “Though if you prefer not to talk about it, please say so, and we can—”
“No it’s perfectly fine. We were both eighteen. We’d been to a wedding in Tewksbury, and when we left it started to drizzle. Wendy had had quite a lot to drink, but I’d taken it easy all evening because of an upset stomach. She insisted on driving, that she was okay and that it was better if she drove because I’d only just got my license a few months earlier. I knew damned well she was in no state to drive—I even tried to wrestle the keys from her. By the time she dropped me off, it was raining cats and dogs. I pleaded with her to spend the night at my place rather than drive another ten miles home, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Her mother called me the next morning to say that Wendy had skidded off the road had hit a tree and was dead. My lasting memory was the radio playing as I slammed the door and she drove off. The song was ‘Without You’ by Badfinger. I can’t listen to it anymore. It makes me want to cry. I still think of it as prophetic.”
“That’s terribly sad. I can see why Letty would have related to your loss.”
“It’s all about learning to stop fighting what’s happened in the past, the unchangeable, accepting it for what was, an
d recognizing that there’s nothing—not a single thing—you can do that will ever alter it.” She paused, but Kingston didn’t interrupt. “To stop worrying about the things you can’t change and instead focus on those that you can—a cliché maybe, but oh so true. I think what convinced Letty more than anything else was the risk she was taking not only with her mental health but physical, too. I didn’t need to press the point because she confided that the last year or so had been more stressful than she was ready to admit.”
“Well, that’s all good news indeed. You saw her foster parents?”
“They were both there when I arrived. Nice people. She’s very lucky in that sense.”
“And will you and Letty will keep in touch?”
“Yes. We talked about that at length. We’re going to get together on a regular basis, see how she’s progressing. On top of everything else, she showed a lot of interest in police work, asking surprisingly intelligent questions. I promised I’d take her to the Gloucester district station where I worked to give her an idea of what community police work was like and to introduce her to a few of the staff, take her out one day in a patrol car, maybe.”
“Terrific idea.”
“Oh—and by the way, I asked about the books, too.”
Kingston frowned. “The books?”
“You know, Fiona’s ‘library’? You wondered if they might give any hints to Fiona’s or her husband’s lifestyle—remember?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Any luck?”
“Sorry to say, no smoking gun. Molly said that they chucked most of them away. I went through those they’d kept, mostly cooking and how-to books. The only one that struck me as likely to be of interest to you was a garden book. I think the author was a man named Thomas.”
Kingston felt a tingle of excitement. “Graham Stuart Thomas?”
“I think so, yes. Hold on a moment and I’ll get it.”
He heard her set down the phone, and walk away.
Graham Stuart Thomas, Kingston thought. Twice his name had come up in recent days.
Emma was back. “Yes, it’s Graham Stuart Thomas. The Old Shrub Roses.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Kingston said. “If it’s signed, it could be worth a bob or two.”
“It’s not signed, but there is an inscription in it. And some penciled notes on some of the pages.”
“Really. Fiona was hardly the gardening sort, was she?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“What does it say?”
“Let me look again,” she said, as Kingston waited.
“Here it is: ‘This may give you some ideas, R.’ The initial R trails off in a wiggly line, as if it were the person’s casual way of signing—maybe Robert, Richard—”
“R,” Kingston muttered to himself, thinking about the single initial and other names it could stand for—male and female.
“That’s very interesting,” he said. “I’d like to see the book, if I may?”
“Of course. I can mail it to you or, even better, I can arrange to have it hand delivered. No charge.”
“You have someone coming up to London?”
“Yes. Me. Tomorrow.”
Kingston smiled. “What a nice surprise, Emma. Naturally I’ll take you up on the offer. And if time permits, perhaps we can squeeze in lunch or an early dinner. I’d enjoy that.”
“Lunch is possible. I’m coming up by train to see a specialist at Moorfields Eye Hospital. My appointment’s at eleven forty-five, and they say it should take no longer than an hour. If I cab it, I could meet you somewhere in the West End around one o’clock.”
“Excellent. Let’s meet at the Ivy. You’ll like it. It’s off of Shaftesbury Avenue. The driver will know it, it’s been there close to a hundred years.”
“Sounds wonderful. I look forward to it. If there are any hiccups, I’ll call you.”
“Please do.” He hesitated a moment, wondering how to broach the idea he’d come up with the night before. Particularly in light of the book and the inscription she had just described.
“Lawrence?” Emma asked. “Was there something else?”
“There is,” he replied, his mind off the book. “Among other things, I was going to tell you what happened after we left you the other day—but it’s quite a long tale. There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow. You’re going to be amazed. I’m not exaggerating.”
“That’s not fair. Now I can’t wait.”
“Until tomorrow, then. Good night.” he said with a satisfied smile, putting down the phone.
Graham Stuart Thomas, he thought. And then: This may give you some ideas, R.
He considered Andrew’s law of “conditional probability” and wondered what the odds were that, somehow, all these incidents and events were in fact related.
There was, he had already decided, only one way to find out.
8
KINGSTON SAT AT a white-clothed corner table sipping a glass of Evian in the Ivy’s elegantly understated dining room. Keeping a close eye on the entrance, he eagerly awaited Emma’s arrival.
As a matter of habit, whenever he invited a woman to lunch or dinner, each arriving separately, he made it a point to be at the restaurant fifteen minutes before reservation time. It had nothing to do with punctuality but everything to do with manners: not wanting to risk the chance that his guest would find herself waiting alone in a restaurant. He knew that in this he was one of a dying breed: men who still obeyed their mothers’ stern instructions on how to behave, and who always dressed for the occasion.
Today, it was his Burberry double-breasted navy blazer with tan gabardine slacks and French-cuffed blue poplin shirt, with red-and-silver-striped university tie. It irked him to see people dining in London’s best restaurants wearing T-shirts and jeans. In addition to enjoying the Ivy’s excellent food, Kingston approved of the restaurant’s “dress code”: Men were required to wear ties, and shorts and microskirts were not “acceptable forms of attire” for women.
At that moment, he looked up to see Emma being escorted across the room by the maître d’. She was dressed fashionably in a tailored gray-tweed jacket, silk blouse, and black, knee-length—thankfully not micro—skirt, quite a different Emma from the one he’d met in Winchcombe. He stood and took her hand in his while they exchanged greetings, and then sat down.
“It’s a lovely room,” she said, looking around while reaching into her shoulder bag, taking out the book, and placing it on the table next to Kingston. “Here’s your special delivery, and thank you for inviting me.” She smiled. “The alternative would probably have been a ham and cheese baguette on the train home.”
“Not on my watch,” he replied, picking up the book and opening it to the page with the inscription. He looked at it for a moment before closing it and putting it aside on the table. “I appreciate your thinking of me when you spotted the book, and please pass on my thanks to Molly when you next see her. It’s one that I don’t have and, as I mentioned on the phone, it holds special meaning for me, having known Graham and been a long-standing admirer of his enormous talents. Do you know most of the paintings and drawings in the book are his?”
“I didn’t realize that. They’re exceptionally well done.”
“They are. He could have made a decent living doing just that.” He glanced at the book. “Did you have any further thoughts on the inscription?”
“I didn’t give it much thought, to tell the truth. Should I have?” She shrugged, as if wondering why he was bothering to ask. “It could only mean one of two things, I suppose. Either the book was given to her, or possibly to her husband, by a friend or acquaintance, whose first name started with R, or it came into their possession in the same way that books usually do: They bought it at a used-book store or a car boot sale, or it was a used book given to them by someone whose name didn’t necessarily begin with R. In the case of the latter two, the inscription was already in the book. Does that help?”
“Hardly at all,” he replied, smilin
g. “Although I hadn’t thought of her husband. But from what we know about him, that would make even less sense, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re probably right,” Emma replied.
Small talk continued over glasses of chilled Sancerre until their hors d’oeuvres plates were brought to the table. During the natural lull in the conversation, while the waiter was fussing with the silverware and topping up their wineglasses, Kingston decided this was as good a moment as any to tell her the story of the Belmaris rose and how he’d stumbled on the unsettling news about reclusive rose fancier, Reginald Payne. She would probably ask soon, anyway. If she showed more than just a passing interest—and he couldn’t imagine otherwise—then he would broach the delicate question of whether she would be willing to find out more about him and why someone might have wanted to murder him. There, he knew, he would be walking on eggshells. If he was also going ask for her help in solving the Alcatraz rose mystery, he had to make very clear from the start that his interests were solely with regard to that and nothing to do with Reginald’s murder.
Resting his fork for a moment while taking a sip of wine, he glanced at Emma. There was no doubt that she was enjoying herself. He appreciated her healthy appetite; her appetizer was disappearing more quickly than his.
Emma saved Kingston from having to devise a way to segue into the story of the rose. “So, Lawrence,” she said, raising her wineglass to her lips and holding it there for a moment. “Tell me what happened after you and Andrew took off the other day. As I recall, you were off to Belmaris Castle to see your friend. Why so mysterious on the phone?” She smiled and took a sip of wine. “I’m waiting to be ‘amazed.’”
Over their entrees—asparagus risotto for Emma and seared scallops for Kingston—he told her what had transpired that afternoon, being careful not to make it sound too dramatic, which he knew wouldn’t go down well with her. As he was talking, he noticed that—though she was clearly listening to what he was saying, looking at him all the time while she was eating—she hadn’t interrupted him once and furthermore had shown no signs of either surprise or curiosity. He shrugged it off it as most likely having something to do with her police training. It wasn’t until he got to the part where Clare Davenport had told them about the postmortem and suspicion of foul play that she set her knife and fork aside and gave him her full attention.
6.The Alcatraz Rose Page 6