“Our monuments? ”
Kingston was jolted back to the present. “Somewhat,” he replied, turning toward Crawford. “I seem to recall a story about them in one of the garden magazines, Gardens Illustrated, I believe, but that was a long time ago.”
“Let me show you a couple, then.” Crawford gestured over his shoulder and headed down a small gravel path that led between two of the most enormous rhododendron bushes that Kingston had ever laid eyes on. On the other side of the rhodies, they came to a small glade with a curved backdrop of dark conifers. Centered in front of the spruce, cypress, and yew was a curious-looking structure as high as a small house and almost as wide.
“This is the Arcadian monument,” said Crawford, as the two walked up close to it. “One of eight situated throughout the garden and the park.” Crawford stood silently to one side, watching as Kingston gazed up at the monument.
Supported on either side by two carved Doric columns, the lichen-stained stone entablature across the top was decorated with rustic carvings. Together they formed a strange-looking rough-hewn arch that was the setting for the centerpiece white-marble slab on which the likeness of a painting—which Kingston would later learn was by Poussin—was carved in relief. His eyes then rested on the inscription carved below the pastoral scene, the sequence of ten Roman letters: D. O.U.O.S.V.A.V.V. M. He noted that the beginning D and the ending M were wider spaced, separated from the other letters.
Lost in thought, pondering the letters and the incongruity of the elegant marble against the crude stone arch, he suddenly realized that Crawford was speaking.
“… the last of the monuments to be built, about 1750, so it’s believed—they were all designed by one man, Matthew Seward. It’s been suggested that the separated D and M could be initials or stand for the Latin dis manibus—sacred to the dead. This was found commonly on Roman tombs, dedicating the soul of the departed to the spirit world. Only problem is that here the two letters don’t stand together.”
“Yes, I see that,” said Kingston, finally taking his eyes off the chiseled lettering. “And no one knows what the letters signify?”
“No. For three hundred years, cryptographers, historians, mathematicians, scholars, you name it have all tried to solve the riddle, with no success. It’s even rumored that Darwin and Dickens tried but gave up. We even invited a few of the Bletchley Park experts who’d cracked the Nazis’ Enigma code during the war—not many of them left, you know—to see if they could decipher it. It was part of a public-relations stunt that backfired, a few years ago. Turned out to be a royal disaster.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, for one thing, Poussin was rumored to be a Grand Master of the Knights Templar.”
“I see what you mean.”
“The press had a heyday with it. If the place had burned to the ground, we wouldn’t have had more coverage. Before we knew it, every Grail hunter and curiosity seeker in Christendom descended on us—people camping, caravans, camera crews. Everywhere you turned it was utter chaos.”
“People interested in code solving?”
“More like people interested in the treasure.”
“Treasure?”
“You don’t know the story of the missing money, the Morley feud?”
Kingston shook his head. “Why would I?”
“You’re right. It’s an old Staffordshire legend about Sturminster and the two brothers who founded the estate back in the seventeen hundreds. It’s rumored that while Admiral James Morley was making history and amassing a huge fortune with his sea victories of the Seven Years’ War, his brother, Samuel, was secretly salting away, for his own purposes, a large share of the moneys contributed by James—funds intended exclusively for the expansion of Sturminster. Much of the money was unaccounted for, and to this day there are those who believe it was hidden somewhere on the estate by Samuel Morley.”
“I can see why the monument would be so intriguing—solve the code, find the treasure.”
“Intriguing? That’s putting it mildly. Some of those people are fanatical. They caused considerable damage to the gardens and to the Arcadian monument, sad to say.”
“I can appreciate why you wouldn’t want a repeat of that.”
Crawford nodded. “Right. That’s why the police have been downplaying the code thing.”
“Makes sense.” Kingston paused, thinking. “These letters,” he said, pointing at the inscription. “Is there any similarity to those found on Endicott’s person?”
“The piece of paper? None whatsoever.”
Kingston simply shrugged. He wondered why Morley hadn’t mentioned the legend.
“Follow me,” said Crawford. A few paces behind Crawford, Kingston was gazing around to see if there was any way a car might have been driven close to the monument. The answer came almost immediately when they crossed a narrow dirt track, wide enough for a vehicle, that ran past the back of the clearing. Kingston estimated that anyone passing by on that road would be barely fifty feet away from the spot where the body was found. As he was visualizing the possibilities, he heard Crawford talking again and hurried to catch up. “I’ll show you a couple of other places of interest on the way back to the office. But first, you must see our famous yew tree.” Soon they encountered another grassy clearing where Crawford pointed out another monument, this one much smaller, mounted with a large stone globe. Perched on top of the globe, a sphinxlike marble cat stared down. “This is Amunet’s monument,” he said. “It’s named after the admiral’s favorite Siamese, said to have accompanied him on voyages.”
“The admiral being James Morley,” Kingston said.
“That’s correct. I’m not certain if it’s ever been established whether he knew that his brother was stealing from him or, if he did, at what point he found out. We do know that eventually they never talked to each other again and James Morley stopped visiting Sturminster—hence the feud rumor.”
Continuing, they passed another monument, this time considerably larger and farther away. It resembled a smaller version of a classical Greek temple. “That’s the Athenian temple,” said Crawford. “The design is based on the Temple of Hephestus in Athens. It’s amazingly accurate in detail.”
Five minutes later they were standing under one of the largest trees Kingston had ever seen. Crawford, who had now assumed the practiced mantle of tour guide, pointed out that it was reputedly the largest in England, with a spread of 525 feet in circumference. At charity garden parties during the war, an admission charge was made to view the tree, he added.
Their next stop was the walled vegetable garden. As they walked the gravel pathways that divided the spacious raised beds, filled to capacity with every kind of vegetable imaginable, Crawford launched into a rambling commentary, describing how it had been restored to its 1805 glory days when it had enjoyed a reputation as one of the most ambitious horticultural centers of its kind, employing what at the time were considered revolutionary gardening techniques. The garden, he droned on, was now a showcase for organic and biodynamic agriculture, a farming approach that looks upon the maintenance and furtherance of soil life and other ecological factors to provide high-quality crops, more nutritional food for human beings, and better feed for livestock. Pausing now and then along the way, he pointed out displays that showed how soil improvement could be achieved by implementing various methods: applying sufficient organic manure and compost, using earthworms to enrich and revitalize the soil, proper crop rotation, working the soil, protective measures, using cover crops, and with diversified crops rather than monoculture. To Kingston, it sounded as if Crawford had memorized it by rote, oblivious to the fact that he was preaching to the choirmaster.
Back at the house, Crawford picked up the copies of the reports from the police and GCHQ that had been made and gave them to Kingston. On their way out, they took a detour to the rococo decorated library, where Crawford described its beginnings when it housed the admiral’s personal collection of books, antiquities, and epheme
ra collected on his voyages abroad. He further explained the methodology of how the volumes were stored, pointing out certain shelves by subject category.
“Oh, and here’s something Francis thought you might find interesting.” Crawford took a large volume from a nearby shelf and handed it to Kingston. “It’s considered the definitive history of the Morley family. Written by William Oxbridge-Bell, the noted historian. Though I should warn you, it’s quite a slog.”
“Thanks,” said Kingston, taking it.
Crawford glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting with an American television production company at two. Much as I hate to, Lawrence, I must wind up our meeting for now. It was a pleasure to get to know you and I hope that I’ve been able to give you a clearer picture of the case as far as Sturminster is concerned. Don’t hesitate to call me if you have questions. Please feel free to come back at any time,” he said with a fleeting smile.
Kingston was relieved that a lunch wasn’t planned. Another hour or more with Crawford, even if it was only small talk, was not what he would have preferred. “Thanks again,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I can now see why Endicott’s death is so perplexing.”
After exchanging cards, they left the library and a minute later stood at the colonnaded entrance to the grand mansion. After good-byes and a quick handshake, Kingston walked to his TR4 and lowered the satchel of documents behind the driver’s seat. He slipped behind the wheel and, with a quick wave of farewell to Crawford, who was watching from the flagstone steps, took off down the tree-lined driveway.
FOUR
Ten minutes after leaving Sturminster, Kingston sat at the bar of the Red Lion in the village of Longdon Green, studying the chalkboard menu, a half pint of best bitter in front of him and the Morley family book on the stool next to him. He’d spotted the thatched pub on his way up, keeping it in mind should he feel the need for something to eat before driving home.
Few customers remained in the saloon lounge. The lone waitress had left for the day, leaving a stout, balding man behind the bar—whom Kingston had pegged as the landlord—to serve the stragglers and resume what all bartenders turn to in moments of inactivity and with no one to chat up: polish the glasses. Sid’s jovial face—his name had been uttered several times since Kingston’s arrival—was as round as a soccer ball, set with a large, disjointed, and veined nose and a smile on his florid face that seemed permanent. A half dozen framed black-and-white photos on the wall behind the bar depicting rugby players readily explained the nose.
“So what’s it to be?” he asked, catching Kingston’s eye.
“The ploughman’s, please,” Kingston responded.
“Right you are,” he replied, scribbling the order on a pad. In a few seconds he was back behind the bar refilling a customer’s beer glass. That done, he turned his attention to Kingston. “Looks like more rain’s on the way,” he said.
Kingston nodded. “It was starting to spit when I drove in. As long as that’s all it is, I don’t mind.”
“Got a long drive?”
“London.”
“Long enough.”
A thought hit Kingston. It was more than likely that Sid would know something about Sturminster. The estate was only minutes away, and it was a sure bet that some of the staff frequented the pub—perhaps Crawford or, even better, Morley himself.
“I was just up at Sturminster,” he said. “Beautiful place.”
“That it is. Are you a gardening sort?”
“You might say that. But it was business related this time.”
Sid nodded. “Once in a while we do luncheons, birthday parties, and the like for the staff. We’ve catered events up there too.”
“You probably know Simon Crawford, then?”
“I do. Met him several times. Decent sort.”
“Yes, he seems to be. I met him for the first time today.”
Kingston took a sip of beer, wondering if he should tell Sid a white lie about his reason for being at Sturminster or just tell the truth. He needn’t have worried.
“You know about the murder, then?”
“I do,” Kingston replied with a quick nod.
“Rum business, that one. Something not right about it, if you ask me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When it happened, it was all over the news. Then bang—suddenly not a word.”
“It’s probably because the police have no leads, no suspects. There’s been nothing to report.” He paused to sip his beer. “Any people from Sturminster who are regulars?”
“A few, yes.”
“They must have some opinions about the case. Do they discuss it all?”
“They did at first. That was all everyone talked about for days. You wouldn’t believe some of the theories and rumors that were flying around. Not so much anymore, though; people seem to have forgotten about it. It’s back to business as usual. Understandable, when you think about it.”
Kingston sighed. “Symptomatic of the times, I’m afraid. Nothing shocks or offends that much anymore. If it does, the anger won’t last for long, simply because, around the corner, there’ll be another calamity or horror story to capture our attention.”
“You’ve got it right there,” said Sid, who turned away to answer the ringing phone.
Kingston welcomed the break, mostly because it gave him time to weigh his next question. He saw no reason why bringing up Morley’s name now should appear out of place. He couldn’t afford to appear too inquisitive, though, or Sid would rightfully question his motives.
The lunch would take awhile, so he propped up the book on the bar and started to read. It soon became clear that the early history of the Morleys was a sweeping saga, even compared with other illustrious and better-known English families of the time, such as the dukes of Wellington and Marlborough. Whereas the latter made history on the battlefield, James Morley—who started his naval career in 1712 as a fourteen-year-old volunteer aboard the frigate HMS Carnelian—carved his reputation and amassed his considerable fortunes through his exploits and victories on the high seas. His naval prowess, the efficiency of his eventual administration of the admiralty, and his many strategic reforms left an enduring mark on the British navy, his repute overshadowed only by that of Admiral Horatio Nelson.
Though James Morley had never owned the estate at Sturminster, it was solely through his endeavors and financial support that its creation was made possible. While he was engaged in naval warfare and exploration across the globe, furthering the expansion of the British Empire and later embarking on an epic four-year journey circumnavigating the world, his older brother Samuel was busy at home, developing the old family seat at Sturminster. Samuel had inherited the estate from their father in 1720. From that moment on he had dedicated his entire bachelor life to its expansion. Systematically, over thirty years, Samuel Morley had purchased freeholds, leaseholds, and copyholds of the other tenants of the manor, which included two substantial villages, a corn mill, a paper mill, and various tracts of undeveloped land. As he’d bought up the properties, he’d demolished the cottages and other structures on them. Thus, what had once been a densely built-up area was transformed piecemeal into fifteen hundred acres of open parkland, which Morley gradually converted into a model landscape by large-scale planting of trees and shrubs and erecting the eight Grecian-inspired monuments that came to distinguish Sturminster. During this time he also had a new, larger, and grander house built.
None of this would have been possible if not for the constant stream of money provided by brother James from his ever-growing war chest. Ironically, during those many years the seafaring James Morley rarely visited Sturminster. The reason for that had not been mentioned in the book, so far. Kingston wondered why.
As he was thinking on it, Sid reappeared.
“Your lunch will be here in a couple of minutes. Sorry for the delay. Bit shorthanded back there today.” He gestured to the book. “Reading up on the Morleys?”
“Yes. Between you, me, and the gatepost, I’m about to start working with Lord Morley on a project. I should really say ‘for him,’ because I doubt he’ll be directly involved.”
“You’re probably better off.”
“Why’s that?”
Sid stopped polishing and shook his head. “Blokes who work at the estate have come in and dropped a few comments. Nothing firsthand, though.” He paused, as if debating whether he should leave it at that or continue. “Word has it that he throws his weight around a bit—you know, ‘the big I am.’ He also has somewhat of a reputation for being tightfisted. Other than that, he appears to be typical of that sort, if you know what I mean.”
Kingston nodded slowly.
In the silence that followed, he decided to take the plunge and hope that Sid didn’t find his next question out of place or too nosy. “I take it you wouldn’t know much about the Morley family, then?”
Sid gave him a strange look, his smile erased. “The family?” he said, haltingly. His smile returned right away. “Oh, I think I see what you’re getting at. The never-ending Sturminster feud and the money that was supposed to have been nicked?”
Kingston was taken aback but quickly gathered his senses and nodded. “I’d heard the rumor. The reason I asked, though, was more curiosity than anything else.”
“I wouldn’t be the one to ask about that. Tristan Veitch is your man. You need to talk to him.”
EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past Page 4