EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Richmond Court. You’ve certainly brought a lovely day with you. I’m Patricia Wilkinson, service administrator.”

  Kingston beamed back, suddenly realizing that she might think that he was a prospective client inquiring about future care for a relative or friend. “Good afternoon,” he replied, adopting an avuncular tone. “My name is Kingston,” he said, handing her his card in a manner where she was not likely to miss his name and title.

  “Nice to meet you, Doctor. How may I be of help?”

  “I’m an acquaintance of William Endicott. You’re aware, I’m sure, of his unfortunate death recently.”

  She looked suitably solemn and nodded. “I am, yes.”

  “I would like if possible to have a few short words with Mrs. Endicott, who I understand is one of your residents. I don’t want to disturb her unnecessarily, but I’m only in the Stafford area for a brief time. Knowing I would be within a few miles of Richmond Court I decided that, rather than talk to her on the phone, I’d do it in person. It’s always so much more pleasant.”

  “Let me talk to her. I don’t think it should be a problem at all. She welcomes visitors, actually. It shouldn’t take long,” she said, flashing a Colgate smile and turning on her heels. In two minutes she returned, asking Kingston to accompany her to the terrace where, she said, Mrs. Endicott was reading.

  The wisteria-covered, Yorkstone terrace—past its bloom, sadly—stretched the width of the house and faced out to a freshly mown lawn, edged on all three sides by perennial borders. Kingston was impressed. Ms. Wilkinson did the introductions, then made a polite exit, leaving them alone. Kingston pulled up a wicker chair underneath the sun umbrella and sat facing a smiling Mrs. Endicott. She was a small Dresden-like woman with meticulously coiffed hair dyed a henna color, wearing a cream-colored knitted shawl over a silk blouse. Unlike many women of her age—he guessed to be early eighties—who were prone to apply the rouge, lipstick, and powder like war paint, her makeup was applied sparingly and with obvious care. Her eyes were a periwinkle color and still had plenty of sparkle in them. He smiled, noticing the folded tabloid paper and Montblanc pen on the low table next to her. It was the Guardian’s racing form. An encouraging start, he thought.

  “So, Doctor,” she said, “what brings you here? You knew my son?”

  If he closed his eyes, he could have been listening to a woman half her age. She had none of the speech patterns associated with advancing age. “I didn’t,” he replied, “but I would like to offer my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, with a quick nod.

  “I never met your son, but I was friends with a man who I believe did.”

  “Patricia said you were a doctor.” She smiled, playfully. “Are you here to give me a mental checkup?”

  Kingston chuckled. “Goodness, no. I’m not that sort of doctor.”

  “What are you here for, then?”

  “I’ve been hired, among other things, to look into the death of your son. To find out why he was killed and for what reason.”

  “Surely the police are doing that. At least it gives me comfort to think that they are.”

  “They’re working on it all the time, I can assure you.”

  Her eyes widened slightly and looked directly into his. “Are you a private detective?”

  He smiled. “Not exactly, but close enough. I’m really a retired professor of botany, but somehow I keep getting roped into either helping the police or being retained by private individuals—as in this case—to assist in investigations.”

  “So you want to ask me questions, I take it?”

  On the drive up, Kingston had been concerned that she might be too infirm, or possibly suffering from dementia, to be willing or even able to carry on an intelligent conversation. He needn’t have worried. Time had neither dulled her quickness of mind nor blunted her humor; she was even volunteering information.

  “If that’s okay. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  “That’s the one thing that I’ve plenty of now—time, memories, and bad dreams.” She forced a wan smile. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but there are still times when I get up in the morning, spend time in front of the mirror, then put on some nice clothes, convinced that William will be arriving around ten o’clock to take me out for the day, like he used to.” She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and brushed her nose with it. “I’ll do my best to answer your questions, Doctor, but I would prefer that we not dwell on my son’s death.”

  “I understand,” said Kingston tenderly. “I know the police will have asked you many of the same questions, so I apologize in advance if I burden you by repeating any of them.”

  For the next fifteen minutes he ran through a list of questions that he’d more or less memorized, making sure that he sprinkled them with pleasant banter and the occasional witticism, which she seemed to enjoy. Running out of questions, he was starting to accept the inevitable: that his trip would prove worthless. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time, though. He’d gained a certain satisfaction from being with her. He even felt a twinge of sadness that someone so bright and full of life should be confined in a social backwater, with a prescribed circle of friends, mostly not of her choosing, and with probably few stimulating mental challenges.

  The sun was warm on Kingston’s back, so he shifted his chair to one side to be farther under the umbrella. At the same time, a woman in a pale blue duster arrived, asking whether they would like cold drinks. The interruption presented him with an excuse to leave, which he was thinking of doing anyway, but Mrs. Endicott insisted that he stay and have a drink—a “grown-up” one, if he preferred. “They make a wonderful Pimm’s Cup,” she added.

  With their drinks on the table—Kingston had declined the Pimm’s offer, instead settling for a mineral water with lemon—they continued talking. The easygoing conversation segued from one subject to another, often finding common ground. She’d started by commenting about the quality of the food at Richmond Court and how she’d had a hand in working with the kitchen staff to improve it. This led to several amusing anecdotes about a series of cooking classes she’d once taken in Lyon, a city with two dozen Michelin stars and almost two thousand restaurants that Kingston had visited three times. That prompted her to recommend the movie Julie & Julia, which he had not yet seen. They moved from movies to books, surprised to find that they had similar tastes in contemporary fiction. In fact, in the past year they’d both read the most recent novels by Ian McEwan, Sebastian Faulks, and Ken Follett.

  After a short break in the conversation, while the staff lady refreshed their drinks, Dorothy—as she now insisted on being called—asked about Kingston’s years as an academic. He gladly complied, telling about his days at University of Edinburgh teaching botany; the all-too-early death of Megan; their travels, describing the house and garden there and raising Julie; how she’d immigrated to the United States and his subsequent visits to Seattle; his transition as a bachelor from Edinburgh to London—trying to keep it brief. Only when he’d finished, did she speak.

  “Being a botanist, you must have had a wonderful garden in Scotland. Do you have one now, in London?”

  “A very small one. Not much more than a handkerchief-size lawn surrounded by a few shrubs, a couple of large camellias, and some vines, all enclosed by a brick wall. It doesn’t get enough sunshine for roses, I’m afraid. The garden in Scotland was another matter entirely. It wasn’t that large, mind you—about a half of an acre—but it contained an amazing variety of plants, shrubs, and trees, lots of roses, clematis, hardy geraniums, lavender, hellebores. I wish I had some pictures to show you.”

  “It must have been wrenching to leave it all behind.”

  “It was. Believe me.”

  “William and Danielle had a nice garden,” she said, as if the memory was dear to her.

  “Danielle? I thought your son was a bachelor?”

  “He was divo
rced several years ago. They used to live near Cannock. Lovely old timbered house, called Birchwood.”

  “Danielle was the gardener, then?”

  “Oh, no. It was Will’s garden.”

  Kingston was thinking back to his interview with Simon Crawford. He was sure that Crawford had commented that, according to Inspector Wheatley, Endicott’s bungalow looked as though he’d never spent a penny on it. Wouldn’t that apply to the garden, too? he wondered. As he was pondering the conflicting statements, he was aware that Dorothy was looking at him with a frown.

  “It was just a guess,” he said. “You know, with William busy at the college all the time.”

  “Actually, Danielle wasn’t interested in the garden that much—hardly at all, in fact. It used to irk Will sometimes that she couldn’t even remember to water it during hot spells when he was gone. She wasn’t what one would call a homebody.”

  “Did William care for the garden on his own, or did they have a gardener?”

  “He did nearly all of it himself. A man came in every now and then, for spraying and maintenance, but Will wasn’t a checkbook gardener. He actually won some awards.”

  “Really?”

  “For dahlias.” She glanced up to the umbrella, frowning. “Come to think of it, I don’t recall having seen those among his belongings.”

  “It must have been nice for you to have been able to spend time there.”

  “It was. Most of that time, after my husband died, I was living in a small house in Wolverhampton. No garden to speak of, so I really looked forward to the weekends at Birchwood. I’ll say one thing in Danielle’s favor—she was a wonderful cook.”

  Kingston glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He’d stayed much longer than he’d anticipated and doubted that he was going to learn anything more related to the case. “Well, Dorothy, I’d better be on my way. I’m planning to make a stop on my way home, so I don’t want to leave it too late. I thoroughly enjoyed our chat, and I’ll make you a promise. The next time I’m in Staffordshire, I’ll give you a ring and come and see you again.”

  “That would be lovely, Doctor,” she said with a little smile.

  Kingston stood, leaned over, and placed his large hand over one of hers. “Good-bye for now then, Dorothy,” he said, returning her smile.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she replied.

  At the open French doors to the terrace, he stopped and turned back to her. “Next time, maybe you’ll give me a couple of tips for Ascot week,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’d be happy to.”

  * * *

  When Kingston returned home, there was one message on his answerphone. To his surprise it was Tristan Veitch.

  “This is Tristan Veitch, Dr. Kingston. I’m aware of your reputation, so I presume you must be calling about the Sturminster murder case. Curiously enough, I’m most eager to talk to you about it—and about a lot of other things as well. I rarely leave the house these days and have been out of sorts lately—flu, possibly—so if you would come up here, I’d appreciate it. I can’t go into details, but it’s critical that I see you as soon as possible. Meet me at my house tomorrow at noon, if you would. The address is the Tiled House, Mulberry Lane, Abbot’s Broomfield. Take the B5013 east out of Rugeley. Believe me, you’ll want to talk to me.”

  Veitch went on to give further directions. This was more than Kingston could have hoped for. Why was Veitch so keen to see him, and why the hurry? What did Veitch know about Endicott’s murder, he wondered, and what were the “other things” he’d mentioned? “Interesting,” he muttered.

  SEVEN

  When the phone rang at eight thirty the following morning, Kingston’s first thought was that it might be Andrew wanting to know if the trip to see Mrs. Endicott had proved worthwhile or—miraculously—if he’d changed his mind about joining Kingston on his next investigative inquiry. He’d been wondering how long it would be before Inspector Wheatley called him, but the call still came as a surprise. Maybe it was the early hour.

  “Dr. Kingston?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Inspector Wheatley, Staffordshire police. I’m calling about the Sturminster murder case. Lord Morley has informed me that you’ve been hired to conduct an independent inquiry into the murder.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We have no problem with that. That’s a matter between the two of you. However, the purpose of my call is to advise you that you are bound by law to share with us any information related to the case that you might acquire.”

  “Of course. It’s been agreed that Lord Morley will pass on any information that falls into my hands. I’ll be reporting to him on a regular basis.”

  While the inspector sounded cordial, Kingston knew from experience that the police—understandably so—were not generally enthusiastic about having members of the public meddling in police affairs, and that this was simply a shot across the bow. As things progressed, he knew that collaboration with the police would be as essential to his own investigation as it was to theirs.

  “As you may know,” Kingston continued, “I’ve worked with the police—”

  “No need to explain. We’re all too aware of your reputation, Doctor. Let me give you my phone number—direct line—where you can reach me.”

  Kingston grabbed the pen by the phone. “Ready,” he said, writing down the number.

  “You make sure that Morley keeps in touch with us, that’s all. We’d like to know immediately about anything you might uncover, not after the fact.”

  “I know the procedure, Inspector, and you have my word on it.”

  The call ended abruptly, leaving Kingston a little surprised that Wheatley hadn’t asked more questions.

  Thinking on the conversation, Kingston wished now that he’d asked if they had any more leads. As the days passed it would become critical to find out just how much the police knew, even if only to avoid unnecessary duplication and possible embarrassment with Morley. With Francis’s name coming up, Kingston thought about calling him, or Crawford, just to check in, but decided it was premature and, in any case, he really had nothing to report at this time. Perhaps after his meeting with Veitch—if it proved of value—he would call them.

  From everything he’d learned so far about the case, knowing too that the police had apparently reached a dead end, the only possible line of investigation open to him was to continue probing into the seemingly prosaic life of William Endicott. He thought about calling the institute where Endicott had worked to learn about his academic life, but time was getting short and he decided that, time allowing after his chat with Veitch, he would stop by the institute unannounced, hoping that the dean or someone in charge would see him.

  He didn’t want to be late for his appointment with Veitch. There seemed to be no questioning the veracity and earnestness inherent in Veitch’s message, but Kingston hoped that he wouldn’t end up being saddled for hours with an octogenarian historian wanting to talk about events hundreds of years in the past.

  * * *

  “Damn!” Kingston muttered. He was on the Edgware Road, heading out of London in a steady drizzle, and had just realized that he’d left Veitch’s directions on the kitchen table. Too late to turn back now; he would just have to rely on his memory, which was still remarkably good, certainly compared to Andrew’s, who was younger by ten years. With the village of Abbot’s Broomfield as small as it had appeared on the map, he figured it shouldn’t present a problem. He could always inquire if his memory failed him.

  The village was tiny indeed, nothing more than a sprinkling of cottages set back on either side of the narrow road that curved for little more than a hundred yards through the tree-lined high street. Not a pub, post office, or shop in sight. So much for making inquiries, thought Kingston. It took a second pass through the near-deserted hamlet before he spotted the unmarked, one-car-wide lane that Veitch had said to look for. “The house is a quarter mile in but easy to miss,” he’d cautioned. Even at that, drivi
ng at a snail’s pace, Kingston almost overshot it. The house was completely shielded behind high walls of dark-leaved pittosporum, the only clue of habitation being a nearly invisible weathered picket gate set in the hedge. Kingston parked alongside the hedge, got out, and stretched his legs. The skies were cement and brooding, but least it had stopped drizzling. He passed through the gate, closing it behind him. Ahead was a handsome, if small, Victorian redbrick farmhouse with a gray slate roof. The arched doorway was flanked by two large bay windows with shiny white frames. In the absence of a knocker or doorbell—at least Kingston couldn’t see one—he rapped on the door with his knuckles. In a few seconds, it opened halfway to reveal a tall, slender woman with long ash blond hair, simply but tastefully dressed all in gray. An attractive woman, but whether it was a trick of the light or not, her face appeared to have the same gray hue as her clothing. Expecting Veitch, Kingston was taken aback momentarily.

  “You’re Dr. Kingston?” she said in a colorless voice, saving him the introduction.

  “I am. Mr. Veitch is expecting me,” he replied with a half smile.

  The woman stood motionless, hand gripping the edge of the door, her expression and body language offering no suggestion that she might invite him in. After an unusually long pause, she said, “Yes, he told me to expect you.”

  Immediately Kingston sensed that something was amiss. Though only a few words, something in how she’d said them raised doubt, a suspicion that bad news wasn’t long to follow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at length, stepping out onto the porch.

  Now he could see that her face was pale and she looked troubled.

  “I’m Amanda Veitch. My brother was taken to the hospital about an hour ago. I wanted to call you but couldn’t place where Tristan had put your number. I suppose it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway; you’d probably have left by then. He’d said you were coming up from London.”