EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past

by Anthony Eglin

  “The James Hotel, in Lichfield.” Kingston realized by now that the reason for the cross-examination was that the inspector was making sure that Kingston’s version of events agreed with whatever Amanda had told him.

  Wheatley had not finished. “So why did you return to the hospital?”

  “Amanda asked me to see Tristan in her stead.”

  “When was that?”

  “The morning before I left the hotel to return home.”

  “About what time?”

  “About, let me see … about nine o’clock.”

  “She called you?”

  “No, I called her. She’d been trying to reach me at home. She didn’t know that I’d stayed in Stafford overnight and said she’d been calling to tell me the house had been ransacked and that she’d left a message on my machine. She asked me if I would visit Tristan in her place that morning. She was conscience stricken, but for obvious reasons couldn’t or didn’t want to leave the house. She asked me to tell Tristan that she would try to see him later that day.”

  “So when you finally got home, was there a message from her on your phone machine?”

  Kingston was beginning to realize that this was no provincial copper he was talking to. “There was, yes,” he replied. “The date and time recorded verified what she’d said.”

  “Good. Couple more questions and that’s it—for now, anyway.”

  “Fine,” said Kingston.

  “When you saw Veitch at the hospital, what did you two talk about? Did he tell you anything about his work, anything that might suggest that he knew someone would want to send some kind of message—or worse?”

  Kingston had to think quickly. This was the question he’d hoped wouldn’t be asked.

  “He was in bad shape. I could tell that trying to say even a few words was stressful for him. He told me that he was working on a book. I got the impression that it was an opus of sorts, a big deal. Thinking about it, it made sense because he was probably more accustomed to writing articles for the local paper, historical societies, and such.”

  “What was the book about? Did he tell you?”

  “Somewhat. It was to be a definitive history of Staffordshire, with the focus on people who had contributed to its development and progress throughout the centuries, as opposed to the usual facts and figures, that is.”

  “Not exactly Ian Rankin, though?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Anything more?”

  Kingston knew that if he tried to gloss over what Veitch had told him he could have a lot of explaining to do later and could even end up facing a charge of withholding evidence in a homicide case. He was walking a thin line and he knew it.

  “There was, actually,” Kingston said at length. “I found it interesting, for obvious reasons. As I mentioned earlier, he said that he’d stumbled on information related to Sturminster that was at odds with what has been recorded historically. It dealt with what he called the missing money legend, some nefarious activities that supposedly took place back in the 1700s. If his research were to be proved correct, he said it would rewrite the history books. When the names of the people implicated were made public, and the staggering amount of money involved was revealed, the repercussions would be beyond belief. Those were his exact words, as far as I recall.”

  “If he was referring to the legendary Morley family feud over the admiral’s missing money, that’s hardly new information. Every county in England has its share of questionable history and legends, and ours is no exception. He wouldn’t be the first by a long chalk to suspect that there’s a small fortune buried somewhere on Sturminster’s land.”

  “I got the impression that it was far more than ‘suspect.’ He was a historian, after all, and as such he would know of every legend, myth, and fable passed down through the ages or in the books.”

  “Even if what he said is true, Doctor, with all of his manuscripts, papers, and notes, and his computer gone, it’s doubtful that we’ll ever know for sure what he’d found out. All I know is that someone poisoned Tristan Veitch, and people don’t usually do that unless there’s a very compelling reason. Like I said before, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in the loop on new information you run across. I’m aware of your reputation and I’m sure that, going forward, we can work together on an amicable basis. I’m sure Lord Morley would want it that way.”

  They exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and the conversation ended on a cordial note.

  Kingston felt that he’d acquitted himself quite well. He certainly hadn’t dodged any questions. He’d made no mention of the fact that Veitch had intimated that he knew something about Endicott’s murder or that he had more or less confirmed that codes of some kind were involved in his investigation. In both instances Veitch’s admissions had been vague, to say the least. In any case, if he had told the inspector, it would have opened a floodgate of questions for which there were no factual answers. Despite all that, he had a nagging suspicion that the real reason for Wheatley’s call was to substantiate Amanda’s version of what had happened. Was she considered a credible suspect in her brother’s death?

  ELEVEN

  Under a Wedgwood-blue sky, a warm stillness all around, and with the distant chimes of church bells faint on Kingston’s ear, the Victorian house at Abbot’s Broomfield presented a much more cheering welcome than on his first visit. Even the weathered brick appeared richer and warmer. It was now Amanda’s house, or so it would seem, and he hoped, as he approached the front door just before noon, that she hadn’t had a change of heart since their phone call, that she really would hold to her promise. As an admittedly indulgent afterthought, he was also curious to inspect Tristan’s wine cellar. Heeding her offer, he’d packed a small overnight bag.

  Amanda greeted him with the sunniest smile he’d seen from her and ushered him into the living room. She was more self-assured and at ease than before. As when they’d met at the hospital, she was dressed stylishly, this time in a dark gray twinset that looked like cashmere, and tan chinos. With a single strand of iconic pearls at her neck and her hair tied back, Kingston was thinking that she could pass as the old Amanda’s winsome twin sister.

  The room was deceptively large, contradicting the house’s outward appearance. It had a low-beamed ceiling and walls painted an ecru color with shiny white trim. The furniture, predominantly European antiques, was offset by an eclectic mix of furnishings collected from various travels around the world, or so it appeared, though Kingston couldn’t imagine either of them as world travelers. Two walls were taken up with bookcases and a third had wide French doors that led to the garden. When he’d arrived and Amanda was getting coffee, he’d glanced outside and had been impressed that the garden, like the room, was considerably larger than he’d expected, well planted and clearly well cared for. He would ask her for a tour later.

  With coffee, served in Blue Willow pattern china cups, they sat on either side of a glass-topped coffee table. This required that Kingston stretch out his legs to one side. After an exchange of pleasantries and the obligatory chat about the weather, the conversation quickly turned to the harrowing events of the past days. Kingston knew that rehashing it all was as much cathartic as anything else, and he doubted that it would shed any new light on the case. He was more interested in asking her about Tristan, trying to find out more about him and taking a look at the study and other parts of the house, where Tristan might have hidden some of his work material or backup data. Not to mention the wine cellar. He must be patient, he knew.

  They talked for the best part of an hour. To begin, she’d listened silently and with no emotion to Kingston’s account of his conversation with her brother at the hospital. In turn, she’d told him what little she knew about the project that he’d been working on, his daily routine, and what he did when he wasn’t working. Most of his contact work was done by phone or e-mail, she said. Rarely did anyone visit him personally. That’s why she’d been mildly surprised when he’d told her that Kin
gston was coming to see him. In answer to an obvious question from Kingston, she maintained that, as far as she knew, Tristan hadn’t been involved in any arguments or disagreements, or had had any money problems of late. And she would certainly have known if he had, she added. Soon, they got into the poisoning issue. Right off, she swore that she’d never heard of aconite until Dr. Chandra had mentioned it. She’d also lain awake at night, she said, racking her brain as to who could have committed such a monstrous act. Tristan had few acquaintances and even fewer friends, and she’d eliminated, as extremely unlikely suspects, other people who had been at the house in recent weeks. These included their gardener, a cleaning woman who came in every other week, the meter man, the postman—a regular for at least five years—and a plumber who’d done work for them in the past. As far as outside contacts were concerned, there were virtually none. In answer to Kingston’s questions, she said that he hardly ever ate out and, on the occasions he did, it was always with her. There were two pubs within walking distance, but he frequented neither of them. Though he collected wine, he wouldn’t be called a drinker by any stretch of the imagination. And he didn’t belong to any clubs or special interest groups. Despite all this, she was firmly convinced that the poison was administered somewhere other than their home.

  That subject exhausted for the time being, Kingston proceeded to tell her what he’d read about aconite. The symptoms of ingesting aconite, he said, become evident quickly; the initial signs were gastrointestinal, which included nausea and vomiting, which would suggest that the poisoning had taken place within the last week. The only other possibility he could think of was that the poisoning had been carried out over a longer period of time, using much smaller doses.

  As she answered his questions, he watched surreptitiously for slight signs that could suggest that she was not being truthful or was attempting to avoid a direct answer. Nothing she said, however, gave him reason to suspect so. If anything, she appeared relaxed and much more confident than at any other time since they’d first met. As they talked, Kingston found his mind wandering off in another direction. He was thinking ahead, wondering if there were other ways Amanda could help in his investigation. The thought was self-serving, but it also offered a dividend that he hadn’t overlooked: Having Amanda as a sort of partner in crime would increase the chance that their friendship would continue, at least for a while, anyway. As he was observing her, pondering the thought, a timer went off in a nearby room.

  The buzz brought him back to his senses. A voice inside him was saying, Don’t start something you know you won’t finish.

  Amanda rose, announcing matter-of-factly that lunch would be ready in about five minutes. For Kingston this was an unexpected surprise. She also asked if he would like to stay overnight, saying that it was no bother for her. Pleased despite himself that she’d raised the subject, he agreed, saying that he’d brought his overnight bag, just in case.

  The perfectly poached quenelles with a tarragon cream sauce that arrived on the table minutes later, with no fanfare or fuss, were accompanied by a bottle of chilled Vouvray, leaving him to wonder where she’d learned to cook so well and if she’d practiced all these years on Tristan. He realized more and more that his first impression of her on that solemn first day couldn’t have been more off target.

  Though she’d never asked about his personal life, Kingston found himself talking freely about his teaching days in Edinburgh, the loss of his wife, and the successful career of his daughter. Whether or not it was the wine, she had managed to put aside the misery and perplexities of the last few days, surprising Kingston by raising personal matters of finance, the house, and the quandary she faced now that Tristan was gone.

  “It’s a lovely house,” said Kingston, wanting to ask questions but containing his natural curiosity.

  She nodded. “Growing up here, I’ve always adored it, and living here over the past few years I’ve grown to appreciate it even more. It holds so many fond memories, but now, of course, those I’m sure will be overshadowed forever.”

  “You’ll stay for a while, though, won’t you?”

  “Absolutely. It’s far too early to make that kind of decision. Good thing is that I can take my time. I doubt that I’ll be going back to work now.”

  “What was your occupation?”

  “Special education—I was a teacher.”

  “For students with learning disabilities?”

  She nodded. “Behavioral, physical, developmental.”

  “I know how demanding teaching can be, let alone with special-needs children.”

  She paused as if lost in the past. “When Mum died, Tristan and I thought seriously about selling the house, but neither of us fancied the idea of living alone anymore and he was the one who suggested we share it. In the beginning we had our ups and downs, but we soon developed our own living patterns, as it were, and I must say it turned out to be both an agreeable and a practical arrangement.”

  “You were never married, then?”

  “Yes, I was, but my husband died a week after our third anniversary. Killed in a motorway accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We share something in common.”

  She nodded and looked away briefly but said nothing.

  “What about the garden?”

  She gave a half smile. “You mean do I have a green thumb?”

  “Well, it is quite large and it’s going to take up a lot of your time.”

  “I’ll hire a gardener, I guess. I’m not going to let it run down, if that’s what you mean.”

  She was talking about how Tristan took care of the flowers while the kitchen garden was her territory, when she suddenly changed the subject. “Would you like to take a look at Tristan’s study?” she asked.

  “I would. Yes.”

  “Do you really expect to find anything now, after the police have been through it with a fine-tooth comb?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a long shot, I know, but having done a lot of research and writing in my time, I know that many people keep duplicate copies of important papers—these days, electronic backup files. It may be wishful thinking, but I’m just banking on Tristan having done the same.” He paused, scratching his forehead. “It’s not so much a question of whether he did or didn’t, really. The all-important question is: Between the burglars and the police, did they leave anything for us to find?”

  Amanda nodded over her shoulder toward a door behind them. “His study is down the hall, last room on the right. You go ahead. I have things to do in the kitchen and phone calls to return, so take your time.”

  Kingston thanked her and headed down the hall.

  The room was roughly twelve feet by twenty feet. On the wall facing him, a small pair of French doors led to the kitchen garden: a series of raised beds filled with a goodly selection of vegetables and herbs. The wall on his left was floor-to-ceiling shelving, filled to the gunnels with books of all kinds. The rest of the room was a hodge-podge of furniture: side-by-side oak filing cabinets, a smallish table piled high with books and papers, a glass-front bookcase, and a large leather-topped desk whose surface was mostly empty save for a Cornishware jar filled with pencils and pens, three framed photos, a coiled power cord, a USB cable, and a mouse pad—vestigial evidence of Tristan’s computer. He reminded himself to ask Amanda what make it was. It was immaterial, he concluded. Behind the desk, a small table held an HP all-in-one printer and a modem. If Tristan had used an external hard drive, it too was gone, and there were no CDs to be seen either. He turned his attention to the books. Not surprisingly, many were historical, not only local but also national and histories of world countries. The remainder was an assortment of biographies, reference, DIY, and gardening books. Fictional works were few, only older works or classics. Remembering that Amanda had said that “books were strewn all over the place,” he decided it was unnecessary to take all the books out to see if Tristan had hidden anything behind them. If any had been left on the shelves, the police would hav
e done that, he assumed.

  He picked up one of the photos. It was of Amanda, in her twenties, he guessed. By the looks of the staging, it had been taken in a photo studio. Striking a modellike pose, in a simple black dress and a natural smile, she looked exceptionally beautiful. The second photo pictured a fortyish man standing proudly alongside a blue vintage car. Was it Tristan? Kingston wondered. Not enough of the car showed for Kingston to determine what make or model, but what little showed of the bonnet ornament appeared to be an eagle or bird of some kind with spread wings. The last photo was of two children who could have been twin girls about age eight, by Kingston’s naïve guesswork. Glancing around the room, he suddenly realized what was missing. There were no stacks of papers, folders, and the like anywhere, not even a memo or scratch pad. He pulled open the closest file-cabinet drawer. It contained perhaps a dozen hanging folders. A quick glance at the tabs revealed that they were all personal or house related: insurance, maintenance, garden expenses, taxes, pension, and so on. Nothing work related, which came as no surprise. A quick assessment of the remaining file drawers had similar results. Two had been cleaned out entirely.

  Kingston went to the other side of the desk and pulled open the top center drawer. Inside, it looked like every other top drawer he’d ever seen: a jumble of paper clips, more pens and pencils, computer cables tied with rubber bands, an open roll of Polo mints, cough drops, what appeared to be a gold cigarette lighter, and other odds and ends. Five minutes more, rummaging through more drawers and two small cupboards, Kingston reluctantly concluded that nothing of interest remained in Tristan’s study, not as far as his investigation was concerned, that is.

  When he entered the kitchen, Amanda looked up from writing. “Find anything?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Between the burglars and the police, they certainly did a thorough job.”

  “I don’t think the police found much. I didn’t see them hauling any boxes out. At least they left the few pictures.”