A young woman who greeted Kingston at the front door escorted him to Lord Morley’s study. In many ways, the room resembled Simon Crawford’s: exquisite cabinetry, elegant furnishings, and brightly lit by high windows on the wall facing out to the rose garden, now in full sun. Morley got up from his desk when Kingston entered. They shook hands, chatted briefly about trivial matters, and were soon settled in comfortable chairs facing each other.
Morley smiled. “I must say you’re being awfully secretive about this information you’ve uncovered, Lawrence.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to appear that way. It’s just that what I have to tell you could be construed as unwelcome yet, at the same time, perplexing. In my judgment, too important to explain and discuss in a simple phone call.”
“It has bearing on the murder, I take it?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s just say that it could.”
Morley was no longer smiling. “All right. Go on, then,” he said flatly.
Kingston began by telling a trumped-up story of how he’d come across Tristan Veitch by accident. Telling Morley the truth—that it happened while trying to find out about his relatives—wouldn’t have gone down at all well, so Kingston had concocted a plausible explanation of how they’d met. It appeared to have worked: Morley accepted his pretext without question. For the next ten minutes Kingston recounted what had happened in the twenty-four hours that he’d spent in Stafford. All this time, Morley sat listening calmly, with no readable expression and no questions.
Kingston had reached the point where he was starting to describe his brief minutes with Veitch at the hospital. He knew it would be the defining moment in their conversation, because Morley was about to learn that the illustrious reputation of his family, his forebears, was about to be brought into serious question, that, for whatever reason, historians, politicians, and others had turned a blind eye to the alleged criminal activity and had somehow managed to keep it a well-guarded secret for two hundred–plus years. On the drive up, he’d tried to visualize how Morley would respond when he broke the news. Now he would know.
Morley listened calmly at the start, his expression and demeanor showing no hint as to what he was thinking. Kingston continued, repeating what he could remember of Veitch’s defamatory words, watching Morley’s facial expression as he did, curious for his reaction. When Kingston had finished, Morley appeared neither surprised nor affronted.
“I keep forgetting you’re new to this part of the country, Lawrence,” he said in an avuncular manner—even though Kingston was older by several years. “A rumor, a legend to that effect, has been passed down through the centuries, but no one has ever produced any evidence to give it credibility. It’s a bit like the mysterious code on the Arcadian monument. Nothing has ever surfaced to prove that it is a code, but people keep searching for the answer. Same with the missing money rumor.” He continued after a brief pause. “The name Veitch sounds familiar. Is he the one who writes occasionally for the paper?”
“Yes, he is. I get the impression that he’s well respected.”
“Is this all hearsay, or does he have reputable sources and documented evidence to support his allegations? Did you ask that question?”
“I didn’t. There was too little time. But it was my impression that there was no question in that regard. He was utterly convinced—convincing too—that what he’d uncovered was factual. Were it not, I seriously doubt he would have summoned me to his hospital bed.”
Morley shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it, but I still find it hard to swallow that some freelance historian, acting alone, has dug up specious information without offering proof of any kind. He must surely know that there are laws to prevent these kinds of spurious, unwarranted attacks on people’s integrity and reputations.” He paused, as if thinking on it further. “Why don’t you go back and ask the chap?”
“That’s not possible, I’m afraid. But anyway, it’s irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant? Sometimes you talk in riddles, Lawrence. Why?”
“Because Tristan Veitch is dead.”
“Dead?”
Kingston nodded. “Murdered, by the looks of it—poisoned.”
“Good grief. Why didn’t you say so in the beginning? Hasn’t this been reported?”
“It happened barely a week ago. I’m told that with poisoning—where foul play is not obvious or the motive cut-and-dried—it takes time to settle the legal and medical conflicts. The hospital staff doesn’t want to make mistakes, and they and the police investigators must arrive at a mutual agreement that murder was the intent.”
Morley looked flustered. “We should call the police.”
“I doubt that’s necessary. In any case, I already spoke on the phone with Inspector Wheatley several days ago. I was about to tell you.”
“Did you tell him all this?”
“Pretty much everything I knew. As it turned out, there wasn’t much that he didn’t already know. I believe the real reason for the call was to see if my account of events corresponded with theirs.”
Morley nodded. “I told him that we would share all our findings. I’d best make sure we live up to that promise, Lawrence.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to return.”
“I understand.”
“Let me finish,” said Kingston. He continued, telling Morley that the house was ransacked and that all of Veitch’s files, everything related to his research, his computer, and his mobile had been stolen, leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the break-in. He then ventured the opinion that it also reinforced Veitch’s contention that he was on to something and that something was highly sensitive—incriminating enough, perhaps, to incite murder.
After Kingston had finished, Morley remained stone-faced and silent, clearly weighing the implications of what he’d just heard. Kingston broke the silence.
“There was something else, Francis. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but in my conversation with Veitch, he implied that he was getting help from someone else on his research.”
“What do you mean by ‘implied’?”
“A couple of times, he used the word ‘we.’ Obviously, if we can identify that person it would no doubt answer a lot of questions. I realize that it could be just about anybody—it wasn’t his sister, by the way, that I’m sure of—but I keep asking myself, what if it had been William Endicott? If he had been working with Veitch, he would have been privy to everything that Veitch had uncovered.”
Morley’s look was quizzical. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”
“It could provide a motive for Endicott’s murder.”
“You really believe that?”
“It’s only a theory, but I don’t see why not.”
“Did you also discuss this with Wheatley?”
“I might have. I can’t be sure.”
Morley leaned back. “Look, Lawrence, considering that you talked to this Veitch fellow for a mere ten minutes or so, you seem to have placed an awful lot of credence in what he claimed. Not only that, I also think that trying to link Endicott and Veitch in some kind of sinister partnership is stretching it. It appears you haven’t a shred of evidence that they even knew each other.”
“I’m aware of that, Francis.”
“I won’t argue with you that it fits neatly into your argument—too neatly, perhaps—but even you must agree that we need tangible proof that they were collaborating.”
“That’s true,” said Kingston, nodding. “I mentioned this in the first place because I want you to know not only everything I’ve uncovered so far but also what I’ve extrapolated from those findings—my thoughts in general. In that respect, there’s another matter that’s come to light. Something that requires your verification—your interpretation, perhaps.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a photocopy of Veitch’s list of names and passed it to Morley. “This was found in Veitch’s study,” he fibbed. “I’ve no idea what it means in context of the
case or why members of your family are included.” He shrugged. “It could be nothing, of course.”
Morley looked at it carefully for almost a minute.
“Any idea what, if anything, they have in common?” Kingston asked.
Morley shook his head. “I don’t. May I keep it?”
“Of course.”
Morley frowned. “Curious why just these names were selected.”
“I was hoping you might know that.”
Morley, obviously lost in thought, said nothing.
“You may have noticed that Julian Heywood’s name is included. I mention that because I met him briefly when I was last here. It suggested to me that these could all be relatives who are still living.”
“They are. But what the hell does this have to do with anything? Whatever reason this historian fellow had to be interested in my family, I can’t imagine it had anything to do with Endicott’s murder. Or what happened to Veitch. Lawrence, I want you to focus on what I hired you to do. Is that clear?”
“Francis.” Kingston drew a breath, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully or Morley could easily get the wrong idea. “It’s not my business to pry into your family’s affairs. But if there has been anything family related … any incidents that have happened more recently … that you might have forgotten to mention, or might have judged insignificant or irrelevant—”
Morley sighed, interrupting. “Just because this fellow possessed a list of names, some of which happen to be family members, you seem to be determined to jump to the conclusion that it may have something to do with Endicott’s murder.”
“All I’m saying is that Veitch must have assembled the list for a reason. We’ll probably never know why, but at least I think we should try to find out.”
“If you want my opinion, it’s a waste of time.”
Kingston looked at Morley, unblinking. “Believe me, Francis—and I’ll say it one final time—the very last thing I want is to delve into matters concerning your family, but when we met at your club, you agreed to give me carte blanche when it came to interviews … that I could talk to anyone whom I suspected could provide useful information related to the case, no matter how tenuous.”
“I do. That still stands.”
“Good. Then with your permission, I’d like to talk with all the people on the list.”
“You’re a stubborn son of a gun, Kingston. I can’t see—”
“Before you raise more objections, Francis, I want to assure you that I have no additional information or motive for wanting to do this other than to learn something about their backgrounds, their interrelationships, and generally get a better understanding of each of them. Everything will be considered highly confidential, of course. I’m doing this for one reason, and one reason only: to find out why Veitch found them of particular interest. If you’re able to provide me with brief background on each—those you know—all the better.”
“I hate to repeat myself, Lawrence, but I still believe you’re placing far too much importance on this damned list. You find it in this Veitch chap’s house and you jump to the conclusion that one or more of the people on this list could be implicated in Endicott’s murder. Frankly, I find that implausible. If you really want my thoughts on this bloody mess, you could do worse than to look into the past—not this generation of Morleys, but those who created Sturminster.”
“I can’t convince you, I can see, but I still plan to conduct the interviews. As it is, it’s going to take a lot of time and it would make my life a lot easier if I had contact numbers and a brief description of the various members of the Morley family: brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles—that sort of thing.”
Morley grunted and glanced down at the sheet of paper, still in his hand. “I still say it’s pointless, but I promised you a free hand—so be it. Let me look it over and I’ll get back to you by tomorrow.”
“Excellent. I grant you, it could turn out to be a wild-goose chase, but one never knows.”
FOURTEEN
Kingston left Morley and Sturminster behind, looking in his rearview mirror at the house disappearing among the huge oaks and spreading chestnuts, hoping that their confrontation wouldn’t leave any bad feelings. There was no point in dwelling on it anymore, though. Now he needed to focus on Winterborne and what he’d learned on the Internet. He wondered if he should have mentioned it to Morley, then shrugged it off as being of no consequence; after all, he had no idea if the frieze would lead to anything or not.
An hour later, as Kingston drove into Banbury, he was reciting to himself the nursery rhyme that, for centuries, has been memorized by generations of English children.
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a Fyne lady ride on a white horse.
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.
Banbury, he was aware—having spent many pleasant hours in the romantic rose-filled garden at nearby Broughton Castle—dated to 200 BC when it was believed to have been an Iron Age settlement. He also knew that the “Fyne lady” is generally thought to be a member of the Fiennes family, ancestors of Lord Saye and Sele, owner of the castle.
In the middle of the town, he circled the roundabout and its famous cross, and took the road to Shipton-on-Stour. According to his AA map, Winterborne Manor was about ten miles ahead. Though it was still sunny and warm, it was nearing six o’clock and Kingston was beginning to worry that he might arrive too late. Information that he’d managed to find on the house had been rather sketchy, and phone calls had been intercepted by a short message that offered nothing more. Being the atypically English sort to simply show up and play it by ear, he hadn’t given it too much further thought at the time.
Two minutes later, he turned onto the small lane signposted Winterborne Manor, slowing his pace because it was wide enough for only one car. He’d gone about a quarter mile when he pulled to an abrupt stop. Across the road was a high chain-link fence—new, by the looks of it—with a large sign posted next to the padlocked gate. He could see Winterborne Manor through the fence some fifty yards ahead but no signs of activity. He didn’t need to get out of the car to read the sign: DANGER. CONSTRUCTION ZONE, ENTRY FORBIDDEN. Underneath, was the name of the builder, architect, and subcontractors. No phone numbers were listed. Cursing, he backed up until he came to a farm gate where he made a three-point turn and headed back to the main road. There, he turned left, back in the direction of Banbury. On the way in, he’d passed a roadhouse a couple of miles from the house. Someone there could surely tell him something about the house. He was ready for a drink anyway.
* * *
For a Tuesday evening, the Green Man was surprisingly busy. A handful of customers with drinks were standing near the entrance to what he presumed was the dining room, waiting for a table—a good sign. He was thinking that by the time he got back to Chelsea it would be too late for a full meal so, if the menu looked appealing, he would book a table. He approached the small bar and sat on one of the two empty stools. Next to him, a ruddy-faced, bulbous-nosed gent in a houndstooth sport coat, nursing a whisky, was doing the Times crossword. Seeing Kingston, he nodded briefly, took a sip of his scotch, and went back to his puzzle.
Kingston ordered a half of best bitter from the barmaid, a jolly lady who seemed to know most of the customers by their first names. Without his asking, she placed a menu on the bar where he could reach it. She was far too busy to ask about Winterborne Manor, so he sat reading the menu, taking a sly glance to see how his neighbor was doing with the puzzle—not well by the looks of it. Kingston’s beer arrived and he told the barmaid that he would like to reserve a table for dinner. At that point, the gent decided to give up on the puzzle. He folded the paper and took a sideways glance at Kingston. “Tough one, today,” he muttered, polishing off the last of his scotch and raising a finger to the barmaid for another.
“I know how it is,” said Kingston. “If you’re like me, one day you r
omp through it in a couple of hours and the next, you never complete it.”
The man nodded in agreement and they slipped into polite conversation.
When Kingston asked about the food, the man said he would rank it “among the best in that part of the county.” Kingston then told him what he was doing in Banbury and asked if the man knew anything about the manor house.
As luck would have it, the man, who said his name was Terence, had lived in a neighboring village for twenty-five years and knew a lot about the house and its history. He said that the Winterborne estate had been in the possession of the Wingate family for the past hundred years or so, and with the passing of the last remaining heir, the house had been sold last year to an American family. As is often the case, they had determined it necessary to make substantial changes to the house, bringing the plumbing, electrical, and heating up to modern-day standards and generally giving the old house a much needed face-lift. He went on to talk, seamlessly and in intimate detail, about the house and the surrounding estate, saying that, over the years, he’d attended several functions and dinners there.
When Terence finally stopped to take a sip of his whisky, Kingston jumped in and asked about the frieze. Terence knew it well, he said. He also knew for the best part what the quotation was and, even better, what had happened to it. When he said that it had been demolished, Kingston’s heart sank. “Oh, no!” he blurted out without thinking. It turned out that “demolished” was an ill-chosen word on Terence’s part. He corrected himself by saying, “removed, because it was of considerable value.” It was composed of foot-square ceramic tiles, each decorated with a letter of the alphabet in bas-relief. Circling the tops of the walls of the dining room, below the ceiling molding, it read, as best he could remember: Through wisdom a house is built; and by understanding it is established; and by knowledge every room shall be filled with precious and pleasant riches. It was a quotation from Ecclesiastes, he said.
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