“Do you or members of your family visit Sturminster from time to time?”
Lytton shook his head. “I can only speak for Daisy and me. The last time we were there was probably five years ago.” He paused and tapped his forehead. “I apologize. I never asked if you wanted something to drink. Tea, coffee, a ‘sharpener’ of some kind, perhaps?”
“Thanks for asking but I’m fine,” Kingston replied.
“Go on, then.”
“Any of the family interested in gardening?”
Lyttton chuckled. “If you ask me, Napoleon had it all wrong when he called us a nation of shopkeepers. He should have called us a nation of bloody gardeners. Seems like everybody and his brother gardens these days.”
Kingston smiled. “You’re right. Let me rephrase that. Anyone in the family who belongs to a garden club, exhibits flowers, that sort of thing?”
Lytton thought for a moment. “My ex-wife. But you don’t want to hear about her, I’m sure.”
“I very much doubt it. How long is it since you were, er … parted company?”
“Nineteen eighty-four.”
“A long time.” Kingston shook his head. “I’d have no reason to talk to her.”
Lytton frowned. “Francis told me you were formerly a botanist, but why the horticultural interest?”
“The main reason Lord Morley hired me was for my experience with criminal investigations, but oddly it happens that in this case there’s a horticultural angle.”
“Really?”
“Tristan Veitch was poisoned using a highly toxic plant by the name of aconite. Ever heard of it?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“It probably grows freely around here, and most nurseries carry it. It’s become a useful drug medicinally but at the same time its root contains the deadliest poison in the plant world.”
“You’d think they’d ban it.”
“You would.”
Neither spoke for several seconds, Kingston making a mental tally to determine if there was anything further he should ask.
“I ran into your stepson a couple of weeks ago,” Kingston said offhandedly.
Lytton expressed surprise. “Really? Julian?”
For a nanosecond, Lytton appeared to have been taken off guard by Kingston’s comment. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly but quickly returned to normal. “How was he? Did you talk to him?”
“I didn’t. It was at Sturminster. I’d been getting a briefing from Simon Crawford, the manager. I was just leaving when Julian arrived. He had a quick chat with Crawford and left.”
“He was probably trying to sell Crawford another car. He works for a car company up north. A car salesmen.”
There was no mistaking the pejorative way that Lytton had said “car salesman.”
“Sells Aston Martins, Mercs, Jags, high-performance cars.”
Kingston nodded. “Crawford told me he owned an XK120.”
“Nice car.”
“Your other son is in the navy, I believe?”
“He is. We’re proud of him. He served with the coalition fleet in Iraq a couple of years ago.”
“We all owe him a debt.”
“You’re right at that.”
Five minutes later, they shook hands and Kingston drove away from Windrush Stables with a small gold horseshoe stamped with the stable’s name in his pocket.
Leaving Lambourn, he thought back on their conversation. He’d learned more about the sport of kings but as far as gaining any information relevant to the case, it had been a wasted effort, except for Lytton’s reaction to his stepson, Julian. What was that about? he wondered.
SEVENTEEN
Back at his flat, he was pleased to see that another e-mail from Crawford had arrived. It was what he’d been waiting for: contact information for the people on Veitch’s list. He scanned it quickly. There were addresses and phone numbers for all, with two exceptions. Jessica Henshawe and Vanessa Decker had neither a phone number nor an address.
He decided to focus on two other men on the A-list: Julian Heywood and Sebastian Hurst. He glanced at his watch: a little after four. A car dealership should still be open, he figured. He picked up the phone and dialed Julian Heywood’s work number. The woman who answered with a chirpy “Performance Motors” said that Heywood was in the showroom and that she would page him. Within a minute he was on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Heywood. This is Dr. Kingston. We met briefly at Sturminster, recently. I was with Simon Crawford at the time.”
A lengthy pause followed, suggesting that Heywood’s recollection was blurry.
“I must confess, I don’t remember. Are you calling about a car?”
“I’m not. No. It’s regarding the recent murder there.”
Again, Heywood was slow to answer. “I see. What makes you think I can help?”
“I’m not even sure you can. Lord Morley has asked me to look into it, and with his permission I’m familiarizing myself with a few family members. We’re collaborating with the police, of course. Have they talked to you about it?”
“No, they haven’t.”
“I plan to be near Nottingham in the next few days and wondered if I could stop by and ask a few questions—when you’re not busy, of course. Among other things there are a couple of people local to the area you might be able to help me identify.”
“You’ll be wasting your time, but that’s up to you. The best day would be Tuesday. Where are you coming from?”
“London,” said Kingston, glancing at his diary. That was the day after he was seeing Inspector Wheatley. It would be convenient to fit the two meetings in the same day. “Any chance of Monday?”
“Sorry, that’s out.”
“Tuesday it is, then. How about noon?”
“That’ll be fine. We’re on the south side of Nottingham on the A52. Performance Motors.”
“I’ll find it, don’t worry.”
Kingston put down the phone thinking about the call. Heywood had sounded apathetic, but that was to be expected. Anyone being asked to answer questions about a murder case wouldn’t be jumping for joy in anticipation. Speaking of which …
Looking at the list again, he decided that while he was at it he might as well try to get hold of Sebastian Hurst, Bryce Lytton’s partner at Windrush Stables, as well. Like Inspector Jonathan Whicher, Scotland Yard’s first great detective, who claimed he could see people’s thoughts in their eyes and that in faces he could always find something readable, Kingston didn’t trust the telephone when it came to interviews. He would far prefer to question Hurst face-to-face, but for the sake of expediency he decided to make an exception. He’d call Hurst, introduce himself, explain how he was involved in the murder case, and ask if he would mind answering a few simple questions. If Hurst appeared receptive, Kingston would conduct the interview on the phone. If his reaction was otherwise—if he seemed reluctant or resented the implication—Kingston would further explain and request an appointment to interview him in person.
Kingston needn’t have bothered with Hurst, as it turned out. Hurst answered Kingston’s questions succinctly, saying that he didn’t know and had never met Endicott or Veitch and knew little or nothing about the rumored Morley family feud. Asked about members of the Morley family, he said that he’d only met Francis Morley on one occasion and, except for Daisy, he’d never met any of the others Kingston mentioned. A question about the poison aconitine and another inquiring if Hurst had any interest in gardening were both met with negative answers. There was nothing to be learned here, Kingston decided. He thanked the man for his time and crossed his name off the list.
In bed that night—he’d turned in early deciding he wanted a clear head before facing Inspector Wheatley—he thought about the case and what little progress he’d made. He still had no idea who had killed William Endicott and why, which was the reason he’d been hired. Instead, he’d become inextricably entangled in another murder case and a completely unexpected turn of events brought about by
Veitch’s supposed discovery alleging that the centuries-old Morley legend could be factual and could also have a bearing on the Sturminster case. To complicate matters, there was the question of Amanda. How did she fit in to all of this? Had she been working with her brother more closely than she’d claimed? Did she know more than she’d professed? Or was he being overly suspicious? There was no evidence whatsoever to suggest that she hadn’t been honest with him all along and wasn’t genuinely concerned for his well-being. After thinking on it for another minute or so, he concluded that he was trying too hard to connect the dots and it was starting to cloud his judgment. It had been a long time since he’d even come close to a friendship with anyone of the opposite sex and he wasn’t accustomed to it and should really be flattered. He closed his eyes and let it go at that.
EIGHTEEN
By ten A.M., the entire Midlands was under a blanket of sullen gray stratus. Now and then Kingston could hear the mutterings of thunder over the steady drone of the exhaust. Not the cheeriest of beginnings for what could turn out to be a stressful day, he thought. He spotted the Stafford exit signs ahead and moved to the inside lane. Since leaving London on the M1, he’d seized the opportunity to open up his prized TR4 and give the old gal a long-overdue workout. For him, an hour of Motorway driving was fifty-five minutes too long, so he’d planned ahead to exit early and take the less-traveled roads to Stafford and the Staffordshire police headquarters.
Half an hour later he arrived at the police station, a three-story yellow-painted building on the northeast side of the city. At the front desk, the duty sergeant said that Inspector Wheatley was waiting for him. Kingston presented his ID, signed in, and was given directions to the interview room.
Kingston knocked on the door and heard a muffled, “Come in.” When he entered, Wheatley rose from the couch where he’d been writing and crossed the room to meet Kingston.
“Thanks for coming, Doctor,” he said with a firm handshake and a spare smile.
“Lawrence is fine,” Kingston replied with a more generous smile. “I only use the handle when I need to impress someone—which is hardly ever these days.”
“That’s fine.” Wheatley gestured to an upholstered armchair by a low table. “Please sit down.”
Kingston sat and crossed his legs, observing the inspector. He shuffled his notes, preparing to sit on the opposite side of the table. Kingston reckoned that Wheatley was about ten years younger than he and looked to be in good physical shape. He was unexpectedly well dressed compared with most of the policemen Kingston had encountered in his travels: gray flannel suit, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, and tightly knotted tie—not regimental, thank goodness. There was a scrubbed look about him, as if he’d just had a hot shave, which emphasized his eyes, which were watery gray and red rimmed, giving him the appearance of being perpetually tired. He got right down to business.
“The reason we wanted to talk to you personally, Lawrence, is that we would like to know what, if anything, you’ve uncovered since you’ve been working for Morley. We only know what Morley has told us. What we don’t know is how up-to-date his information is, or how selective he’s been in, shall we say, withholding information. If you know anything that we don’t, I want to hear it now.”
Wheatley’s use of the majestic plural, as it’s often called—the use of “we” to refer to a single person—gave Kingston pause for an inner smile. He recalled the admonishment stating that its use should be restricted only to kings, poets, or people with tapeworm.
“I’d be most surprised if Morley would be guilty of that,” he replied, thinking on the question. From his previous jousts with the police, Kingston was no stranger to the methodology of police interviews and with what barristers termed “discovery,” the sharing of sensitive information.
“One of the things Lord Morley and I agreed on from the beginning was transparency, Inspector. That anything we discovered would be shared with you, that he would report my findings to you.”
“A good try, Lawrence, but it won’t wash. What concerns me is how much are you disclosing to him ? Are we getting the whole story or just what suits you?”
Wheatley’s abrupt manner was becoming a mild annoyance, but Kingston restrained himself from replying in kind. “It’s been barely a month since I started working for Morley, and in that time I’ve spoken to him four times at the most. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t report to him daily, so there have been and will in the future be times when he’s not fully informed.”
“Very well. Have you been working on the case these last few days?”
“I have.”
“Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Kingston cleared his throat. “I spoke yesterday to a man named Bryce Lytton, Morley’s brother-in-law.”
“Regarding…”
“When you and I talked on the phone, the time before last, I told you what Veitch had said when I was at the hospital: that he’d uncovered what he termed heinous crimes involving members of the Morley family, crimes of such magnitude that when his story became public it would expose not only one of the biggest cover-ups in our history but also crimes involving staggering amounts of money.”
“Yes. We know all about that. No need to rehash it. So why speak to Lytton?”
“I found a list of names in Veitch’s notes. Lytton’s was one of them.”
“Who else was on the list?”
“Mostly Morley’s relatives.”
“I see. And where did you find this list?”
“On a flash drive.”
“A what?”
“A computer storage device.”
“And this was where?”
“At Veitch’s house.”
“I see.” Wheatley scratched his cheek, obviously not fully understanding what Kingston was talking about. “You were at the house before the break-in?”
“No. I was at the hospital when it happened—staying in a hotel, in the hopes of seeing Veitch again, to be more accurate. I told you that when we talked on the phone—the James at Lichfield.”
For the first time Wheatley looked confused. “Let’s get this straight. You found this device containing Veitch’s notes after the break-in, and after our people had gone through it?”
Kingston could see why the consternation. Why hadn’t the police found it?
“Yes.”
“We missed it. Is that what you’re saying?”
Kingston was tempted to say, “It rather looks that way, doesn’t it,” but instead simply nodded.
“I’d like a copy of that list.”
“Of course.”
“So you’re planning to interview all these people?”
“Only several of them, to start.” He filled Wheatley in on what he’d learned from Lytton and Hurst, which boiled down to absolutely nothing. When Kingston explained that they both felt the Morley family feud was nothing but a legend and could have little bearing on the murders, Wheatley nodded his head impatiently.
“I must say I agree with them.” Wheatley shifted his position on the couch, which didn’t look as if it were made for comfort. “So what else was on this drive thing? Anything we should know about?”
“Several pages of historical facts and figures about people living at the time the admiral and his brother were alive: Walpole, the prime minister; his son Horace; Thomas Gray, the poet. Not much else.”
“Why them?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. He was a historian, I suppose.”
“I’d like to see them anyway.”
“I’ll send everything.”
“Good. And what about Endicott’s mother? Did you learn anything from her?”
The sudden change of subject threw Kingston for a second. He supposed that was Wheatley’s intent.
“Nothing, other than that her son was an accomplished gardener. He’d won some awards growing dahlias.”
“Then he probably belonged to a garden club. Being a botanist, that would interest you, of course.�
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“Yes. Tristan Veitch was a gardener, too.”
“I gathered as much when we were at his house. The garden was quite impressive. Can’t say that much for the house, though.”
Kingston nodded.
Wheatley smiled. “I don’t need to tell you, everyone is a gardener in this country. Anyway, we explored that connection and found nothing.”
An uneasy silence followed, as Kingston waited for the next question or comment, but none came. Wheatley appeared to be immersed in thought and Kingston wondered if he’d run out of questions, but that wasn’t the case.
“How well do you know Amanda Veitch?” Wheatley asked phlegmatically, tilting back his head slightly, chin resting on his forefinger.
The question surprised Kingston and he scrambled to find an answer that was noncommittal. “Not well at all, really. As I explained, I happened to come into her life at the worst possible time—for her, that is. I simply did what I could to help her deal with the tragedy, that’s all.”
“What do you know about her? Her background, her relationship with her brother? Were they friendly?”
“As far as I know,” he replied. “Nothing she’s said or done has given me the slightest reason to suspect that there was any animosity or conflict between them, if that’s what you mean. After all, they lived together.”
“So do married couples—and we hardly raise an eyebrow when a quiet-mannered hubby slips arsenic into his abusive wife’s Ovaltine, or vice versa.”
“Are you suggesting that Amanda might have murdered her brother?” As soon as the words had left his mouth he knew that he should have phrased it differently. It gave the impression that he and Amanda were closer than he’d intimated, that he was leaping to her defense.
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