“Of course.”
“You’re no doubt familiar with the murder of William Endicott at Sturminster and the subsequent homicide of a man named Tristan Veitch, who is now believed to have been a friend or an associate.”
Heywood nodded. “I am. I’m surprised it hasn’t received a lot of press. We don’t get too many murders around here.”
“I’m told that was a police decision. I’m not privy to the reasons why but I imagine that it has to do with shifting attention away from Sturminster. You probably know about the disaster that resulted after the ill-advised Arcadian monument–Bletchley Park public relations debacle a few years back.”
“I do. I was working there at the time. Not for long, though.”
“What were you doing?”
“General dogsbody, I suppose you’d call it.”
“That’s how you came to know Simon Crawford?”
Julian nodded. “The only decent one in the bunch.”
“By bunch, you mean—”
“The Morleys. Particularly that creep Francis.”
“Your uncle, I believe?”
“Uncle. Don’t make me laugh. The man’s a liar and a cheat, and he treats his staff like peasants.”
“I’ve heard stories to that effect.” Kingston cracked a sardonic smile. “So you quit?”
“I was fired. Morley accused me of theft.”
“Were you innocent?”
Julian nodded again. “Of course. If it hadn’t been for Simon, Morley would have filed criminal charges. That’s the kind of thing he does. One moment he’s as nice as pie, the next, a sadistic bastard.”
“Do you see much of Crawford?”
“Very little. From time to time I’ve tried to get him interested in a few of our cars—that’s about it. He always maintains that he can’t afford nice cars anymore. Maybe Sturminster’s going through a rough patch financially. I don’t know.”
For the next ten minutes Kingston asked Julian Heywood much the same fundamental questions as he had Bryce Lytton and Sebastian Hurst. Heywood’s answers were quick and terse, mostly yes or no. It reminded Kingston of his interview with Simon Crawford. The similarity in response was striking. It was time, Kingston decided, to start asking questions to which yes or no would not be adequate answers.
“How long have you known Simon Crawford?”
Heywood thought for a moment. “Must be six or seven years. Soon after he came to work for my uncle.”
“He told me that he owned an XK120.” Kingston smiled. “One of yours?”
“No. I’ve been trying to get him to part with it. It’s in Concours shape—a convertible, worth a bundle. Jaguar made three versions—roadster, convertible, and coupé.”
“Yes, I remember. Is that why you were at Sturminster the day we met?”
“Er … yes. As a matter of fact, it was.”
“Did Crawford ever discuss either of the murders with you?”
“We’d discussed Endicott’s. For a while it was the only thing everyone at Sturminster was talking about.”
“Did he offer any opinions?”
Heywood shook his head again. “Not that I recall.” He blinked restlessly, then looked away briefly. “Do you think Simon knows something about it … is he involved in some way?”
“No. I’m only trying to establish the relationship between some of you Morleys and other people close to the family or Sturminster itself. Lord Morley provided me with a list,” he said, taking it from his jacket pocket. “Mind taking a look at it and telling me who you know and who you don’t?”
Heywood studied the list for a minute, then looked up. “I know who most of them are. Not to say that I know much about them.”
“Who are you unsure of?”
“I don’t know a Vanessa Decker, or Roger Bartram.”
“Morley seems to think she’s a distant cousin, living abroad.”
Heywood shook his head. “I don’t know her.”
“Roger Bartram is an associate of Bryce Lytton, your stepfather, I believe.”
“I wouldn’t know that.”
“You sound as if you don’t want to know.”
“Let’s just say that I’m persona non grata as far as Lytton is concerned. The feeling’s mutual.”
“I see,” said Kingston, remembering Lytton’s reaction when Julian’s name was mentioned. “You wouldn’t know his partner, Sebastian Hurst, then?”
“Only by name,” he said.
“You do know Oliver and Jessica Henshawe, though?”
“I’ve met them only a couple of times—years ago. He’s related to Lord Morley, a cousin, I believe. They live in Leicester, as I recall.”
“What does his wife, Jessica, do?”
“Does she work, you mean?”
Kingston nodded.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Did you know they were divorced?”
“I didn’t, too bad. As I said, I met them quite a few years ago.” He handed back the list.
Kingston gazed over Heywood’s shoulder, his eyes resting on a “previously owned” silver Jaguar XK8 convertible. It was distracting to be asking such probing questions surrounded by many millions of pounds’ worth of seductive cars. He wondered for a moment if Heywood had chosen the showroom for that very reason. He shrugged off the idea as overreaching and turned his attention back to Heywood who, if nothing else, was at least exhibiting patience and proper respect for the grave circumstances warranting the interview. Kingston felt uncomfortable having to ask probing personal questions but proceeded anyway.
“Forgetting Lytton, how well do you get on with your family, in general?”
Heywood swiveled his chair to and fro, pondering his answer. “Rather an odd question, since there are so many of us. With the exception of Francis Morley and Lytton, all right, I suppose. If you’ve talked with some of the Morleys already, you’ll have no doubt gathered that we may be typically British in that sense. We treat each other with respect in some cases, tolerance in others, and avoidance occasionally. Speaking for myself, I try to maintain distance and only minimal contact, enough to be considered acceptable. My late grandmother summed it up well. She used to say that families are like fudge—mostly sweet with a few nuts.”
Kingston smiled. “Any Morley nutty enough to get mixed up in this mess?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Tell me something, Julian. It seems that with almost every family member I’ve talked to these last weeks—other people, too—the rumor of a lingering family feud surfaces. You’re a younger member, I know, but have you ever heard anything that would provide evidence or give credence of such a rift ever existing?”
“Sure, I’ve heard about it. But I’ve always been given to believe that it took place centuries ago—when Admiral Morley accused his brother with walking off with money that was supposed to be used exclusively for improvements at Sturminster.”
“Yes, we know that already,” said Kingston, perhaps a trifle huffily, having heard the same refrain a half dozen times. “But what I keep asking myself is whether this feud has anything to do with recent events, whether there’s a connection of some sort—perhaps a secret that has lain dormant for two hundred and fifty years and has now been uncovered?”
“And that’s why people are being murdered?” A restrained expression of amusement passed over Heywood’s good-looking features. “Sounds positively Gothic. You think a living family member might be involved?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just say that it’s my job to find out.”
“If I hear anything, I’ll certainly let you know.” Heywood reached in his back trouser pocket and took out his wallet. Glancing inside, he said, “I seem to be out of business cards. I have some in the office. I’ll give you one before you leave.”
Kingston was out of questions anyway, so he rose, at the same time handing Heywood his card, which he’d put in his shirt pocket in anticipation. They left the airy showroom for Heywood’s office.
While Julian was taking out a box of business cards from his top drawer, Kingston looked around the cramped space. Several framed pictures of cars and a couple of plaques adorned the wall behind the desk. For the most part the room was tidy; the desk bore the usual stacks of folders, papers, computer, and two trophies, which Kingston guessed to be for sales performance. Accepting Julian’s card from across the desk, he glimpsed something that gave him pause. Next to the box of cards in the still-open drawer, among the pens, pencils, paper clips, et cetera, he wouldn’t have noticed it if not for its shiny color. It was a small gold horseshoe identical to the one that Bryce Lytton had given Kingston.
TWENTY-ONE
Driving home, Kingston spent the first ten minutes speculating as to how a gold horseshoe trinket from Windrush Stables had ended up in Julian Heywood’s drawer. After having just made it eminently clear that he had no time for his stepfather, it begged the question as to how Julian had come by it. If Lytton had given it to Julian, which would be the most logical answer, it could have been a long time ago, before he and his stepfather had a falling-out. The other implication—an intriguing one—was that Julian had lied, but if so, why? Could several Morleys be in on this together? Was the whole idea of a family feud nothing more than a cover-up?
The brake lights of the lorry in front of him went on suddenly. He jammed his foot on the brakes just in time to avoid what could have been a nasty crunch. “Forget the bloody Morleys,” he muttered. He turned on the radio and concentrated on the road.
He was on the straight stretch of the A4 between Newbury and Reading when he realized there was a car following him.
It was a gray BMW, with a man at the wheel. It had maintained a comfortable distance for the last half hour or so, which in itself wasn’t necessarily unusual but there had been many places where passing would have been possible, and in his experience BMW drivers were usually the first with lights flashing and foot to the pedal. He thought no more of it, and by the time he’d passed through Reading, ten miles later, the car had gone.
But an hour later, crossing the Chiswick Flyover, making a quick lane change, he swore he caught a glimpse of the BMW again, several cars back. He dismissed the thought, reminding himself that there must be hundreds if not thousands of gray BMWs on the roads. Ten minutes later he arrived at his garage with no further signs of phantom gray BMWs. The TR4 safely locked up, Kingston headed for the King’s Road, where he planned to stop at Partridges deli to pick up dinner and a bottle of port.
Crossing Sloane Square, he passed the central fountain and waited at the traffic light to cross to the Sloane Street side. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a man in a dark windbreaker. The nondescript middle-aged man had just stopped and taken a seat on a nearby bench, where he unfolded the newspaper he was carrying and started to read. The signal changed to green and Kingston crossed. On the other side of the road, directly ahead, was Peter Jones. Turning past a large window displaying their Hugo Boss men’s summer clothing, he saw a clear reflection of the square. He was puzzled to see that the man in the windbreaker was now standing at the same traffic light—that had since turned to red—waiting for it to change. After the episode with the BMW, Kingston was beginning to question his judgment. He was imagining things, he told himself. But why, he wondered, had the man sat for such a short time if he’d planned to read the paper? Kingston kept walking, tempted to sneak a backward glance. Fifty yards farther along, now on the King’s Road, an opportunity presented itself that gave him a plausible reason to look back. Two kids on skateboards were rolling toward him, and though there was no danger of collision, Kingston stepped adroitly to one side, turning as he did, to let them pass. About fifty feet back, he saw the man stop suddenly and look at a store window.
That put it to rest, then. There was no question anymore that his first instincts had been correct. Why was he being followed? To find out where he lived was the first reason that came to mind. On second thought, that didn’t make too much sense because nowadays there were many ways of obtaining personal addresses. The other reason, which he preferred not to dwell on, was that if the man shadowing him had anything to do with the people who’d killed Endicott and Veitch, he could be in danger, too.
Thinking hard how he could shake the man off, Kingston picked up his pace, doing his best to conjure movie scenes where the good guy had outsmarted a tail, trying to recall an evasive measure that might work. A mad dash along the crowded pavements of the King’s Road was out of the question, and he didn’t know of shops where he could casually enter and quickly slip out the back door into an alley, to leap over the convenient fence and vanish. When he saw the number 11 double-decker bus ahead, taking on passengers, the answer was staring him in the face. Timing would be critical, he knew. He was about twenty feet away and only one passenger remained to board the bus. The moment the elderly gentleman was safely on the bus’s platform, Kingston would start his dash. If he gauged it just right, he could reach the bus and jump on before it gathered too much speed. It had been a long time since he’d done it, but he would soon find out if he still had it in him.
At the back of the bus, not even winded, Kingston looked back to see the man in the distance standing on the pavement, newspaper dangling at his side, watching the bus disappear. Kingston’s smile was short-lived. He had a distinct feeling that it was only a temporary reprieve.
Hopping off the bus three stops later, he backtracked and made a hurried and wary shopping stop at Partridges. Ten minutes later, back at the flat, he closed the door behind him with his back and a sigh of relief. Andrew was right. He was going to have to be very careful indeed from now on. He picked up the post.
In the kitchen, Kingston put the Partridges bag on the counter, then went to the living room, dropping the post on the coffee table. Standing to one side of the window, he pulled the curtain back slightly and looked down onto the street. All appeared normal, no sign of the man with the newspaper.
He sat on the sofa and riffled through the post. Among the usual smattering of bills and junk mail was an envelope with a return address he didn’t recognize at first. From Holbrook, he realized. It must be the copies of the three pages found behind the frieze. He pulled out the sheets of paper and the brief cover note from Holbrook, unfolded them, and flattened them out on the table.
He was pleased to see that the copies were clear and that the handwriting, which had a graceful calligraphic quality, was legible. He was amused, as always when he read early writings, by the spelling of many of the words and the letter “e” added to words, making “downe” and “halfe”; the flourish resembling an “f” in place of “s,” making the “professor” appear as “profeffor.”
The first page described the site and orientation of the house with respect to the surrounding land, conditions of climate, and its relationship and significance to neighboring villages and towns. “The land was highe of no particular shape and, with nothing in the way of trees, walls or hedges, was frequently windswept. The soil was described as heavy and not suitable for the purposes of agriculture.”
He learned that the land around the house was developed as the house itself was still under construction, a practice that many of today’s builders might well be advised to adopt, he mused. The various designs and layouts of driveways, paths, walls, fencing, gates, ornamental and kitchen gardens, and planting of trees, hedges, and borders were described in great detail.
The next page referred to the house itself, how it was designed and constructed. He was starting to get a sinking feeling that this and the remaining page would be much of the same. By the time he’d reached the bottom of the page, he was even more discouraged, now worried that the papers would prove to be of no help whatsoever to his investigation
He turned to the last page, running his forefinger down, reading slowly though knowing that odds were that it would be no different from the others. Near the foot of the page, he almost missed the word “frieze.” He stopped and reread the paragra
ph:
The dining room is to be embellished with a decorative frieze embracing its foure walls. The quotation chosen will be rendered in decorative porcelain tile worke. Each tile, approximately one-foote square, is to be individually designed to display a letter of the alphabet. At the recommendation of Architect, Matthew Seward, the highly respected designer Godfrey Upjohn has beene commissioned to undertake design and fabrication of the tiles. Seward is noted for his interpretations of classical Hellenic architecture as ably demonstrated in the Grecian-inspired monuments at the Sturminster estate in Nottinghamshire, commissioned by Samuel Morley; and at Aspinhill Court in Leicestershire. Seward and Upjohn have created designs for several places of business, private residences, and follies, including those of the Right Honorable Jeffrey Wylde, Lady Marchfield, and the statesman, writer Horace Walpole.
Seward. Sturminster. Morley. Names that Veitch would have been very interested in, though what relevance they—or the frieze—had to the matter at hand wasn’t clear. Still, Veitch was interested in them, so …
He slowly shook his head. It was all so infuriatingly confusing.
He folded the pages and placed them back in Holbrook’s envelope. He was about to put them in a drawer of his tansu—until such time he could take another look at them, if he ever did—when he paused, staring at the envelope in his hand. He tried to recall Holbrook’s exact words but couldn’t. Kingston was sure that he’d said something to the effect that they’d found a letter and it was three pages. But knowing that it would be sealed up behind a wall for God knows how many years, wouldn’t the person hiding the letter have placed it in an envelope?
He put the envelope in the top drawer of the Japanese chest and started for the bedroom. He knew why the absence of an envelope nagged him. It was the outside chance that the envelope itself might offer further elucidation: whether it was addressed to anyone; if it noted the contents, dates, anything that might help. He was grasping at straws again, but he was getting used to that. He stopped, went back and picked up the phone. Why wait? he asked himself, as he entered Holbrook’s number.
EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past Page 18