Kingston wondered why this wasn’t mentioned in Veitch’s notes. Given that Seward had played only what appeared to be a supporting role in the events of the time, Kingston shrugged it off as irrelevant.
Staring at the shadowy coved ceiling before dozing off, Kingston thought back on his discussion with Andrew on Saturday evening. Andrew had raised a good point when he’d questioned how Veitch had managed to get his hands on the Winterborne papers and, even more puzzling, how he’d acquired the special skills to decipher complex codes to reach his conclusions. If it hadn’t been Veitch or Endicott who’d solved them, then who? Nobody on Kingston’s list or anyone he’d contacted since working on the case appeared to have such capabilities, though he had no way to know for sure, without more questioning. The more he thought on it, the more he kept coming back to Endicott.
Because of the garden club he had gotten to know Veitch fairly well. But what reason could have persuaded Veitch to enlist Endicott’s help? Why would he want to share the potentially dangerous knowledge he’d uncovered? Kingston tried to envisage possible scenarios: Endicott had found out what Veitch had discovered and threatened to expose him to the Morley family if he didn’t share in the potential rewards? Had Endicott been blackmailing Veitch? He came up with a couple of less likely explanations before returning to Andrew’s original thought: Endicott could have been the code expert—without him Veitch could have gone no further in his investigation.
Kingston pulled the sheets up under his chin and turned on his side. Closing his eyes, he thought about tomorrow’s trip to Oxford, but not forgetting that he had to make three important phone calls, too. First, was an exploratory call to Stratford Estate Agents; next, one to the archaeology and art institute, to ask the dean if Endicott had ever exhibited any interest or skills in cryptology; and the last, to pose the same question to Mrs. Endicott. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t asked her during his visit.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When Kingston and Andrew arrived in Oxford it was close to noon. Being a particularly bright and cheerful morning, with promise of a warm day ahead, they’d chosen to drive in the TR4 with the top down, taking the more scenic route through the Thames Valley towns of Maidenhead, Henley-on-Thames, and the ancient market town of Wallingford—coincidentally, once home to mystery writer Agatha Christie—where they would stop for lunch on their way back.
Shortly before leaving, Andrew had announced that he’d made a reservation at a three-star restaurant that served small dishes, taking delight in describing certain items on the menu and telling Kingston that the chef recommended that diners allow at least three hours to savor the meal.
Aubrey Lewellyn-Jones, Library and Archive Conservation, was located on Blue Boar Lane, a narrow passage tucked behind Oxford’s bustling High Street, somehow fitting for such an esoteric enterprise, thought Kingston. They entered through a nondescript door, inside of which was a brass plaque on the wall directing visitors upstairs. At the top of a narrow, perilously steep staircase covered in Oriental carpeting with brass runners, they went through the plate-glass door. Andrew muttered something about being in a Dickens novel, which Kingston ignored.
They were in a spacious, high-ceilinged workspace, naturally lighted by four skylights and a bank of iron-framed windows running the length of the far wall. Several oversize workbenches were positioned around the room; map chests and wooden file drawers circled two of the remaining walls, and in strategic areas, green-shaded lights were suspended from the ceiling by steel rods. The overall effect struck Kingston like being in the inside of a Victorian greenhouse sans plants.
As they entered, a lanky, bookish-looking man aptly attired in a dress shirt and bow tie under a tan smock stood, returned a document that he’d been studying to its cellophane sleeve, and walked over to greet them.
“How may I help you,” he asked.
“My name’s Kingston and this is my colleague, Andrew Duncan. Are you Mr. Lewellyn-Jones?”
“I am, indeed.”
“I was talking recently with a gentleman named Tyler Holbrook, who told me that you helped with preservation work on certain historic papers of his that were found concealed in a wall of his house in Banbury—Winterborne Manor.”
Lewellyn-Jones raised his eyebrows and squinted at the ceiling over the wire rims of his glasses. “Ah, yes. I remember those. An American fellow.”
“That’s him,” said Kingston, nodding.
“Interesting documents—remarkable condition, considering their age. So what brings you here?” he asked with an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you have a restoration or preservation project that you’d like to discuss?”
“Not exactly. We’re here concerning the Winterborne papers.”
The archivist gave them a quizzical look.
“Don’t worry,” said Kingston. “If it’s privacy issues you’re worried about, Tyler knows me well. As a matter of fact, I’ve been helping him with the content of the papers—educating him about the significance and relevance of the luminaries mentioned in the pages. He probably told you, he’s compiling a historical record of the house.”
The archivist looked flummoxed. “Yes, he did,” he mumbled. “So what is it that you want to know about the papers?”
“We need to know if anyone, other than you or your employees, has mentioned or shown the documents to anyone.”
Lewellyn-Jones gave a wounded look and was quick to reply. “Of course not. All customers’ documents and materials in our safekeeping are considered sacrosanct, much in the same way as with information that passes between you and your solicitor or bank manager. I can assure you, Mr. Kingston, that nobody had access to them.”
“Is it possible that another customer might have chanced on them, or that one of your employees might have become intrigued by them, then mentioned them to someone else, perhaps?”
“It seems I’m not making myself clear. We’ve been in business for twenty-five years, and not once during that time has anyone ever questioned our work or our integrity. Nothing belonging to our clients is ever left untended or placed at risk. Nothing. We simply cannot afford to do that. Most of the items left in our care are not only valuable but also irreplaceable.”
Andrew chimed in before Kingston could get another word in and make the man more offended than he already was. “I think we’d best be on our way, Lawrence,” he said, quietly. “I think you’ve provided the information we were seeking,” he said to Lewellyn-Jones with a smile, giving Kingston’s sleeve a subtle nudge.
Lewellyn-Jones appeared to be placated as he walked with them to the door. “Please give my regards to Mr. Holbrook when you next see him.”
“I will,” said Kingston.
They were walking past an open roll-top desk that Kingston assumed to be Lewellyn-Jones’s, when he stopped. A bank of framed photos and diplomas artfully arranged on the wall above the desk had caught his attention—one in particular.
“Beautiful car,” he said.
Lewellyn-Jones joined him, looking at it, too. The color photo showed three men standing in front of a shiny blue vintage car.
“It’s a 1937 Alvis Speed Twenty-Five,” said Lewellyn-Jones. “It originally belonged to Nigel Packenham, a well-known actor at the time. I was the third owner. That’s me on the right. Had a little more hair in those days.” He chuckled.
“What a beauty. Do you still have it?”
“Sadly, no. I had to sell it—about six years ago, long story.”
“That’s a shame.”
“When you have no choice, it makes it even worse.” He gave a grudging smile. “Anyway, it went to a good home,” he added.
At the door, Lewellyn-Jones bid them good-bye and they descended the stairs into Blue Boar Lane.
Walking down the street, Andrew looked at Kingston. “Well, that was a waste of—”
“Sometimes you get lucky,” said Kingston, smiling as he interrupted Andrew.
“Lucky? What do you mean? You were really starting to upset that
poor man.”
“That poor man was lying through his teeth, Andrew.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The photo.”
“What about it?”
“The man in the middle. Guess who that was?”
“You tell me.”
“It was a younger Tristan Veitch.”
“You’re kidding. How do you know?”
“Because it’s the same car as the one in the picture I saw in Veitch’s office. Veitch was standing by it. I don’t think I told you about it. In that picture the only recognizable part of the car was the bonnet mascot, the eagle—used on some Alvis models. It’s the same car. There’s no doubt about it.”
“So that’s how Veitch got to know about the Winterborne code?”
Kingston nodded. “It makes sense. Veitch was a historian and, for the best part, Lewellyn-Jones’s business deals with restoring and preserving historical documents. I’d say that that rules out the possibility of coincidence, wouldn’t you?”
“You could be right,” said Andrew after thinking on it for a moment.
“I’d bet the farm on it,” Kingston replied.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Lunch at the Landing, on the banks of the Thames in Wallingford, was much as Andrew had described it: a seemingly never-ending succession of small dishes accompanied with sommelier-recommended wine pairings, that dragged on over three and a half hours. Afterward, Andrew had judged it one of the best restaurants that he’d visited in the last year or so, while Kingston had found the food above average but the overall experience too labored and pretentious. Though Kingston would never dare say so—it would start an impassioned debate ending in his being labeled a culinary purist with no sense of gastronomical adventure—he would have far preferred a perfectly grilled Dover sole or perhaps Steak Diane. All that aside, he was in an especially good mood throughout the afternoon, still chuffed with the results of their chat with the mendacious Lewellyn-Jones.
On the drive home, Andrew started to complain of a toothache, saying that if it persisted, he would call his dentist’s emergency number that evening.
* * *
When Kingston rose the next morning, a near gale was buffeting the trees in the square and rain was chattering on the windowpanes. By the looks of the rivulet coursing along the gutter on the street below, the storm must have blown in several hours ago. He was planning to drive to Milton Keynes to confront Vanessa Carlson this morning and he couldn’t have chosen a worse day. Andrew had called the evening before to tell Kingston that he’d managed to get a dentist appointment at noon and wouldn’t be able to accompany Kingston, as they’d arranged. He’d reasoned with Kingston to put the trip off for one day, but Kingston had prevailed, assuring his friend that he was only going to see a woman in an estate agent’s office on Milton Keynes’s high street, and that Andrew’s presence—though he would enjoy the company—would make no difference one way or another.
Kingston planned to spend the first part of the morning catching up with phone calls—in particular to Dorothy Endicott—and taking yet another look at Veitch’s notes and the baffling Winterborne riddle. After that, depending on the storm and before it got too late, he would decide whether or not to make the journey. He figured, with normal traffic, Milton Keynes to be no more than an hour and a half’s drive, so he would still have plenty of time to do the round-trip and be back at a respectable hour. Doubtless the interview would be brief.
His call to the institute the day before had drawn a blank. The dean was as solicitous as before, regretting that he had no knowledge whatsoever to indicate that Endicott had skills in cryptography. He assured Kingston that he would inquire with all members of the faculty if Endicott had discussed anything of that nature with them and, if so, would let Kingston know.
Breakfast finished, he dialed Dorothy Endicott’s number. When he’d called yesterday, he was told that she was gone all day on a trip to London but would be returning late that evening. It was a couple of minutes before she was located, but when she answered, she sounded in the same good humor as before.
“Dr. Kingston. What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Are you coming up to see me again? I hope.”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. I’m still spending all my time on your son’s case. But I’ll have to meet with the police in Stafford sooner or later. When I do, I’ll let you know. That’s a promise. If the timing is right, I’ll take you out for a nice lunch.”
“I’d really enjoy that. Are you making any progress?”
“Very little, sad to say. Whoever said that ‘it’s the drudgery and boredom of police work that eventually solves cases’ knew what he was talking about. I called to ask you a question, Dorothy. It’s something that I should have asked you the last time.”
“Of course. I told you I would tell you everything I possibly can, if it means finding out who killed William and why.”
“At any time during William’s growing up, schooling, career path, did he ever show an interest in codes or code breaking?”
“Cryptology. Oh, yes. He was very good at it.”
“He was ? When was this? When he was younger, at school?”
“He first became interested when he was at County Grammar School. He used to do the cryptic puzzles, the ones in the newspaper. Then he started studying it more seriously. His interest continued when he went to university. I remember his telling me one day that he was considering pursuing a career where cryptology skills were required. I believe he was looking into civilian jobs with intelligence and national security agencies. I wouldn’t be sure, though.”
“That never happened, I take it?”
“No. It was a good idea at the time, but the more he learned about the modern technology involved and all the advanced computer stuff that goes with it these days, the less he liked it. He finally gave up, to pursue his original goal, which was archaeological studies, as you know.”
“Well, Dorothy,” Kingston said, trying to rein in his elation, “what you’ve told me answers a question that’s concerned me for some time.”
“I hope it helps in a good way.”
“It does.”
“Are you saying that he might have been killed because of his interest in cryptology?”
“Not necessarily.” Kingston hesitated for a moment, not knowing how much to tell her.
“You’re a nice man, Doctor—clever, too. I won’t ask any more questions. There’s not much point because I know that you wouldn’t say anything that could cause me more stress. Perhaps the less I know for now is for the best, but eventually I would like to know the real reason for William’s murder. To set my mind at rest.”
“When we know the full story, you will, Dorothy. I promise you.”
“Don’t forget to call me when you know you’re going to be in Stafford.”
“I won’t. I’m sure it will be soon.”
Kingston put the phone down feeling exuberant. At last another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Studying the science for that long, Endicott must have been exceptionally accomplished at cryptography, he thought.
* * *
Two hours later, Kingston was on the A5 approaching the sprawl of Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire. He’d decided to make the drive when the rain had stopped at ten thirty and the somber skies had magically, but not atypically, transmuted into a hazy blue with a ragged layer of low clouds. Before leaving, he’d called the estate agent’s office and had been assured by the woman who answered that Vanessa would be there most of the day.
Passing the off-ramp sign to Bletchley, he smiled. In Britain’s darkest days of the war, the little town served as headquarters of the illustrious World War II code-breaking masterminds. “Pity you couldn’t be of help,” he said to himself. He would love to have been on the team responsible for breaking the Nazis’ Enigma code and thereby shortening the duration of the war. In about fifteen minutes he would come face-to-face with the elusive Vanessa Carlson. He
was rather looking forward to it.
The estate agent’s office was in the heart of town and Kingston had no trouble finding it. He opened the plate-glass front door and entered a small room that looked like every other estate agent’s office he’d seen. The lone occupant, a man Kingston guessed to be in his midforties, was seated at an empty desk. Seeing Kingston, he stood. He was a large man, with large features on his florid face, dressed in a brown leather jacket, black T-shirt, and tan jeans. Immediately Kingston sensed that something was off-kilter. Surely, even in Milton Keynes, estate agents would never dress in this fashion, he thought.
“Can I ’elp you?” he said. His voice matched his attire and wasn’t overly friendly.
“I’m here to meet Vanessa Carlson. I was told she was working today.”
“She ain’t ’ere and she’s not expected back today. Who shall I say was looking for ’er?”
Kingston was thinking fast. “Dr. Kingston. I doubt she’ll know me, though.”
“Funny. Because she told me to expect you.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Kingston, his suspicions now confirmed.
“Harassment’s not a laughin’ matter. I’ve ’alf a mind to call the police,” the man replied, sizing Kingston up with clear intent.
Kingston was now thinking of making a hasty retreat. He eyed the door, wishing it were a little closer. “You’ve got it wrong. I only want to talk to her,” he said. “I’ve never met the woman in my life.”
The man started moving closer to Kingston, arms dangling by his sides, fists half clenched. “You made a big mistake by coming ’ere, chum,” he said menacingly.
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