They were now separated by no more than three feet and Kingston was thinking of making a run for it. He started to inch back toward the door, about to speak, when the man’s huge fist lashed out at him. He managed to spin at the last moment. The fist missed his jaw and slammed, full force, into his left shoulder, hurling him off balance into a desk by the window, knocking a table lamp and a telephone to the floor. Half on, half off the desk with no possible means of defense, his shoulder throbbing with pain, there was little he could do as the big man loomed over him, his right fist raised. “It would give me the greatest pleasure to put you in hospital, mister. But I’ve been told not to do that. You ain’t gonna get a second chance, though. You stay away from Vanessa, or you’ll end up on a slab. Now get out of here before I change my mind,” he growled, kicking Kingston in the shin. “Bugger off and don’t come back!”
In the Pay & Display car park, Kingston sat in the TR nursing his shoulder, wincing in pain at the slightest movement. His shin hurt, too; it was bloodied but nothing serious. It would be several days of aspirin and sleepless nights, he knew, before his shoulder improved. He stared at the dashboard thinking about what had just happened. Mistake number one was not bringing Andrew along. But how was Kingston to have known he’d be meeting a gorilla instead of Vanessa Carlson? He also wondered what to make of the man’s saying that he’d been told not to mess Kingston up. What reason could they have—whoever they were—for not giving him a real going-over? Was it possible that they’d also reached an impasse in solving the code and were now forced to count on him to do so? At least he knew that he had the right woman, no question now that Carlson was the woman who had masqueraded as the researcher, quizzing Cassie Holbrook about the house and the frieze. The incident also implied that he was still under surveillance: The only way that Vanessa Carlson could have known that he planned to show up in her office was from the couple in Linslade. Even though he hadn’t left his name, Kingston’s calling the estate office to ascertain if Vanessa would be at work that day would have confirmed any suspicions she might have had.
Driving out of the car park, his thoughts turned to the Brookside Garden Club and its three members: Veitch, Endicott, and Carlson. How did each fit into the picture? he wondered. Somehow he couldn’t see them working in concert with the common cause of solving a centuries-old mystery. So what role did each play? He’d gone over this ground before but knew that if he could establish their relationships—whose side each was on—it would help answer a lot of questions. At least there was no need for more speculation on Endicott’s relationship with Veitch. Little doubt remained that they’d become partners, because Veitch needed Endicott’s cryptography skills. But something had happened, and whatever that something was had most likely led to Endicott’s murder. And what about Vanessa Carlson? How did she fit into the puzzle? Today’s fiasco left little doubt that she was implicated with the people who had been trying to prevent Veitch from publishing his discovery. Or had they been simply trying to find out exactly what it was that he’d uncovered in order to find the supposed hidden money? Maybe it was both? She had been the only one remaining who might have provided answers, but now that door had been slammed shut. Between the pain, the disappointment, and the humiliation, Kingston had had quite enough for one day. He slipped a disc into the CD slot determined to forget today’s misadventure, soon calmed, if in spirit only, by Sarah Chang’s Brahms Violin Concerto in D.
When he arrived home, there were no phone messages. He found it curious that Morley had not called. They’d been playing telephone tag for several days, and thus far in their dealings Morley had always been quick to respond. A letter from Oliver Henshawe was among the day’s post. He sat on the sofa and read it, before tending to his shoulder.
Dr. Kingston,
Regarding your inquiry about Jessica. I regret to say that six months ago she suffered a stroke and is now a resident at Larkmead Woodlands Nursing Home near Leicester. Prior to that, she had been in declining health and living with a friend in Market Harborough for a year. The address is Larkmead Woodlands, 28 the Lanes, Wynton Bassett, Leicestershire, LE3 9LH.
I wish you success in your endeavor to bring the guilty parties to justice for the terrible crimes committed at Sturminster. I’m familiar only with what I’ve read, having lost touch with Francis over these last several years.
Yours sincerely,
Oliver Henshawe
He put the letter aside, feeling a modest sense of pity for Jessica Henshawe’s misfortune but glad that he wouldn’t have to conduct another interview. Hers would have been the last, but he was tiring of asking the same questions over and over and getting little for the effort. He took two aspirin and spent the next twenty minutes applying a makeshift ice pack to his shoulder while watching the BBC News. After a supper of leftovers and two glasses of Burgundy, he went to bed early, reading for an hour before dozing off. All things considered, he managed to get a decent night’s sleep, waking once in the small hours, in the middle of a dream in which he was at an elegant party at a house that resembled Winterborne. Among the guests, in eighteenth-century attire, were Robert Walpole, Horace Walpole, and Thomas Gray. He never had the opportunity to talk to any of them, being forcibly removed as persona non grata.
TWENTY-NINE
The next morning, after soaking in a hot bath for twenty minutes, Kingston felt greatly improved, though he couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday’s punishing incident. In the kitchen at eight thirty still in his pajamas, reading the Times and waiting for the toast to pop up, the doorbell rang. He padded along the hallway and opened the door, surprised to see Andrew standing there. Surprised, because Andrew was an admitted late riser known to boast that he didn’t consider dawn to be an attractive experience, unless he was already up.
“Come in,” said Kingston. With the Milton Keynes humiliation uppermost on his mind and his aching shoulder, he’d forgotten that Andrew was taking his Mini in for servicing at nine thirty and Kingston had promised to follow him to Hendon and bring him back home. After that, they were lunching at a newly opened brasserie in Richmond followed by a walk through Chiswick House and Gardens. “Would you like a cup of tea before we leave?” he asked.
“No thanks.”
“How’s your tooth, by the way?”
“It’s fine now. I need a crown, though.” Andrew was sizing up Kingston’s attire. “You hadn’t forgotten, had you?”
“No,” Kingston fibbed. “I wasn’t watching the clock. I’ll be ready in less than five minutes.”
An hour later, when they were heading back to Chelsea in Kingston’s TR4, Kingston decided it was as good a time as any to tell Andrew what had happened in Milton Keynes. He’d barely started when Andrew shook his head and interrupted. “I thought there must be another reason why you were moving like a tortoise with a hangover this morning,” he said.
Kingston chose not to answer right away but eventually continued, keeping his eyes on the road.
From then on Andrew listened silently. Save for several shakes of the head, his expression and posture showed neither surprise nor the usual exasperation. He waited for Kingston to finish before saying his piece.
“What do you expect me to say, Lawrence?”
“That it was stupid of me, that I should never have gone alone, that I should throw in the towel before it’s too late—that I never listen to a word you say?”
“I couldn’t have said it better, except I might have added that you deserved what you got and you’re damned lucky it wasn’t a hell of a lot worse.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” said Kingston, weaving through the everyone-for-himself snarl of traffic at Marble Arch.
Andrew shook his head for the umpteenth time. “I give up. A few days ago, we sat in the garden at Bourne End and agreed—if I recall correctly—that if I were to help you with this damned case, you wouldn’t go off on these trips of yours alone. You assured me that, from now on, we would work to solve it together. Either your memory is
failing you, or you must have since decided that it wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I should have waited. My only excuse is that there was a sense of urgency to it—the opportunity to corner this Vanessa Carlson woman while I had the chance. Afterward, I knew I’d made a big mistake going alone. I’ve got a bruised shoulder and a painful shin to remind me.”
“Seriously,” said Andrew, “why don’t you consider giving it up? I know I sound like a cracked record, but why not turn everything over to the police and just walk away from it, go back to leading a normal life?”
Kingston glanced at Andrew and nodded. “I should take your advice, I know, but we’re so damned close to solving it.”
Andrew sighed. “There’s that ‘we’ again. If you ask me, I don’t think you really want me to help you. I’m too old for all this stuff, anyway.” He looked at Kingston, who was keeping his eyes on the Knightsbridge traffic. “And you’re way past it.”
The rest of the trip was spent mostly in silence, both knowing that further discussion about the Milton Keynes incident would serve no purpose.
* * *
The following morning, Kingston was up earlier than usual. He’d been up half the night, unable to erase from his mind the galling events of the last couple of days and driven to distraction by the Winterborne riddle. In the seven or so years that he’d been involved in criminal cases, he’d never felt so frustrated. He sat in the kitchen now, the riddle in front of him and next to it a list that he’d compiled of people’s names, places, incidents, and events mentioned in Veitch’s notes. He’d gone through the list several times but had been unable to find even the remotest connection to the riddle.
He topped up his tea—his third cup—and glanced at his watch. In seven minutes, not a second more or less, Mrs. Tripp would be at the front door and, as was his practice, he would make himself scarce for a while.
Hearing the doorbell at the appointed time, he pushed aside the papers and went to let in his ineffable and indispensable charlady. She was starting to busy herself in the kitchen, picking up his breakfast plate, asking if he’d finished with his tea, when, out of nowhere, a thought struck him.
“I’ve been trying to solve a riddle of sorts, Mrs. Tripp,” he said, picking up the two sheets of paper. “Perhaps you’d care to take a look at these. I’m trying to find a connection between the riddle and something on the list—a person, a place, an incident, anything. You may spot something I’ve overlooked.” He handed her the papers. “You know that old saying about being too close to the forest to see the trees?”
“Oh, yes, I do.” She beamed. “I’d be more than pleased to take a look. I must say I’m not very good at puzzles, though, and if you can’t solve it, I don’t know who can.”
Kingston had a last sip of lukewarm tea and took his teacup to the sink counter, leaving her to study the riddle. He thought about going to his study but had a feeling that it wouldn’t be long before she handed the papers back to him—and he was right.
“Sorry, Doctor.” She looked genuinely disappointed that she’d been unable to help. “It really is a strange riddle, isn’t it?”
Kingston sighed. “It certainly is.”
“The Walpoles? Weren’t they politicians?”
“They were, yes. Back in the eighteenth century.”
“And Thomas Gray? Would that be the poet Thomas Gray?”
“Indeed,” Kingston replied.
A brief moment of silence followed. Then, to his amazement, Mrs. Tripp gazed up at the ceiling, as if straining her memory, and started to recite Gray’s Elegy, in a voice that had a poignancy that was unfamiliar to him.
“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
“Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds…”
* * *
Her voice trailing off, she regarded Kingston with a pleased look on her face.
He was shocked momentarily by her recollection of the poem and her eloquent recital. “That was amazing. Wonderful,” he said.
“We learned it in school,” she said. “Didn’t you?”
“I did—I suppose we all did back then—but I certainly can’t remember it like you. Can you recite the entire poem?”
Now she looked bashful, as if she wished she hadn’t got carried away. “I don’t think so. It’s awfully long, you know. It is lovely, though. For me it’s still the most beautiful poem ever written.”
“I would have to agree.”
“Did you ever visit Stoke Poges?”
“I should have, but living in Scotland most of my life, I never had the opportunity.”
“It was written in the churchyard there. He lived in the village—”
Kingston held up his spread hands, as if to say Stop.
A few seconds of silence passed, while Kingston was frozen in thought and Mrs. Tripp looked most bewildered.
Then, slowly, Kingston moved his hands up to clasp his head on either side, and a smile spread across his face.
“Mrs. Tripp, I do believe you’ve done it,” he said, now clearly elated.
“Done what?”
“Solved the riddle.”
She regarded him, a blank expression on her face. “I did?” she said.
“I’m almost certain. What’s the title of the poem?”
She frowned and looked at him as if to say What kind of question is that?
“The title?” he said.
“Why, it’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”
He was about to hug Mrs. Tripp but thought better of it; she might think he’d lost his mind. Instead he gave her a huge smile and said, “You’re brilliant, Mrs. Tripp.” He knew that would embarrass her, which it did.
“I believe,” he continued, “I’m almost sure, in fact, that the churchyard mentioned in the riddle is not really a physical churchyard at all. It refers to the poem. ‘Sealed in Gray’s poem’—that’s what it means.”
“Well, goodness me,” said Mrs. Tripp, beaming. “I’m glad I was of help.”
“You don’t know just how much.” He was about to say that it would mean a nice raise, when he bit his lip. He would give her a generous bonus, he decided, if it turned out that he was right.
THIRTY
In his study, Kingston got The Oxford Book of English Verse off a shelf. Even though it was only a couple of minutes since Mrs. Tripp’s stroke of serendipity, he now had a good idea what “thirty to six” in the riddle meant: They were seven lines of the poem, the thirtieth to the thirty-sixth. Studying the Elegy, he saw that it was constructed of thirty-two stanzas, each of four lines. Kingston found the eighth stanza, which started with line twenty-nine. Lines thirty to thirty-six were:
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
So this was it, he said to himself. Exposing the long-dormant dark secret of Sturminster could be close at hand. All that was necessary now was to solve the code hidden in the seven lines of Gray’s Elegy: the seven lines of the second ciphertext on the envelope, under the arrow. Problem was, solving it wasn’t going to be anywhere as easy as the first code. It wasn’t so much a question of it being beyond his knowledge of cryptography as his ability to remember the process essential to decrypting a cipher embedded in the lines of a book or a poem. He had a vague recollection that it required a separate shift for each letter, as opposed to just the one shift in the codes that he’d demonstrated to Andrew, but that was about all. He leaned ba
ck, pondering this new dilemma.
Kingston read the spare and powerfully moving lines several times, even knowing it would be of no help in solving the riddle within. He opened his file cabinet and pulled out the Sturminster file, quickly finding a copy of the Winterborne code. He started to transfer the characters in the Winterborne ciphertext underneath each character in the seven lines of the poem. He had every expectation that both the poem and the key would have the same number of characters, which they did. The first two lines completed—no punctuation and no spacing—he studied them to make sure he’d made no errors.
THEIRHOMELYJOYSANDDESTINYOBSCURE
HMFCZBTZUXDCINGFGXLJVIURSGWMKNLF
NORGRANDEURHEARWITHADISDAINFULSMILE
BSKAWTHERZFBYPTIXILJIMAEOMGGIUZAXNQ
Satisfied so far, he continued until the seven lines were completed. He then went to work, putting his memory and perseverance to the test, buoyed by an unfounded sense of optimism that, by plugging away at it assiduously, the methodology would come back to him and he would succeed in unlocking the code. After an hour and a half, he put his pencil down and, with great reluctance and humility, admitted defeat.
After thinking for a minute or so, he decided that if he were to seek expert advice, the best place to look for it would be GCHQ. Though he preferred not to, that would mean calling the chap Morley had mentioned. He would surely be able to offer advice. Kingston riffled through the Sturminster file and found the copy of the report that Harry Tennant had submitted to Lord Morley. He then reached for the phone and called Directory Enquiries for the number.
Kingston’s call was transferred to Tennant’s office. Miracle of miracles for a government department, Tennant was on the line in seconds. Kingston introduced himself, mentioning his brief stint with intelligence in Ashford and further explaining that he was conducting an inquiry into the Sturminster murders on Lord Morley’s behalf.
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