EG03 - The Water Lily Cross Page 18

  The sergeant parked in the curved drive in front of the house and the three got out to a loud slamming of doors. No need for a doorbell or knocker, Kingston mused. Facing them Foxwood House loomed large and gray in the drizzle. Built of weathered brick with stone quoins, it was three stories, rectangular and unpretentious. A row of seven symmetrically placed windows looked out from the first-floor rooms mirrored by seven on the second floor. Four dormer windows were set in the gray slate mansard roof. A wide, shallow flight of steps led to the shiny painted black door, sheltered under a substantial portico supported by quadripartite square pillars. A dense canopy of wisteria spilled over the porch, the gnarly twisting vines braiding the outermost pillars. Except for patches of lawn and box hedging, Kingston could see no signs of garden interest. On a sunny day, the house and its surroundings were no doubt pleasant but unremarkable. In the shroud of drizzle the prospect came across as a trifle forbidding. Carmichael pressed the buzzer on the doorjamb and they waited.

  Before long, the large paneled door swung open partway. Facing them was a tall woman with high cheekbones and sharp features. She had graying hair tied up in a braided bun and a no-nonsense air about her. A plain black dress, white blouse, and mouse-gray cardigan gave her a semblance of severity. She matched the weather, was Kingston’s first thought. Her darting eyes looked the three men up and down.

  “May I help you?” she asked, as if they were door-to-door salesmen.

  Carmichael offered his card. “I’m Detective Inspector Carmichael, Hampshire Constabulary. This is Sergeant Winters,” he said, nodding, “and Doctor Lawrence Kingston who is assisting us in our inquiry.” He reached in his inside pocket and pulled out the folded warrant. “We have a warrant to search this house and would like to speak with everybody present at this time. Particularly Mr. Viktor Zander, whom, I’m given to understand, is the owner of the property.” He paused. “By the way, that includes all staff: cooks, maids, gardeners—everyone.”

  The woman showed not the slightest sign of surprise. She took Carmichael’s card without even looking at it and opened the door wide with a curt “You’d better come in, then.” As they passed her, she closed the door and said, “I’m Mrs. Murdoch, by the way—the housekeeper. Please follow me.”

  She led them into a spacious high-ceilinged room lined with book-filled shelves on three walls. In the center of the fourth wall, handsome floor-to-ceiling French doors looked out to a long garden. Kingston went to the doors to take a closer look. Unlike the front of the house, the plantings here were plentiful and had been chosen with skillfully planned harmony in the restrained use of color. The design—a series of terraces flanked by high hedges—was orderly and pleasing to the eye. It was certainly not the work of an amateur. Kingston could see quite a few roses, all in full bloom. Some of the old climbers and ramblers were trained over curved pergolas and treillage, others spread across rust-colored brick walls. Close to the house he recognized one of his favorite roses, Albertine, unmistakable with its coral buds and blowsy old-fashioned dusky pink blossoms, curling at the edges. The sight cheered him. For a fleeting moment he forgot where he was and why he was there.

  “If you’ll be seated, gentlemen, I’ll fetch Gavin. He’ll be the one you’ll want to talk to.”

  “What about Mr. Zander?” Carmichael inquired.

  Hearing the conversation, Kingston walked over to join them.

  “Oh, Mr. Zander. He’s hardly ever here, sir. Only a half-dozen times a year at most.”

  “I see,” said Carmichael. “Other than you and this other fellow you mentioned, are any other people present or staying in the house?”

  “No. It’s just the two of us at this time.”

  “I see. When you find this fellow, would you return with him, please?”

  “Yes,” she nodded then turned and left.

  Winters plopped down on the sofa and Carmichael settled into a leather wingback. Kingston wandered over to one of the bookcases and studied the volumes on the shelf. The books offered no definitive clues about the reading tastes or interests of whoever had amassed the collection. Mixed in with more contemporary works, there were many old volumes: an eclectic mix of classic English literature, poetry, historical tomes, and novels. Kingston’s eye came to rest on the spine of C. S. Lewis’s The Silver Chair. He pulled it out and studied the cover. It was in remarkably good condition, He opened it and leafed to the title page, astonished to see that it was a 1953 edition, illustrated by Pauline Baynes, the most rare of British first editions of The Chronicles of Narnia. He had read somewhere, recently, that a similar copy had sold at auction for several thousand pounds. It made him wonder what other treasures might be among the countless books in the room. If Zander had amassed the collection, he was not only wealthy but had impeccable literary taste. He slipped the book back into place and was about to pull out another when a man spoke. The accent was Estuary English. “Good morning,” he said. Kingston turned to see a dark-haired man who had entered the room. He was casually but immaculately dressed in a black polo shirt and tan slacks, a thin gold chain on one wrist. He glanced at the two policemen first, with a polite smile, then fixed his hazel eyes on Kingston. Mrs. Murdoch was standing a few paces behind him by the door.

  “And who are you?” asked Carmichael, standing.

  “Good Lord!” Kingston exclaimed, before the man could answer. He stared at the newcomer. “You’re—”

  “Yes, Doctor—Gavin Blake.”

  “You know him?” asked Carmichael.

  “I know who he is,” Kingston replied. “We met at the Paramus Partners offices. He’s one of Everard’s vice presidents.”

  Blake nodded. “We did meet there, and yes, I am. Nice to see you again, Doctor.” His pleasant expression clouded. “I take it you know about Miles?” he said, shaking his head. “Dreadful business.”

  “I do. The police told me. They wanted to know why I’d visited your offices.”

  “I know. They questioned all of us, too.”

  Carmichael glared at Kingston. “You’re forgetting what we agreed on,” he said, caustically. “I do the talking.”

  Kingston nodded. “Sorry,” he said.

  Blake looked at the inspector. “Mrs. Murdoch tells me you’re here to search the house?”

  “That is correct, sir. We have a warrant to search these premises based on information we’ve received in connection with a missing persons case. That would be the disappearance of a Mr. Stewart Halliday. Before we conduct our search, would you tell me if you have any knowledge of Mr. Halliday or his whereabouts or if you know of any other persons who might be in a position to provide such information?”

  “The missing friend you came to see Everard about, I take it?” said Blake, glancing at Kingston.

  Kingston nodded.

  “Sorry,” said Blake, answering Carmichael’s question. “No, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Murdoch? Ever heard of or seen Stewart Halliday?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No, I haven’t.”

  Carmichael glanced at Sergeant Winters who was perched on the arm of the sofa, notepad in hand but not writing, then looked back at Blake. “Viktor Zander. He owns this property, is that correct?”

  “He does, yes.”

  “Are you in his employ?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just a guest.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  “As I said, I’m a guest of Mr. Zander’s. He uses the house infrequently and often invites people to stay for a few days. It’s nice to get out of London once in a while.” He glanced sideways at Mrs. Murdoch who was rooted to the spot, her face expressionless. “Not to mention Mrs. Murdoch’s cooking—well worth the drive down, any day.”

  Mrs. Murdoch eked out a thin smile.

  Carmichael continued. “And what does Mr. Zander do, might I ask? What line of business is he in?”

  Blake was slow to answer. He was clearly tiring of Carmichael�
��s abrasive attitude. Kingston, too, felt that the inspector’s bluntness was not helping his cause.

  “I can’t see why it’s relevant but if it helps, he runs a management consulting business.”

  “Here in Hampshire?”

  Now Kingston knew Carmichael was trying to rattle Blake. He knew damned well where Zander’s offices were located.

  “No, in London.”

  “Are you a client of his?”

  Blake smiled. “No. As I said, I’m just a guest.”

  Carmichael sighed, seemingly satisfied with Blake’s answers. “Very well,” he said, looking at DS Winters. “Let’s get this thing under way. Kingston, you go with Winters.”

  “I have to leave for London soon,” Blake interjected. “I was packing when you arrived. If I can be of further help, let me know, I’m easy to reach.”

  “Right,” said Carmichael. “The sergeant here will take down your address and contact numbers.” He looked past Blake to the housekeeper. “Now, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said more calmly, “perhaps you would be kind enough to show us through the house. We want to see everything: cupboards, closets, cabinets, drawers—all of it.”

  The search commenced shortly after eleven, starting in the basement rooms. Well organized, painfully efficient and with few words, Mrs. Murdoch pointed out the not-so-obvious places to look as the two policemen and Kingston went to work. An hour later, the search of basement and half the ground-floor rooms was completed. Carmichael called a break, partly because Winters was desperate for a smoke, plus he thought a breath of fresh air would do them good, though it was still drizzling.

  Kingston and Carmichael pulled up a couple of wicker chairs under the shelter of the stone-paved loggia that faced the garden and settled back, despite the chill. It was colder now and the skies were even darker than when they’d arrived. The dismal weather looked as though it had set in for the rest of the day. They sat in silence for a moment, each with their own thoughts, Carmichael picking at his nails.

  Kingston was disillusioned; things weren’t going at all as he’d expected. Being the “glass half full” type, he reminded himself that a few more rooms still remained to be searched and that if Stewart had been staying there, he would have occupied one of the bedrooms. It was the most likely place where Stewart would have left a clue: a room frequented only by him and probably Mrs. Murdoch or a maid, if there was one.

  “Nice-looking euphorbia.”

  Kingston’s thoughts were interrupted by Carmichael’s off-the-wall comment. “Griffithii ‘Fireglow,’ isn’t it?” he added.

  Kingston looked at the clump of brick-red plants to their left. “You’re right,” he said.

  Carmichael looked pleased and said no more.

  “I never figured you for a gardener,” said Kingston.

  “Neither did my wife, ten years ago. She used to say I had the brownest thumb in Verwood.”

  Kingston looked at him and smiled.

  “Now she complains that every waking moment I get, I’m off in the garden.You can never satisfy them, you know,” he said with a grin. “Wives or plants.”

  “Come spring and summer, I’m sure she appreciates it, though.”

  Carmichael nodded. “Yes, she does, bless her heart. She’s nuts about hydrangeas—and roses, of course.”

  The conversation turned back to their search.

  “What do you think?” asked Carmichael. “So far.”

  “I must admit that it’s not too encouraging.”

  Carmichael sniffed, got up and walked to the stone balustrade that enclosed the terrace, staring into the distance where giant chestnut and copper beech trees demarcated the garden from the farmland beyond. “Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you think?” he said, his back to Kingston.

  “What’s that?”

  “That fellow Blake. Working for Everard and knowing Zander, on a first-name basis by the sound of it.”

  “That’s what I told you. I’m convinced that Everard and Zander knew each other.”

  “Right.”

  Kingston thought for a moment. “If they did, how does that help us, though? We should ask Blake before he takes off.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Blake?”

  “Yes.”

  Kingston shrugged. “Nice enough chap, I suppose. Didn’t seem like he had anything to hide.”

  “Probably not,” Carmichael sniffed again and walked over to join Kingston. “I guess we’d better go back and wrap things up before it gets dark.” He buttoned up his herringbone sport coat, faking a shiver. “Getting bloody nippy our here,” he said.

  About then, Winters showed up after his cigarette fix and the three went back into the house to resume the search.

  Another twenty-five minutes passed and still not a single piece of evidence to suggest that Stewart Halliday had ever set foot in the house. All that remained to inspect now, according to Mrs. Murdoch, were two more bedrooms on the second floor and three smaller ones in the dormer. Kingston was now finding it hard to conceal his disappointment. He was conscious of being less thorough than he had been at the start of the search. Whether Carmichael sensed it or not, it was to his credit that he hadn’t made one mention or barbed comment about Kingston’s having brought them on a wild goose chase.

  Ten minutes later Kingston and Sergeant Winters were going through the last of the three small dormer bedrooms. Carmichael had given up and gone downstairs to see if he could cadge a pot of tea for them from Mrs. Murdoch.

  “Well, sir,” said Winters, deferentially, “Looks like we were mistaken, after all.”

  Kingston had already reached that rather obvious conclusion. Nevertheless he appreciated the sergeant’s use of “we.” Perhaps Carmichael, who had also chosen not to point a finger, had put a word in his ear. It would have been so easy for the two policemen to pin the wasted journey on him. After all, it was his idea in the first place.

  Kingston and the sergeant descended the stairs and entered the living room where they’d first convened. Carmichael had already made himself at home, ensconced on the sofa, a cup of tea in his hand and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table in front of him. “Come and sit down,” he said. “Mrs. Murdoch just brought the tea in. It’s still hot.” Kingston and the sergeant did as suggested, choosing the two upholstered chairs facing Carmichael. There were no signs of Gavin Blake.

  It seemed that none of them wanted to talk about the abortive search. What conversation there was concerned only two topics: the best route for Kingston to take back to London—given traffic works on the M4—and Viktor Zander’s excellent taste in furniture and antiques. Kingston had already told Carmichael about the books and how he figured there was a small fortune in first editions on the bookshelves.

  Mrs. Murdoch returned with hot water for the teapot. While she was engaged in a brief conversation with Carmichael, Kingston looked around the room one more time, knowing with some certainty that this was the last time he would visit Viktor Zander’s house.

  His eyes passed over two handsome nineteenth-century landscape paintings on the wall to the left of the fireplace. John Clayton Adams’s work, he guessed. Scanning to his right, he studied the gilt-framed Victorian oil portrait of a young woman, which filled the space over the fireplace mantel. It was exquisite, her sad eyes never leaving the viewer. His gaze dropped down to the ebonized bracket clock that held center stage on the mantel. He’d studied it earlier, admiring the elegant scroll-engraved back plate with the signature “John Ellicot, London,” dating it as mid-eighteenth century, and worth plenty. Alongside the clock on one side was a pair of Staffordshire pottery figures of dogs. Quite rare, Kingston knew. On the other side of the clock …

  “It can’t be,” he muttered to himself.

  Kingston got up abruptly and strode to the fireplace. Carmichael, cup poised in midair, watched with mild curiosity. The sergeant was busy deciding which biscuit to eat next.

  Reaching the mantel, Kingston picked up a small porcelain figu
re of a drummer boy. The charming little soldier was wearing a maroon jacket and lace cravat. It looked familiar. He turned it over and saw the stamped serial number and blue crossed swords, the maker’s mark of Meissen, Europe’s oldest porcelain manufactory. Could it possibly be the one he had given Stewart and Becky all those years ago? No doubt many had been made. He stood holding and admiring it for a moment, thinking that if it was indeed the same one and Stewart had planted it on the mantel, why would he have brought the figurine with him to the conference? Nothing made sense. It had to be another copy.

  NINETEEN

  The porcelain drummer boy stood alone on the coffee table. Exquisitely painted and no more than five inches high, it had suddenly become the centerpiece of a criminal investigation.

  Kingston put the phone down, watched by Carmichael and the sergeant. “Nobody home, I’m afraid,” he said, shaking his head. “She might be at the hospital.”

  “The hospital?”

  “She’s gone back working there, part time. Women’s Auxiliary.”

  “Good for her,” said Carmichael. “She’s a strong woman, that one.”

  A few minutes earlier, Kingston had told the inspector the significance of the figurine and how he’d given it—or one that was identical—as an anniversary gift to Becky and Stewart. If Becky could be certain that it was no longer in its customary place in the living room, where Kingston had last seen it—or elsewhere in the house—it would suggest that it could have been in Stewart’s possession when he was abducted. That would mean that he had kept it all this time, waiting until he could find the right place to display it, with the slimmest hope that someone—most likely Kingston—would spot it.