EG02 - The Lost Gardens Page 2

  She looked over her shoulder. ‘How on earth would you go about matching someone’s teeth if they’ve been dead for as long as the inspector suggests?’

  Kingston smiled. ‘Not easy.’

  Jamie faked a shiver. ‘I suppose there were teeth? It’s all a bit too gross for me.’

  ‘I’m sure there were. And you’re right, the accident or murder—whichever—could have taken place centuries ago.’

  ‘Before this house was built?’

  ‘A possibility.’ He rubbed his chin, thinking.

  Jamie screwed up her face. ‘I hope you’re right. I can live with a medieval family skeleton in the closet but it’s another matter entirely if it took place more recently. Know what I mean?’

  Kingston laughed, got up from the chair. ‘I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, Jamie. Like the inspector said, we’ll probably never know.’

  ‘Will they know whether it’s a man or a woman?’

  ‘They will, quite easily.’ Kingston had adopted a professorial stance, hands clasped behind his back. ‘They’ll determine that from the ischium-pubis index. Height too,’ he added, starting to pace the room. ‘That’s deduced from the length of the long bones in the arms and legs. Hadden and another forensic anthropologist, whose name escapes me, developed that formula.’

  Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘God! How come you know all this?’

  Kingston smiled. ‘Spent a couple of years in med school when you were just a twinkle in your father’s eye, my dear.’

  ‘Really? Why did you give it up?’

  Kingston grinned like a little boy who’d just landed his first fish. ‘As the surgeon said, “I just wasn’t cut out for it!’”

  ‘Come on, Lawrence, be serious.’

  Kingston snapped his fingers. ‘Dapertuis. Professor Dapertuis. That was the other chap’s name. Oh—and one other thing—they’ll also be able to determine, within reason, the age of the victim at the time of death.’

  ‘What about how long he or she’s been down there?’

  ‘That can present a problem. The longer those bones have been down there, the more difficult it will be for the pathologist to determine the time since death. Damn. I forgot to ask the inspector the rate of decomposition that bones undergo after submersion in water.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘What am I thinking of? Chadwick wouldn’t know that,’he muttered to himself.

  Jamie picked up the loaded tray and started to make for the door. ‘Anything I can get you, Lawrence?’

  Kingston sighed. ‘Thanks, no. I think we should call it a day.’ He studied Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick’s card one more time, then put it in his shirt pocket. ‘Get back to more pleasant things like gardens and flowers.’

  Straightening up after ducking under the low beam, Kingston closed the cottage door behind him. Thatched with honey-coloured stone walls, the cottage had been built over two hundred years ago to house labourers on the estate. Jamie had furnished it in a Laura Ashley style—a bit dainty for Kingston’s taste but appropriate and comfortable. It was now his home from home while he worked with Jamie restoring the gardens at Wickersham.

  He picked up The Times and a pencil from the Welsh dresser, went across the room and sank into the sofa. The paper was already folded to the Saturday Jumbo crossword puzzle. He placed it on his lap and put on his glasses, ready to pick up where he’d left off the night before. Three days now and only half the answers pencilled in. Far off his usual pace. Considering that he’d been doing the mind-bending cryptic for Lord knows how many years, it was to be expected that once in a while he would be stumped. He read the 49 across clue for the third time: One’s right up the pole, as the mad may be—8 letters.* For several moments he looked up at the misshapen timber beam that ran across the centre of the ceiling, the eraser end of the pencil resting on his lower lip. ‘Bugger,’ he said, finally, placing the paper back in his lap. He simply couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept

  *Answer is: masthead (an anagram of “as the mad.”) returning to the well, the skeleton and the coins, trying to picture what might have taken place there. He put the paper on the coffee table and stretched out, propping a pillow under his head. Once again the nagging feeling returned: that it could have been a big mistake on his part to become involved in Jamie’s venture. It was too late now, though. He closed his eyes and thought back to that evening when she had first called him.

  Chapter Two

  When the phone had rung in his Chelsea flat that evening three months earlier, back in March, Kingston was comfortably settled in his rumpled leather chair reading Gardens Illustrated. It had been drizzling steadily all day. Next to him the small fire he’d lit earlier that afternoon hissed contentedly, giving a pleasing warmth and glow to the darkening room. He put the magazine aside and picked up the phone.

  A woman with an American accent spoke. ‘My name’s Jamie Gibson,’ she announced. ‘Am I calling at a bad time?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. How can I be of help?’ Kingston replied.

  ‘You’ve been recommended to me by my solicitor, David Latimer. He thinks very highly of you and suggested that I contact you.’ She paused. ‘He seems to know a lot about you. Tells me you’re one of the top garden experts in the country.’

  He made light of the compliment and asked again the reason for her call.

  ‘I promise to be as brief as possible,’ she replied.

  She had recently inherited a large country house in Somerset along with its surrounding two-hundred-acre estate, formerly owned by a family named Ryder, she said. Despite its run-down condition, she had moved in and hired a local builder to start work on the house. ‘I can manage the house just fine, but what really concerns me are the gardens.’ She sighed. ‘They’re another matter entirely; that’s where I’m hoping you might be of help. The reason for my call.’

  ‘Gardens, plural, you said?’

  ‘Yes, there’re several.’

  ‘Really? What do you mean by “another matter entirely”? ’

  ‘Well, I’ve been told that, in their heyday, the gardens at Wickersham Priory were among the finest in England.’ She described the gardens as they had been in the years before the war and how, in the opinions of some garden writers of the time, they rivalled the best in the world.

  ‘Where did you learn all this?’ he asked.

  ‘Mostly from the local library. A couple of seniors in the village told me about their visiting the gardens way back—but their descriptions were pretty sketchy. I also found a good book in the local bookshop, with several pages devoted to Wickersham. Gardens within gardens. They were so grand … so beautiful.’ She spoke the words with a sensibility that he found oddly touching. Then she countered with a warm and infectious chuckle, as though she had practised it a long time to get it perfect. ‘Right now, the gardens look more like something Steven Spielberg would dream up.’ He smiled at the simile and was about to ask her to be more explicit but she carried on. ‘It’s my plan to restore them. I want to see them as they were in those days, mostly for me, but also as a way of expressing my appreciation. As a tribute, if you will, to the Ryder family. So I’m asking if you’ll help me.’ She paused but only for a second or so, as if not expecting a reply. ‘Latimer thinks you’d be perfect for the job. Of course, I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes.’Another pause. ‘Well, within reason, of course.’

  Despite the temptation implicit in her last remark—and he had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth—Kingston wasn’t swayed. As the woman had been talking, he had been trying to cobble up a credible excuse and steer the conversation to a polite close. He wasn’t going to tell her he didn’t have the time. That would sound too lame and, in any case, it would be a lie. Truth was that being retired—four years now, from his position as professor and head research botanist at Edinburgh University—he had nothing but time. No, he would simply tell her in all honesty that the magnitude of what she had described was too great for his present inclination for work and le
ave it at that. That could hardly offend her. In any case, Somerset was out of the question. Surrey or Bucks he might have considered, but Somerset? It was almost a half-day’s trip from Chelsea. He was about to tell her all this when she cut in again.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. I realize it’s an awful lot to ask on the phone, plus you don’t know me from Adam—well, Eve, I suppose,’ she said, with the same infectious chuckle as before. ‘It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect an answer right away.’ She paused. ‘In fact, I would rather you didn’t. What I am asking is that you consider it. That’s all. Come down, spend a day and see the place—at my expense, of course—then decide whether the idea appeals to you or not. Stay as long as you want. You can have a whole cottage to yourself.’

  Three days later, with the morning frost like cake icing on the hedges of Cadogan Square, he locked the front door to his flat and walked to the nearby garage where his Triumph TR4 was kept. Slipping behind the wheel, he soon joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Cromwell Road heading for the M4 and the two-hundred-odd miles to Somerset, to see Jamie Gibson’s estate.

  Chapter Three

  Once the cheerless sprawl of London’s suburbs was behind him, Kingston’s frame of mind improved with every mile. Midway on the long stretch between Reading and Swindon he pulled off at a service station and took the top down. It would be well worth braving the chill in the air. Back on the motorway his spirits climbed another couple of notches. Not surprising. His prized TR4 was getting a much-needed chance to blow out some cobwebs; he was on his way to a part of Somerset that he’d never seen, to meet a young woman he’d never met, and what’s more, after weeks of wretched weather, the skies in every direction were cloudless.

  A crab sandwich lunch, a glass of Sancerre and a refuelling stop in Bridgwater and he was on the last leg of the journey. Now the roads were narrow, cars few and far between. The exhaust crackled as he shifted down to third, then second, to negotiate a sharp hairpin. Every curve in the road revealed yet another vista of postcard perfection. He was now in the very heart of the Quantock Hills, an ancient wooded corner of the West Country.

  The last few miles of the journey had been full of pleasant surprises. On one occasion, on a lane barely inches wider than the car itself, he had had to pull up sharply to give right-of-way to a string of wild horses. Every so often the banks on either side of the road were thick with wildflowers that spangled through the ferns and into the woods like confetti. A sweet fragrance perfumed the air that was loud with the gurgle and bubble of water and the twittering and warbling of a thousand birds. Twice he had driven through shallow fords on the road. Crossing heather-cloaked moors, through gentle pastures and ferny forest, he hadn’t seen a house or any signs of people for miles.

  Running a hand through his tangle of windblown hair, he peered over the top of his sunglasses. Yes, there they were, set back from the road, about fifty feet ahead on the left: the two blackened stone pillars each with a stone griffin perched on top—exactly as she had described. He slipped into second, passed between them and up the straight driveway leading to Wickersham Priory.

  He drove slowly, taking in the scenery. A clutch of cottages tucked in the fold of a distant hollow appeared ahead: signs of habitation at last. Lulled by the meagre warmth of the grudging sun he tried to conjure a mental picture of the woman he was about to meet.

  Caught up in the flight of fancy he very nearly overran the right-angled bend in the driveway. Quickly gaining control, he jammed his foot on the brake and skidded to a stop. He squinted in disbelief through the dirt-speckled windscreen. Fifty yards ahead was a wall of overgrown vegetation. In a heartbeat he had gone from English countryside to rainforest. Cheek by jowl with native shrubs and trees stood all kinds of subtropical species. Coconut palms swayed on their spindly trunks amidst native pine, cedar, beech and laurel. In the shadow of an enormous oak the fronds of giant tree ferns and the elephant-ear leaves of Gunnera looked incongruous. Here and there tips of golden bamboo undulated above brambles and thicket. Thick vines snaked up tree trunks, trailing fountains of vivid colour. He estimated the maidenhair tree towering high above the scene to be at least a hundred feet tall. One scarlet-budding rhododendron was the size of a two-storey house. He stared at the sight for a minute or more then continued up the drive.

  As he passed through a gap in the green wall the sunlight was abruptly extinguished, as if at the flick of a light switch. Out of the shadows, columns of tree trunks—some with a girth approaching that of ancient sequoias—loomed from the ferny black undergrowth, their lower bark sheathed in a velour-like mantle of bright green moss, algae and lichen. A cathedral-like silence added to the primeval gloom. Kingston shivered and drove on.

  All at once it was light again. Now, tall clipped hedges of yew flanked the driveway. After the cheerless atmosphere of the last several minutes, Kingston found the orderliness heartening. Ahead, the gravel drive split to form a sweeping circle. On the grassy island within stood a massive ornamental stone fountain topped by a trio of sculptured dolphins, open mouths pointing skyward. Imprisoned by weeds at the base, it was blackened with age and neglect. He pictured the fountain in its former glory, jetting columns of water high into the air. What a splendid first impression it must have made.

  On the other side of the circle a manor house loomed large. The sprawling structure was built of stone the colour of parchment yellowed with age. Mullioned and leaded windows of varying size gave relief to its stern façade. In colonnades, tall chimneys jutted from the slate roof like guardsmen. A blanket of ivy with scaffolding erected alongside shrouded the set-back part of the house on his left. At the buttressed entrance a Gothic archway led to a recessed front door.

  ‘Mid-eighteenth century,’ Kingston muttered to himself, rounding the circle.

  Ahead, standing by the arch, was a smiling young woman wearing a loose white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was holding a broom.

  ‘Could be earlier,’he mused, glancing up at the windows. He pulled the TR4 to a stop alongside her. Glad to be able to stretch his legs after being cooped up for the last couple of hours, he got out and took in a long breath, stretching his six foot three inch frame. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, slamming the car door with a thump, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to make it appear less tangled. ‘I’m here to see Jamie Gibson.’

  The young woman grinned. ‘You’re talking to her.’

  He summoned a weak smile and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize.’

  ‘No need. I’m hardly one’s idea of the lady of the manor.’ She offered her hand. ‘So, what do you think of the jungle?’

  ‘Quite a jolt, I must say.’ He smiled, creasing the laugh lines at his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He shook her hand, noting the unusual firmness of her grip and absence of nail polish. ‘Lawrence Kingston,’ he said.

  ‘I’m delighted that you’re here,’ she countered, sizing him up. He towered over her by several inches, his features angular and pleasingly lined. Most noticeable was the hair, a thick snarl of white, though his eyebrows were oddly dark. No longer smiling, his face wore an air of authority. There was a vague but nevertheless intimidating lucidity in his blue eyes.

  ‘Do I call you doctor?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no, Lawrence is fine.’

  ‘Good. Well, come on in. You must be tired after such a long drive.’ She paused, glanced at the sports car, then ran her eyes over him, but all she said was, ‘Nice car.’

  Kingston followed her into the house, their footsteps echoing across the tiled floor of a sparsely furnished entrance hall, through an open door into a living room. The room was grand, an ornate frieze girdling its high ceiling. A clutter of Persian carpets—most of them a bit the worse for wear—covered much of the parquet floor. The furniture, all of it antique, was a jumble of styles and periods. Gilt-framed paintings hung from walls that were the colour of old piano keys. An enormous crystal chandelier dominated the air space
in the centre of the room. All the natural light came from one end where tall French doors, flanked by leaded windows, opened to a flagstone terrace looking out on to what used to be gardens, now an ugly wall of weeds, bramble and vines.

  Jamie gestured to the large damask sofa. ‘Please sit down, Lawrence. May I get you something to drink?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

  ‘Breakfast tea or Earl Grey?’

  ‘Earl Grey’s fine, thanks. Oh, lemon, please, if you have it.’

  Jamie nodded towards the coffee table. ‘The top book contains several references to the house. I’ve marked the pages. I think you’ll find it interesting. I’ll be right back,’ she said, leaving the room.

  Jamie Gibson was not at all as he’d imagined. In the first place, she was considerably younger and prettier than her somewhat husky American voice on the phone had suggested. Mid-thirties, he would guess. She had soft features with trusting brown eyes that, he would soon learn, could turn in a flutter of long lashes to businesslike and penetrating. Of average height and slim of hip, she had an athlete’s suppleness. Her blonde hair was fashionably short and her skin evenly tanned, leading him to wonder just how long she’d been living in Somerset. Beyond a trace of lipstick, she wore no makeup. It would be a fairly safe bet that she was from either California or Florida. He would inquire when she came back.

  He leafed through the thick book to the first yellow Post-it note and started reading.

  Five minutes had passed when he heard the rattle of china and looked up to see Jamie coming through the door carrying a tray with cups, saucers and a plate of scones.

  ‘I see the house was built in the mid-1700s,’ Kingston said, looking up. ‘From these old drawings, it doesn’t appear to have changed much?’

  Jamie lowered the tray to the coffee table. ‘No, hardly at all.’

  Kingston crossed his long legs, leaned back into the sofa and put on his best smile. ‘Forgive me for being curious,’ he said.