Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-FOUR


Seven hours later, Kingston awoke to find himself staring at a white ceiling, a blinding white that made him avert his eyes. He soon realized that the assault on his retinas had less to do with the white paint than the bright light flooding the room through a picture window. He glanced sideways, shielding his eyes, to get a better view, seeing what appeared to be the environs of a small town. He rolled his head slowly on the pillow to take in the room: He was in a hospital ward. Glancing upward, he saw the IV bag with its clear liquid hanging from the stand beside the bed, the tube taped to his arm, and various monitoring devices. It didn’t seem to be a critical-care ward, which was comforting.

His chest was painfully sore, as he discovered when he tried to slide upward on the pillow. His ankle ached, too. He vaguely remembered falling from a ladder and ending up on a dirt floor, immobilized. As embarrassing and bathetic as that had been, it was nothing compared to what had followed. He started to reconstruct the chain of events in the subterranean room.

Slowly it all began to fall together, scene by scene, like trying to recall a particularly bad dream, his mind blanking on the details. He remembered being shot in the chest and lying helpless on the dirt, drifting in and out of consciousness while Andrew went for help. Then he recalled seeing the bullet lodged in the brick and spotting what, at the time, he was sure was gold inside the shattered brick. Could he have imagined or invented it in his delirious state? Where was Andrew, for that matter? Had he been able to retrieve the bullet? Kingston chided himself for not having instructed him to somehow cover up the exposed gold. He should have warned him about the unknown shooter as well. Too late now, he said to himself, returning to his memory of the catastrophic night.

His thoughts were interrupted by a man’s voice. “How are you feeling, Lawrence?”

Kingston turned toward the door to see that two men had entered. One was young and tall, with a mop of ginger hair flopping over one eye. He was wearing a tan summer suit with a loosely knotted tie. Kingston recognized the man behind him immediately: Inspector Wheatley, looking as sartorially correct as ever.

“I’m Dr. Anderson. I believe the inspector needs no introduction.”

“Good morning, Doctor,” said Kingston. He gave a perfunctory nod to Wheatley. “Inspector.”

“Well, I’ve got good news for you,” said Anderson, standing over Kingston. “I can’t say you dodged a bullet, but metaphorically you did. You’re a lucky man. Apart from tissue damage and some minor issues, you’re none the worse for wear. A few inches lower and it might have been a very different story, though. We’ll keep you here for a couple of days, and if nothing changes, you can go home.”

“That is good news.”

“If you feel up to it, you can see visitors, but don’t overdo it,” said Anderson, patting Kingston on his “good” shoulder. “It’s a cliché, I know, but for the next forty-eight hours you need to rest as much as possible.”

Kingston nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“If it’s all right with you, Inspector Wheatley would like to have a word, but I’ve cautioned him to go easy on you and to keep his questions brief. How long he stays will be up to you.”

“That’s fine,” said Kingston, eager to know what had happened in the missing several hours—if the police had found out who’d done the shooting.

The doctor departed and Wheatley pulled up a chair.

“I’m genuinely sorry for what’s happened to you, Lawrence, and glad for your sake that it wasn’t a lot worse,” said Wheatley in his customary terse and expressionless manner. “I won’t waste your time right now inquiring about what exactly you were doing at the temple—we can get into that later. If you don’t mind, though, perhaps you could tell me what happened from the time you and this Andrew friend of yours trespassed on Sturminster’s grounds.”

Kingston smiled at the “trespassing” accusation. He found it hard to believe that Wheatley would let him and Andrew off so lightly. Figuring that the inspector must be feeling sorry for him, he thought no more of it and, for the next few minutes, he related what he could remember, reminding Wheatley that most of the time he was in the subterranean room he was in and out of consciousness. Though reconciled to the fact that his involvement in the case was now a thing of the past—that from now on it was in the hands of the police—he made no mention of his suspicion that the walls might contain gold ingots. Nor did he reveal that he’d asked Andrew to retrieve the bullet. If push came to shove later, and Wheatley accused him of withholding evidence, he could claim amnesia or his inability at the time to determine fact from fantasy. Unlike their first face-to-face meeting, Wheatley was patient and considerate of Kingston’s ordeal and injuries, and listened without interrupting. Kingston had expected at least a few questions after finishing his account and was surprised and thankful when Wheatley stood, as if to signal his leaving. He must have taken the doctor’s caution about brevity to heart, thought Kingston.

“I’ve spent enough of your time, Lawrence. Thanks for your patience. I’ll leave you to get some rest. We’ll be talking again, of course. There’s still that small matter of your trespassing that needs to be addressed.”

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” said Kingston.

Wheatley nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Do you have any idea who shot me?”

“I was going to ask you the same question. The answer is no. As yet we don’t have a suspect. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“What about the bullet? Did the doctor retrieve it?”

“Don’t worry, that’ll be for ballistics to worry about.”

“What about Amanda Veitch? Is she still a suspect?”

“For someone who almost went for a Burton, you certainly have a lot of questions. As for the Veitch woman, let’s just say that we haven’t decided to file charges yet.”

“I understand.”

Wheatley nodded and managed a decent smile. “Get well, Lawrence,” he said. “And leave the rest to us. You’ve done enough … for now.”

Kingston knew the inspector wanted to say “enough damage” and respected Wheatley for resisting the temptation. “One last thing, Inspector. On your way out, could you ask the nurse if she can rustle up a copy of the Times. I’d appreciate it.”

“Be happy to.”

Kingston closed his eyes. The encouraging news about his gunshot wound had made him feel much better already, both physically and mentally. On several occasions in the past he’d been lectured by his now dear departed physician in Scotland about the importance of understanding and respecting the symbiotic relationship between the health of both the body and the mind—that they were interconnected, that one affects the other, and that neither can be separated. He was the person who had recommended that Kingston do the Times cryptic puzzles.

This newfound burst of enthusiasm and optimism made him start thinking about the case again. His alter ego was telling him to forget it, that it was prideful, ill advised, and could well delay his recovery. On the other hand, the compulsion to bring matters to a close was unexpected and, given the trauma of the last several hours, much stronger than he would have thought possible. With the conflicting emotions tugging at his leathery conscience, he stared out the window at the pleasant view. After more staring at the ceiling and more thought, he reached a compromise. He reminded himself that, like it or not, he was confined to a hospital bed for at least two more days and that there was little or nothing he could do, anyway. In a few minutes, he drifted off to dreamless sleep.