Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-SIX


Kingston sat on the bed staring at Vanessa Carlson’s body, waiting anxiously for the nurse and for his heart to stop thumping. He was sweating profusely and the pain in his chest was returning with a vengeance. What a surprise was in store for the poor nurse, he thought. Not to mention Andrew. Where the hell was he? Kingston wondered.

The door opened and a nurse entered. She stopped dead in her tracks and put a hand to her mouth. “Good God! What on earth—?” she exclaimed, wide eyed, kneeling by Carlson’s body.

Kingston explained briefly what had happened, pointing to the syringe, and the nurse left immediately to get help. Within minutes she returned with a doctor and two orderlies and a gurney.

They all waited silently while the doctor examined Vanessa Carlson. Kingston’s sigh of relief was audible when the doctor finally announced that she was alive. Even though she had tried to murder him, the idea that he might have killed her—even in self-defense—was repugnant to him. The doctor went on to say that the extent of her injuries wouldn’t be determined until they’d made a thorough examination, but Kingston had heard all he wanted to. The pain in his chest had subsided somewhat and he lay back gingerly on the bed, his head sinking into the crumpled pillow, and stared at the ceiling, his mind numb.

The orderlies lifted Vanessa Carlson’s body onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency and departed with the nurse in tow. The doctor remained and turned his attention to Kingston, removing the dressing and examining the wound for tearing or damage. Satisfied that Kingston was none the worse for wear, the doctor said that the police had been informed, then offered a few cautionary words about “behaving” and resting, before giving Kingston a sedative and leaving.

Kingston was dozing when he heard a man’s voice. He opened his eyes and saw Andrew. “About time you showed up,” he muttered, still groggy. “Where the hell have you been?”

“With the police mostly. After they whisked you away, Sturminster’s security people put me under house arrest, I suppose you’d call it. After spending the best part of the day locked up at the house reading magazines and napping, the police interviewed me. Inspector Wheatley.”

Kingston managed a nod. “He was here. Doesn’t seem that long ago, but I’ve lost all track of time.”

“Hardly surprising.”

“He didn’t tell me he’d spoken with you. Anyway, have they told you what happened here? It was bloody awful.”

“They have.”

“Is that all you have to say after that woman almost killed me?”

Andrew looked away. “I don’t know what to think or say anymore, Lawrence. I know I should be thankful and relieved that you’ve survived, but at the same time I’m pissed off at you for being so damned reckless and thoughtless, ignoring everyone’s advice—all in the name of your blind ambition with this lousy case.”

“I can’t argue with you, Andrew. Everything you’ve said is true. But you might give me—or us, I should say—credit for solving it.”

Andrew looked back at Kingston. “Partly solving it would be more accurate. It looks like you and Veitch were right about a fortune being buried somewhere at Sturminster. And it’s safe to assume it’s the money purloined by Samuel Morley, as we expected. We still don’t know for sure—unless I’m out of the loop—who killed Endicott and Veitch, or how this Carlson woman fits into the picture. As for the gold, sooner or later the police or Sturminster’s people will discover that the walls of that place are filled with gold ingots—if they haven’t already. Even when they do, I still have an uneasy feeling that’s not the end of it. What’s more, I don’t think we can assume that they—whoever they may be—are going to give up just yet.”

“I have some answers—”

“No more, please.”

Kingston held a hand up. “I know. I know. This is not the time to discuss it. You’ll only get angrier. When I get out of here then we can talk about it more.”

“As long as it’s just talk, that’s fine.”

Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a misshapen bullet, holding it up for Kingston to see. “It was where you said it was. I covered up the damaged brick as best I could, and unless someone goes over the wall inch by inch, they won’t find it.”

“Good. I was hoping you might.”

“Here,” he said, flipping it to Kingston.

Kingston’s reaction was slow. He dropped the bullet and it slipped off the blanket and bounced to the floor. Andrew knelt to look for it. After a few seconds he stood with the bullet in one hand, a mobile phone in the other. “Someone’s missing a mobile,” he said. “It could be that woman’s.”

“We should be so lucky,” said Kingston. “Check the voice mail.”

Andrew spent a few moments tinkering with the unfamiliar mobile. “There are two messages,” he said. “Hold on.”

Andrew listened to the playbacks. In less than a minute he looked at Kingston again, his expression unreadable. “The first is from a garage, reminding her that her BMW is due for servicing next week.”

“And the second?” asked Kingston impatiently.

“I think you’ll like this one better.”

“Who is it?”

“Here, you can listen for yourself.” Andrew cued up the message and handed the phone to Kingston.

Kingston took it, glanced at the display and pressed Play.

“It’s Morley. Kingston is still alive. He’s in Staffordshire Memorial Hospital. We can’t do anything more now. I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of it, as quickly as possible. Whatever you do don’t try to contact me—wait until I call you. Sorry.”

Kingston closed the phone and stared at it. “Well … I’ll … be damned,” he said, shaking his head.





THIRTY-SEVEN


Kingston put the phone down on the blanket, his eyes fixed somewhere in middle space as the full force of Morley’s words soaked in.

“What are you going to do?” Andrew asked.

Kingston pulled himself together and shifted his perceptive gaze to Andrew. “I had it all wrong,” he mumbled.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, partly wrong.”

Andrew shook his head. “Do you mind telling me what you’re trying to say?”

“It was Simon Crawford who tried to kill me down in the pit. But I never thought for a moment that Morley was involved in this mess. Crawford and Vanessa Carlson, yes—I’m sure that we’ll find out that they were hand in glove all the time—but Francis Morley? Was that why he hired me? Good God!”

“How do you know for sure it was Crawford at the temple?”

“The security system was my first clue. At the time I wondered why it was so easy: We could not only waltz halfway across Sturminster to reach the temple but also drag that trough across the park, take all the time in the world trying to find the key to the secret room, and not be spotted. It had to be something to do with the security system. We knew from the cameras at the gates that a security system was in place.”

“Are you saying that the system was deactivated?”

“Not necessarily, though that might be a natural supposition.”

“What else, then?”

“I’m sure now that it was functioning all the time and we were being watched from the moment we entered the park to the end.”

“So why weren’t we apprehended?”

“Because Crawford and Morley knew that we were probably on to something that might lead them to the hidden money. That’s what’s been driving them all along, from the very beginning.”

“Because they couldn’t solve the riddle or figure out the Gray’s Elegy part of the code.”

“Either or both.”

“I’m confused. It would mean that Crawford would have had to sneak away to the temple, take a couple of potshots at you, and then return. Surely, if the system was on and the cameras were running, he would have been captured on tape.”

“He could have done it several ways, and whether Morley was with Crawford when they had us under surveillance is irrelevant. Having given it considerable thought, here’s how I believe Crawford pulled it off. He knew the system intimately—it was no doubt installed under his supervision. More often than not, I believe that surveillance cameras continually pan sensitive areas; they are cycled to complete one pass from left to right, say, and then back in the opposite direction. In the case of the camera covering the area surrounding the temple, Crawford knew exactly how long that cycle was and could have easily adjusted it, to slow it down. He would then know exactly how long he had to get to the temple, get his shots off quickly, and return to reset the system.”

“So when the police looked at the tapes all they would see would be us?”

“Right. I’d been wondering all along why Crawford didn’t fire more shots. He simply didn’t have the time. And he had no way to know if he’d actually shot me.”

“He had to leave quickly or risk being caught in the act.”

“That’s what I think. We’ll know fairly soon, I’m sure.”

“Is that going to be enough to nail him? It’s still supposition.”

“There was something else.”

“I somehow thought there might be, knowing you.”

“It was when I was being lifted out of the room on a stretcher. I was woozy and it took me a moment to recognize Crawford when he knelt to talk to me. You see, I’d never seen him out of his dapper business clothes and I distinctly remember that he was wearing a Barbour jacket, black turtleneck, and dark trousers that night. He looked uncharacteristically shabby. Not only that, his trousers and the lower front of his jacket showed traces of powdery dust on them—the very same dust that had been disturbed and had settled on the floor where the stone slab was raised. None of the other men had dust on their clothes.”

“Very observant of you, considering the shape you were in. Of course, to shoot at you he probably had to kneel or even lie down to peer into the hole.”

“That’s what I figured. And unless he’s had his clothes dry cleaned, traces of that dust will still be in the cloth fibers, even if he gave them a good brushing afterward.”

“Have you told any of this to the inspector?”

Kingston shook his head. “Not yet. See if you could reach him for me, Andrew—Staffordshire police headquarters, in Stafford. Tell them it’s urgent.”

Five minutes later, Kingston’s bedside phone rang. It was Wheatley.

“Thanks for calling, Inspector,” said Kingston. “I have some rather startling news for you…”