Garden of Secrets Past

FIVE


Andrew, back from his fishing trip, took a long sip of wine and glared at Kingston. “For Christ’s sake, Lawrence! What the hell’s wrong with you?” His voice was loud enough to cause embarrassment, not only to Kingston but to surrounding diners as well. “The minute I turn my back you go and do something—” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I have to say it—plain stupid !”

Lunch at the Anchor had started pleasantly, Andrew talking at length about his fishing trip, which sounded a little too ho-hum for Kingston’s tastes. After ten minutes or so, the conversation had drifted, for no good reason, to an exchange of thoughts—a mutual commiseration of the growing scandal over politicians’ expense accounts and mass cabinet resignations that was dominating the headlines daily. It was then that Kingston had chosen to tell Andrew about Lord Morley’s letter and their meeting, finally breaking the news that he’d agreed to help in the Sturminster murder case.

After Andrew’s initial outburst, Kingston had summarized his trip to Staffordshire and given a short account of his meeting with Simon Crawford, with emphasis on the Arcadian monument, which he knew would appeal to Andrew’s sense of the abstruse.

Andrew had sat in an undisguised funk and listened without comment, but he was not finished, not by a long chalk. “I’m gone ten days—only ten days—and in that time you’ve visited the scene of a bloody murder, met with Lord what’s ’is name, and agreed to join in a half-assed investigation. I give up!” He spread his hands and shook them in frustration.

Kingston knew better than to try to persuade Andrew that not only was he doing the right thing but that he wanted to do it, too. He’d tried that tack before and it hadn’t worked. So why bother now? Nevertheless, it was heartening to know that Andrew thought enough of their friendship to make such a fuss about his sanity and well-being. Instead, he made an attempt to change the subject. “Isn’t your Bourne End open garden weekend coming up soon?” he asked, taking a last sip of coffee.

Andrew sighed. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”

“I have, and your disapproval is duly noted. When is it?”

“When is what?”

“The garden tour.”

“It’s the eleventh of next month. And I hope you can make it this time.”

Last year, despite promising to help Andrew host his Sunday open garden—an annual village event featuring a dozen or so local gardens—he was forced to renege at the last minute because of an unexpected turn in the plant-hunting murder case that had dragged him up to Wales.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it this time. I’ve been meaning to come and see the garden anyway. A visit is long overdue. I haven’t even seen your new rose garden yet, nor those pricey urns you got from France.”

“I know.”

From his tart reply and crotchety look, Kingston knew that Andrew wasn’t ready to give up on the Sturminster business.

“So,” said Andrew, followed by a long moment of thought, “if, as you say, the case is bogged down, what’s your plan?”

Kingston couldn’t resist an indulgent, if fleeting, smile. “It’s a stalemate now, but I doubt for long. There’ll be a break in due course. There nearly always is. New evidence surfaces, something in the victim’s background sheds new light on the case, a change-of-heart informant comes forward, perhaps an unexpected find that’s been tucked away for years in one of the crevices of the Morley family closet—or even better, someone finds the missing part of the code. It may take longer than we would like, but something will surface, mark my words. In the meantime, we must work with what little we have.”

Andrew shook his head. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d be moping around the house, feather-dusting your bibelots, for long.”

“I wasn’t planning to, Andrew. I plan on visiting the institute where Endicott worked. Perhaps have a talk with his mother—see if the police missed anything there. And then there’s a gentleman named Tristan Veitch. A historian of sorts.”

“A historian?”

“He specializes in the history of Staffordshire, particularly the area surrounding Sturminster. I’m told that he also knows a lot about the Morley family.”

“The family? Why do you want to know about them?”

“Apparently they’ve been feuding for centuries.”

“And you think this might have something to do with the murder?”

Kingston hadn’t thought about it that explicitly before, but now hearing Andrew put it so bluntly …

“Possibly. Yes,” he said, somewhat unconvincingly.

“And you’re going to step right into the middle of it? You do know that family disputes often come to a bad end, don’t you? Even the police don’t like to go on domestics.”

“I’d hardly consider a meeting with a cantankerous historian to be life threatening.”

“Have it your way.” Andrew folded his arms and looked away.

“If you’re so worried, why not come with me?”

Andrew shook his head. “No way,” he said curtly.

“You wouldn’t have to do anything. Just sit quietly and take notes. I’d enjoy the company.”

“You’re not going to persuade me, Lawrence. You can try ’til you’re blue in the face. I want no part of it. You can stick your neck out if you want, that’s your business, but I’m not that thick-skulled, and I’m sure you get my drift.”

At that moment the waitress arrived and placed the bill folder on the table, judiciously between them, then departed with a polite “thank you, gentlemen.” Andrew was quick to grab it, which brought no protest from Kingston who knew, by now, better than to argue. In any case, Andrew had offered to treat earlier.

After leaving what appeared to Kingston to be an unnecessarily large wad of bills for such a modest lunch—even taking into account the stiff price tag of the Pouilly-Fumé—they walked out of the dining room and in a couple of minutes were leaving the Anchor’s car park in Andrew’s red Mini Cooper. On the road out of the village, Andrew slipped into third gear and glanced at Kingston. “I suppose I’m going to have to accept the fact that you’re not going to change,” he said with a sigh.

“I’m not so sure about that. To be honest, if it weren’t for the money I wouldn’t have accepted the assignment. And I can drop out anytime I want. I’m not doing it just for the challenge, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Lawrence, I hate to say this, but the only time you’ll give up playing detective is if and when you meet another Megan. Someone whose life is more important to you than your own.”

Kingston put a hand to his mouth and faked a yawn. “Seems to me we’ve been over this ground before,” he said, looking out the window to avoid Andrew’s gaze.

At least a mile had whizzed by before Kingston spoke again. “Andrew, I have no information, evidence, or explanation whatsoever for making this prediction, but I have a suspicion that this case will eventually prove to be much bigger and more far-reaching in scope than any of us realize. If it makes you feel better, it could be my last hurrah.”

“When pigs have wings!”