EG03 - The Water Lily Cross

Table of Contents

Title Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Also by
Notes
Copyright Page

For my friend John

ONE

A
nother fickle June day was ending. The stubborn rains had let up at last, and the streetlamps were lit when Lawrence Kingston pulled up facing the shoebox of a garage he rented on cobbled Waverley Mews, Chelsea.

With the handbrake on and the engine running, he swung open the door of his pampered 1964 TR4 and extricated his long-limbed body from the cramped driver’s compartment with practiced agility. After disabling the alarm, he opened the door and got back in his car. The garage was so small that as soon as the TR was inside, there was barely enough space to open the driver’s-side door. It was all he needed, though—spotlessly clean and secure. Long gone were the days when he would do his own car’s maintenance. Minuscule as it was, the garage cost him a small fortune every month but he didn’t begrudge a penny of it. The only alternative was a resident street parking permit, which, for his of all cars, would be a gilt-edged invitation to thieves and yobbos who would think nothing of vandalizing it or ripping off parts. The car safely inside, he turned the key in the jimmy-proof deadlock, reset the alarm, and in ten minutes was walking across Cadogan Square to his two-story flat.

He went into the living room, picking up the mail from the doormat on the way. Dropping the letters and junk mail on the coffee table, he took off his jacket, draped it on the back of the sofa, and crossed the room to the butler’s table that served as a bar. Opening a bottle of Macallan single malt whisky, he poured a liberal measure into a crystal glass, topping it off with an equal amount of water. On his way back to the worn leather sofa, he pressed the PLAY button on the answerphone, put his drink down next to the small stack of mail, and sank back into the bosom of the sofa. He sat, legs outstretched, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the tape to rewind.

“Hi Lawrence, it’s Sally.”
Kingston tilted an ear to the machine.
“Just a reminder about Andrew’s birthday dinner Friday night. Benihana, seven thirty, okay? Bye.”

Kingston took a sip of the whisky and reached for the top envelope. A short beep and then a young man’s voice:
“It’s Dave at Bell’s Appliances—Tuesday, ’bout three o’clock. Wanted to let you know we got the part for your vacuum. Okay?”

Kingston opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was from the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. He read the first couple of lines then stopped abruptly. Engrossed in the letter, he caught only the tail end of the next message. At first, the woman’s voice was not familiar.

“ … The police have been round to see her and she’s worried stiff. You know him as well as any of us, Lawrence—it’s not like Dad at all. I’m going down on Friday. Could you call her, please—as soon as you can? I know she would want to talk with you. Thanks, Lawrence. Bye for now.”

Kingston dropped the letter on the table, got up, reached for the answerphone, pressed REWIND, and remained standing while listening to the full message.

“Hello Lawrence, it’s Sarah, Rebecca’s daughter. Sorry to bother you but something awful has happened.”
Her voice was oddly subdued. It certainly didn’t sound like the bubbly young woman he knew.
“Mum called me about ten minutes ago. Dad’s gone missing. Apparently he left three days ago to attend a conference in Bristol and she hasn’t heard from him since—he never got there. The police have been round to see her and she’s worried stiff.You know him as well as any of us, Lawrence—it’s not like Dad at all. I’m going down on Friday. Could you call her, please—as soon as you can? I know she would want to talk with you. Thanks, Lawrence. Bye for now.”

Kingston glanced at his watch, it was nine-thirty; not too late to call, given the circumstances. He picked up the address book next to the phone, found Stewart and Rebecca Halliday’s entry, picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.

Becky Halliday answered after the second ring. She was clearly glad to get his call but her voice quickly lost all its energy. He listened without interrupting as she recounted, unable to hold back a sob now and then, a drawn-out version of Sarah’s message. The upshot: still no word from Stewart, and the police, who had been in contact with her since day one, had no further leads. Stewart had simply disappeared.

“I think I’d better come down,” said Kingston.

“I’d like that, Lawrence. I really do need someone to talk to.” He heard another muffled sniffle, and this time it brought a lump to his throat. It pained him to imagine her, usually so self-composed and in charge, being thrust into such desolation. “I’m going round the bend here by myself.” She hesitated. “Sarah’s driving down from Shrewsbury on Saturday and my sister Margaret was supposed to come down,” she said, her voice now a little more like the Becky he knew, “but wouldn’t you know it, she’s got the flu and doesn’t know if she can make it now.”

He could tell she was trying to put on a brave front. “I’ll drive down tomorrow morning first thing,” he said.

“Thanks, Lawrence, you’re an angel.”

“If you like, I can pack a bag, just in case you want me to stay over.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

“That’s settled. Should arrive about noon, I would imagine. Remind me—just after Fordingbridge, I make a left turn by the pub, as I recall.”

“The Cricketers, that’s right. We’re about a half-mile up on the left. White roses over the front gate.”

“Good. Until tomorrow, then.”

He put the phone down and stood by the table for a moment, weighing the enormity of what had just happened, wondering what logical explanations there could be for Stewart’s disappearance.

Stewart Halliday and Kingston had been colleagues and friends for more than thirty years. They had first met at the University of Edinburgh where, in the early days, both of them were teaching undergraduate courses in plant science. In later years both had served on the board of the Royal Botanic Garden, Edinburgh. In those days, Becky and Kingston’s wife, Megan, had also become close friends and the four of them had shared many wonderful times together—on one occasion, a ten-day vacation in Cornwall. Later, when Megan was killed in a freak boating accident, Becky had been Kingston’s proverbial pillar of strength. Without her ability of being able to fuse compassion and resolve, his recovery would have taken twice as long. When Kingston moved to London, the three of them had drifted apart but more recently, whenever Stewart came up to London to visit his older sister, who was in a nursing home in Putney, they would get together for lunch.

When Stewart had retired, some three years after Kingston had packed it in, he and Becky had moved to an early-nineteenth-century farmhouse called The Willows, near Fordingbridge on the edge of the New Forest. Becky made no secret that they’d spent a mint in restoring it and would chide Stewart in a playful way for being so penny-pinching about the remodel. He was good about it, though, letting her have the final say on most of the decision making. When it was all finished, even he agreed that it was money well spent.

Like many retirees, and fitting for one who had spent the best part of his life teaching and lecturing on plant biology, gardening quickly became the center of Stewart’s new life in the country. Over the years he had transformed the original barren space at The Willows into a showplace. With its central lawn, wide perennial borders, roses, box and yew hedging, vine-covered arbors, a small orchard tucked in one corner, and good-sized pond, the one-acre garden was typical in its “Englishness.” The garden was Stewart’s domain, the house, Rebecca’s—a seemingly happy arrangement for both.

On the drive down, Kingston tried to recall when he was last at The Willows. It had to be at least three years ago. Or was it four? He hadn’t seen either of them since then. It had been Stewart and Becky’s thirtieth anniversary, that he did know. He remembered giving them an antique Meissen porcelain figure of a drummer boy. The weather had been quite dreadful that weekend but one of the unforgettable highpoints was Stewart’s collection of hellebores in full bloom—huge clumps of them. The dusty red, cream, and pink blooms of the Ballard strains with their starry bright yellow stamens were show-stoppers. Those and the ruby-blossomed flowering quince were the only color in the garden at that gloomy time of year. It would be interesting to see how the garden had matured since that time.

Kingston slowed to make the turn at the Cricketers and in a couple of minutes pulled up and parked alongside the arbor gate festooned with snow-white clusters of Iceberg roses. It was mid-June and from what little Kingston could see of the garden, everything appeared to be going full bore. He got out of the car carrying his leather overnight bag, opened the gate and started up the path. Becky was waiting at the porch. She must have been watching for his arrival. They met at the front door.

“It’s so good to see you, Lawrence,” she said, with a wan smile, as they embraced. Kingston brushed her cheek with a kiss and then held her at arm’s length, looking into her lackluster gray eyes. They said it all—a sad reminder of why he was there. “You, too, Becky,” he replied.

Average in height, she was slight and fine boned, her hair shoulder length, dark and shiny, longer than he remembered. She wore little makeup and her only jewelry was a plain gold wedding band and a single strand of pearls that rested austerely on her black turtleneck sweater. She had changed little since his last visit. He followed her along the entrance hallway where the roughhewn beams brushed the top of Kingston’s head, obliging him to stoop a couple of times. Passing a row of engraved botanical prints on the wall, he could smell coffee brewing, reminding him that Becky was, without question, the best nonprofessional cook he knew. She was one of those enviable people who made everything in the kitchen look so effortless. Stewart had once mentioned in passing that she had taken a Cordon Bleu course at the London Culinary Arts Institute. Pricey, but worth every penny, he had said with a wink, at the time.

With coffee, and scones baked by Becky, they sat across from each other in a sunlit conservatory off the living room, separated by a glass-topped coffee table. Painted antique wicker seating was plumped up with assorted pillows in a mix of understated colors, the limestone tile floor partly covered by oriental throw rugs. Anduze planters with arching palms added a leafy tropical look and a brass-ornamented baker’s rack displayed Becky’s collection of glazed terra cotta confit and oil jars. The open French doors gave them a full view of the garden.

For the best part of five minutes, clearly reining in her emotions but handkerchief at the ready, she related the events of the past three days. Kingston listened attentively, saying nothing until she had finished.

“This conference you mentioned, what was it about?” asked Kingston.

“I understand it was something to do with the ecology. Global warming, that sort of thing. I wrote it down somewhere if you’d like to know.”

Kingston nodded. “Yes, I would—later, perhaps.”

She paused to reach for her cup and saucer, and then, after a sip of coffee, she continued. “Since Stewart retired, I regret to say I never paid much attention to his academic activities. Not that there were many. To tell the truth, he’s been called on less and less over the last few years. Ninety-nine percent of the time I could count on him being in the garden,” she said, smiling wistfully, taking another sip of coffee. “Except when he was at the garden club, that is.”