EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (11 page)

“I’m afraid it rather looks that way. The question is, where was he and what was he doing when he was supposed to be at the garden club or meeting with other members?”

“I don’t … I don’t know what to say, Lawrence. Are you sure …”

Kingston knew that the news would come as a shock to Becky and could tell that she was struggling for words, to find justification, however vague, for what he had just told her. “Becky, my dear,” he said, as gently as the three words would allow, “you don’t have to say anything now. I’ll tell the police what you’ve just told me. We can talk again tomorrow, or whenever you feel up to it.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Lawrence, this is terribly upsetting. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for it all. Stewart just wouldn’t deceive me like that.”

“I don’t think he would either, Becky. There’s usually an explanation for everything,” he said, regretting the cliché. “Just try to put it out of your mind for now.”

“All right, Lawrence, I’ll try,” she said quietly.

He sensed she was on the verge of tears.

Tomorrow was Monday, the day he and Chris Norton were going to pick up where they had left off with the aerial photography. As arranged, Andrew was going to chauffeur Kingston up to the airport in Oxford, and on his way back to London, stop in to visit his ex-wife whose husband owned a wine shop in Henley-on-Thames. He invariably came away with a case of mixed wines, which he shared with Kingston. After the day’s shooting Kingston would return to London in his TR4.

Kingston had made the decision not to reshoot Cranborne Manor and the rose garden at Mottisfont Abbey on this trip but instead to photograph at least two of the other gardens on New Eden’s list. There were two reasons: First, Inspector Chisholm, in a brief phone conversation a few days earlier, had recommended holding off for the time being, not wanting any further low-altitude aerial activity in the area while their investigation was ongoing; second, there was the long shot that the tape might show up, though Kingston doubted that very much.

This time the gardens were spread much farther apart—a triangular route of approximately 550 miles—so it was questionable whether they would have enough time to cover more than just the two. The first chosen was the ten-acre garden at Levens Hall, halfway up Britain’s west coast, in Cumbria near the Lake District. The garden was won, as the story goes, on the turn of the ace of hearts during a card game in 1688 to settle a gambling debt. Levens Hall was also judged the Christie’s and Historic Houses’Association Garden of the Year in 1995.

What made Levens so special—and Kingston was betting it would look even more breathtaking from the air—was its collection of topiaries, some almost 300 years old. The more than ninety designs, most at least twenty feet tall, included giant umbrellas, chess pieces, peacocks, crowns, a judge’s wig, and a jug of ale—all clipped by hand out of box and yew. The garden also boasted an original Great Beech hedge planted in 1694 still surviving, and other gardens within gardens, including one with only plants known to exist in the seventeenth century.

Not that it was relevant, but Kingston had learned from the present owner, on a visit in 1996, that Levens had a resident ghost. The story, mostly concerning the owner’s father, was that forty years ago a priest named Stonor had stopped at Levens to visit a sick person in an upstairs bedroom. Passing through the main hall, which was unusually dark, he noticed someone in a room to one side playing a harpsichord under the light of an electric lamp. Taking care not to disturb the player, he went upstairs to see his patient.

Coming downstairs twenty minutes later, the person was still playing. As the priest was about to leave, he noticed a glimmer of light from under one of the doors and heard muted voices. Entering the room, he found the owner’s mother entertaining guests by candlelight. Inquiring why they were in candlelight, she told him that there was a power failure, apparently frequent in those days. When he told her about the harpsichord player, she and her guests rushed from the room, finding no electric light and no player.

The mother then told the priest at that time that no one present could play the harpsichord except her husband, and he was away on business, due to return the next day. Both her first reaction and that of the priest was that he might have been killed in a car crash or an accident and they had seen his ghost. If he were dead, there would be no way to verify it immediately.

As arranged, the priest returned the very next day to meet the woman’s husband. The moment the priest saw the husband he confirmed it was, without question, he who had been playing the harpsichord. Indeed, the priest maintained that he would be able to recognize the piece played, should the husband go through his repertoire. The husband, only too happy to comply, sat down and started playing. The third piece was a rondo, a musical canon in which the bass line constantly repeats. Immediately, the priest said: “That’s it. That’s the piece you were playing the other night.”

“How could that be?” said the husband, “I wasn’t here.”

Or had he been?

Kingston always enjoyed retelling that story.

The other garden scheduled was one of Kingston’s favorites, the National Trust garden at Powis Castle in Wales. For sheer drama, it was hard to beat. From the valley floor the salmon-colored gritstone castle perches on top of a near vertical rocky slope looking eastward to England. Built in 1200 by Welsh princes, the castle’s main attraction is its hanging gardens comprising four grand terraces. Constructed in 1682, the lushly planted terraces form bands across the steep castle slope, each connected by stairs to the next. The top terrace is overhung with a row of enormous clipped yew hedges. In part, the gardens are historic because they feature the remains of a great formal garden of the seventeenth century. Laid out under the influence of Italian and French styles of the day, the gardens feature an orangery, an aviary, and early Flemish life-sized lead statues. Kingston could picture the dramatic visual effect achieved by hovering over the cliff face in the helicopter and panning across the colorful terraces.

Right now he had no qualms about going up again with Chris. He hoped he felt the same way when they lifted off tomorrow morning. The weather forecast was favorable: warming and clear for the next three days or so. At least they were lucky in that department.

Kingston spent the rest of the day catching up: replying to e-mails that had piled up over the last several days; searching the Internet trying to compile a dossier on Adrian Walsh; paying his bills online—a new experience, encouraged by his daughter; and finishing the latest Peter Robinson mystery. He’d also called Inspector Carmichael, leaving a message when told he was out for the day. Dinner was leftover pasta from two nights before, washed down with a couple of glasses of an Australian Penfolds Shiraz and a slice of fruit tart made by Andrew, who fancied himself a pastry chef. When Andrew wasn’t cooking or lunching at the current restaurant du jour, he could likely be found at the racetrack.

Kingston had read enough for one day; his eyelids were beginning to droop. He closed the current issue of
Gardens Illustrated
and was about to switch off the bedroom light when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock: ten thirty. “Bit late to be calling someone,” he muttered under his breath, as he reached for the cordless phone.

“Hi, Lawrence, It’s Desmond. Sorry to call so late.”

Kingston could hear a buzz of chatter and clinking glasses in the background.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Right now I’m at the—”

Desmond’s voice became muffled; he was evidently questioning someone nearby.

“The Barley Mow, Baker Street—sorry, it’s bloody noisy in here. I’m staying at a friend’s place in the back of Marylebone High Street for a couple of days. Wondered if you’d like to have lunch or a jar sometime tomorrow or Tuesday? My treat.”

“Tomorrow’s out, I’m afraid, I’m going to be up in a helicopter with a video camera. Tuesday would be fine.”

“A helicopter? This I’ve got to hear about. But Tuesday, great—where do you want to meet?”

Kingston thought for a moment. “Look, why don’t you cab it over here and I’ll order something in. There’s a good deli around the corner. How does that sound?”

“Not like you, Lawrence, to turn down a free lunch. But that’s fine by me, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. How does noonish sound? Do you still remember where my flat is?”

“Lawrence, it’s been over a year since I was last invited. Don’t worry, though. It’s all in my little black book.”

“Tuesday it is then. If there’s time afterward, we could run over to Kew. I want to look up an old colleague who works there. While we’re at it, we can take a look at those giant lilies. I believe they have both
cruziana
and Longwood hybrid, a cross of
amazonica.
”

“I’d enjoy that. Haven’t been to Kew for ages. By the way, I’ve got more thoughts about your salt-sucking water lily. Has your friend shown up, by the way?” Before Kingston could answer he said, “Sorry, I suppose I should have asked that first.”

“No. Stewart’s still missing, I’m afraid. I’ve been doing a little nosing around myself, though. I’ll tell you about it.”

“Who’d have guessed? See you Tuesday—bright and early, one or the other. Cheers.”

Kingston hardly recognized Desmond when he arrived at the flat. He wasn’t used to seeing Desmond in anything but jeans and grubby T-shirts, and here he was looking as though he’d just stepped out of an Austin Reed catalog: stone-colored linen jacket, navy and camel check button-down shirt, and tan chino slacks. Even his hair was less of a tangle than usual.

They sat in the high-ceilinged living room, Kingston sitting cross-legged in a leather wingback, Desmond leaning back on the sofa, each with a glass of Heineken. The decor was unmistakably masculine. Overstuffed and leather seating, antique furniture, books everywhere, gilt-framed oil paintings and watercolors, family photographs, artifacts and military memorabilia dotted around. Despite the clutter there was surprising orderliness. A large vase of white roses, lilies, and freesias atop a French sideboard was the only feminine touch. Megan had always loved flowers in the house and Kingston had preserved the custom.

“So what brings you to town?” Kingston asked.

“I’m looking for money.”

“Hope that’s not why you’re here, old chap.”

Desmond smiled. “I know better than that. No—I came down to meet a loan officer at the bank. They’re putting together a loan package for me. I’m expanding, Lawrence.”

“More space?”

“No, a second location. I did a bunch of due diligence and figured another location closer to London would be a no-brainer. Searching for a place big enough, in a good area, was a problem but I’ve found a super location, near Finchley.”

“Good for you, Desmond. I’m surprised there’s that much interest in water plants. By the way, I hope you’re not calling it ‘Across the Pond Two,’ are you?”

Desmond grinned. “What else?”

Kingston rolled his eyes in resignation and took a longer than normal sip of beer. “I’ll pull lunch together when we’ve finished these.”

Desmond leaned forward, glass resting on one knee. “So, how did it go yesterday?”

“As far as I can tell, very well. Unlike the first time, uneventful, thank goodness. The gardens looked extraordinary from the air. Particularly Powis. Have you been there?”

Desmond nodded.

“Well, I can tell you, that hovering opposite the cliff face with the terraces in full color, the massive yew hedges, and the castle towering above it all was spectacular. I can’t wait to see the footage.”

Desmond was frowning. “You said ‘the first time.’You went up before?”

Kingston suddenly realized that Desmond knew nothing about the ill-fated first trip and the stolen tape. He had been so preoccupied over the last days that he’d forgotten all about Desmond. So, for the next five minutes, making it sound a touch James Bond-ish, he told Desmond about the helicopter crash and the tape theft, finishing with a mention of his visit to the Woodfords and Walsh’s death. Desmond listened stone-faced until Kingston was finished.

“This is serious stuff, Lawrence. You should really think twice about getting more involved.”

“You may be right, but given what we know now, the helicopter thing was going to happen anyway—unavoidable.” He drained his glass and put it on the coffee table. “I’m getting really worried about Stewart, though. It’s been almost three weeks.”

“Be careful, Lawrence, that’s all. If this chap Walsh’s death
wasn’t
a suicide and he was connected somehow to Stewart’s disappearance, then these people—whoever they are—aren’t the kind of people you want to mess with. Given everything you’ve told me, I would knock it off if I were you, before they start singling you out.”

Kingston stood and picked up their empty glasses. “You’re probably right, Desmond.” He paused before leaving. “Though I should tell you that I still plan to take a look at Walsh’s garden if I can. Want to come along?”

Desmond sighed, closing his eyes momentarily while shaking his head. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll probably have company, anyway. I’ve left a message for Inspector Carmichael. I’m sure he’ll give me permission. He may even want to join me.” He clapped his hands. “Anyway, let’s have some lunch. Help yourself to another beer, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

In short order, Kingston returned, balancing two plates with lox and cream cheese, bagels, a bowl of crisps, and a wad of napkins. “You said you had more thoughts about the water lily?” he asked, placing it all on the coffee table.

“Right.” Desmond bit into his bagel and wiped his mouth, not too daintily, with the cloth napkin. “I did a little more research. I’m not so sure now that
Victoria cruziana
would be my first choice. It’s more likely
Victoria amazonica.
At first I rejected
amazonica
because I was under the impression that it was an annual. It turns out it’s not. I read that in its native habitat, where there is little change in water level, plants can last for several years.” He paused to take another bite, munching a few seconds before finishing his thought. “Also, it’s bigger—up to six or seven feet across—and much beefier. So, if size has anything to do with it, that’s your water lily. The one Stewart most likely crossed.” He took a gulp of beer and continued. “You do realize, of course—providing this is not some perverse stunt cobbled up by your friend to cover up his real reason for going AWOL—that cultivation would have to be done under glass. The water would have to be heated. Oxygenated, too.”