EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (13 page)

“My name’s Alison Greer—you won’t know me. I’m calling about your friend Stewart Halliday.”

Her voice was soft and betrayed a flicker of nervousness. Kingston was caught unawares by the mention of Stewart’s name, so much so that he didn’t reply right away.

“It’s about your friend and a man named Adrian Walsh,” she said.

Kingston tensed. “Stewart and Walsh. Really?”

“You know Walsh?”

“Only by name. I never got to meet him. I do know he was killed recently. It was on television and in the paper.”

“He was, yes.”

“I’m curious. What made you decide to call me? How did you get my number?”

“I got it from Rebecca Halliday. She was reluctant to give it to me at first but when I told her I knew her husband, she agreed.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t let me know.”

“I only spoke with her yesterday.”

“Are you a friend of Becky’s?”

“No, not at all. I’ve never met her.”

“May I ask why you were calling her?”

“After Adrian’s death, I got to thinking what a coincidence it was that he was murdered and your friend went missing about the same time, particularly after I’d seen them together several times at Swallowfield. I read about his disappearance in the paper. Calling Rebecca seemed the thing to do. She was pleased that I did—or so she said. We talked for quite a while.”

She paused for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something, then continued. “Rebecca knew nothing of Adrian—which didn’t come as a surprise—but told me that you were helping the police find Stewart and suggested I give you a call. I might have some information that could be of help.”

“Have you spoken with the police?”

“Not yet. I thought I would talk to you first.”

“So Stewart and Adrian Walsh—they were friends?”

“Friends or in business together. Possibly both, I suppose.”

“Interesting.”

“I was wondering if we could meet. For some reason the phone doesn’t seem right to talk about something so serious. It’s so impersonal.”

“I couldn’t agree more … Mrs. Greer.”

“Alison, please. And it’s Miss—I’m not married.”

“Where would you like to meet? Where do you live?”

“In Hampshire. In Hartley Wintney. Do you know it?”

“I do. I had a friend there who used to own an antiques shop in the high street, back in the eighties. There were a number of them in those days.”

“Not any more. You could count them on one hand, sad to say. I’m told it’s harder to find antiques nowadays.” She sighed, then paused. “You’re in London, I take it?”

Kingston thought that should be obvious from the prefix she’d dialed. “Yes, but I can take a run down there.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“No problem.”

“Is tomorrow a possibility?”

He thought for a moment. “It is, as a matter of fact.”

“We could meet at my cottage—if that’s all right with you.”

“That’s fine.”

“How about mid-afternoon—about three? I’ll make some tea.”

“I look forward to it. How do I find you?”

“It’s easy. In Hartley Wintney, take the Fleet Road off the A30. I’m on the village green. Pennyroyal Cottage.”

He jotted down the directions and the conversation ended.

Kingston went into the kitchen, where the crossword puzzle sat on the pine table. He sat looking at it but not reading. He was thinking of another puzzle and whether Alison Greer might provide a clue that would help toward solving it. Tomorrow, maybe, he would get the answer.

TEN

D
espite the somber clouds that had been threatening rain all morning, it was still dry when Kingston arrived in front of Pennyroyal Cottage in the TR4. He smiled to himself, wondering if she was going to offer him mint tea. He hoped not. Pennyroyal was the common name for
Mentha pulegium,
a variety of mint, oddly enough, safe as a flavoring but poisonous in large quantities. He couldn’t stand the stuff. Nor could he tolerate any of the other so-called teas—the herbal and fruit ones. There was one he’d seen in Partridge’s grocery, called green mango. He could just imagine what that tasted like.

In dismal weather, the cottage presented a cheering sight. Built of rosy brick and flint, with leaded casement windows and dark gray thatch, Kingston pegged it as mid nineteenth century. He was reminded of a quote from the influential gardener of that time, William Robinson: “Among the things made by man nothing is prettier than an English cottage garden.”

The narrow strip of front garden was well cared for, with the typical higgledy-piggledy of colorful perennials and annuals. A canopy of honeysuckle blanketed the arched entrance. Alongside, spread-eagling the wall, the climbing rose, Alchymist, was putting on quite a show with its copper-colored old-garden-form blooms and dark glossy leaves. He got out of the TR4 and stretched his legs, running his fingers through his tousled ivory hair, knowing that it would have little or no effect. He took his carefully folded double-breasted navy blazer from behind the seat and slipped it on. Using the puny side-view mirror—which required squatting in an ungainly position—he checked his appearance. With a yellow hanky dangling from the blazer pocket, Tattersall check shirt and tan gabardine slacks, he was beginning to think he might be a trifle overdressed for the occasion.

He stepped up to the powder blue front door, dropped the bronze dolphin knocker, and waited.

The door was opened by a petite woman with glossy dark hair cut in pageboy style with not a hair out of place, no makeup—maybe lip gloss—and unusually blue eyes. She was smartly dressed in a Jaeger look: pale blue cardigan over a white blouse and black skirt. At first glance, Kingston figured her to be fortyish but as she moved into the band of light from the open door he noticed the laugh wrinkles on the sides of her eyes and the faint creasing at the edge of her mouth. He upgraded her—or was it downgraded—to mid-fifties.

“I’m Alison,” she said, taking Kingston’s large hand in hers, in what served as a handshake.

“A pleasure meeting you,” said Kingston. “Your cottage is lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad you could come, Doctor.” It was the same disarming voice he’d heard over the phone. She let go of his hand and looked him up and down without attempting to disguise it. “You’re—well, somehow as I pictured.”

Kingston smiled. “Lawrence, please. No need for the professor stuff—it makes me feel like I’m back in the classroom. Old before my time.”

Smiling back, dimples appeared on each cheek. “Well, we can’t stay on the doorstep. Come on in,” she said.

He nodded and stooped to clear the black beam above the door.

Kingston glanced around the living room with an approving eye. Based on the TLC put into the garden, it was as he expected: tastefully furnished in scale to suit the small room, with sofa and chairs alongside and facing the stone fireplace, mostly antique furniture, and cinnamon-color sisal carpeting. Atop a mahogany Pembroke table by the window, mixed in with a gilt carriage clock, a few porcelain figures, and some silver pieces, was a framed photo of what he assumed was a pre-teen Alison with an older woman—probably her mother. Alongside it was another photo of her, clearly more recent. A third picture of her was perched on the fireplace mantle. The walls were painted in a wash of pale yellow, the wood trim white enamel. Everything was neat and tidy, with not a mote of dust in sight.

“Please,” said Alison, gesturing to the chintz sofa.

Kingston sat and crossed his long legs, careful not to kick the coffee table.

She sat facing him. “The kettle’s on, so any time you want tea, let me know.”

“Perhaps a little later.” Kingston undid the brass buttons on his blazer and got as comfortable as the pillowed sofa would allow. “So, you knew Stewart?” he asked.

“Yes, a nice man. I’d met him—oh, two or three times—at Adrian Walsh’s house in Upper Woodford.” She plucked a stray hair that had fallen across her eye and put it back in place. She was a neat one all right, thought Kingston. He was about to ask what her relationship with Walsh was but there was no need.

“I should explain. I’m—I should say,
was,
I suppose—Adrian’s private secretary.”

“I see,” said Kingston, leaning forward. “Then Walsh’s death must have been an awful shock?”

“It was and still is. I still can’t get over it—or understand why it happened.” She reached in her cardigan sleeve, pulled out a small handkerchief and dabbed her nose.

Kingston could tell that she was trying hard to keep her composure. She seemed the type who would rather leave the room than betray any kind of emotion or show even the slightest signs of vulnerability.

“Do you have any idea why Stewart was visiting Walsh?”

She hesitated, placing a finger across her lower lip, looking away for a moment. “I’m not sure. I used to take things to Adrian when he wasn’t at the office in Farnborough. It was usually just a case of dropping off or picking up. There was the odd occasion, though, when I’d stay for a cup of tea or sometimes—if it was toward the end of the day—a drink. Adrian was a bit of a loner, not to say that he didn’t enjoy company once in a while, but mostly if it was someone he knew and was comfortable with. He didn’t suffer fools gladly and let it be known.”

Kingston noted that she used his first name. She had on the phone, too, he recalled. Did that suggest that there might have been more familiarity than she was implying? She was certainly attractive and it would be no surprise if that were the case. “Was Adrian Walsh married?”

“He
was
—some years ago. His wife was an alcoholic. She was in and out of rehab and treatment centers for years. It finally caught up with her. There were no children, which Adrian deeply regretted. She was too sick to raise a family, of course, so in some ways it was for the best, I suppose.” She shrugged and continued. “Not long after his wife’s death, Adrian’s only brother, Malcolm, was killed in a car accident. It was in all the papers at the time. To make matters worse, the accident was Malcolm’s fault—drunk driving. Adrian used to talk about him all the time. ‘My kid brother,’ he called him. They were very close. Adrian was devastated, as you can imagine.” She thought for a long moment then looked directly at him, making a brave but hapless effort to smile. “I have no idea what’s going to happen to the estate—well, we didn’t discuss those matters, of course—but I’m sure Adrian had it all taken care of. A will.”

“That’s all very sad,” was all Kingston could think of saying.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rattle on like that.” She gave a tight-lipped smile and folded her hands in her lap.

Kingston had her attention again—or so it seemed. “Getting back to Stewart. You said you weren’t quite sure of the reason he was seeing Walsh?”

“Yes. I knew that Stewart Halliday was a botanist and that he and Adrian shared an interest in gardening. The garden was a huge part of Adrian’s life, by the way. He wasn’t what they call a checkbook gardener—paying other people to do all the work and taking all the credit. Mind you, he could have afforded an army of gardeners if he had wanted, but he was a hands-on person. Spent his every spare moment in the garden. It was beautiful.” She looked away again, a habit he’d come to accept.

Kingston was hoping she wasn’t off on another trip down memory lane.

“You never saw it, I take it,” she said, looking back at him.

“No. Sadly I arrived the day of the fire.”

His answer seemed to have taken her by surprise. She had pulled out her handkerchief again and was twisting it, nervously, in her lap. There was a moment of silence then she said, “You were at Swallowfield?”

He nodded. “Yes, I was.”

“What were you doing there?”

“A chap called Oswald suggested I go there. He was an acquaintance of Adrian Walsh. They belonged to the same garden club in Salisbury, as did Stewart. Oswald told me that Walsh was a bit of an expert with water plants and I wanted to know if he and Stewart had been working together—you know, swapping stuff, hybridizing, that sort of thing. From what you’ve told me, it appears that he might have been.”

“Probably … yes,” she nodded, as if her mind was elsewhere. “You said you arrived the day of the fire?”

“Yes. By the time I got there, the fire had obviously been going for some time. The police had the house cordoned off. So, sadly, I never got to meet your boss.”

Alison sighed and rubbed the center of her forehead between her eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still can’t believe this has all happened. What was your last question? About wanting to know if Adrian and Stewart were what?”

“I was curious to know if the two of them had been working on any projects together—breeding new plants, hybridizing, designing anything?”

“I can’t be absolutely sure of it but, yes, I believe Adrian and Stewart were doing something of that sort. I overheard them talking in the garden one evening. They were talking about water lilies, come to think of it. I remember thinking about Monet’s garden at the time. Have you been there?”

Here we go again, Kingston said under his breath. “I have, it’s wonderful. “Please, tell me more about Walsh’s garden.”

“Well, to start with, it’s big—several acres. Old yew hedges, lawns, a rose garden, Italian garden, a big fountain.” She rested her chin on her forefinger. “Let me see, what else? Oh, the pond—more of a lake, really. It’s filled with those beautiful Japanese fish—the red and white ones.”

“Koi.”

“Yes.”

“And water lilies, I take it?”

“Right. Large ones. I didn’t know they grew so big.”

Kingston leaned back in the sofa. One of the casement windows was open and the room was getting quite cool. “You know,” he said, “that cup of tea would be good now, if it’s not too much bother.”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” In an instant, she was out of the chair, smoothing her skirt, as if she’d been waiting for the opportunity. “It’ll only take a minute or so. There are some magazines over there in the rack,” she said, leaving the room.

Kingston got up, took a
BBC Homes & Antiques
magazine from the rack, went back to the sofa, and opened it on his lap. Best to have her think he’d been reading while she was gone. He needed time to think.