EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (2 page)

“Do you know if the police contacted the event organizers in Bristol?”

“They did. Yes.” She shrugged and bit her lip to hold back the tears. “He simply didn’t show up. That was all they said.”

“If it’s too painful to talk about it right now, I understand, Becky.”

Her attempted smile quickly withered. “No, I’m fine,” she said.

Kingston slowed the conversation by taking a longer than usual sip of coffee, lowering the cup gently to the saucer. “What about Stewart’s office, phone numbers or messages, his calendar ?” he asked.

“I’ve been through his things and so have the police, and very thoroughly, I might add. They were here for a good three hours.” She paused, resting her cup and saucer on her knee. “Not much in his datebook, which doesn’t surprise me. A dental checkup, lunch with a friend, as I recall.” She looked away momentarily. “Oh, yes, a service for the Jag and a reminder about repairing some plaster.” She looked back at Kingston, frowning. “If the meeting was important, you would think he’d have made a note of it, wouldn’t you?”

Kingston thought for a moment. “He could have had it committed to memory, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “It’s unlikely. Even Stewart would be the first to admit that his memory wasn’t up to snuff. As a matter of fact, he was forever writing notes to himself. It became a joke between us, I’d find them in the damndest places, scribbled on those horrid, colored sticky things.”

Kingston continued asking questions, trying to be solicitous and to not make it sound as if he were interrogating her. He knew he was probably going over the same ground the police had done already but there was always the off chance that, speaking to him, she might recall something now that she had overlooked earlier.

“Had he been acting any differently of late, any subtle changes in his behavior or habits?” he asked, at the risk of sounding like a shrink.

She returned her cup and saucer to the table. “No. The inspector asked the same question. Everything’s been perfectly normal, as far as I can tell. Boringly normal, I might add.”

“Boringly?”

She shook her head. “Lawrence, I didn’t mean Stewart was boring. Though we both know that he’s not exactly the life of the party. What I meant was that there’s not much going on down here. One day is much like the next. So any changes, even small ones, tend to be even more noticeable.”

“I understand, Becky.”

“With me being gone three days a week, I was even less aware of what Stewart was up to.”

Kingston raised his considerable eyebrows. “Are you working part time, again?”

“No. Last year I joined a local ladies’ auxiliary—originally, more for something to do than anything else. We’re part of the hospital here. I find it very rewarding.”

“Well, good for you.”

Her expression became pensive. “I suppose if I’d been home on those days and a trifle more attentive, I might have sensed that something was wrong.”

“Hard to say, really. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I suppose not,” she said wistfully. “Would you like some more coffee?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation and when Kingston next looked at Becky, she was frowning.

“There was one thing—I didn’t mention it to the police, I saw no reason to—but Stewart had mentioned a couple of days before he went missing that he was going to give you a call. He asked me to remind him.”

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “No. It was just a casual remark. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Why would I?”

“Hmm. This conference—how many days was it supposed to last?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “I mean, did Stewart tell you how long he was going to be gone?”

“I believe it was three days but he said he was only going for the one day. Apparently, most of the lectures, panel discussions—you know, whatever they were talking about—were of no interest to him, only the one on Friday.”

“We should find out the agenda for that day.”

“I’m sure the police know by now.”

“So, the last time you saw him was … early on Friday morning?”

“Yes. He left at seven thirty saying he’d be back in time for dinner, which is usually around seven. We discussed how long it would take for him to get there. I said it was at least a two-hour drive but he thought he could do it in a lot less at that time of the day.”

Kingston smiled. “If he’s still driving the XK140, he probably could.”

She nodded. “I worry about him driving that thing sometimes.”

“After … what? It has to be at least ten years he’s had that car. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. In any case, the police will certainly have checked all the hospitals along Stewart’s route by now.”

“They told me they already had.”

Kingston leaned forward, placing hands on his knees. “At the risk of appearing nosy, Becky, would you mind if I took a look at his desk?”

“Of course not.” She paused, then with a knowing smile said, “I see you haven’t changed, Lawrence.”

Getting up from his chair, he returned the smile. “As the saying goes, ‘Man changes often but seldom gets better.’”

She led him from the living room down a short hallway to a small room that could only be a man’s refuge. One entire wall was book-filled shelves. Books, magazines, folders, and sheaves of papers were stacked on every available surface. Multicolored Post-It notes were stuck on a scarred oak roll-top desk that had its share of clutter. On the wall behind the desk were three framed diplomas and a couple of watercolors, all slightly askew. Kingston, a stickler for orderliness, was tempted to straighten them but held back. He looked more closely at one of the paintings. It was dreadful, even worse than it looked from a distance. He turned to Becky. “Did Stewart dabble in watercolors?”

“Yes, those are his.”

“Hmm, he has a good feel for it. Yes, quite a nice touch.”

Standing by the door behind him, Becky sighed. “It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?” Kingston nodded, taking in the small space. Even if he started poking through Stewart’s things, what could he possibly hope to find that could further explain Stewart’s whereabouts or what had happened to him? He turned to Becky. “Did you go into his computer?”

“Me? Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t even know how to turn the damned thing on. The police did, however. Apparently, they didn’t find anything worth mentioning—at least for now. One of their technical people is coming back to take out the hard drive—whatever that means.”

“That figures,” he mumbled.

Becky watched, saying nothing, as Kingston—more to give the appearance that he was at least doing
something
—picked absently through the pieces of paper strewn across the desk, glancing at some, discarding others. He opened the top drawer of the desk to reveal a mishmash of pencils, pens, paper clips, pads, Polo mints, and assorted office-type stuff. He closed it quickly and continued to poke around. After a minute or so he gave up and was about to join Becky at the door when he glimpsed the edge of a folded newspaper tucked under two magazines. It wasn’t so much the newspaper but the all too familiar black-and-white checkerboard squares of a crossword puzzle that grabbed his attention. Not any puzzle, though—he knew, without unfolding the paper, that it was
The Times
Saturday jumbo puzzle. He had been doing the mind-bending cryptic puzzles for as long as he could remember. What’s more, so had Stewart. At one time they used to call each other every weekend to see who had solved the most clues. Rarely did either of them complete an entire puzzle.

Out of curiosity, he pulled out the paper to see how many answers were filled in. Not many—fewer than a dozen. He gazed around the small space one more time, not knowing where else to look or even what he was looking for. Remembering Becky’s remarks about the entries in Stewart’s datebook, he flipped through the pages for June:

Thursday, 1:
Dental Appt.

Saturday, 3:
Lunch with Jeremy—the Cricketers.

Tuesday, 6:
Oil change/lube.

Friday, 9:
Plaster needs fixing.

Then, scribbled directly under that:
Fork.

Kingston stopped, his hand resting on the page: Friday, June 9, the day Stewart went missing. What did “Fork” mean, he wondered? It looked somehow odd, on its own.

“Any idea what ‘Fork’ means, Becky?” he asked. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Sorry. Yes, I saw that. The policeman asked me, too. I’ve really no idea. Maybe he was going to buy one—for the garden, I mean.”

“That would make sense, I suppose,” said Kingston. “How about Jeremy? Who is he?”

“He’s our accountant. The police said they were going to talk with him.”

Kingston took one last glance at Stewart’s untidy office before closing the door behind him. He was wondering whether they should check to see how many forks Stewart already had in the garden shed, then dismissed the idea.

They went out into the garden. It was warm, though with the slightest murmuring of a breeze, and all around them was a heady confection of color and fragrance. “I must say, Stewart’s done a marvelous job knocking this place into shape,” said Becky. “I don’t think you saw it when we first moved in. It was a wilderness, a total shambles.”

“I didn’t, no. It’s exceptionally beautiful, there’s no doubt about it. I wish now I’d brought my camera.”

They walked in silence for a moment, Kingston admiring Stewart’s well-chosen selection of plants overtaking the gravel path on both sides: catmint, lamb’s ear, cottage pinks and several hybrids of hardy geraniums intermingled with other perennials.

Crossing the new-mown top lawn, its distinct grassy whiff still in the air, they passed under the long wisteria-covered pergola and down a shallow flight of stone steps to the lower lawn. Kingston looked up at the hanging clusters of lilac-blue flowers. “Gorgeous,” he said.

“It is,” Becky replied. “I only wish it would last longer.”

Kingston nodded in agreement as they continued across the lawn, the pond on their left, demarcated by a curve of weeping willows. They stopped at the bottom of the garden, on the edge of the ha-ha, a deep ditch spanning the width of the garden intended to keep the neighboring sheep from straying into the garden, while at the same time maintaining an uninterrupted view of the landscape. The bucolic scene across the sheep-dotted pasture to the golden fields beyond made conversation seem superfluous. Becky broke the spell.

“That’s the village of Stoke Magna, way over there,” she said, shielding her eyes with her hand. “It won a prize several years ago as the prettiest village in Hampshire. We walk there, across the fields, for Sunday services, sometimes.” She glanced at her watch then turned to face him. “Goodness, it getting quite late,” she said. “I haven’t even shown you your room. We redecorated it since you were last here. You’ll be pleased, it’s not quite so frilly.” They turned and headed back to the house. “By the way, I booked the table at the King’s Head for seven o’clock,” she said. “The food’s excellent. I thought we could have a drink here before leaving. We still have that bottle of your favorite whisky.”

“Becky,” he said, taking her hand. “I don’t want you to go out of your way on my behalf. You have enough to worry about already.”

She looked up at him with a forced smile. “We do have to eat, you know. I’m just sorry I’m not up to cooking right now.”

Their table was ready when they arrived at the King’s Head. Each with a glass of Vouvray, waiting for the first course—both of them had ordered the Waldorf salad—they continued to speculate about Stewart’s disappearance and his odd behavior. Kingston did most of the talking, using his considerable way with words and soothing manner to try to convince Becky that there had to be a simple explanation for everything and, most of all, for her not to give up hope so early in the game. Soon, he became aware that he was starting to repeat himself and by the time the salads arrived, an unspoken consent was reached: Further discussion on the subject served no useful purpose. Throughout the remainder of the meal, Kingston kept the conversation from flagging with a recounting of the year that he had spent in Somerset, restoring a large garden for a young American woman who had inherited an estate there. Becky, of course, had read all about it in the newspaper but with Kingston’s telling, it became another story entirely. The dinner ended with coffee and an updating of their respective daughters’ lives and careers: Sarah and her new baby in Shrewsbury, where her French husband owned a successful restaurant, and Kingston’s daughter Julie, who lived in Seattle and worked for Microsoft.

The next morning, after a tentative hug at the front door, they said their good-byes and Kingston drove off. Just before the turn at the end of the short street, he looked in his rearview mirror. Becky was still standing there waving.

He eased back into the leather bucket seat, ready for the drive home, and shook his head. He was none the wiser now than he had been when he’d arrived yesterday, as to why her husband should have suddenly disappeared without a word or trace.

TWO

W
ith his knife, Kingston deftly removed the crown of the soft-boiled brown egg cradled on its china cup. He’d first purchased the Cornish free-range eggs a year ago at Harrods, on a whim. From that day he was hooked. It was the platonic essence of egg. Taking a bite of buttered toast, then a spoonful of egg, with the barest sprinkle of salt, he read the 9-across
Times
crossword clue one more time:
Plain cake might be seen (7)
.
¹
It made no sense—hardly unusual. This morning, he was finding it hard to concentrate—a prerequisite for anyone entering “the territory of addictive, potentially delusional compulsions that make the puzzles anything but a harmless pastime,” as one cruciverbalist put it.

His mind kept drifting back to yesterday, to Stewart’s untidy desk, his unfinished crossword puzzle and the appointments in his datebook. The dental visit, the lube and oil job, the lunch with Jeremy, the plastering—each was the kind of entry one would expect to find in a datebook. It was the word “Fork,” standing on its own, that still bothered him. He pushed aside the crossword and spooned the last of the egg from the shell, following it with the last of the toast and a sip of tea.