EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (33 page)

Stewart crossed his arms and sighed. “You know, from the beginning, when Adrian and I found that the plants could actually absorb salt, despite our excitement I was skeptical as to how long they would thrive in salt water and adapt to a large-scale, man-made environment. There were all kinds of logistical questions and potential problems.
Victoria
culture is actually quite easy. As you probably know, Lawrence, it’s cultivated in many countries. With the right water temperature and lots of fertilizer they grow fast. I gleaned lots of information on the Internet. The Web site of a Florida botanic garden gave us all kinds of valuable advice, including a fertilizing formula. Life span was another question.” Stewart paused, eyeing Kingston’s empty wineglass. “There’s plenty more wine, old chap. I can crack open another bottle, if you like.”

“No, I’m fine,” said Kingston. “I’ve had plenty. I’ll wait for the coffee.”

Stewart picked up where he’d left off. “Many horticulturists maintain that
amazonica
is a perennial but our experience suggests that it should be considered an annual. That meant replenishing the tanks every year. I kept telling Blake and the others working at the reservoir that we didn’t have anywhere near enough empirical evidence or reliable data to risk investing the megabucks required to build a biological desalination plant. They wouldn’t listen. They’d witnessed the early results—which I must say, to our amazement were brilliant—and thought of it as akin to alchemy: turning lead into gold.”

“Given more time and better technology, is it a viable future resource?”

“The answer is, I don’t know.” He paused, a faraway look in his eye. “Toward the end, before we abandoned the reservoir, we were starting to run into what I perceived could become serious problems with the plants. Again, Blake wouldn’t listen, of course.”

Kingston frowned. “What kind of problems?”

“Nothing that’s in the books, Lawrence. Something was interfering with the plants’ ability to photosynthesize. I think it had to do with the chloroplasts. The normal chain of electron-transfer steps was off kilter somehow and they weren’t producing enough sucrose. The plants were slowly dying off.”

“The salt, right?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“If you’d had more time, could it have been corrected?”

“Hard to say.”

“So, if you were to try again—”

Immediately, Stewart was shaking his head. “Out of the question, Lawrence.”

“I realize, but if you did, you’re saying that you’d have to start from scratch with a different
Victoria
cross?”

“That’s right.”

They paused, seeing Becky emerge through the French doors, carrying a large tray loaded with coffee, the dessert, plates, and silverware.

“Let’s put it this way,” said Stewart, standing. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if I pick up a paper a couple of years from now and read that somebody’s pulled it off.”

“Scientists are certainly going to be trying to finish what you started,” said Kingston, starting to clear a space on the table.

Becky lowered the tray onto the table and sat down. “Phew, that was heavy,” she said. She poured the coffee, and spooned portions of sherry trifle onto their plates. “Lawrence,” she said, stirring her coffee. “In the kitchen, I was thinking about that woman who was here with you that night—Marian Taylor.”

Kingston smiled “Or ‘Alison Greer.’”

Becky smiled back, nodding. “Either will do. Did the police find her yet?”

“No. Not as of when I last spoke with Carmichael, that is.”

Stewart looked puzzled. “I still find it impossible to believe that she would have killed Adrian. She seemed such a nice person on those occasions when we met at Swallowfield. Particularly that first day—I remember it well. It was unusually warm and we were all out on the lawn having drinks. Adrian introduced her as his secretary. As the day went on, I couldn’t help notice how she fussed over him, almost doting at times. To tell the truth, I think it embarrassed poor Adrian a bit. On the other occasions when the three of us were together she treated him in much the same way.” He shook his head. “Who would have ever thought that she would end up killing him?”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,” said Kingston. “She admitted it.” There was a trace of melancholy in his voice. “To start with, she wouldn’t have done Blake’s bidding if she could have proved her innocence. It all boils down to whether, as she claimed, it was accidental.”

“But why run from the police?” Becky asked.

Kingston sighed and shook his head. “I’ve asked myself that a dozen times.”

Becky picked up her coffee cup and stopped before taking a sip. “If I didn’t know better, Lawrence Kingston, I would say that you have a soft spot for her.”

“The confirmed bachelor?” Stewart exclaimed.

Kingston gave them a sheepish grin—uncharacteristic for him. “All right, I admit that at one point, the idea of—shall we say—companionship had crossed my mind. But I soon realized that was fatuous on my part.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” said Becky.

Kingston shook his head. “No. As I’ve said before, I’ve come to realize that I’m now married to being single. Besides, no one will ever be able to take Megan’s place.”

“Not take her place,” said Becky. “But you could make a new place in your life for someone else.”

At ten the next morning, Stewart and Becky—his arms around her waist—stood under the Iceberg roses at the front gate of The Willows, looking for all the world like a newlywed couple. From the seat of his TR4, Kingston gave them one last farewell wave and, with a smile of fulfillment, drove off. He glanced in the rearview mirror before turning the corner at the Cricketers. They were still standing by the gate and he was still smiling.

The plain envelope bore no return address. It was postmarked London W14. Putting the other mail aside, Kingston opened the envelope and withdrew the letter. The handwriting, in blue ink on ivory stationery, was neat and unquestionably feminine. He started to read.

Dear Lawrence,

My behavior over these last months has no doubt left you disappointed and, I daresay, offended. I’m writing this letter to tell you how deeply sorry I am for what I’ve done and the shameful manner in which I treated you.

I read in the paper about what eventually happened that night at your friends’ house, and was much relieved to learn that you were unharmed and that Blake is now behind bars. What a despicable man. I had no choice but to leave after the police arrived. What follows will explain why.

I chose to write this letter because you deserve an explanation for my irrational and hurtful conduct since you and I got mixed up in this beastly mess. Over these last months I have gained considerable respect for you as a kind and honest person. Your tenacity and courage in the search for Stewart Halliday was remarkable. Few men would have persisted when misled so often and their life placed in such jeopardy.

I want to set the record straight so that you will not go through the remainder of your life thinking ill of me. Much of what Blake said that night was true. What he and you don’t know is that the gun wasn’t Adrian’s. It was mine. I went to Swallowfield to confront him when, after constant pleadings, he refused to recognize my child as his (it is), and wanted to end our relationship. I simply couldn’t accept it. I was desperately in love with him. In the bitter argument and struggle that followed, he wrested the gun from me, and it discharged, killing him. My first thought was to call the police and tell them there had been an accident, but I quickly realized what a helpless mess I was in. They would never believe me. It was my gun, with my fingerprints on it. And to make matters worse, I foolishly tried to cover it up. Even with the best barristers in the country, a jury would convict me in no time for premeditated murder. You know the rest—how Blake was able to blackmail me. Ironically, as long as he had the gun, I was relatively safe. I must presume the police have it now and it will be only a matter of time before they uncover what they perceive to be the truth. That’s why I have made the decision to leave the country—for good.

There’s not much left for me to say, Lawrence. I dearly wish that none of this dreadful business had ever happened and that we could have met under different circumstances. I think I would have liked that. Most of all, Lawrence, I beg your forgiveness.

God bless,

Marian Taylor

EPILOGUE

A
couple of days after receiving Marian Taylor’s letter, Kingston was readying to leave for dinner with Andrew—Japanese, this time—when the phone rang. He thought about letting the answerphone kick in, but with time to spare he picked it up anyway.

“Kingston here,” he said, cheerfully.

“Oh, I’m so terribly glad I’ve been able to reach you,” a soft-spoken man answered. His accent was “frightfully” British, leading Kingston to wonder if he was about to be invited to Highgrove or the Queen’s garden party.

“How may I help you?” asked Kingston.

“First, if I may, let me introduce myself. I’m Aubrey Lloyd-Smith, the vicar of St. Andrew’s in Woolstead.”

Woolstead? Why did the name sound familiar? Then Kingston remembered—the pretty church with the Norman turret, near the reservoir. It had to be the same. There couldn’t be too many Wool-steads. “Ah, yes. In Hampshire, not far from New Milton.”

“That’s right. Not too far from Viktor Zander’s house.”

Hearing Zander’s name caught him unawares. Where was all this leading, Kingston wondered. “What’s this about, then?” he asked.

“It’s about what happened recently. You know, the business with the kidnapping. We all read about you in the newspaper. How you saved that colleague of yours and, of course, the unspeakable behavior of that man Blake. I must say, that was an extraordinary—”

“Yes, yes. But why are you calling me, Vicar?”

“Well, you see, the story mentioned that you were a famous horticulturist and that a few years ago you’d helped restore a famous garden. In Somerset, I believe it was.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Let me see … how should I put this?” He paused for a few seconds.

Kingston could picture him sitting in his book-lined rectory, sipping tea from a willow-pattern cup, tugging at his dog collar.

Then he sighed, probably for effect, thought Kingston. “We have an awfully pretty garden here at St. Andrew’s,” he said, “but I’m afraid to say that it’s become rather shabby over the last year or so. It’s dreadfully overrun and, sad to say, quite a few things have passed on.”

Kingston smiled to himself. In all his years as a botanist and a gardener, he had never heard of plants “passing on.” “And you want me to look at it? Is that it?” he asked.

“That would be awfully nice, if you could, Doctor. We do have a gardener, of course—old Billings—but he’s getting on in years and frankly I’m more than a trifle worried about his health. What we need, most of all, is for someone like you to give it a complete face-lift, as it were. We have plenty of willing hands, by the way—volunteers from the parish.”

Kingston smiled to himself but said nothing.

Aubrey-Smith rattled on. “We’re quite happy to pay you, of course. Though I have to be honest—it wouldn’t be much. We just spent most of our meager funds on a new roof. And you know how costly those can be.”

While the vicar had been talking, Kingston’s mind had flashed back to that night in the Hallidays’ garden when he was about to meet his maker at the hands of Gavin Blake. Was it luck that he happened to be standing on edge of the ha-ha? Or was there another hand in his deliverance—a higher power?

“Vicar,” he said, hearing the doorbell ring, “I’d be more than happy to come down and take a look. I’ve wanted to see your church and the village anyway. And it won’t cost you a penny. How’s that?”

The doorbell rang again.

“I must go,” said Kingston. “Give me your number and I’ll call you back in a day or so.”

Kingston wrote down the number and promised to phone.

“Thank you so much,” the vicar gushed. “Your good deeds will be most appreciated by our parishioners, and I’m sure the Lord will reward you.”

“I think He already has,” Kingston replied, and rang off.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply grateful to the following people and organizations for providing advice, research, and data that helped make my story come to life.

University of Florida Center for Aquatic and Invasive Plants: Karen Brown and Dr. Ken Langeland.

Oxford Air Services Ltd. (helicopter scenes): Michael Hampton, pilot, Aircraft Management and Sales.

Hampshire Constabulary: Sarah Julian (Media Services) and DC Claire Chandler.

Hampshire Police Air Support Unit: Bob Ruprecht, manager.

Peter Kennedy, Peter Kennedy Yacht Services, Marine Electrical Systems.

Land Registry: Carmel Austin, Customer Information Centre

Chelsea Physic Garden: Rosie Atkins, curator.

Sissinghurst Castle: Excerpts from
Sissinghurst: Portrait of a Garden
(New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1990).

Levens Hall, Powis Castle, and Hatfield House: adapted from the video productions
The Great Gardens of England
and
Britain the Garden Kingdom,
written by the author and produced by the Larkspur Company, 1995/1997.

The Trustees of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew: Excerpts from various materials published by Kew.

Times
crossword puzzles: from
The Times
newspaper, London.