EG02 - The Lost Gardens (15 page)

Chapter Eleven

By the time the cab pulled into the driveway at Wickersham it was ten thirty. With only the porch light lit, Kingston concluded that Jamie had probably turned in early. Just as well—he was far too tired to have to relate the events of the day right now. He paid off the driver and went to the cottage.

In the small living room he poured an inch of Macallan from the bottle on the mahogany butler’s table that served as the bar. He added a splash of Malvern water, took a sip, exhaled a loud sigh of satisfaction, then crossed the room and sank into the chintz sofa. For a while, he thought about Loftus, and the legions of servicemen who would live out their private lives forever haunted by memories and nightmares of wartime horror and death. Considering their short span of time together, he had developed a genuine liking for the little man.

All in all, the day had gone well: haircut satisfactory, as always; nothing untoward at the flat, save a few rolled-up newspapers on the doorstep (despite his having suspended delivery), a couple of bills that hadn’t been forwarded and a folded note from his neighbour, Andrew. He was in line for a couple of tickets for the opera and did Kingston want to go?

Tomorrow, after he’d told Jamie about his conversation with Loftus, he was going to take her up to the water tank to show her how the water supply and irrigation worked, how it was captured and how it was distributed. He wouldn’t normally have bothered her with it but she had expressed interest and insisted on seeing it, which impressed him.

He also planned to inspect the chapel again, and that made him think of Roger Ferguson. How was he coming along with his search, he wondered? Something else struck Kingston as odd, too. Why hadn’t he called? Surely there couldn’t be many other things that would have higher priority for him than the chapel. He made a mental note to ring Roger tomorrow. He spent five minutes reading the first few pages of
The Times
, finished his whisky, turned off the light and went upstairs to bed.

At nine o’clock the next morning, the sky was darkening like a spreading ink stain. No question a bad storm was in the offing. After spending an hour with the construction crew going over new plans for the lime walk and the summerhouse, Kingston walked up to the house. It was raining heavily now and ponderous clouds were hanging low in the sky. As he approached the house, he saw that many of the windows were lit. He found Jamie in the living room, by a table lamp, reading. She looked up when he entered.

‘Morning, Lawrence.’ She rested the book in her lap. ‘Miserable morning. I didn’t hear you last night. What time did you get back?’

‘About half ten. I was exhausted. Saw all the lights off, so I went straight to bed.’

‘Everything all right at home?’

‘Yes, fine, thanks, No problems.’

‘Good.’

Wasn’t she going to ask him about Loftus?

‘Did you get a haircut? Doesn’t look like it.’

‘Wish my barber, Jackie, could’ve heard what you just said.’

‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Well she maintains that with a proper haircut, it shouldn’t look as if one’s just had one, nor should it look like one needs one.’

‘Very profound.’

He was beginning to feel awkward just standing there discussing his damned haircut. Perhaps he should cobble up an excuse to leave and tell her about the meeting later. She saved him the trouble.

‘The coffee’s hot in the kitchen. Why don’t you go get some and then tell me what happened with the soldier.You did meet with him?’

‘Yes, I did. He’s a very nice man. I learned quite a lot.’

Kingston returned with a mug of coffee and sat down in the wingback opposite Jamie. There were others, but somehow he always ended up in the same chair.

‘I’ve forgotten. What was the man’s name?’ asked Jamie.

‘Loftus—Arthur Loftus—a lance corporal back in the war days. It was most—’ A low rumble of distant thunder smothered the end of his sentence.

Jamie glanced to the window where the wind was picking up, slapping fat blobs of rain on the panes. She looked back at Kingston. ‘That was nearly sixty years ago. How old is he, for God’s sake?’

‘I didn’t ask. But I know he’s over eighty. Sharp as a two-edged sword, though.’ He took a sip of coffee and started to recount what Loftus had told him. She leaned forward perceptibly and for the next five minutes listened without interrupting.

‘Well, that’s about it—as near as dammit,’ said Kingston. He searched her face trying to gauge her thoughts but her expression was ambiguous. ‘Well, what do you think?’

She gave his question a few seconds’ thought before answering. ‘I’m not sure. You see, all along I’ve thought of Ryder as being a good guy. And from what you’re suggesting—I should say Loftus—that may not have been the case.’

‘True, but remember, at this point, it’s only his word we’ve got to go on.’

‘I understand, but can’t you see, this changes things. Sure, much of what I’m doing here is of my own choosing but in the back of my mind, there’s always been the other underlying reason, the question of doing what’s right, morally, that gives the entire project much more meaning and gratification. A sense of purpose.’

‘I know what you’re saying, Jamie. You’d mentioned it earlier. About “doing it as a tribute to the Ryder family,” I think you put it.’

‘That’s right. But now, if it turns out that Ryder wasn’t the war hero that we all thought and instead, was—well, someone just short of being a murderer—how do you think that makes me feel?’

‘Jamie, I think you’re getting upset needlessly,’ he said, suddenly thrown on the defensive. ‘Ryder may have had every right and good reason to shoot the chap. I don’t know what regulations would apply in a case like this but I do know that at one time, desertion in the face of the enemy meant execution on the spot.’ He paused briefly and shrugged. ‘This is one man’s account, Jamie—only Loftus’s side of the story.’

Kingston was quickly realizing that it would be unwise to pursue this line of reasoning. If he did, she would become increasingly and unnecessarily agitated. He lowered his voice. ‘Look, unless by some stroke of luck more information about Ryder comes to light, we may never know what
really
happened back in that Dutch village.’ He gestured to her with open palms. ‘So we might as well leave it buried in the past and get on with things. In any case, we’re talking about the Ryder
family
. And in that context I don’t see any reason for you to feel any differently. After all, there were two other brothers who fought and died for their country and I’m willing to bet that, if we were to research the family’s genealogy, you would find that there were other Ryders who fought gallantly in other wars. So your motivation remains just as principled as before, Jamie.’

‘All right. Maybe I
am
making too much of it. But there’s nothing else you’ve mentioned that further explains why Ryder did what he did—that is, name me as his heir. Isn’t that why you went to all this trouble in the first place? You may be looking for something that’s simply not there.’

‘You’re probably right,’he said, just to make her feel better but not agreeing. He glanced out of the window ready to change the subject. ‘If this rain keeps up,’ he said, ‘you may want to think twice about going up to the water tank. It’s a bit of a hike and it can get quite slippery.’

‘Let’s just wait and see, maybe it’ll clear up this afternoon. Your weather has a strange habit of doing that.’

‘Why don’t I check in with you after lunch, then?’

‘Fine—oh, I forgot to tell you. A man called for you yesterday, from the Record Office. Sounded like death warmed up—Roger, I think he said his name was.’

‘Yes, Ferguson. Did he leave a message?’

‘Just for you to call, that’s all. He left his number, I’ve got it in the office.’

Kingston was standing. ‘Don’t worry, I have his card.’For a moment he considered telling Jamie his theory about the old priory but considering her mood he thought better of it. Plus, there was the distinct risk of her thinking that he was developing a complex of some kind.

With the absence of mains water in rural areas, nearly all of Britain’s large country houses had to rely on nearby local sources for their water supply: rivers, streams, lakes and wells. Kingston had researched several such houses, including Heligan, to learn more about how the water supply was delivered to the house and how the irrigation systems worked.

From everything he’d learned, the estate at Wickersham—if it were to have employed the same water supply systems as many of its contemporaries—would have a large reservoir located in one of the highest points on the estate. He was soon proved right. Though not an early priority, it had been located quickly, approximately half a mile behind the house on the north side: a massive stone and brick holding tank that Kingston estimated would hold close to fifty thousand gallons of clean water.

The rain had stopped shortly after noon and the sun had broken through the clouds when Kingston and Jamie set off for the water tank. On the hike up they had paused on a knoll that offered a splendid 180-degree panorama of the estate.

‘There’s some of your vineyard slopes,’ said Kingston, pointing to a series of gently rolling, grass-covered hills that encompassed at least forty acres of land.

She didn’t answer right away, giving the scene what Kingston took to be a long critical appraisal. ‘Could be a great place to start,’ she said. ‘The exposure’s good.’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to get access,’ said Kingston.

‘And with what we know already, irrigation shouldn’t be a problem.’

The talk for the remainder of the climb up to the reservoir was about growing grapes.

Five minutes was more than enough for them to inspect the reservoir. Jamie was polite but Kingston got the impression that she would much rather be doing a closer exploration of the land for her vineyards than looking at a stone and brick edifice full of murky water.

‘Come on,’ said Kingston. ‘I’ll show you something a trifle more interesting.’ He started up a narrow dirt path that wound its way higher up the hill. After ten minutes or so, during which they descended into a small valley, passed through dense overgrowth, and then climbed up the other side into open land, they finally arrived at a small clearing. In the centre was a three-sided structure built of stone. The two narrow long walls, only two feet high, enclosed steps that went down about five feet and then stopped; the opening was filled with mud and debris.

‘This is the ram chamber,’ said Kingston, ready to show off the knowledge that he’d gleaned from his Heligan research. ‘When we dig out all the crud, we’ll find two or three ram pumps down there, two to five inches in capacity. They’re capable of pumping close to ten gallons of water a minute, to a height of three hundred feet, over a one-mile distance.’

‘That’s an awful long way. How are they powered?’

‘That’s the beauty, Jamie. They’re powered by nature, by gravity, from the stream that feeds them.’ Kingston was already on the move again. ‘One last short climb.’

Heading north away from the ram house Jamie followed as they wound their way farther up the hill. After another five minutes they arrived at a small stone building with a sloped roof. Along one side of it was a deep trough.

‘This is the catch basin,’said Kingston.

Jamie was sitting on the edge of the stone wall of the trough, seemingly happy just to rest after the steep climb, which hadn’t seemed to affect Kingston at all.

‘Here’s how it works. When you consider that this was probably engineered well over one hundred years ago, it’s sheer genius.’ He was pointing farther up the hill. ‘Up in the valleys above us somewhere—Jack and I haven’t explored there yet—one or more streams will have been dammed and the overflow is channelled down here through large pipes, at least four inches in diameter. From here the water is directed down individual pipes called drive pipes. Each one of these is connected to the back of a hydraulic ram pump down below. Bear in mind that the system relies entirely on gravity, so the drive pipes must be set at an angle of no less than 45 degrees. This was no mean feat of engineering when you consider that back in those days the pipes had to be cut into the rock face of the hill and that meant either pickaxes or dynamite.’

‘It’s amazing,’ said Jamie.

‘The bad news is, we’re going to have our work cut out for us to bring it all back to working order. All the mud is going to have to be taken out by hand. It’s going to be a long and back-breaking bucket brigade, I’m afraid. Then we have to lug out the ram pumps and those things weigh a ton, they’re made of iron and brass.’

‘What about them? The pumps? I would imagine that they’d be in pretty bad shape after being buried in mud for sixty-plus years.’

‘That was the case at Heligan and I’m sure that’s going to be the case here. Amazingly enough, the company that built their original system in 1880 is still in operation. More unbelievable is that spare parts are still available.’

‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed that it’s the same company that built ours.’

On the way down, at Kingston’s urging, Jamie talked more about winemaking: this time about the complex steps and the decision-making that confront the winemaker once the grapes have made their journey from the vineyards to the winery.

‘Practically all red grapes and white grapes have clear colourless juice. The red pigment is the grape skins. But you probably knew that,’ she said, glancing at Kingston, who nodded. She continued. ‘I’ll try to keep it simple. Unlike white grapes that we usually press within hours of their arrival at the winery—the juice separated from the skins—red grapes require extended contact with the skin. So red wine is made by fermenting the juice, pulp and skins together. After several days of fermentation the red wine is then pressed.’ She went on to talk about the strains of yeast used in the critical multi-step biochemical process that convert the sugars into alcohol; the importance of temperature control during fermentation; the traditional use and repeat use of French or American oak barrels, the insides of which are toasted at the cooperage, and how they contribute to the flavours, aromas and complexity of the wine as it ages.