EG02 - The Lost Gardens (16 page)

They stopped to take a pause on the knoll where they’d rested on the way up. Sitting on the grass, they looked out over the tree-studded hills and green pastures where curls of clouds were starting to creep through the divides in the valleys. Whereas it was warm on the way up, it was now cooling quickly.

‘Pinot Noir country,’ Jamie muttered.

‘You want those cool nights, eh?’

‘That’s right. It’s one of the trickiest of all wines to make well.’

‘Aren’t Burgundy wines mostly Pinot Noir?’

‘They are. It’s one of the oldest grape varieties yet one of the most demanding and elusive. Even in Burgundy a good vintage comes only once every three years.’ She smiled coyly. ‘Back home we call it Pinot Envy.’

Kingston made no comment, a little taken back.

Jamie went on. It was clear that she enjoyed these little chats about wine and Kingston was only too happy to sit and listen, his normal role reversed.

‘With Pinot, there’re so many difficulties, it’s a wonder growers struggle with it. It’s genetically unpredictable from vineyard to vineyard—you never know what offspring you’re going to get from a parent plant—big or small grapes and clusters, different aromas, flavours and levels of crop.’

‘So, once planted, you’ve got what you’ve got,’ said Kingston.

‘Exactly right. Plus it’s susceptible to just about every affliction known, including Pierce’s disease which can wipe out a vineyard in a couple of years.’ She paused to flip a pebble off the knoll. ‘Worldwide, there are only twelve identifiable clones of Cabernet Sauvignon. With Pinot Noir there’s close to a thousand.’

‘And
you
want to try it?’

‘I have a feeling it might do well here because one of the critical things with Pinot is the climate. It needs relatively cool weather and chalky soil that drains well. That’s why they can make such good Pinots in Oregon and the cooler parts of Northern California, like the Russian River area by the coast and Carneros in Napa and Sonoma right next to the bay.’

‘Maybe you should start with something a little more friendly?’

‘Don’t worry, Lawrence, Pinot will only be an experiment, a challenge. It can become a very expensive business. When I left, the going rate for Pinot grapes was close to three thousand dollars a ton.’

‘The more I hear you talk, the more I like your idea of developing a vineyard here, Jamie. I’d love to be around when you start in on it.’

‘You can be if you want to. I’d love to have the company. I’ve toyed with the idea of bringing a couple of people over but that can wait.’

‘You may even find who you’re looking for here, locally. There’re plenty of wineries in Britain today. I read somewhere that they number over four hundred. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘Really, I had no idea there were
that
many.’

‘Well, if nothing else, some of those people would be aware of some of the more unusual problems of growing grapes in England. As one of our chaps once said to a French grower: “Where is it written that the sun stops shining at the Channel?” ’

She chuckled. ‘How true. Without question, I’ll be picking their brains.’

Kingston said nothing further, having conjured a mental picture of endless rows of vines stretching off into the distant hills surrounding the estate—he and Jamie tasting their very first bottling. Wickersham Vineyards: it had a classy euphony to it. Jamie’s words woke him from his fanciful digression.

She talked about wine all the way back to the house. Kingston could tell that if there was anything at all she was missing from her old life back in California it was making wine.

It was two days before Ferguson returned Kingston’s phone call. Kingston took the call on his mobile at Sherratt’s, the wholesale nursery that was supplying most of the roses for the garden. The conversation lasted little more than a minute.

Jamie had been right about his voice; he said he’d been off work with flu.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ Ferguson said with a nasal twang. He went on to describe a single, undated document that one of his researchers had found. It was in the form of a crude fold-out plan showing the layout of the priory: the great hall, kitchen, various rooms, stables, livestock and storage areas and a garden. ‘But that’s not all,’ Ferguson said, pausing for effect by the sound of it. ‘The drawing indicates a second level plan that shows a network of rooms, vaults and passages. And most interesting of all, is that the second level is underground.’

‘Underground?’

‘That’s right. Just like you guessed. So I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that part of Wickersham is standing on the former basement of the priory, as it were. Now I
have
to see it.’

Chapter Twelve

Walking through the house, Kingston saw no signs of Jamie or Dot. In the living room the windows were opened wide; the lowering sun varnishing the walls and furniture tops with an amber sheen. Approaching the open french doors, he saw the back-lit silhouette of Jamie on the terrace. She was sitting on one of the Chippendale teak benches they’d bought a couple of weeks earlier. As he stepped on to the flagstones he felt a surge of pride at the sight of the three levels of lawn descending from the terrace. Though the sod had been laid barely five weeks ago, they looked surprisingly well established, almost as good as those in the old photos. He looked away with a smile. After mowing and rolling for a few decades, they would look just like those at Sissinghurst Castle garden, as smooth as bowling greens.

Seeing him, Jamie looked up from the pad on her lap and put the ballpoint pen on the table by her side. ‘Hello, Lawrence. Looks like you had a good day?’

He sat down facing her. ‘I did, very good, in fact. At long last, I think I have a final list of the roses. Went over it today with Sherratt’s. There’s a couple that they might have to hunt around for but they don’t see any problems in getting the rest.’ He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, which were tired after the long drive with the sun in his face most of the way. ‘How about you?’

‘Not much to report.’ She took a sip of water from the plastic bottle, which Kingston found a little unrefined despite the fact that he knew most young people nowadays drank their water and beer that way.

‘Oh, I almost forgot, your fellow Loftus called. That’s quite an accent. He left a number.’ She leafed through the pad on her lap and tore off a sheet. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. He couldn’t help noticing the indifference in her voice. ‘Said he was up at his sister’s in Nottingham.’

Kingston glanced absently at the number. ‘Hmm. Did he say what it was about?’

‘No, just to call him.’

They were interrupted by Dot, who wanted to ask Jamie a question about laundry. The conversation was brief and soon Dot went on her way.

‘Her usual vivacious self,’ Kingston muttered.

‘Be nice, Lawrence. We can’t all be Miss Congeniality.’ Jamie got up from the chair and for a moment it looked as if she was about to say something; instead, she looked away, out to the lawns. When she turned back to Kingston, her face had taken on a serious air. Not pensive or the wrinkled-brow sort but the kind of expression that foreshadows a statement of some consequence. He’d seen it before.

‘Lawrence,’ she said, sitting down to face him. ‘I won’t beat around the bush. I’ve decided that all this business of yours digging into Ryder’s past has got to stop.’

‘But, Jamie—’

She raised a hand, palm facing him. ‘Let me just finish, please. When you and I talked earlier, I told you how I felt about your prying into the past and how it was starting to affect me. I know at the time I agreed to your meeting with Loftus mostly because it was a done deal on your part. But to tell the truth, I thought—hoped, rather—that it would lead to a dead end. That it would all eventually go away. But by the looks of it, it clearly hasn’t.’

Kingston listened, like a schoolboy having his privileges withdrawn. He knew when silence was well advised.

‘First, the body in the well, then the theft, and now this hang-up of yours about Ryder. I realize that these events are not necessarily connected in any way, much as
you
might want them to be, but they’re all very serious, scary, in fact. I have this horrible feeling that if we—you, that is—keep digging deeper and deeper, we might uncover things that are best left alone, things that we will come to regret.’

It was the first time Kingston had seen Jamie lose her composure. Biting her lip, she looked away from him. He thought it best, for a moment anyway, to hold his tongue.

At last, she looked back at him, the resentfulness gone, her eyes wistful. ‘What I’m trying to say, Lawrence, is that we are creating something very special here and I want it to continue that way. When you decide that the gardens are ready, it’s my plan to open them to the public, like all the big gardens. Not so much for the money—although I hope that they eventually become self-sufficient—but purely to provide pleasure. I think that gardens should be treated like the paintings that hang in museums. Everyone should be able to see and enjoy them, preferably for free. Gardens even more so than paintings because gardens are a true gift of nature.’ She cast her eyes to her lap, gently kneading her hands. ‘Lawrence, I want you to understand where I’m coming from. If, for whatever reason, I were to lose all this, I’d be sad and disappointed for one reason only, and that is not being able to finish what we’re doing here.’ She made an attempt at a chuckle, looking up at him again. ‘It’s funny, I don’t think I’ll really miss being filthy rich. You’ve come to know me, at least a little, and I’m sure you must have concluded by now that it’s not money that motivates me.’ She gave barest hint of a smile. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you to give up your deerstalker, Lawrence, but from now on you’re going to have leave all that stuff to Chief Inspector Chadwick.’

While he had been listening Kingston had also been trying to come up with some kind of response. He knew, of course, that he had little or no choice in the matter. In retrospect, perhaps he
had
stepped a few paces over the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, given that he was, after all, being paid to do a job. But he was also ready to give himself the benefit of the doubt inasmuch that his principal concern all along—allowing for his admitted propensity for meddling, trying to solve other people’s problems—had been for Jamie’s interests. He certainly didn’t want to let his disappointment show. If he were to admit the truth, he wasn’t really getting very far with his investigations anyway—with the exception of Ferguson’s recent information. He had planned to tell Jamie about that conversation today but it hardly seemed prudent to bring it up now.

Kingston regarded her, as she sat down and took another sip of water. Her face showed no signs of emotion. After the long silence, he spoke. ‘Jamie, I understand fully and I’m sorry. I suppose it was insensitive of me in the first place to get involved with your personal affairs but you must know that it was all done for your sake. But I can see the down side and agree with you.’ He looked past her, out of the tall windows at the failing light. ‘I agree that there is the possibility—though slim, I would think—that further examination of Ryder’s background could result in dredging up something that we least expect, as you say, something we might regret. And if that were to affect you adversely, I would never forgive myself.’ Kingston turned back to her, got up and smiled. ‘So, that said, I promise to hand the case over to Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick from now on and turn my full attention to the gardens.’ He scratched his chin, thinking. ‘I should go and return Loftus’s call though, purely as a courtesy, of course.’

Jamie responded with a faint smile, nodded and watched as he left the room.

In the cottage, ten minutes later, Kingston reached Loftus.

‘Nice to hear from you, doctor,’ he said, his tinny voice sounding even worse on the bad line.

‘How do you like Nottingham?’ Kingston asked, immediately regretting it. He hoped the innocent question wouldn’t set Loftus off on a five-minute dissertation on his sister’s medical history.

Luckily Loftus wasn’t in one of his talkative moods. ‘Very nice,’he replied. ‘Don’t miss the Smoke one bit.’

‘Jamie said you wanted to talk to me.’

‘Right. I came across something you might be interested in. Gladys, me sister, bought me some new scrapbooks and I’ve been sortin’ through all my photos. Anyway, I came across one of Sergeant Kershaw with his arm round that young soldier friend of his. The one whose name I couldn’t remember. Wondered if you’d like it.’

‘I would,’said Kingston. ‘Very much.’

‘Right then, I’ll pop it in the post.’

They chatted for a bit, said their goodbyes and Kingston put down the phone.

Two days later he received Loftus’s photo and a scribbled note. He put the note, which was almost indecipherable, aside for a moment and studied the two-by-four photo then flipped it over. On the yellowing back, in scratchy pencil, were the words,
Jeremy and Kit—July 22nd 1944
. Turning it over he looked at the photo again. The two smiling soldiers were in an off-duty moment, with rolled-up shirtsleeves, braces and wearing no hats. From Loftus’s description, it was immediately apparent which one was Kit. Shorter by several inches, he had close-cropped hair and next to Kershaw, whose face looked fit and tanned, Kit’s face looked a ghostly white, his eyes dark and sunken. Kingston put the photo down and continued to stare at it, Kit’s eyes staring back at him. His mind was a blank. It was another dead end. Now he knew what Kit looked like but that wasn’t of much help. Recalling his promise to Jamie, he put the photo back in its envelope and, with considerable difficulty, deciphered the note.

Dear Doc,

It was a treat chatting with you. Hope we can meet again some day. Sorry I still can’t remember Kit’s last name. If you’re up in Nottingham any time, give me a jingle. Yours truly, Art Loftus.

Underneath was a PS.