EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (3 page)

As he thought about it, “standing on its own” was not really accurate because the word “Fork” was directly underneath the reference to the plaster that needed fixing. Perhaps the two were connected? Why? The answer eluded him. On a pad, he wrote “Plaster needs fixing,” then under that, “Fork,” as he remembered seeing the words written in Stewart’s date book. He stared at the four words for a moment then glanced around his own kitchen, hoping for inspiration: the counter, the cabinets, the Aga electric range and the cream-painted plaster walls. “Plaster?” Did that mean indoor or outdoor? If, indeed, there were plaster somewhere in the house that needed repairing, wouldn’t most people be a little more specific and write, “Plaster in kitchen,” or “garage wall?” The more Kingston thought about it, knowing how precise Stewart was, the more he realized that “Plaster needs fixing” was too ambiguous, uncharacteristic.

Deciding to think about it later, he put the pad aside and started to tidy the table, picking up his plate and the folded
Times
. Seeing the unfinished crossword puzzle reminded him of the one in Stewart’s office. He was halfway out of the chair when it struck him. Was Stewart leaving a cryptic clue? No, that was too fanciful—but then again—why not? He put down the plate and newspaper and tapped his forehead, as if to say “dummy.” It had been staring him in the face. It must be an anagram. In the vernacular of
The Times
puzzles, subtle hints were always provided when the answer was an anagram. Words such as “recycled,” “roundabout,” and “translated” tip off the solver that the relevant word in the clue is an anagram of the answer. Thus for a clue that read
recycled pans make a photograph
, the answer would be
snap
. If Kingston was right—and he was now certain that he was—“needs fixing” meant that it was the word “Plaster” that needed fixing: it was an anagram of plaster. He got it immediately, there was only possible answer:
Stapler
. After that, it wasn’t difficult to figure that “Fork” meant “For Kingston,” for his eyes only.

He reached for the phone and his phonebook and punched in Becky’s number. Not surprisingly, she answered right away.

“It’s Lawrence,” he said. “I want you to do something for me, Becky.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Go into Stewart’s office and see if you can find a stapler there.”

“A stapler?”

“Right. You know, a hand stapler.”

“What an odd request.”

“I know. But I think I’m on to something.” He didn’t want to tell her what it was just in case he was wrong, which would make him look even more foolish.

“All right, Lawrence, I’ll go and look.”

In less than a minute Becky was back. “Okay, I have it in my hand,” she said.

“Do you know how to open it? As if you were adding more staples?”

“I believe so. Let me give it a try.”

“There should be a release catch, probably on the base.”

“Yes, here it is. Okay, Lawrence, it’s open. Now what?”

“Lift the cap that covers the staples.”

A long moment of silence followed. He pictured her struggling to open it, staples sprinkling to the floor.

“Here we go,” she said. Another pause followed.

“What is it, Becky?”

“There’s what looks like a long cigarette tucked in here.”

“Unless I’m very wrong, it’s a message.”

“I think you’re right, Lawrence. It’s a tightly rolled sheet from Stewart’s notepad.” Another pause. “It’s in his handwriting.”

“What does it say?”

“Wait a minute—it’s a list of herbs—a clue of some sort … but it makes no sense.”

“Read it to me.”

“All right, here it is: ‘Sage, thyme, marjoram, and rosemary yield secret. Dead heads will lead you to a sacred place.’After that, there are the numbers two and five in brackets.”

She read it back a second time while Kingston wrote it down on the top edge of his newspaper.

“Crafty old Stewart. It’s in the form of a crossword puzzle clue. Two words, the first, two letters, the second, five.”

“Are you serious, Lawrence? For heaven’s sake, why go to all that trouble?”

“I don’t know. The only reason I can come up with is that he wanted only you and me to know what the message says. Few people would be able to decipher the clue.”

“Can you?”

Kingston was reading it for a second time. “Hmm—I don’t know,” he muttered. “Hard to say.”

“Promise to call me the minute you do, Lawrence. I pray to God that this means that Stewart is alive and well.”

“Becky, never doubt for one moment that he is.”

Kingston read the clue one more time. It was too long to be an anagram and unlikely to contain one. The herb references were intriguing and the words “dead heads” would be familiar to rose fanciers—meaning to cut off the heads of the spent rose blossoms—a summer-long practice to encourage the growth of new flowers. And what on earth was the “sacred place”? A cemetery, a church, a mausoleum? Could be any number of places. He put the newspaper with the scribbled clue to one side and said good-bye to Becky, reassuring her that, even if he couldn’t decipher it, it should be taken as a good sign. As he put the phone down, he realized that she hadn’t asked him how he knew the message was concealed in the stapler.

Kingston looked at his watch. It was 8:43 and he’d solved the cryptogram. It had taken him a shade over ten minutes. The written answer was in front of him: ST. MARY’S. It was hidden in the heads (first letters) of each of the first seven words. St. Mary’s had to be a church. There was also the long shot that it could be a school but he ruled that out. It must be a church known to Stewart, he decided. He picked up the phone and called Becky again. As before, she answered immediately. They both knew that any news of Stewart would most likely come in the form of a phone call and clearly she wasn’t taking any chances of missing it.

Kingston told her the answer to Stewart’s clue, explaining how he’d solved it.

Not that he expected a round of applause, but her response surprised him.

“I suppose I should say that it was clever of Stewart—this and the stapler thing. But considering the fact that he’s missing and could very well be in some kind of danger, it strikes me as hardly the time for word games, Lawrence.”

“I agree with you, Becky, but whatever all this mumbo jumbo is leading to, Stewart must have had good reason for keeping it a guarded secret. Is there a St. Mary’s church anywhere near you?”

“Yes, there is. It’s in Stoke Magna, the village I pointed out when we were in the garden.”

“That’s certainly it, then. We have to go there.”

“What are we supposed to be looking for?”

“Right now, I have no idea. We can only hope that we’ll find out when we get there. Stewart wouldn’t direct us there for no reason.”

“Do you want me to go? I hate to have you drive all the way down here again.”

“No. I’ll come down first thing tomorrow. I’ll phone just before I leave.”

“I still can’t believe why Stewart would go to all this trouble,” she said. “I hope this is not some twisted joke of his.”

“I doubt it very much,” said Kingston, ending the conversation.

St. Mary’s, Stoke Magna, was lodged in a tranquil setting among towering beech and ash trees, alongside a gentle-running tributary of the river Avon. Though Becky had attended a number of services at the church she admitted to being unfamiliar with its history. After helping her out of the TR4’s cramped confines, Kingston paused to study the flint stone exterior, looking up at the square tower where the St. George’s Cross, the English flag, rippled in the breeze.

“Norman, I would guess,” he said. “It probably had a spire at one time, too. Over the centuries many of the smaller churches have lost them to the ravages of time and the weather.” He took Becky’s arm, continuing his discourse, as they walked the short distance from the gravel parking lot to the church. “The only purpose they served was symbolic, really: not so much as a symbol of piety but to proclaim a perception of supreme power, to reach up toward the sky as a gesture of being closer to God and the heavens. They also served as landmarks, of course.”

Becky looked impressed but said nothing as they walked under the wooden lych-gate and up the stone path toward the humble front door. Ancient headstones and lichen-encrusted memorials were scattered haphazardly on either side of the path. They passed through the open door into the cool, hushed interior.

Save for a handful of monuments, paintings of ecclesiastical subjects, and a large floral arrangement, the vaulted interior lacked ornamentation. A soft natural light played on the worn flagstones. Kingston was examining a well-preserved painting of a saint when a door to the right of the altar opened and a dark-haired young man in an open-necked sport shirt entered. He was carrying a large book and smiled effusively as he approached.

“Good morning, I’m Patrick McGuire, the new vicar of St. Mary’s. Have you visited our church before?”

“Many times,” said Becky, frowning. “Father Riley’s no longer here, then?”

“No, he retired. He’s living in Devonshire now. He was not at all well, you know.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“How can I help you?”

“Let me do the introductions,” said Kingston. “This is Rebecca Halliday. She and her husband live in Fordingbridge. They’ve attended services here. I’m a longtime friend of theirs, Lawrence—”

McGuire’s mobile rang. “Sorry,” he said, juggling the book, pulling the phone from his pocket, flipping it open. A quick yes-and-no conversation followed, then McGuire closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. “I apologize,” he said. “The organist—she’s always late.” He gave another well-practiced smile. “Please feel free to look around. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the office over there,” he said, nodding toward a door, visible through one of the arches.

“We do have a question, as it happens,” said Kingston. “I’m not quite sure how to phrase this,” he said, scratching his chin, “but we believe Rebecca’s husband might have left her a message, somewhere here at the church. He went missing several days ago and we’re following up on a hasty note that he left in his datebook.”

Like raising a blind, McGuire’s expression turned immediately to one of solicitude. The man would have made a good actor, Kingston thought.

“How awful,” McGuire rejoined. “I apologize. I had no idea.”

Kingston frowned, unsure of his meaning. “You had no idea? You know something about Stewart Halliday’s disappearance?”

“No, no. I meant I had no idea that it might be you.You are … Doctor Kingston, I take it?”

Kingston nodded. “Yes, I am,” he frowned. “How did you know?”

“The envelope—it’s addressed to you.”

“Stewart left an envelope here?” Becky interjected.

“Someone did, yes. It was in the post box last week. Wednesday or Thursday, I believe. I have it in the office. I’ve been trying to track you down.”

“Was the envelope posted?” Kingston asked. “Was it stamped?”

“No. I didn’t think that curious, though. Parishioners often drop off items in the post box. Some, not too complimentary,” he chuckled.

Becky took a long look at Kingston. By the kindled look in her eyes, he knew pretty much what she was thinking. “It’s almost certain that Stewart dropped it off on his way to the convention,” she said. “He would have to have driven right by here on his way to Bristol.” She looked at McGuire. “And what safer place? A church.”

McGuire, looking pleased, nodded. “Let me go and fetch it,” he said, making off toward his office.

He was back with the envelope in a matter of seconds. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to Kingston. “It arrived in another envelope, addressed to me.”

Kingston looked at the face of the sealed envelope. PERSONAL was written in large letters in the top left hand corner. In the center: FOR THE ATTENTION OF, AND ONLY TO BE OPENED BY DOCTOR L. KINGSTON.

Kingston took Becky’s arm and guided her to a nearby pew where they both sat down. McGuire, sensing their need for privacy, said that he would be in his office if he was needed and wished them well, expressing his condolences, saying that he would offer prayers for Stewart at the next service. They watched him disappear. Then Kingston opened the envelope.

THREE

K
ingston withdrew the folded single sheet of paper and opened it. He angled it slightly toward Becky so that she could read it, too.

“What is it?” she murmured.

He took his time in answering. “If it’s what I think it is—”

He handed it to her.

On it were written the symbols and words NaCl+ H
₂
O+
Nymphaea
cross=H
₂
O.

Becky studied the symbols and words, wrinkling her nose. “What an earth does it mean, Lawrence?”

“It’s a rudimentary formula of sorts. NaCl is sodium chloride or salt. H
₂
O, of course, is water. Together, salt water.
Nymphaea
is the Latin name for water lily. The word “cross” means that the native plant has been cross hybridized or interbred, if you will, with another lily or plant.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“As I read it, it can only mean one thing. If you take salt water and grow this particular crossbreed of water lily in it, you end up with water. Pure water. As illogical as it sounds, from a botanical standpoint Stewart’s saying that the plant is desalinating the water.”

“Surely, that would be quite a scientific breakthrough?”

“It would, Becky.
Quite
may be an understatement,” Kingston replied, glancing one more time at Stewart’s scrawl before folding the sheet of paper and replacing it in the envelope.

He stood and stepped aside to let Becky out of the pew. “Let’s thank the vicar and then get out of here,” he said.

Back in the parking lot, Kingston fired up the TR4, slipped into first, and exited onto the leafy street, heading back to The Willows.