EG03 - The Water Lily Cross (6 page)

“Particularly if they’re six feet in diameter.”

“Exactly.”

“You make a good point, Desmond, but that’s a separate issue. And I don’t see it as being insurmountable.”

Desmond scooted his chair back, talking as he did so. “So, if we accept the fanciful possibility that your friend has, indeed, hybridized this salt-sucking plant, it opens up a bloody Pandora’s box. There’s no doubt a lot of people would be interested in knowing about it, right? It raises all kind of questions.”

“Foremost among them: What or who is behind Stewart’s disappearance, perhaps?”

Desmond frowned, pondering the question. “Could be any number of reasons, let’s face it.”

“There are. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

“You think he’s been kidnapped?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“He could have gone into hiding, I suppose.”

“Why, though?”

“Perhaps he felt his life was in danger, how do I know? Maybe you’re taking this whole thing too seriously, Lawrence. The chap’s only been gone for what—three days?”

“Actually, a week now.”

“Even so. He could have had an accident; he could be lying in some hospital bed as we speak; he could have gone away for a couple of days to discuss his discovery with an interested party; he could have had sudden loss of memory and be wandering the streets; he could have decided to leave his wife—there’re all kinds of explanations.”

“I grant you all the above, except the hospital. The police have already checked that possibility. Question is, why would he go to all the trouble of leaving cryptic messages—unless I’ve put two and two together and come up with five?”

Desmond scratched his head. “I dunno.” He thought over the question some more. “Presumably to conceal his discovery from everyone except you. That you would immediately figure out the message and—”

“Then what? Assuming that it really was a message for me—and, frankly, I don’t see, really, how it could have been for anyone else.”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s the problem. Other than his message, which tells us only what Stewart might have discovered, we have no other clues to explain what happened to him, or where he is.”

Desmond’s face was a blank. “You got me,” he said.

“Another thing,” said Kingston, pausing. “If we’re to conclude that Stewart was experimenting with
cruziana or lutea,
where was he doing it? It certainly wasn’t at The Willows.”

“There’s no water there, I take it, no lake or a pond?”

“Only an average-sized pond and I didn’t see anything unusual about it.”

“That would suggest that he was experimenting elsewhere and that others are involved. When you think about it, he would hardly be working alone.”

“That’s what I figured. That would also explain why there’s not a single piece of physical evidence or other clues at The Willows to suggest he was working on a project with such far-reaching potential and long-range humanitarian benefit. There has to be a lab of some kind somewhere, large expanses of salt water. And, you’re right, other partners or associates—and money.”

Desmond twiddled the pencil between his slender fingers, his eyes fixed on Kingston’s. “The more I think about it, you’re right about one thing, Lawrence. Putting aside the logistical and physical problems of volume, the ramifications are pretty staggering. Someone stands to make a ton of money.” He pointed the pencil at Kingston. “What’s the old adage? Follow the money?”

“Right,” Kingston nodded.

For a moment neither of them spoke. For his part, Kingston was pleased that Desmond was finally persuaded that Stewart had somehow pulled off an improbable discovery and that it was not just a prank of some kind. At the same time, he was contemplating the ramifications.

“Here’s what I think,” said Kingston. “Given the date on the calendar—Friday, the day he went missing—it’s more than likely that Stewart wrote that message and hid it in haste.”

“You think he had some kind of premonition?”

“Right. If he wanted me to know about his discovery, why wouldn’t he have simply picked up the phone and told me about it or told me over lunch on one of his trips up to town.”

“If it were me, I would certainly want to keep it a secret but if you two are as close as you say, then it would be perfectly natural or expected that he’d confide in you. You say that even his wife was not aware of what he was up to?”

“No, she wasn’t, believe it or not.”

“When you say ‘in haste,’ then kidnapping would seem much more probable.”

Kingston sighed. “It would, though let’s hope to God that’s not what’s happened.”

They talked for a few more minutes then Kingston left the nursery with a promise to ring Desmond when he had more news of Stewart. In return, Desmond said that he would call a couple of friends who were water plant experts and do some more research on the water lilies in question.

In the three days following Kingston’s trip to St. Albans he had spoken with Becky on the phone twice, each time to find the situation unchanged. In the first of those conversations, he had told her all about his meeting with Desmond, quizzing her again about Stewart’s day-to-day activities: Did he have any visitors recently? Was he gone for stretches at a time? Could she think of anything, no matter how insignificant or unrelated, that might offer clues about her husband’s experiment with water lily plants? The answers to all his questions were negative.

Following up on his request, Becky had spoken with William, the part-time gardener, who said he couldn’t think of anything odd or unusual about Stewart’s demeanor of late or anything different about the garden, and that there had been no recent visitors. William said he would be happy to talk with Kingston on the phone or when he next came down. Before hanging up, she told Kingston that she was planning to spend a few days with her daughter, Sarah, in Shrewsbury. She gave him the address and phone number where she could be reached, saying that she’d also given it to the police.

The only other line of inquiry left was the Sarum Garden Club. According to the eight-page newsletter, which Kingston had read from cover to cover, the next monthly Wednesday evening meeting was still several days away. Though he had a feeling it could end up being a waste of time, he still planned to go. He was determined more than ever to find out exactly what it was that had led to Stewart’s disappearance.

Becky’s going to Shrewsbury came at an expedient time because Kingston had an unusual assignment for the next two days—unusual for him, that is. Early the next morning, he was meeting pilot Chris Norton of Henley Air Services at Kidlington airport, near Oxford. Kingston’s task was to capture aerial footage of six of southern England’s most treasured gardens.

Much as he would have liked to keep up his investigation and continue helping Becky cope with her ordeal, he had little choice in the matter. Canceling was out of the question, this late in the day. The company that had hired both the chopper and Kingston’s services for the day was New Eden Productions, a small concern that specialized in the production of film and videotaped programs featuring prominent British gardens and country estates. It would be the first time he had viewed these gardens from the air and he was looking forward to the ride.

FIVE

T
he high-pitched whine gave way to a rising thrashing noise as the rotor blades became a white blur, the tail tilted upward, and the helicopter lifted off the tarmac at Kidlington airport.

The five-seat Bell 206 JetRanger carried only one passenger. In the contoured cabin, next to pilot Chris Norton, Kingston sat with a slim laptop computer mounted in front of him. The computer was linked to a gyro-stabilized digital video camera mounted on the nose of the craft. The chopper soon reached cruising altitude, climbing through the threads of light clouds that stitched the skies over the green countryside below. Their route would take them directly south over Newbury and Andover to the first garden located above Romsey, near the northern edge of the New Forest. The light buffeting during the climb had ceased and Norton turned to his passenger. “We’ll be over Mottisfont in about fifteen minutes or so. You all set with that thing, Doctor?” he asked, glancing at the laptop.

Kingston nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, nodding.

A week earlier, he had undergone several hours of computer instruction, learning how to operate the software system that controlled all camera functions. On this, his maiden outing, the first subject on which he would test his skills was Mottisfont Abbey garden—in particular the three-acre walled rose garden therein, featuring Graham Stuart Thomas’s magnificent collection of ancestral species and nineteenth-century rose cultivars.

Ten minutes had passed when Chris put the craft into a shallow bank and began his descent toward their destination. Kingston glanced at the altimeter—a little under a thousand feet. Looking out of the cockpit window, he could see the helicopter’s shadow bobbing across the fields beneath them. The skies above were now clear and blue.

“Over there,” Chris said, pointing at the imposing abbey set in the midst of spacious lawns, surrounded by gigantic trees.

“Magnificent,” said Kingston, who lined up the videocam as Chris did a direct pass low over the lawns—the chevron pattern created by the mower clearly visible—and then swooped up over the rooftops of the former twelfth-century Augustinian priory. After two more passes over the abbey and grounds, Kingston pointed out the walled rose garden located in the northwest corner of the grounds. Ten minutes later, Kingston was satisfied that he had enough footage and instructed Norton to head for their next location, Cranborne Manor Garden in Dorset. The flying time to Cranborne in Dorset was only a matter of minutes but it was enough time for Kingston to tell Chris about Stewart’s disappearance. Ordinarily he might not have brought it up, being of little or no interest to the pilot, but in this case it was apt, as their route took them directly over Fordingbridge and The Willows. Circling over the house, there were no signs of Becky or anyone else and no cars visible. They continued on their route.

Twenty minutes later, with comprehensive footage of Cranborne Manor garden “in the can” they headed southeast toward Milford on Sea and the Solent, the stretch of water separating the south coast from the Isle of Wight. The next leg of their journey was the long run across the south of England to the legendary garden at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent. Rather than fly overland, Chris had suggested a more scenic route, following the southern coastline of Hampshire, and West and East Sussex. Kingston couldn’t argue with that. Their altitude was now 1,500 feet and climbing as they neared the coastline.

“Hold on,” said Kingston, touching Chris’s arm. “I’d like to get a shot of that little village we just passed, with the thatches and the field of blue linseed. It could make a good opening for the piece.”

“Sure,” said Chris, already in a bank, making a wide circle and losing altitude. In less than a minute they were back, passing low then hovering over the village for a minute or so, while Kingston shot sufficient footage to satisfy him. They resumed their course toward the coast.

At first Kingston thought nothing of the tiny flashes coming from the edge of what looked like a farm. Then, over the noise of the engine, he heard the sound of something hitting the fuselage under them. In a few seconds he realized what was happening. Someone was firing at them.

Norton shot him an alarmed look as he put the chopper through a violent emergency maneuver that thrust Kingston into his seat back. For a moment they were climbing rapidly, the engine screaming at maximum power, then banking at an impossible angle. Straightening up, Chris ran his eyes over the instrument cluster, then looked at Kingston again.

“Sod it! We’re losing fuel. Crazy bastard!”

Kingston knew what it portended but wasn’t exactly sure how serious it might be. Given the circumstances, he was surprised that he was not shaking like jelly. “Do we have enough to make a landing somewhere?”

“We’ll know in a few seconds,” said Chris. “If we have to go to autorotation, we’ve got to find a place to land, real quick.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than the engine coughed and the fuselage shuddered. Less than half a minute later, the engine spluttered and died. It was eerily quiet as the helicopter continued its forward motion, the rotor blades propelled by the air forced through them.

“We’re in luck,” said Chris, gripping the control stick with both hands, keeping the craft stable. “Up there. See that field of yellow rape? That’ll do nicely.”

Suddenly Kingston felt a lot better. A few seconds earlier he had been thinking about preparing to meet his maker. He said nothing, not wanting to break Chris’s concentration while he was zeroed in, fighting to keep the craft on an even keel.

Now less than two hundred feet from the ground, they were losing altitude quickly and Kingston was starting to wonder whether they would make the field. If they came up short they would land on top of the dense woods bordering the field. From above, the trees didn’t look large but he knew they were big enough to rip the helicopter apart if they drew that straw.

Closing in on the ground their airspeed was much faster than Kingston realized. Chris had flared the helicopter and was preparing it for the short run on landing. In seconds, they were over the woods and could hear the landing skids raking the treetops, broken branches and leaves scattering like black confetti in their wake. Chris gave him a quick sideways glance. “Could be a bumpy ride,” he said, between clenched teeth.

They were past the trees and less than thirty feet from the ground and the sea of buttercup-yellow rape. “Hold tight—we’re going to lose the skids and land on our belly.” At that instant they heard the skids collapsing as they hit the ground hard, bouncing on the crushed vegetation.

It was perhaps just as well that Kingston didn’t know it right then, but if the main rotor blades, still rotating at considerable speed, had touched the ground, the impact would have flipped them upside down. As it was, Chris managed to keep the helicopter stable. It shuddered and shimmied, then finally slowed, coming to rest at an odd angle. Kingston tried to open his door but it was jammed.