match.
“Perhaps,” Kingston replied. “First, let me apologize for interrupting you and for showing up on your doorstep uninvited. It’s certainly not our custom. But let me explain. You are Reginald Payne’s sister—Grace, I take it?”
“Yes.” The woman frowned. “And who are you?”
“Lawrence Kingston—Dr. Kingston. And this is my friend Emma Dixon, formerly with the Gloucestershire police.” On the word “police,” Kingston raised a hand. “Please don’t be alarmed, this has nothing to do with police matters or the recent death of Reginald Payne.”
“You know about Reggie, then?”
Kingston nodded. “We do, yes.”
“May I ask how?”
“Of course. Several days ago I stopped by with a friend, hoping to chat with him. A young woman answered the doorbell and told me that he’d passed away.”
“It was you who’d stopped by, then? That was Sophie you spoke with—she told me. I must confess I didn’t pay any attention at the time. It didn’t seem important.”
Kingston nodded. “There was no reason for her to think so.”
“I see,” she said, looking confused. “Why did you want to talk to Reggie?”
“I know it’s going to sound odd, but it concerns a rose.”
“A rose?”
“Yes. A very old rose. One we’re led to believe might be still growing in this garden—perhaps planted by your brother or a previous owner, many years ago.”
“Really? That’s fascinating,” she said, looking even more at a loss.
He nodded. “A friend of mine—coincidentally, Reginald’s, too—the head gardener at Belmaris Castle, told us about it.”
“Well, it all sounds very interesting, but I think you’d be far better off speaking to Thomas, the gardener. He’s worked here for several years, and in any case I’m not at all familiar with the garden.”
“As a matter of fact, we met him on the way in. If he could find time to give us a quick tour, even better. Speaking as one who’s seen a lifetime of beautiful gardens, yours is very special.”
“That’s settled, then,” she said, as if ready to close the door. “Tell him I said to give you all the time you want.”
“Thank you,” Kingston said. “But if I might—we did want to talk to you first, because it involves Reginald in another way. You see, the rose is only part of it.”
“I’m still not sure that I understand what it is you want,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, that’s all,” Emma said.
“All right, then. But we can’t stand on the doorstep all day. That smoke is making my eyes water. You’d better come in.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “I still think it’ll be a waste of your time. I’ve only been here for a short time. For the last twenty-five years I’ve lived abroad.”
Kingston followed Emma—who was following Grace—through the conservatory, past the beginnings of a still-life canvas on a wooden easel, into a spacious, high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs, complemented by antique country furniture. A clutter of botanical watercolors and oil paintings left little room for the age-worn color of the walls to be seen. With Kingston and Emma seated on one of the sofas and Grace facing them in an easy chair, the conversation resumed.
“Outside, Dr. King—?” she said, looking embarrassed.
“Kingston.”
“Yes, forgive me. Outside, you mentioned my brother’s death. Are you aware of the circumstances? How he died?”
“We are. Mrs. Davenport, the landlady at the Rose & Thistle in the village informed us. And please accept our condolences.”
“Thank you.” There was a notable absence of emotion in the two words, as she clasped her bony hands in her lap. “So, what’s so specialabout this rose and why does it involve Reginald? And why does it merit your making what I assume to be a special trip here to inquire about it?”
Kingston leaned forward slightly and spoke in a more measured tone than
“Perhaps,” Kingston replied. “First, let me apologize for interrupting you and for showing up on your doorstep uninvited. It’s certainly not our custom. But let me explain. You are Reginald Payne’s sister—Grace, I take it?”
“Yes.” The woman frowned. “And who are you?”
“Lawrence Kingston—Dr. Kingston. And this is my friend Emma Dixon, formerly with the Gloucestershire police.” On the word “police,” Kingston raised a hand. “Please don’t be alarmed, this has nothing to do with police matters or the recent death of Reginald Payne.”
“You know about Reggie, then?”
Kingston nodded. “We do, yes.”
“May I ask how?”
“Of course. Several days ago I stopped by with a friend, hoping to chat with him. A young woman answered the doorbell and told me that he’d passed away.”
“It was you who’d stopped by, then? That was Sophie you spoke with—she told me. I must confess I didn’t pay any attention at the time. It didn’t seem important.”
Kingston nodded. “There was no reason for her to think so.”
“I see,” she said, looking confused. “Why did you want to talk to Reggie?”
“I know it’s going to sound odd, but it concerns a rose.”
“A rose?”
“Yes. A very old rose. One we’re led to believe might be still growing in this garden—perhaps planted by your brother or a previous owner, many years ago.”
“Really? That’s fascinating,” she said, looking even more at a loss.
He nodded. “A friend of mine—coincidentally, Reginald’s, too—the head gardener at Belmaris Castle, told us about it.”
“Well, it all sounds very interesting, but I think you’d be far better off speaking to Thomas, the gardener. He’s worked here for several years, and in any case I’m not at all familiar with the garden.”
“As a matter of fact, we met him on the way in. If he could find time to give us a quick tour, even better. Speaking as one who’s seen a lifetime of beautiful gardens, yours is very special.”
“That’s settled, then,” she said, as if ready to close the door. “Tell him I said to give you all the time you want.”
“Thank you,” Kingston said. “But if I might—we did want to talk to you first, because it involves Reginald in another way. You see, the rose is only part of it.”
“I’m still not sure that I understand what it is you want,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, that’s all,” Emma said.
“All right, then. But we can’t stand on the doorstep all day. That smoke is making my eyes water. You’d better come in.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “I still think it’ll be a waste of your time. I’ve only been here for a short time. For the last twenty-five years I’ve lived abroad.”
Kingston followed Emma—who was following Grace—through the conservatory, past the beginnings of a still-life canvas on a wooden easel, into a spacious, high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs, complemented by antique country furniture. A clutter of botanical watercolors and oil paintings left little room for the age-worn color of the walls to be seen. With Kingston and Emma seated on one of the sofas and Grace facing them in an easy chair, the conversation resumed.
“Outside, Dr. King—?” she said, looking embarrassed.
“Kingston.”
“Yes, forgive me. Outside, you mentioned my brother’s death. Are you aware of the circumstances? How he died?”
“We are. Mrs. Davenport, the landlady at the Rose & Thistle in the village informed us. And please accept our condolences.”
“Thank you.” There was a notable absence of emotion in the two words, as she clasped her bony hands in her lap. “So, what’s so specialabout this rose and why does it involve Reginald? And why does it merit your making what I assume to be a special trip here to inquire about it?”
Kingston leaned forward slightly and spoke in a more measured tone than
Similar Books
