Club, he said that Stewart had skipped quite a few meetings of late. Another member I spoke to afterward went further. He said that Stewart hadn’t attended any meetings for at least three months.”
“Are you saying Stewart lied to me?”
“I’m afraid it rather looks that way. The question is, where was he and what was he doing when he was supposed to be at the garden club or meeting with other members?”
“I don’t … I don’t know what to say, Lawrence. Are you sure …”
Kingston knew that the news would come as a shock to Becky and could tell that she was struggling for words, to find justification, however vague, for what he had just told her. “Becky, my dear,” he said, as gently as the three words would allow, “you don’t have to say anything now. I’ll tell the police what you’ve just told me. We can talk again tomorrow, or whenever you feel up to it.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Lawrence, this is terribly upsetting. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for it all. Stewart just wouldn’t deceive me like that.”
“I don’t think he would either, Becky. There’s usually an explanation for everything,” he said, regretting the cliché. “Just try to put it out of your mind for now.”
“All right, Lawrence, I’ll try,” she said quietly.
He sensed she was on the verge of tears.
Tomorrow was Monday, the day he and Chris Norton were going to pick up where they had left off with the aerial photography. As arranged, Andrew was going to chauffeur Kingston up to the airport in Oxford, and on his way back to London, stop in to visit his ex-wife whose husband owned a wine shop in Henley-on-Thames. He invariably came away with a case of mixed wines, which he shared with Kingston. After the day’s shooting Kingston would return to London in his TR4.
Kingston had made the decision not to reshoot Cranborne Manor and the rose garden at Mottisfont Abbey on this trip but instead to photograph at least two of the other gardens on New Eden’s list. There were two reasons: First, Inspector Chisholm, in a brief phone conversation a few days earlier, had recommended holding off for the time being, not wanting any further low-altitude aerial activity in the area while their investigation was ongoing; second, there was the long shot that the tape might show up, though Kingston doubted that very much.
This time the gardens were spread much farther apart—a triangular route of approximately 550 miles—so it was questionable whether they would have enough time to cover more than just the two. The first chosen was the ten-acre garden at Levens Hall, halfway up Britain’s west coast, in Cumbria near the Lake District. The garden was won, as the story goes, on the turn of the ace of hearts during a card game in 1688 to settle a gambling debt. Levens Hall was also judged the Christie’s and Historic Houses’Association Garden of the Year in 1995.
What made Levens so special—and Kingston was betting it would look even more breathtaking from the air—was its collection of topiaries, some almost 300 years old. The more than ninety designs, most at least twenty feet tall, included giant umbrellas, chess pieces, peacocks, crowns, a judge’s wig, and a jug of ale—all clipped by hand out of box and yew. The garden also boasted an original Great Beech hedge planted in 1694 still surviving, and other gardens within gardens, including one with only plants known to exist in the seventeenth century.
Not that it was relevant, but Kingston had learned from the present owner, on a visit in 1996, that Levens had a resident ghost. The story, mostly concerning the owner’s father, was that forty years ago a priest named Stonor had stopped at Levens to visit a sick person in an upstairs bedroom. Passing through the main hall, which was unusually dark, he noticed someone in a room to one side playing a harpsichord under the light of an electric lamp. Taking care not to disturb the player,
“Are you saying Stewart lied to me?”
“I’m afraid it rather looks that way. The question is, where was he and what was he doing when he was supposed to be at the garden club or meeting with other members?”
“I don’t … I don’t know what to say, Lawrence. Are you sure …”
Kingston knew that the news would come as a shock to Becky and could tell that she was struggling for words, to find justification, however vague, for what he had just told her. “Becky, my dear,” he said, as gently as the three words would allow, “you don’t have to say anything now. I’ll tell the police what you’ve just told me. We can talk again tomorrow, or whenever you feel up to it.”
“I don’t mind telling you, Lawrence, this is terribly upsetting. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for it all. Stewart just wouldn’t deceive me like that.”
“I don’t think he would either, Becky. There’s usually an explanation for everything,” he said, regretting the cliché. “Just try to put it out of your mind for now.”
“All right, Lawrence, I’ll try,” she said quietly.
He sensed she was on the verge of tears.
Tomorrow was Monday, the day he and Chris Norton were going to pick up where they had left off with the aerial photography. As arranged, Andrew was going to chauffeur Kingston up to the airport in Oxford, and on his way back to London, stop in to visit his ex-wife whose husband owned a wine shop in Henley-on-Thames. He invariably came away with a case of mixed wines, which he shared with Kingston. After the day’s shooting Kingston would return to London in his TR4.
Kingston had made the decision not to reshoot Cranborne Manor and the rose garden at Mottisfont Abbey on this trip but instead to photograph at least two of the other gardens on New Eden’s list. There were two reasons: First, Inspector Chisholm, in a brief phone conversation a few days earlier, had recommended holding off for the time being, not wanting any further low-altitude aerial activity in the area while their investigation was ongoing; second, there was the long shot that the tape might show up, though Kingston doubted that very much.
This time the gardens were spread much farther apart—a triangular route of approximately 550 miles—so it was questionable whether they would have enough time to cover more than just the two. The first chosen was the ten-acre garden at Levens Hall, halfway up Britain’s west coast, in Cumbria near the Lake District. The garden was won, as the story goes, on the turn of the ace of hearts during a card game in 1688 to settle a gambling debt. Levens Hall was also judged the Christie’s and Historic Houses’Association Garden of the Year in 1995.
What made Levens so special—and Kingston was betting it would look even more breathtaking from the air—was its collection of topiaries, some almost 300 years old. The more than ninety designs, most at least twenty feet tall, included giant umbrellas, chess pieces, peacocks, crowns, a judge’s wig, and a jug of ale—all clipped by hand out of box and yew. The garden also boasted an original Great Beech hedge planted in 1694 still surviving, and other gardens within gardens, including one with only plants known to exist in the seventeenth century.
Not that it was relevant, but Kingston had learned from the present owner, on a visit in 1996, that Levens had a resident ghost. The story, mostly concerning the owner’s father, was that forty years ago a priest named Stonor had stopped at Levens to visit a sick person in an upstairs bedroom. Passing through the main hall, which was unusually dark, he noticed someone in a room to one side playing a harpsichord under the light of an electric lamp. Taking care not to disturb the player,
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