6.The Alcatraz Rose (32 page)

Kingston walked up to the stile and glanced indifferently around the area. The only visible plant life were tufts of dandelions, thistle, cow parsley, and clumps of cheerful white-and-yellow ox-eye daisies. He was about to return to Emma when he glimpsed something white, the size of a book, on the grass close to the line of trees. He hopped over the stile expecting to find a scrap of cardboard or perhaps sun-bleached wood. Instead it was a small grayish slab with the name
PEPPER
crudely etched on it. Glancing left, he saw another twenty feet away. He walked over to it and found a similar slab, which upon inspection looked to have been made of concrete and bore the name
SALT
. Underneath was the date 1996.

It was Jennings’s pet cemetery! Of course he would have had pets, Kingston realized. During the many years he’d lived alone, at Beechwood, he must have had many. This was borne out as he wandered the line of trees. He counted nine graves in all, randomly placed, presumably both dogs and cats. There was something irresistibly poignant about the scene. He had a mental image of a bereaved Jennings, a hardened criminal, carrying his dead pets to this quiet, out-of-the-way spot, to give them a proper resting place.

He was about to leave when he caught sight of another, slightly larger grave, a distance from the rest, under the dappled shade of one of the beeches. Maybe it was his imagination. His first thought was to ignore it, but his insatiable—and, to Andrew, exasperating—curiosity drew him to it. In a few seconds he was standing at the foot of another marker. Unlike the others, a small square had been chiseled off each of the four corners, to form a ragged cross.

Underneath the date 2003, separated by a scratched image of a rose, were the initials
FAB
.

“Emma!”

She glanced up.

“Something here you should see.”

36

“I
’
VE GOT TO
hand it to you, Lawrence,” Emma said, buckling her seat belt. “Your theory couldn’t have been closer to the truth. The only question remaining is whether it really is Fiona’s burial place.”

One hand resting on the gearshift, Kingston glanced at her before driving off. “There weren’t many other explanations, really. You’re right, though. She might have been buried elsewhere on the property and the marker may just be a memorial. That’s for the police to determine, now, though.” He sat for a moment, the motor idling, staring through the windscreen, his mind elsewhere.

“Sixpence for your thoughts,” she said, breaking the long silence.

“I was thinking about the date.”

“The date? It was 2003, why? That’s the year she went missing. It all fits.”

“Something else happened in England that year: the worst natural disaster in three centuries.”

Emma was frowning. “You’ve lost me.”

“The Great Storm.”

“Of course. Sorry, it didn’t register. A lot of people were killed, it was catastrophic.”

Kingston nodded. “Over a million trees were destroyed. I know that the National Trust properties alone lost more than three hundred and fifty thousand.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “The accident we were talking about—you’re thinking Fiona could’ve lost her life in the storm? All those huge beech trees where we were standing—my God.”

“It’s just a guess,” he said, shifting into first gear. “Though I have an idea how we might be able to learn more.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I won’t go into it now, but we’ll know soon enough.”

Emma smiled. “You know something, Lawrence? You sound more like Morse every day.”

When they arrived in Middle Cheverell at one thirty, at least two dozen cars remained in the Rose & Thistle parking lot. Entering through the pub’s open front door, past colorful, floral baskets, Kingston glanced around the bustling room and quickly spotted Clare Davenport at the bar going over papers with a young man who Kingston guessed to be a salesman. As Kingston and Emma approached, she looked up and beckoned them over, excusing herself to the salesman, who departed with a hasty farewell.

“Welcome back, Doctor,” she said with a sunny smile.

“Glad to be here,” Kingston said, turning to Emma. “Let me introduce you to Clare Davenport, proprietor. My friend, Emma Dixon.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Emma,” she said.

“You, too,” Emma replied, nodding. “Your pub is charming.”

“Thank you. Your table’s ready, but don’t let me hurry you if you’d like a drink first in the lounge.”

“No, that’s fine,” Kingston said. “We’ll have drinks at the table.”

She explained that she had to attend a meeting and would join them in an hour or so, insisting they not leave before she returned. She waved over a waiter, who escorted Kingston and Emma to their table in the adjacent dining room.

The next hour was one of the most pleasant that Kingston had experienced in many months. A white-clothed table with a wildflower centerpiece, excellent pub cuisine, a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet, and spirited conversation created an irresistible confection that suspended all sense of time.

The conversation opened with their speculating about the initials
FAB
on the stone marker. Emma had insisted that to conclude it was meant for Fiona, with only the first letter significant, was a leap too far.
Kingston disagreed, pointing out politely that it could be argued that Fiona’s true name—the one on her birth certificate—was Fiona Butler, not Doyle—hence the
B
. Furthermore, he reasoned that Jennings, Butler’s close friend, would more likely have chosen the name Butler than McGuire. As to the middle initial, he also had some theories—perhaps Jennings had wanted the stone to appear as that of another pet, hence the name Fab—or the most logical, that Fiona’s middle name was Anne or Audrey, or whatever. That they could verify later. Or maybe, he granted, Emma was right, and the grave was not Fiona’s at all.

They finally agreed that—unpleasant as it was—it was moot, since it would only ever be proved so with the discovery of human remains.

The waiter arrived with coffee and cleared the table.

Emma took a sip and looked at Kingston over the rim of her cup. “So what are you going to do now, Lawrence, now that this is all over?”

“I hadn’t thought too much about it,” he fibbed. “Resume my life of semiretirement, I suppose. How about you?”

She sighed. “Pretty much the same, I guess. Forced, in my case. We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

“You miss police work, don’t you?”

Her smile was wistful. “To be truthful, until I started collaborating with you, I didn’t realize just how much. I’m really going to miss you—miss working with you.” She paused for an instant. “I know I’ve been cynical at times, questioning your judgment, trying to rein you in, but I want you to know that I greatly admire your talents as a criminal investigator—let’s face it, that’s what you really are—and I have deep respect for you as a kind, thoughtful person, courageous, too—even taking into account a tendency to be stubborn and impetuous at times.” She took another sip of coffee and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking: I’m beginning to sound like Andrew. I mean what I said, though, even if it wasn’t particularly well phrased. I’m not as talented in that department as you.”

“Thank you, Emma. I must say, coming from you, I’m deeply touched and grateful for such sincere and lavish praise, though I’m not sure I deserve it. At the risk of sounding unduly sentimental, the coming days and weeks will be difficult for me, too. You’re right, though, we are
good partners, and I must admit that I’ve been secretly wishing for some time now that our inquiry wouldn’t end. I’d even fantasized that we’d been engaged to solve another unsolved mystery.” He grinned. “A cold case that has the police stumped.”

Emma chuckled. “You’re incorrigible. You’re worse than I am.”

Kingston’s grin turned into laughter just as Clare Davenport appeared.

“I can see you two are enjoying yourselves,” she said. “Good lunch?”

“Couldn’t have been better,” Kingston replied. Emma nodded in agreement.

“I think congratulations are in order,” Clare said, pulling out a chair and sitting. “You two have become celebrities of sorts. Quite an achievement by all accounts.”

Kingston shrugged. “We were just lamenting that it’s all over. Our fifteen minutes of fame is ended, and we’re two jaded retirees again.”

“By the looks of you, it can’t be all that bad.”

Kingston smiled. “You’re right. The ending could have been quite different. As a matter of fact, there’s one last question that needs answering and it occurred to us, just today, actually, that you may be able to help.”

Clare Davenport’s penciled eyebrows shot up. “Me?”

“Yes. But first, a question: How long have you owned the Rose & Thistle?”

“My husband and I bought it in 1995.”

“Good. Now I’m going to test your memory, if I may?”

“Go ahead.”

“In 2003, a natural disaster struck the south of England, killing many people, felling millions of trees.”

She nodded, her expression serious. “The Great Storm. It’s impossible to forget. We were hit pretty hard down here.”

“Do you recall whether the storm damaged Reginald Payne’s house or property? Big trees destroyed?”

“Yes, it did. Many trees came down at Beechwood that day. Lots of houses suffered losses. It was reported in the paper with photographs. Part of his house was badly damaged when a tree crushed the roof. Reggie was okay, though.” She paused. “I still can’t get used to his real
name, I’m sorry. Anyway, he wasn’t injured. According to him at the time, it took almost a year to rebuild the rooms that were demolished.”

Kingston looked at Emma. She met his gaze and simply gave a slight nod.

“Thank you, Clare,” Kingston said. “You’ve been a great help.”

And, he added silently to himself, you’ve helped change a young girl’s life for the better.

Ten minutes later, walking side by side out the front door, Emma slipped her arm through Kingston’s. For an instant, he thought he was elsewhere, long ago, at another place, in another life. As quickly as it appeared, the memory vanished. He said nothing, and they both kept walking. It all seemed so natural—so right. Words no longer seemed necessary as they made their way toward the car.

POSTSCRIPT

Three weeks later, Chelsea

T
HE LETTER THAT
Kingston had been patiently awaiting finally arrived. He opened the envelope bearing the
COUNTRY LIFE
logo on the flap and, with guarded optimism, withdrew the one-page letter, noting another sheet of paper-clipped to it. He sat on the sofa to read it.

Dear Lawrence
,

It was a pleasure to hear from you again after so long, though I have been following your exploits in the newspaper these past weeks, of course. I do hope that after your near miss in Staffordshire and now this last incident, you will start to consider a somewhat more passive pastime to satisfy your creative urges in the coming years
.

The enclosed copy, from our 12 June, 2001, issue, should certainly settle the question you raised about Japanese Nikko-style bridges in Western gardens. Please keep in touch and let me know if you require further information on the subject
.

With best wishes
,

Julian Cartwright, Deputy Editor

As Kingston cast his eyes over the enclosed article, a wide smile spread across his face. Underneath a photo of a vermillion bridge spanning a small lake was the caption:

Another splendid example of the sacred Japanese architectural feature in today’s British gardens is this bridge in the exceptional private garden at Beechwood in Gloucestershire
.

He put the article aside and stood, thinking of Letty. Her vague recollection could indeed have been based on fact—it was quite possible that she had visited the garden with her mother. For whatever reason, the bridge must have been destroyed, or moved in later years. Fiona McGuire had been at Beechwood. They were as close to closure as they would ever get.

He crossed the room, still smiling, and picked up the phone to tell Emma.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS