EG02 - The Lost Gardens (17 page)

For what it’s worth, I did remember one other thing. Just before we surrendered Kershaw took a Jerry bullet. It was nasty but as you know, he eventually pulled through okay.

Chapter Thirteen

The planning, logistics, cataloguing and physical demands of re-creating the gardens at Wickersham were now reaching a feverish pitch. Every day there were a hundred decisions to be weighed and made. Every week, more purchasing, research, experimentation, meetings to be attended and new permits to be filed, not to mention the demanding physical labour expected of everybody—Kingston included, every once in a while. Then there were the mistakes and minor disasters—not many, but each cost valuable time and manpower.

For reasons unknown, it was the reclaiming of the vegetable garden that attracted the greatest number of visiting observers from the village and neighboring hamlets. Wickersham, like it or not, was in the public eye and while Kingston frequently took the time to chat with them once in a while, to tell them what was being constructed and planted, he encouraged his workers not to be sidetracked by the inquisitive lookers-on.

The one plus-acre partially walled and hedged plot, had taken much longer to establish than any of them had anticipated. Like other parts of the garden it was hopelessly overgrown with ceiling-high brambles and volunteer shrubs and trees. The once tightly clipped boundary hedge on one side had reverted to form and was reaching up to the sky and invading the garden by a dozen feet or so. The coniferous hedge on another side had done likewise, casting shade on a large area that would need full sun. The bramble was finally cleared to reveal what was once a network of pathways. Very little remained of the row of apple trees that once lined the central path through the vegetable garden. A picture showing them that Jamie had found in one of the library books would help them re-create the charming effect. Better luck came with the unearthing of several iron arches once used to straddle another pathway. Despite their state of disrepair, they were eventually rehabilitated and painted shiny black with the help of a local smithy, reassuming their original role in the garden design.

With all the debris cleared, the entire area, save what was left of the paths, was ploughed by tractor after which the roots and other debris were laboriously removed by hand. Replacement of the paths was the next task. Traces of the original paths were still visible in some places but they had to be reconstructed entirely from scratch. This required the importation of truckloads of road base, an aggregate type material put down and rolled ready for the finish gravel or decomposed granite top surface. The paths divided the vegetable garden into four huge squares, allowing planting on a four-year crop rotation, each square representing one year of the rotation. This is done in order to nurture the soil and mitigate diseases that can lurk in the soil from one year to another. In addition to the paths, more important in fact, was the laying of new water pipes, drainage runs and ducting that would irrigate and drain the garden.

Eric Newsome, an estate gardener with four decades of experience, was brought in to finalize the layout, select the seeds and plant the garden. Eric had amassed a collection of seed catalogues and was ordering from sources all over the country. Not only vegetables but fruits, too. A bed along one side of the interior wall was double-dug with manure and ready to plant the apple and pear trees that would be espaliered along its fifty-foot length. Cages were ready for the soft fruit planting. Having no seed or plant lists, other than the information provided in Ferguson’s books, it was not possible to stay true to historical precedents where vegetable and fruit varieties were concerned. Nevertheless, if the vegetable garden was to be a productive garden, cultivated for the quality and taste of its edibles, and not simply a token showpiece, then Eric maintained it was imperative that older varieties, with their much more distinctive flavor, would be grown exclusively. Bed after bed, some half the length of a football field, were double-dug and a mountain of manure and amendments worked in to enrich the soil. Soon regimental rows of raised mounds, frames for climbing beans and peas would transform the space ready for intensive cultivation. In some rows, allowances had been made for companion planting. These wide swaths of flowers and herbs would add a welcome jumble of color to the otherwise uniform green ranks, some helping to ward off pests. Sweet William, marigolds, cosmos, chrysanthemum, comfrey and borage were among those already picked out. Before planting started, a healthy application of Eric’s age-old recipe for comfrey tea would, according to him, help discourage disease.

Kingston’s aim was to make the vegetable, fruit and flower garden the same model of self-sufficiency and responsible environmental and ecological agricultural practices, as had been the case with the original gardens.

Kingston sat in the reception area of the police station at Upper High Street in Shuttern, leafing through a six-month-old copy of
Top Gear
. He was waiting to see Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick. Three days earlier he had called the inspector, saying that he would be in Taunton today and asking if he could stop by for a brief visit. Without asking what it was about, Chadwick had readily agreed to see him. With Jamie’s recent dictum, Kingston was left with no choice. He now had to tell Chadwick about his aborted investigation into Ryder’s past and of Loftus’s revelations. He was still perplexed as to whether the events of that day almost sixty years ago had any bearing on Jamie’s inheritance but had a gut feeling that they were connected in some way.

Sitting waiting for Chadwick, he was beginning to think his visit might be a bit premature, that he should have waited until he had more solid information linking Ryder to Jamie. It was too late for that now, though. All he could hope for was that Chadwick wouldn’t think of his investigative efforts as being frivolous and send him on his way with an indulgent pat on the back. The more he thought about it the more he realized that he had little or no case. An experienced police officer would see that right away. As the thought was crossing his mind, the desk sergeant called his name.

In casual clothes, with his sleeves rolled up, Chadwick looked as if he had just come in from mowing the lawn. Mid-fifties, Kingston guessed. He had a high shiny forehead that sloped up to a receding hairline, kindly but tired grey eyes with dark bags that could be the result of lots of late night reading or off-hours spent in the company of Johnnie Walker. He looked more like a teacher than a copper.

‘So, how’s it going up at Wickersham, doctor?’The swivel chair squeaked as Chadwick leaned back in it. ‘Haven’t dug up any more bones, I hope?’

‘Slower than we’d all like, but very well, thanks,’ Kingston answered with a smile. ‘No more bones, thank goodness.’

‘Did those stolen books and papers ever show up? Eldridge told me about them.’

‘No. I think we can kiss those goodbye.’

‘Can’t imagine what use they could be to anyone. That’s the odd thing.’

The phone on the cluttered desk rang. Chadwick picked it up and had a brief conversation, then hung up. ‘Anything more on Ryder?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes, in a way. That’s why I’m here, in fact.’ Chadwick appeared content to sit back and listen, so Kingston went on. ‘This may sound a little Holmesian, but I’ve been conducting an investigation of sorts into Major Ryder’s background.’

‘Really? Can I ask why?’

‘I should say
was
. I was doing it for Jamie Gibson’s benefit, thinking she would be curious to know why Ryder left her his estate—what the connection was. But it appears that she’s opposed to resurrecting the past and has asked me, in no uncertain terms, to knock it off.’

‘What have you found out so far, then?’

For the next five minutes Kingston proceeded to tell Chadwick of his correspondence with the Army Personnel Centre and his meeting with Loftus and about the incident with Kershaw and the young deserting soldier. When he was finished, Chadwick studied him, taking his time, thinking.

‘So,’ he said, at length, ‘have you come to any conclusions on all this?’

‘Nothing definitive, no. I thought the logical next step would be to find out more about the sergeant, Kershaw, discover what happened to him when he was released from prison, see where that led, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question now—well, for me, that is.’

‘No wild guesses?’

‘Well, for what it’s worth, my first take—and mind you, this is all predicated on Loftus’s account—was that Kershaw, having been unjustly incarcerated for twenty years because Ryder lied at the court martial, plans revenge. After serving out his term he tracks Ryder down and—by design or accident—kills him and dumps the body down the well.’

Chadwick’s answer was forthright but friendly. ‘Quite a few problems there, old chap.’

‘I know,’ Kingston replied. ‘I did say it was my first theory. But you’re right, the biggest problem being that if those bones are indeed Ryder’s, it means that Kershaw, or someone else, managed to pull off the identity switch of all time, continuing to live at Wickersham posing as Ryder.’

‘It’s asking a lot,’ said Chadwick. ‘Housekeeper, gardener probably, tradespeople, his lawyer, doctor, dentist—they would all have to be hoodwinked. Then there’s the time frame. When did Kershaw get out of prison?’

‘Most likely sometime in the early to mid-sixties.’

‘That would mean the phony Ryder would have had to pull off the charade for over thirty years. Highly unlikely, wouldn’t you think?’

Kingston nodded.

‘Though similar cases have been known,’ Chadwick added. ‘Pity we don’t have some DNA to compare.’

A pause followed while Chadwick scribbled a note on his desk pad, then he turned his attention back to Kingston.

‘The other scenario I came up with,’ said Kingston, ‘was that it could have been Kershaw who was killed and the bones in the well are his. From what Loftus remembers, he and Ryder were about the same height and were close in age.’

Chadwick’s expression was stolid.

Sensing that there was nothing more to be said by either of them, Kingston gestured with open hands. ‘Well, that’s about it,’ he said. What he really wanted to say was that he was disappointed in Chadwick’s seeming lack of enthusiasm for what Kingston thought was diligent work on his part. At least some acknowledgement for his time and effort would have been appreciated.

‘Sorry,’ said Chadwick, with a slight shake of the head, as if reading Kingston’s mind. ‘Your theory about the body being Kershaw’s is certainly admissible but we have a new piece of evidence that would suggest that that’s not the case.’

‘A new piece of evidence?’

‘Yes. It was found after the remains were analysed at the lab. Tangled up in some of the debris and sludge that came up with the bones there was a wristwatch. We found a leather belt at the site but the watch wasn’t discovered till later.’

‘How does the watch corroborate that it’s not Ryder’s or Kershaw’s body?’

‘Because it had initials engraved on the back. CMA. Not anyone you know, by chance?’

Kingston was thrown off balance. This was not what he wanted to hear. For a moment he said nothing. He was subconsciously rubbing his chin, thinking hard, looking away, to avoid Chadwick’s gaze. Then he looked up. ‘CMA. No, nobody I can think of.’

Chadwick leaned back in his swivel chair. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like it’s going to help us much.’

‘The watch. Obviously you know the make?’

‘It was a Hamilton. A tank watch, I think it’s called.’

‘Hamilton? That’s American, isn’t it?’

‘You’re right, it is.’

‘Hmm. Any idea when it was made?’

‘Late thirties, as best I recall.’

‘Meaning, it could have been purchased several years later.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So we know that the body couldn’t have been in the well prior to 1937 or thereabouts?’

‘But any time after. Up to today as a matter of fact because that particular watch is now a collector’s item. Worth quite a few bob, I’m told.’

‘But American made?’

‘Yes, but we know they were exported to Britain, if that’s what you’re thinking, so it doesn’t tell us much.’

Kingston looked up at the ceiling. ‘CMA,’ he said shaking his head. ‘I’ve no idea. Unless it was bought as used.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Well, inspector, thanks for taking the time to see me. I trust that if you learn any more you’ll let Jamie or me know. That would be appreciated.’

Chadwick rose. ‘Unfortunately, none of this sheds any more light on why Ryder left his estate to Miss Gibson. Which, I believe you said, is what motivated you in the first place.’ He walked around the desk. ‘Not unless you can connect CMA with Jamie in any way.’

‘I’ll ask her, of course, but I would seriously doubt it.’

‘Good,’ Chadwick said with a smile. ‘Let me know. Meanwhile tell Jamie that the case is by no means closed but given everything we know at this point—which I’m afraid is not much—we may never discover whose bones they are and how they came to end up in the well.’

Kingston paused, one hand gripping the back of the chair. ‘I have one more question, inspector,’ he said. ‘You had a phone conversation with Jamie shortly after the skeleton was found.’

‘Yes, I remember. We’d just got the results back from pathology.’

‘The victim was a male, roughly sixty years old, about five eleven. Been down there a long time, I believe you said?’

‘Sounds right.’

‘She said there was more but it was a bit over her head. You know, medical terminology.’

Chadwick gave the question frowning thought. ‘As I recall, there really wasn’t much more. I’d have to go back and look at the pathologist’s report.’

‘If it’s not asking too much, could you do that?’

‘It’s frowned upon to provide information to any outside source on an active case but in this case I don’t see why not. I’m curious, what do you expect to find?’

‘I’m not sure. Just grasping at straws, I suppose.’ Chadwick shrugged and got up from his chair. ‘It might take a couple of days. I’ll call you when I have it.’