The Lost Gardens(17)

Kingston was looking forward to the coming evening. It was Friday and David Latimer and his wife were invited to dinner at Wickersham. It would be the first time that Latimer had seen the property since the week Jamie arrived in England.

David Latimer was one of those men whose age could be anywhere from forty years to sixty. Grey hair on the one hand; yet evenly tanned skin that was as smooth as alabaster on the other. A fastidious dresser, he wore a double-breasted navy blazer that showed the proper measure of shirt cuff below the four regimental brass buttons on the sleeves. His wife, Arabella, was dark-haired, bubbly and as thin as a wafer. An ascetic diet and too many hours at the gym, thought Kingston, when first introduced. He was soon to find out that she ate like a horse.

A few forkfuls into the main course, the conversation—having exhausted speculation about the skeleton—inevitably found its way around to Ryder.

Latimer glanced across the table at Jamie. ‘Have you come up with any more information about Major Ryder?’

‘No, nothing whatsoever.’ She shrugged, then said, ‘Not that I’ve been really trying.’

‘Nothing turned up in all those hundreds of boxes?’

‘No,’said Jamie, taking a sip of wine.

‘Not even a photo?’Arabella piped up. ‘No family pictures?’

Jamie shook her head. ‘No. To tell the truth he’s been about the furthest thing from my mind, of late.’ She glanced at Kingston. ‘There’s been so much to do—Lawrence will tell you.’

Arabella dabbed her chili pepper–painted lips with her napkin leaving a visible print. ‘It would be odd, don’t you think, with several generations of Ryders having lived in this house, if there wasn’t a single photo, some clippings, a scrapbook? Not one?’

‘Bella makes a good point,’ said Latimer. ‘Particularly with the three sons—men, I suppose—being in uniform. It would be unheard of not to have photos scattered around the house.’

Kingston swirled the wine around in his glass then held it up to the light. An excellent ’93 Beaune. The rich tawny red reflected a glint off the steady flame of the Georgian candelabra close to him. ‘Unless, at one point, they were all—re-moved,’ he said, pronouncing each syllable.

Latimer frowned. ‘Removed?’

‘Who would have done that?’ Jamie asked, concealing her amusement at Kingston’s posing. ‘And, why, for that matter?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kingston huffed. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

For several moments conversation ceased as knives scraped on plates, wineglasses were topped up and second helpings were offered around the table. Kingston helped himself to more Yorkshire pudding and gravy.

‘Lawrence, when you said “Not yet, anyway,” does that mean that you know something that we don’t?’ asked Latimer.

‘No, David,’ Kingston replied. ‘All I meant was that there could be more to this whole Ryder business than any of us realize. Don’t you think that—’

‘Good heavens!’ It was Arabella who interrupted Kingston mid-sentence. A quizzical look had crossed her face. ‘A thought just occurred to me.’She put a hand up to her mouth.

‘Well?’ asked her husband.

‘No, that would be absurd,’ she said, with a shake of the head.

‘Come on, Bella, what would, for crying out loud?’ asked Latimer.

‘What if the bones belonged to Ryder?’

Jamie started to laugh. ‘That’s an odd way to put it, Bella. You’re suggesting it could have been Ryder’s body in the well?’

Latimer looked confused and glanced at Kingston.

‘I’m sure the police won’t overlook that as a possibility. Frankly, it’s a theory I hadn’t ruled out myself,’ said Kingston coolly.

‘If it was, then …’ Latimer groped for words.

‘Then it raises all kinds of questions,’ Jamie interrupted.

‘The first being, who’s been living in the house all these years, posing as Ryder?’ Latimer shook his head and looked at his wife disdainfully. ‘No, the idea’s patently absurd,’ he said. ‘For starters, Mainwaring identified Ryder’s body.’

‘But suppose the servant was lying. Wouldn’t it be easy to find out?’ Bella asked.

‘How?’ Jamie inquired.

‘Well, just have his body exhumed.’

‘Oh come on, this is silly,’ Jamie said, shaking her head.

‘I don’t see why,’ Bella snipped.

Jamie frowned at Latimer. ‘Is that possible, David? Now I come to think of it, we never did discuss his death—the funeral.’