Working from sun-up often to sundown, Kingston had little or no time to dwell on the perplexing developments of the past weeks. Much as he wanted to delve into the mystery of the skeleton, the coins and Girard’s claim, it simply wasn’t possible. Every time he took pause to give them further thought, something came up in the gardens to sidetrack him. Then, of course, there was the overriding mystery of Wickersham: why did the reclusive Major Ryder elect to leave his estate to an American woman, ostensibly unknown to him?
In the coming days, however, certain items and a scrap of information would come into his possession that would further pique his curiosity, which he would be the first to admit took very little piquing.
The first happened early on a Saturday morning when Kingston was face up under the kitchen sink at the big house, trying to fix an obstinate leak. He’d insisted—now unwisely, he was beginning to think—on taking care of it when Jamie told him she was about to call a plumber. Earlier that morning she had gone into Taunton to do some shopping and have lunch at David and Bella Latimer’s. Just as he was about to apply leverage on the wrench, the doorbell rang. Cursing and extricating himself from the sink cupboard, he went to the front door and opened it. On the doorstep stood an ordinary-looking grey-haired man in his mid-sixties hugging six bound volumes close to his chest as one might carry a baby. The spectacles on the end of his nose were in danger of falling off at any moment. The books looked quite old. The man introduced himself as Roger Ferguson, an archivist at the Somerset Record Office in Taunton. Kingston ushered him into the living room where Ferguson lowered the books on to the coffee table. ‘Phew! Bloody heavy, those,’ he muttered in a West Country accent. He picked up the top book. ‘Thought these might be of help,’ he said, handing it to Kingston. Kingston took the book and opened it to the first page. His jaw dropped. It was as if the man had handed him a mint copy of the Gutenberg Bible. He was looking at a head gardener’s work book for the years 1905 to 1908. ‘They’re all from Wickersham,’ Ferguson said. ‘The other three go up to 1917. The two with the black bindings contain quite a lot of historical information on the house and the estate. I think you’ll find them most interesting.’
Ferguson, sitting on the edge of the sofa, went on to explain that he had heard about what was going on at Wickersham from Nick Sheffield, one of Jack Harris’s crew. They had met by chance at his local one night. Being a keen gardener and intrigued, Ferguson had taken it upon himself to do a little overtime research and had struck gold.
In amazingly good condition, the volumes detailed plant purchases, work and holiday schedules, invoices, and perhaps most important of all, job allocations. Important, because the job allocations specified all Wickersham’s numerous garden sites. It was a virtual map of the entire estate—a comprehensive list of all the individual gardens, the various buildings, greenhouses, structural features, the engineering of the water system: the hydraulic ram pumps, drive and supply pipes. A quick riffle through one of the black leather-bound books was all that was needed to tell Kingston that it contained a wealth of historical data, including drawings and photos—the kind of information that until now had been a distant dream. He couldn’t wait to see Jamie’s expression when he handed them to her.
It was all Kingston could do to stop himself from throwing his arms around the man and hugging him.
Over coffee and digestive biscuits, they talked for the best part of an hour. Ferguson, who was born and raised in Somerset, had always been fascinated by Wickersham. Over the years he’d read a number of articles about the house, its gardens and the more recent generations of Ryders. He had always wanted to see it, he said. It was no surprise that Kingston’s offer of a conducted tour of part of the estate close to the house was met with boyish enthusiasm.
Back at the house half an hour later, having seen Ferguson off, Kingston decided the sink would have to wait—the books were too important. He went into the living room to study them.
For the rest of the morning Kingston buried himself in the gardener’s work books. They were exactly what he had been hoping for all along. As he read on, the depth of information about the gardens back in those days astonished him. The meticulous records not only reflected a precise accountability for the upkeep and enrichment of the gardens but also demonstrated just how big a part they played in the lives of the Ryder family of that time, both aesthetically and nutritionally. The books represented an extraordinary diary, a way of country life that has been lost forever. Jamie was going to be flabbergasted.