The Lost Gardens(3)

‘I must say, your policemen are polite,’ said Jamie, starting to stack the china.

Kingston pulled on his earlobe—a quirky habit whenever he was lost in thought—and nodded but made no comment.

Jamie paused, fingers on the handle of the china teapot. ‘Can you get DNA from bones?’

‘Certainly,’ Kingston replied. ‘Though I believe it might be difficult coaxing DNA from the bones if they’ve been down there for many years, which appears to be the case.’

Jamie got up, went to the sideboard to retrieve the tea tray.

Kingston looked down at the table, speaking more to himself than to her. ‘The inspector’s probably right. I doubt seriously that we’ll ever know who the poor soul was. Dental charts a remote possibility, I suppose.’

She looked over her shoulder. ‘How on earth would you go about matching someone’s teeth if they’ve been dead for as long as the inspector suggests?’

Kingston smiled. ‘Not easy.’

Jamie faked a shiver. ‘I suppose there were teeth? It’s all a bit too gross for me.’

‘I’m sure there were. And you’re right, the accident or murder—whichever—could have taken place centuries ago.’

‘Before this house was built?’

‘A possibility.’ He rubbed his chin, thinking.

Jamie screwed up her face. ‘I hope you’re right. I can live with a medieval family skeleton in the closet but it’s another matter entirely if it took place more recently. Know what I mean?’

Kingston laughed, got up from the chair. ‘I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, Jamie. Like the inspector said, we’ll probably never know.’

‘Will they know whether it’s a man or a woman?’

‘They will, quite easily.’ Kingston had adopted a professorial stance, hands clasped behind his back. ‘They’ll determine that from the ischium-pubis index. Height too,’ he added, starting to pace the room. ‘That’s deduced from the length of the long bones in the arms and legs. Hadden and another forensic anthropologist, whose name escapes me, developed that formula.’

Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘God! How come you know all this?’

Kingston smiled. ‘Spent a couple of years in med school when you were just a twinkle in your father’s eye, my dear.’

‘Really? Why did you give it up?’

Kingston grinned like a little boy who’d just landed his first fish. ‘As the surgeon said, “I just wasn’t cut out for it!’”

‘Come on, Lawrence, be serious.’

Kingston snapped his fingers. ‘Dapertuis. Professor Dapertuis. That was the other chap’s name. Oh—and one other thing—they’ll also be able to determine, within reason, the age of the victim at the time of death.’

‘What about how long he or she’s been down there?’

‘That can present a problem. The longer those bones have been down there, the more difficult it will be for the pathologist to determine the time since death. Damn. I forgot to ask the inspector the rate of decomposition that bones undergo after submersion in water.’ He shook his head, frowning. ‘What am I thinking of? Chadwick wouldn’t know that,’he muttered to himself.

Jamie picked up the loaded tray and started to make for the door. ‘Anything I can get you, Lawrence?’

Kingston sighed. ‘Thanks, no. I think we should call it a day.’ He studied Detective Chief Inspector Chadwick’s card one more time, then put it in his shirt pocket. ‘Get back to more pleasant things like gardens and flowers.’





Straightening up after ducking under the low beam, Kingston closed the cottage door behind him. Thatched with honey-coloured stone walls, the cottage had been built over two hundred years ago to house labourers on the estate. Jamie had furnished it in a Laura Ashley style—a bit dainty for Kingston’s taste but appropriate and comfortable. It was now his home from home while he worked with Jamie restoring the gardens at Wickersham.

He picked up The Times and a pencil from the Welsh dresser, went across the room and sank into the sofa. The paper was already folded to the Saturday Jumbo crossword puzzle. He placed it on his lap and put on his glasses, ready to pick up where he’d left off the night before. Three days now and only half the answers pencilled in. Far off his usual pace. Considering that he’d been doing the mind-bending cryptic for Lord knows how many years, it was to be expected that once in a while he would be stumped. He read the 49 across clue for the third time: One’s right up the pole, as the mad may be—8 letters.* For several moments he looked up at the misshapen timber beam that ran across the centre of the ceiling, the eraser end of the pencil resting on his lower lip. ‘Bugger,’ he said, finally, placing the paper back in his lap. He simply couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept