He opened the envelope, noting the Army Personnel Centre address, and read the contents. As he did so, a smile spread across his face. Not only did it contain more information about Major Ryder, but it listed the names of eight men who had served with Ryder during the war—all of whom were believed still living. This was what he had been hoping for.
Kingston read the letter again. Ryder’s war ended on 14 July 1944 when, as a lieutenant, he was wounded in action in the Dutch town of Kleinelangstraat. After his unit was captured, he was taken to a German field hospital where he was patched up and then shipped off to an Oflag, a POW camp for officers. His condition worsened to a point that, to save his life, he was transferred to a hospital in Paris. After two operations and a lengthy period of rehabilitation, he was released. Awarded a Military Cross for bravery he was promoted to the rank of captain. By this time Paris had fallen to the Allied armies. Records from then on were nonexistent but the letter went on to state that, after the war, Ryder spent some time in Paris before returning to England where he eventually retired from service. Immediately, Kingston thought back to the French dealer, Girard. This tallied with what the man Fox had told Jamie: that Girard and Ryder were in business together after the war in Paris. It would explain why Ryder didn’t return to England right away after his rehabilitation.
Kingston scanned down the list of the veterans’ names on the second sheet. He would start calling in the morning. He put the letter back in its envelope, turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed. This was information that Jamie was entitled to know about. Besides, it supported his theory about the missing paintings. Before long he would have to tell her what he was up to. She was leaving early the next morning but he would tell her when he felt the time was right. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep.
A crack of thunder woke him with a start from his dream. For a few seconds, the room was harshly lit by a strobe of lightning. In the dream he had been alone in the dimly lit living room at Wickersham. The room was as he remembered it, save for the pictures. Every surface of every table, the mantelpiece, the grand piano, even the window seats were stacked with framed photographs of varying shapes and sizes. All the head and shoulder sepia tone photos were identical—each of the same man, stern-faced, and with humourless dark eyes that followed Kingston around the room. The man in the photo was wearing an army uniform with major’s pips on each epaulette. Then Kingston heard Jamie’s desperate voice calling his name.
He sat up in bed sweating, a hand on the bed rail. He could hear his heart beating. He glanced at the chartreuse-lit numerals on the alarm clock: 3:20. Then another crash of thunder, this time farther off. Now the rain was slapping against the open window, the curtain whipping like a flag. He slipped out of bed and went to the window. Reaching to close it, the rain soaking his forearm, he peered outside. It was too dark to see much at all. All he heard was the sheeting rain and the wind. He was about to return to bed when a far-off flash of lightning illuminated the sky. In seconds it was dark again. But in that brief moment Kingston was certain he saw a shadowy figure retreating into the jungle, opposite. ‘That’s strange,’ he whispered. The person’s head was covered with a hood, like a monk’s cowl.
Chapter Nine
Early the following morning Kingston examined the area outside his bedroom window at the edge of the jungle, the place where he thought he’d seen the prowler. At first, he found nothing to indicate that anyone had been there. He looked up at his window, trying to recall his angle of view last night. He started walking slowly along the edge of the jungle, eyes to the ground. A few more steps and he stopped. In front of him the grass was flattened in places. A few feet farther on he saw a muddy scuffmark that could possibly have been made by the back of a heel. This was most certainly the spot where the man had made his exit.
Arriving at the vegetable garden a few minutes later, he inquired after Jack. It soon became clear after questioning the half-dozen gardeners and labourers at the site that Jack hadn’t shown up yet. Kingston thought nothing more of it, concluding that he was probably sick. He could have his chat with Jack later.
Jamie was gone for the day. She’d left early for a dental appointment, after which she was having lunch with David Latimer and in the afternoon doing errands in Taunton, so telling her about the mysterious prowler would have to wait until tonight. It was her birthday and he was taking her out to dinner at the White Swan. At first, he had debated whether he should tell her at all. Why give her cause to worry unduly about an incident that may well be unfounded or ultimately explained? But he had decided that telling her was the right thing to do. She would want know about it.