The Lost Gardens(48)

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.