They talked more over tea, then Jamie announced that she was tired and was going to rest for a couple of hours, then take it easy for the remainder of the evening. It was Kingston’s cue to leave, which was fine by him. It had been a trying day all round. A day that may well have marked a turning point in the mysteries surrounding Wickersham.
Chapter Nineteen
After leaving Jamie the evening before, Kingston had gone back to the cottage and fixed himself a light supper: fettuccine with mushrooms and a spicy Italian sausage that was left over from a dinner three or four nights ago. With a Cleo Laine tape playing, he went about the business of sautéing the mushrooms and boiling the salted water. By the time he sat down to eat, half the bottle of Sangiovese was gone.
He was feeling good. It was just like the old days, up in London, at his flat. Experimenting with new recipes, matching wines with the food. Picking out a CD from his eclectic collection, close to five hundred discs from Poulenc to Pink Floyd, and listening with the volume turned up.Yes, it would be nice to have company sometimes; someone to clink glasses with when everything arrived at the table. But he had long ago come to grips with the single life. The times he spent with Jamie over the last months had given him pause to think about the pluses of a steady relationship. But as attractive as it sometimes seemed, he knew that it wouldn’t work. He’d been alone for too long now. He had become married to being single.
For Kingston, one of the most unsatisfying things about eating alone wasn’t so much the absence of company as the fact that the meal lasted such a short time. It was not unusual for a meal in a restaurant, with a companion, to go on for two hours. Yet the same meal served at home to just one person would probably be consumed in less than fifteen minutes. Somebody, somewhere, he mused, had doubtlessly done a study on it. Invariably, he did the crossword puzzle while he ate. At least it helped pace the meal.
Kingston cleared the table and took his plate and wineglass into the kitchen to wash them up. He never left dishes in the sink overnight. After another fifteen minutes on the crossword, finally getting 14 across: A king in the ring (5), he pencilled in LOUIS1 and then put the puzzle aside for the morning when his head would be much clearer. He read for the rest of the evening, finally dozing off with the book in his lap.
Kingston woke at seven-thirty with a headache—unusual for him, but after a cup of tea, two slices of buttered toast slathered with marmalade, and two aspirin, it was almost gone. He picked up the phone and dialled Ferguson’s number. To his surprise, Ferguson answered after the second ring.
‘Morning Roger, it’s Lawrence.’
‘Good to hear from you, doctor. How’s it going up there?’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Kingston wondered if he should tell him about Jamie. He decided it served no purpose. ‘Sorry it took a while getting back to you,’ he said. ‘I was taking care of things up in London for a few days and it’s been frightfully hectic since I got back.’
‘No problem. I’ve been away from the office myself for a few days anyway, so your timing’s good.’
Kingston wondered why he hadn’t mentioned being at Wickersham right off the bat. Maybe it wasn’t Ferguson after all. Gwyneth’s description had been vague. No harm in asking, though.
‘By chance, were you up at the house recently?’
There was a pause before Ferguson answered. ‘Oh, yes, I was, as a matter of fact—a couple of days ago. I was about to tell you. I happened to be up in your neck of the woods that day, visiting an historian who lives in Watchet. I tried the house but there was nobody there, so I just turned around and left.’ He hesitated again. ‘Actually, I was hoping I could take a look at the chapel.’
‘That was the reason for my call. I’d like to show it to you. See what you think.’
‘Absolutely. Can you hold on a minute?’ After checking his diary, they arranged to meet the coming Monday at noon.
As Kingston tidied up the kitchen, he was thinking about Chadwick’s visit that afternoon. It was going to be interesting to listen to what he had to say. Somehow he doubted that Chadwick would have come by any more information concerning Jamie’s accident—or, for that matter, Jack’s death. He also pondered the question of how much he should tell Chadwick about the chapel and Ferguson’s assertion that, at one time, underground rooms existed below Wickersham—or if he should mention it at all. He decided to wait and see how the meeting went, what kind of questions Chadwick would ask. Given all the ground to cover, it promised to be a long one.
It looked like a nice day for a change. The unseasonable heavy rain and cold winds had slowed down outdoor work on the gardens over the last couple of days. He put on his Wellies, leather waistcoat and cap and patted his pocket, making sure he had his keys. He now locked the cottage when he was gone. The key to the chapel no longer hung on the hook in the hall. For safekeeping, it was in a zip-lock bag in the refrigerator. He glanced around the kitchen one more time, walked through the living room, closed the cottage door behind him, and started up the path to the house. Before going up to join the workmen and gardeners, he would see how Jamie was faring.