The Lost Gardens(90)

Here were photos of babies and children of all ages, in christening robes and sailor suits, tow-headed and pigtailed; dashing young men with starched collars; elegant ladies with parasols and fancy hats, mostly taken in various parts of the garden; wedding couples and groups; holiday snaps; uniformed soldiers, sailors and airmen; moustached and stern-looking patriarchs and their busty spouses; granite-faced, white-bearded grandfathers and frumpy grandmothers—it was an intimate family portrait spanning more than a century. Kingston had set aside all the pictures that showed parts of the garden where specific plantings or garden features could be seen. He had also separated the photos that showed men in uniform, specifically the more recent ones. Eliminating those of the young man in Royal Air Force uniform—one of the three Ryder brothers—left a handful of photos of the two other brothers. They bore a remarkable family resemblance; there was no telling which of the two was James Ryder.

The papers and documents, and they were numerous, were like signposts through Major Ryder’s life. Despite his endeavour to preserve his anonymity, these were clearly things that he simply couldn’t bring himself to destroy. His birth certificate with a King George V stamp dated Sunday, 14 December 1919 in the Registration District of Taunton, father’s name, Randolph William Ryder, mother’s name, Elizabeth Mabel Ryder, formerly Carlisle. A suede pouch held his British passport. Kingston flipped through it checking for entry stamps of foreign countries. As expected, there were none. In his latter years Ryder hadn’t travelled out of Wickersham, let alone the country. A number of military documents tracked his service career, notably a Staff College Certificate from Sandhurst. Birthday and Christmas cards were stuffed in a manila envelope. Each contained a handwritten note of varying length, obviously of sentimental value to Ryder. There were miscellaneous letters, nearly all personal; membership cards; newspaper and magazine clippings, including several obituaries of what must have been friends and family members; a small collection of ticket stubs and programmes from various concerts and performances, equestrian events, car and horse races.

They were nearing the last of the papers and only a few odds and ends remained in the centre of the table. All the papers, documents and memorabilia that had already been examined had been pushed to one side.

Kingston leaned back in his chair and sipped the champagne. The chill was off but the bubbles were still coming. Sign of a good champagne, he knew. He looked at Jamie over the rim of the glass. He rarely had the chance to watch her thus, while her attention was fully taken by something else; when he could study her features at length with little risk of being caught in the act. Discreetly, he took in her body language, the graceful hand movements, the animated lips and the soft hollows below her cheekbones, all her natural beauty and little mannerisms.

She looked up and smiled. ‘Have you gone on strike?’

He smiled back. ‘No, not at all.’ He was about to add the word, ‘dear’ but caught himself just in time. ‘I thought I’d let you finish the rest. I was hoping that we’d find something that would shed more light on his art dealing days. But he seems to have erased that part of his life. Come to think of it, if Fox hadn’t showed up, we might never have found out about that side of his life in the first place.’

Kingston finished the last of his champagne and watched as Jamie opened a foolscap-size envelope and turned it upside down. A small black book fell on to the table. It was about the size of a deck of cards but nowhere as thick. The leather cover was blank.

‘What’s that?’he asked.

‘Looks like some kind of diary,’ she muttered, opening it and starting to read.

Kingston watched idly as she started turning the pages. Soon, he became aware that her expression was growing more and more perplexed. She looked up suddenly.

‘What is it? Kingston asked.

‘It’s written by a soldier.’

‘Really?’ Kingston got up and joined her, standing behind her chair, looking over her shoulder.

‘Listen to this, Lawrence. This will be the fourth night we’ve been stuck in this godforsaken hole. Hawkins, Nobby Green and Stevenson all bought it today. When Terry got hit, he was not that far away from me. At least he didn’t suffer by the looks of it. That’s a blessing. I’ve lost count of how many of us are left now. It can’t be more than three dozen or so. The good news is the Jerries have stopped using mortars but their snipers are picking us off like flies. It’s quiet for the longest time, then there’s a shot and we all pray that the bugger missed. Stevenson, poor sod, told me yesterday that he’d heard we were running out of ammo. I’m beginning to hope that he was right. Then we would have to throw in the towel.’