The Lost Gardens(96)

Visibly at a loss for words, Jamie handed Kingston the letter. As he read it, he slowly shook his head. ‘Extraordinary, ’ he muttered.

‘To say the least,’ said Jamie. ‘I’m surprised that Mainwaring gave it to Chadwick.’

‘Maybe he didn’t. It could have been discovered among his belongings. You know the police will have searched his home after he was arrested.’

Kingston got up and went to the butler’s table where he pulled out the stopper from the crystal whisky decanter. ‘How about a grown-up’s drink, Jamie,’ he asked, looking over his shoulder.

She glanced at her watch. ‘A little early but why not?’ ‘The usual?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

Kingston poured the drinks, brought them back to the coffee table and sat down facing her.

Jamie took a sip of the vodka tonic and looked at Kingston. ‘This is all very confusing. I may need you to explain to me again what happened in that Dutch village where my grandfather was killed.’ She paused and looked aside. ‘My grandfather, that’s going to take some getting used to. Kit Archer,’ she muttered.

‘You knew nothing at all about him?’

‘No.’ She had a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Hmm, I suppose it’s not that unusual.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Kit? Is that a real name?’ she asked.

‘It’s an abbreviation, like Bill or Harry. In England, it’s short for Christopher—Chris or Kit.’

‘Well, that’s it! The watch.’

‘Of course! CMA. Why on earth didn’t I think of that? Christopher M. Archer.’

‘I wonder what the M. stands for?’

‘I’m sure a little genealogical research on the Internet will tell you. But you obviously knew next to nothing about your grandparents?’

‘No, my mom hardly ever talked about her parents. Growing up, I would ask about them every once in a while but whenever I did, she managed to change the subject or shrug it off. As far as I know she never had any photos of either of them—at least I never saw any, which I found a bit odd. Finally I came round to realizing that it was simply something she didn’t want to talk about, that there was some dark secret there, so I gave up asking.’

Kingston smiled. ‘Well, if nothing else, at least you know now that there’s some British blood in you, after all.’

She didn’t acknowledge Kingston’s remark. She was looking off to her side, the light from the window edging her shadowed face. The letter had clearly flustered her and doubtlessly had resurrected long-forgotten moments of her childhood. Kingston waited for what he thought was a decent interval before interrupting her thoughts. He was about to say something when she turned and looked him.

‘So, was my grandfather a deserter? Is that why my mother never spoke of him?’ Her voice was subdued. She spoke as if she were asking herself the questions, not him. Betraying a hint of sadness, her dark brown eyes never left his. ‘I was afraid it might turn out this way, learning something that was best left buried in the past—we talked about it, remember, Lawrence? It looks like it’s turned out the way I predicted after all.’

Kingston wanted to go over to her, put an arm around her and comfort her. As it was, he simply sat there looking up at the ceiling. He took his time before he spoke.

‘No, Jamie. Your grandfather was not a deserter. You must put that idea out of your mind.’ He paused, his mind racing, trying to recall just how much he had told Jamie about Kit Archer after his meeting with Loftus. ‘It took courage to do what he did.’ He lowered his glass to the table. ‘What exactly happened in that Dutch village, Jamie? We’ll never know the whole story. The only person alive to tell the tale is Loftus and even he didn’t actually witness what took place between Ryder, Kershaw and your grandfather. His story is based on hearsay. Let me tell you what I think, based on all the information we have.

‘In those last desperate days and hours, the situation had become hopeless for the soldiers in that village. They all knew it. What’s more, they knew that unless their commanding officer was prepared to raise the white flag, surrender, they would all most certainly die. I’m certain that in the history of war, this is by no means an unusual set of circumstances and that in the end it nearly always comes down to a question of two choices. The men must either obey their superior officer—which, from the very first day of square-bashing, is what a soldier is drilled into doing, without thinking—or they can mutiny. Given the little time they had left and the brutal punishment that they had suffered, I doubt that mutiny was ever an option. They were too few, too exhausted and far beyond any organized uprising.’