Free EG02 - The Lost Gardens by Anthony Eglin

beneficiaries in a bequest. It could well have been a letter from Ryder explaining the reasons for his decision. Maybe he felt Mainwaring was owed that courtesy.’
    ‘Mainwaring didn’t open it in front of you, then?’
    ‘No, not that I necessarily expected him to. It was irrelevant, none of my business.’
    ‘He just left after that?’
    ‘For God’s sake, Lawrence, why on earth does all this matter, now?’
    Kingston shrugged. ‘You’re right. It’s water under the bridge. Too many questions can become annoying.’
    Latimer smiled. ‘So can clichés.’
    The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten. Latimer continued, ‘Anyway, to answer your question, Mainwaring did leave but not before informing me that he was going to contest the will and that he would be back.’
    ‘And did he?’
    ‘No. I never expected him to, really. Never heard from him again.’
    ‘Did he leave the area, do you know?’
    ‘Come on, Lawrence, how the hell would I know that?’ Jamie and Bella came back into the room. Bella gushing about how ‘darling’ the house was. There was no more talk about Mainwaring.
    The party broke up shortly after eleven. After accompanying Jamie to see David Latimer and a rather loud and legless Arabella off at the front door, Kingston walked the short distance to his cottage. Listening to Bella babbling on for the last hour, plus the wine and a stiff after-dinner cognac, had given him a mild headache. Sleep would be a welcome and merciful end to the day.
    He locked the front door, turned off the lights and went upstairs to bed. He was asleep in a matter of minutes.
     
     
    Kingston had just put three pound coins in the pay and display machine at the Coal Orchard car park in Taunton when his mobile rang. He took the ticket and fumbled for the phone buried in the pocket of his Barbour jacket along with loose change, miscellaneous receipts and half a roll of Polo mints. Odds were it would be Jamie because hardly anybody else knew the number. Were it not for her insistence, he wouldn’t have had the phone in the first place. He hated the damned things, particularly in the hands of drivers. He would have been just as happy with a walkie-talkie for the estate.
    It was Jamie. She was calling to ask Kingston to pick up a book that had just come in at the library. She had also heard from Inspector Chadwick.
    ‘He said the bones are those of a male; approximately sixty years of age; height, five eleven.’ Jamie paused. ‘We don’t seem to have a very good connection, Lawrence.’
    ‘I can hear you fine,’ said Kingston, walking back towards his car. ‘Did Chadwick have any idea how long the bones had been down there?’
    ‘A long time, was all he said.’
    ‘I guessed as much. Anything else?’
    ‘Not really. He described the condition of individual bones but it was way over my head. You know—medical jargon. Words like sutures and ossification. He said you could call him if you like.’
    ‘That’s it, then?’
    ‘I guess so. We’ll probably never know who the poor man was.’
    ‘Or did ’e fall or was ’e pushed.’
    ‘Chadwick said that if anything else turned up—and that was unlikely—he’d let us know.’
    ‘Case closed then.’
    ‘Looks like it.’
    ‘Okay, I should be back about fiveish.’ He said goodbye and switched off the phone. Putting it back in his pocket, he opened the driver’s side door and placed the ticket on the inside of the windscreen. He checked his watch. Five hours should be more than enough time for what he had to do, including his lunch with Malcolm Bailey, a reporter for the Somerset Herald .
    He hadn’t told Jamie, but in addition to the lunch and a couple of small errands he was making one other stop that afternoon: the Somerset Light Infantry Office on Mount Street. He was hoping to find out more about the reclusive Major Ryder.
    In due course he knew he would have to tell Jamie what he was up to, particularly if anything of interest turned up; anything