EG02 - The Lost Gardens by Anthony Eglin Page A

top to bottom search of the house and the cottages to look for the paintings, was met with a blank stare. She reasoned—and he had to admit that her argument was sound—that, even if Girard’s assertion that Ryder had stored the paintings in the house was true, by no means did it imply that they were still there. She reminded Kingston that half a century had passed since Ryder’s Paris days and a more likely scenario was that Ryder had either sold the paintings, or if that was not possible—as Fox contended—then they were simply moved elsewhere. ‘You’ve got to remember, Lawrence, all this took place long before I was born,’ she added.
    Up until now Kingston hadn’t thought about the age difference but Jamie’s comment made him pause. For most of her generation, the war in Europe had little or no meaning. Even the Vietnam war was probably not something that had played a significant part in her education, her upbringing. She saw these things from an entirely different perspective.
    ‘The whole idea of a search is silly, Lawrence.’
    ‘How about letting me take a look around?’
    His question was greeted with an amused look followed by a measured shaking of her head. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
    ‘Well, it couldn’t do any harm, could it?’
    She let out a sigh. ‘If that’s what you want to do, you have my blessing—on two conditions. One, you do it in your own time and two, stay out of my bedroom.’
    Kingston stood, about to leave, then remembered the books. He bent and picked up the bag. ‘I picked up another book for you,’ he said, handing her the bag. ‘Hope you haven’t read it.’
    She took the bag and removed the books, examining the Amy Tan cover. ‘No, I haven’t—thank you, Lawrence. What a kind thought,’ she said with a smile.
     
     
    For four days and nights, starting at the attic, Kingston conducted his search. Every break he had from the demands of the garden restoration he would return to the house. Every evening, he would do the same thing. Frequently on his hands and knees and often up on ladders, he went over every inch of the place like a man possessed. Occasionally, Jamie would watch with concealed amusement as Kingston systematically measured and remeasured, knocked on wall panels, cleared out bookcases, shone a flashlight in cupboards and pantries, even took up all the rugs, one by one, to examine the oak flooring planks. In the early evening of the fourth day, he was ready to admit defeat. If the paintings were in the house, it was doubtful that they would ever be found. Jamie opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that night as consolation.
     
     
    Next morning, good to his promise, Kingston took Jamie to see the gardens at Hidcote Manor. They left early enough in the morning to allow time for a stop in Chipping Campden first. Twenty minutes after their lunch at the Seymour House Hotel, Kingston and Jamie arrived at the fabled gardens near the northern border of Gloucestershire. They had struck lucky with the weather. Earlier that morning, the sky was overcast and now and again the windscreen wipers were called for. Now, with a blue sky cushioned with fluffy white clouds, it couldn’t be a better day for a garden visit.
    Standing in the rectangular gravel Garden Courtyard, they lingered a moment to admire the small chapel and the old butterscotch-coloured stone house, behind which lay what has long been considered the most influential garden in England.
    Kingston introduced Jamie to the head gardener, Peter Jenkins, and they chatted for a while about the project at Wickersham before entering the gardens. As they did so, the bell in the chapel chimed two thirty.
    Over lunch, Kingston had filled Jamie in on the history of the garden, starting with a short biography of its reclusive and unlikely creator.
    ‘He was American born but he became a naturalized British citizen soon after arriving at Hidcote,’ said Kingston. His name was Lawrence Johnston. Of all things, he was a