EG02 - The Lost Gardens Read Online Free

confetti. A sweet fragrance perfumed the air that was loud with the gurgle and bubble of water and the twittering and warbling of a thousand birds. Twice he had driven through shallow fords on the road. Crossing heather-cloaked moors, through gentle pastures and ferny forest, he hadn’t seen a house or any signs of people for miles.
    Running a hand through his tangle of windblown hair, he peered over the top of his sunglasses. Yes, there they were, set back from the road, about fifty feet ahead on the left: the two blackened stone pillars each with a stone griffin perched on top—exactly as she had described. He slipped into second, passed between them and up the straight driveway leading to Wickersham Priory.
    He drove slowly, taking in the scenery. A clutch of cottages tucked in the fold of a distant hollow appeared ahead: signs of habitation at last. Lulled by the meagre warmth of the grudging sun he tried to conjure a mental picture of the woman he was about to meet.
    Caught up in the flight of fancy he very nearly overran the right-angled bend in the driveway. Quickly gaining control, he jammed his foot on the brake and skidded to a stop. He squinted in disbelief through the dirt-speckled windscreen. Fifty yards ahead was a wall of overgrown vegetation. In a heartbeat he had gone from English countryside to rainforest. Cheek by jowl with native shrubs and trees stood all kinds of subtropical species. Coconut palms swayed on their spindly trunks amidst native pine, cedar, beech and laurel. In the shadow of an enormous oak the fronds of giant tree ferns and the elephant-ear leaves of Gunnera looked incongruous. Here and there tips of golden bamboo undulated above brambles and thicket. Thick vines snaked up tree trunks, trailing fountains of vivid colour. He estimated the maidenhair tree towering high above the scene to be at least a hundred feet tall. One scarlet-budding rhododendron was the size of a two-storey house. He stared at the sight for a minute or more then continued up the drive.
    As he passed through a gap in the green wall the sunlight was abruptly extinguished, as if at the flick of a light switch. Out of the shadows, columns of tree trunks—some with a girth approaching that of ancient sequoias—loomed from the ferny black undergrowth, their lower bark sheathed in a velour-like mantle of bright green moss, algae and lichen. A cathedral-like silence added to the primeval gloom. Kingston shivered and drove on.
    All at once it was light again. Now, tall clipped hedges of yew flanked the driveway. After the cheerless atmosphere of the last several minutes, Kingston found the orderliness heartening. Ahead, the gravel drive split to form a sweeping circle. On the grassy island within stood a massive ornamental stone fountain topped by a trio of sculptured dolphins, open mouths pointing skyward. Imprisoned by weeds at the base, it was blackened with age and neglect. He pictured the fountain in its former glory, jetting columns of water high into the air. What a splendid first impression it must have made.
    On the other side of the circle a manor house loomed large. The sprawling structure was built of stone the colour of parchment yellowed with age. Mullioned and leaded windows of varying size gave relief to its stern façade. In colonnades, tall chimneys jutted from the slate roof like guardsmen. A blanket of ivy with scaffolding erected alongside shrouded the set-back part of the house on his left. At the buttressed entrance a Gothic archway led to a recessed front door.
    ‘Mid-eighteenth century,’ Kingston muttered to himself, rounding the circle.
    Ahead, standing by the arch, was a smiling young woman wearing a loose white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was holding a broom.
    ‘Could be earlier,’he mused, glancing up at the windows. He pulled the TR4 to a stop alongside her. Glad to be able to stretch his legs after being cooped up for the last couple of hours, he got out and took in a long breath,