“Looking at an individual’s personal correspondence is a great way to get to know him, isn’t it?” Summer said.
“It really is. A shame that the handwritten letter has become a lost art form in the age of e-mail.”
They searched for nearly two hours before Julie sat up in her chair.
“My word, it didn’t go down on the Hampshire,” she blurted.
“What are you talking about?”
“His diary,” Julie replied with wide eyes. “Here, take a look at this.”
It was a letter from an Army sergeant named Wingate, dated a few days before the Hampshire was sunk. Summer read with interest how the sergeant expressed his regret at being unable to accompany Kitchener on his pending voyage and wished the field marshal well on his important trip. It was a brief postscript at the bottom of the page that made her stiffen.
“‘P.S. Received your diary. Will keep it safe till your return,’” she read aloud.
“How could I have missed it?” Julie lamented.
“It’s an otherwise innocuous letter, written in very messy handwriting,” Summer said. “I would have skimmed past it, too. But it’s a wonderful discovery. How exciting, his last diary may indeed still exist.”
“But it’s not here or in the official records. What was that soldier’s name again?”
“Sergeant Norman Wingate.”
“I know that name but can’t place it,” Julie replied, racking her brain.
A high-pitched squeak echoed from the other room, slowly growing louder in intensity. They looked to the doorway to see Aldrich entering the study pushing a tea cart with a bad wheel.
“Pardon the interruption, but I thought you might enjoy a tea break,” he said, pouring cups for each of them.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Kitchener,” Summer said, taking one of the hot cups.
“Aldrich, do you happen to recall an acquaintance of Lord Kitchener by the name of Norman Wingate?” Julie asked.
Aldrich rubbed his brow as his eyes darted toward the ceiling in thought.
“Wasn’t he one of Uncle Herbert’s bodyguards?” he asked.
“That’s it,” Julie said, suddenly remembering. “Wingate and Stearns were his two armed guards approved by the Prime Minister.”
“Yes,” Aldrich said. “The other fellow . . . Stearns, you say his name was? He went down on the Hampshire with Uncle Herbert. But Wingate didn’t. He was sick, I believe, and didn’t make the trip. I recall my father often lunching with him many years later. The chap apparently suffered a bit of guilt for surviving the incident.”
“Wingate wrote that he had the field marshal’s last diary in his possession. Do you know if he gave it to your father?”
“No, that would have been here with the rest of his papers, I’m certain. Wingate probably kept it as a memento of the old man.”
A faint buzzer sounded from the opposite end of the house. “Well, someone is at the front desk. Enjoy the tea,” he said, then shuffled out of the study.
Summer reread the letter then examined the return address.
“Wingate wrote this from Dover,” she said. “Isn’t that just down the road?”
“Yes, less than ten miles,” Julie replied.
“Maybe Norman has some relatives in the city that might know something.”
“Might be a long shot, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”
With the aid of Aldrich’s computer and a Kent Regional Phone Directory, the women assembled a list of all the Wingates living in the area. They then took turns phoning each name, hoping to locate a descendant of Norman Wingate.