EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  The Trail

  of the

  Wild Rose

  ALSO BY ANTHONY EGLIN

  The Blue Rose

  The Lost Gardens

  The Water Lily Cross

  The Trail

  of the

  Wild Rose

  Anthony Eglin

  MINOTAUR BOOKS

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  THE TRAIL OF THE WILD ROSE. Copyright © 2009 by Anthony Eglin. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Design by Kathryn Parise

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Elgin, Anthony.

  The trail of the wild rose : an English garden mystery / by

  Anthony Eglin.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36547-9

  ISBN-10: 0-312-36547-0

  1. Botanists—Crimes against—Fiction. 2. Accidents— Fiction. 3. Gardeners—Fiction. 4. Gardening—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction. 1. Title.

  PS3605.G53T73 2009

  813’.6—dc22

  2008036023

  First Edition: April 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  For Russ & Sherry

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I consider myself fortunate indeed to have had the extensive resources of Quarryhill Botanical Gardens at my disposal to research the plant-hunting aspects of my story. As a result, the description of the fictional Ravenscliff is based in large part on Quarryhill.

  In particular, I am deeply grateful to William McNamara, Quarryhill’s executive director, who gave so generously of his time, helping me craft parts of my story to reflect true-to-life conditions in the field and providing accurate botanical data and facts. Over the last twenty years, Bill has led or participated in twenty-five plant-hunting expeditions to China, Japan, India, Nepal, Taiwan, and North America. The results of these remarkable, often hazardous, journeys can now be seen at Quarryhill’s extraordinary twenty-acre garden, sculpted from a mountain slope, overlooking the vineyards of Sonoma County. Today, Quarryhill is home to one of the largest collections of scientifically documented wild-source Asian plants in North America. Almost every plant, shrub, and tree flourishing in this botanical wonderland has been grown from seeds brought back from expeditions by this “Indiana Jones” of the plant world.

  A special thanks to Charles Erskine, former Curator of the Arboretum Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, for help with staffing information about Kew.

  My thanks to DC Claire Chandler, Hampshire Constabulary, and Andrew Heath, Thames Valley Police, for keeping me straight with UK police procedures.

  At St. Martin’s Press: A heartfelt thanks to my editor, Pete Wolverton, for his steadfast support and guidance from the beginning. And lucky me to have the keen eyes of copy editor Cynthia Merman to add the finishing touches.

  By no means last, my gratitude for the invaluable contributions of my wife, Suzie, and friends Roger Dubin, John Joss, and Dave Stern.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES

  My thanks to Howick Hall Gardens and Arboretum for horticultural detail extracted in part from their excellent brochure.

  For information on ancient Chinese ceramics, I am indebted to the Percival David Foundation in London. The foundation, now part of the University of London, is home to one of the finest collections of Chinese ceramics outside China, comprising nearly two thousand objects dating back to the tenth century A.D. Starting in 2009, the collection will be on display permanently at the British Museum.

  Additional botanical and horticultural details concerning roses are excerpted from The Quest for the Rose by Roger Phillips and Martyn Rix (Random House, 1993).

  Historical plant-hunting references are excerpted in part from The Plant Hunters by Toby Musgrave, Chris Gardner, and Will Musgrave (Sterling Publishing Co., 1998).

  Partial descriptions of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain are derived from Travel Yunnan China’s Web site: www.travelchinayunnan.com/city/Lijiang/attraction/yulong.htm.

  Linda Stratmann and her excellent book Chloroform: The Quest for Oblivion (Sutton Publishing, 2005) proved me woefully misinformed on chloroform and its use in the commission of a crime. Thanks, Linda, for setting me straight.

  Thanks also to biologist, photographer, and writer Beatriz Moisset for the excerpt from The Midge and the Chocolate.

  The section on the Museum of Garden History is excerpted from the museum’s Web site and from the author’s experience.

  The quotation on page 242 is by Ben Macintyre, the Times, London.

  The crossword puzzle clues are from the Times, London.

  Good God. When I consider the melancholy fate of so many of botany’s votaries,

  I am tempted to ask whether men are in their right mind who so desperately risk life

  and everything else through the love of collecting plants.

  —CARL LINNAEUS, Glory of the Scientist (1737)

  The Trail

  of the

  Wild Rose

  PROLOGUE

  October 2006, Yunnan Province, China

  They walked more slowly now. Signs of fatigue from the steep climb and the thinning air were starting to show on their faces. In the last hour the sky had blackened, and the once distant rumble of thunder was now loud. Now and then cannonlike fusillades echoed between the jagged peaks around them. An ice-cold rain that had arrived with the thunderstorm had made the rough going even more arduous, the footing more treacherous. They would have turned back long ago had not the Chinese botanist in the lead assured them that the ancient roses and the seeds they sought were not far ahead.

  Two hours earlier, they’d left their vehicles in care of one of their guides, at the seven-thousand-foot elevation. This was the ninth day of a two-week plant-hunting expedition that had started in the ancient city of Lijiang, in a far-flung corner of China, under the shadow of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. Its unconquered peaks are sanctuary to animals that have never known the scent of man and a superab
undant flower kingdom that was old when the Gardens of Babylon were new. For centuries the region has been a botanist’s paradise.

  Anyone observing the single file of nine men—not that there would be, in this remote area and at this altitude—might have questioned their sanity. Less because of the weather than the hazardous route. Barely six feet wide, the trail was flinty and slippery in places where the rain had turned to ice. Like a thin strand of ribbon, it wound its way in a shallow spiral up the face of the mountain: on one side, a wall of gray granite; on the other, a dizzying drop of more than three thousand feet.

  No words were spoken. They would only be lost in the fury of the wind. It was just as well because they had to concentrate, to tread carefully.

  Only the last two men in line witnessed the man in front of them stumble and fall. They shouted to the others, who by this time had forged ahead by several paces. Now the leaders stopped and returned to see what had happened. One of them knelt and spoke briefly to the man on the ground, then helped him to his feet. A discussion followed among the men; some were in favor of abandoning what had clearly become a foolhardy mission, others were intent on continuing. In the end, it was the man who’d stumbled who convinced them that he was fit enough to go on and that they shouldn’t give up, especially now, when they were so close. In a minute, they were all on their way once more, pressing into the storm.

  Not many paces farther on, the man stumbled again. But this time, he managed to stay on his feet, swaying drunkenly for a few seconds. Then he stiffened, and before anyone could reach him, he toppled sideways—disappearing without a sound into the yawning abyss.

  ONE

  June 2007, England

  The road south out of Little Stanhope village could have been any one of hundreds that spider the picturesque Thames valley, south of the city of Oxford: narrow, with dense hedgerows— often blocking the view on both sides—and fraught with unremitting curves.

  To anyone following the Vincent Black Lightning motorcycle, it would be apparent that the leather-jacketed rider was familiar with the quirky road, its capricious twists and turns. Allowing for the light drizzle, he maintained a steady but not excessive speed, barely slowing for some of the shallow bends, and swaying fluidly from one side to the other, like a boxer dodging blows, as he coaxed the sleek machine through the blind hairpins.

  He was headed for the market town of Wallingford, one of many picture-postcard towns and villages that straddle the Thames on its slow-flowing journey southeast to Windsor, thence to London, and to the sea.

  Despite his familiarity with the road, he knew that concentration was critical: The margin for error, for both him and the driver of an oncoming vehicle, would be slender. Physically and mentally committed, setting up his line through a particularly long curve, he was at first unaware of the car that had appeared suddenly from behind. Only when he emerged from the curve, accelerating for the straight stretch of road ahead, did he spot the fast-approaching car in his side mirror.

  He heard a swish of tires on the wet road and glanced over his shoulder to see that the dark-colored car had closed the gap and was now on his tail. He sensed a road rage situation in the making but was in no mood for a confrontation—or the inclination to outrun the car, which would have been easy. He slowed and pulled over to the left as far as the narrow road would permit. The hedgerow leaves whipped the sleeve of his jacket as he beckoned for the car to pass. He glanced in his mirror again to see why the driver, a man wearing a cap and wraparound sunglasses, wasn’t taking what was a clear opportunity to pass.

  Suddenly the hedgerow stopped; in its place was a raised grass verge with a post-and-barbed-wire fence farther back. The road widened, too, and there was no oncoming traffic. Now the drizzle had turned to rain. Wiping his face shield with his glove, the bike rider waved again for the car to pass. At last it accelerated and pulled alongside.

  The rider glanced to his right, curious to get a closer look at the hot-footed driver, careful to make it quick. He wasn’t about to give the man the slightest reason to think that he was being challenged.

  The instant their eyes met, the car swerved hard to its left, slamming the rear wheel of the bike, spinning the 450-pound machine into the verge. Sliding on the slick road, it careered off the grassy mound in a twisting somersault, hurling the rider several feet into the air. The bike landed first, fragments of metal, chrome, and glass showering the road. Two seconds later, beyond the mangled machine, the rider plummeted headfirst to the ground. He crossed his arms in front of his face, but it did little good. His helmet hit the tarmac with a sickening crack, and his body rolled several feet before coming to rest facedown, unmoving.

  An eerie silence fell on the scene. The white sound of gentle rain was foreboding.

  Then flames started to lick around the ruptured tank.

  Suddenly, a roaring explosion, as the motorcycle’s twisted remains erupted into a searing ball of flame and smoke.

  With a screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber, the car sped off.

  Approximately forty-five minutes later, an NHS Oxfordshire ambulance arrived at the Accident and Emergency unit of St. George’s Hospital on the outskirts of Oxford, where the unidentified rider, on life support, was rushed to the trauma center.

  TWO

  Two days later, London

  The knees of Kingston’s old corduroy trousers were damp muddy blotches, his Wellingtons still wet from the hosing off he’d given them before leaving Andrew’s garden. He was tired, his back ached, and he had never been happier to see the shiny black front door of his flat on Cadogan Square in Chelsea. For the best part of the day he had been helping his bachelor friend Andrew double-dig a long border, transplant a camellia, and install an old moss-covered stone trough—a recent auction purchase—in the garden of Andrew’s small brick Georgian house on the banks of the Thames in Bourne End.

  Andrew—despite countless “auditions” over the years—had never found the woman who measured up to his idea of the perfect wife, never minding that he would make an impossible husband. He had made a small fortune with a dot-com business, bailing out and retiring at the hoary age of fifty-five, just before the bubble burst. Soon thereafter he’d bought the house for cash and proceeded to line the pockets of a reputable garden designer to refurbish the original garden that was first laid out by a former set designer in the early twenties. He jokingly called it his country estate, spending only a few weeks and weekends there, mostly during the summer. He also let his older sister use it, occasionally. The rest of the time he lived in his flat, three doors from Kingston.

  When Andrew had said that he could do with a little help, Kingston was only too ready to oblige. No longer having a garden of his own, he seized every opportunity that arose to visit other people’s gardens or, as in this case, to help out in whatever way he could. Being a former professor of botany, the demands on his time were all too frequent. These days, though, he pitched in physically only for friends, and never for money.

  What Andrew hadn’t told him was that the trough weighed four hundred pounds minimum, the border was ten feet deep and thirty feet long, and the camellia was an eight-foot-tall senior citizen with roots that had antipodean ambitions.

  Kingston turned on the shower and went into the bedroom to shed his dirty clothes. It was a little after five, plenty of time before the weekly rerun of As Time Goes By—his all-time favorite television sitcom—that started at six. Pullover halfway off, he was surprised to hear the phone ring. Not so much because it was unexpected, but more because the call invariably came ten seconds after he had just stepped into the shower or bath. Half dressed, he walked barefoot to the living room and picked up the phone.

  “Lawrence Kingston,” he said, more abruptly than intended.

  “Hello, Lawrence, it’s Clifford. Hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  “No, not at all,” he lied.

  Clifford Attenborough was Curator of Horticulture at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. He w
as also a former colleague of Kingston’s at the University of Edinburgh, and a friend of long standing.

  “Good,” said Attenborough. “It’s about a phone call I received this morning. A Dr. Banks from St. George’s Hospital in Oxford contacted our office, asking to speak to someone about recent plant-hunting expeditions initiated by Kew, perhaps. Since I’m also a member of the Field Work Committee, which has an overview of all the expedition work that our staff is engaged in, the call was passed on to me.”

  “An unusual request, coming from a doctor.”

  “That’s what I thought, until Banks told me why. He said that the night before last, they’d admitted a young man who had suffered serious head and other injuries in a motorcycle accident. He’s in a coma and bad shape from all accounts. Here’s the curious part, Lawrence. In the small hours of this morning, the man emerged from the coma for a brief period and broke into what one of the nurses described as incoherent mumblings. According to the nurse on duty at the time, the patient’s fragmented comments, mostly unintelligible, were about a plant-hunting expedition.”

  “Did he mention Kew?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. One of the doctors up there is an avid gardener apparently, and the minute plant hunting was mentioned, Kew automatically came to mind, hence the call to us.” Clifford paused, as if waiting for some kind of response from Kingston. None came.

  “Come on, Lawrence. Even you must admit that it’s damned intriguing. The office is checking, as we speak, to see what expeditions have taken place in the last—”

  “Damn!” Kingston interrupted. He had forgotten all about the shower running. “Hold on a tick, Clifford.”

  In half a minute he was back.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, knowing now that the conversation was going to drag on longer than he’d at first hoped. “Sounds intriguing, Clifford. But why call me?”