Sitting at a window table in the Rose & Crown, a pretty black-and-white timbered pub in the village of Compton St. Andrew, Kingston sipped his lager. He looked out at the attractive garden with a backdrop of climbing roses and clematis and took stock of things. On the drive from Magpie Farm, he’d had time to think about his all-too-brief encounter with Julian Bell. Perhaps “skirmish” might be more apt, he thought. In addition to the purpose of the trip—to extract a firsthand account of the accident from Bell—Kingston had hoped to make a positive impression on him, establish rapport, and learn more about the man. As it was, he’d achieved none of the latter. As far as Graves’s and Bell’s conflicting stories were concerned, Kingston was just as confused as before. On one hand it appeared that Graves and Bell might have got together to get their stories straight. Bell had said that when he turned to see Mayhew on the ground, David Jenkins and one of the guides were beside him. That pretty much meshed with Graves’s account but certainly not with the version Bell had told Sally Mayhew. The mention of the guides raised another unanswered question. Surely they and the Chinese botanist must have been interviewed about the accident by the Chinese authorities. If so, Inspector Sheffield should have received that report. Kingston made a mental note to ask the inspector the next time they spoke. One way to straighten out the inconsistencies, perhaps, would be for him to talk to Sally again, to determine if her recollection of Bell’s account was still the same.
Kingston’s muddled train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the young, personable waitress who lowered his plate gracefully to the table, positioning it as if she’d cooked it herself. For her benefit mostly, he gave it his visual and olfactory approval. She departed with a smile and an “Enjoy.”
The perfectly baked Scottish salmon fillet, confit of fennel and locally grown new potatoes and lemon butter lived up to the menu description and more. Having forgotten to bring the Times with him to continue where he’d left off with the crossword, he spent the duration of the meal thinking about the expedition and Lester’s murder.
When he returned, he would have to call Sheffield and tell him that the meeting with Bell was a bust. He would use a more ambiguous phrase, of course—something like “relatively unproductive.” Before calling the inspector, however, it might be a good idea to contact Sally Mayhew, to see just how good her memory was.
Downing the last of his beer, he started to wonder if he wasn’t making too much of the conflicting stories, trying to make something out of nothing. Perhaps it was asking too much to expect that everybody’s recollection of such a traumatic incident would be identical. The only other avenue of investigation he could think of was to dig a little into David Jenkins’s background. Maybe something there had been overlooked. Inspector Sheffield had said that he’d interviewed Jenkins, and his story agreed with Graves’s. But that didn’t necessarily count him out as a suspect. As for the American, being out of the country, he would appear the least likely to have a motive for wanting to do away with Mayhew—if indeed he was murdered—or Jeremy Lester, for that matter. As things stood, he wouldn’t worry about Kavanagh until Sheffield had received a report from the FBI.
For the first time since he’d become involved, ripples of doubt were starting to undermine Kingston’s usually steadfast confidence. Sheffield or no Sheffield, he was now questioning whether he should become further involved. The maddening thing was that, even taking into account the claim in the anonymous letter he’d received at Lydiard Park, the cause of Mayhew’s death was still a question mark. Suppose it had been an accident. Then what? The answer—much as it didn’t sit well with him—was that he’d wasted an awful lot of time for nothing. On the other hand there was no question whatsoever about Jeremy Lester’s demise. It was premeditated murder.
By the time the bill arrived, he had made a decision. Despite his insatiable curiosity and his promise to Sheffield, he was going to forget the whole business—for a while, anyway. It was starting to take over his life. He’d faced similar situations before and knew how his good intentions often got the better of him. These things always started innocently—as this one had—with him playing the good citizen, offering help. Whereas most rational people would recognize when they were getting in over their heads, or would realize that they had promised something they couldn’t deliver, and would admit it and politely retract the offer—not so him. It never failed. Before knowing it, he stumbled inadvertently across an illusory line into a no-man’s-land of uncertainty and, more often than not, trouble. While he’d been known to quote Sod’s law that “every good deed deserves its just punishment,” it was paradoxical that when it came to his own good deeds, he was the first to flout it. No more, he promised himself.
He glanced over the bill. It was amazing how often he found mistakes; not this time, though. He slipped his credit card into the faux leather folder, then leaned back, satisfied with his decision. What should he do with the rest of his life? he wondered. A complete break might not be a bad idea—a trip to Seattle to see his daughter, Julie? It had been five years since his last visit. What else? Perhaps when he got back home, he would call his friends Kate and Alex Sheppard in Wiltshire. He hadn’t spoken with them in months. His musings were interrupted as the waitress returned, with a dimpled smile and his bill. Kingston signed it, adding a decent tip, got up, and left.
A veil of gray clouds was appearing on the horizon, not that it mattered. With Miranda off sipping Cava by a pool somewhere on the Costa Brava, Kingston had abandoned his earlier idea of making his Dorset junket a two- or three-day affair. He got into the TR4 and turned on his mobile, noting that there was one missed call. Few people had his mobile number, so he usually recognized the phone numbers of those who did. This missed call number wasn’t familiar. He decided he would wait until he got home before returning it. He’d had enough for one day.
THIRTEEN
After a late, light supper, accompanied by a glass of Pemerol, Kingston hashed over his fruitless trip to Magpie Farm. Bell had been halfway convincing when he had explained why Peter Mayhew’s being on the expedition was of little concern to him. Kingston wondered how he would feel, placed in the same situation. Even with the passing of time, would he be able to forgive a man who’d been implicated in the death of his daughter?
Kingston thought back to an expedition he’d been on ten years ago. Roses had been the main reason for that trip, too. Sipping the last of his wine, he got to thinking about roses in general and how little the average person knew about them: where they came from and what they had come to represent in the hearts and minds of people in every part of the world and for so long.
Faced with the prodigious and ever-growing selection of rose hybrids offered by today’s nurseries and garden centers, and the seductive blooms displayed in countless catalogs and on the Internet, it is understandable that today’s rose buyers might prefer not to spend even more time delving into the history of the rose. Should they do so, however, they would be undertaking an awe-inspiring journey back to prehistoric time embracing myth, legend, archaeology, discovery, world history, literature, and art.
From rose fossils found in rocks of the Oligocene epoch in North America, Europe, and Asia, there is indisputable evidence that roses existed at least thirty-five million years ago. As evidenced by archaeological excavations in ancient cities, settlements, and burial sites throughout the world, the rose as a symbolic image extends far back into the mists of time. Rose remnants found in an Egyptian tomb are thought to date from A.D. 170. Roman coins from 500 B.C., unearthed in Rhodes, bear imprints of roses. The oldest known painting of a rose is on a fresco that decorated the walls of a palace at Knossos, in northern Crete, thought to date from 1450 B.C. As far as Asia is concerned, there is no doubt that the roses had existed there for thousands of years. References to Chinese floriculture go back as far as the eleventh century B.C. Numerous records reveal medicinal use of the plant, and written lists indicate that large numbers of roses were planted in the imperial garden
s.
In his teachings at the University of Edinburgh, Kingston had enjoyed the luxury of weeks, even months, plotting the complex evolution of the rose up to the present day. However, for talks and slide shows he presented to various garden clubs and horticultural and botanical organizations, he had developed a less complex, concise explanation that took no more than an hour to deliver and could be readily understood by the average gardener or neophyte.
As he had in the past, but this time without the help of slides and a family tree chart, of course, Kingston began to trace the evolution of the genus Rosa in his mind. It all came back so quickly and effortlessly. He could have easily been back in the classroom in Scotland.
To begin, long before the time of man, various parts of the planet were populated with wild roses, what scientists now term species roses. It is generally agreed that as many as two hundred such species exist today.
To simplify matters, Kingston had divided the rose family into two main groups: those that originated in the Far East and those from various parts of the Western world, principally Europe and the Middle East. Two of the earliest wild roses from the latter group are Rosa gallica and Rosa moschata. While their origin may never be determined, it is generally agreed that they are ancestors of many of today’s cultivars. Over centuries, with natural cross-hybridization, new species developed and roses continued to thrive.
It wasn’t until the Renaissance, when botanists and herbalists began exploring plant forms, that it was discovered that variations in these ancient roses might occur by harvesting the seeds in the hips and replanting them. Soon, roses were widely cultivated and used for personal adornment, in cosmetics, and in cooking. The rose as a symbol became increasingly secularized. It became a symbol not only of love but also of monarchal power: During the Wars of the Roses, the white rose was associated with the House of York and the red rose with the House of Lancaster.
Botanists labeled these hybrids as Antique roses and began to classify them. Five families of Antique roses resulted. Gallicas are the oldest of the group, of which there are now about fifty hybrids in general cultivation. Damasks are thought to have reached Europe with the help of the Crusaders and believed to be a natural hybrid between a Gallica rose and a Persian rose. Albas are a cross between a Damask and the Europe an dog rose. Grown by the Romans, Albas are usually white or off-white. Centifolias— also known as cabbage roses—are so called because they have up to one hundred petals. The Dutch are credited with developing Centifolia roses in the seventeenth century. Last is the Moss rose family, first observed in France in the 1600s. Mosses are distinguished by mosslike growth on their stems, calyxes, and sepals.
At this point in his presentation, Kingston usually turned off the projector for a while and talked about roses from the East, specifically the history of the China rose, a subject dear to his heart. The China rose is actually a complex of natural and cultivated hybrids that have evolved over more than a thousand years in Chinese gardens. China has an unparalleled richness in biodiversity, and its roses are no exception: 93 species and 144 varieties are native, with 80 percent occurring naturally, mainly in Yunnan and Sichuan provinces.
Of all the many species of rose found exclusively within the subtropical and temperate northern latitudes, two have contributed uniquely to our rose heritage. They are Rosa chinensis var. spontanea and Rosa odorata var. gigantea. These two wild roses have provided the world with traits highly prized in modern rose culture, thanks to centuries of domestication in China and subsequent hybridizing in Europe. Up until the mid-sixteenth century, the Chinese had been obsessively suspicious of foreigners, allowing few to visit the country’s interior. As a result, little is known about rose culture prior to that time. The first person to introduce a Chinese rose to Europe was Peter Osbeck, a pupil of Carl Linnaeus, the famous Swedish botanist, responsible for the present day system of naming, ranking, and classifying organisms. The small pink rose Osbeck brought back in 1752 later became known in England as Old Blush, Parsons’ Pink China. It was to become the first of the four garden roses to be known as the Four Stud Chinas.
The second Stud rose, Slater’s Crimson China, arrived in Britain in 1792. A low-growing shrub, it became the parent of the Portland rose and subsequently grandparent of the Hybrid Perpetuals. The next Stud rose to arrive in Europe was Hume’s Blush Tea-Scented China. It was brought back in 1810 by Sir Abraham Hume, oddly enough a specialist in chrysanthemums. Following, in 1824, came the climber, Park’s Yellow Tea-Scented China. This rose was important because it introduced yellow into breeding lines.
The introduction of the China roses to Europe changed rose culture forevermore. Chinese roses offered several distinct traits that had been lacking in European roses of the eighteenth century: repeat, or perpetual blooming, usually from early or midsummer to late autumn; true crimson red coloring that did not fade with age; and a lower, dwarf, bushy habit. Along with Chinese roses came a new range of yellows and new fragrances, some described as tea scented, others as fruity and peppery.
Of all the patrons of horticulture and the arts at the beginning of the nineteenth century, none was more charismatic and influential than the Empress Josephine, wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. After their marriage, the couple acquired the Château de Malmaison outside of Paris, and while her husband was away on military matters, she happily went about spending his money, beautifying the house and the garden. She assembled what would become, at the time, the greatest rose collection in the world. In its heyday, Malmaison boasted roses in the hundreds, including 167 Gallicas, 27 Centifolias, many Damasks and Albas, and more than 20 species roses.
In 1810, at the height of the Napoleonic Wars, extraordinary measures were taken by the French and British navies to ensure the safe passage of the newly discovered Hume’s Blush Tea-Scented China from England to Malmaison. Nurseryman John Kennedy received a special passport to take the rose and other plants from an English nursery to Josephine’s garden. Such is the power of the rose.
The elucidation of both ancient and modern rose genealogies was greatly advanced in the mid-twentieth century by the pioneering genetic research of Dr. C. C. Hurst. His studies, though performed at the infancy of genetic science in the 1930s, have not been significantly challenged to this day. Were it not for the introduction of China roses to Europe, our gardens and parks would not be graced with Tea roses, Bourbons, Hybrid Perpetuals, Hybrid Teas, Floribundas, Polyanthas, Noisettes, or any of the new hybrids from breeders the likes of David Austin, Poulsen, and Meilland.
Kingston thought back to the garden he and his wife, Megan, had created at their home in Edinburgh. It wasn’t large, but it contained an amazing variety of plants and several mature trees. Chief among them were his favorites: roses, clematis, hardy geraniums, and hellebores. Exhausting the horizontal space, he had trained many of the roses to climb into the trees. In early summer, when the old climbers and ramblers came into bloom, the effect was breathtaking. When he had first moved to London, he had missed the garden terribly, yearning to be able to walk out through the French doors into its enclosed beauty and inhale the heady fragrance. At least nowadays he had Andrew’s garden to visit on pleasant days. Not only that, there were all the hundreds, if not thousands, of public and private gardens scattered throughout Britain to satisfy his passion. He smiled, recalling the aphorism: He who smells the flowers, owns the garden.
Kingston took his empty wineglass into the kitchen, turned out the lights in the living room, and made for the upstairs bedroom. He was at the top of the staircase when he remembered the message on his mobile. He went back down to the hall closet and retrieved the phone from his jacket pocket. He was always hunting for the damned thing, but this time he remembered where he’d left it. Back in the living room, he sat down and punched in the number. After half a dozen rings, a woman’s voice: “Hello.”
“This is Lawrence Kingston. Sorry to ring you so late. I’m returning your call.”
“Yes, thank you. How are you?”
&n
bsp; Her voice wasn’t familiar, but she clearly knew him or she wouldn’t be inquiring after his well-being. Not unless she was making a friendly sales pitch.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he mumbled. Still, he couldn’t place the voice.
“This is Sally Mayhew.”
“Well, uh, what a nice surprise. And how are you?”
“Me? I’m doing okay, thanks.” Her tone suggested otherwise.
“Have you spoken with Inspector Sheffield recently?” he asked, mostly for something to say, not wanting to be impolite by asking outright why she was calling.
“Not recently, no. Early on, he told me that you were helping them on the case. I was going to call him, but I thought I’d call you first, to see what you thought.”
“Is it about your brother?”
“Yes. It’s about some things I found in his belongings, in with his books. They could have a bearing on his accident.” She paused, then continued in a lackluster voice. “You are still concerned with trying to find out what happened to Peter, aren’t you?”
“I am, very much so.”
She explained that after she learned of Peter’s death, she’d gone down to Arundel to meet with the owner of the cottage Peter had been renting, to pick up his personal belongings and arrange to have what little furniture, books, and paintings he owned shipped to her. “I had a feeling that he wouldn’t have much in the way of possessions,” she said, “and I was right. The place would’ve made a monk look like a pack rat. Peter was one of those people who place little value on material things. As long as he had a roof over his head, three meals a day, and a steady supply of books, he was perfectly happy. I suppose that’s why he took to horticulture the way he did.”
“What kind of things are you referring to, Sally? The things you found in your brother’s belongings?”
EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose Page 10