Kate brushed some breadcrumbs off the table into the palm of her hand. ‘More tea, Alex?’
‘Just a drop, thanks.’
They’d finished breakfast and Alex was engrossed in the Sunday Telegraph.
The day before, on the Law Society’s website, Alex had obtained the phone numbers and addresses of several lawyers they were recommending. Alex picked Christopher Adell of the firm Sheridan, Adell and Broughton, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London.
Kate walked over to the counter and flicked the crumbs into the sink. Glancing up at the wall clock, she flipped the switch on the electric kettle. ‘Alex, it’s almost eight. You’d better start getting ready, you know what Mrs Hendrickson is like.’
‘Only too bloody well,’ Alex mumbled, still reading. ‘Frankly, I think she has a lot of gall insisting we meet at the building site on a weekend.’
‘Come on, Alex, it’s only a couple of hours.’ She looked across the kitchen at him. ‘You’ve had your nose stuck in that page for five minutes. What’s so interesting?’
‘It’s a story about the Eden Project down in Cornwall.’
‘The humongous greenhouses?’
‘Right. They’re calling it one of the world’s architectural marvels. We should definitely go down and take a look.’
She poured the hot water into the teapot, took it to the table, and sat down. ‘We could make a weekend of it, do the lost garden at Heligan, too.’
‘That would be fun.’ Alex folded the paper and put it down. ‘Save this would you, love, I want to check out their website later.’
‘Maybe that’s where the blue rose will end up,’ she said, pouring tea into their cups.
‘On that subject, I’ll try to set up a meeting with Christopher Adell. Is Thursday or Friday okay for you?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘And you’re tracking down Mrs Cooke today?’
‘Right.’
‘Still strikes me as a bit of a waste of time.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, didn’t Kingston say he was pretty much convinced that it was a fluke of nature?’
Kate smiled. ‘Surely, you mean an “aberration”?’
Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Okay.’
‘Regardless, Alex, there’s still the long shot that it wasn’t.’ She paused momentarily. ‘If the rose does turn out to have something to do with Mrs Cooke, in fairness, don’t you think she should get some of the money?’
‘Kate, the rose is on our property. We own the property now, not Mrs Cooke. Don’t worry, the rose is ours all right.’
‘But it would be unfair. What if it was the other way around? I bet you’d feel differently.’
‘At this point it’s immaterial. I don’t think we should be concerning ourselves about it right now. Let the lawyer deal with it.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Kate said, with a shrug.
‘I was thinking,’ Alex said, doodling a lopsided rose on a corner of the newspaper. ‘If this rose is everything we think it is, then we can’t go on calling it…’ He paused and stage-whispered the next three words: ‘…the blue rose. We must give it a pseudonym – a nickname of some kind.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Blue Streak? Blue Moon? How about Baby Blue?’
‘I don’t think we should use the word “blue”.’
‘Okay, then what’s the bluest of all blues?’ Alex asked, chin resting on his clenched fist.
‘Sapphire – I suppose.’
‘I like that, Kate. Sapphire. It has a nice feel to it and nobody will have the slightest notion of what or who we are referring to.’
‘Next time we talk with Kingston, we should tell him.’
‘Speaking of Kingston, do you think we should keep him in our camp for a while? Formally, I mean.’
‘I think he considers himself already in. Didn’t you notice yesterday, he used the word “we” more than once?’
‘Maybe we should have him sign a confidentiality statement.’
‘I was thinking more like putting him on some kind of retainer? We may need his services down the road.’
‘It makes sense. After all, he’s the only other person right now who knows about the rose – oops! I mean, Sapphire.’ A perplexed look flashed across Alex’s face. ‘Good Lord. Was he ever alone out there with the rose? It just occurred to me – he could have taken a cutting. It would have been so easy.’
‘Oh, Alex, he wouldn’t do that, surely.’
‘If I were a botanist suddenly confronted with the greatest horticultural discovery of the century, I might be tempted.’
Kate shook her head. ‘No, he was never alone out there, I’m sure of it. Anyway, I trust him – he is a professor, after all.’
‘A professor? I can’t see why that puts him above temptation. Though I’ll admit in his case it would be a stretch to think of him as being that unscrupulous. But from now on, as he said, we can’t be too careful. The last thing we need is dozens of blue clones out there.’
‘Talking of cuttings, we must ask Vicky to take some for us. That was one of the first things Kingston asked about. I’d attempt it myself, but I never seem to have much success with propagating roses.’
Kate walked to the door with Alex, to see him off. She took his hand, squeezing it gently, as they stood on the porch. ‘Alex,’ she said, avoiding his gaze, ‘is it just me, or is this blue rose thing starting to take over our lives? You and I haven’t talked about anything else since we found it.’
‘Come on, Kate, it’s only been a couple of days! In any case, it’s hardly small change we’re talking about. With the megabucks at stake that everybody seems so sure of, I think it’s more than reasonable to expect some inconvenience, a few disruptions. Anyway, once the whole business is in the hands of a lawyer I’m sure our life will return to normal. Until that happens – hopefully, soon – I wouldn’t worry too much about it.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Alex.’ She looked up at him and flashed an impish smile. ‘You don’t think we should concoct some story for Kingston, about it suddenly dying – and that could be the end of it?’
‘And never know what it’s like to be disgustingly rich?’ Alex pulled Kate closer and put his arm around her.
‘Just kidding, of course. But, truthfully, I am just a little worried,’ she said. There was a slight tremble in her voice.
‘About what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘About all the things that might happen. I keep thinking of what Kingston said, “Your world will never be the same.” It’s – it’s just that I like things the way they are – the way we’d planned. I’m just afraid this rose business could spoil it all. That would be awful, Alex.’
He held her tightly, leaned down and brushed his lips across her hair. ‘Not a chance,’ he said.
Alex tried the doorbell again. ‘Perhaps she got the date mixed up,’ he said.
‘No, we agreed on today. I wrote it down,’ Kate replied. ‘She’s probably in the loo or something.’
‘It is the right house?’
‘I’ll check again.’ Kate pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. ‘Three thirty, Tuesday 24th, 12 St Margaret’s Mews. She said it was sheltered accommodation. This is it all right.’
Juggling their schedules, they had managed to set the meeting with Mrs Cooke for today. This worked out well because, if by chance they learned anything significant, they would be able to tell Christopher Adell. Alex had set up a meeting with him the coming Friday in London.
Alex was about to hammer on the door when an approaching image rippled in the dimpled glass pane. The front door to the neat bungalow opened. A thin, pale man stood there.
‘Kate and Alex Sheppard, I take it,’ he said in a flat voice.
Alex nodded affirmatively. ‘And you’re – Graham? Your aunt said you might be here.’
‘That’s me,’ he answered, with an awkward half-smile.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Alex said, thrusting
out a hand. It was like shaking hands with a rubber glove.
Graham stepped aside. ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘Auntie’s in the living room, going over the racing form. Believe it or not, she makes quite a few bob on the ponies every week. Sorry to leave you standing on the doorstep like that. Her hearing’s not too good these days – I’m just fixing one of the cupboard doors in the kitchen. I’ll join you in a minute.’ Graham ushered them into the living room then departed.
Inside, as expected from the pristine exterior, the house was immaculate. Cheerful, too. The walls of the small living room were a sunny cream colour, making it look larger than its small space. An Oriental carpet, which Alex guessed to be an old Heriz, almost touched the walls on all sides. He recognized some of the antique pieces as being part of Mrs Cooke’s furnishings at The Parsonage when they had first seen it.
Mrs Cooke put down the newspaper and shooed her plump tortoiseshell cat off the sofa, deftly brushing the cushion with the back of her liver-spotted hand. She stood and walked over to greet Kate and Alex. ‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ she said, eyes twinkling, as though she really meant it. ‘For the life of me, I can’t think why we never met when the house was being sold.’ She waved a scarlet-nailed hand dismissively. ‘You know what those agents are like. They can get awfully bossy. Never wanted me around, you know.’
She was a short, comfortably plump woman with a laugh-wrinkled, heavily powdered face framed by hair that bore a resemblance to fine grade steel wool. Her smile revealed teeth too white and evenly spaced to be her own. When Alex moved closer to shake her hand, he smelled the clean fragrance of Ivory soap.
Mrs Cooke gestured towards the multi-cushioned chintz sofa in front of the bay window. Alex nodded and sank down into the fluffy cushions. He kept sinking.
Mrs Cooke sat down facing them. ‘You had no trouble finding us, then?’
‘No, not at all, Mrs Cooke,’ said Kate.
‘Although Chippenham’s changed quite a lot since I was last here,’ Alex interjected. ‘Seems a lot bigger. Busier – more traffic.’
Mrs Cooke fidgeted with the ostentatious rings on her pudgy hands. She wore at least half a dozen. ‘Well, you know, it’s market day. It’s not usually this busy. I don’t do much driving now, anyway. I do miss Steeple Tarrant, of course, but I must say that this is decidedly more convenient. Almost everything I need is close by. Not only that, we get round the clock security and there’s a nurse on call all the time. I didn’t know whether I’d like it at first, after living at The Parsonage all those years, but it really is very nice. I’ve made a lot of friends, too.’
She paused, as if trying to recall why they were all gathered there.
Seizing the fraction of time it took for Mrs Cooke’s ample bosoms to heave, Alex commandeered the conversation. ‘As Kate mentioned to you on the phone, Mrs Cooke, we’re interested in identifying some of the old roses at The Parsonage and thought perhaps you might be able to help us. I believe you told her there might be some books we could look at.’
Mrs Cooke smiled. ‘Yes, I did. They were Jeffrey’s. He was the gardener. Oh,’ she added, ‘that would be my late husband.’
‘We were curious. Did he create the garden?’ asked Kate.
‘Well, not entirely. We bought The Parsonage from a retired doctor, well over thirty years ago, now. ’68, I think it was. His wife had recently passed away and he could no longer look after the place on his own. Particularly the garden – well, you know how big it is. It was all very sad, knowing everything he’d put into it and how much he loved it. But it was exactly what Jeffrey wanted. Me, too.’ She chuckled. ‘Jeffrey always used to say that he didn’t have the time left to sit and wait for trees to grow. And he was right, I suppose. He’d just retired too. The garden in those days wasn’t quite what it is today, of course, but there were lots of mature trees and shrubs. The doctor had already done a lot of the important work, the things that cost so much money nowadays. Like all the terraces, the arbours and trelliswork, the greenhouse, all the stone and brick work. I remember some of those lovely old urns and terracotta pots, they were there too – the Italian ones. And the brick walls, of course – some have stood for at least a couple of hundred years, long before the house was built. I was told that at one time it was a vegetable garden for the manor house.’ She gazed out of the windows, her mind lost in the past. ‘But Jeffrey made it what it is today,’ she said finally. ‘He changed the layout of the garden, the pathways, the beds and borders. He was always chuntering on about “changing viewpoints” and “lines of sight”.’
‘What about all the roses?’ asked Kate.
‘Oh, they’re all Jeffrey’s doing. They were his pride and joy.’
‘He did a superb job and we’re very grateful to him. Did he keep records of any kind, do you know?’ Kate asked.
‘The Major? Oh, heavens, yes. He was one of the most meticulous fuddy-duddies you’re ever likely to meet.’
Alex, who looked as though the sofa was about swallow him up, eased himself awkwardly forward and sat on the front edge of the cushion. ‘He was a military man, then?’ he asked.
‘He was. But, as I mentioned, retired,’ Mrs Cooke replied. ‘He kept very good records of everything. I’m not sure that – oh, here’s Graham, at last,’ she said, looking to the door.
Bouncing up from her chair with surprising agility for her age and bulk, she began to introduce her nephew. With unrestrained pride, she rattled off an abridged version of Graham’s curriculum vitae, emphasizing the fact that he was now the Western Region Sales Manager for Hofmann Pharmaceuticals.
Alex was debating whether Graham had had a particularly gruelling day or was in the grip of some debilitating bug. His mousy moustache drooped sourly at the corners of his mouth and thin strands of hair were vainly combed in a losing struggle to conceal the shiny pink dome of his forehead. His rumpled Donegal tweed suit, poorly knotted tie and suede shoes struck Alex as being more suited to the racetrack than the sales office. Alex had already pegged him as one of those irksome people who, despite being in reasonable health and comfortably off, are never satisfied with their lot. He also had an unsettling habit of blinking frequently through his wire-rimmed glasses, further adding to the impression of querulousness.
Graham pulled up a chair from alongside the nearby dining table, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Well, how’s life in the country? Auntie tells me you’re asking about my uncle’s roses? About his notebooks.’ There was no friendliness in his voice.
Alex glanced at Kate. He knew that she was thinking the same thing. He’d better choose his words carefully. Certainly, Graham should be given no impression that they were there for any reason other than genuine interest in all the roses at The Parsonage, not just one. Earlier, he and Kate had debated about telling Mrs Cooke – or possibly hinting to her – that a particular rose in the garden was rare, even telling her it was blue. Kate had wanted to do that, but Alex had reminded her of Kingston’s admonitions and they had quickly dismissed that idea – at least for the time being.
‘Yes,’ Alex said, evenly. ‘There are a lot of roses we can’t identify. The markers have disappeared. It would just be nice – well, helpful – if we knew what they were.’
Kate turned to Mrs Cooke. ‘Did your husband spend a lot of his time tending the roses?’
‘Oh, yes. Barmy about ’em he was. Out there pottering in the garden seven days a week.’
‘Did he, by any chance, do any propagating? Hybridizing?’ Kate inquired, taking her eyes off Mrs Cooke to glance furtively at Graham. ‘Anything like that?’
‘What’s that got to do with identifying roses, might I ask?’ Graham interrupted.
‘We’re just curious, that’s all,’ said Alex. ‘Actually, Kate was thinking about trying her hand at it. We wondered whether there might be some useful information among your uncle’s books.’
Graham averted his eyes. ‘I haven’t looked at the books for years, but I rather doubt it. They’re quite old now, y
ou know. Some are falling apart. Uncle died over seven years ago.’ He spoke as if he wished the subject could be dropped.
‘Would you like to borrow the books?’ Mrs Cooke asked.
Alex looked at Graham out of the corner of his eye just in time to see the imperceptible shake of his head and fleeting scowl at his aunt’s question.
‘Oh, that would be wonderful,’ Kate replied. ‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Cooke, turning to her nephew. ‘You still have them, I trust?’
Graham hesitated, his eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Yes – yes, they’re in my storage space. I won’t be able to get them for a couple of days. I’ll call you when I have them.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Mrs Cooke.
Saying that he had to make some phone calls, Graham got up, excused himself, and ambled to the door. By his body language and sullen expression, it was clear that he wasn’t pleased about giving up his uncle’s books.
‘Come to think of it, now,’ said Mrs Cooke after Graham had departed, ‘there was another chap who used to come over to help Jeffrey.’ She paused, twiddling away at her rings. ‘Thomas, I think his first name was.’
Kate and Alex exchanged glances while Mrs Cooke, with the tip of her forefinger pressed to her lips, stared at the ceiling.
‘Farrow,’ she blurted. ‘Thomas Farrow. That’s who it was. They used to spend hours on end in that infernal greenhouse of Jeffrey’s. Wouldn’t even come up for lunch some days.’ She paused, then chuckled. ‘Swore the two of them had a hussy in there, I did. But it was just the roses. That’s all they seemed to be interested in. Quite a charmer, that Farrow.’
‘Where is he now?’ Alex asked. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How did the two meet?’ asked Kate.
‘I think it was at the club Jeffrey belonged to. A garden club. I’m not certain, but it might have been in Marlborough. Perhaps there are newsletters or notes among those books of his that might help.’
Alex would have liked to pursue the question of Farrow’s involvement but knew that they’d asked enough questions already. Soon it might dawn on Mrs Cooke that their visit had to do with more than simply identifying roses in the Parsonage garden.
The Blue Rose Page 5