The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Wolff concluded the phone call to his Chief Financial Officer. He took a quick second look over the papers on his desk. Satisfied that he was fully prepared for the meeting, he shuffled them together and placed them in the nearby leather folder. He glanced at his Breitling watch, a gift from the company. It was 9.52, eight minutes before the meeting was due to start. The memo he had circulated three days before, to all B-R corporate officers and department heads, reflected his taste for brevity. It read:

  Please plan to attend a special meeting on Thursday, July 3rd, at 10.00 a.m. in the company boardroom.

  Ira M. Wolff

  President and Chief Executive Officer

  Wolff sat in the chair, locked his hands behind his head, leaned back and stared vacantly at the ceiling. He’d put a lot of years into Baker-Reynolds. The company had been highly profitable when he acquired it and he had managed to keep it so until recently. Now though, with much fiercer domestic and global competition, he was fighting for his life again. The writing was on the wall: it looked as though nothing could forestall the company’s collapse. Ironically, he’d played it straight this time, operating the company in an aggressive, yet businesslike fashion, never straying from the path of legitimacy. Despite everything he had done to bolster sales and reduce overhead, profits kept slipping inexorably downward and costs continued to spiral. Red ink was seeping insidiously through the pages of each successive monthly profit-and-loss statement. More loans were out of the question. He couldn’t pay those he had. The banks were now getting testy. If the company were to go under, it could be more than just a financial disaster for him. If the State Attorney General or the FBI started to get nosy, or if a cub reporter decided to resurrect the demise of Baker-Reynolds, it would only be a matter of time before Wolff ’s past would start popping up all over the media.

  In a lifetime of constructing creative contingency plans, this time he had none.

  He wondered which part of his past they would dig up first. Probably the five years’ incarceration for fraud, he assumed, along with a fine of three million dollars to be used to repay his victims. This was part of the sentence he had received eighteen years ago for an elaborate Ponzi scheme that had bilked over one hundred investors in five eastern states of more than two hundred million dollars. Employing, as one legal mind stated, ‘a brilliantly conceived but legally corrupt and morally diabolical scheme’, Bernard Wolfenden – his real name – was found guilty of establishing phony corporations, creating fake deeds of trust, fictitious balance sheets and other documents to give investors the impression of legitimacy. Even a loan officer at a prestigious bank was on his payroll at the time.

  Wolff finally took his eyes off the ceiling, glanced at his watch, and got up from the chair. It was two minutes to ten. It was inevitable, he concluded, that once the name Wolfenden was in the nation’s computer search engines, other unsavoury episodes of his past would ooze to the surface – the Dallas affair, for one. The media would have a field day with that. So, above all else, he had to keep Baker-Reynolds going. He preferred not to think more about Dallas right now.

  The meeting started precisely at ten. Wolff insisted on punctuality. Eighteen people were in attendance. The mega-sized boardroom table, more befitting a White House banquet, left little room for anything else in the room. The story was that old man Baker bought it at auction, had it cut in four pieces, and reassembled it in the room. Sundry awards and diplomas – many faded, all with rose motifs – added listless blotches of colour to the beige walls.

  At the head of the table, Ira Wolff studied some papers with Jed Harmon, the company’s Chief Financial Officer. There was a stern look on Wolff ’s tanned face. He was fastidiously dressed in a navy pinstripe suit with a lot of white cuff showing. His only noticeable mannerism was the constant need to brush aside the strands of grey-streaked hair that flopped continually across his glaucous eyes.

  Wolff handed the file he’d been scrutinizing back to Jed Harmon and walked over to the vacant chair at one end of the table. He placed his hands on the back of the chair and surveyed the room.

  ‘Okay, let’s get comfortable. Settle down. Lillian, would you close the door, please.’

  There was a jockeying of chairs – the casters gliding silently on the thick, wool carpet – a rustling of papers and the room fell silent. Wolff cleared his throat.

  ‘Good morning, everybody. Nice to see you back in the saddle, Bill,’ he said, glancing across the table at his General Sales Manager, Bill Samuelson, who had recently been on leave of absence. Wolff paused briefly, to make eye contact around the room. ‘These last two weeks I’ve spent mostly with Jed and our auditors. As a result of those meetings, we’ve reached some tough conclusions that you should know about. You’re not getting any sugar with this pill. These are the facts. Eighteen months ago we started to experience a drop in sales. At first the decline was modest but as we entered our peak season sales started to plunge. In the first quarter of this year they were off over twenty-nine per cent.’

  He paused to let the number sink in. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he said, slowly. He shook his head from side to side. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he whispered, mouthing the words.

  The expressions around the table were stone-faced, as Wolff continued. ‘Despite taking corrective measures, the situation has worsened. Now we face two simple choices. Either, by some process, to dramatically hype sales, or –’ His lips tightened. ‘To start downsizing.’ Brushing a lock of hair from his eyes he waited a moment for the words to sink in.

  ‘We’ve analysed our operational and selling costs and are satisfied that there’s little or no fat to be cut there. That leaves these options: first, to start immediately on an aggressive effort to sell the products we presently own; second, we must, and I repeat must, bring new products to market now. I’m not talking about in the next year or so – we don’t have that luxury. We’ve got to pull a rabbit out of the hat very soon or pink slips start showing up in the pay envelopes.’

  Wolff ’s cold eyes came to rest for a moment on Bill Samuelson, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘And the first casualties will be in the sales department,’ Wolff added.

  Turning to Steve Weber, B-R’s Director of Research and Hybridizing, he continued. ‘Research and Development. We need fresh, new ideas in roses. We can’t rely on regurgitating the same tired old hybrid teas and floribundas any more. We’re at war with the British again – with David Austin’s English roses; the Germans are pounding away at our flank with their Flower Carpet roses; the French with Meilland’s Romantica series. Christ! Even the Canadians are in the battle, convincing buyers that they can grow roses around igloos.’

  An ominous silence gripped the room as Wolff paused to take a sip of water.

  ‘Everyone must put on their thinking caps and come up with creative ideas. Within the next five days there’ll be another staff meeting, at which time I’ll expect all department heads to present their thoughts on turning this thing around. Don’t give me any Band-aid ideas. I’ll say it one more time. Somehow, between us, we must come up with an earthshaking new horticultural innovation to stop this freefall. I’m not talking six months from now – not even three months from now – we need it right now. I don’t care what it costs. If it’s a big-time idea, I’ll come up with big-time bucks to put behind it. Think hard about it. Have your families and friends think about it. Because if we don’t make it happen – and, I mean soon – this company is going to go under. And we’re all going with it.’

  With that he turned and left the room.

  Chapter Eight

  Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors.

  Mary Cantwell

  Thomas Farrow’s cottage was in a cul-de-sac at the north end of Little Stanton village. It took Kingston two passes through the hamlet before he found it. The chattering windscreen wipers of the TR4 were no match for the gusting rain that made it difficult to see much up ahead.

  Finally he glimps
ed the braided cap of the thatched roof peeking out above a tall yew hedge. It was the only part of the cottage visible from the street. Climbing out of his car, Kingston gingerly made his way up a narrow flight of slippery stone steps, keeping a firm grip on his umbrella and his briefcase. He had brought four of Major Cooke’s journals with him, just in case. At the top of the steps the garden opened to a wide band of lawn, edged by shrub and perennial borders. On a more agreeable day the view to the south was undoubtedly splendid. Now a menacing parade of dark thunderclouds rolled across the rain-shrouded horizon. Turning away from the dispiriting view, he was cheered at the sight of the brightly painted peacock-blue door.

  He lifted the tarnished lion’s-head knocker and let it drop loudly. Almost immediately the door was opened by a slender young woman, casually but fashionably dressed.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name’s Lawrence Kingston. Dr Kingston. I’m trying to locate a Mr Thomas Farrow,’ he said evenly. ‘I was given this address by a former acquaintance of his. I wondered whether he might still live here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so awfully sorry – you obviously don’t know,’ the young woman stammered. ‘Thomas died several years ago. I’m his niece. Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly. More like a friend of a friend, really.’

  ‘Your friend wasn’t aware, either, then – that Thomas had died?’

  Conscious of her apprehensive expression, as she gripped the edge of the partially open door, Kingston stepped back two paces. ‘No. No, he wasn’t,’ he said. His next words were lost, as a crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky. He waited as it rumbled off into the distance. Then it started to bucket down. ‘I’m awfully sorry to learn about your uncle,’ he said.

  A sudden gust of wind threatened to blow Kingston’s umbrella inside out. Rain splattered noisily off the porch behind him. It suddenly occurred to him what a sorry sight he must present to this pleasant young woman.

  ‘Please…’ She opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Do come in. It’s such a wretched day. At least you can dry off a little. I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. My name’s Jennifer, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Jennifer, that’s awfully kind of you. It is getting a bit nasty out here. Yes, tea would be lovely.’

  He set his briefcase down on the tiled floor of the hallway, took off his sopping trench coat, and handed it to her. ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You get yourself warmed up a bit,’ she said, leaving Kingston standing with his back to the meagre fire smouldering in the hearth of the low-ceilinged living room.

  When Jennifer returned with the tea, they sat down and she talked about her uncle. She said he’d passed away, suddenly, about six or seven years ago. She confirmed that he had, indeed, been passionately interested in roses and, yes, he had belonged to a garden club. She had done her best, she said, to keep up his garden in the back of the cottage but, sadly, it was nowhere near as glorious now as it had been when he was alive.

  ‘You haven’t told me your reason for coming,’ she said.

  ‘I’m trying to establish whether your uncle was a friend or acquaintance of a man named Jeffrey Cooke. Major Jeffrey Cooke. He was also keenly interested in roses. I recently found out that they belonged to the same garden club.’

  ‘You said, “was”. This Major Cooke – he’s no longer alive, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me how you think Thomas might have helped you.’

  ‘You’re right, forgive me. Well, some close friends of mine recently purchased a nice old house from Major Cooke’s widow. There are lots of roses in the garden – upwards of two hundred – some quite old and rare. The garden’s large, of course.’

  ‘It sounds lovely.’

  ‘It is. Well, Mrs Cooke lent us some of her husband’s journals containing records of his hybridizing roses. We’re pretty certain they’re Major Cooke’s notes but it’s also possible that some of the entries could have been made by your uncle, because we’re led to believe that from time to time they worked together on the rose breeding. We’re trying to find out exactly what information is contained in the journals.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Kingston, placing a hand on his brow. ‘I forgot to tell you, they’re written in some kind of code.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit queer, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can be of any help, I’m afraid. I inherited all of Thomas’s belongings. I know there were no notebooks or journals, anything like that, among his effects. But there are quite a lot of regular gardening-related books in the guest room. That’s about all in the way of reading matter.’

  ‘Would it be terribly rude of me to ask to see them – the books?’

  Jennifer shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’ She got up from her chair. ‘They’re in here,’ she said, gesturing to a partially open door to her right.

  Kingston followed her into a small bedroom. It was light and airy and smelled of freshly ironed sheets. Built into each side of the leaded casement window were two symmetrical tiers of white-painted shelves, each filled with orderly rows of tightly packed books. As Kingston walked over to examine the small library, an oval framed photo standing on the marble-topped bedside table caught his eye. ‘May I look at this picture?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she answered.

  He walked over, picked it up and studied it.

  ‘That’s Thomas, when he was in the army,’ Jennifer said. ‘That one, over there on the chest, is of him and his wife, Cathy. She died several years before Thomas.’

  Kingston examined the grainy black and white army photograph. It was of an unsmiling slim-faced man with a dark bushy moustache. He was in a jaunty pose, holding a pipe to his mouth. The three pips on each epaulette of his uniform indicated the rank of captain. Kingston couldn’t quite make out the regimental badge in the centre of his peaked cap. ‘What regiment was he in?’ he asked, casually.

  ‘You know, I’m not really sure. That was a long time ago. I don’t recall Thomas ever saying much about his army days – or the war. Probably, like a lot of servicemen, he preferred to forget about those terrible times.’

  Kingston placed the photograph back on the table.

  ‘There’s some more pictures in here,’ she said, opening the lid of a pine blanket chest at the foot of the bed. She handed him two leather-bound photo albums. Placing one of them on the bed, he started to leaf through the other. Most of the black and white photos were typical family snapshots. Two boys, pictured at different ages, appeared in a number of the photos. ‘One of these little boys is your uncle, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, Thomas, the smaller one. His brother Adrian was two years older. He was in the RAF.’

  ‘Handsome lads,’ said Kingston, closing the first album.

  Four pages into the second album, which was more up-to-date than the first, his eyes came to rest on a large sepia photo. It was an informal group photo depicting a dozen smiling men, a few in military uniform but most in civilian clothes. With Captain Farrow’s bushy moustache, Kingston had no difficulty identifying him. Glancing down to the caption below, he saw Farrow’s name. Kingston scanned the photo, his index finger tracing the row of names. His finger stopped. There he was, fifth from the right, Major Jeffrey Cooke. Printed under the caption were the words: Bletchley Park, Hut 8. 1943.

  ‘Bletchley Park,’ he murmured. He held the album in both hands and stood staring at the rivulets of rain dribbling down the windowpane in front of him. ‘I was right,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Did you find something?’ Jennifer asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said, closing the album and handing it back to Jennifer. ‘Something most interesting.’

  When Kingston arrived at The Parsonage later that afternoon, Kate greeted him at the front door wearing a flour-dusted
apron.

  ‘You’re in luck, Lawrence,’ she announced, ‘I’m testing a new recipe for osso buco.’

  His blue eyes opened wide. ‘Splendid,’ he said.

  Kate was surprised to see that he was gripping a small holdall. Surely she’d made it clear that the invitation was just for dinner? It certainly wouldn’t have been like Alex to suggest an overnight stay. She shrugged it off – there had to be an explanation. ‘Come on in,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’ll find Alex on the terrace. I’ll come out in a minute and fix you both a drink.’

  A couple of hours later at the dining table, Kate and Alex sat listening to Kingston’s long-winded discourse. For the most part, they ate in silence, occasionally stealing a knowing glance or smile at each other as Kingston described every detail of his afternoon with Jennifer Farrow.

  Now, over strawberries and clotted cream, he was explaining the significance of the Bletchley Park, Hut 8 caption.

  ‘Early in World War II, a top-secret team of British code breakers set up shop at an old Victorian manor in Buckinghamshire called Bletchley Park. Station X, it was dubbed. Their objective was to break seemingly unbreakable German military codes. If they could crack them, they would be able to target German supply shipments, eavesdrop on Luftwaffe activities, and most important, locate and destroy the U-boats that were playing havoc with Allied convoys.’

  ‘Somebody wrote a novel about it, I believe,’ Kate remarked.