The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Immediately after Roger’s call, Ken had combed his database and narrowed his pool of prospects. Quickly he determined that, among his wealthy client list, only three investors qualified. Each was not only easily capable of committing the vast sum that it would take to acquire the blue rose but might, for various reasons, be predisposed to the unique challenge and risk. His first offer – to a Mr Yasuda, chairman of a large industrial conglomerate – elicited considerable interest. As luck would have it, Yasuda had a passion for horticulture. Not only that, but two of the companies in his group produced garden-related products. Mr Yasuda, as expected of somebody in his elevated position of power and wealth, possessed an exalted sense of privilege and was certainly not lacking in shrewdness. While he found the prospect of owning the world’s first blue rose irresistible, Yasuda saw no need to compete with others in its acquisition. Accordingly, he authorized Ken to explore the possibility of purchasing the rose direct from the owners.

  The phone was ringing. Ken put his cup down and walked over to the inlaid mahogany bureau that also served as his work desk and picked up the receiver. The caller announced himself as a Mr Moriyama, personal secretary to Mr Hiroshi Yasuda. The conversation, in Japanese, was brief.

  ‘Yes, hello, Mr Moriyama. I didn’t expect to hear from you quite yet.’

  ‘Mr Yasuda is anxious to know whether you have had a response yet from Mr and Mrs Sheppard. Whether they are prepared to discuss the sale of the rose. It has been five days now since he gave you the instructions to proceed. He is concerned.’

  Tanaka stroked his beard nervously. With Yasuda, he knew that he had to be straightforward and businesslike. Vague answers and promises were not acceptable.

  ‘Please assure Mr Yasuda that nothing is wrong and that I understand perfectly his concern. Please inform him that I have not yet received a response to my letter. As a result, I have been trying to reach the Sheppards by phone. I have called a number of times over the last two days without success. If they continue to ignore our proposal, I must visit them personally. I will report back as soon as I have more information.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Tanaka. I shall pass on your message. We will wait to hear from you. Thank you, and goodbye for now.’

  Ken stood by the phone, tapping his manicured nails on the polished surface of the desk. A chance like this, he knew, would never come again in his lifetime. He stood to make more from brokering the sale of the blue rose than he had made in the last ten years combined. He was prepared to do whatever it took to make the Sheppards accept Yasuda’s offer. Force them, if necessary. His survival now depended on it.

  He sipped the last dregs of tepid tea, brushing a stray tea-leaf from his lower lip. He must think this over carefully, prepare himself for any eventuality. He preferred not even to think about his offer being rejected. If it were, he had an alternative plan. He would devote the next few hours to reviewing that contingency making sure that all the parts were in place. But Alex and Kate Sheppard would respond favourably, he was sure. The figure that Yasuda had authorized him to offer was far higher than even he had imagined.

  Kingston looked directly into the lens and waited for the camera to click. The sergeant in camouflage fatigues and black beret slanted over one eye removed the passport-type print from the camera and attached it to a plastic pass badge. Checking it briefly, he then handed it to Kingston.

  ‘Clip this on, please, sir, and wear it at all times. One of Captain Cardwell’s men will meet you outside and take you over to DSSS.’ Affixing the badge, Kingston thanked the guard and stepped out in the sunshine.

  He was at the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre training establishment at Chicksands in the heart of the Bedfordshire countryside. Referred to as DISC, the grounds also housed the headquarters of the Intelligence Corps. Knowing the army’s proclivity for acronyms, it didn’t surprise him to learn that one of the training schools within DISC was DSSS, the Defence Special Signal School. This was Captain Cardwell’s department.

  Following up on the Bletchley Museum director’s suggestion, Kingston had established that there were only two organizations that might be capable of decoding Major Cooke’s journals. One was the DSSS and the other the Government Communications Headquarters in the spa town of Cheltenham, in Gloucestershire. Intrigued with the idea of its rural setting, and as it was closer to London, Kingston had elected to start with the DSSS.

  As Kingston waited for his escort he surveyed the surrounding scene. In front of him a formidable chain link barrier closed off the road. It was at least eight feet tall. He watched as a military guard went through the process of checking through a British Telecom van. Kingston counted five other camouflage-clad guards in the vicinity, each with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t anticipated such stringent security. For the first time he was starting to have qualms about pursuing the whole code business. Was it a good idea, after all? Considering that these men were responsible for the nation’s security, his justification for coming to Chicksands now seemed frivolous, to say the least. ‘A blue rose, for Christ’s sake,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Dr Kingston?’ the soldier, a corporal, inquired, stepping out of a Land Rover.

  Kingston nodded.

  ‘Jump in, sir. Too nice a day to be doing this, eh?’

  ‘It most certainly is,’ Kingston replied.

  As they drove off, Kingston glanced back at the heavily guarded entrance, and then at the scene outside. It was incongruous. They were now driving through the midst of a bucolic country estate with freshly mown lawns and tall trees.

  ‘That’s the old Priory on the right there,’ the corporal remarked as they drove by a sprawling brick and stone building with tall chimneys, fronted by a row of neatly clipped yew trees. ‘Built in eleven hundred and something,’ he added.

  ‘Most impressive,’ was all Kingston could think of saying.

  ‘It’s the officers’ mess now.’

  ‘Lucky chaps,’ said Kingston. ‘Not like in my time.’

  Nothing more was said for the next minute or so. Soon the car stopped outside a low brick building.

  The corporal looked over his shoulder. ‘Inside, follow the main corridor, dead ahead.’ His words rolled out in military fashion. ‘Captain Cardwell’s office is the third door on the right. He’s expecting you.’

  Walking down the corridor, Kingston thought back to his first phone conversation with Captain Cardwell a week ago. Initially Cardwell had been reluctant to help, politely reminding Kingston that the DSSS was not in the habit of performing this type of trivial function. There would be hell to pay if a taxpayer found out, he had remonstrated. But after a persuasive appeal by Kingston, Cardwell eventually acquiesced. ‘We still have a handful of officers who have many years of service,’ he said. ‘To set your mind at rest, I’ll have one of them take a look at Major Cooke’s journals.’

  Kingston had couriered them to Cardwell the same day. In a follow-up phone call, Cardwell confided to Kingston that the reason for their making the exception was mostly because everybody at DSSS was proud of the magnificent work done by the cryptographers at Bletchley during the war. This was for one of their own, as it were. Secondly – but not for publication – was because he and his wife happened to be passionate gardeners. They were particularly fond of roses.

  It never surprised Kingston how such a mutuality of interest in a simple flower could manage to open even the most stubbornly closed doors.

  ‘Come in – come on in,’ a voice boomed from inside Room 8 in answer to Kingston’s knock on the door.

  When he entered, Kingston was taken aback. He had not expected such a large man, nor one quite so athletic-looking. Somehow, he had pictured an Intelligence Corps captain to look more bookish.

  After a bone-cracking handshake, the two sat facing each other across the orderly surface of Cardwell’s desk. Cardwell was cordial and, as was to be expected, punctilious. Major Cooke’s journals sat in a tidy stack off to one side. The high-ceilin
ged room with its sparse furnishings and bare windows lent a hollow sound to Cardwell’s already stentorian voice. ‘Well, doctor, it looks like you came to the right place,’ he said. ‘The only place, I believe, where you could have got your books decoded. We’ve got some interesting news for you.’

  Kingston didn’t want to appear unduly excited. ‘Excellent,’ he replied, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

  Cardwell placed a beefy hand on the pile of journals. ‘As you surmised, doctor, all the entries in these books are references to hybridizing of roses. We estimate that the books contain a total close to five thousand of Major Cooke’s cross-pollination attempts. In the early books, all the crosses – as I believe they’re called – are between roses exclusively.’ He pulled out a book from the bottom of the pile, and opened it. ‘However, in the case of the last three books, in chronological order, all the references are between roses and other kinds of flowers.’ He held the open book up so that Kingston could see the translation clipped to the inside. ‘On this page, for example, it’s evident that he’s using the same parent rose – an old French one called Madame Plantier – and attempting to cross it with several different varieties of hardy geraniums. He also refers to them sometimes as Cranesbill – is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that is right,’ Kingston replied.

  ‘Here, take a look,’ he said, passing the book to Kingston. A moment of silence followed as Kingston read the translation, nodding his head. He handed it back.

  ‘May I look at the last book – chronologically, that is?’ Kingston asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Cardwell extracted the lowest book from the pile, briefly checked the inside page and handed it to Kingston, who started to flip through its pages.

  ‘Were you aware that there could be a book missing?’ Cardwell asked, casually.

  ‘Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Our cryptographer spotted it, too. A gap in the dates.’

  Kingston closed the book and looked up. ‘I suppose there is the possibility that Cooke stopped hybridizing for a while,’ he said. ‘Went on holiday, maybe.’

  Cardwell shook his head. ‘No, it’s not only the dates that don’t match, nor do the hybridizing numbers. But you weren’t to know that. They’re out of sequence, too. Anyway, if he’d gone away, surely he would have picked up where he left off.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘That’s not all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  A disconcerted look clouded Cardwell’s face. ‘There’s something else you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Kingston asked.

  ‘A few days after we’d decoded your journals somebody brought the missing book in and, unbeknownst to me, our chap decoded it, too.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Birth, life and death – each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.

  Toni Morrison

  Before Alex could bring the van to a complete stop, Asp bounded out of the open window and bolted for Kate, standing at the front door. She picked him up, lifting her chin as he licked furiously at her neck.

  ‘Come and say goodbye to Vicky,’ Alex called to her as he got out of the van.

  Kate walked over to see Vicky sliding over into the driver’s seat. ‘Aren’t you coming in, Vicky?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks, Kate. ’Fraid I’m coming down with something. I think I’m just going to go home and get some rest. On the way out, I’ll stop at the shed and pick up the twelve cuttings I took yesterday. I’ll drop them off at the nursery on the way home.’

  ‘I can do that tomorrow, if you’d like.’

  ‘It’s no bother, I have to practically drive by there anyway.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Did everything go okay at your aunt’s?’

  ‘Yes. We found the perfect spot for Sapphire. Nobody will find her there. Alex enjoyed himself, too. He and Nell really hit it off. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.’

  Vicky started the engine, turned the van around and, with a wave goodbye, took off down the driveway.

  Vicky parked the van by the nursery greenhouse and got out. Stepping on to the gravel path, she felt slightly dizzy but shrugged it off as tiredness. She unlocked the padlock and opened the door. Back at the van, she took out the box containing the cuttings, and carried them inside. With a felt marker she wrote, Don’t touch, these are Vicky’s on the side of the crate. She then placed them on a high shelf in the farthest corner of the small greenhouse.

  By the time she switched the lights on in the cottage it was past eight. Her mouth was dry and her limbs ached. Maybe it was the long drive and the glass of wine she’d had at lunchtime, she said to herself. Or perhaps the crab sandwich. No, it couldn’t be that, she’d hardly eaten any of it.

  Rummaging through the refrigerator, she found a half-full bottle of Malvern water. There was some leftover pasta and a curling slice of pizza in there, too, but the very thought of eating anything made her feel queasy. The water had lost its fizz, but she poured it into a glass and drank it anyway. She was unusually thirsty. She went to the tap and refilled the glass, swallowing it in two gulps as she stood there.

  She went into the living room and plopped down on the sofa with the idea of reading the two newspapers she’d brought in with her. Why was the cottage so warm? The radiators hadn’t been on for days. She took off her turtleneck sweater, reminding herself to tell Alex that she had his. He’d left it in the van.

  She was now on her fourth glass of water. And when the words on the newspaper started to blur, she knew something was really wrong. She stood up, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. Her eyes were focusing again but she felt very disoriented – as though she might pass out at any moment. Slowly she made her way to the phone and picked it up.

  Alex put a hand round Kate’s waist. ‘Poor Vicky. I’m afraid she’s really under the weather. She slept most of the way back. I promised I’d give her a call in the morning to see how she’s doing.’

  They walked into the living room. Alex slumped on the sofa and kicked off his loafers.

  Kate put Asp down. He promptly leapt up on Alex’s lap.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really, a snack, maybe. We had a pub lunch about one o’clock. Poor thing, she hardly touched anything on her plate.’

  ‘How about a glass of champagne?’

  ‘Are we celebrating?’

  Kate was about to answer when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Seven thirty,’ Alex said, with a frown, looking at his watch. ‘Are you expecting anybody?’

  ‘No. You stay put, I’ll go and see who it is.’

  ‘Pray that it’s not our friend the doctor,’ Alex called out after her.

  Kate opened the heavy oak door just as the doorbell rang a second time. Standing outside on the step, thumb still on the button, was Graham Cooke.

  ‘Graham,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’ He was wearing the same shabby Donegal suit as at their last meeting and held a slim leather portfolio.

  ‘I’m sorry about just showing up like this, but I’m going away for a few days tomorrow and this couldn’t wait.’

  ‘It’s not about your aunt, is it?’ Kate asked, her voice overshadowed with concern.

  ‘In a way. May I come in?’ His manner was brusque and bordering on antagonistic.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, injecting as much pleasantness into her voice as she could muster. ‘This way.’

  As Kate led Graham into the sitting room she noticed his eyes darting around, obviously appraising the changes since his aunt’s departure. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked? ‘Tea? Coffee? A drink maybe?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs Sheppard. I won’t stay for more than a moment. I don’t anticipate this taking long at all.’

  Alex stood up as the two of them entered. ‘Graham – what brings you here?’

  Graham sat down in a leather wing chair, placing the portfol
io on his lap. He licked his lips, quickly wiping them dry with the palm of his hand. ‘It’s about the rose in your garden. The one my uncle created. The blue rose.’

  Kate’s gasp was not loud enough to hear.

  Alex had a look of incomprehension on his face.

  For several seconds there was an uneasy silence.

  ‘Recently,’ Graham continued, ‘I engaged the services of a solicitor, to find out who rightfully owns the rose in question. My aunt and I feel – correctly so, as it turns out – that the rose legally belongs to us. If it were known, at the time you bought The Parsonage, that a very valuable rose existed on the property we would, of course, never have sold it to you. As you probably know by now, the value of the rose is inestimable. Hundreds – many hundreds of times that of the property.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Alex said, finally having found his voice. ‘What do you mean by “correctly so”?’

  ‘The overriding argument, here – and it’s all been legally established – is that my aunt and I were disadvantaged by the transaction and therefore it should be voided. Meaning that title of The Parsonage reverts back to our family. Accordingly, we are entitled to possession of the rose. You simply get your money back.’

  Kate’s heart sank. Lose the rose and The Parsonage?

  Alex’s expression had changed to one of annoyance. ‘Now just wait a minute,’ he snapped. ‘How do you know it was your uncle who hybridized it?’