The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘According to Nell, Kate was okay when she left.’

  ‘Doesn’t look good, I’ll admit.’

  ‘That’s not all. The rose is gone. Somebody’s taken it.’

  ‘My God! What on earth is going on?’

  ‘Bugger the rose. Kate’s all I’m worried about.’ He paused, his head in his hands, then looked up again. ‘Maybe she broke down? It’s a possibility.’

  ‘If she had, surely she would have called to let you know.’

  Alex swallowed hard. ‘Nell said Kate left over five hours ago. She said all that’s left now is a gaping hole where Vicky and I planted the rose.’

  ‘How much more complicated can this get? If we no longer have the rose…’

  ‘How can we exchange it for Kate?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Alex buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled and quavering. ‘I can’t bear to think what that bastard might do when I tell him we no longer have the rose.’

  ‘Will he believe you? That’s another question entirely.’

  Alex looked up to see Kingston pulling on his earlobe – a sure sign that his mind was in overdrive. He took a sip of the cognac.

  ‘What about the cuttings, Alex? Were those ever taken?’

  Alex sighed. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘Well, if we could get our hands on them, it could change everything.’

  ‘I remember Kate saying that she wanted Vicky to do it because she’d never had too much success at it. But that was ages ago, around the time we first met you.’

  ‘If Vicky took cuttings – and we’ll assume for the moment she did – where would she have kept them?’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person, Lawrence. I don’t think she would have left them with us. The most likely place would be the nursery.’

  ‘Then we should call right away and find out.’

  ‘You think that Wolff will accept the cuttings instead of the rose?’

  ‘No, I don’t for one moment think that’s a possibility. The rose is still out there somewhere. And to further complicate matters, there’s the crossing formula which, as far as we know, Wolff doesn’t know about, yet.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘At some point, we’ll have to tell Wolff about the cuttings. He’s not that naïve. He’ll know that that’s the very first thing we would have done.’

  ‘Then he’ll want the rose and the cuttings before we get Kate back.’

  ‘First things first, Alex. Let’s find out whether the cuttings are at the nursery.’

  ‘All right,’ said Alex. He picked up the small address book on the table beside him, checked for Holly Hill’s number, reached for the phone and dialled the number.

  ‘Hello, is that Jill?’ There was a short pause. ‘Yes, it is. I’m surprised you recognized my voice. Yes, it has been. I have a question for you, Jill. It’s really important.’ Alex glanced at Kingston. ‘I’m here with a friend of mine, Lawrence Kingston – yes.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, the very same,’ he said. ‘Jill, we’re almost positive that sometime shortly before Vicky died, she took some cuttings from a rose in our garden. Kate had asked for them.’ Alex shook his head. ‘No, she’s not here right now, she’s visiting a friend for a couple of days. Anyway, we can’t seem to find them. It’s more likely than not that Vicky was caring for them at the nursery.’

  Alex listened to what Jill had to say, then ended the conversation. ‘That would be good,’ he said. ‘Call me back as soon as you can. You’re an angel, Jill, thanks.’

  Alex put the phone down and looked at Kingston. ‘She vaguely remembers them. Apparently Vicky had talked to one of the staff about keeping them secure. Jill said she’d try to track them down.’

  ‘Sounds promising.’

  ‘What about Wolff, Lawrence? We have to tell his mouthpiece we no longer have the rose.’

  ‘Perhaps we don’t tell him – not just yet, anyway. By the way, what did he say about the papers you’re supposed to sign on Wednesday?’

  ‘Nothing – only papers. But you know damned well they have something to do with turning over the rose.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh God. Poor Kate,’ Alex moaned, gripping the brandy glass with both hands.

  Kingston got up, stretched his legs and started to pace the room. ‘One small thing in our favour,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a little time to play with until he starts asking to see the rose.’

  ‘Not much, I would think. Who the hell could have taken it?’

  Kingston shook his head. ‘I have no idea. Any number of people knew about it, if you stop to consider. There’s the Cookes, their lawyer, your lawyer, Tanaka, Wolff – anybody who works for Wolff.’

  ‘But Wolff wouldn’t have taken both the rose and Kate. It wouldn’t make sense.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Kingston. ‘Unless he took it as added insurance.’ He leaned forward, swirling the melting ice in his glass. ‘I really don’t know what to think, Alex. Nothing makes sense.’

  Alex downed the rest of his cognac in one gulp. His face was ashen, his eyes red and swollen. ‘What an awful sodding mess,’ he sighed.

  Kingston stopped pacing and sat down, his eyes fixed on Alex’s. ‘If – and I grant you it could be a big if – they really will release Kate on Wednesday when you’ve signed–’

  The phone started to ring, stopping Kingston mid-sentence.

  Alex picked it up.

  ‘Yes, this is Alex. Oh, hello, Jill. That was quick.’

  Alex’s face paled, like the sun going behind a cloud.

  ‘My God! You’re sure?’ He waited a few seconds. ‘How many were there? I see. Well, it’s not the answer we were looking for, but thanks, Jill. I may come and see you later in the week. Would that be okay? Fine.’

  He placed the phone down, slowly.

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Kingston.

  ‘Apparently they all died. It seems that with Vicky’s death, the funeral and everything, the drip system was never set up.’

  ‘Jesus, what rotten luck,’ said Kingston. ‘Now we do have to find the missing rose.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gather therefore the rose, whilst yet is prime.

  Edmund Spenser

  Kate’s heartbeat had finally slowed to a normal rate. She was still trembling but the initial shock of the assault had subsided. It was replaced by anger, the need to strike back, the urge to escape. Constantly moving her jaw and lips had no effect on loosening the duct tape stretched tightly across her mouth. If anything it increased the chafing. Attempting to remove the goggles strapped to her head proved equally futile.

  In her maddeningly helpless state, Kate’s mind replayed, over and over, the events since she had left Nell’s house. Who were these men? Were they the ones who took the rose? If so, why had they taken her too? It had to be something to do with Sapphire – but what?

  The screeching of tyres locked on the road, loud blaring of the Jeep’s horn and swearing from the driver jolted Kate back to the present. She sensed they had narrowly avoided a collision. She nestled into the corner of the seat and closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep. For the first time in her life she was experiencing terror. Not only from what had happened but the dread of what might happen. The goose-flesh of fear on her arms and neck would not go away.

  At last she heard the engine die and the handbrake being yanked on. The driver got out and closed the door. She heard his retreating footsteps, then, save for the occasional pinging of the Jeep’s exhaust pipe and muffler as it cooled, all was quiet. A minute or so later, she heard the two men talking nearby but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then she heard the door near to her open. A strong hand gripped her arm just above the elbow. Hauled roughly out of the car, she found her footing on the loose gravel. Birds were twittering noisily. Lots of them. In the distance there was a faint droning of a tractor or harvester. Closer by, a dog barked sporadically.

  With a man on either side gripping her arms, they wal
ked along the path. Soon, they came to a halt. She heard a key being inserted into a lock, followed by the creak of a door opening. After the sweetness of the smells outside, the pungent smoky odour inside made her stomach heave. Last night’s embers must be still smouldering in the fireplace. Now, with just one of the men guiding her, they were walking on carpet. Her arm brushed against a wall – a hallway, she guessed. She stumbled as her toe bumped into something. ‘Stairs,’ the man said, helping her to recover. At the top of the stairs they came to a halt. She heard another key turn in a lock, then the slide of a bolt. No more than three steps into the room, they stopped again and the man released her arm. Her heart was thumping. The room was cold and smelled musty. The chafing of the cord had lacerated her wrists and the duct tape had made her face sore and itching where it was pulling against her skin. In the pitch-black darkness, she felt very frightened and vulnerable.

  She felt the man behind her loosening and then removing the cord that bound her wrists. Next, he was removing the tape from the goggles. Strands of her hair were stuck to the tape. It was painfully slow. At least he didn’t just rip the tape off. It gave her a glimmer of hope that from now on she might be treated with leniency.

  When the goggles came off, Kate expected to be blinded by bright light. She wasn’t. As the room came slowly into focus she saw why. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. The room was in semi-darkness. From behind, the man removed the duct tape gently from her mouth. Before she could utter a word or get a good look at him he had slipped silently from the room, closing the door behind him. The bolt slid shut.

  Kate gently rubbed her sore wrists and touched her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. Her face was very tender. She breathed deeply through her mouth. Her ribcage ached as her lungs sucked in the stale air. Her eyes were now fully adjusted to the meagre light. Glancing around the shadowy room, she could make out a double bed, a large wardrobe and sundry pieces of other dark furniture. Close to her, on her right, a small table stood between two upholstered chairs. On it was a tray containing a teapot, a white mug, milk and sugar and a plate with biscuits. For a fleeting moment she felt oddly touched by the gesture, then quickly reminded herself of the gravity of her situation. The tea tasted good and she quickly devoured all eight biscuits. She walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Outside, it was starting to get dark and she could see little. Certainly there were no lights to indicate other houses or buildings nearby. Apparently her ‘prison’ had been chosen for its isolated location. For a while she sat on the bed assessing her plight. Soon, however, drowsiness overcame her. After all she had been subjected to, her body could take no more. Her eyelids drooped and she lay back on the bed. Within seconds she was asleep.

  Alex let out a low moan. His temples were throbbing. He ran his tongue around his lips. They were parched and cracked like a dry riverbed. The blurry green numbers on the clock radio read 10:14.

  Then it all came crashing back: the devastating call about Kate from the American, the rose being stolen, the cognac, his falling asleep on the sofa. He couldn’t recall having eaten anything, just drinking more brandy. No wonder he felt so bloody awful. Pulling back the sheets, he slowly got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and slippers, and padded along the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen.

  The empty bottle of Remy-Martin on the kitchen counter confirmed his worst suspicions: it had been half full yesterday.

  He checked the living room – no Kingston. ‘Christ, I hope he didn’t attempt to drive home last night,’ he muttered. Opening the front door to retrieve The Times, he was relieved of his concern: the TR4 was still in the drive where Kingston had parked it yesterday. He picked up the paper and went back into the house.

  Consumed with anguish about Kate, he tried hard to put himself in her position, wondering where she was, how she was being treated. Mindlessly, he filled the electric kettle, flicked on the switch and walked over to the kitchen table. He sat down and stared blankly at the rolled-up newspaper. He thought back to what Kingston had said, about calling the police. He shook his head slowly. ‘God, I just can’t do it,’ he said under his breath.

  He jumped at the sound of loud knocking on the front door.

  ‘Sod it,’ he muttered. ‘I must have locked him out. We do have a bloody doorbell, Kingston,’ he shouted, walking to the door.

  Instead of Kingston, two strangers stood facing him.

  Beyond them, a nondescript beige car sat alongside the TR4. The older and taller of the two men was well turned-out, in a conservative navy suit and regimental-striped tie. He had a receding hairline, sad china-blue eyes heavily wrinkled at the corners and a trim grey moustache. Late fifties, Alex guessed. He could have passed for anybody’s company director. His companion was much younger, lean, and leather-jacketed. Quite handsome in a rugged sort of way, his looks strangely enhanced by a scar that ran from his shortly cropped hairline to bisect one eyebrow. Neither of them looked threatening, Alex was relieved to note.

  ‘Er, Mr Sheppard? Alex Sheppard?’ the older man inquired.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’

  ‘We’re investigating the death, yesterday, of a Mr Graham Cooke and wondered if you could answer a few questions for us, sir.’ He paused, his eyes carefully studying Alex’s face, clearly gauging Alex’s reaction to his question. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Holland,’ he said. He gestured to his partner. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Taylor.’

  Alex was flustered. He hesitated. ‘I told your sergeant, yesterday, everything that happened,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we’ve read your statement, Mr Sheppard. No need to be concerned. This is just a routine inquiry, a follow-up call – just making sure we haven’t overlooked anything.’

  ‘Did you know him, then – the deceased?’ Detective Sergeant Taylor asked, in a North of England accent.

  ‘Graham? No, not very well. I’ve only met him twice.’ Alex felt uncomfortable talking about such a serious matter at the front door – not that there was anyone to overhear the conversation. ‘It was a bit of a shock – yesterday. Why don’t you come in, please,’ he said, stepping aside to let them pass. ‘First door on the right. Excuse the mess, my wife’s away for a couple of days.’

  Inspector Holland continued his polite questioning from the comfort of the sofa. ‘What was your connection with Graham Cooke, then, sir?’

  ‘Well, he is – was – the nephew of the lady who previously owned this house. We bought it from her earlier this year.’

  ‘He wasn’t what you would term a friend, then?’

  ‘Hardly.’ The minute he’d said the word he knew it had a self-incriminating edge.

  Holland picked up on it instantly. ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that, at all. What I meant to say was that he was barely an acquaintance.’

  ‘So you have nothing to do with his business? Pharmaceuticals sales, I believe.’

  ‘No – oh, no.’

  Occasionally, Taylor jotted down a note on his pad, always licking the point of the pencil when he did so. Alex couldn’t help but reflect on how many times he’d watched this type of interview in movies and on TV.

  Holland continued. ‘Can you tell me why you were planning to meet Mr Cooke yesterday?’

  The question took Alex by surprise.

  Holland followed up quickly. ‘What was the meeting about?’

  ‘We were returning some books that Graham had lent us.’

  ‘What kind of books?’

  ‘They were records that belonged to Graham’s uncle.’

  ‘Records?’

  Alex rubbed his brow. ‘Actually, they were to do with hybridizing roses.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Holland didn’t look convinced.

  ‘We showed them to your sergeant at the time. I still have them in the car, if you want to take a look.’

  ‘Roses, eh? That’s a good one,’ Holland said disdainfully. ‘You said “we”
. Was that the chap Kingston, who was listed on the report?’

  ‘Yes, a friend of mine, Lawrence Kingston,’ Alex replied. ‘He’s a professor,’ he added, in the hope that it might add more credibility.

  A brief exchange between the two policemen allowed Alex a chance to recall the details of the short meeting he and Kate had had with Graham at The Parsonage earlier. They were certain to ask about that.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Alex said, when the two had finished their confab. ‘How did Graham die?’

  ‘The unofficial verdict is that it was a heart attack.’

  ‘Christ! He was awfully young. A heart attack?’

  ‘Well, there could be more to it. There were contusions on the body and visible evidence of a struggle of some kind. That certainly could have brought on the attack.’

  Alex shook his head in disbelief. ‘Good grief. That’s awful.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is.’ Holland leaned forward, as if about to get up. He stopped, and looked at Alex, resting his chin on an arched thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, there was one more thing, sir,’ he said, casually. ‘We found a copy of a letter addressed to you and your wife. It was on Mr Cooke’s person. A letter from a solicitor – named…’ He looked across at Taylor, who flipped back through his notebook.

  ‘Alexander Stanhope,’ said Taylor.

  Holland nodded thanks to the sergeant. ‘Could you tell us about that, Mr Sheppard?’ he asked.

  Alex paled. Already he could see the implications. ‘Ah, yes. We received that letter a few days ago. Graham delivered it, personally, to my wife and me.’

  ‘According to Mr Stanhope’s statement, it appears that you and your wife stood to lose a considerable amount of money if ownership of this rose reverted to Graham and his aunt. Is that correct?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Alex replied.

  ‘A moment ago you said “roses” but it was one rose in particular, was it not?’

  ‘It was, yes. Slip of the tongue, I guess.’

  Holland shrugged, and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I can’t, for the life of me, imagine why a rose could be that valuable.’ His comment was punctuated with a loud sniff. ‘Takes all sorts, I suppose.’ He stood, shaking his trouser legs down and twitching his tie.