Chapter Twenty
It is curious, when one comes to think of it, how large a space the rose idea occupies in the world. It has almost a monopoly of admiration. A mysterious something in its nature – an inner fascination, a subtle witchery, a hidden charm which it has and other flowers have not – ensnares and holds the love of the whole world.
Candace Wheeler
Alex and Kingston arrived at the small house on St Margaret’s Mews. Unexpectedly, Mrs Cooke opened the door soon after the first ring of the doorbell. Once inside, Alex placed the box of journals under the table in the hallway. After a brief exchange of greetings and the introduction of Kingston, Mrs Cooke ushered them into the living room. This time Alex was careful to avoid the sofa. He watched with amusement as Kingston sank slowly into its marshmallow embrace.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ she said. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
Alex and Kingston declined, allowing that maybe a little later they would have some tea.
For a few minutes she talked quite openly about Graham. Alex was quite surprised – relieved, in fact – that she didn’t appear reluctant to discuss her nephew’s death. He had fully expected her to be in a much more grief-stricken state. Her seeming detachment led him to wonder whether there was much love lost between her and her nephew.
She stopped talking and looked down in her lap for a moment. Then she looked up again, her eyes moving about the room as if trying to avoid their gaze. ‘This business with the police, Alex,’ she said in a quiet but level voice. ‘That letter from the lawyer. I don’t mind telling you, that was an awful shock.’
Alex gave Kingston a fleeting glance, then looked at Mrs Cooke. ‘The police did come to see you, then?’
‘Oh, yes. They were here on Wednesday for at least an hour – an inspector and a sergeant.’
‘Was it Detective Inspector Holland?’
‘That’s right, Alex. A nice man.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is. He was the one who questioned me,’ said Alex. He paused for a moment. ‘I’m not sure whether he believed me when I told him the only reason Lawrence and I were there that afternoon was to drop off your husband’s books.’ He flashed Kingston another glance. ‘I don’t know whether they told you or not, Mrs Cooke, but I got the distinct impression that Holland thinks Lawrence and I are somehow mixed up with Graham’s death.’
‘Yes, they did mention that. Needless to say, I was stunned. They acted quite surprised when they learned that I knew it was you who found Graham. That you’d already told me when you phoned. They wanted to know what you might have been doing at Graham’s place. Whether there had ever been any disagreements or heated words between the three of you – you and Kate, and Graham.’
She paused for a moment, a flustered expression on her face, as if she would prefer not to be telling them this – or even talking to them at all. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, then continued. ‘Well, of course, I told them that you and Kate had bought The Parsonage and that I really didn’t know you at all well, that I’d only met you the one time. They asked what we’d talked about on that occasion, so I told them it was mostly about my husband’s roses – oh, and I mentioned lending you Jeffrey’s gardening books. They were very interested in that, and the fact that Graham was there at the time and had dropped them off at your house.’
For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kingston cleared his throat. ‘The letter,’ he said. ‘You said you were shocked when they showed it to you.’
‘Yes. I was coming to that.’ She pursed her lips and looked away from him for a second or so. ‘It was a shock,’ she said, her eyes reddening. ‘Quite a blow.’
Kingston uncrossed his long legs and shifted his position on the sofa. ‘You had no idea what Graham was up to, then? What his plan was?’
She shook her head, then said, ‘I knew what Graham had in mind, but I had no idea he would go this far with his self-serving scheme. That he would go against my wishes, behind my back.’
Mrs Cooke took out the handkerchief tucked into the cuff of her sweater and proceeded to dab her eyes. Alex and Kingston waited for her to regain her composure.
She looked down in her lap, twisting the handkerchief nervously around the rings on her fingers. Then she looked up at them.
‘He came to me a while ago and told me that he suspected one of Jeffrey’s roses to be valuable and that he would soon have proof positive.’
‘Did he say how valuable?’
‘No, he didn’t. I told him to forget all about it. As I just mentioned, I knew, basically, what he wanted to do – what his intent was. But I had no idea that he would actually do it. We had quite an argument about it. I’ll be honest and tell you that, in the last few years, Graham has been less than truthful with me about a number of things. Most of them were trivial – about money-type things – but this one was serious. It caused a big rift between us. I was furious with him. I made it clear that I was vehemently opposed to any such action and that if he pursued it I would have nothing to do with it. Not only that, I would also do everything in my power to stop him.’
She took a breath, then continued. ‘I was devastated when that policeman told me what was going on – to learn that Graham was greedy enough and malicious enough to carry out his nasty little plan. I thought that, after our last set-to, he would have dropped the whole despicable idea. It really had nothing to do with him anyway. But he kept throwing it in my face, since his uncle created the rose, as the only other surviving member of the family on my husband’s side, he was entitled to a share of the money. He also argued that he was the one who found out about the rose.’
‘I can imagine how you must have felt,’ said Kingston. ‘It was a shameful thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I reminded him that when the house was being sold the man from the estate agent’s office asked me whether there was anything in the garden I wanted to keep – chairs, tables, planters – things like that. I said, no, everything should stay in the garden, where it belonged. So should the rose, I told Graham. In his mind he obviously felt that he had every right to it.’
For a few seconds, she gazed into space, then back to Alex. ‘He must have told his lawyer not to discuss it with me,’ she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her.
‘Did Graham say anything about the particular rose in question?’ asked Kingston.
‘Not really – except, as I said, that it was valuable.’
‘I’m sure you can imagine what a nasty jolt it was, too, when Graham sprang it on Alex and Kate,’ said Kingston, with a sideways glance at Alex.
‘It still is – particularly for Kate,’ Alex added. ‘She’s still worried to death about losing the house.’
‘Regardless of what ultimately happens with the rose, we’d like to be able to tell her that that won’t happen,’ said Kingston.
‘It won’t, I promise you,’ replied Mrs Cooke. ‘The sale of the house was final.’
‘She’ll be very relieved to hear that,’ remarked Alex.
‘Has this lawyer, Stanhope, contacted you, Mrs Cooke?’ asked Kingston.
‘He hasn’t, no. What with Graham’s death and the police and everything, I haven’t had time to call him, either. But if you talk to him, tell him to forget that he ever talked to Graham. I don’t want that on my conscience. No, it’s over with – finished. I’m not interested in money at my age – do as you wish with the confounded rose.’
Kingston watched the relief wash over Alex’s face. ‘Thank you for being so candid, Mrs Cooke,’ he said.
‘It was rude of me and I apologize,’ she said, placing a hand on her bosom. ‘I completely forgot all about the tea.’
‘None for me, thanks,’ said Alex.
She looked at Kingston.
‘No thanks, Mrs Cooke,’ he said. ‘I’m fine, too. In any case, we’ll be leaving soon.’
He leaned forward, chin resting on his clasped hands. His expression hinted that he was about to say
something serious. ‘Mrs Cooke,’ he said, ‘the main reason we came today – in addition to offering our condolences – was to clear the air with regard to this whole rose business. To let you know exactly what’s been going on over these last few weeks. Since Kate and Alex discovered the rose in your former garden, a number of disconcerting incidents have taken place – some of them very serious. I won’t go into details right now, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that the rose has become somewhat of a curse.’
Mrs Cooke frowned. ‘A curse?’
‘I know it sounds melodramatic, but, yes, a curse. Alex and I are convinced that Graham’s death, one way or another, can be attributed to the rose. Oh, and Graham was right, by the way – the rose is much more valuable than he led you to believe. Whoever eventually controls the reproduction and licensing rights will become very wealthy.’
Mrs Cooke, who had become very still, regarded him with a doubting gaze. ‘Good gracious,’ she said.
Kingston shrugged and continued. ‘However, the question of ownership has become moot, I’m afraid, because somebody else has the rose now. It goes without saying that whoever took it is only too aware of its value.’
‘You mean it’s been stolen?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Kingston. ‘As a precaution against that happening, we’d taken the rose out of the Parsonage garden and replanted it in a well-hidden garden in Shropshire. But it didn’t make any difference. It was stolen anyway. It’s certain that The Parsonage has been under surveillance. It’s the only explanation.’
‘My goodness, how strange,’ she said.
‘Strange is right,’ said Alex. He could see that Mrs Cooke was grappling with the implications of what Kingston had just told her.
She twiddled her rings, then said, ‘So all this business with the lawyer – it becomes irrelevant, then. Graham’s scheme would have come to nothing, after all.’
‘In most ways, yes,’ Kingston replied.
‘Most ways?’
‘Perhaps Graham didn’t tell you. There was no mention of it in Stanhope’s letter, but it seems he had also managed to unlock your husband’s hybridizing formula that created the rose in the first place. It was entered in code, in one of the journals.’
‘But Graham told me he gave you all the journals, Alex.’
‘All except one,’ Alex replied.
She frowned and shook her head. ‘This is starting to get very confusing.’
Alex nodded in agreement. ‘It is, I know. Graham told us that, a long time ago, just after your husband’s death, you found one of the journals in a safe deposit box. That was the one that contained the formula to replicate the rose. The one that Graham kept.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Cooke replied. But it was clear she didn’t, fully.
Kingston gave her one of his kindly looks. ‘We were wondering whether you could do something for us, Mrs Cooke. If the journal shows up among Graham’s effects, we’d like to take a look at it, if that would be all right with you. It could be very helpful to us.’
‘Yes, that’s fine, but it’ll take me some time to go through all his stuff. He was quite a hoarder, you know.’
‘Whenever you get the chance,’ said Alex. ‘Oh, don’t forget, the rest of your husband’s journals are under the table in the hallway. We apologize for having kept them for so long. Thanks again for lending them to us.’
Mrs Cooke changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry Kate couldn’t come with you. I would have loved to see her again. You’re lucky, Alex, to have such a smart and beautiful wife.’
Alex nodded. ‘I am. Unfortunately she’s away, visiting a friend in Shropshire for a few days. Good old Lawrence is staying with me while she’s gone. Not much of a trade-off – though I must say, he’s good company.’
‘How are things at The Parsonage, Alex? Are you managing to get that garden knocked into shape? I was awfully embarrassed handing it over to you with it looking so bedraggled.’
‘We’ve been working at it. Kate’s out there every single moment she gets. As a matter of fact, Lawrence is helping, too. He doesn’t like my mentioning it, but he was a professor of botany at Edinburgh University. He’s also quite an expert on roses.’
‘Just by looking through those books, I could tell that your husband was a very diligent man,’ said Kingston. ‘And having seen the garden I know he had a profound love for roses.’ He chuckled. ‘I was seduced by them years ago. I never cease to be amazed at the influence roses can have on people. The sheer power they exert.’
‘You would have got on famously with Jeffrey, then. That’s pretty much all he ever thought about. Spent every waking moment out in that greenhouse of his. More or less died out there, too.’ She chuckled, without smiling. ‘Somehow fitting, I suppose.’
‘More or less?’ inquired Alex.
‘Yes, I found him there, late in the day. Lord knows how long he’d been lying face down on the floor. Anyway, the ambulance came and they took him to the hospital in Bath.’
Kingston shifted his position on the sofa again. ‘Perhaps you’d–’
Mrs Cooke held her hand up. ‘No it’s quite all right. It’s easy for me to talk about it now.’ She frowned, and continued. ‘He was in intensive care for two days. I sat at the hospital all that time. Most of it in the waiting room. They wouldn’t let me see him that often. Not that it really mattered – most of the time he wasn’t conscious. On the morning of the third day he passed away. They said it was a nasty viral infection of some kind.’ Her voice faltered as she reflected on the painful memory.
‘Prior to your husband’s blacking out, had he been sick at all?’ Alex asked, as gently as he could.
‘As far as I knew, he was as fit as the proverbial fiddle. In fact he’d just had a check-up with old Dr Hearst. Told him he was in great shape for his age and to keep on drinking whatever he was drinking. Funny old codger that Hearst. He’s passed on now, too.’ She bit her lip, looking first at Alex and then Kingston.
‘What you’ve just told us could start to explain a lot of things,’ said Alex.
‘What things?’
‘Your husband and a friend of ours. The symptoms are almost identical.’
‘Your friend – did he die, too?’
‘It was a she. A young woman named Vicky.’ Alex stood up and began pacing ‘Yes, she died, Mrs Cooke. It all happened so quickly. They didn’t know exactly what killed her, either. “Unidentified viral infection” was what appeared on the death certificate. When I asked the doctor whether it could have had anything to do with Vicky being scratched by the rose, he almost laughed at me. Highly unlikely, he said – or words to that effect.’ He stopped and looked at Kingston. ‘What do you think, Lawrence?’
Before Kingston could answer, Mrs Cooke moistened her lips, nervously and said, ‘Are you suggesting that a rose could have been responsible for my husband’s death?’
‘It does sound a bit far-fetched, I grant you,’ said Kingston, ‘but you have to remember that many plants are toxic. Even a foxglove could kill you. A potato, if you ingest enough of the green parts. Rhubarb leaves, too. This particular rose is a mutation of some kind. So it’s plausible that if the plant it was crossed with had toxic parts, so could it.’
Mrs Cooke looked pale and flustered. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear.’
‘What is it, Mrs Cooke?’ Alex asked. ‘Are you okay?’
She got up and walked over to the sideboard, placing her hands on it, as if for support, her face to the wall. When she finally spoke – still with her back to them – it was as if the words had been waiting for a long time to be uttered. Now they came freely.
‘Over the years, there were accidents in the garden,’ she said. ‘Oh, you know, things like Jeffrey cutting himself, a gardener falling off a ladder and ending up in hospital for a week, cuts and scratches – that sort of thing.’
Abruptly, she turned to them, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. ‘But considering what you’ve just said, I think, perhaps, that you s
hould know about the two deaths,’ she blurted.
Alex stared at her in disbelief. ‘Two deaths?’
‘My God!’ Kingston uttered.
Kneading her hands, she nodded. ‘Yes – the first occurred some time after Jeffrey died.’
‘What happened?’ Alex asked, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, fearful of what she was about to say.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘we used to have a part-time gardener called Doakes – Walter Doakes. Jeffrey hired him – oh, must have been over fifteen years ago. Knew everything there was to know about gardening. A fine-looking man.’ She sighed.
‘A couple of years after Jeffrey died, I happened upon Doakes in the garden one afternoon. He was stretched out on a bench. At first I thought he was taking a nap. But it wasn’t like him to do that, so I called his name. He just lay there, very still, his face turned away from me. Then I started to get worried. I walked over and shook his arm. His shirt was damp to the touch and cold. When he moved suddenly, it made me jump. Then he turned his face towards me and I knew he was sick. His usually ruddy face was an awful greyish colour and his skin was all sweaty. He mumbled something about a doctor, then his arm flopped down lifelessly off his lap and hit the ground. I didn’t wait any longer. I rushed up to the house and called for an ambulance. Then I got a wool blanket and a glass of water and went back down to be with him until the ambulance arrived. I forget which hospital they took him to – maybe they never told me at the time. But somebody called, two days later – his sister, I believe it was – and told me that he had died. She said they didn’t know what the cause of death was. About two years ago, she died too. Liz at the post office said it was cancer. There was an obituary in the local paper. Euphemia, her name was. Euphemia Doakes.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Fancy calling a child Euphemia!’
The Blue Rose Page 21