The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  ‘Alex Sheppard,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have something to tell me, Sheppard?’

  Alex took a deep breath. Kingston had cautioned him to keep his cool and stick to the point. ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘About time, for Christ’s sake. Okay, where’s the rose?’

  ‘If I tell you, when do I get Kate back?’

  ‘First things first. Where’s the rose?’

  ‘Sorry, I must know about Kate.’

  ‘Listen, Sheppard, I’m not going to keep on playing these dumb-assed word games with you.’ His voice was dispassionate and calm. ‘You tell me right now where that rose is. If it’s where you say it is and it’s the real thing, then we’ll hand over your wife. Got it?’

  Alex cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Kingston. ‘I’m going to have to tell him where it is. He won’t let Kate go until they’ve seen it.’

  Kingston nodded, okay.

  ‘Sheppard, you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then say something.’

  ‘Get something to write on, because I’m going to give you an address in Sussex where you can meet me the day after tomorrow. Be there at noon. When you go there – or whoever goes there – make sure you bring Kate. When I get Kate, you’ll get the rose. Is that straightforward enough for you?’

  ‘You’d better not be jerking me around, Sheppard, because my time and patience are wearing dangerously thin.’ Alex could hear him breathing during the brief pause that followed.

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Okay. Just remember you’re dealing with your wife’s life. Make any foolish moves or bring the police into this and you’ll be attending a funeral in the next couple days. Understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, where is this place?’

  Alex gave him Compton’s address.

  ‘Sunday it is, then. Before noon,’ the American said.

  ‘Right. But one more thing. If the thought of arriving early crosses your mind, forget it. It won’t do you any good. You won’t find the rose and we’ll already be there, anyway.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’ll have a friend with me, that’s all.’

  ‘That friend better not be anyone vaguely resembling a cop or you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t.’

  ‘Good. Sunday at noon, then, Sheppard. And don’t screw up.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘You better be.’ He hung up without another word.

  Saturday morning arrived clear and breezy at The Parsonage. Peg had stopped by to pick up Asp around nine. When Alex had opened the door, she let out a gasp, but quickly recovered. Alex knew exactly what was going through her mind and was prepared for the reaction. After listening to him explain that he had had a severe case of food poisoning and had been under the weather for about a week, it seemed she believed his story. Then he had had to deal with the matter of Kate’s absence. This time he could tell that she wasn’t quite buying his trumped-up story about Kate’s insisting on being by her ailing aunt’s side for a few more days but mercifully she didn’t question him. He felt guilty about having to tell such blatant lies.

  Back outside, he introduced Peg to Kingston who was already waiting by the Alfa, overnight bag by his side and professional camera case dangling from his shoulder. Peg put Asp in the back seat of her Volvo, hugged Alex one more time and got behind the wheel. A quick wave and a blown kiss and she was off.

  Alex opened the boot and put their bags in, laying his leather jacket on top. ‘Okay,’ he said, slamming the lid down. ‘Let’s get going.’

  ‘And let’s hope to God that we’re right about Sapphire being there,’ Kingston rejoined, getting in the car.

  ‘Don’t say that, Lawrence.’

  ‘She’s there all right, Alex. I’m certain of it,’ he said.

  Alex got into the Alfa and started the engine. He waited while Kingston groped for the seat belt and struggled to get comfortable in the cramped quarters. Breathing heavily, Kingston finally managed to snap the buckle closed. ‘Just as bloody well I’m not claustrophobic,’ he grunted. ‘Driving my TR4’s like being in a Roller compared to this Italian sardine tin.’

  Alex ignored the remark and concentrated on negotiating the narrow winding lanes out of Steeple Tarrant. Soon they were humming along the A345 to hook up with the motorway.

  More for idle conversation than anything else, Alex speculated about what would happen to the rose, once it was all over. Kingston, from the beginning, had been committed to the idea of the rose being handed over for research. He was steadfast and vociferous on the matter. Launching into one of his endless discourses, he reminded Alex that plants of all kinds, even toxic ones, were playing an ever larger role in treating various diseases and infirmities. ‘Digitoxin, used medicinally to treat heart arrhythmias and congestive heart failure, is extracted from the foxglove plant,’ he said. ‘Feverfew, the pretty, miniature, daisy-like plant, helps relieve migraines, arthritic pains and nausea; and Taxus baccata, the English yew, yields taxol, a promising chemical in the fight against cancer.’ Kingston chuckled. ‘It would certainly be ironic if the blue rose, deadly as it is, were to yield a miracle drug.’

  ‘Considering all the other bizarre circumstances surrounding Sapphire,’ Alex said, ‘I wouldn’t be the least surprised if it did.’

  ‘One way or another, Alex, we have to make sure that whatever happens to the rose – regardless of who ends up owning it – it is made available for research.’

  ‘You might have a job persuading Wolff.’

  ‘I know.’ He waited for a moment until they had passed a long ten-wheeled lorry, then continued. ‘It’s a fitting paradox that a great number of plants that can take lives are also capable of saving lives. Alex, I have a compelling belief about this rose. Beyond its colour and toxicity, I’m convinced that it could hold the key to unlocking genetic information that botanists and biochemists have been trying to fathom for centuries.’

  He gazed thoughtfully out of the window for a while, then turned and looked at Alex, smiling. ‘There’s another plant I forgot about, Alex. Good old henbane, Hyoscyamus niger. It’s used for a sedative and sometimes as an analgesic – effective in treating Parkinson’s disease. Quite deadly, though,’ he chuckled. ‘Want proof? In the early nineteen-hundreds Dr Crippen used it to kill his wife.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Interesting case. He was arrested aboard ship. First time a criminal had ever been apprehended using radio air-waves. Scotland Yard was tipped off by the ship’s captain, whose suspicions were aroused when he saw two men kissing.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Turned out one of them was Crippen’s mistress, disguised as a man.’

  ‘You making all this up?’

  ‘No, old chap. Ethel, I think her name was.’

  For a few miles they drove in silence, Kingston studying the map.

  ‘By the way, I didn’t tell you about my little ruse, did I?’ said Kingston, looking up from the map.

  ‘Ruse?’

  ‘Yes, I think you’ll like it,’ he said. ‘It’s quite ingenious.’

  ‘Lawrence, I’ve already got the jitters about this whole Compton’s thing. Suppose we get down there and find that Compton knows bugger all about the rose having been stolen – that there is no rose there. Why couldn’t we have just phoned him first?’

  ‘We’ve been through that, Alex. You don’t think for one minute that he’s going to admit to anything on the phone? It is stolen property you know. Anyway, about my idea.’

  ‘If this is one of your “creative ideas”, I’m not sure I want to hear it. This is not some kind of bloody commando operation! You don’t have camouflage outfits in that bag of yours, do you?’

  Kingston looked mildly offended. ‘There’s no need to get stroppy, you know – it’s quite simple – a little devious perhaps, but not harmfully so. Here�
��s how it works…’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

  William Cullen Bryant

  The loud slamming of a door woke Kate with a start. Shouting followed, voices raised in anger. An argument was going on downstairs. She slipped out of bed and groped her way around it, following the duvet, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Reaching the door, she placed an ear against the cold oak panel. She heard nothing. The argument must have ended. The only sound was the monotonous croaking of the frogs outside.

  She was part way back towards the bed when she heard one of the men speak again. His voice was not quite loud enough for her to make out the words. She stood very still. In the past, if she had heard them at all, their voices were always muffled, impossible to understand. Tonight was different. They must be in the hallway. She tiptoed back to the door, placing her ear against it.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up! I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ The voice was certainly American, though Kate detected an underlying accent. It sounded vaguely Italian.

  ‘I’ll give it a couple more days and I’m getting the fuck out of here.’

  ‘Tell that to Wolff.’ The Italian voice again.

  A period of silence followed. Then she heard a creak on the staircase.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Jesus! Relax, Marcus. I was only going up to see how the little lady’s doing.’ His accent was very American, lazy-sounding, as if he could have been slightly drunk.

  A shiver ran through her. She didn’t like the sound of it. ‘Get down here, you stupid son of a bitch,’ the man with the Italian accent shouted. He seemed to be the one in charge.

  She pressed her ear even harder against the door. The stair creaked a couple more times. She hoped the other man was backing down and not coming up the stairs.

  ‘I decide who goes up there and when.’ His voice was angry and loud. ‘Me. Do you understand?’

  If the other man answered, she didn’t hear it.

  She thought they’d probably gone into one of the downstairs rooms when she heard them again.

  ‘How many fuckin’ times do we have to go over this, Billy? How many goddamned times do I have to repeat myself? All I know is that Ira has finally made a deal with this Sheppard guy. He’s not really–’ She couldn’t catch the next words. She figured that one of them was now in the hallway and the other was somewhere else because she was only hearing one side of the conversation.

  ‘Don’t keep asking me the same dumb question. I don’t fuckin’ know!’ He punched the words out. ‘They’re meeting at a place called Compton’s on Sunday. That’s all he told me. That’s all. He wants me to–’ She lost the end of the sentence.

  A brief silence followed. Then the argument resumed, but less contentiously. It was now much harder to hear what they were saying. Kate could only pick up snatches of their conversation.

  ‘I don’t know, Ira didn’t say.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Well, you tell Ira I’m getting pissed off. I’m just–’

  A door slammed.

  ‘Okay – go ahead, then – you talk to him, you dumb shit. You’ve probably woken him up by now, anyway.’

  The exchange suddenly gave way to the faint sound of music.

  Then she heard a woman’s voice.

  She realized someone had turned on a radio or the TV.

  A door closed again. Then it went quiet.

  She kept her ear pressed to the door for a few minutes more, in case they started talking again. But they didn’t.

  The faintest sound of gunfire and explosions reached her room. They were obviously watching television.

  She listened for another minute, then went back to bed. What a stroke of luck it had been, her eavesdropping at just that very moment. She lay there going back over what she’d heard. Who was this man Ira, she wondered? Was he Wolff or was Wolff another man? And what kind of deal had he made with Alex? The only possible deal she could think of was that Alex had somehow tracked down the blue rose, got it back, and was exchanging it for her release. That seemed a lot to ask. If Alex hadn’t got the rose back, then what was he trading?

  She closed her eyes. Not to sleep, though. There would be no sleep tonight. What and where was Compton’s, she wondered? How long was it to Sunday? The questions swirled in her mind but for now she had to put them aside. She had to stay focused. She guessed daybreak was probably only another six hours or so away. By then she should have the window out.

  A businesslike Rottweiler, gurgling ominously and baring shiny drooling teeth, greeted Alex and Kingston at the entrance to Compton and Sons. They stood respectfully in the dubious safety of the other side of the wooden gate, neither prepared to test the beast’s resolve.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ a voice said from behind a nearby shed. ‘Let me get Tyson. He’s really a pussycat when he gets to know you.’

  ‘Which with any luck will be never,’ Alex said under his breath.

  The words came from a husky young man with a florid face and lank, shoulder-length hair. He was wearing an old leather jerkin, ripped blue jeans and mud-spattered, black Wellington boots. He grabbed the dog’s metal-studded collar and yanked him to a sitting position. ‘Can I help you blokes? You can come in – he’s all right,’ he said, nodding at the dog.

  Kingston slid the rusty bolt on the gate and opened it just wide enough to slip through. Alex stayed put. Kingston walked up to the young man and started to offer his hand. Upon noticing the brown muck that covered the man’s hands and forearms, he quickly withdrew it. Restrained, just out of striking distance, Tyson rumbled menacingly.

  ‘Good morning. My name’s Lawrence Kingston. That’s my photographer, Alex Sheppard,’ Kingston said, gesturing to the gate.

  Alex nodded dutifully, the Nikon 35mm with 80-200mm zoom lens dangling convincingly on his chest. He felt ill at ease with the deception, just as he had when Kingston had first proposed the charade, or ‘ruse’, as he’d called it, on the drive down. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to do it. ‘This had better bloody work, Lawrence,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ the young man replied. ‘I’m Reggie.’

  ‘I’ve been assigned to do a magazine story on England’s famous rose growers,’ Kingston said, ladling on the Oxford accent. ‘We’ve been up to Albrighton and talked with David Austin – splendid fellow – and we’re seeing Peter Beales next week. We’d like to include a bit on Compton and Sons. Frightfully good publicity, you know.’

  Tyson barked noisily. Alex jumped.

  ‘It would be, I’m sure. I’m afraid CC ain’t here right now, though.’ He gave the dog a threatening look and yanked its collar. ‘That would be Charlie Compton, the owner. Tell you what – why don’t you go over to the office there and talk to Emma – that’s his secretary. She does the books and that sort of thing. Tell her you just had a natter with Reggie.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Kingston, thanking him.

  Alex remained behind the safety of the gate, making sure the dog was well out of striking range before he deigned to enter.

  Kingston waved at Alex to come in. ‘For God’s sake, Alex, it’s only a dog.’

  ‘A labrador’s a dog, Lawrence,’ said Alex, joining Kingston. ‘A spaniel, a retriever, a corgi, a chihuahua – they’re dogs. That bloody thing over there’s a killer if I ever saw one.’

  As Reggie led him away, Tyson’s panting head was turned back, his bloodshot eyes locked on Alex and Kingston. Alex turned away from the sight with a shudder as he and Kingston headed across the gravel yard toward the office.

  ‘You’ve got some bloody nerve,’ said Alex. ‘I just hope to God they don’t find out right off the bat that we’re a couple of impostors.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Alex. I’ll tell them the truth when the time’s right.’

  Emma was pert and petite. Seen close up, it was apparent
that a good share of her spare time and spare change were spent on Estée Lauder, Clairol and the Body Shop.

  She welcomed Alex and Kingston as though they’d just been washed up on her desert island, clearly overjoyed to have not just one but two men to flirt with. With a toothpaste smile, and a wiggle to straighten out her tight skirt, she stood up from her cluttered desk to greet them. She had kind eyes, Alex thought. For some reason, though, they looked older than the rest of her.

  Kingston oozed charm and good breeding. Emma listened, wide-eyed, as he explained the reason for their unheralded visit. ‘Ooh! CC will definitely want to talk with you. He’s been on holiday in Florida for ten days. Supposed to get back tonight. We could do with the publicity. My goodness, Gardens Illustrated, of all things,’ she cooed. ‘Do you have a card I could leave for him?’

  Kingston managed to wink at Alex while Emma was not looking. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her two cards. ‘I know it’s awfully short notice and all that but we’d like to interview him tomorrow, if possible.’ My God, Alex said to himself, in awe of Kingston’s thoroughness, he’s even printed up phony cards.

  ‘I would imagine he’ll be a bit tired after a long flight, but I’m sure he’ll want to see you – he’s a big fan of your magazine.’ Emma turned to face the wall. ‘See,’ she said, pointing with a cerise-tipped finger to a neat row of magazines on a nearby bookshelf. ‘Been getting it since it first came out. Really look forward to it, I do. Matter of fact, your editor sat next to CC at a Royal Horticultural Club do, only just recently. A very nice lady, he said she was.’

  ‘She is,’ Kingston replied.

  ‘You know her, then?’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Can’t think of her name. Her picture’s always in the front of the magazine.’

  Kingston looked casually about the room.

  A hollow feeling suddenly materialized in the region of Alex’s midriff.

  ‘Know her quite well, actually, ‘Kingston said, with an ingratiating smile. ‘Rosie Atkins.’