The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

The wind had picked up. Between the corridor formed by the house and the barn it was kicking up dust and dry leaves in ankle-high eddies. Somewhere a door or window rattled on loose hinges. As he walked between the buildings, Wolff had to tilt his head down to prevent the dust from getting in his eyes. He ducked into the barn. Out of the wind, standing there, smoking the last of his cigarette, he noticed with indifference the curtains flapping in an open window on the first floor. Then he started back to the house. It took him three steps before he registered the implication of the open window.

  Running into the house, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know which room Marcus, Billy or Kate occupied. He started banging on every door he could find, shouting Marcus’s name. Finally, Billy appeared in the hallway, pulling on jeans.

  ‘Billy, which room is the Sheppard woman in?’

  ‘The one on this side,’ he said, pointing. ‘Upstairs,’ he added, still half asleep and confused.

  ‘Shit! Just what I thought – the goddamned window’s wide open.’

  Marcus appeared at Wolff ’s side. ‘What the fuck’s goin’ on?’ he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘It looks like the Sheppard woman’s escaped,’ Wolff snapped. ‘You told me there was no way she could get out of that fucking room. Christ knows how much of a head start she’s got. Marcus, you get the Jeep and drive up to the main road. Chances are she’s on foot, so check out the fields as you go. If you don’t find her, go straight to The Parsonage. I’ve got a feeling that’s where she’ll be headed. But she’s obviously not gonna stay there for long, so you’d better hustle. On the way, check out every goddamned phone box you can find, too. First thing she’s gonna do is call the police.’ He turned back to Billy. ‘Come with me. We’re gonna have to close up shop and get the hell out of here.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

  William Wordsworth

  Kate had stayed out of sight on the toilet seat for what seemed forever. Now and again she slowly raised her head to the corner of the window, risking a darting glimpse to see if the smoking man was still there. Who on earth was he? He had to be one of the two men who had kidnapped her. But what in hell’s name was he doing out there, taking a smoke, at this ungodly hour? She glanced out for the fourth – or was it the fifth – time. She let out a little sigh of relief. He was gone. But he must have seen the open window. How could he have missed it? The flapping curtains, alone, were reason enough. She cursed herself for not having taken them down. Should she risk going now, or not? Probably they would be at her door any minute. But if one of them came back outside, she would jump right into his arms. Stay or go? Then she heard the shouting in the house.

  Go, she decided.

  She pulled herself up and with effort got her head and shoulders through the small opening. To her horror she suddenly found herself wedged in, arms pinned helplessly to her side. She was stuck half-way in and half-way out. Then she heard somebody downstairs shouting, ‘Marcus! Marcus!’ That did it. With every muscle straining she wriggled and kicked her way slowly forward. At last she was through, dangling almost upside down from the opening. In a desperate move she managed to grab hold of the sill and swing her body around. She looked down for a split second, then dropped to the ground into a patch of weeds that softened her fall. In a crouch, she scurried across the yard to the barn. Now she heard more frenzied shouts coming from the house. Pulling out the rusting, mud-spattered Raleigh bicycle, she was heartened to see that its front tyre had plenty of air and that the rear, while spongy, would likely hold up. Because the saddle was set for a man, she had to pedal in the standing position. She wobbled the first few feet across the bumpy dirt yard, quickly gathering speed once she reached the gravel drive.

  Though still not daybreak, a sliver of moon peeping from time to time from behind the low clouds offered enough light to guide her way. Soon she reached the road. It had no signpost. Without thinking, she turned left, downhill. She had to put as much distance between her and the farmhouse as quickly as she could.

  Crouched low over the handlebars, she freewheeled flat out down the steep incline, the rushing wind loud in her ears. She pedalled hard for another five minutes or so. She was thinking, so far so good, when she detected another sound over the wind, a low droning, growing ever louder. Taking a risky backward glance, she caught sight of the dancing headlights of a fast approaching car, about a quarter of a mile away. She had to get off the road.

  Nearing the bottom of the hill, she saw the dark silhouettes of a cluster of buildings, probably a farm. She squeezed gently on the brakes. A screeching of metal on metal pierced the chill morning air as the shuddering old Raleigh slowed sufficiently to allow her to swing in a clumsy arc off the road on to a dirt path. She leaped off the bike, threw it against the nearby hedge and crouched beside it, her heart beating rapidly, eyes fixed on the road. In a matter of seconds the car flashed past, accelerating up the hill. It was travelling so fast – a momentary blur – that she couldn’t tell what kind of car it was but she had no doubt that it belonged to her captors. Hearing the engine fade in the distance, she breathed more easily.

  She left her bike by the hedge and walked down a rutted path in search of a house where she could use the phone to call the police and Alex. After scouting the area for several minutes, she determined that there was no farmhouse, that the silhouettes she’d seen were sheds housing farming equipment, barns and various outbuildings. Aware that she’d wasted valuable time, she went back, retrieved her bike, and walked it up to the road.

  For twenty minutes or so she pedalled hard along the empty country road. The ride was difficult and more tiring without a saddle to sit on. Every now and then she would have to stop and take a rest. She guessed that she was now at least five miles from the farmhouse, still with no sight of a telephone. Sooner or later, she knew she would happen on a village. There she would definitely find a phone box or get to use a phone in one of the shops. She just prayed that it would be soon, her legs were aching like hell.

  It was now daylight, the pale beginning of what looked like a gloomy day. But that made no difference to the songbirds, they were up and chirping away as usual. Though she had now lost the cover of darkness, the sound helped keep her spirits up.

  Rounding a curve in the road, she came to a T-junction. She stopped briefly to study the black and white signpost. Going three miles to the right would take her first to the village of Little Charwell and two and a half miles farther, to Steeple Tarrant. It all made sense to her, now. The farmhouse had been chosen not only for its isolation but also for its proximity to The Parsonage, convenient for surveillance. She was not headed for home, though. That would be the first place they would look for her. Once she had called the police and Alex, she was headed for Peg’s house. Peg and her husband lived in a village five miles beyond Steeple Tarrant.

  On a long uphill slope, she started to realize how exhausted she was. The adrenalin that had given her the energy and strength to make such good time was ebbing. Her entire body ached. She was sticky with perspiration, beginning to feel the effects of not having slept for over twenty-four hours. And she still had quite a way to go. She was starting to wonder whether she had the strength to make it all the way to Peg’s.

  Within ten minutes she reached the village of Little Charwell. On the edge of the village, fifty feet ahead of her, an old church came into view. The gold hands on its black-faced clock showed just past seven. Where was everybody? Even at this time of morning she should encounter a few people – villagers, delivery men, dog walkers – but so far she hadn’t seen a soul. Perhaps it was Sunday.

  Pedalling slowly into the village, she passed the White Swan pub and a bakery, both closed. On the other side of the road a small dog yapped at her from behind an iron garden gate. Now she was in the centre of the village and finally there it was, up ahead, outside a newsagent’s shop – the welcome sight of a red phone box.
/>   She cycled up to it, walked the Raleigh the last few paces across a grass verge and leaned the bike against the phone box. Once inside, with the heavy door closed behind her, for the first time since she’d left the farmhouse she felt a brief sense of safety. As she rummaged in her pocket for the coins, she looked at herself in the small mirror over the phone. She had expected worse. Her hair was damp and bedraggled and her eyes a little bloodshot, but otherwise she looked none the worse for her ordeal.

  Her hand was on the phone, ready to take it out of the cradle, when she caught sight of a man outside, reflected in the mirror. He was dressed all in black and was wearing dark glasses. He had crossed the street and was now running straight toward the phone box. She gasped and took her hand off the phone and clasped it across her mouth. She could feel the beat of her heart quicken. Suddenly the door was yanked open. Now, she could see him clearly through the small glass panes in the door. He was holding the door in the open position.

  ‘Okay, bitch,’ he rasped. ‘Come on out.’

  She knew immediately by the accent that it was one of the men from the farmhouse.

  She stepped outside and the door closed behind her. Now he was facing her, a short stocky man with dark stubble surrounding his thin-lipped mouth. The hood of his black sweater was pulled over his head and tightly around his face, revealing little of his swarthy features. His hands were by his side, and in one of them he held a black pistol with a silencer on it. He moved it back and forth slightly, to make sure she noticed it.

  Before she knew it he was at her side, gripping her arm so hard that it hurt. She felt the gun pressed into the small of her back. His mouth was inches from her ear. ‘You make a fuckin’ sound and you’re dead, lady,’ he breathed. ‘Nod if you understand.’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘Okay. Now walk nice and easy with me to the car over there.’

  Reaching the Jeep, he opened the passenger door and, with a shove in her back, Kate slid into the seat.

  With the pistol in his right hand rested in his lap, and pointed directly at Kate, the man drove slowly out of the village.

  Kate leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She desperately wanted to cry, but wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ’Tis the last rose of summer,

  Left blooming alone;

  All her lovely companions

  Are faded and gone.

  Thomas Moore

  Entering the hotel’s breakfast room – actually the dining room with different tablecloths – Alex spied Kingston seated at a corner table reading the newspaper. Alex pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. Kingston was tapping his lower lip with the end of a pencil, eyes glued to the crossword puzzle. He had yet to acknowledge Alex’s arrival.

  ‘Bloody clever, that clue,’ Kingston muttered to no one in particular as he pencilled in the answer.

  ‘What clue?’ Alex asked.

  He looked up, as if surprised to see Alex seated in front of him. ‘Oh, good morning, Alex. Sorry – this one’s a bit of a struggle,’ he said, putting the paper aside.

  ‘Let’s not forget to call Compton,’ said Alex.

  ‘I tried about fifteen minutes ago. No answer at his home number, and the machine’s on at the office. Probably sleeping in late, if he just got back from the States.’

  ‘I suppose it is a bit early. Let’s try again just before we leave.’

  ‘If we can’t reach him, we’ll just go up there. According to Emma he’s bound to show up sooner or later.’

  Alex nodded. ‘Let’s hope this is the very last time we see that accursed rose. One way or another we must bring the whole business to an end today. Finished. Once and for all.’

  Kingston folded the newspaper and picked up the breakfast menu. Looking over the top of it, he peered at Alex.

  Alex was conscious of Kingston studying him. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Must say, it took me a long time to nod off. Kept thinking of that damned rose. I don’t think the lumpy mattress helped, either.’

  Alex glanced at the menu for a few seconds, put it down and looked at Kingston. ‘I couldn’t get my mind off how many things could go wrong today. I must have played every possible scenario. Not once but over and over.’

  Kingston’s voice took on an avuncular tone. ‘Look, Alex. We have absolutely no reason to believe that Kate isn’t okay and there’s no doubt in my mind that we’ll have her back, safe and sound, before the day’s over.’

  ‘I admire your confidence, Lawrence.’

  ‘From what he said on the phone, I think we can be certain of one thing, and that is that Wolff will bring her. Then, second, we know the rose is there, so where’s the problem? He gets the rose, we get Kate.’

  Alex made an attempt at a smile. ‘I suppose you’re right. I can’t help thinking the worst, sometimes.’

  The waitress arrived with a steaming carafe, poured them both coffee, and left with their orders.

  Kingston took a sip and put the cup down. ‘Last night, while I was tossing and turning, I got to thinking about our conversation at the pub – about who could have killed Graham. I think I may have come up with an answer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, it’s hypothetical of course.’

  ‘So, who did it, then?’

  ‘I think it was Tanaka.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘What bothered me all along was that for Tanaka to be implicated he would have had to know about the journal and the formula. You and I had thought that was doubtful, remember?’

  Alex nodded.

  For a few seconds, Kingston stroked his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on Alex. Then he spoke. ‘Here’s what I think happened.’ He held up a finger and wagged it. ‘Follow me carefully.’

  Alex nodded again. He was visualizing a deerstalker hat pulled down on Kingston’s head and a curlicue pipe in his hand. ‘All right,’ he said.

  Kingston lifted his chin. ‘Okay. When you faxed Stanhope’s letter to Adell he dismissed it as frivolous. I believe that was the word Kate told me he used. But at the same time – correct me if I’m wrong – you also told him about the existence of the missing journal and the crossing formula Graham claimed to have; that it was highly likely that the blue rose could be replicated.’

  ‘That’s right, I did.’

  ‘Well, stop and think for a moment what that meant to Adell. The auction is fast approaching and now, out of the blue – pardon the expression – he learns that the rose is no longer exclusive. That, in time, there could be thousands of blue roses on the market. It would really put the lid on things as far as the auction is concerned. So he had to do something to neutralize the situation, quickly. Don’t forget that Adell has a big financial stake in the auction and he can see those fat commissions evaporating.’

  ‘You’re right. I keep forgetting how much Adell was going to make on the sale.’

  ‘Exactly. It had to be a huge amount of money.’ He scratched his temple. ‘So where was I? Oh, yes. So Graham suddenly coming on the scene with the formula has an adverse cause and effect to whoever owns the real blue rose – or, putting it bluntly, it certainly reduces the rose’s value dramatically. The rose and the formula are sort of self-cancelling, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I do, yes. So far, so good.’

  ‘Okeydokey. So Adell decides the only way out of the fix is to tell Tanaka that the rose’s value is substantially less and ownership no longer exclusive because it can be cloned – right?’

  Come on, Lawrence, get to the point for God’s sake, Alex thought. He frowned, then said, ‘I think I see where you’re going with all this. He tells Tanaka – and Tanaka’s no fool. He realizes, instantly, that he must now own not only the rose but the hybridizing code too. Having one is no good without owning the other. Which is exactly what Adell hoped for.’
r />   Kingston smiled. ‘Clever of you. But that’s not all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, there’s more. And this is pivotal. Our Mr Tanaka is very cunning. Owning either one is still acceptable – if the other is destroyed. And that’s what, I think, Tanaka decided to do. Probably he contacted Graham, telling him that he was interested in buying the formula. Then, he shows up at Graham’s house hoping to make a deal, in all probability demanding to see the missing journal containing the hybridizing code. From here on, exactly what happened is anybody’s guess. But from what we know, there was a struggle and Graham ended up dead. Thinking that he had killed Graham, Tanaka most likely got the hell out of there.’

  ‘Good heavens, did you figure that out last night?’

  Kingston shrugged, then smiled. ‘It’s only a hypothesis, you know.’

  Whether Kingston purposely avoided further conversation about Sapphire, Alex could not be sure. He seemed to be content to talk about other matters throughout breakfast. Most of what he said was lost on Alex, whose mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Kate and what they might encounter at Compton’s. He let Kingston drone on about the importance of research in botany as he concentrated on scraping the last drops of juice from his grapefruit.

  Noting Alex’s indifference, Kingston took a final sip of coffee and turned to look out at the darkening sky.

  ‘Well, it looks like summer’s over. Ready to go?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it then,’ he said, tucking The Times under his arm.

  Alex shook his head. Kingston behaved more as though they were off for nine holes of golf rather than to persuade a total stranger – a rose grower, of all people – that he and his client had to give up a billion dollar, death-dealing rose, all in the name of humanity and science. Not to mention confronting a psychopathic and dangerous American, who would stop at nothing to get his hands on the same rose. Alex couldn’t help but admire Kingston.