6.The Alcatraz Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  What followed wasn’t at all what he’d suspected, particularly since he’d taken great care to stick with the facts and treat Payne’s suspicious death with the gravity it warranted. She looked at him across the table, an inscrutable smile crinkling her face.

  “As I live and breathe,” she said. “A firsthand account of how Dr. Kingston gets himself tangled up in other people’s misfortunes. What did Andrew have to say about that?”

  Kingston shrugged. “Very little,” he fibbed.

  “I can see why going to Payne’s house to find out if he could provide you with information about the rose was a logical decision, but I have to be honest with you, Lawrence, your going back to the pub had nothing to do with the rose. It had everything to do with finding out about Payne’s demise.”

  “I’m surprised you see it that way. It was nothing more than natural curiosity on my part. As a police officer, wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  “In all probability, yes. Any law enforcement officer or private investigator would have. The problem is, that you’re neither—not anymore.”

  Realizing that he was on the losing side of the discussion, Kingston decided to retreat as graciously as he could. Trying to find the right words to save further loss of face for what was now clearly seen by both Andrew and Emma as poor judgment on his part, he was relieved to see that her “policewoman” look had been replaced by a complacent smile.

  “Curiosity is admirable, but it has been known to dispose of cats from time to time, you know,” she said, with a forgiving smile.

  “Mea culpa,” he responded, taken aback by her candor, wondering if Andrew could have whispered in her ear without telling him.

  During a brief interlude while their water glasses were refilled and plates taken away, he saw fit to change the subject, remarking on the restaurant’s long history and the many memorable meals he’d enjoyed there since arriving in London.

  Emma caught him completely off guard with her next comment. “Why do I have a feeling that you were toying with the idea of asking me if I could find out more about Reginald Payne? About his supposed homicide?” The question was accompanied by an amused look and an enigmatic smile.

  Under her inquisitive gaze, Kingston picked up his glass and, in one smooth and nonchalant motion, took a long, slow sip of his wine—a patently transparent attempt to buy a little time before replying, which he knew Emma would see through. But he had to come up with a satisfactory answer, one that was truthful and wouldn’t make her think for one moment that he was taking advantage of their friendship to further his own ambitions.

  He put down his wineglass—more abruptly than he intended—and began.

  “Earlier, I’ll confess the thought had crossed my mind. But since then I’ve given this whole business a lot more thought and done some soul-searching, for want of a better phrase. So let me simply say this: As a matter of courtesy and respect for your former position, I would never presume to ask that of you without first knowing where you stand personally. I also realize that there is the issue of whether it would be permissible for you to do so in the first place, given your former job.” He paused. “For all I know, there could be other considerations as well.”

  Emma showed no intention of debating or questioning anything he’d said, so he continued, his tone a trifle more upbeat.

  “What I was toying with was proposing that you and I become partners of a sort in trying to solve the Alcatraz rose mystery, and only that, I want to stress. From everything we know, there’s nothing to suggest criminal activity—and, I’m sure you’ll agree it’s rather unlikely that there would be. There would be no police conflicts that I can think of, you wouldn’t be breaking any rules or conditions of termination, so to speak, and it might give you something challenging to do to spice up the humdrum of retirement. Look on it as somewhat like tackling a particularly difficult brainteaser—you must admit, it is most intriguing.”

  Emma’s attentive expression melted into the same knowing smile as earlier.

  “I could be mistaken, Lawrence, but do I see an equation taking shape here?” she said with a sprinkle of good-humored sarcasm. “Rare English rose shows up thousands of miles away on Alcatraz—chances are, sent by someone who knows about and is personally familiar with such a rose. You, by sheer happenstance, learn of such a person who could have had access to said rose. Unluckily for you, the man has just died—murdered. Have you stumbled on the beginnings of an answer to the puzzle, you ask yourself? It’s not out of the question, you tell yourself, even though the odds are about the same as winning the National Lottery. But in order to take it the next step, you’re in a bind because, first, you’ve no way of getting more information on Payne’s murder—the police aren’t going to provide it—and, second, I get the impression—although I admit it is subtle—that your best friend would prefer that you weigh the possible consequences before getting embroiled in inquiries of this nature. Enter Emma. Am I on the right track?”

  Fortunately the need for an immediate response was cut short once more by the arrival of dessert. As the plates were lowered with near reverential deliberation, Kingston told himself not to underestimate Emma’s remarkable perception. It was apparent that she had been an excellent police officer. She was right and trying to explain or elaborate would make matters worse. If he wasn’t careful, he could come off appearing recalcitrant, like a schoolboy caught scrumping apples.

  He needn’t have worried. In due course the conversation picked up and, as if by mutual consent, the dialogue drifted from the rose mystery and Reginald Payne to more sociable topics. Emma was interested in learning more about Kingston’s career as a professor of botany at Edinburgh University, about his daughter’s career in the States, her fiancé, and Kingston’s planned trip to visit them. It soon became clear that Emma did not intend to address his request—at least not yet—and he had no intention of pressing her on it. All in good time, he supposed.

  Outside the restaurant, fifteen minutes later, Emma in a cab ready to depart for Paddington Station and the journey home, she looked up at him through the half-open window.

  “Thank you one more time for a delightful lunch,” she said.

  “My pleasure. We should do it again. I’ll keep you informed of any new developments.”

  “Please do,” she replied, glancing toward the worn rose book in his hand. “One more thing occurred to me. Is it possible that you might have asked yourself if the R in the book might stand for Reginald?”

  The same knowing smile appeared on her face then, just as the cab pulled away, leaving Kingston standing at the curb, frowning.

  “The woman,” he muttered to himself, “is just too damn clever by half.”

  9

  THAT HAT EVENING, AFTER enjoying two of Mrs. Tripp’s Cornish pasties and a pint of Guinness, Kingston took out Graham Stuart Thomas’s book and studied the inscription once more, focusing on the neat handwriting, in black ink, on the otherwise blank page:

  This may give you some ideas, R.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with any other ways to interpret it, other than the obvious: R, whoever he or she was, had presented the book to someone mostly with the intent to encourage and stimulate him or her to grow roses, or had given it to a seasoned gardener who could be making a transition from hybrid tea and floribunda roses to the heady fragrance and beauty of old garden roses.

  He was no handwriting expert but recalled once reading that women tended to be neater writers than men. This writing, though neat, was bold and indicated a strong and steady hand. The ink impression was consistent, with no alternating heavy and fine strokes—all the full stops decisive. After a few moments, he gave up trying to be a handwriting analyst.

  How on earth, he wondered, had the book ended up in Fiona’s possession when, according to Emma, no evidence had surfaced to suggest that either Fiona or her husband, Terry, had any interest in gardening? Furthermore, it hadn’t been stated that the flat they’d rented had a garden.
Even if it had, he doubted that either of them would have appreciated or been inspired by such a scholarly and esoteric work like The Old Shrub Roses. What’s more, it is somewhat unusual for a novice rose grower to start with old garden roses.

  He started to leaf slowly through the pages, looking for the penciled notes Emma had mentioned.

  The first appeared on the right border of page 30. Faint but legible, it read Celsiana, damask, pre 1750. On page 45 there was another: Madame Plantier, hybrid Alba, 1835, to 6 feet. Similar notes appeared on six more pages, each referring to a specific old European shrub rose, listing a date and, occasionally, growing characteristics. Kingston saw nothing unusual about them; they were probably specific roses recommended to the person who’d received the book as suitable for planting in his or her garden.

  He began flipping through the pages faster, ignoring the few additional notes. At the very end of the book, as he was about to close it, he noticed a final entry on the last right-hand blank page. It was considerably longer than any of the others. His eyes narrowed as he read it.

  In terms of rarity, there is one other rose worth mentioning, even though it may now be impossible to locate. It’s called the Belmaris rose, a climber, easily growing to 20 feet or more. It is undated but known to have existed in the garden at Belmaris Castle* in Gloucestershire for several centuries. While its lineage is unknown, it comes with historic English provenance, striking red-black coloration, and a subtle fragrance of lily of the valley with hints of myrrh; overall a rose of indubitable grace. It would be a prize exhibit in any garden—a conversation piece—because, in addition to its other laudable qualities, I believe it has been classified as extinct. From a collectible viewpoint, I can’t think of another that would serve our purposes better. You might want to initiate your inquiries at Belmaris.

  *Kings Henry VIII, Charles I, and Richard III; Queens Katherine Parr and Anne Boleyn; Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth I all played parts in Belmaris’s story.

  R.

  Kingston’s eyes were riveted on the orderly handwriting.

  He read the paragraph and its footnote again. Two things struck him as worthy of note. First was the accuracy of the horticultural and historical credentials of the rose and the succinct yet informative manner in which it was described. The second—more revealing, he thought—was the language and style of writing. He pictured the writer as being if not elderly, then certainly mature. In a few words, using short sentences, he or she had painted an expressive and explicit picture of the rose that demonstrated not only an impressive feel for the language but also excellent writing ability. Few people that he knew used words like “indubitable” and “laudable” in their everyday jotting. Something about the spelling niggled at him, too, but he wasn’t sure what.

  Despite all that, the mention of Belmaris Castle raised implications far more thought-provoking and perplexing than simply the description of a plant and good prose. Until now, the idea he’d harbored since returning from Gloucestershire had been nothing more than a fanciful “what-if,” an idle supposition he’d summarily rejected whenever it had entered his mind. Now his pie-in-the-sky theory suddenly looked as if it might not be so crazy after all. He leaned back, chin rested on the forefinger of his clasped hand, wondering how Emma would react when he told her.

  He couldn’t read it any other way: Unlikely as it seemed, he was now convinced that there was a connection of some kind between the Alcatraz rose and Fiona or Terry McGuire.

  Perhaps with Reginald Payne’s murder as well.

  It took until eleven o’clock the next morning for him to catch up with Emma. She sounded breathless when she answered the phone. “Sorry, Lawrence,” she huffed, “I’ve just lugged in three big sacks of potting soil from the car. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How are you? All right, I trust?”

  “Couldn’t be better, thanks. I’m calling about the book.”

  “It’s important, I take it?”

  “Yes. I think it could be. It concerns the handwritten notes on some of the pages. Clearly these were meant to highlight specific roses as recommendations or suggestions for the reader to consider growing.”

  “Makes sense,” she said, sounding considerably less enthusiastic than he had hoped. “But I don’t see how—”

  “That’s not all. There’s a longer notation on the last page. One that describes a single rose in considerable detail, including its growing habit, pedigree, fragrance—and its rarity.”

  “And?”

  Careful not to sound too carried away, he voiced his next words with more restraint. “The rose described on the last page is the Belmaris rose. And it’s named as such.”

  He paused, curious to see how she would respond. She didn’t—not for several seconds.

  “What you’re suggesting is that your mysterious rose is somehow associated with the McGuires. Is that it?”

  “That’s right. Which suggests that our friend Reginald could well be the R who signed the book.”

  “I’m not quite sure why you’re insisting that makes him suspect. It could still have been someone else—a Roger, a Robert, or a Rita? And one of the McGuires could still have bought it at a rummage sale.”

  “All true—if it were any old rose. But it’s not; it’s the Belmaris rose. An extremely rare variety—in fact, I don’t think it’s mentioned in any of Graham Stuart Thomas’s books, and he’s the ultimate authority. Furthermore, according to Jimmy Cosworth, Belmaris’s head gardener, Payne, would have known about the rose when it was growing there and had plenty of opportunity to nick some cuttings. Now we have a rose book, signed by someone whose first name begins with R, and furthermore, one that includes a full description of the Belmaris rose by name. This is more than coincidence.”

  “Added to which, he was murdered,” Emma interjected. “Or so says Mrs. what’s-her-name.”

  “If he’d died of old age it wouldn’t change matters, would it?”

  “Perhaps not,” she conceded after a pause, as if still not completely persuaded.

  “If I’m right, it also means that the Alcatraz rose mystery and Fiona’s disappearance are connected in some way.”

  “You could draw that conclusion, I suppose.” Another pause. “All right, Lawrence, supposing I go along with your theory. If the two events are indeed connected, how or why was Reginald Payne associated with the McGuires? And what does it have to do with Fiona going missing?”

  “I’ve asked myself the same questions, and I’m damned if I know. But if we’re right, the next question is, Where do we go from here?”

  “You mean, where do you go? Perhaps you’re forgetting I’ve not yet agreed to help you in this escapade.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten, Emma. But if we could find out more about Payne, what he did these last sixty years or so, and how he died, that might be a good start.”

  There was another pause, and then he caught what sounded like a slight chuckle on the other end.

  “Goodness,” she said, “you’re even more bloody-minded than I was led to believe!”

  “Is it asking too much?” he asked, ignoring the accusation.

  “I’m not sure. I’d have to pose that question to DI Endersby, my former boss. I haven’t the foggiest idea of where I stand in a situation of this type. That brings me back to the question you asked at the Ivy, about helping you solve the riddle of the Alcatraz rose. I never gave you an answer, and for that I owe you an apology. It was rude of me.”

  “It’s not necessary. It was probably disrespectful of me to ask in the first place.”

  “Well, I’ve given it more thought and, against my better judgment, have decided to give it a try. It’ll give me something to do, and I might learn a few things about roses along the way.”

  “Yes,” Kingston said, wishing Emma could see his smile. “Yes, and you will. That’s wonderful news. I’m—”

  “There’s one caveat, however,” she interrupted. “If the search leads to areas that are even vaguely criminal,
I won’t be able to continue without express guidance from those upstairs at Gloucester police.”

  “Of course. I understand completely. And I couldn’t be more delighted. I think Andrew will be chuffed, too.”

  “I hope so. So, getting back to Mr. Payne and the McGuires, specifically—where do we go from here, Inspector? What do you think the next step should be?”

  “Perhaps a return visit to Payne’s house might be as good as any. With luck we might encounter someone other than that tight-lipped woman, Reggie’s niece. Mrs. Davenport at the pub said she thought the niece’s mother was also living there. If we could talk to her, she might be more cooperative.”

  “If she is Reginald’s sister—which seems probable—then I’d expect her to know a lot about him.”

  “That’s true,” Kingston said, encouraged by Emma’s more receptive mood.

  She continued, “If we do get lucky and get to talk with her—or anyone else, for that matter—you’ve no doubt given thought to revealing who we are or why we want to know. We can hardly show up on the doorstep expecting her to blithely discuss her brother’s life story to a couple of complete strangers, no matter how presentable and charming we might be.”

  “I’ve always found a little creative fibbing works quite well, actually. Perfectly harmless and does away with what can sometimes end up being embarrassing explanations.”

  “Why do I not find that surprising? I can’t wait to know what our cover is going to be.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kingston said, “though we may have to carry false identification. I’m sure I can come up with something that will be convincing and not raise suspicion.”