6.The Alcatraz Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  “Good grief!”

  “Look, Emma, joking aside, I’d be happy to go alone, if you prefer. But I think it would be much better if we go together.”

  “If you want to keep the peace with Andrew, you really can’t go alone.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “All right. I’ll start by making a couple of phone calls to see if I can find out more about the circumstances of Payne’s death.”

  “Excellent. Let me know when you’d like to go, and I’ll run down and pick you up. Payne’s place isn’t far from you, just east of Cheltenham.”

  The conversation ended, and Kingston put down the phone with a satisfied smile on his face.

  The game, he thought, was afoot.

  10

  ABOUT MIDAFTERNOON FOUR days later, Kingston parked on the grass-edged lane outside Beechwood, Reginald Payne’s house. As arranged, he and Emma had dressed informally, Kingston in a tweed sport coat and corduroys, she in a suede jacket, blouse, and Liberty silk scarf. Unlike his first visit, with Andrew, this time there were signs of habitation. Wisps of smoke spiraled languidly from behind the house, and the accompanying smell of burning leaves filled the crisp air. From the house they could hear a small dog yapping. They also heard what sounded like an old hand-pushed lawn mower coming from somewhere behind the house. Two cars were parked on a small gravel drive alongside a row of tall yew hedges that ran along that side of the property: a newish Audi and the same mud-spattered Land Rover.

  Kingston gave the familiar brass knocker on the front door two hard raps. This only served to make the dog yap with more gusto. After a minute, it became clear that if anybody were home, they were either hard of hearing, taking a shower, or in the back garden, which, given the mowing and woodsmoke, seemed the most logical explanation.

  “Let’s see if we can get into the back,” Kingston said, walking across a small patch of lawn toward the side of the house. Emma followed reluctantly, several paces behind, until she caught up with Kingston, who had stopped and was inspecting a wooden gate abutting the hedge.

  “Looks like it’s locked from the other side.” Kingston ran a hand across the top of the six-foot gate looking for a latch. “I may have to climb over.”

  “I see now how you get into trouble. That’s breaking and entering.”

  “Only entering, my dear. I don’t plan to break anything. Anyway, you needn’t worry because I’ve found the inside latch,” he said, as the gate creaked open.

  They walked along a narrow stone path, flanked by thick clumps of hellebore leaves, eventually arriving at the end where it met the corner of a huge sloping lawn as smooth as a putting green. The lawn was divided down the center by a narrow rill that flowed down the long slope over shallow stone steps, spaced every ten feet or so, the bubbling water finally emptying into a large pond some fifty feet away. It was planted with white water lilies and, from where they stood, what looked like forget-me-nots and spikes of blue iris.

  The mower stood unattended at the far corner of the lawn, in front of a shoulder-high holly hedge. The scene facing them was spellbinding. The quintessential English garden was Kingston’s first thought. He glanced at Emma, who seemed speechless as she gazed over Reginald Payne’s tour de force. If indeed it was his creation, he must have taken inspiration from a dozen of the best gardens in England and managed somehow to distill and combine the best features and plantings from all to create a veritable Eden. It was evident, by the age and size of some of the trees, shrubs, climbing roses, and vines, and by the lichen-splotched stone balustrades, walls, and York paving, that it had taken several decades to evolve and mature into its present state of sublime beauty.

  Beyond the mower and the long hedge, Kingston spotted a head bobbing up and down in the vicinity of where the smoke was originating. He took off across the lawn and under a long curved arbor of espaliered apple trees underplanted with feverfew, stock, and golden marjoram. Walking around the end of the holly hedge, he spied an elderly man in work clothes and Wellingtons heaving mounds of leaves onto a bonfire with a pitchfork. Between the billows of smoke and his concentration, he hadn’t noticed their arrival.

  “Good morning,” Kingston shouted.

  The man rested his pitchfork and looked across at them. “’Ow can I ’elp you?”

  “I’m a long-ago friend of Reginald Payne’s and recently learned of his passing. We were told by a mutual friend that the lady who’s living here now might be Reggie’s sister.”

  “That’s right. Is she expecting you?”

  “She’s not, but we have some information about her brother that should please her.”

  Kingston ignored Emma’s frown. “It won’t take too much of her time. We just wanted to show her this,” he said, taking out his iPhone from his inside jacket pocket, sliding it open with his index finger, tapping the Photos icon. “Here,” he said, holding up the phone so that the gardener could see the picture.

  “Very nice. What is it?”

  “It’s an award that Reginald won but never got to receive.”

  Emma’s eyes looked heavenward.

  “Well, Grace will be pleased to learn that, I’m sure. If you go back through the garden and jog right along the path toward the east wall, by the long ’erbaceous border, you’ll come to a conservatory. That’s where she works most of the day.”

  “Do you know if she’s home now?” Emma asked.

  “She should be. She usually tells me if she’s leaving.” He stopped to take off his cap and wipe his forehead with the cuff of his shirt. “Was there a black Audi in the driveway when you arrived?”

  Kingston nodded. “There was.”

  “Then she’s ’ere for sure.”

  Kingston thanked him, and they set off toward the east wall between waist-high boxwood hedges that corralled a confection of white iceberg roses, blue hardy geraniums, and gray santolina. As they approached the glass-walled conservatory, they saw a woman inside, standing at an easel. A light rap on the glass got her attention right away.

  The woman put down her brush and walked to the door, opening it halfway.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her cautious gray eyes glancing from Emma to Kingston. She was tall and thin as a wafer, her graying hair pulled tightly back and held in place by a black ribbon. This accentuated her gaunt face and pale complexion, the skin wrinkled in the hollows but stretched tight over her high cheekbones and prominent forehead. In the luminescence of the conservatory, her features resembled an alabaster sculpture. Kingston could picture her as having Pre-Raphaelite beauty in earlier years. Under a beige smock she wore a black turtleneck and slacks to match.

  “Perhaps,” Kingston replied. “First, let me apologize for interrupting you and for showing up on your doorstep uninvited. It’s certainly not our custom. But let me explain. You are Reginald Payne’s sister—Grace, I take it?”

  “Yes.” The woman frowned. “And who are you?”

  “Lawrence Kingston—Dr. Kingston. And this is my friend Emma Dixon, formerly with the Gloucestershire police.” On the word “police,” Kingston raised a hand. “Please don’t be alarmed, this has nothing to do with police matters or the recent death of Reginald Payne.”

  “You know about Reggie, then?”

  Kingston nodded. “We do, yes.”

  “May I ask how?”

  “Of course. Several days ago I stopped by with a friend, hoping to chat with him. A young woman answered the doorbell and told me that he’d passed away.”

  “It was you who’d stopped by, then? That was Sophie you spoke with—she told me. I must confess I didn’t pay any attention at the time. It didn’t seem important.”

  Kingston nodded. “There was no reason for her to think so.”

  “I see,” she said, looking confused. “Why did you want to talk to Reggie?”

  “I know it’s going to sound odd, but it concerns a rose.”

  “A rose?”

  “Yes. A very old rose. One we’re led to believe might b
e still growing in this garden—perhaps planted by your brother or a previous owner, many years ago.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating,” she said, looking even more at a loss.

  He nodded. “A friend of mine—coincidentally, Reginald’s, too—the head gardener at Belmaris Castle, told us about it.”

  “Well, it all sounds very interesting, but I think you’d be far better off speaking to Thomas, the gardener. He’s worked here for several years, and in any case I’m not at all familiar with the garden.”

  “As a matter of fact, we met him on the way in. If he could find time to give us a quick tour, even better. Speaking as one who’s seen a lifetime of beautiful gardens, yours is very special.”

  “That’s settled, then,” she said, as if ready to close the door. “Tell him I said to give you all the time you want.”

  “Thank you,” Kingston said. “But if I might—we did want to talk to you first, because it involves Reginald in another way. You see, the rose is only part of it.”

  “I’m still not sure that I understand what it is you want,” she said, shaking her head.

  “It’ll only take a few minutes, that’s all,” Emma said.

  “All right, then. But we can’t stand on the doorstep all day. That smoke is making my eyes water. You’d better come in.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “I still think it’ll be a waste of your time. I’ve only been here for a short time. For the last twenty-five years I’ve lived abroad.”

  Kingston followed Emma—who was following Grace—through the conservatory, past the beginnings of a still-life canvas on a wooden easel, into a spacious, high-ceilinged sitting room furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs, complemented by antique country furniture. A clutter of botanical watercolors and oil paintings left little room for the age-worn color of the walls to be seen. With Kingston and Emma seated on one of the sofas and Grace facing them in an easy chair, the conversation resumed.

  “Outside, Dr. King—?” she said, looking embarrassed.

  “Kingston.”

  “Yes, forgive me. Outside, you mentioned my brother’s death. Are you aware of the circumstances? How he died?”

  “We are. Mrs. Davenport, the landlady at the Rose & Thistle in the village informed us. And please accept our condolences.”

  “Thank you.” There was a notable absence of emotion in the two words, as she clasped her bony hands in her lap. “So, what’s so special about this rose and why does it involve Reginald? And why does it merit your making what I assume to be a special trip here to inquire about it?”

  Kingston leaned forward slightly and spoke in a more measured tone than before. “Well, in the first place, the rose in question is considerably rare, having been declared extinct fifty years ago. But what has made it somewhat of a celebrity lately is that it was discovered recently to be growing in America—of all places on Alcatraz Island.”

  “You mean the prison?”

  “The former prison, yes.”

  “What on earth has that got to do with Reggie?”

  “We believe that your brother was not only familiar with the rose but could also have been one of the few people who’d managed to clone it—that is, to replicate it from cuttings.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the process, not having been very successful at it, I’m afraid.”

  Kingston was ready to steer the conversation to her relationship with her brother and ask a few questions about him, when Grace interrupted.

  “What is it that you do, Dr. Kingston? I’m curious. Are you a medical doctor?”

  “No. It was remiss of me. I should have told you in the first place.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Emma, who was trying to get his attention—without being noticed by Grace—shaking her head almost imperceptibly. This, he knew, was a subtle signal to stick with the truth, which was his plan, anyway. So far, it had gone well, and there was really no reason for imposture, embellishment, or anything like that—as long as Grace was cooperating. He met her questioning eyes with a kindly half smile.

  “In addition to being a professor of botany,” Kingston said, “I have served as liaison to various law enforcement agencies, where my background and experience has been considered of help to the case. Another way of putting it would be that, in a court of law, I would be considered an expert witness.”

  “And what about you . . . Ms. Dixon, was it?” Grace asked, looking at Emma. “The doctor, here, said you were formerly with the police? I must say you look awfully young to be retired.”

  Emma smiled. “Thank you for the compliment. I was forced to step down from the force—a nasty accident.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, getting up and walking toward a butler’s table laden with various bottles, siphons, and glasses. “Would either of you care for something to drink? Fizzy water? Aperitif? Something stronger, perhaps?”

  Kingston and Emma asked for mineral water. Grace poured herself a rather generous measure of sherry, considering the time of day.

  “So let’s get to the point,” she said, placing the last of the drinks on the table and sitting. “All this twaddle about a rose that Reggie might or might not have been familiar with. Is there something you’re not telling me? What is it that you hope to find out?”

  Kingston took a sip of his Perrier and cleared his throat. “If it were only about the rose, we wouldn’t be here. And you’re right. The fact that a rose has migrated over five thousand miles, across an ocean, without help of any kind, would eventually come to be accepted as just another of those capricious tricks of nature and soon forgotten. However, quite recently, and by chance, in totally separate circumstances, while Emma and I were trying to help a distraught teenager, Letty McGuire, find out what happened to her mother who’s been missing for eight years, we stumbled upon something unexpected, puzzling.” He paused briefly. “On a bookshelf at Letty’s foster home we came across an old book about roses that might have belonged to her mother—or grandmother, perhaps. At first it appeared to be of no importance, but upon further examination it contained a handwritten note on the last page describing the rose in considerable detail. It’s called the Belmaris rose. The writer also knew that the rose was either extinct or about to become so.”

  Kingston scratched his cheek, pausing, while Grace took a large sip of sherry. “But here’s the interesting thing,” he continued. “The inscription in the front of the book was signed with just the initial R. No name. We think that it could—and I want to emphasize the ‘could’—have been written by your brother. If it was indeed Reginald’s hand, then it would not only corroborate his familiarity with the rose but might also connect him to the Fiona McGuire missing persons cold case in Cheltenham. It’s too early yet to say if this will have any bearing on the circumstances of Reginald’s unfortunate death, but we—Emma, in particular, with her background and experience in these matters—felt the connection reasonably evidential to justify further inquiries.”

  “That was a charitable deed you did for the child,” she said. “And I can see why you became suspicious when you saw the inscription. But good heavens, it’s far from proof, isn’t it?”

  Kingston nodded. “That’s true, but it can’t be overlooked.”

  Emma added, “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that proof is a rare thing in police work.”

  “Have you told the police about it?” Grace asked.

  “Not yet. Emma will contact them in the coming days, but only if we feel that the information we have so far warrants it. That’s another reason why we needed to talk to you first. I’m sure they must have contacted you by now. The police?”

  “They have. Two days after I arrived.”

  “Did they give you an explanation of what happened? If it was an accident or not?”

  “Yes, they did. It seems like a wretched dream. I still can’t believe it,” she said in a tired voice, shaking her head. “He was such a kind and considerate man. I know it’s a cliché, but he wouldn
’t hurt a fly.” She brushed a finger across the corner of an eyelid. “It’s impossible to believe that anybody would want to kill him.”

  “Can you tell us what the police said?” Emma asked gently.

  She nodded. “There’s not much to tell. Anyway, from what I’ve gathered—as you know—it’s no longer a secret.” She took out a handkerchief that was tucked in the sleeve of her turtleneck and dabbed her nose delicately several times.

  Other than the distant sound of the lawn mower chattering again, a brief silence fell over the room. After a few moments, looking more composed, Grace continued.

  “The inspector I spoke to—his name escapes me right now—said that the pathologist’s report from the postmortem examination determined that Reginald had been forcibly drowned, in all likelihood in the house or another location, and then his body dragged to the pond in the garden to make it appear accidental. He went on to explain briefly how they were able to determine it was a homicide—something to do with freshwater algae—but by that time, I’d heard enough.” She paused, looking right into Kingston’s sympathetic eyes. “His death wasn’t accidental. There’s no question about it.”

  “I wish that we could make things easier for you, Grace,” Emma said. “But I know from experience that in these circumstances there are no words to make things more tolerable. The best we can promise is to find out who did this, and why.”

  “I hope to God that you can. And I wish that I could be of help in some way.” She picked up her glass and downed the last of the sherry.

  “You can,” Emma said.

  “How?”

  “Tell us about Reginald. What it was like when you were children growing up together, in school, where you lived, what happened in later years, what hobbies Reggie had, his jobs, who his friends were, if he married, if he had problems of any kind like money, business failures, large debts, gambling—anything you can think of, no matter how trivial it seems to you.”

  “That’s quite a tall order. But that’s all right, because most of the things you mentioned about his past I can’t answer,” Grace said. “I told you I’ve been abroad for many years.”