6.The Alcatraz Rose
Read 6.The Alcatraz Rose Online
Authors: Anthony Eglin
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and places described herein (other than Alcatraz Island, Kew Gardens and Dobells) are either products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously.
THE ALCATRAZ ROSE. Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Eglin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, write to Larkspur House, P.O. Box 349, Vineburg, CA 95487.
Copyright © 2014 Anthony Eglin
All rights reserved.
ISBN 13: 9781502707031
ISBN 10: 1502707039
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913779
Larkspur House, Sonoma CA
First Edition: November 2014
ALSO BY ANTHONY EGLIN
The Blue Rose
The Lost Gardens
The Water Lily Cross
The Trail of the Wild Rose
Garden of Secrets Past
For Dave Stern
1
Cheltenham, England
W
HY DOES SHE
keep staring at me?
At first, Kingston had shrugged it off as a maddening teenage quirk, but now, ten minutes into the panel debate, it was becoming distracting. And that was a problem.
Public discussion groups such as this one, to which he was no stranger, required one hundred percent of his concentration and intellectual faculties. Even more so this afternoon because the other distinguished scientists on the stage with him were considered among the best in their respective branches of academia, and he had a reputation to uphold.
Yet under the girl’s constant gaze, innocent as it was, he was finding it increasingly difficult to focus. Her get-up didn’t help matters, either. For all he knew it might have been fashionable, but to him, the gelled short hair and layered grunge outfit, topped by a red-and-white football scarf, bordered on the comical.
Luckily he was on one end of the table. Unnoticed by most, he shifted his chair slightly, to face his colleagues more than the audience. Though she’d now faded into the periphery, he could still feel her presence. And why was she alone? he wondered.
Why not?
a steadying voice inside him murmured.
What’s so unusual about a twelve-or thirteen-year-old attending a science fair symposium?
Yet it still didn’t sit quite right.
The event, in the Queen’s Hotel Regency Room—part of Cheltenham’s annual Science Festival—was billed as a panel discussion on topics related
to the environment and green-energy programs. Lawrence Kingston, University of Edinburgh professor emeritus, had been invited mostly in recognition of his standing as one of the country’s leading botanists. But—as the program chairman must have been all too aware—it was common knowledge among his peers and the media that Kingston didn’t shy away from taking a contrarian stance now and then, and was often an outspoken critic of certain aspects of the “green” agenda.
Kingston’s erudite and witty presence made for good box office. No matter what side of the aisle you were on, fireworks were guaranteed. But what had helped make this event a sellout was the sizable contingent of mystery and crime aficionados in attendance, who were far more interested in Kingston’s spare-time exploits as an amateur investigator than they were in saving the planet.
The closing Q&A part of the program finally arrived, and Kingston now had no choice but to shift his chair and face the audience full on. To his surprise, the girl’s seat was empty. She must have become bored. He couldn’t blame her. Why had she made him so uneasy in the first place? he wondered. Now he would never know what had motivated her to attend, not that it mattered anymore.
The program officially concluded, Kingston and his colleagues left the stage to mingle with the audience. He was midsentence, attempting to answer a three-part question from a garrulous gentleman in the back of the group milling around him when, out of the corner of his eye, he once more caught sight of the young girl and her unwavering stare.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, quickly stuttering an apology of sorts to the man, gathering his thoughts sufficiently to finish answering him. Though partly hidden among the adults, he realized by her steady gaze that she wanted him to notice her. She was closer now than before, and he could see—magnified by her round John Lennon glasses—that her eyes were ice blue and unusually large for her age. Either that or her vision was so bad it needed a lot of help.
At least she has none of those wretched tattoos or piercings—at least no visible ones
, he mused. Was she waiting to ask him a question or request an autograph? What other reason could she have for being there?
One by one the admirers and autograph seekers departed, leaving the two of them alone. As if each was waiting for the other to speak, they stood separated by no more than a dozen feet, an awkward and unlikely couple. She looked even smaller now, more vulnerable, in a way he couldn’t explain. For a few seconds the only sound was the hum of a vacuum cleaner from the other side of the room, and then, finally, she spoke. Not in a voice that matched her age and appearance, but in a manner incongruously self-assured and fluent.
“Hello,” she said, eyes unwavering. “Could I please have a word, sir, just a few minutes—you and me?”
“Of course you can.” He smiled, eager to put her at ease. “I couldn’t help noticing you in the audience. I was thinking how gratifying it was to see one so young at a science fair, particularly at such a serious discussion.”
“I didn’t come to hear about the science, sir. Though I liked what you said about endangered animals—you know, making a comeback, mysteriously reappearing—that stuff,” she added hastily. “I really came to ask you a favor.”
“And what kind of favor would that be?”
She paused, pursing her lips, as if thinking about her answer. She blinked several times before answering. “If it’s all right with you, sir, could we go somewhere quiet, where we can sit down and talk about it? It’s . . . complicated. I mean, it might take some time to explain, you see.”
“I don’t see why not,” he replied, knowing that he couldn’t refuse, at the same time wondering what he was letting himself in for. “And there’s no need to call me sir. Doctor will do fine.”
“All right.” The girl smiled. “Doctor’s cool.”
“And what’s your name?”
“It’s Letty. Letty McGuire.”
“Short for Leticia?”
She shook her head. “Lettice. Let-
TEECE
,” she repeated, exaggerating the pronunciation.
“It’s unusual.”
She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “My grandma’s middle name. I hate it. They used to call me lettuce in school.”
Kingston grinned. “All right, Letty. Now, are you here alone? With your parents, or—”
She shook her head. “I don’t have any parents. But don’t worry, my foster parents know where I am and why I came here.” She patted her skirt pocket. “I’ll call them when we’re done, and one of them will come get me. We live ten minutes away. Anyway I
am
thirteen, you know,” she said, with a tinge of resentment.
Kingston smiled. “Of course,” he said, pausing. “There’s one more thing, though. My friend Andrew is waiting for me in the lounge, and I don’t want to keep him too long, he gets impatient. So why don’t we go get him first, then find a place where you can tell us both what’s on your mind?”
She beamed. “That would be brilliant—Doctor.”
Five minutes later, the three were seated in a quiet corner of the hotel’s lounge. Kingston had ordered a Coke for Letty and glass of white wine for himself. Andrew was nursing the remainder of his beer from the bar, looking as though he’d still not yet recovered from the sight of Kingston sauntering into the lounge with a teenager in tow.
Kingston’s neighbor and longtime friend had accompanied him not for the sake of science but rather the Stratford Festival of Motoring that was taking place nearby that same weekend. Three hundred classic cars, paraded along the streets of Stratford-upon-Avon, was an event that neither wanted to pass up.
When Kingston had introduced Letty, all he had told Andrew that she’d simply asked for a favor. Now he turned to Letty.
“So what’s this all about, then? This mysterious favor?” he asked, with a twinkle in his voice.
“I want you to help me find out what happened to my mother.”
Her eyes shifted from Kingston’s to Andrew’s, as if knowing what kind of reaction her words would elicit. “She went missing eight years ago,” she added softly.
Kingston’s expression changed abruptly to frowning consternation. “Disappeared completely?”
She nodded. “She left one morning when I was little and never came back. No message, not a word. Nothing,” she said, her voice showing no trace of emotion.
“You said you didn’t have parents. But what about your father?”
“He was killed in a motorbike accident when I was little.”
Kingston glanced at Andrew, who showed no inclination yet to join in the conversation. He returned his gaze to the girl. “I’m truly sorry.”
“That’s all right,” she replied stoically.
“What about your foster parents?”