The Blue Rose (20 page)

Slants of dust-speckled light entering the room through gaps in the heavy velvet curtains were just enough for her to make out the room. A few pieces of cheap furniture were placed at intervals around the high-ceilinged space. In places, seams of the faded and stained Victorian print wallpaper had separated and ripped, revealing earlier layers. In the far corner, a pedestal sink with a rust-stained porcelain bowl and oxidized brass taps stood next to a partially open door. Through it, she could see the edge of a bathtub.

She ran a hand down one arm. It was tender and she could now see the discoloration, bruising from the struggle. Turning her head, even slowly, made her wince. For several moments, she closed her eyes to shut out the dreariness and the pain.

She got up from the bed on wobbly legs and made it to the door. It was sturdy and, of course, locked. She went back to the bed, lay down and stared at the ceiling. It was blotched with brown-edged water stains and much of the paint was cracked or peeling. It reminded her of a similar ceiling, in an old seaside cottage in Cornwall that she and Alex had rented several summers back. Thinking back fondly to those wonderful days, she started to cry, quietly at first, then in heaving sobs. Her emotions had finally caught up with the enormity of her situation. Turning her damp pillow over, she eventually lapsed back into a deep sleep.

Since that awful day, she had done nothing but sleep – she only seemed to be able to manage a few hours at a time – and spend the waking hours trying to figure out who might have kidnapped her and why. She just knew the rose was behind it all. She thought constantly about Alex. He must be going out of his mind with worry by now.

The routine had been the same every day, until today – Thursday. When she had woken, she leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. Next to it was a plate with a raisin pastry of sorts and a browning banana. By the plate was a large manila envelope. Next to that, a ballpoint pen. She got up, sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the envelope. Her name was on the label, Shepard, spelled with one p. She slipped a fingernail under the flap, opened it and withdrew its contents, a document of some kind in a folder. Paper-clipped to the folder was a covering note:

Kate read the letter again. Close to tears, she put a hand up to her mouth. If nothing else, she now knew why she'd been abducted. The letter also confirmed her suspicion that she was being watched. The thought made her shiver. Did that mean that Alex and The Parsonage were under surveillance, too?

Placing the letter on the bed, she opened the folder containing the agreement and flipped through its pages. She stopped at the sight of Alex's signature and yesterday's date. If he had signed it, it must mean that she had to, as well. What choice did she have?

A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Raindrops started to patter against the windows. She placed the agreement on the table, picked up the pen and signed the original and the copies. She then put everything back in the envelope as instructed.

After devouring the pastry and half the mushy banana, Kate was still hungry. At least a pot of tea would come soon. It had every day, thus far, about this time. She went to the door and placed the envelope on the floor. Then she went over to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. Outside, the rain had set in and the sky was the colour of pewter. The room looked even shabbier in daylight. Looking out to a gravel courtyard, she could see large bolts securing the windows from the outside. Beyond an overgrown yew hedge enclosing the forecourt, open countryside stretched to the horizon. She saw no signs of habitation in any direction.

As she stared at the dreary scene, she found herself once again thinking of the rose. The rose had brought them nothing but misery. Was it possible, having signed the agreement, that it could be all over? Suddenly she felt relief. For the first time in days, a wave of optimism. Now, perhaps, she and Alex would be free of the rose, for ever.

Alex and Kingston arrived at the small house on St Margaret's Mews. Unexpectedly, Mrs Cooke opened the door soon after the first ring of the doorbell. Once inside, Alex placed the box of journals under the table in the hallway. After a brief exchange of greetings and the introduction of Kingston, Mrs Cooke ushered them into the living room. This time Alex was careful to avoid the sofa. He watched with amusement as Kingston sank slowly into its marshmallow embrace.

‘Make yourselves comfortable,' she said. ‘Can I get you something to drink?'

Alex and Kingston declined, allowing that maybe a little later they would have some tea.

For a few minutes she talked quite openly about Graham. Alex was quite surprised – relieved, in fact – that she didn't appear reluctant to discuss her nephew's death. He had fully expected her to be in a much more grief-stricken state. Her seeming detachment led him to wonder whether there was much love lost between her and her nephew.

She stopped talking and looked down in her lap for a moment. Then she looked up again, her eyes moving about the room as if trying to avoid their gaze. ‘This business with the police, Alex,' she said in a quiet but level voice. ‘That letter from the lawyer. I don't mind telling you, that was an awful shock.'

Alex gave Kingston a fleeting glance, then looked at Mrs Cooke. ‘The police did come to see you, then?'

‘Oh, yes. They were here on Wednesday for at least an hour – an inspector and a sergeant.'

‘Was it Detective Inspector Holland?'

‘That's right, Alex. A nice man.'

‘Yes, I suppose he is. He was the one who questioned me,' said Alex. He paused for a moment. ‘I'm not sure whether he believed me when I told him the only reason Lawrence and I were there that afternoon was to drop off your husband's books.' He flashed Kingston another glance. ‘I don't know whether they told you or not, Mrs Cooke, but I got the distinct impression that Holland thinks Lawrence and I are somehow mixed up with Graham's death.'

‘Yes, they did mention that. Needless to say, I was stunned. They acted quite surprised when they learned that I knew it was you who found Graham. That you'd already told me when you phoned. They wanted to know what you might have been doing at Graham's place. Whether there had ever been any disagreements or heated words between the three of you – you and Kate, and Graham.'

She paused for a moment, a flustered expression on her face, as if she would prefer not to be telling them this – or even talking to them at all. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, then continued. ‘Well, of course, I told them that you and Kate had bought The Parsonage and that I really didn't know you at all well, that I'd only met you the one time. They asked what we'd talked about on that occasion, so I told them it was mostly about my husband's roses – oh, and I mentioned lending you Jeffrey's gardening books. They were very interested in that, and the fact that Graham was there at the time and had dropped them off at your house.'

For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kingston cleared his throat. ‘The letter,' he said. ‘You said you were shocked when they showed it to you.'

‘Yes. I was coming to that.' She pursed her lips and looked away from him for a second or so. ‘It was a shock,' she said, her eyes reddening. ‘Quite a blow.'

Kingston uncrossed his long legs and shifted his position on the sofa. ‘You had no idea what Graham was up to, then? What his plan was?'

She shook her head, then said, ‘I knew what Graham had in mind, but I had no idea he would go this far with his self-serving scheme. That he would go against my wishes, behind my back.'

Mrs Cooke took out the handkerchief tucked into the cuff of her sweater and proceeded to dab her eyes. Alex and Kingston waited for her to regain her composure.

She looked down in her lap, twisting the handkerchief nervously around the rings on her fingers. Then she looked up at them.

‘He came to me a while ago and told me that he suspected one of Jeffrey's roses to be valuable and that he would soon have proof positive.'

‘Did he say how valuable?'

‘No, he didn't. I told him to forget all about it. As I just mentioned, I knew, basically, what he wanted to do – what his intent was. But I had no idea that he would actually do it. We had quite an argument about it. I'll be honest and tell you that, in the last few years, Graham has been less than truthful with me about a number of things. Most of them were trivial – about money-type things – but this one was serious. It caused a big rift between us. I was furious with him. I made it clear that I was vehemently opposed to any such action and that if he pursued it I would have nothing to do with it. Not only that, I would also do everything in my power to stop him.'

She took a breath, then continued. ‘I was devastated when that policeman told me what was going on – to learn that Graham was greedy enough and malicious enough to carry out his nasty little plan. I thought that, after our last set-to, he would have dropped the whole despicable idea. It really had nothing to do with him anyway. But he kept throwing it in my face, since his uncle created the rose, as the only other surviving member of the family on my husband's side, he was entitled to a share of the money. He also argued that he was the one who found out about the rose.'

‘I can imagine how you must have felt,' said Kingston. ‘It was a shameful thing to do.'

‘Yes,' she said, nodding. ‘I reminded him that when the house was being sold the man from the estate agent's office asked me whether there was anything in the garden I wanted to keep – chairs, tables, planters – things like that. I said, no, everything should stay in the garden, where it belonged. So should the rose, I told Graham. In his mind he obviously felt that he had every right to it.'

For a few seconds, she gazed into space, then back to Alex. ‘He must have told his lawyer not to discuss it with me,' she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her.

‘Did Graham say anything about the particular rose in question?' asked Kingston.

‘Not really – except, as I said, that it was valuable.'

‘I'm sure you can imagine what a nasty jolt it was, too, when Graham sprang it on Alex and Kate,' said Kingston, with a sideways glance at Alex.

‘It still is – particularly for Kate,' Alex added. ‘She's still worried to death about losing the house.'

‘Regardless of what ultimately happens with the rose, we'd like to be able to tell her that that won't happen,' said Kingston.

‘It won't, I promise you,' replied Mrs Cooke. ‘The sale of the house was final.'

‘She'll be very relieved to hear that,' remarked Alex.

‘Has this lawyer, Stanhope, contacted you, Mrs Cooke?' asked Kingston.

‘He hasn't, no. What with Graham's death and the police and everything, I haven't had time to call him, either. But if you talk to him, tell him to forget that he ever talked to Graham. I don't want that on my conscience. No, it's over with – finished. I'm not interested in money at my age – do as you wish with the confounded rose.'

Kingston watched the relief wash over Alex's face. ‘Thank you for being so candid, Mrs Cooke,' he said.

‘It was rude of me and I apologize,' she said, placing a hand on her bosom. ‘I completely forgot all about the tea.'

‘None for me, thanks,' said Alex.

She looked at Kingston.

‘No thanks, Mrs Cooke,' he said. ‘I'm fine, too. In any case, we'll be leaving soon.'

He leaned forward, chin resting on his clasped hands. His expression hinted that he was about to say something serious. ‘Mrs Cooke,' he said, ‘the main reason we came today – in addition to offering our condolences – was to clear the air with regard to this whole rose business. To let you know exactly what's been going on over these last few weeks. Since Kate and Alex discovered the rose in your former garden, a number of disconcerting incidents have taken place – some of them very serious. I won't go into details right now, but I'm not exaggerating when I say that the rose has become somewhat of a curse.'

Mrs Cooke frowned. ‘A curse?'

‘I know it sounds melodramatic, but, yes, a curse. Alex and I are convinced that Graham's death, one way or another, can be attributed to the rose. Oh, and Graham was right, by the way – the rose is much more valuable than he led you to believe. Whoever eventually controls the reproduction and licensing rights will become very wealthy.'

Mrs Cooke, who had become very still, regarded him with a doubting gaze. ‘Good gracious,' she said.

Kingston shrugged and continued. ‘However, the question of ownership has become moot, I'm afraid, because somebody else has the rose now. It goes without saying that whoever took it is only too aware of its value.'

‘You mean it's been stolen?'

‘I'm afraid so,' said Kingston. ‘As a precaution against that happening, we'd taken the rose out of the Parsonage garden and replanted it in a well-hidden garden in Shropshire. But it didn't make any difference. It was stolen anyway. It's certain that The Parsonage has been under surveillance. It's the only explanation.'

‘My goodness, how strange,' she said.

‘Strange is right,' said Alex. He could see that Mrs Cooke was grappling with the implications of what Kingston had just told her.

She twiddled her rings, then said, ‘So all this business with the lawyer – it becomes irrelevant, then. Graham's scheme would have come to nothing, after all.'

‘In most ways, yes,' Kingston replied.

‘Most ways?'

‘Perhaps Graham didn't tell you. There was no mention of it in Stanhope's letter, but it seems he had also managed to unlock your husband's hybridizing formula that created the rose in the first place. It was entered in code, in one of the journals.'

‘But Graham told me he gave you all the journals, Alex.'

‘All except one,' Alex replied.

She frowned and shook her head. ‘This is starting to get very confusing.'

Alex nodded in agreement. ‘It is, I know. Graham told us that, a long time ago, just after your husband's death, you found one of the journals in a safe deposit box. That was the one that contained the formula to replicate the rose. The one that Graham kept.'

‘I see,' Mrs Cooke replied. But it was clear she didn't, fully.

Kingston gave her one of his kindly looks. ‘We were wondering whether you could do something for us, Mrs Cooke. If the journal shows up among Graham's effects, we'd like to take a look at it, if that would be all right with you. It could be very helpful to us.'

‘Yes, that's fine, but it'll take me some time to go through all his stuff. He was quite a hoarder, you know.'

‘Whenever you get the chance,' said Alex. ‘Oh, don't forget, the rest of your husband's journals are under the table in the hallway. We apologize for having kept them for so long. Thanks again for lending them to us.'

Mrs Cooke changed the subject. ‘I'm sorry Kate couldn't come with you. I would have loved to see her again. You're lucky, Alex, to have such a smart and beautiful wife.'

Alex nodded. ‘I am. Unfortunately she's away, visiting a friend in Shropshire for a few days. Good old Lawrence is staying with me while she's gone. Not much of a trade-off – though I must say, he's good company.'

‘How are things at The Parsonage, Alex? Are you managing to get that garden knocked into shape? I was awfully embarrassed handing it over to you with it looking so bedraggled.'

‘We've been working at it. Kate's out there every single moment she gets. As a matter of fact, Lawrence is helping, too. He doesn't like my mentioning it, but he was a professor of botany at Edinburgh University. He's also quite an expert on roses.'

‘Just by looking through those books, I could tell that your husband was a very diligent man,' said Kingston. ‘And having seen the garden I know he had a profound love for roses.' He chuckled. ‘I was seduced by them years ago. I never cease to be amazed at the influence roses can have on people. The sheer power they exert.'

‘You would have got on famously with Jeffrey, then. That's pretty much all he ever thought about. Spent every waking moment out in that greenhouse of his. More or less died out there, too.' She chuckled, without smiling. ‘Somehow fitting, I suppose.'

‘More or less?' inquired Alex.

‘Yes, I found him there, late in the day. Lord knows how long he'd been lying face down on the floor. Anyway, the ambulance came and they took him to the hospital in Bath.'

Kingston shifted his position on the sofa again. ‘Perhaps you'd–'

Mrs Cooke held her hand up. ‘No it's quite all right. It's easy for me to talk about it now.' She frowned, and continued. ‘He was in intensive care for two days. I sat at the hospital all that time. Most of it in the waiting room. They wouldn't let me see him that often. Not that it really mattered – most of the time he wasn't conscious. On the morning of the third day he passed away. They said it was a nasty viral infection of some kind.' Her voice faltered as she reflected on the painful memory.

‘Prior to your husband's blacking out, had he been sick at all?' Alex asked, as gently as he could.

‘As far as I knew, he was as fit as the proverbial fiddle. In fact he'd just had a check-up with old Dr Hearst. Told him he was in great shape for his age and to keep on drinking whatever he was drinking. Funny old codger that Hearst. He's passed on now, too.' She bit her lip, looking first at Alex and then Kingston.

‘What you've just told us could start to explain a lot of things,' said Alex.

‘What things?'

‘Your husband and a friend of ours. The symptoms are almost identical.'

‘Your friend – did he die, too?'

‘It was a she. A young woman named Vicky.' Alex stood up and began pacing ‘Yes, she died, Mrs Cooke. It all happened so quickly. They didn't know exactly what killed her, either. “Unidentified viral infection” was what appeared on the death certificate. When I asked the doctor whether it could have had anything to do with Vicky being scratched by the rose, he almost laughed at me. Highly unlikely, he said – or words to that effect.' He stopped and looked at Kingston. ‘What do you think, Lawrence?'