The Blue Rose Page 7

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Kate.

  ‘On the other hand, if we could, by some chance, prove that either of them was directly responsible for creating the blue rose, then it could also raise another issue.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Alex.

  ‘It would mean that you could have a tough time proving ownership. Either of their heirs – or Farrow, if he’s still living – could rightfully claim the rose as theirs.’

  Alex interrupted. ‘But we’ve just gone over that with Adell. He’s told us not to worry about it – at least, not for now.’

  ‘Well, he should know, I suppose,’ said Kingston.

  ‘So there’s not much more we can do at this point, then,’ said Kate.

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Kingston cleared his throat. ‘Here’s what I think. For the time being we have to rule out making further inquiries with Mrs Cooke. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more we can learn either from her or from her nephew. In any case, from what you’ve told me, doing so would only stir up a wasps’ nest in the form of the nephew.’

  ‘So what’s the next step?’ asked Kate.

  ‘If there is a next step, it’s to find out if Farrow is still alive. If he is, we’ll know for sure whether he took part in the hybridizing.’

  ‘If he did, he would obviously know the code.’

  ‘In all probability he would, yes. By the way, do we know how old Farrow was at the time?’

  ‘I do, actually,’ said Kate. ‘I called Mrs Cooke yesterday, mostly to thank her. Oddly enough, she mentioned Farrow again. He was quite amusing, apparently – clever with card tricks. Among other things, she told me that if her husband were alive today he would be in his mid-eighties. She also said that Farrow and her Jeffrey were about the same age – so there is a slim chance that Farrow could still be alive and kicking.’

  ‘Ticking, would be more like it, I would think,’ Alex quipped.

  Kingston chuckled. ‘If he is, I’m sure we can track him down. I’ve already started working on it, in fact. I’ve been doing a little poking around on the garden club thing.’

  ‘Really?’ said Kate.

  ‘Yes. So far I’ve called over a dozen clubs, in Wiltshire, Hampshire and Avon – but, so far, no Thomas Farrow. I did unearth – if you’ll pardon the phrase – a Thomas Farr, but he was laid to rest over thirty years ago, poor chap, so he doesn’t qualify. I’ll keep at it, though. I simply had no idea that there were so many damned garden clubs around.’

  ‘It is the world’s most popular hobby,’ Kate commented.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Kingston sighed. ‘You’ve only got to watch telly to know that. Doesn’t seem to matter what time of day you turn it on, it’s either a gardening programme or a cooking show.’ He paused, then said, ‘Oh, I had another theory, too.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Farrow could also have been a military man. There’s nothing to suggest that, I grant you. All we know is what Mrs Cooke told you – that she thought her husband met Farrow at this garden club. But what if they knew each other prior to that, maybe during the war? If they did, then it could explain why the books are encoded. It’s possible they might have been in the same unit together. It might have been a little game they played – you know, boffin-boy stuff – entering the hybrid crosses in code.’

  ‘Particularly if they suspected they were getting close to a hybridizing breakthrough,’ Alex said.

  ‘Wow!’ Kate cut in. ‘That’s really clutching at straws.’

  ‘Well, it is, I know,’ Kingston admitted. ‘But if that were the case, we could approach one of the military branches for help in decrypting the journals. Intelligence Corps would be the most likely place to start, I would think.’

  ‘Isn’t there a faster way to track him down – through the Registrar of Births and Deaths – whatever that office is called now?’ asked Alex.

  ‘I checked that out first. I was told it could be a time-consuming process. In any case, if they established that he had died, the records would only tell us when and where. I’m hoping to find him still breathing or, if not, to locate a surviving relative who might be able to provide some answers.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been quite busy, Lawrence,’ said Kate. ‘Next thing we know, you’ll be opening an office in Baker Street.’

  ‘The Baffling Case of the Blue Rose,’ he laughed.

  Alex interrupted, ‘Well, it really is, when you think about it. It’s quite a whodunit.’

  ‘It is, I suppose,’ said Kingston. ‘But tell me what happened at the meeting today. I’m anxious to know what Adell said.’

  For the next couple of minutes Alex filled Kingston in on the key points of their meeting. Kingston listened patiently, without interrupting.

  ‘So what do you think of Adell’s idea to auction licences to breed and market Sapphire?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Damned clever.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we thought,’ Alex said. ‘Pretty exciting, eh?’

  ‘It certainly is most creative.’ He paused. ‘Of course, you realize that, in doing so, the entire world will know about your rose.’

  ‘Adell warned us to expect that.’

  ‘Well, Alex, it all sounds good. You have to tell me more, when we next get together.’

  ‘We will,’ Alex replied. ‘Oh, I forgot, there was something else Adell recommended.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Security. He wants the rose put under surveillance. He’s looking into it. In the meantime, as a temporary measure, he wants us to cut off all the blooms.’

  ‘We thought that was clever,’ said Kate.

  There was a long pause before Kingston responded.

  ‘Hmm. I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Let me give it a little more thought. We’ll talk about it.’

  When they’d hung up, Alex walked into the kitchen. Kate was about to turn the light off. She kept her hand on the switch, squinting at Alex, a puzzled look on her face. ‘I wonder why he doesn’t want the roses cut off?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Blooms or no blooms, nobody’s going to find the rose, anyway.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Let’s not worry about it. We can cut them off later. I want Vicky to see the rose in bloom first, then she can deadhead and take the cuttings at the same time.’

  ‘I bet you one thing, though,’ he said, putting his arm around her.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That good old Lawrence finds a way to invite himself down again.’

  A week passed with no further word from Kingston or Adell. Life at The Parsonage had resumed a pleasant orderly rhythm. With the weather much improved, Kate was spending as much time as she could in the garden.

  On this celery-crisp day, she was out cutting flowers for the house. The early morning air was pungent with rich, earthy smells. Over the past six weeks, like a mother over a newborn child, she had watched the garden coming to life. There was so much to look at.

  From the black decay of last year’s leaves and stubble, she marvelled at how the new growth had rapidly displaced the sight of earth. How mature everything had become, almost overnight. The clematis vines fascinated her. Like inquisitive toddlers, their capricious tendrils grasped at anything in sight. Against the wall, and in some of the larger beds, fully leafed-out shrubs were now jostling for space. The snaking canes of climbing roses and coiling vines seemed to be everywhere. Throughout the garden roses were bursting forth in a dazzling confection of colours.

  If Alex was home, she would have gone up to the house and dragged him away from whatever he was doing to share this moment. Perhaps, surrounded by this irresistible beauty, inhaling the seductive scents, he would at least begin to understand what so enthralled her. What it was that, in the fluttering of a swallow’s wings, could calm or quicken her pulse, charge her emotions and stir her innermost feelings. It was a si
ght to make even the most jaded gasp with wonder and admiration.

  It had become her daily habit to walk down to the crescent – as she and Alex now called it – to check up on Sapphire. Following Kingston’s instructions, she would do nothing for the rose unless it appeared to be undergoing stress. There had been more than sufficient rain, so watering was not required. Neither was it to be fed, he had cautioned. On this day, nearly three weeks after its discovery, Sapphire looked exceptionally healthy to Kate – almost alarmingly so. Some of the petals had faded to a pretty Wedgwood blue, but new blooms were the same startling blue as before, without blemish. The perfectly formed leaves were a holly-green colour, so shiny that she could almost see her reflection in the larger ones. Then there were the thick canes, with their impenetrable armour of menacing thorns. There were no dead leaves on the ground under the bush. Unless one knew differently, the rose could be mistaken for a good silk reproduction, the kind that must be touched to make sure that it’s not real.

  The cell phone in her sweater pocket rang. It was Kingston calling.

  ‘Hello, Lawrence. Your ears must be ringing. I was just thinking of you. I’m standing here, looking at Sapphire as I speak.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She appears to be just fine. It’s weird, though, she always looks the same. Always healthy. Never seems to drop any leaves.’

  ‘Considering that it’s a mutation of some kind, it’s to be expected that it will deviate in some ways from accepted characteristics of the Rosaceae family.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely, doctor,’ Kate said, smiling to herself.

  Kingston simply grunted.

  ‘I was just marvelling at how unreal she looks,’ she said, eyeing the rose. ‘More like a fake rose. It’s sort of creepy.’

  ‘I’d really like to see it again. By the way, don’t forget to remind your friend to take the cuttings. Perhaps it’s time I came down for another look. We should take some more photos, too. Those I took were a trifle out of focus. Next time I’ll use a tripod.’

  ‘You know you’re welcome any time,’ Kate said, sitting down, cross-legged on the strip of grass by the rose bed. She knew that a short phone call with Kingston was an oxy-moron.

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Kate, I’d love to. But the reason I’m calling is to let you and Alex know that I’ve managed to dig up some information on Farrow.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I ferreted out the garden club that he and Cooke belonged to.’ He sounded very pleased with himself.

  ‘That was clever of you.’

  ‘Not really, my dear. All it took was some good old-fashioned detective spadework. The club was in Newbury. Still is. The club president vaguely recalled Major Cooke – apparently he was once on the club’s board – but had no recollection of Farrow.’

  ‘How did you find out about him, then?’

  ‘I got the names and phone numbers of all ten of the club’s officers and started calling them, one by one. On the sixth call, I got lucky. The lady I talked to was the club’s recording secretary. Sounded as if she smoked three packs a day. Volunteered that she was in her eighties and remembered Farrow quite clearly. Kept calling him Tommy.’ He laughed. ‘The way she talked about Farrow, I think she might have had a soft spot for him.’

  Kate allowed a little chuckle. ‘So, you got a phone number? An address?’

  ‘Yes, and no. She recalled Farrow’s moving up somewhere near Bletchley in Buckinghamshire, of all places. So I checked around the post offices in the area and came up with the address of a Jennifer Farrow. She’s not listed in the phone book, so I plan to take a run up there, maybe as early as tomorrow, and find out whether she’s a relative.’

  ‘Why do you say, “of all places”?’

  ‘Well, my dear, Bletchley was the place where all the classified code breaking was done during the war. It was all very hush-hush. Just struck me as being too much of a coincidence, that’s all.’

  ‘I must say, Lawrence, you’re becoming a regular Hercule Poirot.’

  ‘Ah! Mon ami – nous verrons ce que nous verrons, n’est-ce pas?’

  With her scant knowledge of French, Kate knew roughly what he said and it didn’t escape her notice that Kingston spoke the language like a native.

  ‘We shall see what we shall see, Kate,’ he added.

  He paused momentarily. ‘The actuarial life expectancy tables would indicate that by now – unfortunately for him and us – Farrow is probably six feet under and has been for a few years.’

  ‘Pushing up daisies, not roses.’

  ‘Very good, Kate.’

  ‘You must let us know how you get on tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I will – I hope with encouraging news. Before I go, though, there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you. I took another look at the journals yesterday. I went through them with a fine-tooth comb just to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything. Do you know what I discovered?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think we’re missing one book,’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Words fail me to picture dreams of hope, expectations, surprises – yes, disappointment, sometimes despair, that are the lot of the hybridizer…

  Dr J. H. Nicolas, rose hybridist

  Five thousand miles from Steeple Tarrant in the town of Lakeford, Washington, on the West Coast of the United States, Ira Wolff was finishing his fourth cup of black coffee. It was a quarter to ten on Thursday, 3rd July. The polished mahogany door to his office at Baker-Reynolds was closed. He had instructed his personal assistant to route all calls to his voice mail for the remainder of the morning. Save for a top-of-the-line Hewlett-Packard computer, a white telephone, some neatly stacked folders, a binder, and a tray holding a water carafe and glass, the dark leather desk surface was empty. Clutter was not permissible in Wolff ’s life. He’d called the staff meeting for ten o’clock; he had fifteen uninterrupted minutes to prepare for it.

  Were it not for Baker-Reynolds, the small community of Lakeford would have long ago withered like those dusty ghost towns of the West that had prospered only as long as there was gold or silver to be mined. Wolff was majority shareholder, President and Chief Executive Officer of the privately owned corporation. In the case of Lakeford, the ‘gold’ was in the form of another of nature’s gifts – roses. And, barring catastrophe, the roses would survive, as they had for millions of years.

  Founded in 1931 as a two-family partnership, B-R – as the townsfolk called it – was among the country’s largest rose growers and hybridizers. Over seven million plants were grown each year at Roseland, the forty-three hundred acre rose farm on the floor of a fertile valley close to the Idaho and Oregon borders. In the planting and harvesting seasons the operation demanded a staff of over twelve hundred. Every year, ten billion gallons of water and five hundred million gallons of fertilizer were pumped into the ground to satisfy the voracious appetite of this thorny colony. Ten months of the year, a highly trained, horticulturally-savvy force of over two dozen sales people fanned out across the US, keeping nurseries and garden centres well stocked and well informed. In the peak selling months, daily sales often climbed as high as a million dollars. Twice a year, professional photographers, commanding fees that would make trial lawyers look charitable, were flown to Lakeford from as far afield as San Francisco and New York. With macro lenses on Nikons and Hasselblads, they would capture the quintessential moments in the life of those prized blooms decreed perfect enough to star in B-R’s catalogues. Over two million copies of these lavish works of art and salesmanship were mailed out, three times a year, to the swelling ranks of rose-crazed gardeners across the nation.

  But B-R wasn’t all business. Over the years, it had given much back to the community on which it relied – a notable example being the Lakeford Rose Garden. The three-acre landscaped park was designed to illustrate the evolution of the rose. Starting with ancient species roses, the plantings in the lush park followed the journey of the rose across th
e globe and through the centuries. Through Asia and China in the years before Christ; thence to the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages and the Crusades; to the celebrated collection at Malmaison, assembled by Napoleon’s wife, the Empress Josephine; and on to the modern roses of the present day. The garden’s more than one hundred thousand visitors each year helped boost, nicely, the local economy.

  The Lakeford Clinic and Health Care Services was another of B-R’s community good deeds. A day-care centre, a sport and activities centre for youth, a prenatal clinic, and a number of other charitable works were either fully or partly funded by the county’s number one employer. Since Wolff ’s acquisition of the company, however, no further acts of social conscience were forthcoming.

  Baker-Reynolds staff and the townspeople would have been outraged to the point of lynch-mob ferocity had they known exactly how Wolff had managed to gain control of what was considered by economists and financial gurus throughout the US as a model company. Wolff had made certain that the unscrupulous and manipulative pressures he had brought to bear on a certain Baker family board member would never surface. There had been rumours at the time of sale, most related to the confiscatory low price he had paid for the company. There had also been letters and phone calls of protest to the Washington State Attorney General’s office. But the secrets of his threatening to disclose unspeakable sexual improprieties and trumped-up financial duplicity on Baker’s part were as safe and impregnable as a Swiss bank.

  The transition – which had received a modest one-column mention on the front page of the Wall Street Journal at the time – had been swift and uneventful. In the years since his takeover Wolff had made it his mission to perpetuate – albeit, sometimes by illusion – the company’s integrity and reputation. Now, as before, to all intents and purposes, Baker-Reynolds was Lakeford. And, provided Wolff continued to conduct the business as his predecessors had, profitably for sixty years, the company and the town would be around for a long time. Roses would always be in demand. Or so it would appear.