The Blue Rose (10 page)

It was a day much more befitting mid-July. A little after eight thirty, when Alex had left for work, Kate gathered up tools from the potting shed and set off into the garden. Already she could feel the sun's warmth on her bare arms.

She had tossed and turned all night, thinking the worst about the missing file and the disturbing phone call from the American stranger. She was convinced they were connected. Today, however, she would put aside all negative thoughts and enjoy her day off in the garden. Nothing strenuous – it would be spent simply pottering, enjoying.

A drowsy stillness hung over the garden, stirred every now and then by a gentle breeze that rustled only the topmost leaves of the old elms. High above, in the eggshell blue sky, the twittering of swallows and lazy cawing of rooks crystallized the sights and senses. It was so easy to shut off the outside world.

She busied herself deadheading roses, staking droopy delphiniums and foxgloves, and raking rose petals and dead leaves from under the thickly planted beds. Not for the first time, she was reminded of Frances Hodgson Burnett's story,
The Secret Garden
. Though she hadn't read it since childhood, she could still recall how the garden was first described: ‘The sweetest, most mysterious place anyone could imagine.' Burnett could have been talking about the very same florid excess surrounding Kate this very minute. Even to ‘the high walls which shut it in' and ‘the light swaying curtains, here and there, of climbing roses that had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves.'

Of late, Kate found herself consciously avoiding the blue rose as much as possible. She had no rational explanation for doing so, but for some time now a nagging voice skulking deep inside her warned her to be cautious. Don't be lured by its captivating beauty and promise of vast riches, the voice kept saying. She knew that if she gave Alex even the slightest hint of her uneasiness it would only aggravate matters. She still had not been able to convince him of the downside potential of their discovery.

She stopped raking, to stare in fascination at a velvety bumblebee rolling drunkenly in the golden pollen of a peony. Quickly the bee flew off to find other temptations. Just as quickly, thoughts of the blue rose returned. The whole idea of turning it over to the lawyer had been to absolve themselves of responsibility and worry, to allow more time to themselves and enjoy their new home to the fullest. None of this was happening now. Worse, the sequence of unsettling developments was now starting to adversely affect their marriage, giving rise to ripples of dissension between her and Alex. To add further fuel to her misgivings, there was last night's phone call. Alex wouldn't admit it but she knew it had unnerved him. So much so that he had phoned Adell first thing that morning to tell him of the conversation.

The church clock striking twelve broke her train of thought. Why was she thinking about the damned rose again? She'd promised herself she wouldn't do that. She just stood there for a moment, forcing her mind to think of something else – anything. She didn't have much success. ‘Oh, bugger it,' she said under her breath. It was obviously a good time to take a break. She gathered up her tools and set off for the house.

Kate kicked off her shoes, left them in the small room off the kitchen and walked into the house. The temperature inside was pleasantly cool – not surprising, since the old exterior stone walls of The Parsonage were over one foot thick. A heavy slate roof helped further insulate the house. The limestone floor tiles felt soothing on the soles of her feet. As she filled the kettle, she thought back to their meeting with Adell. Soon, the brochure would be sent out, and everybody and their uncle would know about their rose. Word of a blue rose would travel fast. No doubt it would hit the newspapers and then television. Up until now she hadn't given that eventuality too much thought. What would happen then?

By the time the kettle had boiled, she knew what she would do. Saddling Alex with further debate about her qualms would only risk touching off more bickering. That was out of the question. The answer was simple: she would unburden herself on Kingston, good old Lawrence. She walked over to the Welsh dresser, picked up the phone, and punched in his number. While the phone was ringing, she reminded herself not to sound too worked up when she told him about what was happening. She was pleased when she heard his now familiar voice.

After exchanging pleasantries, mostly about the garden – and the weather, of course – she told him about the missing file.

‘Alex spoke to Adell again this morning,' she said. ‘It still hasn't shown up.'

‘That is strange, I must say, but you know how lost things have a way of eventually showing up,' he said. ‘There's probably a perfectly rational explanation. It got mixed in with another folder. Somebody put it in the wrong file, or took it home by mistake. Any number of possibilities.'

Kingston's words were reassuring, but she knew he could hardly say anything else. He was turning out to be an incorrigible optimist. She was glad that she'd called him, though. ‘That's true, I suppose,' she said. ‘But that's not the only recent development, Lawrence.'

‘What else?'

She told him about the phone call from the American. ‘Alex tried hard to convince me not to worry about it, that it was doubtful we'd hear from him again. But I could tell that he really didn't believe that,' she said. ‘At one point, he said the man became almost threatening.'

‘I don't like the sound of that at all. I think you have every reason to be concerned. But an American, you say! That is interesting. I wonder how he found out it was you who owned the rose?'

‘It has to be the missing file.'

‘I doubt it, Kate. There's got to be another explanation. Adell predicted this sort of thing, didn't he? It doesn't surprise me that the calls have started coming.'

‘I still think it's the file. It makes sense. He finds out about the auction and then knows who's handling the whole thing – Adell's firm. And if he wants to know more about us and the rose, it's all there in Adell's files. Addresses, phone numbers, the brochure, everything. He may even know about you.' She waited for him to respond.

‘Hmm,' he said, obviously choosing his words. ‘If he did have the file, then he – or they, I suppose – certainly would have the inside track, so to speak. It wouldn't augur at all well.'

‘What do you mean?' Kate asked. Suddenly, she felt uneasy.

As if regretting his last remark, Kingston was slow to respond. ‘Well, like you say, they would know everything about you, wouldn't they?' There was another pause, then he added, ‘Where you live – and most significant of all, where they can find the rose.'

‘The possibility hadn't escaped me,' she said. ‘It's not a pleasant thought, is it?'

‘Sorry, Kate. I didn't mean to get you upset. What also concerns me is why the man wanted to remain anonymous. It goes without saying that any legitimate offer to purchase the rose would hardly be presented in such a manner. If, as you're convinced, the file was stolen then it's either an inside job or a professional one. More likely the latter, I would say.'

‘It's all getting very complicated. Alex has told Adell – not that he can do much about it.'

‘Well, all you can do for the moment is to sit tight and, as best you can, ignore all these goings on until the auction. Meanwhile I suggest the two of you keep a close watch on the rose and, in general, be careful.'

‘We will, Lawrence. I'll tell Alex that we talked,' she said.

‘Why don't you ask him to call me tonight, Kate? I'd like to ask him more about this mysterious American chap. It's all very odd, I must say.'

They talked for another minute or so before hanging up.

 

‘Hello, Lawrence, it's Alex. Kate said you wanted to talk to me.'

‘Yes, thanks for calling, Alex. I wanted to ask you about the phone call you got from this American chap. Kate was telling me about it earlier. Do you have a minute?'

‘Of course.'

‘You're sure he was American?'

‘American or Canadian. I can never tell the difference.'

‘Was there anything in the conversation to suggest that he was representing somebody else?'

‘Yes. He referred to “a syndicate” at one point.' Alex paused, then said, ‘Oh, and his “partners”.'

‘Did he mention any numbers? How much he was prepared to pay? Did that come up at all?'

‘Only vaguely. I think he used a phrase like “more money than you've ever dreamed of”.'

Alex combed quickly through the conversation again. ‘Oh, and he did say that Kate and I would become multi-millionaires.'

‘So, whoever they are, they're fully aware of the rose's value, commercially.'

‘He mentioned that, too.'

‘What?'

‘Let me think a moment. He said words to the effect that we must be aware of the impact that the rose would have commercially. I'm pretty sure he mentioned patent rights and royalties, too.'

‘That's interesting. Anything else that struck you as unusual?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, then–'

‘Oh, wait a minute. Yes, there was. He said that he knew who our lawyers were.'

‘Hmm. If they've got the book on you, it's likely that Kate could be right – that they're the ones who have your file. It hasn't shown up yet, I take it?'

‘No, it hasn't.'

‘Well, Alex, let me mull this over and we'll talk again soon. Oh, and let me know if he calls again. Correct that –
when
he calls again.'

 

Three more uneventful days passed with no sign of the file and no further word from the American. The fourth day was Alex's birthday. To celebrate the occasion, Kate had planned an evening out with friends at one of Alex's favourite restaurants in Shaftesbury. It was close to six thirty and they were about to leave for the forty-minute drive.

‘You did leave food and water out for Asp, didn't you?' Kate said, snapping shut her seat belt buckle.

‘Yes, he's fine.'

Kate pursed her lips. ‘Did I leave the hall light on? I can't remember.'

‘You did.'

‘And the back door's locked?'

‘It is. And the portcullis is lowered and I'll let the drawbridge down as soon as we reach the end of the drive.'

Kate smiled. ‘Happy birthday, darling,' she said, for the umpteenth time that day.

As they approached the entry gate the postman walked into view.

‘You're awfully late tonight, Sid,' Kate remarked, as Alex pulled the car to a stop alongside him.

‘'Ad some trouble with the van,' he muttered. ‘Piece of junk, that one.' He handed over a small bundle of letters wrapped in junk mail flyers.

Kate put the letters on her lap while mapping out a route for Alex in the
AA Road Atlas
. Once they were under way, Kate flipped through the envelopes. ‘Bill – bill – doctor's appointment – last three days of sale. Final notice?'

‘Final notice?' Alex exclaimed. ‘Who's that from?'

‘Just kidding. Hmm, this looks interesting,' she said, slipping her fingernail under the flap of an expensive-looking envelope and opening it. She pulled out a one-page letter and started to read it. ‘Very interesting,' she murmured.

Alex glanced up at the rear view mirror. ‘Who's it from?' he asked.

‘The letterhead reads, “Trident International” – there's a London and a San Francisco address. Let me read it to you:

Kate lowered the letter to her lap. ‘It's signed Kenji. Tanaka, President,' she said.

‘Ye gods! Here we go again. I guess the word's really out, now.'

‘Out all over the planet, by the looks of it. I wonder how
he
got our name and address. Surely he can't have access to our file, too.'

‘Not if the American lifted it.'

‘Hmm.'

‘It's probably as Adell predicted. Someone from Bonham's leaked it. I'm sure they know everything about us by now.'

‘I suppose you're right,' Kate murmured.

‘Anyway, I'll fax it up to Adell tomorrow,' said Alex. ‘Let him deal with Mr Tanaka.'

For the next several minutes they travelled in silence. Once again the blue rose had managed to insinuate its dark presence. Would the time ever come, she wondered, when it would not be lurking beneath the shallows of her thoughts, ready to surface like an insidious creature from an alien planet? She sat silently, trying to forget the letter, watching the countryside slip by, now and then glancing at Alex out of the corner of her eye. Physically, he'd changed little in the nine years they'd known each other. A frosting of grey in his sideburns now – a little plumper in the face, perhaps. But, despite having the appetite of a ditch digger, he still somehow managed to maintain the lean physique of his college sports photos. Of late, he'd been playing a lot of tennis. Word was that he was giving some of the younger hotshots quite a whipping.