The Blue Rose (3 page)

‘No. Please believe me. It's not – on both accounts.'

‘Then, what makes this particular rose so remarkable, might I ask?'

‘I'd prefer not to have to tell you on the phone. I'd rather you saw it for yourself.'

Kate heard Kingston inhale deeply, followed by an indecisive, ‘Hmmm.'

Kate adopted a change of tone, trying to walk the line between being too reticent and too forceful. ‘Please believe me. If you can come down and take a look at it, I swear you won't be disappointed. In fact, if you can
honestly
tell me that your time has been wasted, my husband and I will pay you five hundred pounds and that will be the end of it. What do you think?'

‘Well, Mrs Sheppard, you certainly present an intriguing proposition. I assume that this rose bush is in a place where it can't be seen? I mean by the public.'

‘Right. It's in a walled garden. Well hidden.'

‘Where is it? In Wiltshire, you say?'

‘Yes, in Wiltshire, near Marlborough.'

‘Who else knows about it?'

‘As far as we know, only the two of us – and now, you, of course.' Kate was starting to feel like a prime suspect being pumped by Chief Inspector Morse. ‘We're being very careful to keep this a well-guarded secret. You'll see why. I'm not exaggerating when I say it could be the botanical discovery of the century. Maybe of many, many centuries.'

‘Very well, Mrs Sheppard, you've convinced me. When I have a day free I'll come down and take a look at your rose.'

‘Could you come on Saturday?' she said, knowing that she was pushing her luck. ‘I'd like Alex – that's my husband – to be here.'

Kingston asked her to wait while he consulted his diary. ‘Saturday – let me see – I think I can, as a matter of fact,' he replied. They agreed on a time. ‘Give me your name again – and your address. Better give me a phone number, too.'

Kate provided Kingston with the information. Learning that he would be driving down from London, she gave him directions. Then she bade him goodbye and put the phone down.

‘Whew,' she whistled. It had gone even better than she'd hoped. A smile broke across her face as she picked up the phone again to call Alex and give him the good news.

‘Hello, darling,' Kate said, looking up as Alex walked into the kitchen, throwing his jacket and briefcase on a chair. He looked tired. He was home later than usual – nearly eight o'clock. Fridays were often like that now.

‘Hello, Kate.' He walked over and gave her a quick kiss.

She saw him glance at the oversized book open on the table in front of her.

‘New recipe?' He closed his eyes and inhaled loudly through his nose. ‘Let me guess – we're having caviar and blinis, seared foie gras with truffles, and pheasant under glass?'

‘Not even close. It's something far better.'

‘Better?'

‘Yes, I found some information I think you'll find very interesting – about our new rose.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, I got it at the library.' Kate riffled through the pages of the big book to the chapter where she had placed a marker. Though Alex was looking at it upside down, she knew it wouldn't be difficult for him to read the bold title:
The Ultimate Rose Book
.

‘You'd better be sitting down.'

Alex raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing her.

She glanced up at him. ‘Listen to this. “The early Dutch discoverers of Australia were greeted with derision back home when they reported black swans in New Holland. Had they found
blue roses
, however, they would have not only been believed, but thought to have discovered a new Eden. It is odd, how humans have always dreamed of blue roses. In all the years when there were no yellow roses, or flame ones, no one seemed to miss them. Blue roses were the dream.”' She paused to take a breath, glancing up to catch Alex's rapt gaze. She looked down again, tracing a finger across the page. ‘Then it goes on about
The Arabian Nights
and a magician who turns roses blue. And a blue rose that is featured in one of Rimsky-Korsakov's ballets – and so on.' She continued reading for a few moments, but not aloud – then resumed reciting from the book. ‘Yes, here we are, “
delphinidin
, the pigment that makes flowers blue, is absent from the rose, and indeed all its relatives in the Rosaceae” – et cetera, et cetera…' She picked up again, a paragraph later. ‘“Of course, there's always the million-to-one chance that a mutation will produce a
delphinidin
-bearing rose, just as a chance mutation some seventy years ago gave the rose the scarlet pigment
pelargonidin
.” Then it talks about cornflowers – the same
cyanidin
pigment that makes the rose red – here we go – “the conditions within the flower are controlled by the DNA in the rose's chromosomes; interfering with them has not been something that, short of magic, we have been able to do.” This is the part you'll like, Alex. “It will be a colossally expensive operation, but the financial rewards of success will be very great. The rose is the world's favourite flower; millions are sold each day in flower shops and when (and if) the blue rose arrives, the florists will be able to ask their own price for it. No doubt its creator will have patented their invention and will reap a huge, well-earned reward in royalties.”' She looked up at him, trying not to look too smug. ‘How about that?'

‘Whew!' Alex whistled.

‘Then it goes on to mention the inevitability of lawsuits related to patents, and so forth.'

‘My God,' Alex breathed. ‘We could become filthy rich.'

‘Highly possible,' Kate replied, closing the book with a thump. ‘I have a good feeling about our Dr Kingston. He'll know what to do. I'm sure of it.'

‘What time is he coming tomorrow?'

‘About noon.'

‘Then I've got time to get in a good thirteen hours' sleep. A very early night,' Alex said, yawning. ‘Which I seriously need.'

‘No caviar before dinner, then?' Kate asked.

Alex's head whirled around. ‘You don't, really – do you?'

‘Well, I thought a little celebration might be in order.'

Kate stood and went to the refrigerator.

‘
Voilà!
' She held up a small jar.

‘I suppose I
could
be convinced to go to bed a little later,' Alex said.

‘A wise decision,' Kate said, setting the jar down on the table. She turned back and took out a bottle of chilled champagne and the plate of chopped eggs, onion, sour cream and crackers she had prepared previously. ‘Once dinner's over, I suppose I
could
be convinced to join you.'

Alex grinned, breaking into song: ‘Caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon. The virgin sturgeon's a very fine fish. The virgin sturgeon needs no urgin', that's why caviar is my dish.'

‘You're too much,' Kate giggled.

 

Saturday was hazy but clear with cirrus clouds drifting overhead. Kate was watering the hydrangeas in the terracotta pots edging the courtyard when she heard the car approaching. As she turned, a racing green Triumph TR4 with the top down rumbled into view.

‘Ah,' she said to herself, setting down the watering can. ‘Dr Kingston, I presume.'

Asp raced toward the car, yapping excitedly.

The Triumph crunched to a stop on the gravel alongside Alex's Alfa Romeo. She watched with amusement as Kingston extricated his lanky frame from the car's cramped confines. The picture hadn't really done him justice. He was more rugged than it had suggested.

A tangle of ivory-coloured hair unravelled over his collar. In contrast, dark bushy eyebrows jutted out over deep-set blue eyes. Though tall and lean, he still gave the impression of being physically powerful. There was a litheness about him that suggested an iron discipline concerning those habits and diets that cultivate paunches, spare tyres and jowls. To Kate, he appeared the very antithesis of the archetypal scholar. He was wearing an old suede jacket, a cream button-down Oxford shirt, and dark olive corduroy trousers. A bulky camera case hung from shoulder straps by his side. He took off his checked cap and tossed it like a frisbee into the car.

‘Mrs Sheppard?' he inquired, as he approached her.

‘Yes. Please call me Kate, Dr Kingston.'

Asp was sniffing at Kingston's trouser cuffs.

‘Oh, and this is Asp.'

‘Curious name.'

‘My husband's idea of a joke. It stands for All Spare Parts.'

Kingston chuckled. ‘Cute little fellow,' he said, bending down to pat the dog's head. ‘And please call me Lawrence – all right?'

‘I will,' she said, shaking his hand.

In his large grip her hand disappeared up to her wrist. When he smiled at her she noticed a ripple of creases fanning out at the corner of each eye.

‘Welcome to The Parsonage,' Kate said, retrieving her hand. ‘Alex and I really appreciate your coming down. I can assure you, you won't be disappointed.' She smiled. ‘And thanks for bringing nice weather with you, too. It's been awfully soggy down here the last few days.' She gestured towards the house. ‘Let's go inside. I'm sure you could do with a cup of coffee or perhaps a drink after such a long drive.'

Kingston nodded. ‘Coffee would be nice. Thank you.'

He followed her into the house, stooping to clear the door beam. ‘Lovely house. Mid-nineteenth century, isn't it?'

‘1835, we've been told.'

‘Most charming.'

‘Alex is fixing something in the kitchen,' she said. ‘He's really looking forward to meeting you.' She turned to Kingston and smiled. ‘In all fairness,' she said, ‘I should tell you that he's anointed himself the “black thumb” of the family. He's quite happy to leave most of the gardening to me.'

‘I'll take that into account, Kate,' he said, following her into the kitchen.

After introducing Kingston to Alex and putting on the kettle, Kate showed Kingston into the living room.

They sat facing each other in the warm sunlight coming through the open windows.

‘So, what makes this rose of yours so special?' Kingston inquired, relaxing into the upholstered wing chair.

She looked directly at him, her face expressionless, anticipating his reaction. ‘It's blue,' she said, softly.

Kingston dropped his head down and shook it slowly from side to side. ‘Oh, no – I was afraid of that. A purplish blue, I suppose. Mauve, eh?'

‘No, it's
blue
– royal blue. Sapphire.'

‘Are you serious? I take that back – of course you are,' he stammered.

Kate waited, suppressing her amusement, watching him regain his composure. For the next ten minutes she told him all about their recent purchase of the house and their discovery.

‘And that brings us to you, Lawrence. But first let me get the coffee. Then we'll go outside and you can see the rose. You're in for
quite
a shock.'

 

Kate and Alex stood silently, several paces back from the rose bush, as Kingston started his examination. They watched as he peered through a bone-handled magnifying glass, gently prodding and poking at various parts of the rose with stainless steel tweezers. Kate could not help but think of Sherlock Holmes. She pursed her lips tightly, barely managing to suppress the urge to giggle. A quick glance at Alex, who was grinning from ear to ear at the spectacle of the doctor's surgeon-like examination, didn't help matters.

After a while Kingston stepped back a few paces and stood, studiously tapping the magnifying glass on the palm of his left hand as he continued to stare intently at the rose bush. Placing the glass back into the pocket of his shabby jacket, he slowly stroked his chin, all the time gazing at the unearthly rose as if mesmerized by its enigmatic beauty.

Finally, he spoke.

‘Extraordinary – most extraordinary,' he mumbled.

‘How do you think it happened?' Kate asked, timidly.

‘There's really no saying,' Kingston replied, methodically circling the rose. ‘It appears to be an aberration of nature, which we've always been led to believe is genetically impossible.'

Alex was grinning. ‘Then we get to keep the five hundred pounds?'

Kate could have kicked him.

Kingston simply cracked a weak smile and nodded.

Kate flashed Alex a disapproving look. ‘How valuable do you think it is?' she asked.

‘If it can be propagated – extremely so,' Kingston replied, tugging on his earlobe, lost in thought. ‘Let me take a few snapshots,' he said, finally.

Kate and Alex waited patiently while Kingston used an entire roll of film, shooting the rose from every conceivable angle and focal length. ‘That should do it,' he said, putting the camera back in its case.

‘So, what do you think, Lawrence?' asked Alex.

Kingston looked at Alex and then across to Kate. It was evident that he was still preoccupied with the rose, groping for a suitable response. ‘Well, first of all, there appears to be no question that the rose is genuine. And I've no doubt that it will be considered one of the greatest horticultural discoveries of all time.' His gaze drifted back to the rose, locking on to it. ‘As to its value, it's anybody's guess. Let's just say that there are many individuals and companies that would go to extreme lengths to obtain the patent rights to a blue rose. The rewards could be staggering. But more important, is how the two of you handle this from now on. It's going to require considerable thought and a great deal of caution.'

‘Where do we go from here?' asked Alex.

‘That's going to require a lot of discussion. This is only the beginning of a long drawn-out process, I'm afraid.'

Kingston turned back to them. To Kate's surprise he was smiling. ‘Not every day one runs into a blue rose,' he said. ‘Bit of a jolt, I must say.'

‘Well, why don't we take you for a walk through the garden and then we'll go back to the house,' said Kate. ‘You're probably ready for some lunch, I would imagine?'

‘Excellent. That would be very nice. We have much to discuss,' he replied.

 

Back in the house, Kate set off for the kitchen while Alex and Kingston went to chat in the living room. Earlier, Alex had decided to mark the occasion and celebrate the impending change in their fortunes by breaking out the good stuff – a bottle of Bordeaux that a client had given him several years ago.

Kingston's eyebrows rose when he saw the label. ‘A Château Lafleur-Pétrus,' he exclaimed. ‘You must have quite a cellar, Alex.'

‘Yes, well–'

‘What year is it?'

Alex picked up the bottle and studied the label. ‘1982,' he said.

‘Good Lord!' Kingston exclaimed. ‘That's an absolutely excellent year for a Pomerol – one of the best in the last three decades. And very drinkable, now. 1990 was excellent too, but still a little young to open yet.'

‘Drinkable?'

‘I should have said, ready to drink. The best Bordeaux wines take many years to develop in the bottle, and shouldn't be drunk until they have matured. '82 is plenty old enough, though.'

Alex picked up a corkscrew. ‘Shall we?'

Kingston placed his hand on the bottle. ‘An '82 – surely you're going to decant it, old chap. Where's your decanter?'

‘Ah – we don't have one,' Alex replied.

Kingston's jaw dropped. ‘Really?'

‘Really,' Alex said, wondering just how humiliating his admission was sounding.

‘In that case,' Kingston sniffed, ‘you might want to open it now, and let it sit for a while.'

Alex nodded. He just prayed that he didn't break the cork on this one. He was good at doing that.

A timer went off in the kitchen. ‘Alex!' Kate called. ‘Could you give me a hand here?'

‘Will you excuse me, Lawrence,' Alex said. ‘I'll bring the wineglasses back with me.'

The kitchen was filled with the piquant aroma of herbs and hot pastry. Kate was chopping parsley with a wicked-looking cleaver.