Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 21, No. 4, September 1967

The Rose Has Many Enemies by Hal Ellson

Red as blood were the roses, in her garden of haunting beauty. Young Miss Tearose raised rare flowers. And other things. Four dead men could tell about that...

The morning had the promise of fire in it, but now it was cool on the shadowed walks, cool and silent, block after block. Then came the sound, the whine of a lawn mower, and the stillness shattered like glass, splintered the morning.

A quiet neighborhood here, sedate, cushioned by money and populated by people whose problems were minor.

Sullivan spat. A bad night had left a bad taste in his mouth but, at least the painful throbbing in his head was leaving him in this atmosphere of peace. Far away now he heard the lawn mower. Walk slow. Enjoy the fleeting moments of this rare morning. Up ahead, through a leafy arcade, he saw the dark red flowers spilling over a hidden trellis, roses stained the deepest of all reds. Even from the distance he knew this was the house.

Rose Tearose, he thought, smiling to himself. Impossible name? Not entirely. The woman was probably a spinster, doomed to that estate by the very name wished upon her at birth.

We shall see, he mused, moving on, the dark fire of the climber glowing brighter in the morning.

Sullivan paused in front of the house, stared at the garden, then looked up. A series of rose-windows at the second-story and attic levels.

Odd, he thought.

But where was Miss Tearose? Not in the garden, not on the porch, nor visible at a window. No matter. Presently he’d meet her. And the missing gardeners? Four men had vanished into thin air. Murdered by a nice old lady whose hobby was roses? Hardly, he thought, and with a last glance at the house, he went on his way.

June prevailed this Monday morning, but not in the precinct house. Least of all in Captain. O’Connor’s office. The air was frigid there. The captain leaned across his desk.

“Mrs. Doolittle called again,” he said abruptly.

Not unexpected. The woman had been on his back for weeks.

“You still believe her story?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” O’Connor snapped. “She pays her taxes and has a right—”

“To waste our time?”

“Her husband disappeared.”

“Husbands sometimes do, but her delusion is that he was murdered by another woman.”

O’Connor struck the desk with his fist. “Get her off my back.”

“All I can do is try, Captain.”

“Good. A little attention should calm her down.”

“It may, but I doubt it. After all, she may be right. Her husband could have been murdered.”

The captain’s brows came up. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“I’ve been checking. There were four gardeners at the Tearose place. Each worked a month and vanished. Mr. Doolittle was the last. Odd?”

“You say they apparently vanished.”

“An employment agency sent them to Miss Tearose. The men never went back to the agency after they left her. They didn’t have to, of course, but four of them? The agency thought it unusual. I’m dropping in today to get the particulars,” Sullivan said and stood up.

He went to the door and turned. “By the way, I looked over the Tearose place yesterday. Very beautiful. Miss Tearose is a rosarian, you know.”

“A what?”

“She raises roses.”

“Ah, yes. My favorite flower.”

“The lady knows how to grow them. They’re all over her place.”

“You’re trying to get at something. What?”

Sullivan grinned. “Well, someone like that, who loves flowers and gives them so much care, isn’t usually associated with murder.”

“Not usually,” O’Connor admitted.

Outside the precinct house, Detective Joseph Kelly squinted at his partner.

“Where away?” he asked.

“An interview with Mrs. Doolittle.”

“You can’t be serious. The woman’s off her crock.”

“No doubt of that, Joe.”

“Then why bother?”

“Orders from his majesty. Besides, I’m interested.”

“In what? The aspects of female hysteria?”

Sullivan shook his head. “Wrong guess. The theme is roses.” Kelly looked at his partner suspiciously. “You must be kidding.”

“No. Roses it is. How much do you know about them?”

“Not much. But what’s to know about them?”

“The question I’m always afraid to ask about anything. But right now, Mrs. Doolittle. Let’s call on the lady.”

Sycamores and bay-windowed grey prim houses all of a kind lined the street.

“Number Twenty,” Sullivan said, stepping from the car. “Coming?”

Kelly nodded. They crossed the street, rang and waited. Seconds later the door opened; a small dumpy woman confronted them. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Doolittle?”

“Yes. What did you want?” The question put and answered, the lady performed as expected: she began to shake like a leaf.

“Good act,” whispered Kelly sardonically.

Sullivan thought otherwise and took the lady’s palsied hand to lead her into the living room and a couch. A few sobs escaped her, then transformation. Kelly looked startled. As quick as it started the sobbing ended; up came the Doolittle chin, blue eyes flashed. A woman of fifty, small bones fleshed out by time and a taste for sweets. Must have been trim and pretty once. Quick-tempered too, Sullivan thought.

“Making a damn fool of myself,” she said. “But I’m all right now. I’m glad you came. You’ve got to do something. That Tearose woman—” The small tight mouth barely moving but expelling words with astonishing speed and considerable venom.

Sullivan politely halted her, said he’d deal with the Tearose woman later and queried her about her husband.

“He had no reason to leave me,” she snapped. “As for another woman? Jim? If he had one, I’d have known about it. You can bet on that.”

“Perhaps, but—”

“There’s no perhaps and no but about it. Jim would have told me himself. That’s the kind of man he was.”

Sullivan smiled. Her assurance was delightful, even if it happened to be based on delusion.

“Did your husband ever mention Miss Tearose?” he asked.

“Did he ever? That’s all he talked about. Her and her ways. He thought she was crazy, and I believe he was a bit afraid of her.”

“Did he say why?”

“Not in so many words, but he left that impression. Weird, he said she was, with her talk and her ideas. And he had no fancy for her house. The museum, he called it. One time she came down the stairs with a whole mess of roses sticking out of her hair.

“She told him she was La Rose, or something like that. He couldn’t pronounce it, and she was always offering him drinks. Sweet gagging stuff that he didn’t like. A madwoman, that’s what she is, and she knows what happened to Jim.”

Sullivan nodded and thanked her. “We’ll be questioning Miss Tearose,” he said.

“A crazy woman. She murdered Jim. She—”

Outside the house Kelly shook his head. “Two of them.”

“Two what?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“Doolittle and Tearose. Both of them are nuts.”

Sullivan chuckled. At the least, Miss Tearose was eccentric, if Mrs. Doolittle had told the truth. He climbed into the car, Kelly got behind the wheel. “What’s the address?”

“Apex Employment agency. Kings Road and—”

“You’re not seeing Miss Tearose?”

“The employment agency first.”

The Apex agency manager, Mr. Rivington, nodded to Sullivan. “Yes, from our agency, four men. Mr. Doolittle was the last. I feel somewhat guilty, you know. Did something I don’t usually do.”

“What’s that?” Sullivan asked.

“I lied, and a lie always comes back to roost. You see, Mr. Doolittle didn’t qualify for the job.”

“But you sent him to Miss Tearose.”

“True. She kept pressing me. A very persistent woman. What could I do? I sent Doolittle.”

“What happened to the others?”

“They worked and quit.”

“Why did they quit?”

Mr. Rivington shrugged. “I couldn’t say, and Miss Tearose didn’t. She just called and asked for another gardener. A funny thing; she didn’t want married men.”

“Mr. Doolittle was married.”

“Yes, I know. I told him, if he wanted the job, he’d have to lie.”

“You couldn’t have sent someone else?”

“Gardeners are hard to come by. I had to send someone, and Doolittle was willing.”

Sullivan nodded. “Do you know why Miss Tearose asked for single men?”

Mr. Rivington frowned. “Don’t know,” he finally said. “It didn’t make sense. Married men are more dependable but, I suppose, she had her reasons.”

“At the present time she has no gardener?”

“No, and she wants another but, as I said, they’re hard to come by, especially at this time of the season.”

“In that case, you’ll hold the job for me.”

Mr. Rivington arched his brows. “You must be joking.”

“Not at all. Now the names and addresses of the three men besides Doolittle who worked for Miss Tearose.”

Mr. Rivington arose, went to his files and returned with three cards. He handed them to Sullivan and said, “You may have some difficulty with McManus and Thomas, Both gave the same address on the Bowery. Fellows like that work up a little stake and usually drift on.”

Sullivan nodded and examined the cards. “What about Smith?”

“Young fellow from Chicago. Said he wanted to earn some money for college.” Mr. Rivington shrugged. “Like the others, he didn’t last very long.”

Sullivan asked permission to keep the cards and passed them on to Kelly. The two detectives left. Outside at the curb Sullivan didn’t get into the car.

“Going to the library,” he explained. “I’ll meet you at the Harp and Shamrock. The usual time.”

“What’s in the library?” Kelly said suspiciously.

“Books.”

“What I thought. I suppose you want me to check these characters?” Kelly held up the cards.

“It’s probably a waste of time. I don’t think you’ll find them. See you later, Joe.”

“Wait. You’re taking the gardener job?” asked Kelly.

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Soon as I come from the library.”

“What’s the connection?” asked Kelly.

“A bit of research on roses. I believe I’ll need it.”

Roses? Kelly had heard enough. Quickly he climbed into the car and drove off.

At nine-thirty that evening Sullivan entered the Harp and Shamrock. There were circles under his eyes, and his face was gaunt. He went to a booth and Kelly followed, carrying his glass from the bar. “You’re late. What happened?”

“Just came from the library.” Sullivan let out his breath. “I’m beat and half blind. God knows how many books I poured through.”

“Find what you were looking for?” Kelly asked and surmised in advance the answer by the half-cynical, half-amused look he received.

“You never find what you’re looking for,” Sullivan said. “You always find more, fragments scattered everywhere. Strange, but finally they all come together.”

“I know,” said Kelly. “And what about the gardener’s job?”

“I start tomorrow. What about you? Find anything?”

“Nothing at all on McManus and Thomas. They never went back to the Bowery flophouse after quitting Miss Tearose.”

“And the college kid?”

“A boarder with a Mrs. Crocket. The same with him. He never returned to his room. In fact, his belongings are still there, including an expensive valise, record player, a closet full of good clothes. Mrs. Crocket couldn’t understand why he left.”

“Four men,” Sullivan nodded. “All worked for Miss Tearose and vanished the day they quit her.”

“You want to make something out of that?” Kelly asked.

“Let’s say I’m going to try.”

“Oh, come off it. Two bums don’t go back to their flop. That’s not unusual. And a young fellow leaving his belongings behind in a room. That happens. As for Mr. Doolittle, with a wife like that, no wonder he took off.”

“As simple as that, hey?” Sullivan shook his head. “I think not.”

“Don’t tell me you think Miss Tearose did away with four men?”

“It’s possible. Anything is. Anyhow, I’m going to find out.”

“A waste of time.” Kelly shook his head. “And you a gardener. What do you know about roses?”

“More than you think, and less than I thought,” Sullivan answered with a grin. “I’ve grown roses, you know, and with some success. But Miss Tearose is a fancier, so I boned up at the library and discovered the vastness of my ignorance.”

“So you were duly humiliated, but what has that to do with the supposed murder of four men?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” Sullivan admitted. “But it may help. Anyway, I’m better equipped to be a gardener.”

“Amen,” said Kelly, reaching for his glass.

Good weather prevailed, the languidness of June, green everywhere, touched by shadow and flecked with gold. Sullivan abandoned his car. A half-mile walk to Miss Tearose’s place, pleasant morning stretch, marvelous passage through tree-lined streets, past wide lawns and gracious houses. But four men missing, possibly murdered...

Up ahead a giant climber flamed in the sun, weighted with countless blood-red blooms. The Tearose masterpiece. Sullivan paused, stared, walked on.

A third of the block was the property of Miss Tearose. Fine house, the rose-windows looking down, not on a lawn but a rose-garden; brilliant display. Four men missing, Sullivan mused. Where did they go? Who murdered them? A little old lady, lover of roses?

Colored slate, blue, black, red, marked the path to the house. The porch was desolate, shadowed windows empty. Sullivan halted, seeing no one, but feeling a presence and turning. Nothing but roses drowsing in the soft yellow light, then a bonnet of straw rising and a face surprisingly young and attractive. And with the bluest of blue eyes.

“Yes? Did you want something?”

“Miss Tearose?” he said.

She admitted to the name and said, “What can I do for you?”

The Apex agency had sent him, he explained. He was ready to work. The blue eyes studied him from head to toe, lifted again. A faint smile ghost-rippled across Miss Tearose’s face.

“You’re an experienced gardener?”

A lie if he said so, and a lie could spring a trap. The blue-blue, not-so-innocent eyes of Miss Tearose told him that.

“My experience is strictly amateur,” he said.

The ghost-smile rippled again, the blue eyes probed. “Sometimes amateurs know more than professionals. What do you know of roses?”

“Not very much and, I suspect, there’s much to know.”

The remark acknowledged with a look of surprise.

“Yes, very much,” said Miss Tearose, measuring him again. “You’re young and strong. May I see your hands?”

“Of course.” He lifted, turned them, looked at her questioningly. “Where did you last work, Mr. Sullivan?”

“In a bank.”

“And why did you leave?”

“A boring job.”

“But clean. If you work for me—”

“Garden dirt is clean dirt.”

Again the ghost-smile rippled, then Miss Tearose turned to survey the garden.

“Very beautiful,” Sullivan remarked almost in a whisper.

She stared, lost in herself, then turned to him, a measure of hostility in her voice. “Now say it, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Say what?”

“That I have a green thumb.”

The hostility low-keyed, but still evident. Was she setting a trap? Sullivan grinned to himself.

“Myth of the green thumb,” he answered. “An idea promoted by those who don’t understand plants.”

Miss Tearose smiled. “An interesting reply. Please go on.”

“A green thumb is work, care and knowledge, not magic.”

Miss Tearose nodded, looked at him with respect. “You understand, and not too many do,” she said. She nodded again. “People have lost touch with the earth, and you can’t do that. You must always go back to the earth. You—” Suddenly she stopped, smiled, as if embarrassed. “Ah, I’m lecturing. Didn’t mean to. Come. Look at my roses.”

Bottles glinted in soldierly array behind the Harp and Shamrock bar.

“You’re late,” Kelly said to his partner, who’d just come through the door.

Sullivan nodded, lifted a finger to McGinnis behind the bar. “Rosolio.”

McGinnis, one of the best, a hulking man with wild black eyebrows, drew back affronted. “If it’s hair-tonic you want, you’re in the wrong pew.”

“Rosolio is what I want and it’s tonic, though not for the hair but a cordial to soothe throat and stomach.”

“And what kind of bloody drink is that?” McGinnis asked in total innocence.

“A fragrant one of spirits, with various flavorings, such as orange-flower and cinamon, and—”

“Enough,” growled McGinnis. “It sounds like one of them damned foreign drinks that gag a man. Here.” The hairy-browed one set a bottle of John Jameson and a glass on the bar.

“A man’s drink,” he declared and turned away.

Sullivan laughed and poured for himself the amber product of Bow Street distillery in the confines of Dublin.

“What’s this rosolio business?” asked Kelly suspiciously.

“Had a few with Miss Tearose.”

“Ah, you’re a fast worker with the old ones.”

“Old?” Sullivan wetted his tongue on the Jameson. Twelve years sleeping in casks had mellowed it to velvet.

“Who said Miss Tearose is old?” he said. “A good-looking thirty, I’d say.”

“Look out. That could make her dangerous.”

“All women are.”

“And you drinking with her?”

“In the line of duty, my boy.”

“Might slip you a real knockout if she’s the murderess you think she is.”

Sullivan grinned. “I made sure of what I drank and how I drank it. As for Miss Tearose being a murderess, I don’t know whether she is one or not.”

“You said it yourself. Four men missing after working for her. Or don’t you remember?”

“I didn’t forget.” Sullivan stretched. “Yes, it was quite a day. Nothing like I expected. Not in the least.”

“Doesn’t sound like you did much gardening.”

“Not much. A bit in the morning, a bit in the afternoon, then rosolio and a long, long conversation.”

“A good looking woman.” Kelly shook his head. “What was the jabber about?”

“Roses, mostly. An intricate and interesting subject.”

“I’ll bet it is.” Kelly nodded. “You’re working on her weakness to get around her.”

“Her weakness is her strength, I’m afraid.”

“Captain O should know you were discussing roses all afternoon. You’d be back on a beat.”

“I might,” Sullivan allowed. “But sometimes he can appreciate a subtle approach.”

Kelly looked aghast. “Sometimes. But for your own good, don’t tell him about the roses.”

“The key to the whole business, I think. The woman’s weird, probably unbalanced, living in a fantasy world of her own making. Someone like that—”

“Yes?” said Kelly.

“Might hold with some strange ideas that could lead to murder.”

“And what ideas might they be?” Captain O’Connor, like Kelly wanted to know the next morning.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sullivan said with a shrug. “But the possibility exists. People get them, like that fellow in England who murdered people to drink their blood. Sounds horrible and strange, but the idea itself isn’t strange at all. In medieval times—”

“This is the year we’re still in Vietnam,” Captain O’Connor said grimly.

“For some people, Captain, but not those who live in the past.”

“I see. And just why would any one wish to live in the past?”

“To escape, the present or, in other words, reality.”

“Hm.” Captain O’Connor nodded. “Seems like a lot of people are doing that these days and doing no one harm.”

“Correct, but you’ll admit that some do?”

“But a woman who grows roses? What’s wrong with that? It’s a fine healthy hobby.”

“I’m afraid it’s more than that, Captain.”

“More? Do you mean it’s eccentric?”

“Much more. It’s a sickness. The woman’s very clever, very, intelligent, but sick and so taken with the subject that—

“That nothing. Doesn’t it occur to you that the lady in question may just happen to like roses?”

Sullivan grinned, tipped back in his chair and nodded slowly. “It happened to occur. It also happened to occur that one can love something beyond reason and kill for it.”

“Very amusing,” O’Connor said dryly. “I don’t recall anyone committing murder for the sake of a rose.”

“Nor do I,” Sullivan admitted. “But murder has been committed for less. Last week, if you recall, a man in a bar called his best friend a fool and got killed for it.”

“I know,” O’Connor said wearily. “But that was different. Now if you can show me—”

“I can’t show you anything yet,” Sullivan shot back. “If you want to drop the case, say so. It’s no skin off my back.”

O’Connor eyed him suspiciously, and grinned suddenly. “You’re too quick on the trigger. Do you want to quit?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Do I want Mrs. Doolittle on my back?”

“And the ghost of Mr. Doolittle? Not to mention those of the three gardeners who preceded him?”

O’Connor wanted no disturbing haunts and shook his head. “You may pursue Miss Tearose, if you wish. Perhaps she did four men in. I don’t know, but this stuff about the roses — tell me what that has to do with murder.”

Sullivan shook his head. “A rose is a complicated thing and, I assure you, Miss Tearose has complicated it the more. We might call her the mystic-rose.”

“Mystic-rose. What’s that?”

“Better if we don’t go into it.”

O’Connor’s shaggy brows lifted and fell. “Roses, you say? Well, there’s but three that I know of. My Wild Irish Rose. The Rose of Tralee, and a girl who goes by the name. Get to work, man. This gets dizzier by the hour.”

“Too hot,” said Miss Tearose. “My, what a change.” Slowly she fanned herself. A small delicate fan of ivory, yellowing with age, opened in her hand, wing of a butterfly waving caught Sullivan’s eye. Any fan rare enough these days, but this? As he looked closer, he saw it was a work of art, exquisitely carved.

Miss Tearose, aware of his attention smiled, moved the fan slower and slower, finally it stopped altogether, full-spread, a pale wing, the faint lines of its relief barely revealing the carver’s design.

Sullivan squinted. “Beautiful! May I?”

“Of course.” Miss Tearose, closing the fan, handed it over. He spread it again and there was — hardly a surprise — in delicate relief, a rose in full bloom.

“Beautiful. Beautiful,” he murmured and raised his eyes to Miss Tearose. “It must be very old.”

“Very. A family heirloom. I treasure it.”

I know. I know, he thought. And ‘the rose? What does it mean to you? What happened to the four men who vanished?

Miss Tearose took back her treasure and said, “You don’t see things like this any more. Old things are the best, don’t you think?”

He nodded, agreeing, but thought, You don’t see the dead, either. And fans are designed for utility by General Electric.

“Yes, it’s too hot to work in the garden today,” Miss Tearose said, a faint smile crinkling her eyes.

And it was hot, but not that much. Now she arose, excused herself. The screen-door closed behind her, shadow of the house en-wrapped her. Silence and the sun burning the garden. Sullivan stared at it from the shadow of the porch. No answers there.

And once more the sound of the screen door breaking the silence. Miss Tearose floated toward him, a decanter in hand, two delicate crystal glasses. She set them down, poured from the decanter. A chill glass of ale his preference, or lemonade in desperation, but this florid liquor? Careful, he thought. Could be poison hidden in its rosy hue.

Miss Tearose smiled, mischief in her eye. She held her glass in a light two-fingered grip, then sipped. Quickly he followed her lead.

“What is it?” she asked, still smiling. “The same as yesterday?”

“It’s not rosolio?”

“Not rosolio, but rosoli.”

“Oh, yes, an Italian liquor in which the sundew, Drosera rotundifolia, is used.”

“Ah, you surprise me with your knowledge.”

“I’d surprise you more with my ignorance,” he answered.

She laughed, tasted her drink again, then said, “I didn’t underestimate you, you know. The moment I saw you I knew you were different.”

“Everyone’s different. My philosophy.”

“But not mine. Anyway, the computers haven’t got to you yet.”

“And not going to, I believe,” he said.

“Good. Another? It’s very good for your blood.”

“A little too sweet.”

“Ice will take care of that.”

“And spoil it. I’ll have it as it is,” he said. For social, diplomatic and other reasons, it was better to go along with her.

Did Miss Tearose invite the others to a glass or two and dispatch them with poison? And, if so, where went the bodies?

A voice came to him softly. “Mr. Sullivan, do you like rosoli?”

“Well, it’s all right.”

“The others didn’t see it that way.”

“What others?”

“My previous gardners.”

“Oh.”

“They preferred beer.”

“Well, to each his own.”

“But you do like rosoli?”

“Second’s better than the first.”

“There, you are getting used to it.” Miss Tearose smiled and filled his glass again, filled her own. An alcoholic? No. Her hand too steady, mind too sharp; no fuzz there from the grape. Something else bothering her. Sex? Frightened of it without knowing? Or her romance with the past? The other side of the same coin.

“Yes, Miss Teagarden, I’m getting used to it. Good taste.”

“And it’s not too strong.”

“But strong enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can take it, Mr. Sullivan.”

He believed so, but wasn’t sure of her. That weird hungry look in her eye. He didn’t like it, didn’t want to be devoured whole. Nor poisoned, either. Which could happen.

“Yes, I can take it,” he said and turned toward the garden. “I should be working.”

“Oh, don’t feel guilty. There’s not much you can do in this heat.”

“Not used to accepting money under false pretenses,” he answered.

“You’ll earn the money; don’t worry about that.”

A threat, of play of words? “No, no more, please.” He covered his glass as she lifted the decanter.

“Take your hand away, Mr. Sullivan. That’s an order.”

He shrugged and allowed her to pour. The pontifical tone didn’t bother him. Apparently the rosoli was taking effect on her. She spilled some, giggled, then looked at him again.

“Do you know what rosiere means? I’ll bet you don’t.”

Pretend ignorance? No. “The rosiere is an emblem of virtue. Also it is the girl who wins the rose.”

Obviously disarmed, she stared at him in astonishment, then smiled again and said, “I should have expected you’d know, and I’m so glad you’re working for me. Oh, the others — clods they were. They didn’t know anything.”

“There’s not much I know either,” Sullivan put in.

“Well, you’re honest. Too honest, really. But what about the girl who wins the rose?”

Asking, testing, a little inebriated perhaps, persistent as only a woman can be. Rose lips, he thought. Innocent as a girl’s, and much more dangerous.

“You don’t know the answer?” Miss Tearose’s voice echoed her triumph, but she soon learned she was not to win.

Sullivan put on deliberately, casually citing the meager facts in his grasp: “On June eighth, a rose-festival celebrated at the village of Salency, France. From three girls most distinguished for feminine virtues one is selected, her name being announced from the pulpit to give opportunity for objections. If unopposed, the girl is conducted to church, where she hears service in a place of honor, after which she formerly used to open a ball with the Seigneur. This girl is called La Rosiere, and she is adorned with roses held together with a silver clasp which was originally presented by Louis XIII.”

Awe-struck, Miss Tearose gazed at him and shook her head. “I didn’t know, didn’t know,” she murmured.

“Didn’t know what?”

“That any one remembered.”

“Why not?” Sullivan shrugged. “A beautiful festival.”

“But to see it, to see the girl.”

“It would be something, Miss Tearose.”

She filled her glass again, her own, and smiled. “Would you call me Rose? It’s my first name, you know.”

Odd, eccentric and over-done, but pretty, at least, and palatable, nicer, say, than Rose Schiklegruber.

“You can call me, Jim,” he said, and felt the fire of the day fusing with the rosoli. The porch was rocking, the garden smoldering.

“Would you—” Miss Tearose said.

“Care to see the girl who wins the rose?” Sullivan recalled Mrs. Doolittle speaking of her husband. He had seen La Rosiere and thought her mad. Roses sticking but of her hair. Was it on a day like this, and had he and Miss Tearose indulged too deeply, emptied the potent rosy liquor in this ancient decanter?

The screen door opened. Miss Tearose led the way into the house, the spacious living-room, told him to be comfortable and made for the stairs. A mad-woman mounting the steps, murderess — or poor eccentric doting on an innocent flower? Revolving on a hidden turntable, slowly the room came to full stop, dim now without the sun and dark with the richness of rare wood.

And footsteps sounded overhead, soft, far-away. In a medieval bedroom? he wondered. Ah, La Rosiere, selected for thy virtue, prize of the festival. But which virtue and which festival?

Soft footsteps overhead, then silence, and the arched and yawning doorway to the hall, view of the stairs, dark gleaming bannister, nothing else there, then the impossible, a startling pale and slender vision — La Rosiere in the flesh, not the churchly one of unquestioned virtues, yet endowed with those innocent pagan counterparts. Drunk, or mad? he wondered, and she stepped into the room, adorned with a crown of roses, but otherwise quite unclothed.

Joe Kelley knocked on the door, knocked again and finally tried the knob. The door unlocked, he opened it, flicked a switch. His partner spread-eagled on the bed, clothes still on.

“Sully.” Kelly shook the sleeping one. There was no response. He shook him again. “Get up, man.”

Sullivan opened his eyes. “What time?”

“Ten o’clock, and you in bed. Are you sick?”

“No. A bit of a headache.”

“Or a bit of a big head?”

“Same thing.” Sullivan sat up.

Kelly stared at him. “No, don’t tell me. A few with Miss Tearose.”

“More than a few. I lost count.”

Kelly leered. “All in the line of duty, I suppose? Liquor to loosen the tongue. Did she give herself away?”

“More than that, Joe.”

“More? What does that mean?”

Sullivan rubbed his face and shook his head. “A long, long afternoon, and very interesting.”

“I don’t doubt it. But what happened? What did you find?”

“She asked me to call her Rose,” Sullivan grinned.

“A few drinks and the girls will ask you to call them anything, so get to the point.”

Sullivan grinned again. “A few drinks? Be assured, there were more, but it wasn’t that.”

“What wasn’t what?” Kelly said, irritated. “And stop grinning like you swallowed the canary.”

“Can’t help it, Joe. The most interesting case I’ve ever handled.”

“It almost sounds like you’ve fallen for Miss Tearose.”

“A very intelligent woman.”

“And attractive.”

“Beautiful.”

“Since when did you start mixing work with that stuff?” asked Kelly. “I thought it was against your principles.”

“Oh, it is. But if the lady is uninhibited—”

“Don’t tell me she performed a strip-tease?”

“Well, not exactly. A few roses in her hair, otherwise—”

“Come off it, man. You’re joking.”

“No.” Sullivan shook his head. “Thought I was seeing things,” he said. “There she was on the stairs, roses in her hair, otherwise as naked as she was born.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure. You even closed your eyes.”

“No. Something like that doesn’t happen every day in the week. Didn’t want to miss it. Anyway, it was pertinent that I study her.”

“Pertinent?” Kelly guffawed. “I’ll bet you studied her.”

“I did. She seemed in a trance, I believe she was. You see, she was performing, playing a role from an ancient church festival. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. That’s what I think.”

“Anyway, what happened?”

“She stepped into the living room and passed out.”

“Conveniently.”

“No, it was the real thing. I carried her upstairs and put her to bed. When she came to, she didn’t remember a thing.”

“Conveniently,” Kelly said again. “Drunks always use that excuse. Covers multitude of sins.”

“I know, but she wasn’t drunk. Besides, doing what she did Had nothing to do with me personally.”

“Then why did she do it?”

Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t normal.”

“You think she’s a nympho?”

“No. I’d say she has some sort of fixed idea concerning roses. It may have started with that weird name her parents hung on her. You don’t know what a name can do to a person, tears them apart sometimes. Imagine her in school and her school-mates giggling, making fun. She had to live with that, and what could she do underneath but hate everyone, hate the world and retreat from it, make her own world. And that, I believe, is what she did. This afternoon she became La Rosiere, the girl who won the rose, the pagan whose virtue was naked beauty.”

Kelly yawned deliberately. “You sound as mad as Miss Tearose but, tell me, what has all that to do with four missing gardeners?”

“I was coming to that. It’s only a vague theory, but as I mentioned, if she came to hate everyone, then she might seek revenge.”

“On the gardeners? Why them? Why not the butcher and baker?”

Sullivan paused and grinned. “If you’re asking for facts, I haven’t got them. But the gardeners were vulnerable if only because they were available and, if you’ll recall, she wanted single men. An odd stipulation, but not if you realize that two of the four were drifters, the third a student without a family, three men whom no one would probably inquire about if they happened to vanish.”

“And Mr. Doolittle?”

“He posed as single, didn’t he? I think we can assume that he also told Miss Tearose he had no next of kin or he wouldn’t have been hired.”

Kelly nodded, impressed. The logic added up, but a quartet of corpses? “And now — why were the gardeners murdered? How were they done in?”

“I don’t know if they were done in,” Sullivan answered. “But if they were, I’d say poison was used.”

“Why say that?”

“Why the murders?” He shrugged. “Revenge, perhaps. But that’s too simple, especially with a woman like Miss Tearose. First, the idea would be boorish. Secondly, I would assume that she would use a complicated method to relieve herself of any guilt in the matter. In other words, she might kill in such manner that she could lay the blame elsewhere and actually believe in her innocence.”

Kelly shook his head. “Too complicated and too wild. I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Sullivan answered. “It’s only a vague theory. Might be completely cockeyed.”

“Anyway, don’t mention it to Captain O.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, Joe.”

“And the action today. Miss Tearose in her birthday-suit. I wouldn’t mention that either.”

“Have to,” Sullivan answered soberly. “After all, it happened. Still, it might shake his liver.”

“He might, also think you’re having a ball and pull you off the case.”

“In that case, I’d throw in my badge.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would.” Sullivan glanced at the clock beside his bed. Ten-past-ten the hour. Too early to go back to sleep. He stretched himself, got off the bed and said, “What about a few at the Harp and Shamrock, Joe?”

Clear and cool the June morning and cool the blue eyes of Miss Tearose when Sullivan arrived at the house. Had she forgotten yesterday, or was it truly an act? Difficult to tell.

“You’re five minutes late,” she noted and walked past him down the porch steps. He followed her round to the back of the house, where she pointed out a hoe.

“The weeds spring up over night in this weather. You can start out front and be careful with that tool. Don’t injure my roses.”

That was all. She left him abruptly and went back in the house. The cool morning turning hot now, almost as hot as yesterday, but Sullivan found the work pleasant and didn’t extend himself too much.

At eleven Miss Tearose re-appeared, eyes still cool, and announced that she was going to the stores.

“I’ll be back presently,” she added and went off under a gay gay parasol.

Waiting till she was out of sight, Sullivan dropped the hoe and went to the back of the house. The screen door locked, but a latch was no barrier. His knife did the trick.

Quickly he went to the living room. All there was the same as yesterday. As he looked around, not knowing what he was looking for, his eye caught the stairs. Something up above?

Seconds later he stood at the top of the stairs in momentary quandary. Too many doors and too many rooms and not enough time. The sombre tones of a clock led him to a bedroom — Miss Tearose’s, obviously. Roses in a vase, their scent in the air and on a dark marble-topped bureau a sheet of paper. He picked it up, frowned. Two lines of verse in longhand.

Still frowning, he read the lines again. What did they mean? Best to copy them. He did and surveyed the room again. The window closed, chill air here, odor of age under the heavy scent of cut roses, those savage red blooms. Something off. What? The gloom and emptiness of a crypt, hot yellow light drained pale and lifeless sifting through the window-shade. Raise it. Look around.

Well, wouldn’t you know. Not that it had come to life but, at least, the room brightened, flushing the dark wallpaper to rose-pink and there, hardly unexpected, the motif, the simplicity of a wild rose repeated over and over.

Outside the window, a flash of blue, then a shriek, a jay in pursuit of a scrawny sparrow. Sullivan lowered the shade, left, went down the stairs and out of the house.

“Mr. Sullivan.” The voice was sharp. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard Miss Tearose approach. Startled, he veered around to face her. The blue eyes searched his and were no longer cool.

“Day-dreaming, or tired?” she said.

“A little of both,” he answered, and she surveyed the garden, then nodded in approval of his work and said, “It’s much too hot. Better get out of the sun and relax.”

With that, she led him to the porch and vanished inside the house.

Now what? he wondered. Another yesterday and more rosoli? But better that than the burning sun. Ten minutes, then ten more and Miss Tearose appeared bearing a tray.

“A little snack,” she announced, placing the tray and smiling at him.

There was mischief in her eye, a beaker of pink lemonade on the tray, jar of jam, crackers, small apothacary glass.

“To quench your thirst.” Miss Tearose filled the glasses, opened the jar. “Rosehip jam,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve tasted it before.”

“Yes,” he nodded and, in truth, he’d tasted it, something he could take or leave. His eyes went to the apothacary glass. Strange-looking candy within. He raised his eyes to Miss Tearose.

“Rose drops,” she said.

Completely mad. Watch out for her, he thought, and she opened the container.

“Try one. I’m sure you’ll like the taste.”

“Lozenges flavored with rose-essence,” he said, reaching into the glass.

“You’ve had them before?”

“Oh, yes. A favorite of my grandmother.”

Miss Tearose measured him with a steady gaze. “A strange man you are. You seem to know everything about roses.”

“Oh, hardly,” Sullivan said. “It’s you who do.”

“I thought I did till you came along.”

“There’s so much to learn. I’m glad I’m working here, if one can call this work.”

Miss Tearose laughed softly at the jest and leaned forward to tap the table. “Don’t worry; you’ll earn every penny of your pay. Mind you that.”

A threat? So it sounded, but like an echo, for Sullivan was taken by the ring on the tapping finger, its stone shaped like a rose. His eyes lifted. A creamy rose cameo pinned to her dress.

“Every penny,” she repeated. “You’ll earn them.”

It was two o’clock when Miss Tearose arose from her wicker chair.

“Time to work,” she announced.

Down the porch steps she went and into the garden to stoop over a thorny bush. She flicked a bug from a leaf, crushed it underfoot and turned to Sullivan.

“Dead,” she said, nodding and her blue-blue eyes seemed to be looking through him. “You know,” she went on, “the rose has many enemies.”

“I know.”

“And what are some of them?”

“Green fly, red spider, rose beetles, rose slugs,” he recited.

“Terrible, terrible things.”

“Insecticides help, but what is best for the rose, Mr. Sullivan?”

Stumped. She had him this time. “Best?” he said stupidly.

“Why, good health,” she went on. “Health is strength. A healthy plant resists its enemies. And how can it stay healthy?”

“With proper care.”

“Such as?”

“Good fertilizers.”

“Now we have it, Mr. Sullivan. And just what are those fertilizers?”

“You have some special kind in mind?”

“Very special. In fact, I happen to make it myself.”

“Lots of work. You can buy whatever kind you wish.”

“If you could trust those who sell it, but you can’t.”

“The law requires that the contents be printed on the container — so much of this, so much of that.”

“Of course, and the statement is always there, but who knows what’s inside the bag?”

“I believe the government has inspectors who test—”

“Test?” Miss Tearose laughed. “Really, you should know better, Mr. Sullivan. Inspectors are merely men and infinitely fallible, with a special weakness when it comes to bribery.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Oh, I am,” Miss Tearose answered firmly. “Anyway, I prefer to make my own fertilizers from my own formulas.”

“Which are?”

“Secrets.” Miss Tearose smiled. “My own secrets. Why do you think my roses grow so wonderfully?”

“They amaze me,” Sullivan admitted. “But I didn’t realize you were in possession of secret formulas. You know, they’d be worth a fortune.”

“I do know, but the formulas are mine. They shall stay with me.” That said, Miss Tearose turned the conversation, pointing to a rambler trained to a trellis. “And what does that remind you of?” she asked.

Sullivan frowned and shrugged, while Miss Tearose wagged a finger at him. “I’m surprised at you. It’s a rosary. You’re Catholic, aren’t you?”

“So I am.”

“And what is a rosary to you?”

“A garland of roses to crown the image of the Virgin, also a chaplet of beads used in prayers in honor of Our Lady; specifically, a series of devotions consisting of a specified number of Aves, Paternosters and Glorias.”

Miss Tearose regarded him slyly. “You know so much. Are you familiar with the rosy cross?”

“The crucified rose, indicated by a cross within a circle, or a rose on a cross, to denote the union of the rose with the cross.”

Miss Tearose paled, but continued to smile. “And knowing that,” she said, “you must know more.”

“A little,” he admitted. “I suppose we are coming to a gentleman who was known as Christian Rosenkreuz.”

“Go on, Mr. Sullivan.”

“The mythical name of the mythical founder of the sect which called itself after the man — the Rosicrucians.”

“Christian Rosenkreuz, Mr. Sullivan, was not a myth.”

“Nor did I say so. The name was assumed by the theologian, Johann Valentin Andrea.”

“You are familiar with his book?”

“The Fama Fratemitates. Some may accept it as serious.”

“And you?”

“A satire on that be-nighted age when Andrea breathed.”

“Then you don’t believe—”

“No, Miss Tearose, not in any society, secret or otherwise, which combines pretensions to the possession of occult wisdom and gifts with so-called mysteries of physic, astronomy, alchemy or what have you.”

“Paracelsus was a member of the fraternity, Mr. Sullivan.”

“A very learned man, but also swayed by the occult. His quest to convert ordinary metals into gold, one element into another—”

“Failed?” Miss Tearose shook her head. “It is you who have failed. Yes, the early Rosicrucians experimented in transmutation, but the principles were not merely confined to the changing of gross metals into gold, but of the grosser elements of human nature into higher spiritual qualities.”

“Ah, but I am aware of those experiments,” Sullivan replied. “And human nature being what it is and always will be, the experiments failed.”

“Did they? Then we don’t see eye to eye, Mr. Sullivan. But no matter. We’re wasting time. If you’ll come along. You want to earn your pay.”

And to the rear of the house she led him, then down into the dank cellar, where a strange odor pervaded the air. He turned to Miss Tearose.

In the dim light she smiled at him. “That odor? Nothing but rose-vinegar, to dispel unpleasant smells.”

As that of bone-meal, he thought, and Miss Tearose pointed to a shovel, then to two mounds, one black, the other white as snow. “If you will mix those two piles thoroughly,” she said, “then carry it all up to the yard. Tomorrow you’ll apply it to the roses.”

“Your secret formulas are here?”

“As if you didn’t know,” Miss Tearose answered and left him standing there.

Detective Kelly was waiting patiently at the Harp and Shamrock when his partner arrived just after dark.

“Well, what happened?” Sullivan asked.

“I got into the house all right,” Kelly said, morosely. “But, God, what a wait! You and Miss Tearose gabbing in the garden all that time.”

“Yes, yes, we wore your patience down, but what did you get?”

“A bit of a scare. She almost caught me. I went out a window. A spooky house that.”

“Different, at least.” Sullivan laughed. “Now out with the goods.”

“Goods?” Kelly looked abashed. “What was I to look for? Something odd, queer, bizarre. Well, the whole house struck me as that and more. The woman’s mad.”

“I know, but you found something?”

“A kind of diary in her bedroom.”

“You didn’t lift it, I hope?”

“No. I copied a few items, though they don’t make sense to me,” Kelley said and handed over a sheet of paper.

A thick blunted scrawl. Sullivan squinted, read aloud haltingly: “‘To have a man chased to death in such manner by poison after poison, first roseaker, then arse-nick, then mercury sublimate again, it is a thing would astonish man’s nature to hear it. Bacon. Accusations of Wentworth, 1615.’”

“And what’s that all about?” asked Kelly.

“I don’t know, but roseaker. Interesting.”

“Why?”

“It probably intrigued Miss Tearose.”

“What’s roseaker?”

“Blue vitriol.”

“I’m still in the dark.”

“I’m losing myself. Oh, but listen to this. ‘Bone for white, blood for red, and fat and flesh fused together for creamy yellow.’”

“I fail to follow,” groaned Kelly.

“Listen. ‘From gross elements, beauty, blood for the red passion of the rose, bone for pure white petals, flesh and fat for perfect yellow.’”

“Sounds morbid, a sick poetry. Is Miss Tearose a bohemian?”

“She’s sick, but in her own way. What did you get from those lines?”

Kelly shrugged. “Nothing but a slight nausea.”

“You copied them. Why?”

“I thought they’d interest you.”

“They do. They do. Vastly interesting.”

Kelly sat grinning, shaking his dark head. “You expect to make something out of that?”

“I might not, and might too.”

“Four men missing and you still think Miss Tearose finished them off. Those nasty lines are proof?”

“Partial confirmation of a theory.”

“What theory?”

“Transmutation. A medieval concept, but we won’t go into that just now. Other things to do.” Sullivan, fishing in a pocket, brought up a small bottle and placed it on the table. The contents ruby-red.

Kelly eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Compliments of Miss Tearose, a drink which I did not drink.”

“You’re saving it as a souvenir?”

“For Dr. Luther Gunther. I have a sneaking idea that he’ll find its composition satisfying to his morbid interests.”

“Ah, you think Miss Tearose tried to poison you?”

“I think so. Analysis will tell the story. So for this innocent-looking liquor.” Sullivan pocketed it again and produced three stout envelopes.

“Fertilizer and dirt,” he said.

“I’m in the dark again. Enlighten me.”

“A very special kind of dirt, I believe,” Sullivan explained. “And also a very special kind of fertilizer, or fertilizers, I should say, the result of secret processes known only to Miss Tearose.”

“Go on, Sully. I’m not following.”

“More grist for the mill of Dr. Gunther. His analysis of the stuff may prove highly interesting.”

“You mean you think Miss Tearose poisoned the dirt and fertilizer?”

“Oh, no. If I’m right, the answer will be much more gruesome. But, first, the analysis by Dr. Gunther,” Sullivan said. “Then the acid for his consideration.”

“What acid?”

“This.” Sullivan held up a sample. “Miss Tearose used it in rather large amounts. Dr. Gunther should be able to enlighten us concerning its use.”

“Anything else?” asked Kelly.

“The major items have been gathered. Tomorrow should tell the tale.”

Kelly cast a dubious eye at his partner. “Of course, you’ll speak to Captain O before you approach Gunther?”

“That goes without saying.”

“And you’ll present the sample of liquor, the dirt and fertilizers a possible evidence to be used against Miss Tearose to prove she murdered four men?”

“That’s the idea, Joe.”

Kelly shook his head. “Odd evidence, if it is that at all,” he said. “But what about that stuff in the diary? Don’t tell me you’re going to pull that out of the bag?”

“Oh, yes, that too. Read between the lines, there’s more than meets the eye.”

“Not this eye, and I doubt O’Connor will see anything. In fact, he’s apt to boot you out the door, if I know him.”

“Not if I tell him what’s between the lines, Joe.”

“If there’s anything between them, and I really don’t think there is.”

“Well, that’s to be seen, you doubting Thomas,” Sullivan grinned and called to McGinnis behind the bar. “Two Irish Cream ales, and make them cold.”

“Coming up,” said the dark-browed keeper of the pumps.

In the cool of the morning Captain O’Connor sat behind his desk and listened with what seemed infinite patience to Sullivan’s monologue of curious evidence. First, he looked puzzled; then amazed, then his pale face flooded red with anger.

“Are you sure you’re not losing your bloody mind?” he finally said. “If I went to Gunther with this, he’d call the department psychiatrist and have me committed.”

“Perhaps, but he won’t,” Sullivan argued. “The odder the case, the more he’s interested, and this one, to say the least, is odd.”

“Dirt, acid, fertilizer and a liquor,” O’Connor growled. “He’ll laugh at us.”

“Four men are missing, Captain. I believe they were murdered by a madwoman called Rose Tearose. I also believe I was to be her fifth victim.”

“All that junk about bones and roses you hand me and now this delusion. Come off it.”

“Delusion?” The captain had made the opening, and Sullivan went through it like a streak of light. He pointed a finger at the speciman of liquor. “There it is. If you’re, so sure it’s not what I say it is, suppose you taste it?”

The captain swallowed hard, looked at Sullivan, then at Kelly and finally at the liquor in question and shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said, conceding defeat in a tone distinctly gentle for him. With that, he rose from his desk. “Let’s go see the medical examiner.”

Behind thick lenses, the grey eyes of Dr. Luther Gunther apparently focused on nothing, lending him an air of absolute remoteness. He did not even appear to be listening to Detective Sullivan, but poisons were the doctor’s dish, and murder by poison.

Dr. Gunther’s nostrils quivered when Sullivan came to the point. “Hm. Interesting,” he said, nodding his head. “And this is the drink you suspect?” He uncapped the small bottle and sniffed its contents. “A very agreeable bouquet, at least. What is it supposed to be?”

“Rosoli.”

“Hm, not common in this country. And what makes you think it contains poison?”

“I have reason to believe it contains a number of poisons, Doctor.”

“Such as?”

“For one, roseaker. You’re familiar with it?”

“Hm, yes, but I did not think you were, at least, not under that archaic name. Commonly it is called blue vitriol, but it is not commonly used as a poison.”

Dr. Gunther passed the bottle to an assistant, with an order to analyze its contents immediately, and poked into one of the envelopes Sullivan had placed before him.

“Hm. Looks like good potting soil,” he remarked. “It also contains poison?”

“Blood, I believe, Doctor. Human blood. And possibly flesh. Would you be able—?”

“It should not be difficult. And this envelope? Smells like bone-meal.”

“Human bone-meal, I think.”

“Hm.” Dr. Gunther nodded and almost smiled. “Anything else?”

Sullivan handed over a third envelope and a small bottle. “Careful,” he warned. “It’s an acid.”

Dr. Gunther uncapped, the stopper carefully and whitish fumes appeared immediately along with a distinctive odor.

“Hydrochloric,” he said with a shrug.

“And used for what?”

“The manufacture of glue, for one.”

“And what is glue composed of?”

“Bones, hides, hoofs.” Dr. Gunther pushed his glasses down to the tip of his blunted nose and grinned. “The old horse goes to the glue factory and is reduced to a thick adhesive substance, but we are not interested in old horses, are we? We have in mind the human animal. Yes, the same process of reduction could be used to make a corpse into glue.”

“And then be used as fertilizer?”

“A most excellent one, Mr. Sullivan.” Dr. Gunther sniffed and pushed back his glasses, his grey eyes clouded.

“Most interesting,” he remarked, almost smacking his lips with pleasure. “You suspect that four men were poisoned and turned into fertilizer?”

“Different kinds of fertilizer, Doctor.”

“Hm, yes. Catagories. An interesting theory of yours, but why fertilizers, and why should any one go through so much trouble? Not that a murderer wouldn’t attempt such a project, understand, but to specify—”

“A hare-brained idea,” Captain O’Connor put in. “Sullivan has a vivid imagination and reads too many books.”

“Too many books?” Dr. Gunther drew back his head, affronted. “No one can read too many books. As for a vivid imagination, excellent equipment for a detective, no?”

With that said and O’Connor put properly in place, the doctor turned, brows arched. “Mr. Sullivan, the question of the fertilizers. If you will please explain?”

“I’ll try,” Sullivan said. “First, it’s my belief that the suspect, namely Miss Rose Tearose—”

“Ah, quaintly named.”

“Significantly named, I think. Anyway, I have more than enough reason to believe she’s quite mad, with a fixed idea about roses.”

“Hm, yes, and what is this idea fixée?”

“That the proper nourishment of the plant can only be obtained by the use of human fertilizer.”

“A rather morbid conception, Mr. Sullivan, but not impossible, the human mind being capable of harboring such horrible ideas, as I should certainly know, but how did you arrive at this conception?”

As he groped for words, Dr. Gunther’s assistant returned and handed him a report. He read it and lifted his cloudy eyes.

“Hm, it appears that your suspicions were correct, Mr. Sullivan. The rosoli showed the presence of roseaker, arsenic and mercury sublimate in sufficient amounts to cause death. In fact, a mere swallow would prove fatal. As for the fertilizers. In envelope One, the presence of human blood is indicated. In envelope Two, the presence of human bone. In envelope Three, the mixture contains human flesh and fat.”

Dr. Gunther nodded. “And you say these specimens were meant to be used as fertilizer? But why, Mr. Sullivan? I don’t follow all the way.”

Sullivan let out his breath. Better to quote from Miss Tearose. “‘From gross elements, beauty; blood for the red passion of the rose, bone for pure white petals, and flesh and fat for yellow perfection.’ Doctor, this was found in the suspect’s diary, along with other such data.”

“Very interesting. Almost poetry, but yet only words.”

“The poetry of death. Miss Tearose believed what she wrote and nutured her roses on the bodies of the men she murdered. A madwoman, of course, with a distorted idea about transmutation, the dream of medieval alchemists who sought to turn gross metals into gold. She appropriated the idea and re-arranged it to suit her peculiar need.”

“And what?” asked the doctor, “is that peculiar need?”

“One can only guess, but I would say revenge. She had to even the score for what she thought had been done to her, but she couldn’t admit this to herself. She had to believe that she was refining something gross, elevating her victims to a higher plane. Thus the deception and the murder of four men.”

“Whom she fed to her roses. An act of purification and cleansing of guilt. Yes, yes, very interesting.”

The doctor turned to O’Connor. “Undoubtedly Miss Tearose committed murder. The evidence is here.”

O’Connor had nothing to say. Mute, he moved toward the door. Sullivan and Kelly trailed him out to the car they’d arrived in and sped off to pick up Miss Tearose. All was serene when they arrived at their destination. The roses of June dozed in the sun, passion red, virgin white and creamy yellow, a dazzling display in a beautiful, silent garden.

The house mute too, rose-windows watchful, cellar silent, and here, here. Miss Tearose sprawled in death with a single rose clutched in her hand. Puzzled, O’Connor turned to Sullivan.

“You know all the answers,” he said. “Tell me, what happened to Miss Tearose?”

“The obvious, I’d say,” Sullivan answered. “She did herself in.”

“Is that a guess, or—”

“She knew the jig was up. You see, when she brought me that drink yesterday, she came back expecting to find me dead. But she didn’t find me at all, of course. I’d left with the poisoned rosoli. So she knew what she’d probably half suspected all along, that things were closing in and that she’d finally trapped herself. Thus a bit of poison, say in a glass of rosoli.

“I’m quite sure the autopsy will show that death occurred as the result of poison, namely, roseaker, arsenic and mercury sublimate.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” O’Connor growled and headed for the cellar steps and sunlight.

Sullivan and Kelly followed him and there in the garden, fed by the ghosts of four dead men, were the roses, pink, white, yellow and, dominating all, the savage red of the climber, flaming in the sun.