The Blue Rose

Chapter Four

‘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.

‘How’s it doing?’ Alex asked, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

‘Couple more minutes and it’ll all be ready,’ she said. ‘If you could get those plates out of the oven, and keep stirring the sauce, that would be great.’

Alex had always admired how simple Kate made things look in a kitchen. Everything was always under control. There was never a sense of urgency or impending disaster. If he were in charge, the sink would be piled with pots and dishes, saucepans would be boiling over and throughout the house would be a strong smell of something burning.

‘What are you two talking about?’ asked Kate.

‘Wine – mostly.’

‘Does he know anything about wines?’

Alex rolled his eyes. ‘Are you kidding? When I told him we didn’t have a decanter I might as well have been telling him we didn’t have a teapot. The man’s an expert on everything. Next thing you know he’ll be telling me how to redesign the house.’

‘Now, now,’ Kate said, smiling. ‘I have a feeling Lawrence Kingston is going to be very helpful to us, so let’s be nice to him.’

They emerged from the kitchen to find Kingston wearing horn-rimmed glasses, examining the archway that separated the dining room from the living room.

‘Marvellous old house,’ he said, running his hand along one of the beams framing the archway. ‘Splendid architectural details.’

‘Yes,’ Alex said. ‘That’s one of the things we both love about The Parsonage. That, and the garden – which is more Kate’s thing, of course.’

‘Yes, the garden,’ Kingston said, lost in thought, standing back from the archway. ‘These beams were a later addition, I think.’

‘Why, yes,’ said Alex, surprised that Kingston could see the difference between the detailing, ‘they are. The original house dates back to the 1830s – these were probably added much, much later.’

‘You should get rid of them,’ Kingston said. He ran his hand along one of the beams again. ‘They’re not very sympathetic.’

‘They’re load-bearing beams,’ Alex pointed out.

‘Really?’ Kingston asked thoughtfully. ‘I should think it would be worth getting an architect in here to confirm that.’

Kate stifled a giggle.

‘I am an architect,’ Alex said.

‘Oh.’ Kingston peered down at Alex over the top of his spectacles. ‘Really?’

Considering that he had just gazed upon civilization’s first blue rose ever, Kingston displayed a remarkably nonchalant attitude throughout the lunch. For fifteen minutes or so there was further discussion of the rose, but soon Kingston steered the conversation deftly back to The Parsonage. He was clearly taken with its mellow character and with the layout and plantings of the luxurious garden. Switching subjects again, he inquired about Kate’s antiques shop, listening with uncharacteristic silence as Kate talked about her business, complaining about inflated prices and the difficulties of finding good quality items to sell. For many years he had collected antiques, he said, and still attended the occasional auction and estate sale. Kate’s eyes lit up when he mentioned a couple of items of furniture that no longer suited his purpose that he would be happy to consign to her.

For the most part, Alex remained silent.

‘So, how did the two of you meet?’ Kingston asked offhandedly, taking a sip of wine.

Alex glanced at Kate, as if to ask, should I tell him, then back to Kingston.

‘It was on Kate’s twenty-sixth birthday,’ he said. ‘At a picnic organized by one of her close friends, Annabel. It turned out to be a brilliant day – on the River Avon. I must say, when Annabel’s sister, Pam, asked me if I’d go with her I wasn’t too keen on the idea at first.’ Alex picked up his wineglass and cupped it in his hands. He rocked it gently to and fro, looking at it as if it were a crystal ball. ‘I’m not very big on crowds,’ he said, gazing at the glass. ‘The prospect of having to spend the best part of the day with a group of total strangers was about as appealing as being invited to an undertakers’ convention.’

‘Remind me not to throw any cocktail parties for you,’ Kingston chuckled.

Alex eyed Kate out of the corner of his eye. ‘Actually Kate’s not much better – well, maybe a little better.’ He paused to take a sip of wine. ‘It would be fair to say that we both have the tendency to be a trifle antisocial at times.’

‘Nevertheless, you obviously decided to go,’ Kingston observed.

‘I did, yes. In the first place, I’d always wanted to visit Bradford-on-Avon. It has some splendid old architecture and I thought, if time permitted, I’d pop up to Lacock Abbey to see the Henry Fox Talbot museum – you know, the photography fellow. Then, the more I thought about it, the idea of a picnic by the river did have a certain appeal – so I went.’ He took his eyes off Kingston and gave Kate an apologetic look, knowing that he was being far too talkative.

She flashed him a hurry-it-up look. ‘Annabel told me you and Pam never made it to Lacock.’

He looked flustered.

‘Did you?’ she asked with a knowing smile.

‘Well – no, as a matter of fact we–’ Alex put a hand to his mouth and coughed. ‘It simply got too late.’

The smile hadn’t left Kate’s face.

‘Anyway – where was I?’ Alex mumbled. He looked back to Kingston who seemed to be enjoying the story immensely. ‘Right. I never did get much of a chance to speak to Kate, though. In fact, the only words I can remember saying when we finally met were, “Happy birthday, Kate.” That was about it.’

Kingston was obviously now caught up in the story. ‘Did you meet again soon after?’

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I was working crazy hours and weekends at my job. On top of that, two nights a week I was playing trombone in a jazz band.’

Kingston smiled benignly. ‘So that was the end of Pamela, I take it? Your friendship ended?’

Kate got up from the table, picked up the bottle of Pomerol and topped up their glasses. ‘Let’s just say that it petered out,’ she said, straight-faced.

Kingston raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled.

‘Needless to say, Kate and I did meet later, which happily led to all this,’ Alex said, reaching over and placing his hand on Kate’s.

‘I’m curious,’ said Kingston, taking another ninety-degree turn in the conversation, ‘who were the previous owners of The Parsonage?’

‘Owner,’ Kate answered. ‘An elderly widow by the name of Mabel Cooke.’

‘We never met her, though,’ said Alex.

‘So we don’t really know whether it was the Cookes who created the garden in the first place,’ said Kate. ‘For all we know, it could have been the owners of The Parsonage prior to the Cookes.’

Kingston took a deliberate sip of wine. ‘Well, we do know, for sure, that the garden has existed for many years and whoever had a hand in it knew what they were doing. The design and selection of plants are exceptional.’

It didn’t escape Kate’s attention that Kingston seemed to be consciously avoiding further conversation about the blue rose. At an appropriate lull in the conversation – when Alex left the table to open another bottle of wine, one of less distinguished parentage – she politely asked him why.

Lowering his wineglass, Kingston smiled at her. ‘I thought I’d save all that for this afternoon – not spoil your lovely lunch, Kate. You’re right, of course. There’s a lot to talk about.’ His voice had lowered and she noted that, for the first time since they’d sat down, the sparkle had gone from his eyes. ‘A lot more than you might imagine,’ he said.

Kate brought coffee into the living room, pouring a cup for Kingston and one for herself. Alex declined, opting to stick with the last of his wine. He was comfortably settled into an overstuffed armchair awaiting Kingston’s words.

Next to Alex, Kate sat perched on the edge of the sofa like a hungry fledgling about to be fed. Already she had taken a liking to Kingston. His frank yet quiet manner had a calming effect on her. At the same time, though she knew it was childish, she found it difficult not to picture him in some bygone era: as a dashing cavalry officer, flying ace or intrepid explorer. Certain of his mannerisms were not unlike those of her father.

She glanced across at Alex, hoping that he would refrain from flippant remarks about gardening. Not that it was of any consequence, since she’d already made it clear to Kingston that Alex was not much into gardening.

Kingston settled into the upholstered wing chair, which had surreptitiously become his chair, and eyed them from across the room over his glasses. He was obviously comfortable to be back again in his role of professor.

‘While I won’t rule out, entirely, the possibility that a human being has somehow fathomed the genetic riddle of the rose – which, I might add, has remained inviolate for millions of years – I’m more inclined to believe that your rose was an aberration of nature. That a freak cross-pollination has taken place between a rose and another plant. One which was probably blue, containing delphinidin pigment.’

‘What are the odds against that happening?’ Kate interrupted.

‘Gosh. The odds? In the many millions – could be billions, I suppose.’ He paused, rubbing a forefinger on his chin. ‘Remind me, would you – I’ll come to the delphinidin thing in a minute.’

It appeared that Kate’s interjection had broken his rhythm. He gathered his thoughts. ‘Not too long ago I was reading about an Australian company, Florigene. They call themselves molecular breeders of cut flowers. Since the mid-eighties, they’ve been working on genetic engineering projects with flowers, principally to create new colours in petals. Their number one goal is to create a blue rose. So far – over fifteen years in fact – they’ve spent millions on their mission, without success.’

‘Fifteen years!’ Kate exclaimed.

Alex whistled. ‘Millions, you said.’

‘That’s right,’ said Kingston. ‘The article stated that they have produced a blue carnation, now being sold commercially. But a blue rose was proving to be a much more complex and difficult task than they’d reckoned on. Let me tell you why.’ He got up from the chair.

Inhaling deeply, he proceeded to explain in painstaking detail and – with neat sketches on a large artist’s pad that Alex had provided – the cycle by which flowers produce seed.

‘A flower’s sole purpose in life,’ Kingston said, ‘is seduction.’ To reinforce the point, he repeated the word. ‘Seduction – to lure the pollinators: the birds, bees, butterflies and insects. The bright colours and patterns of the flowers act as a magnet. Nectar, resins, oils and perfumes are the reward. But the real purpose of this transaction, the veritable essence of life, is the transfer of pollen from the stamen, the flower’s male organ, to the stigma at the tip of the pistil, the plant’s female organ, right here.’ He stabbed a long bony finger dramatically to the place on his drawing as if it were the target of a cruise missile. ‘Where germination takes place,’ he said. ‘This is, more often than not, done by the pollinators. Bear in mind, too, that it can also be achieved by the wind, by animals and, of course, by man. When pollen is deposited on the stigma of a flower, the flower is said to be pollinated.’

At this point Kate excused herself to let in Asp, who was barking at the front door.

‘I’m not putting you to sleep, Alex, am I?’ Kingston asked.

‘No, not at all. It’s – it’s fascinating.’

Kingston smiled, helping himself to more coffee, thus avoiding the immediate need for further conversation with Alex.

Kate returned and Kingston continued where he’d left off.

‘Only certain insects will pollinate certain plants,’ he said. ‘We know, too, that the complex genetic structure of each individual plant group prohibits pollen fertilization between unlike plant species.’

‘Which means?’ asked Kate.

‘Meaning you can’t cross a rose with a daisy. But in your case it looks as if nature has finally hiccuped. It’s almost certain that a rose – probably a white one – has cross-pollinated with a blue flower of some kind.’

‘A freak of nature?’

‘Exactly. The only other possible explanation is that it was hybridized by a person or persons unknown.’

Kingston got up from the chair, smoothed his corduroy trousers and stood facing them. With chin raised, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes twinkling, he gave Alex and Kate a self-satisfied smile. ‘Well – there you have it,’ he said.

‘What do you suggest we do now?’ Kate asked. ‘What do we do with this eighth wonder of the world, Lawrence?’

‘A good question, my dear,’ Kingston answered in a more sombre tone. ‘There are some serious issues looming here,’ he said, wagging a finger in the air. ‘The first thing we need to address is how to handle the bedlam that’s going to erupt when word of a blue rose gets out. Your garden will be emblazoned on the front page of every newspaper and magazine around the globe. The fields around Steeple Tarrant will turn into an international settlement for every reporter and rose fanatic on the planet. Not only that, but every single entity in the world that has anything to do with growing roses will beg, cajole – even cheat or steal to get their hands on the blue rose patent.’

‘God, that sounds horrible,’ Kate exclaimed.

Kingston held out his open palms. ‘On the brighter side, if you play your cards right, you could soon be in the tax stratosphere of superstars and sports professionals. The fees and royalties could be monumental.’

‘I suppose commercial rose growers would be the most interested,’ said Kate.

‘Absolutely,’ said Kingston. ‘There are some big rose companies out there. You can bet your life that David Austin, in this country, will be clamouring to get their hands on the world’s first blue rose. In the States, there’s any number of big outfits. Jackson and Perkins, in Oregon, is probably the biggest. Then there’s Baker-Reynolds, also on the West Coast. In France, the big player is Meilland. In Denmark, it’s Poulsen. Any of them would undoubtedly pay an astronomical price for it. To give you some idea, I read recently that the relatively new German rose Flower Carpet has sold over fourteen million plants worldwide in a short span of time – you can just imagine how many blue roses could be sold.’

A worried look clouded Kingston’s face. ‘My advice is that you start immediately counselling the various kinds of professionals – patent lawyers, accountants and such – who are going to be essential to maintain control of what could otherwise become a nightmare.’ He scratched his forehead, as if trying to conjure something he had overlooked. ‘Oh yes, I remember what it was – there’s an extensive collection of roses out there in your garden, and it’s a certainty that whoever planted and cared for them is, or was, a dyed-in-the-wool rose enthusiast. What’s more, it’s not totally out of the question that he, or she, might have been tinkering with hybridizing. If that’s the case then there may be some records stored away somewhere. It’s taken for granted that anybody making a serious attempt at hybridizing must keep a log of some kind. It’s a long shot, but you never know.’

‘The only person we can ask is the previous owner, Mrs Cooke,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll call Julian, our estate agent, and see if he has her new phone number. Maybe she can shed some light on the matter.’

‘I very much doubt it,’ said Alex. ‘If she knew she had a blue rose in the garden she would have hardly kept it a secret, would she?’

‘I still can’t figure out how come she, her husband, or somebody else, didn’t know about it,’ Kate responded. ‘I agree, it’s well hidden, but do you mean to tell me that all the time it’s been out there nobody has seen it?’

‘And if they had, wouldn’t they have known of its rarity and tried to sell it?’ Alex interjected.

Kingston raised a hand. ‘You’re assuming that it’s been blooming all these years, Kate. It’s a mutant, and there’s a lot we don’t about this rose. Who’s to say that it will behave like a normal rose? Plus, there are other factors that might explain poor or non-florescence–’

‘Florescence?’ Alex cut in.

‘Flowering, blooming,’ Kingston replied. ‘Roses won’t do well in a soil that’s too alkaline. It’s possible that there’s chalk in that part of the garden. It’s not in a very sunny spot, either – another factor influencing flower production. Add these together and it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that it’s only just started blooming. We will never know.’

‘You’ve convinced me,’ said Kate.

‘Well, if you do find anything more, let me know right away,’ Kingston said, walking over to the coffee table, placing his cup and saucer on the tray.

Kate sensed that, for today, at least, they had exhausted the subject of the blue rose. Alex was about to leave the room when Kingston spoke again. His words were carefully chosen and articulated. ‘Kate and Alex, let me say this. I’m not sure, yet, that either of you grasp fully the significance and enormous impact that this discovery is going to have on the international world of horticulture and commerce. There’s no doubt in my mind that the two of you could become exceedingly wealthy, but you’d best prepare yourselves for some surprises and some sacrifices, too. I’m sure these can be minimized if you exercise reasonable care and good judgement.’ His expression became less serious. ‘What we have to do is to assemble a competent team of professional people to handle the legal work, management and marketing of this awesome rose. It’s going to take a lot of your time and a lot of hard work on your part.’

Kate noted that Kingston had said ‘we’.

‘What’s the first step, then?’ Alex asked.

‘To find a good lawyer.’

‘How do we go about that?’ asked Kate. ‘Blue roses are hardly a legal specialty.’

‘A patents specialist is the closest I can think of,’ said Alex.

Kingston nodded. ‘I think you’re probably right, Alex.’

‘There must be some kind of referral service, I would imagine,’ said Kate.

‘There is,’ Kingston replied. ‘You need to call the Law Society. They recommended a solicitor for me a number of years ago. As a matter of fact, I think they have a website. You may want to check, Alex.’

Alex grinned. ‘What were you accused of?’

Kate flashed him a disapproving look.

Kingston smiled. ‘We were defending old Rascal.’

Alex frowned. ‘Old Rascal?’

‘Our beagle. Took a chunk out of one of the neighbourhood kids who’d been baiting him. Mother took us to court.’

‘You gave him the right name,’ said Kate, smiling.

‘What was the outcome?’ Alex asked.

‘He got off with probation, thankfully. Anyway, I know the Law Society will find you just the right man.’

‘Or woman,’ said Kate.

‘Well, of course,’ Kingston quickly corrected himself.

Contorting his long limbs like a giant cricket, Kingston squirmed expertly into the cramped quarters of his highly polished TR4, slamming the door with authority. ‘You know, once word gets out about this rose,’ he shouted over the noise of the engine, ‘your world will never be quite the same.’ Then, with a wave of his gloved hand, he was gone.

As the gurgling exhaust of his sports car faded into the distance, an exhausted Alex and a thoroughly bemused Kate stared at each other for a few seconds, then started laughing, helplessly. It was an outburst of both relief and pent-up exhilaration.

Hand in hand, they walked back into the house.