The Blue Rose

Chapter Six

Announced by a discreet brass plaque, whose blackened lettering suggested daily polishing, the law offices of Sheridan, Adell and Broughton were situated on a narrow alley off tree-shaded Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Miscalculating the walking distance from The Ivy restaurant in Covent Garden, where they had spent almost two hours over lunch, Kate and Alex arrived ten minutes late for their Friday appointment with solicitor Christopher Adell. The day before, Alex had phoned Lawrence Kingston to tell him that the meeting was going to take place.

Adell appeared much younger than Alex had reckoned when he first talked to him on the phone. After apologies for being late and handshakes, they were ushered into Adell’s sparsely furnished office overlooking a pleasant courtyard. Surprisingly, there was no diploma or old etching in sight. Instead, the walls displayed black-framed action photographs of sailing boats awash with spray and foam. These no doubt signalled Christopher Adell’s first love. His tanned face and bleached hair tended to affirm the supposition.

Alex spent the first ten minutes or so telling Adell about their recent purchase of The Parsonage, their discovery of the rose, Dr Kingston’s visit and his appraisal of the rose.

Adell listened attentively, making notes on a blue-lined pad.

‘And that’s about it,’ said Alex, finally.

‘Extraordinary,’ said Adell, putting his fountain pen down on the desktop. ‘Most extraordinary. This will have enormous impact on the world of horticulture – but then you probably don’t need me tell you that.’ He straightened in his chair and adjusted the double cuffs of his bold-striped shirt. ‘From a legal standpoint there are a number of issues which must be addressed before we get to the question of marketing and selling the rose – I gather that is your intent, is it not?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Alex answered.

‘No need to enumerate them now, of course, but among them are establishing and recording ownership, patent applications, royalties – that sort of stuff.’

‘So, you don’t think there will be a problem getting a patent for Sapphire, then?’ asked Kate.

‘Oh, no, not at all. As far as plants are concerned, they are available to anybody who discovers or invents a new variety and asexually reproduces it. It’s a straightforward process. The qualifications are quite specific. I haven’t researched the point lately, but I know, without question, your rose would qualify on more than one account.’ He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. ‘As I recall, one of the criteria is novelty. To be novel – generally speaking, that is – a variety of plant must not have existed before in nature. There are some requirements concerning distinctiveness, too. Simply put, that means that the new plant must have characteristics that clearly distinguish it from existing varieties. This could be a different shape or size of fruit or flower, or, as in your case, colour.’ Adell paused, eyeing them both in turn. When he next spoke, his voice was perceptibly lower. ‘Getting a patent is really the least of our concerns. In terms of discovery and value, it’s something like having the equivalent of a living dinosaur on your hands. There’s really no precedent, of course. I’m afraid that the name of the game is going to be protection. Not only for the rose but, more important, for the two of you, as well.’

There was a knock on the door, and a young woman appeared with a tray of tea. She walked over, placed the tray on Adell’s desk, excused herself and left.

Adell slid the tray a few inches towards Kate and Alex. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘help yourselves.’

As Kate poured tea for Alex and herself, he continued in a more upbeat tone. ‘Other than what brief mention I might have made to Alex on the phone, I’ve told you nothing about our firm, or myself. Let me give you a little background.’ Arms folded, rocking his leather chair lazily back and forth, he proceeded to talk about the firm’s capabilities, their experience and seventy-year history. In closing Adell mentioned of a handful of their longstanding clients including a rose grower near Brighton, a client since the early forties.

Kate slid the tea tray to Adell. He paused to pour a cup for himself.

‘Before my time, one of our senior partners worked with the chap who founded the company. Ben Compton was his name – now considered somewhat of a legend in the commercial world of British roses. No longer with us, I’m afraid. He was a real treasure. Anyway, Ben’s son Charlie now runs the business. I’m now the partner responsible for their legal counsel.’

‘So you know a lot about roses, then.’ Alex intended it as more statement than question.

‘More than your average gardener, I would say. More important, I know the workings of the business, the wholesale as well as the retail side. How roses are grown commercially. How they’re marketed and merchandized. Who the big players are – most of the small ones too.’

‘Excellent,’ said Alex.

Adell’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and, turning away from them, listened for no more than a few seconds. ‘Tell him I’ll call him back within the hour. Thanks, Martha.’ He placed the phone down and swivelled his chair back to face Alex and Kate. ‘Speak of the devil. That was Charlie Compton – now let me see, where was I?’

‘You were talking about the commercial side of roses,’ Alex reminded him.

‘Right. It’s big business – colossal, in fact. It’s the world’s oldest cultivated plant and the sales keep growing every year. To give you some general idea about the numbers, last time I checked – quite a while ago – the combined sales of cut flowers and plants, worldwide, was around forty to fifty billion US dollars. There’s an enormous worldwide interest in gardening these days, and roses are the star attraction. Jackson and Perkins, the largest volume grower in the States, sell more roses in greater quality and variety than any other brand name in the world. Last time I looked, they were closing in on growing twenty million rose bushes a year. Baker-Reynolds in Washington State is not far behind.’

Alex took a quick glance at Kate. She looked impressed. ‘They’re mind-boggling numbers,’ he said. ‘So the long-term value of a blue rose would be in the many millions. Ultimately billions?’

‘A lot will depend on how the gardening public receives a blue rose, but my guess would be that, yes, it could – over the course of a few years – top the billion mark,’ said Adell.

‘Kingston was right, then,’ Kate murmured.

The conference continued for another half-hour. By that time Adell had sketched out a tentative but well-conceived plan of action. It was his last suggestion that took Kate and Alex by surprise: that the blue rose be sold to the highest bidder at an international auction. ‘How would you achieve the maximum price for a Degas or van Gogh?’ Adell reasoned.

‘Quite ingenious,’ said Kate.

Then he added a caveat. ‘If we are to proceed down this road – and that is my recommendation – it stands to reason that we will not be able to contain the secret of a blue rose for long. So a word of caution. No matter how diligent we are or what constraints we apply, word will get out. And when it does, it’s going to spread like wildfire. It’s going to happen very fast. Every rose grower on the planet is going to be on our doorstep wanting to know more, trying to circumvent the auction. From the very minute we contact the auctioneers, it won’t be a secret any more. I want you to understand that.’

‘You think we’re opening a Pandora’s Box?’

‘It’s impossible to say, Kate. How this is going to affect the two of you, we will never know until it actually happens.’ He paused to take a sip of tea then flashed a genial smile from behind the gold rim of his teacup and shook his head. ‘All I’m advising is that you will have to exercise reasonable care and good judgement, because you’ll become public domain as it were. Privacy will become a thing of the past.’

Alex was reminded of Kingston’s similar words of caution. He said nothing.

Adell ran his pen down his list of notes and circled one. ‘The question of security,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘We’ll need to undertake measures to ensure the rose’s safety. Until we can move it to a properly secure location, it should be guarded around the clock. For the moment – if you are absolutely certain that only the three of you know of the rose’s existence and location – we have what I’ll call a temporary security measure.’

‘We do?’ asked Kate.

‘Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourselves.’

Alex scratched his head. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘You simply cut off all the blooms.’

‘Well, of course. Then nobody could tell it from any of the other two hundred odd roses.’

‘Not unless they really know a lot about roses and saw those perfect leaves,’ said Kate.

Alex shook his head. ‘That’s most unlikely, I would say.’

‘Anyway,’ said Adell, tapping his pen of the desk, ‘do it when you get back. We can talk later about a more permanent security system.’

‘Will do,’ said Alex.

Kate snapped her finger. ‘I could try drying the roses,’ she said.

‘That’s fine,’ said Adell. ‘But I would caution you not to show them to anybody.’ He looked at his watch. ‘One more thing. Before we do anything, we must establish beyond any doubt that you are the rose’s rightful and sole owners. We can’t proceed until we have recorded that.’

‘Alex and I are a bit confused on that question,’ said Kate. ‘In fact, we don’t see eye to eye on it.’ She glanced at Alex, who made a slight gesture toward Adell as if to say, go ahead, ask him. She turned back to Adell. ‘Well, Alex maintains that since the rose is on our property we are the rightful owners – possession being nine points of the law, as he says. But don’t you think that, if – and I grant you it’s a big “if” – it’s ultimately proved that the rose was created by Major Cooke, not by some freak accident of nature, shouldn’t Mrs Cooke be entitled to the money? Besides, from the staggering numbers being bandied around there’ll be much more money than any of us could ever want.’

‘It’s going to depend on how solid a case we can present,’ said Adell. ‘If, as you speculate, it’s proved later that Major Cooke did indeed create the rose, then Mrs Cooke could, should she so decide, contest our claim. I’m afraid that it’s not possible this early in the game to give you a definitive answer, Kate. Meanwhile, let’s proceed on the assumption that you are the sole owners.’

Alex smiled at Kate. ‘That’s fine by us,’ he said.

Kate nodded in agreement.

They had much to talk about on the cab ride to Paddington station.

With a sigh of resignation, Lawrence Kingston placed the folded newspaper on the side table next to him, took off his bifocals and rubbed his tired eyes. For tonight, he had gone as far as he could with the crossword. It was the Saturday Times jumbo puzzle with over seventy devilishly cryptic clues to solve. After wrestling with it for two hours he’d pencilled in barely a dozen answers.

Draining the remains of his cognac, Kingston gazed pensively at the framed photo of his daughter, Julie, that occupied a prominent spot on the mantelpiece. She now lived in Seattle and he missed her deeply. She was the only woman remaining in his life and would undoubtedly continue so, for he had no further notions of any female relationships beyond the occasional dinner or theatre date. Since the death of his wife, Megan, some years earlier, he had chosen to remain single.

Most people dream of retiring to a cottage in the country after a lifetime of work in the city or suburbs, but Lawrence Kingston had chosen to move to London. The city, with its theatres, museums, concert halls, excellent restaurants and libraries, suited his aesthetic tastes. More for the challenge than the income, he accepted a modest consultation job now and again. His two-storey flat on Cadogan Square, conveniently located within walking distance of the elegant shops and amenities of Knightsbridge and Sloane Street, was ample for his needs. Packed into its high-ceilinged rooms, the furniture and trappings were decidedly masculine. Overstuffed couches and leather chairs, antique furniture, book-lined walls, tasteful art and an overabundance of artifacts and bibelots, signalled good taste and a well-travelled life. The only touch that might suggest a feminine hand at work was the large vase of white roses, lilies and freesias that always occupied the same position on top of a French sideboard. Megan had always loved flowers in the rooms of their house. To preserve the custom, Kingston paid a florist’s shop on the King’s Road a stiff sum to replace the arrangement every two weeks all year round. Despite this plenitude of possessions and memorabilia, there was a pleasant orderliness about the place.

That morning, he had received an express package from Alex containing an explanatory letter along with the eleven leather-bound journals thought to be those that Major Cooke and Thomas Farrow used in their greenhouse experiments. Since then he had studied them at great length and concluded that, in all likelihood, they were, indeed, records of hybridizing written in a code of some sort.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine thirty. Surely, by now, Alex and Kate would have returned from their meeting in London with the lawyer. He would give them one last try – he was curious to know how legal minds would assess such an earthshaking botanical discovery and what they would recommend.

After the fifth or sixth ring, he was about to place the phone back on the cradle when Alex answered.

‘Sorry to call so late, Alex,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d probably be late getting back from town, anyway.’

‘No problem at all, Lawrence. We stopped off at the Crown for a spot of supper on the way back. Let me tell you, it was quite a long day.’

‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve taken a thorough look at the journals.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Well, to be honest, there wasn’t much to go on. They are well organized and whoever compiled them did an exceptionally neat and thorough job. Sorry to say, though, I’m afraid they might not be of much use.’

‘That’s a shame. Wait a second – Kate will probably want to hear what you have to say. Let me put her on the other phone.’

Kate came on the line.

‘Hello, Kate,’ said Kingston. ‘I was about to tell Alex my thoughts about Major Cooke’s journals.’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Kate.

‘Well, my considered opinion is that the books are, indeed, records of hybridizing. Given everything we know, it’s reasonable to conclude – though there’s no name affixed to any of them – that they belonged to Major Cooke.’

‘Isn’t there also the off-chance that they could have been compiled by the Farrow chap?’ Alex asked.

‘It’s immaterial. For whatever reason – as you already know – either or both used some kind of code to indicate all the crossings, the roses they used for cross-pollination, and all the accompanying notes. Unless we can break the code, we may never know whether your rose was the result of Major Cooke’s experiments or not. I’m afraid it’s starting to look as if we might be up against a brick wall.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Kate.

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

‘Like what?’ asked Alex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Really?’ said Kate.

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

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

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

‘What was that?’ asked Alex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Damned clever.’

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

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

‘Adell warned us to expect that.’

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

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

‘What was that?’

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

‘We thought that was clever,’ said Kate.

There was a long pause before Kingston responded.

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

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Alex.

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

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

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

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

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

‘What’s that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How is she?’

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

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

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

Kingston simply grunted.

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

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

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

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

‘Really?’

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

‘That was clever of you.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why do you say, “of all places”?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Pushing up daisies, not roses.’

‘Very good, Kate.’

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

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

‘What?’

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