The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Graham never did return. After a few more pleasantries Mrs Cooke accompanied Kate and Alex to the front door where they said their goodbyes.

  Early the next morning Kate and Alex received a call from Graham, saying that he was going to be in Marlborough the following day and could drop off his uncle’s books on the way back. ‘Just for the record, I’ve made a list of them,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it in one of the boxes. Still don’t know what you want with them,’ he added. Kate asked whether he could drop them off before nine thirty or after six, since they would both be working that day. Graham said he would try.

  The next evening, when Kate arrived home from her shop, two large cardboard boxes containing Major Cooke’s books and sundry papers were sitting on the front door porch. There was no note from Graham. She carried the boxes, one by one, into the kitchen and placed them side by side on the floor. She was about to open one, out of curiosity, then decided to wait for Alex. Right then, she heard Alex’s car pull up outside, with the quick toot of the Alfa’s horn that always announced his arrival.

  Kate poured two glasses of wine while Alex slit open the top of the first box with his Swiss Army knife.

  ‘There’s more than I thought,’ said Kate. ‘No wonder the boxes were so heavy.’

  Kate sat cross-legged, put her glass beside her and started to take out the books, placing them in neat stacks on the floor. ‘There’s some really nice gardening books here, by the looks of it,’ she said, holding one up and studying its cover. ‘Hmm, this looks smashing, Visions of Paradise.’ She handed it to Alex.

  Slowly they examined each book, and the miscellaneous printed items.

  Alex cut open the flap of the second box and took out the top book.

  ‘This looks more interesting,’ he said.

  Kate looked up from a garden club newsletter she was reading to see him leafing through a slim book with a dark red cover. ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked, handing it to her.

  ‘Most curious,’ she said, studying a couple of the pages.

  ‘There’s another like it here,’ he said, rummaging through the box. ‘In fact there are quite a lot of them. Journals of some sort, by the looks of it.’

  ‘It’s all gobbledygook. It doesn’t make any sense,’ Kate said, without looking up.

  Alex was examining the second journal. ‘This one’s the same,’ he said.

  Soon the box was emptied and a stack of books with identical bindings sat in front of him.

  Kate placed her book on top of the pile and counted them. ‘There’s eleven,’ she said. ‘If it’s Major Cooke’s writing, he certainly was a neat old codger.’

  ‘It must be some kind of code.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. We might be on to something, Alex.’

  ‘Major Cooke’s hybridizing records, in code?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I know someone who would, I bet.’

  ‘Kingston.’

  ‘Right.’

  Chapter Six

  All gardeners need to know when to accept something wonderful and unexpected, taking no credit except for letting it be.

  Allen Lacy, garden writer

  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 buzz
ed. 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, recor
ds 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.’