He’d had plenty of time to think about the letter he’d promised to write, but he was now struggling to find not so much the right words but, more, the right tone. Of the several inspectors with whom he had collaborated, he’d decided to write to Detective Inspector Sheffield of the Thames Valley police. He’d chosen Sheffield because Oxfordshire bordered Gloucestershire, where Letty’s mum had disappeared. But despite what he’d told Letty, he knew it was highly unlikely that any letter, no matter how much bowing and scraping he did, or how persuasive he was, would result in reopening the case. After eight years, the odds of a break now were slim. Only new, compelling evidence would achieve that. He realized now that he had perhaps been far too indulgent and should have been more honest with her from the start.
Combing the Internet, he’d managed to find barely a handful of reports on the disappearance of Fiona McGuire, all brief and none revealing anything worthy of note. Given the modest press coverage and the passage of time, he wondered if Sheffield would be familiar with the case. And even if he was, would he be able to recall any details? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that if his letter fell on deaf ears, his request politely dismissed, it might not be such a bad thing. To the best of his ability, he would have fulfilled his promise to Letty. Staring at his ghosted reflection in the blank screen, he realized how petty and self-serving the thought was. He shook his head and started typing.
Dear Inspector Sheffield,
Recently, I had a chance meeting with a thirteen year-old named Letty McGuire. A bright child with an admirably persistent nature, she asked, innocently, if I would help to put her mind at rest by trying to find out what happened to her mother, who disappeared eight years ago. It grieved me to tell her that I was no longer active in such affairs and could not conduct an independent inquiry of any kind. However, in a moment of vulnerability in the company of one so young, distressed, and determined, I made a hasty promise: that I would break a self-imposed principle by contacting you, to ask for advice.
I realize that the Fiona McGuire case (the mother’s name) was handled by the Gloucester police and will be filed by now. Nevertheless, I am bound to ask you for any help you could provide, no matter how trivial or inconsequential, that could shed more light on the case, if nothing else, to give Letty a thread of hope to cling to or, at worst, confirm my suspicions that no proverbial stone has been left unturned to solve the case and that nothing more can be done.
The investigation started in the autumn of 2003, and the senior investigating officer on the case was Detective Inspector Endersby of the Gloucestershire Constabulary. If he is still on the force, and it doesn’t violate internal procedures, perhaps you could drop him a letter of inquiry, mentioning my request, asking his opinion, thoughts, and any advice that could be passed on to the child to bring closure, after all these years of uncertainty and grief.
I wish you well and appreciate your collaboration and consideration in this matter.
Sincerely,
Lawrence Kingston
He read the letter twice, making a few minor changes. While he would have preferred it to convey a more earnest and overtly compassionate plea for help, he knew that such a request would be considered presumptuous. He was satisfied, however—knowing the inspector as he did—that, if nothing else, the child’s long struggle with grieving and frustration over the loss of her mother would appeal to Sheffield’s sense of decency and justice. He checked it one last time, signed it, and tucked it into an addressed envelope ready for posting.
The days that followed continued in much the same predictable, though agreeable, pattern as they had since Kingston’s release from the hospital in Staffordshire almost a year earlier, after his brush with death in his last escapade. Outside the usual household chores, home maintenance and day-to-day demands of a domesticated existence, the tedium was relieved by the occasional lunch at the Antelope, and dinner now and then with Andrew, usually at the new restaurant du jour. One warm and cloudless afternoon a week ago, he took off alone on a spur-of-the-moment midweek walk through Kensington Gardens, and attended a West End play with his friend Henrietta—a bohemian artist type who had a habit of becoming brazenly amorous after a couple of gin and tonics—who had “scored” the tickets. He hadn’t asked how.
On this particular morning, a former student of his, one Evelyn Cotter, in London for two days, had called unexpectedly and, even though Kingston had no recollection of her, he agreed to meet her for a late lunch. He spent the entire meal regretting his decision. Barely stopping for a breath—even while eating—she droned on and on about her children, dragging out awful photos of them—her children, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t seem much older than a child herself. Kingston was shocked to learn she had just celebrated her fortieth birthday and relieved when, after more than two hours, she ran out of banal conversation. Never again, he swore to himself, as he walked home.
Back at the apartment, he found a stack of e-mails waiting for him, including one from his daughter, Julie, confirming details of his upcoming trip to America: that she would pick him up at SeaTac airport, advising him of how to dress for the weather in Seattle, et cetera, which reminded him to send her a note later that evening confirming the arrival of the plane tickets and thanking her again for the gift. He continued to scroll down his messages, finding next a notification from one of the online journals he still subscribed to: news of an unusual chance discovery of a new plant species in Costa Rica, which he flagged for further investigation. Following, were four e-mails from friends and, of course, the usual spate of junk mail.
His evening was planned. An early dinner: crab cakes, already prepared by his housekeeper, Mrs. Tripp and in the refrigerator, a crusty baguette, and a Waldorf salad accompanied by a chilled bottle of Savennières, his favorite Loire Valley chenin blanc. Afterward, he would stretch out, feet up, in his wingback and watch a new rented documentary about a year in the Burgundy vineyards and wineries. He’d finish off the night with the late TV news, catch up with day’s headline events, and then it would be off to bed.
Despite this sybaritic and citified lifestyle that most would envy, Kingston couldn’t help thinking of all this as a precursor, a paradigm for permanent retirement. Would it be like this from now on? If so, he knew it would quickly become intolerable, and he would soon be hankering after a new pursuit, a substitute for his years of crime solving. He also knew, of course, that nothing could replace the cerebral challenge and self-satisfaction derived from hunting down and bringing criminals to justice—the challenge of investigating.
Two weeks passed and still no word from Sheffield. Kingston was now starting to worry that Letty would think that he’d forgotten her, which was the last thing he wanted. He was thinking about phoning, when a letter finally arrived bearing the Thames Valley police insignia.
Dear Lawrence,
It was a pleasant surprise to hear from you after so long. Your recent exploits in Staffordshire gave me cause for concern, so it was gratifying to learn from your letter that you are none the worse for wear and had chosen to hang up your deerstalker, turning over the pursuit of the miscreants to us. I think I can speak for my colleagues in commending you for your prudent decision.
Were it not for an unexpected occurrence, I would have sent you a polite reply, informing you that your inquiry is strictly a matter for the Gloucester police and nothing more can be done—for they have informed me that the case is now filed as undetected. For better or worse, such a reply would have resolved your dilemma and you would no longer feel beholden to the child and could start planning that round-the-world cruise.
There is, however, an alternative and perhaps a more satisfactory solution to your dilemma. The aforementioned “occurrence” concerns a detective sergeant who was transferred to the Thames Valley force several years ago. By a stroke of serendipity, the policewoman, Emma Dixon, was formerly with Gloucestershire Constabulary CID and had worked on the McGuire case. She has since retired, after an automobile a
ccident left her permanently disabled.
Lawrence, none of us wish to be complicit in either encouraging or enabling you to continue an active investigation into this case. To the contrary, I would urge that you seriously consider not doing so. However, it occurred to me that with Emma Dixon’s cooperation, the two of you might be able to arrive at a resolution that would satisfy everyone’s best interest, particularly that of the child. If Emma Dixon were to explain, one on one, to Letty McGuire everything she knows about the mother’s disappearance, there’s a good chance that the child would accept the word of a policewoman intimate with the case. If nothing else, she might be persuaded, once and for all, to abandon her search for the truth, realizing that to continue could only mean further pain and, quite possibly, long-term psychological damage. Most of all, she should be persuaded to focus instead on her own future.
I have discussed this with both Emma and a senior officer on the Gloucester force, and she will be expecting to hear from you. She lives in Winchcombe. Her phone number is 01386-796-4300. For the sake of both the child and you, I hope that the matter reaches a satisfactory conclusion.
Regards,
M. K. Sheffield
Kingston smiled. He was pleased not just to hear from Sheffield but also to learn about Emma Dixon. He put the letter aside, recalling the time, several years ago, when he was sitting across from Sheffield in the interview room at Oxford police station being grilled and excoriated at the same time for “meddling” in police matters.
Sheffield could be officious, and sometimes supercilious, but as they got to know each other, Kingston had grown to respect the man. It would have been easy for Sheffield to have withheld all information about Emma Dixon’s involvement in the McGuire case and left it at that. But he understood that Kingston was searching for something more than just a convenient resolution and had been thinking more of Letty McGuire than the letter of the law.
He was even more pleased after speaking with Emma Dixon. He had reached her right away, and she had sounded both pleasant and genuinely interested in trying to help. They agreed to meet at her home in the charming town of Winchcombe, Gloucestershire, two days hence, which pleased him no end. The Cotswolds were one of loveliest parts of England, and it would be a respite to get out of London for a change of scenery, if only for a day.
Coincidentally, he had been thinking about taking a trip to that part of the country for several days now. He had an old friend who worked not too far from Emma’s whom he hadn’t seen for several years, so the timing couldn’t be better. He picked up the phone to invite Andrew.
3
THE HE PHONE CALL that would give Kingston’s rather humdrum existence a second shot in the arm within a few days came the following afternoon, after he had just returned home from lunch with Andrew at the Antelope pub. Over excellent pasta, they had discussed, among other things, their upcoming jaunt to Winchcombe to talk with Emma Dixon about Letty’s plight and, time permitting, a visit to nearby Belmaris Castle to see the gardens—especially the antique roses. Of the two, Andrew had shown more interest in the first—but Kingston knew Andrew well enough to know that what had really persuaded him to go along for the ride was the prospect of both lunch and dinner in the same day, gastro pub or up-and-coming restaurant.
Kingston picked up the phone. He recognized the voice right away.
“Hello, Lawrence, It’s Clifford. Glad I caught you. I imagined you off on another of your escapades. Held hostage in a drafty mountain cabin somewhere in Wales.” He chuckled.
Clifford Attenborough, a longtime friend and former colleague of Kingston’s at Edinburgh University, was director of horticulture at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. His only daughter was named after Kingston’s late wife, Megan.
“What a nice surprise to hear your voice, Clifford. It’s been far too long.”
“It certainly has. How are you? Still driving the coppers crazy?”
“Not really. After that episode in Stafford, everybody’s telling me to pack it in. They’re probably right, I suppose.”
“Good advice, I’d say.”
“So what’s going on at Kew?”
“A couple of things, actually. The main reason I’m calling concerns a directive I just received from the top brass. It deals with a letter from “Whitehall” describing a series of upcoming meetings and conferences between top-level government officials and leading scientists from a variety of specialties. The reason for the conference is the growing concern of homeowners, landowners, and some businesses over the proliferation of land acquisition by environmental agencies in the name of critical habitat—endangered species, that sort of thing. Some cities and counties have got into the fray, too, apparently. Anyway, your name was put forward as one of the potential botanists on the committee.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought it would be right up your alley, Lawrence. Great crested newt, Glanville fritillary, creeping marshwort—all that sort of stuff. Particularly since you’re now at a loose end, so to speak.”
“To tell the truth, Clifford, I’m not—”
“Oh, I forgot to mention, for a government project, the compensation and expenses are generous, to say the least.”
“Well, I was about to say I’m not doing anything in particular in the coming weeks, so—what the heck?”
“Excellent. I know you’ll liven things up, which is what these people need. That’s only my personal opinion, of course. I’ll send you all the details, dates, et cetera, in the next few days.”
After talking for another five minutes or so, about Clifford’s upcoming retirement after forty years of service to Kew and personal and trivial matters, Kingston was about to say goodbye when Clifford interrupted.
“There was one other matter that will pique your curiosity, Lawrence.”
“Right. You said ‘a couple of things.’”
“It’s about a recent discovery in the United States.”
Not another new plant species, Kingston was thinking.
“It’s not at all what you’re thinking. It’s about a rose they’ve just discovered, growing on Alcatraz Island, of all places.”
“You mean the former prison?”
“Exactly.”
“What about it? What makes it special?”
“Two things. First, it’s over two centuries old and was last known to have grown only in England. And second, it was declared extinct over fifty years ago.”
“I’m having trouble believing this.”
“Indeed, but it’s true. I’ll e-mail you a copy of the newspaper report that I received from our friends at Ravenshill Botanical Garden in Sonoma County.”
After hanging up. Kingston stared into space for a moment. What had started out to be just another ho-hum day had certainly gone topsy-turvy.
For the better, or to make life more complicated? He wondered.
When Kingston went into his office the next morning, Clifford’s e-mail was in his in-box.
Two-Hundred-Year-Old Extinct English Rose
Shows Up on Alcatraz
BY DOUGLAS LEE CHAMBERS
San Francisco, CA⎯A rare, now extinct, rose that grew for 200 years in a famous English garden but perished 50 years ago was discovered last month in an overgrown patch on Alcatraz Island, former site of the infamous prison in San Francisco Bay. The inexplicable reincarnation has led some to speculate that Al Capone might have once sniffed its fragrance.
The red-and-black rose was first cultivated in the 19th century by Samuel Cavendish, an English grower. It is named the Belmaris Rose, after Belmaris Castle in Gloucestershire, once home to Katherine Parr, the last of Henry VIII’s six wives.
Thought to be lost forever, and considered among the rarest of the some 100,000 known rose varieties, it was discovered by a team of Bay Area rosarians from the Heritage Rose Group visiting the island to search for and take cuttings of rare roses. Greg Robinson, a member of the team, spotted the diminutive Belmaris in a weedy, overrun area that was
once part of the head warden’s garden. “There it was. A tiny blossom, waving in the breeze above a thicket of brambles,” Robinson recalled, noting his astonishment at the rose’s ability to survive all these years in the wild, in a climate inhospitable to all but the hardiest native species.
Alcatraz historian Andy Harris was similarly puzzled, though for different reasons. “The real mystery here,” Harris stated, “is how the rose traveled over 5,000 miles, from the shores of England all the way to Alcatraz.”
Harris went on to say that one of the Alcatraz wardens was known to be a keen gardener and cultivated a rose garden behind the house. Only on rare occasions were inmates permitted outside the confines of the prison walls. Among the very few awarded that privilege were model prisoners who worked in the warden’s garden and two or three other cultivated areas on the island. This would rule out the Al Capone flight of fancy.
Robinson, who owns Past Perfect, a Sebastopol, California, nursery specializing in old garden and species roses, took cuttings of the errant rose and will eventually be sending a shipment to Belmaris Castle, where a special ceremony is planned to welcome it home after its globetrotting travels. He will also be introducing the distinctive dark crimson rose, with its pronounced yellow stamens, to his inventory.
Kingston’s thoughts had turned instinctively to the hoax of the century—the infamous Piltdown Man fraud. The discovery, in 1912, of a skull and jawbone in a gravel pit at Piltdown in East Sussex, set off a worldwide clamor, when the remains were certified by paleontologists and other experts as belonging to a hitherto unknown form of early man. Even the British Museum was unwittingly complicit, helping to reconstruct the skull. In time, this led to a scientific “consensus” that the Piltdown Man represented an evolutionary “missing link” between ape and man.
6.The Alcatraz Rose Page 2
