The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
William Cullen Bryant
The loud slamming of a door woke Kate with a start. Shouting followed, voices raised in anger. An argument was going on downstairs. She slipped out of bed and groped her way around it, following the duvet, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Reaching the door, she placed an ear against the cold oak panel. She heard nothing. The argument must have ended. The only sound was the monotonous croaking of the frogs outside.
She was part way back towards the bed when she heard one of the men speak again. His voice was not quite loud enough for her to make out the words. She stood very still. In the past, if she had heard them at all, their voices were always muffled, impossible to understand. Tonight was different. They must be in the hallway. She tiptoed back to the door, placing her ear against it.
‘For Christ’s sake, shut up! I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ The voice was certainly American, though Kate detected an underlying accent. It sounded vaguely Italian.
‘I’ll give it a couple more days and I’m getting the fuck out of here.’
‘Tell that to Wolff.’ The Italian voice again.
A period of silence followed. Then she heard a creak on the staircase.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Jesus! Relax, Marcus. I was only going up to see how the little lady’s doing.’ His accent was very American, lazy-sounding, as if he could have been slightly drunk.
A shiver ran through her. She didn’t like the sound of it. ‘Get down here, you stupid son of a bitch,’ the man with the Italian accent shouted. He seemed to be the one in charge.
She pressed her ear even harder against the door. The stair creaked a couple more times. She hoped the other man was backing down and not coming up the stairs.
‘I decide who goes up there and when.’ His voice was angry and loud. ‘Me. Do you understand?’
If the other man answered, she didn’t hear it.
She thought they’d probably gone into one of the downstairs rooms when she heard them again.
‘How many fuckin’ times do we have to go over this, Billy? How many goddamned times do I have to repeat myself? All I know is that Ira has finally made a deal with this Sheppard guy. He’s not really–’ She couldn’t catch the next words. She figured that one of them was now in the hallway and the other was somewhere else because she was only hearing one side of the conversation.
‘Don’t keep asking me the same dumb question. I don’t fuckin’ know!’ He punched the words out. ‘They’re meeting at a place called Compton’s on Sunday. That’s all he told me. That’s all. He wants me to–’ She lost the end of the sentence.
A brief silence followed. Then the argument resumed, but less contentiously. It was now much harder to hear what they were saying. Kate could only pick up snatches of their conversation.
‘I don’t know, Ira didn’t say.’
Another silence.
‘Well, you tell Ira I’m getting pissed off. I’m just–’
A door slammed.
‘Okay – go ahead, then – you talk to him, you dumb shit. You’ve probably woken him up by now, anyway.’
The exchange suddenly gave way to the faint sound of music.
Then she heard a woman’s voice.
She realized someone had turned on a radio or the TV.
A door closed again. Then it went quiet.
She kept her ear pressed to the door for a few minutes more, in case they started talking again. But they didn’t.
The faintest sound of gunfire and explosions reached her room. They were obviously watching television.
She listened for another minute, then went back to bed. What a stroke of luck it had been, her eavesdropping at just that very moment. She lay there going back over what she’d heard. Who was this man Ira, she wondered? Was he Wolff or was Wolff another man? And what kind of deal had he made with Alex? The only possible deal she could think of was that Alex had somehow tracked down the blue rose, got it back, and was exchanging it for her release. That seemed a lot to ask. If Alex hadn’t got the rose back, then what was he trading?
She closed her eyes. Not to sleep, though. There would be no sleep tonight. What and where was Compton’s, she wondered? How long was it to Sunday? The questions swirled in her mind but for now she had to put them aside. She had to stay focused. She guessed daybreak was probably only another six hours or so away. By then she should have the window out.
A businesslike Rottweiler, gurgling ominously and baring shiny drooling teeth, greeted Alex and Kingston at the entrance to Compton and Sons. They stood respectfully in the dubious safety of the other side of the wooden gate, neither prepared to test the beast’s resolve.
‘Hang on a minute,’ a voice said from behind a nearby shed. ‘Let me get Tyson. He’s really a pussycat when he gets to know you.’
‘Which with any luck will be never,’ Alex said under his breath.
The words came from a husky young man with a florid face and lank, shoulder-length hair. He was wearing an old leather jerkin, ripped blue jeans and mud-spattered, black Wellington boots. He grabbed the dog’s metal-studded collar and yanked him to a sitting position. ‘Can I help you blokes? You can come in – he’s all right,’ he said, nodding at the dog.
Kingston slid the rusty bolt on the gate and opened it just wide enough to slip through. Alex stayed put. Kingston walked up to the young man and started to offer his hand. Upon noticing the brown muck that covered the man’s hands and forearms, he quickly withdrew it. Restrained, just out of striking distance, Tyson rumbled menacingly.
‘Good morning. My name’s Lawrence Kingston. That’s my photographer, Alex Sheppard,’ Kingston said, gesturing to the gate.
Alex nodded dutifully, the Nikon 35mm with 80-200mm zoom lens dangling convincingly on his chest. He felt ill at ease with the deception, just as he had when Kingston had first proposed the charade, or ‘ruse’, as he’d called it, on the drive down. He wondered why he’d ever agreed to do it. ‘This had better bloody work, Lawrence,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the young man replied. ‘I’m Reggie.’
‘I’ve been assigned to do a magazine story on England’s famous rose growers,’ Kingston said, ladling on the Oxford accent. ‘We’ve been up to Albrighton and talked with David Austin – splendid fellow – and we’re seeing Peter Beales next week. We’d like to include a bit on Compton and Sons. Frightfully good publicity, you know.’
Tyson barked noisily. Alex jumped.
‘It would be, I’m sure. I’m afraid CC ain’t here right now, though.’ He gave the dog a threatening look and yanked its collar. ‘That would be Charlie Compton, the owner. Tell you what – why don’t you go over to the office there and talk to Emma – that’s his secretary. She does the books and that sort of thing. Tell her you just had a natter with Reggie.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Kingston, thanking him.
Alex remained behind the safety of the gate, making sure the dog was well out of striking range before he deigned to enter.
Kingston waved at Alex to come in. ‘For God’s sake, Alex, it’s only a dog.’
‘A labrador’s a dog, Lawrence,’ said Alex, joining Kingston. ‘A spaniel, a retriever, a corgi, a chihuahua – they’re dogs. That bloody thing over there’s a killer if I ever saw one.’
As Reggie led him away, Tyson’s panting head was turned back, his bloodshot eyes locked on Alex and Kingston. Alex turned away from the sight with a shudder as he and Kingston headed across the gravel yard toward the office.
‘You’ve got some bloody nerve,’ said Alex. ‘I just hope to God they don’t find out right off the bat that we’re a couple of impostors.’
‘Stop worrying, Alex. I’ll tell them the truth when the time’s right.’
Emma was pert and petite. Seen close up, it was apparent that a good share of her spare time and spare change were spent on Estée Lauder, Clairol and the Body Shop.
She welcomed Alex and Kingston as though they’d just been washed up on her desert island, clearly overjoyed to have not just one but two men to flirt with. With a toothpaste smile, and a wiggle to straighten out her tight skirt, she stood up from her cluttered desk to greet them. She had kind eyes, Alex thought. For some reason, though, they looked older than the rest of her.
Kingston oozed charm and good breeding. Emma listened, wide-eyed, as he explained the reason for their unheralded visit. ‘Ooh! CC will definitely want to talk with you. He’s been on holiday in Florida for ten days. Supposed to get back tonight. We could do with the publicity. My goodness, Gardens Illustrated, of all things,’ she cooed. ‘Do you have a card I could leave for him?’
Kingston managed to wink at Alex while Emma was not looking. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her two cards. ‘I know it’s awfully short notice and all that but we’d like to interview him tomorrow, if possible.’ My God, Alex said to himself, in awe of Kingston’s thoroughness, he’s even printed up phony cards.
‘I would imagine he’ll be a bit tired after a long flight, but I’m sure he’ll want to see you – he’s a big fan of your magazine.’ Emma turned to face the wall. ‘See,’ she said, pointing with a cerise-tipped finger to a neat row of magazines on a nearby bookshelf. ‘Been getting it since it first came out. Really look forward to it, I do. Matter of fact, your editor sat next to CC at a Royal Horticultural Club do, only just recently. A very nice lady, he said she was.’
‘She is,’ Kingston replied.
‘You know her, then?’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Can’t think of her name. Her picture’s always in the front of the magazine.’
Kingston looked casually about the room.
A hollow feeling suddenly materialized in the region of Alex’s midriff.
‘Know her quite well, actually, ‘Kingston said, with an ingratiating smile. ‘Rosie Atkins.’
‘That’s her,’ Emma said snapping her fingers.
Alex was dumbfounded. He looked at Kingston’s smug expression and shook his head. The nagging thoughts he’d had about their plan misfiring had now evaporated.
‘Look around all you want, boys. And if the workmen can’t answer your questions, you just come back and I’ll give it a go. Failing that, CC’ll be here tomorrow. I know he’d just love to meet you.’
Before they left, Emma sketched out a crude diagram of the grounds, handing it to Kingston. ‘You will come back before you leave, won’t you? I’ll make some tea,’ she said, with a tilt of her head, pursing her coral lips. Assuring her that they would, they thanked her and, with a renewed sense of purpose and confidence, walked out into the gravel yard. Alex was relieved to see that Tyson was nowhere in sight.
After studying Emma’s map, they followed the perimeter cyclone fence for nearly a quarter of a mile to the far corner of the growing grounds. Twenty raised beds planted with evenly spaced rose bushes stretched out in front of them, reaching all the way to the other side of the field. Kingston estimated that there were between two and three thousand of them. Some bore many blossoms, others none. Galvanized metal markers identified sections with numerals – no rose names. Taking separate rows, they strolled up and down the grassy paths searching for Sapphire.
‘I doubt very much that she’s here,’ Kingston said. ‘These all look like hybrid tea roses. She would stick out like a sore thumb in the middle of this lot.’
‘That’s not a very well-chosen simile, Lawrence.’
‘Unintentional, old chap.’
Satisfied that Sapphire was not lurking among the HTs, as Kingston called them, they turned their attention to an area which Emma had marked on the map as Section Number 2. It was a smaller version of the main field but planted with roses in a much earlier stage of growth. A quick glance told them that Sapphire was not there, either.
‘Let’s look in the greenhouses,’ Kingston said. ‘I can’t think why they would want to put her under glass – but you never know.’ After ten minutes of searching, they emerged from the third and last greenhouse. Still no sign of Sapphire. They walked past three dilapidated old barns, peering curiously inside the first one through the partially open door. The only meagre light inside filtered through cracks between some of the old timbers. As Kingston pulled the creaking door wider, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the opening, illuminating a veil of hovering mosquitoes. As their eyes adjusted to the dimness, they saw that it had once been a stable for horses or livestock. Now it was evidently just used for storage. ‘She certainly won’t be in there,’ Kingston said, closing the rickety door. They wandered aimlessly around the office area and a corner of the yard used for composting. Kingston perused the map one more time, then shook his head. ‘If Emma’s sketch is accurate, we’ve covered every damned inch of the place.’
With nowhere left to search, they sat on a crude bench caked with dried bird droppings. A flatbed truck was parked behind it, against a tall hedge.
‘So much for my brilliant powers of deduction,’ Kingston shrugged, looking downcast.
Alex, fidgeting with the strap of the camera case, remained silent.
Kingston had rolled Emma’s map into a tight tube and was tapping it nervously on his knee. ‘I’d have bet the farm that that damned rose was here. I could feel it in my bones.’
‘Looks like your bones were wrong,’ Alex said. ‘This is an absolute disaster.’ All he could think of was what would happen tomorrow when Wolff ’s men arrived to find no rose. They were startled by a furious outburst of snarling and barking. The din came from behind the barns.
‘Tyson’s about to go in for the kill, by the sound of it,’ Alex muttered. They were both staring abjectly at the ground when Reggie appeared from behind one of the barns trundling a squeaky wheelbarrow filled with compost. He stopped in front of them, rubbing his beefy hands down the side of his jeans. ‘Old Tyson gets right pissed off when those cats bug him. One of these days one of ’em’s gonna get too close and kiss its ninth life tata!’
‘Where is he?’ Alex asked, subconsciously measuring the distance to the Alfa.
‘Up there behind them old sheds, mate. We keep him there when there’s blokes like you around. Most of the time – and at night – he gets the run of the place.’ He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and started to walk away. ‘Ain’t had a burglary yet,’ he added with a cocky laugh.
Kingston stood up from the bench, letting Emma’s map flutter to the ground. ‘Sheds,’ he said to Alex. ‘Emma didn’t put any sheds on the map.’ He pulled on his earlobe – a sure sign that he was on to something. ‘Come on,’ he said, picking up the piece of paper.
Alex followed Kingston at a jog across the yard, between the narrow gap separating the old blackened barns. Reaching the end, they came up against a high chain-link fence. On the other side was a paddock about thirty feet wide and running the full length of the sheds in the back. Weeds and tufts of grass covered most of the fenced-in area.
‘Well – I’ll – be – damned!’ Kingston said, articulating each word. ‘There she is. Incredible!’ He was pointing to a wooden planter box in the corner of the paddock next to the padlocked gates. It was large, close to three feet high and about the same measurement in width and depth.
‘There’s still quite a few blooms on her,’ said Alex.
‘Those will be new.’ Kingston shook his head. ‘Even more amazing. Not only blue but remontant.’
‘Remontant?’
‘It means repeat flowering. Most old roses flower only once a season. I’d assumed that would be true of Sapphire.’
Even from where they stood, staring open-mouthed through the chain-link fence, the rose exuded an ethereal aura. But there was something distinctly unsettling about its perfection. The brilliance of its sapphire blossoms stood out, as if luminous, against the dark foliage and blur of scarlet thorns. Now, with the full knowledge of its savage and lethal secret, it seemed imbued with heightened provocation – a beauty even more awesome, more unworldly than before. Alex shivered and looked away.
When he turned to face the paddock again, he gasped and took two steps backwards. Tyson was hurtling towards them with the force of a runaway locomotive. Together, they jumped back reflexively as the Rottweiler crashed into the fence, shoulder high, in front of them. Alex swore later that he saw the chain links move nine inches, the impact was so great. The fence flexed, as if about to give way, then catapulted the hapless Tyson through the air. Hitting the ground in a rolling black and brown dust-ball he finally came to a whimpering rest, about twenty feet from Alex and Kingston.
‘Serves you bloody right,’ Alex muttered.
‘Let’s take a couple of pictures, Alex.’
Alex nodded, still trying to take it all in. A few minutes ago, sitting on the bench, he had experienced a gut-wrenching sense of fear when it appeared that they were not going to find the rose after all. His thoughts had instantly turned to Kate, and the gnawing dread of what Wolff ’s men might do if they arrived to find that there was no blue rose at Compton’s. Now, suddenly, it was all reversed – Kingston’s hunch had paid off. Euphoria like nothing he had ever known surged through him. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was trembling.
‘Alex,’ Kingston prompted.
Alex, still thinking about Kate, didn’t respond. He simply took out the camera and removed the lens cap. Then, using the telephoto lens, he took several shots of the rose and a couple of Tyson for good measure. The dog obligingly bared his shiny teeth. Then Alex put the Nikon carefully back into the case.
Pressing down the Velcro tabs on the case, Alex thought about Emma and how she would react when confronted with his and Kingston’s deception and the disclosure about the rose’s homicidal past. He pictured her, teapot in hand, as Kingston stripped away his mask, telling her in all seriousness that the rose out in the paddock was not only blue but had also killed four people. She’d think that they had both just escaped from the loony bin. He started to chuckle.
‘What do you find so bloody amusing?’ Kingston asked, turning away from the fence, starting to walk towards the office.
‘I was trying to picture Emma’s face when you tell her that the rose is a serial killer,’ Alex said, following him. ‘Would you like me to take a snapshot of her reaction?’
‘Don’t be facetious. We’re not going to tell her. At least, not yet.’
‘Lawrence, you can’t be serious. We must at least warn her not to let anybody touch it.’
‘Not for the moment, Alex.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake? That damned rose is a time bomb!’
‘I hear what you’re saying, but let me explain. First, we know that Compton’s not coming back from his holiday until tonight. Between now and then it’s unlikely that anybody will go near it. Plus, it’s a weekend, too. If it weren’t safely under lock and key, I might feel differently. But if we tell Emma, the first thing she’ll certainly do is tell Compton all about it later tonight or first thing tomorrow. I want to save that little surprise for us. Plus, she might call the police. We are, after all, impostors.’
Alex shrugged. ‘You make a good point.’
‘Let’s go and have a cup of Emma’s tea before we leave.’ He looked across at Alex. ‘Don’t you feel a trifle better now, Alex? Now that we’ve found the rose?’
Alex didn’t reply. The look on his face said it all.
It was four thirty in the afternoon when they finally left Compton’s. They were headed for Lewes where Kingston had booked rooms at the Cross Keys, a three star hotel in the centre of town.
Alex took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at Kingston, who was studying an Egon Ronay guidebook. ‘Lawrence,’ he said, ‘I take back everything I said the other day – you know, about your crossword puzzle theory, not believing you.’ He looked back at the road. ‘You were right after all. It was damned clever of you. And – well what I’m trying to say is, thanks.’
‘No need to thank me, old chap. Not right now anyway. Maybe tomorrow when you’ve got your arms around Kate, eh?’
‘God, I hope so,’ Alex sighed.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the hotel car park. Alex yanked the handbrake on and was about to get out of the car. He turned to Kingston, frowning. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask you – how the hell did you know the name of the editor of Gardens Illustrated? For one horrible moment, I really thought we’d been rumbled.’
‘It was the truth, old chap. I’ve known her for a long while. As a matter of fact, I had lunch with her a couple of months ago.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I might have guessed,’ he said.