6.The Alcatraz Rose (10 page)

How on earth, he wondered, had the book ended up in Fiona’s possession when, according to Emma, no evidence had surfaced to suggest that either Fiona or her husband, Terry, had any interest in gardening? Furthermore, it hadn’t been stated that the flat they’d rented had a garden. Even if it had, he doubted that either of them would have appreciated or been inspired by such a scholarly and esoteric work like
The
Old Shrub Roses
. What’s more, it is somewhat unusual for a novice rose grower to start with old garden roses.

He started to leaf slowly through the pages, looking for the penciled notes Emma had mentioned.

The first appeared on the right border of page 30. Faint but legible, it read
Celsiana, damask, pre 1750
. On page 45 there was another:
Madame Plantier, hybrid Alba, 1835, to 6 feet
. Similar notes appeared on six more pages, each referring to a specific old European shrub rose, listing a date and, occasionally, growing characteristics. Kingston saw nothing unusual about them; they were probably specific roses recommended to the person who’d received the book as suitable for planting in his or her garden.

He began flipping through the pages faster, ignoring the few additional notes. At the very end of the book, as he was about to close it, he noticed a final entry on the last right-hand blank page. It was considerably longer than any of the others. His eyes narrowed as he read it.

In terms of rarity, there is one other rose worth mentioning, even though it may now be impossible to locate. It’s called the Belmaris rose, a climber, easily growing to 20 feet or more. It is undated but known to have existed in the garden at Belmaris Castle* in Gloucestershire for several centuries. While its lineage is unknown, it comes with historic English provenance, striking red-black coloration, and a subtle fragrance of lily of the valley with hints of myrrh; overall a rose of indubitable grace. It would be a prize exhibit in any garden—a conversation piece—because, in addition to its other laudable qualities, I believe it has been classified as extinct. From a collectible viewpoint, I can’t think of another that would serve our purposes better. You might want to initiate your inquiries at Belmaris
.

*Kings Henry VIII, Charles I, and Richard III; Queens Katherine Parr and Anne Boleyn; Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth I all played parts in Belmaris’s story
.

R
.

Kingston’s eyes were riveted on the orderly handwriting.

He read the paragraph and its footnote again. Two things struck him as worthy of note. First was the accuracy of the horticultural and historical credentials of the rose and the succinct yet informative manner
in which it was described. The second—more revealing, he thought—was the language and style of writing. He pictured the writer as being if not elderly, then certainly mature. In a few words, using short sentences, he or she had painted an expressive and explicit picture of the rose that demonstrated not only an impressive feel for the language but also excellent writing ability. Few people that he knew used words like “indubitable” and “laudable” in their everyday jotting. Something about the spelling niggled at him, too, but he wasn’t sure what.

Despite all that, the mention of Belmaris Castle raised implications far more thought-provoking and perplexing than simply the description of a plant and good prose. Until now, the idea he’d harbored since returning from Gloucestershire had been nothing more than a fanciful “what-if,” an idle supposition he’d summarily rejected whenever it had entered his mind. Now his pie-in-the-sky theory suddenly looked as if it might not be so crazy after all. He leaned back, chin rested on the forefinger of his clasped hand, wondering how Emma would react when he told her.

He couldn’t read it any other way: Unlikely as it seemed, he was now convinced that there was a connection of some kind between the Alcatraz rose and Fiona or Terry McGuire.

Perhaps with Reginald Payne’s murder as well.

It took until eleven o’clock the next morning for him to catch up with Emma. She sounded breathless when she answered the phone. “Sorry, Lawrence,” she huffed, “I’ve just lugged in three big sacks of potting soil from the car. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How are you? All right, I trust?”

“Couldn’t be better, thanks. I’m calling about the book.”

“It’s important, I take it?”

“Yes. I think it could be. It concerns the handwritten notes on some of the pages. Clearly these were meant to highlight specific roses as recommendations or suggestions for the reader to consider growing.”

“Makes sense,” she said, sounding considerably less enthusiastic than he had hoped. “But I don’t see how—”

“That’s not all. There’s a longer notation on the last page. One that describes a single rose in considerable detail, including its growing habit, pedigree, fragrance—and its rarity.”

“And?”

Careful not to sound too carried away, he voiced his next words with more restraint. “The rose described on the last page is the Belmaris rose. And it’s named as such.”

He paused, curious to see how she would respond. She didn’t—not for several seconds.

“What you’re suggesting is that your mysterious rose is somehow associated with the McGuires. Is that it?”

“That’s right. Which suggests that our friend Reginald could well be the
R
who signed the book.”

“I’m not quite sure why you’re insisting that makes him suspect. It could still have been someone else—a Roger, a Robert, or a Rita? And one of the McGuires could still have bought it at a rummage sale.”

“All true—if it were any old rose. But it’s not; it’s the Belmaris rose. An extremely rare variety—in fact, I don’t think it’s mentioned in any of Graham Stuart Thomas’s books, and he’s the ultimate authority. Furthermore, according to Jimmy Cosworth, Belmaris’s head gardener, Payne, would have known about the rose when it was growing there and had plenty of opportunity to nick some cuttings. Now we have a rose book, signed by someone whose first name begins with
R
, and furthermore, one that includes a full description of the Belmaris rose by name. This is more than coincidence.”

“Added to which, he was murdered,” Emma interjected. “Or so says Mrs. what’s-her-name.”

“If he’d died of old age it wouldn’t change matters, would it?”

“Perhaps not,” she conceded after a pause, as if still not completely persuaded.

“If I’m right, it also means that the Alcatraz rose mystery and Fiona’s disappearance are connected in some way.”

“You could draw that conclusion, I suppose.” Another pause. “All right, Lawrence, supposing I go along with your theory. If the two
events are indeed connected, how or why was Reginald Payne associated with the McGuires? And what does it have to do with Fiona going missing?”

“I’ve asked myself the same questions, and I’m damned if I know. But if we’re right, the next question is, Where do we go from here?”

“You mean, where do
you
go? Perhaps you’re forgetting I’ve not yet agreed to help you in this escapade.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, Emma. But if we could find out more about Payne, what he did these last sixty years or so, and how he died, that might be a good start.”

There was another pause, and then he caught what sounded like a slight chuckle on the other end.

“Goodness,” she said, “you’re even more bloody-minded than I was led to believe!”

“Is it asking too much?” he asked, ignoring the accusation.

“I’m not sure. I’d have to pose that question to DI Endersby, my former boss. I haven’t the foggiest idea of where I stand in a situation of this type. That brings me back to the question you asked at the Ivy, about helping you solve the riddle of the Alcatraz rose. I never gave you an answer, and for that I owe you an apology. It was rude of me.”

“It’s not necessary. It was probably disrespectful of me to ask in the first place.”

“Well, I’ve given it more thought and, against my better judgment, have decided to give it a try. It’ll give me something to do, and I might learn a few things about roses along the way.”

“Yes,” Kingston said, wishing Emma could see his smile. “Yes, and you will. That’s wonderful news. I’m—”

“There’s one caveat, however,” she interrupted. “If the search leads to areas that are even vaguely criminal, I won’t be able to continue without express guidance from those upstairs at Gloucester police.”

“Of course. I understand completely. And I couldn’t be more delighted. I think Andrew will be chuffed, too.”

“I hope so. So, getting back to Mr. Payne and the McGuires, specifically—where
do
we go from here, Inspector? What do you think the next step should be?”

“Perhaps a return visit to Payne’s house might be as good as any. With luck we might encounter someone other than that tight-lipped woman, Reggie’s niece. Mrs. Davenport at the pub said she thought the niece’s mother was also living there. If we could talk to her, she might be more cooperative.”

“If she is Reginald’s sister—which seems probable—then I’d expect her to know a lot about him.”

“That’s true,” Kingston said, encouraged by Emma’s more receptive mood.

She continued, “If we do get lucky and get to talk with her—or anyone else, for that matter—you’ve no doubt given thought to revealing who we are or why we want to know. We can hardly show up on the doorstep expecting her to blithely discuss her brother’s life story to a couple of complete strangers, no matter how presentable and charming we might be.”

“I’ve always found a little creative fibbing works quite well, actually. Perfectly harmless and does away with what can sometimes end up being embarrassing explanations.”

“Why do I not find that surprising? I can’t wait to know what our cover is going to be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kingston said, “though we may have to carry false identification. I’m sure I can come up with something that will be convincing and not raise suspicion.”

“Good grief!”

“Look, Emma, joking aside, I’d be happy to go alone, if you prefer. But I think it would be much better if we go together.”

“If you want to keep the peace with Andrew, you really can’t go alone.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“All right. I’ll start by making a couple of phone calls to see if I can find out more about the circumstances of Payne’s death.”

“Excellent. Let me know when you’d like to go, and I’ll run down and pick you up. Payne’s place isn’t far from you, just east of Cheltenham.”

The conversation ended, and Kingston put down the phone with a satisfied smile on his face.

The game, he thought, was afoot.

10

A
BOUT MIDAFTERNOON FOUR
days later, Kingston parked on the grass-edged lane outside Beechwood, Reginald Payne’s house. As arranged, he and Emma had dressed informally, Kingston in a tweed sport coat and corduroys, she in a suede jacket, blouse, and Liberty silk scarf. Unlike his first visit, with Andrew, this time there were signs of habitation. Wisps of smoke spiraled languidly from behind the house, and the accompanying smell of burning leaves filled the crisp air. From the house they could hear a small dog yapping. They also heard what sounded like an old hand-pushed lawn mower coming from somewhere behind the house. Two cars were parked on a small gravel drive alongside a row of tall yew hedges that ran along that side of the property: a newish Audi and the same mud-spattered Land Rover.

Kingston gave the familiar brass knocker on the front door two hard raps. This only served to make the dog yap with more gusto. After a minute, it became clear that if anybody were home, they were either hard of hearing, taking a shower, or in the back garden, which, given the mowing and woodsmoke, seemed the most logical explanation.

“Let’s see if we can get into the back,” Kingston said, walking across a small patch of lawn toward the side of the house. Emma followed reluctantly, several paces behind, until she caught up with Kingston, who had stopped and was inspecting a wooden gate abutting the hedge.

“Looks like it’s locked from the other side.” Kingston ran a hand across the top of the six-foot gate looking for a latch. “I may have to climb over.”

“I see now how you get into trouble. That’s breaking and entering.”

“Only entering, my dear. I don’t plan to break anything. Anyway, you needn’t worry because I’ve found the inside latch,” he said, as the gate creaked open.

They walked along a narrow stone path, flanked by thick clumps of hellebore leaves, eventually arriving at the end where it met the corner of a huge sloping lawn as smooth as a putting green. The lawn was divided down the center by a narrow rill that flowed down the long slope over shallow stone steps, spaced every ten feet or so, the bubbling water finally emptying into a large pond some fifty feet away. It was planted with white water lilies and, from where they stood, what looked like forget-me-nots and spikes of blue iris.

The mower stood unattended at the far corner of the lawn, in front of a shoulder-high holly hedge. The scene facing them was spellbinding. The quintessential English garden was Kingston’s first thought. He glanced at Emma, who seemed speechless as she gazed over Reginald Payne’s tour de force. If indeed it was his creation, he must have taken inspiration from a dozen of the best gardens in England and managed somehow to distill and combine the best features and plantings from all to create a veritable Eden. It was evident, by the age and size of some of the trees, shrubs, climbing roses, and vines, and by the lichen-splotched stone balustrades, walls, and York paving, that it had taken several decades to evolve and mature into its present state of sublime beauty.