6.The Alcatraz Rose (6 page)

Kingston parked under an enormous horse chestnut tree in the grassy parking area, then he and Andrew took off on the short walk to the castle and gardens. Yesterday’s storm had long since passed, leaving the skies an unaccustomed clear blue and the air sweet with the fragrance of freshly mown grass. The lawns flanking the wide gravel paths were still beaded with the last drops of rain, and a muffled calm lulled the senses. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, the lush green parkland was speckled with red deer grazing under the black-shaded canopies of towering chestnut, oak, plane, and copper beech trees that had stood for centuries, stoically witnessing history unfold at the castle in their midst.

On his first visit to Belmaris many years ago, Kingston had taken the recommended guided tour of the castle, finding it educational, impressive, and essential in setting the stage for a walk through the extensive gardens and grounds. His subsequent visits to Belmaris—three or four, over time—had been solely to view the award-winning gardens’ magnificent
collection of antique roses. But his hands-down favorite sight was the remains of the fifteenth-century Tithe Barn, used in the Middle Ages to store one-tenth of a farm’s produce for the church. The tableau of the ruined shell of the great stone barn destroyed by Cromwell in the Civil War was abundant with beauty. The high, roofless stone walls followed the path of a long reflecting pool, stocked with carp and draped with living curtains of old climbing roses interwoven with wild clematis and wisteria. In Kingston’s opinion, in the height of summer there was no lovelier floral sight in all of England.

At the impressive main entrance, Jimmy Cosworth, the head gardener, greeted them with smiles and handshakes. He was a lanky man with wispy silver hair, ruddy cheeks, and a deeply wrinkled face, tanned from forty-plus summers spent nurturing the castle’s gardens as if they were his own, as in a sense they were: central casting’s vision of an English gardener. Easygoing, good-humored, and immediately likable, this kindly man made everyone feel at ease.

The three sat at a pine refectory table in a small kitchen in the back of the castle used only by the staff. As coffee—alas, no beer—was being poured into thick-rimmed mugs, a roly-poly woman wearing a frilly white apron entered. Wobbling across the room in a determined beeline, she planted a large Cornishware plate of muffins on the table, and after a booming, “There you go, loves, ’ot from the oven,” disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived.

Kingston gingerly took a sip of the steaming coffee and looked at Cosworth. “So, Jimmy. What do you make of this globetrotting rose of yours?”

“’Ard to fathom,” he drawled, in his West Country accent, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Fitzwarren is dealing with all the phone calls and inquiries now, thank God.”

“The castle’s manager?”

“She and her husband, Adrian, are the new owners—relatively new, that is.”

“A climbing rose, right?”

Cosworth nodded. “And a rambunctious one, at that.”

“I understand it became extinct in the sixties. Is that correct?”

“That’s about right, according to our records, anyway. I came ’ere in the mid-eighties and remember being told that the Belmaris rose had been classified as extinct twenty years prior—as you say, sometime in the sixties. It was a big deal at the time, and all the garden staff was provided with information on its pedigree. A conversation piece.”

Kingston scratched his forehead. “Where in the garden was it growing?”

“In the Tithe Barn ruins. Well out of reach of the public, fortunately. But if you’re wondering ’ow easy or difficult it would have been for someone to ’ave filched cuttings, I think you know the answer to that.”

“Impossible to prevent.”

“Right. When you think about it, growing there for two hundred bloody years, you’d have to be a bit thick to think that some silly bugger with secateurs in ’is pocket won’t snip off a couple of bits while no one’s looking. Even our own people might ’ave been tempted. Though I’d prefer to think not.”

“I have a question,” Andrew said, looking across the table at Cosworth.

Kingston wondered what kind of question he could possibly ask. Roses were not one of Andrew’s particular interests.

Cosworth nodded. “By all means.”

“Who—what authority—decides whether and at what point a rose is classified as extinct? If, as you say, they’re so easy to transplant from cuttings, how can anyone possibly know that a rose has disappeared from the planet forevermore?”

Cosworth frowned. After a moment of thought, he replied, “To tell the truth, Andrew, though I’ve spent most of my adult life gardening, I’ve never given that question too much thought. Guess that’s because I spend more time tending to the living plants in front of me than thinking about what isn’t there. You’re right, though,” he said, nodding. “And it’s a fair question.” He paused and reached for a muffin. “How can we be so sure? Well, the short answer is, we can’t. It’s the word ‘extinct’ that’s the problem. It’s a semantic problem. A lot of historians, growers, plant authorities, and so on use the word to signify that a plant or seed is no
longer commercially available or not generally known to exist for purposes of propagation. This doesn’t mean that somewhere in the world there’s not more than one Belmaris rose growing in obscurity, as it were, admired and nurtured by its uninformed owner who hasn’t the foggiest idea of its provenance or rarity, just thinks it’s pretty. So the idea of a bunch of rose experts and botanical authorities decreeing a plant extinct isn’t really accurate. ‘Become a rarity’ might be a better way of putting it.” He looked at Kingston. “What do you think, Lawrence? You know a lot more about these technical things than I do.”

“I think your explanation is spot-on. I would only add that many native plants, somewhat like endangered animals, are suffering serious threats to their survival. As our planet undergoes changes with population density, industrial development, overharvesting, deforestation, habitat loss, and so on, more plants are being pushed toward extinction in the true sense of the word, and no longer will their species be found anywhere in the wild. However, there’s a distinction when it comes to roses. What makes them different is that, while they’ve been growing in the wild in many parts of the world since time immemorial, much of that time they’ve also been cultivated and hybridized by man. In fact, references to Chinese floriculture date back to the eleventh century
B
.
C
., and Chinese floral encyclopedias indicate that by the fourth and fifth centuries
A
.
D
., rose culture was widespread in China. I’d venture a guess that under controlled and ideal conditions, using advanced propagation techniques and technology, rose cultivars today now number in the many thousands worldwide. So Jimmy is correct. It’s not accurate to state that any given rose is truly extinct.”

Andrew still appeared a little perplexed. “So if, as you say, the possibility exists that there could be any number of this particular rose growing in different parts of the world, one could have easily been growing in the States, somewhere out of the public’s eye, for many years. If nothing else, that would account for the transcontinental question.”

“That’s true,” Kingston said. “But when and how it ended up on Alcatraz remains a big puzzle. One way or another, it had to cross the Atlantic and then another twenty-five hundred miles overland across the North American continent.”

Andrew didn’t look altogether convinced and simply nodded.

“Who was the head gardener when you first came to Belmaris, Jimmy?” Kingston asked.

“Hmm.” Cosworth’s watery eyes looked up to the ceiling. “That would be Arthur Purseglove. Otherwise known as Percy. Quiet sort of bloke, but ’e was a bloody encyclopedia when it came to plants. What ’e didn’t know wasn’t in any book I know of. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, really. I was wondering if he’d seen the rose in bloom.”

“He must ‘ave.” Cosworth nodded. “’E was ’ere for twenty-five years before me.”

As the three drank and polished off the muffins, their conversation gradually drifted away from the rose to the gardens and life in general, finally petering out after Jimmy announced that he would soon retire—“throw in the trowel”—as he put it. After handshakes outside the kitchen door, Kingston and Andrew headed to the gardens. They’d gone only a dozen steps, when Kingston heard Cosworth shout his name. He stopped and looked back.

“Lawrence, I’ve just remembered someone else who probably saw the rose growing ’ere,” Jimmy said. “Reginald Payne. Local bloke, used to ’ang around a lot when I first came ’ere. ’E’s a bit of a cagey sort, but ’e knows ’is stuff when it comes to gardening, that’s for sure. ’Aven’t seen ’im in quite a while, come to think of it. As a matter of fact, I believe ’e was quite chummy with Graham Stewart Thomas at one time.”

“Really? Graham Stewart Thomas?”

“Who’s he?” Andrew asked.

Kingston looked pensive. “A legendary horticulturist, author, garden designer, and much more. He’s probably best known for his knowledge and love of old and new shrub roses. Among other achievements, he designed the National Collection of old-fashioned roses at Mottisfont Abbey. It’s still considered to be the best of its kind in the world.”

“You knew him, too, didn’t you Lawrence?” Jimmy asked.

“I did. I had the privilege of meeting him at the abbey’s opening of the collection, back in . . . 1974, I believe. I’ll never forget it.”

“Of course.” Andrew rolled his eyes.

Kingston ignored the gesture. “Any idea where this Payne chap lives, Jimmy?”

“Last I ’eard it was in Middle Cheverell, outside Cheltenham. The village is small, so you won’t have trouble finding ’is place. Ask at the Rose & Thistle, they’ll know it.”

“Rose and Thistle. We’ll do just that. Thanks, Jimmy.”

Kingston and Andrew strolled around the lush grounds. Kingston managed to stifle his inner professor, and they ambled about in companionable silence, enjoying the beauty and tranquillity rarely found in London.

6

K
INGSTON STARED AT
the oak door. No response.

He rapped the brass dolphin knocker a second time. He waited for another minute, then stepped back off the porch and took in the front of the two-story redbrick Edwardian house with shiny white trim on symmetrically spaced windows. Flanked on both sides by eight-foot-high blocks of yew hedging, it appeared far too large to be called a “cottage,” so described by the barmaid at the Rose & Thistle, where he’d inquired after Reginald Payne on arriving in Middle Cheverell.

What little garden there was in front had been masterfully planted by someone with an understanding of horticulture as well as a practiced eye for design, texture, and color. The splendid herbaceous borders were crowded with a who’s who of carefully chosen perennials, backed by gracefully arching old shrub roses that reached to the top of a drystone wall behind. Properly trained climbing roses and clematis fanned the walls of the house and even the upstairs windows. A weathered wooden sign hanging by chains from a post bore the name
BEECHWOOD
.

Two cars were parked in a gravel area off to his left, an old khaki colored Land Rover and red VW convertible. Save for the omnipresent bird chatter and the distant lowing of cows, all around was a genial stillness. No barking of dogs inside and no signs of habitation. He was about to head back down the front path, back to the car where Andrew was waiting, when he heard a bolt being withdrawn and the big door creaking open. He turned to see a woman, thirtyish, he guessed—fairly
attractive, slim, longish blond hair—standing half hidden behind the partly open door. She looked at him suspiciously, tension evident in her body language.

“Good afternoon. I’m awfully sorry to bother you. My name’s Lawrence Kingston—Doctor Kingston,” he added. The title, he found, had a way of putting people more at ease. “I’ve just been visiting Belmaris Castle inquiring about their rose collection, and it was suggested that I also talk to Reginald Payne who, I’m given to understand, is also something of a rose fancier. If he’s home and it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to have a word.”

His words were met with a blank stare, as if she’d already made up her mind that she didn’t want to talk to him, that she might close the door at any moment.

“This is his residence, is it not?” Kingston asked, trying to pry at least a sentence from her.

She nodded. “It is,” she said in a near whisper. “Or was.”

Kingston stepped back a couple of paces, trying to look as friendly and nonthreatening as he could. It was clear that she was uncomfortable with him standing a mere few feet away on her doorstep. It began to look as if she was about to slam the door in his face at any moment. “I’m not quite sure I understand. Perhaps it’s best if I leave?” he said, searching for words that would keep the conversation alive.

His comment had a slight mollifying effect. For an instant she relaxed her tight grip on the door, and her unblinking eyes now met his more with curiosity than caution.

“He no longer lives here?” Kingston asked.