6.The Alcatraz Rose (9 page)

As a matter of habit, whenever he invited a woman to lunch or dinner, each arriving separately, he made it a point to be at the restaurant fifteen minutes before reservation time. It had nothing to do with punctuality but everything to do with manners: not wanting to risk the chance that his guest would find herself waiting alone in a restaurant. He knew that in this he was one of a dying breed: men who still obeyed their mothers’ stern instructions on how to behave, and who always dressed for the occasion.

Today, it was his Burberry double-breasted navy blazer with tan gabardine slacks and French-cuffed blue poplin shirt, with red-and-silver-striped university tie. It irked him to see people dining in London’s best restaurants wearing T-shirts and jeans. In addition to enjoying the Ivy’s excellent food, Kingston approved of the restaurant’s “dress code”: Men were required to wear ties, and shorts and microskirts were not “acceptable forms of attire” for women.

At that moment, he looked up to see Emma being escorted across the room by the maître d’. She was dressed fashionably in a tailored gray-tweed jacket, silk blouse, and black, knee-length—thankfully not micro—skirt, quite a different Emma from the one he’d met in Winchcombe. He stood and took her hand in his while they exchanged greetings, and then sat down.

“It’s a lovely room,” she said, looking around while reaching into her shoulder bag, taking out the book, and placing it on the table next to Kingston. “Here’s your special delivery, and thank you for inviting me.” She smiled. “The alternative would probably have been a ham and cheese baguette on the train home.”

“Not on my watch,” he replied, picking up the book and opening it to the page with the inscription. He looked at it for a moment before closing it and putting it aside on the table. “I appreciate your thinking of me when you spotted the book, and please pass on my thanks to Molly when you next see her. It’s one that I don’t have and, as I mentioned on the phone, it holds special meaning for me, having known Graham and been a long-standing admirer of his enormous talents. Do you know most of the paintings and drawings in the book are his?”

“I didn’t realize that. They’re exceptionally well done.”

“They are. He could have made a decent living doing just that.” He glanced at the book. “Did you have any further thoughts on the inscription?”

“I didn’t give it much thought, to tell the truth. Should I have?” She shrugged, as if wondering why he was bothering to ask. “It could only mean one of two things, I suppose. Either the book was given to her, or possibly to her husband, by a friend or acquaintance, whose first name started with
R
, or it came into their possession in the same way that books usually do: They bought it at a used-book store or a car boot sale, or it was a used book given to them by someone whose name didn’t necessarily begin with
R
. In the case of the latter two, the inscription was already in the book. Does that help?”

“Hardly at all,” he replied, smiling. “Although I hadn’t thought of her husband. But from what we know about him, that would make even less sense, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re probably right,” Emma replied.

Small talk continued over glasses of chilled Sancerre until their hors d’oeuvres plates were brought to the table. During the natural lull in the conversation, while the waiter was fussing with the silverware and topping up their wineglasses, Kingston decided this was as good a moment
as any to tell her the story of the Belmaris rose and how he’d stumbled on the unsettling news about reclusive rose fancier, Reginald Payne. She would probably ask soon, anyway. If she showed more than just a passing interest—and he couldn’t imagine otherwise—then he would broach the delicate question of whether she would be willing to find out more about him and why someone might have wanted to murder him. There, he knew, he would be walking on eggshells. If he was also going ask for her help in solving the Alcatraz rose mystery, he had to make very clear from the start that his interests were solely with regard to that and nothing to do with Reginald’s murder.

Resting his fork for a moment while taking a sip of wine, he glanced at Emma. There was no doubt that she was enjoying herself. He appreciated her healthy appetite; her appetizer was disappearing more quickly than his.

Emma saved Kingston from having to devise a way to segue into the story of the rose. “So, Lawrence,” she said, raising her wineglass to her lips and holding it there for a moment. “Tell me what happened after you and Andrew took off the other day. As I recall, you were off to Belmaris Castle to see your friend. Why so mysterious on the phone?” She smiled and took a sip of wine. “I’m waiting to be ‘amazed.’”

Over their entrees—asparagus risotto for Emma and seared scallops for Kingston—he told her what had transpired that afternoon, being careful not to make it sound too dramatic, which he knew wouldn’t go down well with her. As he was talking, he noticed that—though she was clearly listening to what he was saying, looking at him all the time while she was eating—she hadn’t interrupted him once and furthermore had shown no signs of either surprise or curiosity. He shrugged it off it as most likely having something to do with her police training. It wasn’t until he got to the part where Clare Davenport had told them about the postmortem and suspicion of foul play that she set her knife and fork aside and gave him her full attention.

What followed wasn’t at all what he’d suspected, particularly since he’d taken great care to stick with the facts and treat Payne’s suspicious death with the gravity it warranted. She looked at him across the table, an inscrutable smile crinkling her face.

“As I live and breathe,” she said. “A firsthand account of how Dr. Kingston gets himself tangled up in other people’s misfortunes. What did Andrew have to say about that?”

Kingston shrugged. “Very little,” he fibbed.

“I can see why going to Payne’s house to find out if he could provide you with information about the rose was a logical decision, but I have to be honest with you, Lawrence, your going back to the pub had nothing to do with the rose. It had everything to do with finding out about Payne’s demise.”

“I’m surprised you see it that way. It was nothing more than natural curiosity on my part. As a police officer, wouldn’t you have done the same?”

“In all probability, yes. Any law enforcement officer or private investigator would have. The problem is, that you’re neither—not anymore.”

Realizing that he was on the losing side of the discussion, Kingston decided to retreat as graciously as he could. Trying to find the right words to save further loss of face for what was now clearly seen by both Andrew and Emma as poor judgment on his part, he was relieved to see that her “policewoman” look had been replaced by a complacent smile.

“Curiosity is admirable, but it has been known to dispose of cats from time to time, you know,” she said, with a forgiving smile.

“Mea culpa,” he responded, taken aback by her candor, wondering if Andrew could have whispered in her ear without telling him.

During a brief interlude while their water glasses were refilled and plates taken away, he saw fit to change the subject, remarking on the restaurant’s long history and the many memorable meals he’d enjoyed there since arriving in London.

Emma caught him completely off guard with her next comment. “Why do I have a feeling that you were toying with the idea of asking me if I could find out more about Reginald Payne? About his supposed homicide?” The question was accompanied by an amused look and an enigmatic smile.

Under her inquisitive gaze, Kingston picked up his glass and, in one smooth and nonchalant motion, took a long, slow sip of his wine—a patently transparent attempt to buy a little time before replying, which he
knew Emma would see through. But he had to come up with a satisfactory answer, one that was truthful and wouldn’t make her think for one moment that he was taking advantage of their friendship to further his own ambitions.

He put down his wineglass—more abruptly than he intended—and began.

“Earlier, I’ll confess the thought had crossed my mind. But since then I’ve given this whole business a lot more thought and done some soul-searching, for want of a better phrase. So let me simply say this: As a matter of courtesy and respect for your former position, I would never presume to ask that of you without first knowing where you stand personally. I also realize that there is the issue of whether it would be permissible for you to do so in the first place, given your former job.” He paused. “For all I know, there could be other considerations as well.”

Emma showed no intention of debating or questioning anything he’d said, so he continued, his tone a trifle more upbeat.

“What I
was
toying with was proposing that you and I become partners of a sort in trying to solve the Alcatraz rose mystery, and only that, I want to stress. From everything we know, there’s nothing to suggest criminal activity—and, I’m sure you’ll agree it’s rather unlikely that there would be. There would be no police conflicts that I can think of, you wouldn’t be breaking any rules or conditions of termination, so to speak, and it might give you something challenging to do to spice up the humdrum of retirement. Look on it as somewhat like tackling a particularly difficult brainteaser—you must admit, it is most intriguing.”

Emma’s attentive expression melted into the same knowing smile as earlier.

“I could be mistaken, Lawrence, but do I see an equation taking shape here?” she said with a sprinkle of good-humored sarcasm. “Rare English rose shows up thousands of miles away on Alcatraz—chances are, sent by someone who knows about and is personally familiar with such a rose. You, by sheer happenstance, learn of such a person who could have had access to said rose. Unluckily for you, the man has just died—murdered. Have you stumbled on the beginnings of an answer to the puzzle, you ask yourself? It’s not out of the question, you tell yourself, even though
the odds are about the same as winning the National Lottery. But in order to take it the next step, you’re in a bind because, first, you’ve no way of getting more information on Payne’s murder—the police aren’t going to provide it—and, second, I get the impression—although I admit it is subtle—that your best friend would prefer that you weigh the possible consequences before getting embroiled in inquiries of this nature. Enter Emma. Am I on the right track?”

Fortunately the need for an immediate response was cut short once more by the arrival of dessert. As the plates were lowered with near reverential deliberation, Kingston told himself not to underestimate Emma’s remarkable perception. It was apparent that she had been an excellent police officer. She was right and trying to explain or elaborate would make matters worse. If he wasn’t careful, he could come off appearing recalcitrant, like a schoolboy caught scrumping apples.

He needn’t have worried. In due course the conversation picked up and, as if by mutual consent, the dialogue drifted from the rose mystery and Reginald Payne to more sociable topics. Emma was interested in learning more about Kingston’s career as a professor of botany at Edinburgh University, about his daughter’s career in the States, her fiancé, and Kingston’s planned trip to visit them. It soon became clear that Emma did not intend to address his request—at least not yet—and he had no intention of pressing her on it. All in good time, he supposed.

Outside the restaurant, fifteen minutes later, Emma in a cab ready to depart for Paddington Station and the journey home, she looked up at him through the half-open window.

“Thank you one more time for a delightful lunch,” she said.

“My pleasure. We should do it again. I’ll keep you informed of any new developments.”

“Please do,” she replied, glancing toward the worn rose book in his hand. “One more thing occurred to me. Is it possible that you might have asked yourself if the
R
in the book might stand for Reginald?”

The same knowing smile appeared on her face then, just as the cab pulled away, leaving Kingston standing at the curb, frowning.

“The woman,” he muttered to himself, “is just too damn clever by half.”

9

T
HAT HAT EVENING
,
AFTER
enjoying two of Mrs. Tripp’s Cornish pasties and a pint of Guinness, Kingston took out Graham Stuart Thomas’s book and studied the inscription once more, focusing on the neat handwriting, in black ink, on the otherwise blank page:

This may give you some ideas, R
.

Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with any other ways to interpret it, other than the obvious:
R
, whoever he or she was, had presented the book to someone mostly with the intent to encourage and stimulate him or her to grow roses, or had given it to a seasoned gardener who could be making a transition from hybrid tea and floribunda roses to the heady fragrance and beauty of old garden roses.

He was no handwriting expert but recalled once reading that women tended to be neater writers than men. This writing, though neat, was bold and indicated a strong and steady hand. The ink impression was consistent, with no alternating heavy and fine strokes—all the full stops decisive. After a few moments, he gave up trying to be a handwriting analyst.