The Blue Rose (2 page)

He followed the old brick wall, occasionally placing his palm on its gritty surface to steady himself. Now he could see that it fell back, to create a crescent some thirty feet deep and sixty long – a hidden bed invisible to anyone on the path. Despite the shade cast by the curving wall, and the shrubs and small trees along the flat side of the crescent, enough light and sunshine penetrated the foliage for the flowers in front of the wall to grow into a colourful jumble. Most of them appeared to be roses. Roses with plump nodding blooms of dusky pink, coral, carmine, damask and ivory. They reminded him of an old Flemish painting – the kind painted on a dark background.

Alex stood, motionless, for what must have been at least a minute, fascinated by the composition: the luminescence, the gradations of shadow, the muted colours and textures.

As he turned to go back to the path he caught a glimpse of a foreign colour, way in the back. No more than a flash, it was nevertheless electrifying.

He stopped.

It had disappeared.

He swayed to the left, then slowly to the right, and – there it was again.

A trick of the light, surely. That colour…

He eased his way in through the shrubs to take a closer look. Something scratched at his arm – he brushed away the thorn stuck into his skin. Pushing the arching cane aside, he halted, then stepped back a pace. What on earth…?

That couldn't be right, could it?

Goose pimples tingled across his neck and scalp. Even with his scant knowledge of plants Alex knew he was looking at something very peculiar – bizarre, in fact.

He moved forward and reached out his hand to touch it. ‘Jesus Christ,' he whispered. ‘
Is this real?
'

‘I think the sun's got to you,' Kate panted, as she hurried to keep up with Alex. They were now running along the path. What on earth was making him act so un-Alex-like? He was now gripping her hand so fiercely that her fingers were becoming numb. Thorns and branches ripped at her shirt. She was about to yell at him, when suddenly he stopped.

She almost ran into him.

‘Alex, what on earth are you doing?' she said breathlessly. ‘Have you gone bonkers?'

He was facing her now. His face had a strange look. She had never, ever, seen him this agitated.

He took her other hand.

‘Alex,' she began.

‘Wait,' he said, holding up a hand. ‘Eyes closed, please.'

She sighed. ‘All right.'

She closed her eyes and let him lead her no more than a dozen paces. ‘Alex, this is silly…' she started to protest, when they stopped. He let go of her hand and stepped behind her. She could now feel his hands on her shoulders, his breath on her cheek.

‘Eyes still closed?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Open them now,' he whispered.

She did.

At first, what she saw made no sense. For a second, she thought her eyes were still adjusting to the light. Behind her, Alex was squeezing her shoulders.

‘I wasn't hallucinating after all,' he murmured.

‘It can't be – it's not possible,' she breathed.

‘It is,' Alex said.

Standing shoulder height in front of them was a rose bush, thick with thorns and silky dark green leaves. It was covered with blooms the size of tennis balls – dozens of them. They were plump and perfectly formed.

They were blue.

A brilliant blue. Not lavender or mauve, but an electric sapphire blue.

Kate edged closer and knelt until her face was inches from one of the blooms. She gripped it lightly and gently tugged one of the petals.

‘Oh – my – dear – God!' she said, quietly. ‘It is real!'

Moving in closer she inhaled its fragrance. It was soft and velvety. More like jasmine than rose – but more complex, more intoxicating. It was too much: not only a blue rose, but one with a seductive perfume too.

‘Alex,' Kate said, getting up, still staring hypnotically at the rose, ‘this is not one of your silly pranks, is it?'

She barely heard his answer. ‘Not this time.'

‘You know, this is supposed to be genetically impossible. That's why there's never been a blue rose. Ever.'

Alex didn't answer. He was busy inspecting the thorns on the claret-coloured canes.

‘I wonder how old it is?' Kate muttered. ‘How long it's been growing here?'

‘Looks pretty old to me, but then, what the hell do I know?' He stood up. ‘God! Those thorns are like bloody needles.'

‘Alex, listen to me. I don't think you realize the significance of this. We're looking at a horticultural miracle.'

For a moment they stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the rose bush.

Alex took a sideways glance at Kate. ‘What do you think we should do, then?'

‘I'm really not sure.'

‘Maybe we should ask Vicky to have a look at it. She'd know. Why don't we go up and call her at the nursery?'

Her eyes still glued on the rose, Kate paused before replying. ‘You're right. Vicky would almost die if we were to tell her about this, but let's not rush our fences. I think we should sleep on it first.'

‘Whatever you say.'

‘Alex, if this is for real – and it certainly looks like it – I have a hunch that it could be worth an awful lot of money. But if word gets out we could have a major problem on our hands.'

‘Why?'

‘Can't you picture it? Everybody and his brother will be hammering on our door wanting to see it.'

‘Then we'll just have to keep it a secret until we find out more about it.'

‘Exactly.'

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Alex put his arm around Kate's waist and squeezed. ‘Well, I think this is really exciting. Tell you what, let's go and have lunch. Then, afterwards, I'll come back down and take some photos. Not that anybody will believe them. Blue roses are only a click of the mouse with Photoshop.'

‘True. But you're right, we should take some anyway.' Kate took his hand as she watched Asp sniffing the ground by the rose.

Alex smiled. ‘I think we'd better get Asp out of there or he's going to be peeing away our fortune.'

‘Come on, Asp,' she chuckled.

They took one more look at the mesmerizing sapphire blooms and then started back toward the house.

‘One good thing,' said Alex, as they headed up the path, ‘it's perfectly safe where it is and we've got all the time in the world to think about it.'

Kate simply nodded.

He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Anyway, what makes a blue rose so valuable? It's only a horse of a different colour, isn't it?'

‘No, it's not, believe me. I read an article about it. Scientists have spent years trying to create a blue rose, without success. The explanation was far too technical for me, but the gist of it was that they couldn't isolate the gene from another blue flower – I believe it was a petunia – and pass it on to a rose.'

‘They're called blue genes, I suppose.'

‘Very funny.'

A squirrel skipped across the path in front of them, hotly pursued by a yapping Asp.

‘I bet the Internet will turn up some information,' said Alex.

‘You're probably right. I'll check the library, too.'

‘I wonder how much it's worth?'

‘To a company selling roses, a great deal, I would imagine.'

‘Hmm.' Alex squeezed her shoulder. ‘Maybe fixing up the house is going to happen sooner than we expected.'

‘Could be,' Kate said. ‘We'll soon find out.'

Kate had a hard time sleeping. She woke Alex several times as she tossed and turned, visions of the blue rose invading her mind. At some point during her many waking moments she recalled an article that she'd read some time ago about roses. It was devoted entirely to propagating and hybridizing, written by one of Britain's foremost experts. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that their next move – rather than talk to the people at Kew Gardens or the National Rose Society, as Alex had suggested – should be to engage the services of an individual expert. In doing so, there would be far less chance of word leaking out. The professor who wrote the article could be the very person they were looking for. Hopefully he could be persuaded to examine the rose, authenticate it, and, more important, give them advice on what they should do.

As the first glimmer of daybreak outlined the windows, she got out of bed and went down to the kitchen to make tea. There was no need to turn on the lights. The recently lime-washed walls were already bathed in the dawn light. With a steaming hot mug of tea in her hand, she went out to the living room and began rummaging through a stack of old gardening magazines till she found the one she was looking for. Then, with the magazine rolled under her arm and her mug of tea, she walked out into the garden and headed for the crescent to take another look at the rose.

The songbirds were in full chorus as she stood facing the rose, her hands clasped around the mug for warmth. It seemed even more seductive, certainly more real, in the cool grey morning light. How on earth had it happened? It must have something to do with the house's previous owners. Hadn't they created the garden? Surely they must have known about the rose. During the negotiations for the sale of the house, neither she nor Alex had met the former owner. All they knew was that she was an elderly widow, a Mrs Cooke. Perhaps she rarely ventured into the garden or was an invalid. But that wouldn't necessarily explain it either. She or her deceased husband obviously enjoyed the garden. Judging by the size of it, the bush had certainly been growing in the same spot for more than just a couple of years. One of them should have known about it. On the other hand, the entire garden had become so overgrown that the chance of stumbling on the rose would have been unlikely. On top of that, the rose was extremely well hidden. After all, she and Alex hadn't spotted it during their several walks through the garden. There was another thing, too. She and Alex had no idea how long it bloomed. If it was like most of the old garden rose varieties it would only put out roses once a year, the flowers sometimes lasting for as little as three to four weeks. After that, nobody would know it was a blue rose bush. Despite all this, she had an odd feeling that
somebody
must have known about it.

She turned her back on the rose and walked along the path to the white bench. It wobbled and creaked as she sat down. Placing her mug of tea beside her, she opened the magazine and began reading.

‘Kate!'

She sat up, startled. It was Alex, calling from the house. Glancing at her watch, she was astounded to see that she had been in the garden for over half an hour. She picked up her mug, swishing the dregs of cold tea alongside a clump of hardy geraniums, and walked up the path toward the house.

 

‘I've got a meeting this morning with that fussy Hendrickson woman,' Alex said, putting his teacup down, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘We're going to revise the upstairs plan for the twentieth time. Never known anybody so indecisive as that blasted woman! God knows why she wants three loos –
three
mind you – upstairs. Her bladder must be completely shot!'

‘At least her bank account isn't shot. She's paying her bills, isn't she?' Kate asked.

‘Guess so,' Alex said, smoothing his hair.

The evening before they had checked out ‘blue roses' on the Internet and had quickly found out that no such rose existed, and that scientists were working hard to make the dream of a true blue rose a reality. None of the few sites on the subject had offered any speculation as to the value of the very first blue rose.

Alex picked up his canvas briefcase and lifted his leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Any more thoughts about the rose, Kate?'

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,' she said. ‘I've got an interesting idea.'

‘Whenever you say, “I've got an interesting idea,” I get nervous. All right, what is it?'

‘There's no need to look at me like that. Don't worry, you don't have to do anything. It's just that I was thinking about what we discussed yesterday – having an individual, an expert, look at it. Last night, I thought of exactly who that might be.' She held up the magazine, page open to the article. It included a picture of a man with a mop of white hair. ‘Dr Lawrence Kingston,' she announced.

‘A rose expert, I take it?'

‘And then some. According to the article, he's the foremost specialist in the world in the business of agro ecology, plant-pollinator relationships, genetics, all that kind of stuff. For years, he was a professor and head research botanist at Edinburgh University.'

Alex studied the page more closely. ‘He looks quite rakish. Love the bow tie.'

‘Well, if anybody's going to know how a blue rose ended up in our garden, he certainly should,' Kate said, closing the magazine and placing it on the table.

‘And how much it's worth, hopefully.'

‘I'm sure he'll have some thoughts on that, too. The big question is whether he can be persuaded to come down and take a look at it.'

‘Wouldn't he leap at the chance?'

‘There's no question he will – if we tell him it's blue. But I don't think we should tell him that on the phone.'

‘Why is that?'

‘Because, right off, he's going to think we're a couple of crackpots. Besides, we can't risk his leaking the word out before he's seen the rose – before we get to find out what kind of person he is. Supposing he was – well, less than honest.'

‘I see your point. Anyway, if anyone can persuade him, you can, Kate.'

Kate kissed him on the cheek. ‘I'll give the magazine a call today, see if I can reach the professor. I'll check out the library, too. See what they have on the subject. See you tonight, darling.'

‘Good luck with the professor, then,' Alex said, with a wink, as he walked out the door.

From the kitchen window Kate watched Alex get into the Alfa and drive off. Asp gave up his usual yapping pursuit of the car and turned back toward the house – but not before lifting a leg on one of Kate's recently planted euphorbias.

 

The front of Kate's shop in Bath was painted a shade of green so dark that on a cloudy day it appeared black. In rich contrast, raised serif letters in burnished gold stretched the width of the façade. They read:
SHEPPARD'S PIE
ANTIQUES
. The name had been Alex's idea. She liked it so much that immediately after they were married she adopted it. It was one of a cluster of antiques shops located in the heart of the city. Kate's neighbour on one side was a dealer who specialized in antique clocks. On the other side was a shop with whimsical window displays featuring old dolls and collectible toys. Kate's shop featured English and French country furniture and
objets d'art
. While Alex would often make unkind remarks about the craftsmanship and exorbitant prices of some of her more rustic pine purchases, he did admit that she was a good dealer. She had a good nose for finding quality items and an excellent eye for bargains. With her amiable personality, good looks and quick mind for business it was no surprise that the shop had shown a respectable, if inconsistent, profit in each of its nine years of operation. Once in a while she couldn't resist ribbing Alex, getting back at him for some of his rude comments about the quality of her purchases. Occasionally she would drop a comment: ‘You know that hand-painted pine chest – the one you said looked like it was made of firewood and painted with a toothbrush – well, I just sold it for fifteen hundred pounds.'

It was nine thirty on Friday morning. With no customers in the shop, Kate picked up the phone and dialled the number of
English Gardening
magazine.

‘Hello,
English Gardening
.' The woman's voice was cheerful and not at all businesslike. ‘This is Molly Chapman, how may I help you?'

‘My name's Kate, Kate Sheppard. I'm interested in contacting Dr Lawrence Kingston. He wrote a story on roses in your May issue, last year.'

‘Kingston?' She paused briefly. ‘Oh, yes, I'm well aware of him – the chap with the mop of silver hair. A real character, that one. Former professor of botany – among other things.'

Kate frowned for a moment. A real character? Other things? What did that mean?

‘That's him,' she said. ‘Could you give me an address or phone number where he can be reached?'

‘I'm sorry, we're not permitted to divulge information of a personal nature concerning any of our staff or contributing writers. I'm sure you understand. What I
can
do, though, is attempt to contact him and pass on a message along with your phone number. We do that quite frequently for our readers.'

‘That would be super. Yes. As I mentioned, the name's Kate Sheppard.' She spelled it out and gave her phone number.

‘Is there any message? The reason you want him to call you?'

Kate wasn't prepared for that question. ‘No –
yes
,' she stammered. She had no time to think. ‘It's about – about a rose bush we have in our garden that's got three different colour roses on it,' she blurted.

‘That sounds a trifle unusual.'

‘That's what we thought. It's
quite
colourful,' Kate fibbed. ‘We were hoping Dr Kingston might have an explanation.'

‘I'm sure he will. Good luck, Kate, I'll pass on your message.'

Kate slowly put down the phone, and wiped a hand across her brow. ‘You've done it now, old girl,' she muttered.

Not more than thirty minutes later, Kate was at the desk totalling the previous month's sales when the phone rang. She picked it up after the first ring.

‘Sheppard's Pie Antiques, how may I help you?' she said in a breezy voice.

‘Are you Kate Sheppard?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is Lawrence Kingston. I'm responding to your call to Molly Chapman at
English Gardening
.' His voice was deep and mellifluous, each word carefully but unaffectedly articulated. It fairly boomed out with an authority that took Kate off guard.

‘Oh. Yes. Thank you so much for calling. Awfully kind of you.' She hoped she didn't sound as nervous as she felt. After all, she had indirectly told him a white lie – in this case, a three-coloured lie. Somehow, she would have to explain that. She swallowed and continued. ‘Well, we – my husband and I, that is – would like to ask your advice. I read your article on roses, which was excellent, by the way. That's what prompted my call –'

Kingston politely interrupted. ‘I see. So, young lady, what's all this twaddle about a three-coloured rose?'

Kate felt her cheeks begin to flush. She was glad that he couldn't see her face. ‘Well, in all honesty, doctor,' she said, hoping that the salutation was correct, ‘it's not a three-coloured rose – it's only one colour,' she gulped. Although she had rehearsed what she was going to say she knew she wasn't getting off to a very good start. She prayed he wouldn't just hang up on her. ‘Actually, we'd like to show it to you. It's quite extraordinary, believe me.'

‘So far, you're not making much sense, young woman. Has this
really
got to do with roses?'

‘Yes –
yes
, it has. But not – not an
ordinary
rose,' she stammered. ‘It's most certainly not one that's in any of the books. When you see it, you'll know why.'

‘Do you know how many calls like this I get every month? Exasperating, so-called gardeners wanting to know what kind of roses they have growing at the bottom of their precious little gardens alongside their gnomes.'

Kate was taken aback by his churlish comment. ‘We're not like that, at all. We have over two hundred roses in a very large garden in Wiltshire and I'm serious about gardening. And we
don't
have any gnomes,' she added huffily. To her surprise, she heard Kingston chuckle.

‘I apologize,' he said, his voice now more cordial. ‘Sometimes I get a touch too testy. Tell me more about this mysterious rose of yours then.'

‘It
is
mysterious.
Very
mysterious, I might add.' Kate took a deep breath. ‘I must ask you, first, to treat what I'm about to tell you, as
very
confidential. I must have your word on it.'

‘I don't see any reason why not,' Kingston complied. ‘Now you
have
got me intrigued.'

‘Thank you, doctor. Here's what has happened. Yesterday, we found a very unusual rose in our garden at the house we bought recently. As I've already tried to convince you, it's so unusual – and don't laugh when I say this – it borders on the supernatural.'

She paused, trying to visualize Kingston's expression, wondering whether she was overdoing it. He said nothing, so she pressed on.

‘I can assure you, it's a rose that's never,
ever
, been seen before. And we're not quite sure what we should do. About keeping it a secret – or letting pandemonium loose on the gardening world. I thought perhaps – well, maybe you could take a look at it and then help us decide how we should proceed. We don't mind paying for your time, of course.'

‘I do hope this is not some kind of prank? And I
certainly
hope it's not one of those frightful lavender-coloured jobs.'