Anthony Eglin - The Blue Rose

Mrs Cooke put down the newspaper and shooed her plump tortoiseshell cat off the sofa, deftly brushing the cushion with the back of her liver-spotted hand. She stood and walked over to greet Kate and Alex. ‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ she said, eyes twinkling, as though she really meant it. ‘For the life of me, I can’t think why we never met when the house was being sold.’ She waved a scarlet-nailed hand dismissively. ‘You know what those agents are like. They can get awfully bossy. Never wanted me around, you know.’

She was a short, comfortably plump woman with a laugh-wrinkled, heavily powdered face framed by hair that bore a resemblance to fine grade steel wool. Her smile revealed teeth too white and evenly spaced to be her own. When Alex moved closer to shake her hand, he smelled the clean fragrance of Ivory soap.

Mrs Cooke gestured towards the multi-cushioned chintz sofa in front of the bay window. Alex nodded and sank down into the fluffy cushions. He kept sinking.

Mrs Cooke sat down facing them. ‘You had no trouble finding us, then?’

‘No, not at all, Mrs Cooke,’ said Kate.

‘Although Chippenham’s changed quite a lot since I was last here,’ Alex interjected. ‘Seems a lot bigger. Busier – more traffic.’

Mrs Cooke fidgeted with the ostentatious rings on her pudgy hands. She wore at least half a dozen. ‘Well, you know, it’s market day. It’s not usually this busy. I don’t do much driving now, anyway. I do miss Steeple Tarrant, of course, but I must say that this is decidedly more convenient. Almost everything I need is close by. Not only that, we get round the clock security and there’s a nurse on call all the time. I didn’t know whether I’d like it at first, after living at The Parsonage all those years, but it really is very nice. I’ve made a lot of friends, too.’

She paused, as if trying to recall why they were all gathered there.

Seizing the fraction of time it took for Mrs Cooke’s ample bosoms to heave, Alex commandeered the conversation. ‘As Kate mentioned to you on the phone, Mrs Cooke, we’re interested in identifying some of the old roses at The Parsonage and thought perhaps you might be able to help us. I believe you told her there might be some books we could look at.’

Mrs Cooke smiled. ‘Yes, I did. They were Jeffrey’s. He was the gardener. Oh,’ she added, ‘that would be my late husband.’

‘We were curious. Did he create the garden?’ asked Kate.

‘Well, not entirely. We bought The Parsonage from a retired doctor, well over thirty years ago, now. ’68, I think it was. His wife had recently passed away and he could no longer look after the place on his own. Particularly the garden – well, you know how big it is. It was all very sad, knowing everything he’d put into it and how much he loved it. But it was exactly what Jeffrey wanted. Me, too.’ She chuckled. ‘Jeffrey always used to say that he didn’t have the time left to sit and wait for trees to grow. And he was right, I suppose. He’d just retired too. The garden in those days wasn’t quite what it is today, of course, but there were lots of mature trees and shrubs. The doctor had already done a lot of the important work, the things that cost so much money nowadays. Like all the terraces, the arbours and trelliswork, the greenhouse, all the stone and brick work. I remember some of those lovely old urns and terracotta pots, they were there too – the Italian ones. And the brick walls, of course – some have stood for at least a couple of hundred years, long before the house was built. I was told that at one time it was a vegetable garden for the manor house.’ She gazed out of the windows, her mind lost in the past. ‘But Jeffrey made it what it is today,’ she said finally. ‘He changed the layout of the garden, the pathways, the beds and borders. He was always chuntering on about “changing viewpoints” and “lines of sight”.’

‘What about all the roses?’ asked Kate.

‘Oh, they’re all Jeffrey’s doing. They were his pride and joy.’

‘He did a superb job and we’re very grateful to him. Did he keep records of any kind, do you know?’ Kate asked.

‘The Major? Oh, heavens, yes. He was one of the most meticulous fuddy-duddies you’re ever likely to meet.’

Alex, who looked as though the sofa was about swallow him up, eased himself awkwardly forward and sat on the front edge of the cushion. ‘He was a military man, then?’ he asked.

‘He was. But, as I mentioned, retired,’ Mrs Cooke replied. ‘He kept very good records of everything. I’m not sure that – oh, here’s Graham, at last,’ she said, looking to the door.

Bouncing up from her chair with surprising agility for her age and bulk, she began to introduce her nephew. With unrestrained pride, she rattled off an abridged version of Graham’s curriculum vitae, emphasizing the fact that he was now the Western Region Sales Manager for Hofmann Pharmaceuticals.

Alex was debating whether Graham had had a particularly gruelling day or was in the grip of some debilitating bug. His mousy moustache drooped sourly at the corners of his mouth and thin strands of hair were vainly combed in a losing struggle to conceal the shiny pink dome of his forehead. His rumpled Donegal tweed suit, poorly knotted tie and suede shoes struck Alex as being more suited to the racetrack than the sales office. Alex had already pegged him as one of those irksome people who, despite being in reasonable health and comfortably off, are never satisfied with their lot. He also had an unsettling habit of blinking frequently through his wire-rimmed glasses, further adding to the impression of querulousness.

Graham pulled up a chair from alongside the nearby dining table, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Well, how’s life in the country? Auntie tells me you’re asking about my uncle’s roses? About his notebooks.’ There was no friendliness in his voice.

Alex glanced at Kate. He knew that she was thinking the same thing. He’d better choose his words carefully. Certainly, Graham should be given no impression that they were there for any reason other than genuine interest in all the roses at The Parsonage, not just one. Earlier, he and Kate had debated about telling Mrs Cooke – or possibly hinting to her – that a particular rose in the garden was rare, even telling her it was blue. Kate had wanted to do that, but Alex had reminded her of Kingston’s admonitions and they had quickly dismissed that idea – at least for the time being.

‘Yes,’ Alex said, evenly. ‘There are a lot of roses we can’t identify. The markers have disappeared. It would just be nice – well, helpful – if we knew what they were.’

Kate turned to Mrs Cooke. ‘Did your husband spend a lot of his time tending the roses?’

‘Oh, yes. Barmy about ’em he was. Out there pottering in the garden seven days a week.’

‘Did he, by any chance, do any propagating? Hybridizing?’ Kate inquired, taking her eyes off Mrs Cooke to glance furtively at Graham. ‘Anything like that?’

‘What’s that got to do with identifying roses, might I ask?’ Graham interrupted.

‘We’re just curious, that’s all,’ said Alex. ‘Actually, Kate was thinking about trying her hand at it. We wondered whether there might be some useful information among your uncle’s books.’

Graham averted his eyes. ‘I haven’t looked at the books for years, but I rather doubt it. They’re quite old now, you know. Some are falling apart. Uncle died over seven years ago.’ He spoke as if he wished the subject could be dropped.

‘Would you like to borrow the books?’ Mrs Cooke asked.

Alex looked at Graham out of the corner of his eye just in time to see the imperceptible shake of his head and fleeting scowl at his aunt’s question.