Anthony Eglin - The Blue Rose

In a lifetime of constructing creative contingency plans, this time he had none.

He wondered which part of his past they would dig up first. Probably the five years’ incarceration for fraud, he assumed, along with a fine of three million dollars to be used to repay his victims. This was part of the sentence he had received eighteen years ago for an elaborate Ponzi scheme that had bilked over one hundred investors in five eastern states of more than two hundred million dollars. Employing, as one legal mind stated, ‘a brilliantly conceived but legally corrupt and morally diabolical scheme’, Bernard Wolfenden – his real name – was found guilty of establishing phony corporations, creating fake deeds of trust, fictitious balance sheets and other documents to give investors the impression of legitimacy. Even a loan officer at a prestigious bank was on his payroll at the time.

Wolff finally took his eyes off the ceiling, glanced at his watch, and got up from the chair. It was two minutes to ten. It was inevitable, he concluded, that once the name Wolfenden was in the nation’s computer search engines, other unsavoury episodes of his past would ooze to the surface – the Dallas affair, for one. The media would have a field day with that. So, above all else, he had to keep Baker-Reynolds going. He preferred not to think more about Dallas right now.

The meeting started precisely at ten. Wolff insisted on punctuality. Eighteen people were in attendance. The mega-sized boardroom table, more befitting a White House banquet, left little room for anything else in the room. The story was that old man Baker bought it at auction, had it cut in four pieces, and reassembled it in the room. Sundry awards and diplomas – many faded, all with rose motifs – added listless blotches of colour to the beige walls.

At the head of the table, Ira Wolff studied some papers with Jed Harmon, the company’s Chief Financial Officer. There was a stern look on Wolff ’s tanned face. He was fastidiously dressed in a navy pinstripe suit with a lot of white cuff showing. His only noticeable mannerism was the constant need to brush aside the strands of grey-streaked hair that flopped continually across his glaucous eyes.

Wolff handed the file he’d been scrutinizing back to Jed Harmon and walked over to the vacant chair at one end of the table. He placed his hands on the back of the chair and surveyed the room.

‘Okay, let’s get comfortable. Settle down. Lillian, would you close the door, please.’

There was a jockeying of chairs – the casters gliding silently on the thick, wool carpet – a rustling of papers and the room fell silent. Wolff cleared his throat.

‘Good morning, everybody. Nice to see you back in the saddle, Bill,’ he said, glancing across the table at his General Sales Manager, Bill Samuelson, who had recently been on leave of absence. Wolff paused briefly, to make eye contact around the room. ‘These last two weeks I’ve spent mostly with Jed and our auditors. As a result of those meetings, we’ve reached some tough conclusions that you should know about. You’re not getting any sugar with this pill. These are the facts. Eighteen months ago we started to experience a drop in sales. At first the decline was modest but as we entered our peak season sales started to plunge. In the first quarter of this year they were off over twenty-nine per cent.’

He paused to let the number sink in. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he said, slowly. He shook his head from side to side. ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ he whispered, mouthing the words.

The expressions around the table were stone-faced, as Wolff continued. ‘Despite taking corrective measures, the situation has worsened. Now we face two simple choices. Either, by some process, to dramatically hype sales, or –’ His lips tightened. ‘To start downsizing.’ Brushing a lock of hair from his eyes he waited a moment for the words to sink in.

‘We’ve analysed our operational and selling costs and are satisfied that there’s little or no fat to be cut there. That leaves these options: first, to start immediately on an aggressive effort to sell the products we presently own; second, we must, and I repeat must, bring new products to market now. I’m not talking about in the next year or so – we don’t have that luxury. We’ve got to pull a rabbit out of the hat very soon or pink slips start showing up in the pay envelopes.’

Wolff ’s cold eyes came to rest for a moment on Bill Samuelson, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

‘And the first casualties will be in the sales department,’ Wolff added.

Turning to Steve Weber, B-R’s Director of Research and Hybridizing, he continued. ‘Research and Development. We need fresh, new ideas in roses. We can’t rely on regurgitating the same tired old hybrid teas and floribundas any more. We’re at war with the British again – with David Austin’s English roses; the Germans are pounding away at our flank with their Flower Carpet roses; the French with Meilland’s Romantica series. Christ! Even the Canadians are in the battle, convincing buyers that they can grow roses around igloos.’

An ominous silence gripped the room as Wolff paused to take a sip of water.

‘Everyone must put on their thinking caps and come up with creative ideas. Within the next five days there’ll be another staff meeting, at which time I’ll expect all department heads to present their thoughts on turning this thing around. Don’t give me any Band-aid ideas. I’ll say it one more time. Somehow, between us, we must come up with an earthshaking new horticultural innovation to stop this freefall. I’m not talking six months from now – not even three months from now – we need it right now. I don’t care what it costs. If it’s a big-time idea, I’ll come up with big-time bucks to put behind it. Think hard about it. Have your families and friends think about it. Because if we don’t make it happen – and, I mean soon – this company is going to go under. And we’re all going with it.’

With that he turned and left the room.

Thomas Farrow’s cottage was in a cul-de-sac at the north end of Little Stanton village. It took Kingston two passes through the hamlet before he found it. The chattering windscreen wipers of the TR4 were no match for the gusting rain that made it difficult to see much up ahead.

Finally he glimpsed the braided cap of the thatched roof peeking out above a tall yew hedge. It was the only part of the cottage visible from the street. Climbing out of his car, Kingston gingerly made his way up a narrow flight of slippery stone steps, keeping a firm grip on his umbrella and his briefcase. He had brought four of Major Cooke’s journals with him, just in case. At the top of the steps the garden opened to a wide band of lawn, edged by shrub and perennial borders. On a more agreeable day the view to the south was undoubtedly splendid. Now a menacing parade of dark thunderclouds rolled across the rain-shrouded horizon. Turning away from the dispiriting view, he was cheered at the sight of the brightly painted peacock-blue door.

He lifted the tarnished lion’s-head knocker and let it drop loudly. Almost immediately the door was opened by a slender young woman, casually but fashionably dressed.

‘Good afternoon, my name’s Lawrence Kingston. Dr Kingston. I’m trying to locate a Mr Thomas Farrow,’ he said evenly. ‘I was given this address by a former acquaintance of his. I wondered whether he might still live here?’

‘Oh, I’m so awfully sorry – you obviously don’t know,’ the young woman stammered. ‘Thomas died several years ago. I’m his niece. Was he a friend of yours?’