Anthony Eglin - The Blue Rose

‘Not exactly. More like a friend of a friend, really.’

‘Your friend wasn’t aware, either, then – that Thomas had died?’

Conscious of her apprehensive expression, as she gripped the edge of the partially open door, Kingston stepped back two paces. ‘No. No, he wasn’t,’ he said. His next words were lost, as a crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky. He waited as it rumbled off into the distance. Then it started to bucket down. ‘I’m awfully sorry to learn about your uncle,’ he said.

A sudden gust of wind threatened to blow Kingston’s umbrella inside out. Rain splattered noisily off the porch behind him. It suddenly occurred to him what a sorry sight he must present to this pleasant young woman.

‘Please…’ She opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Do come in. It’s such a wretched day. At least you can dry off a little. I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. My name’s Jennifer, by the way.’

‘Thank you, Jennifer, that’s awfully kind of you. It is getting a bit nasty out here. Yes, tea would be lovely.’

He set his briefcase down on the tiled floor of the hallway, took off his sopping trench coat, and handed it to her. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on. You get yourself warmed up a bit,’ she said, leaving Kingston standing with his back to the meagre fire smouldering in the hearth of the low-ceilinged living room.

When Jennifer returned with the tea, they sat down and she talked about her uncle. She said he’d passed away, suddenly, about six or seven years ago. She confirmed that he had, indeed, been passionately interested in roses and, yes, he had belonged to a garden club. She had done her best, she said, to keep up his garden in the back of the cottage but, sadly, it was nowhere near as glorious now as it had been when he was alive.

‘You haven’t told me your reason for coming,’ she said.

‘I’m trying to establish whether your uncle was a friend or acquaintance of a man named Jeffrey Cooke. Major Jeffrey Cooke. He was also keenly interested in roses. I recently found out that they belonged to the same garden club.’

‘You said, “was”. This Major Cooke – he’s no longer alive, then?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘You still haven’t told me how you think Thomas might have helped you.’

‘You’re right, forgive me. Well, some close friends of mine recently purchased a nice old house from Major Cooke’s widow. There are lots of roses in the garden – upwards of two hundred – some quite old and rare. The garden’s large, of course.’

‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It is. Well, Mrs Cooke lent us some of her husband’s journals containing records of his hybridizing roses. We’re pretty certain they’re Major Cooke’s notes but it’s also possible that some of the entries could have been made by your uncle, because we’re led to believe that from time to time they worked together on the rose breeding. We’re trying to find out exactly what information is contained in the journals.’

‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Kingston, placing a hand on his brow. ‘I forgot to tell you, they’re written in some kind of code.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit queer, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can be of any help, I’m afraid. I inherited all of Thomas’s belongings. I know there were no notebooks or journals, anything like that, among his effects. But there are quite a lot of regular gardening-related books in the guest room. That’s about all in the way of reading matter.’

‘Would it be terribly rude of me to ask to see them – the books?’

Jennifer shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’ She got up from her chair. ‘They’re in here,’ she said, gesturing to a partially open door to her right.

Kingston followed her into a small bedroom. It was light and airy and smelled of freshly ironed sheets. Built into each side of the leaded casement window were two symmetrical tiers of white-painted shelves, each filled with orderly rows of tightly packed books. As Kingston walked over to examine the small library, an oval framed photo standing on the marble-topped bedside table caught his eye. ‘May I look at this picture?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she answered.

He walked over, picked it up and studied it.

‘That’s Thomas, when he was in the army,’ Jennifer said. ‘That one, over there on the chest, is of him and his wife, Cathy. She died several years before Thomas.’

Kingston examined the grainy black and white army photograph. It was of an unsmiling slim-faced man with a dark bushy moustache. He was in a jaunty pose, holding a pipe to his mouth. The three pips on each epaulette of his uniform indicated the rank of captain. Kingston couldn’t quite make out the regimental badge in the centre of his peaked cap. ‘What regiment was he in?’ he asked, casually.

‘You know, I’m not really sure. That was a long time ago. I don’t recall Thomas ever saying much about his army days – or the war. Probably, like a lot of servicemen, he preferred to forget about those terrible times.’

Kingston placed the photograph back on the table.

‘There’s some more pictures in here,’ she said, opening the lid of a pine blanket chest at the foot of the bed. She handed him two leather-bound photo albums. Placing one of them on the bed, he started to leaf through the other. Most of the black and white photos were typical family snapshots. Two boys, pictured at different ages, appeared in a number of the photos. ‘One of these little boys is your uncle, I take it?’

‘Yes, Thomas, the smaller one. His brother Adrian was two years older. He was in the RAF.’

‘Handsome lads,’ said Kingston, closing the first album.

Four pages into the second album, which was more up-to-date than the first, his eyes came to rest on a large sepia photo. It was an informal group photo depicting a dozen smiling men, a few in military uniform but most in civilian clothes. With Captain Farrow’s bushy moustache, Kingston had no difficulty identifying him. Glancing down to the caption below, he saw Farrow’s name. Kingston scanned the photo, his index finger tracing the row of names. His finger stopped. There he was, fifth from the right, Major Jeffrey Cooke. Printed under the caption were the words: Bletchley Park, Hut 8. 1943 .

‘Bletchley Park,’ he murmured. He held the album in both hands and stood staring at the rivulets of rain dribbling down the windowpane in front of him. ‘I was right,’ he said under his breath.

‘Did you find something?’ Jennifer asked.

‘Yes, I think so,’ he said, closing the album and handing it back to Jennifer. ‘Something most interesting.’

When Kingston arrived at The Parsonage later that afternoon, Kate greeted him at the front door wearing a flour-dusted apron.

‘You’re in luck, Lawrence,’ she announced, ‘I’m testing a new recipe for osso buco.’

His blue eyes opened wide. ‘Splendid,’ he said.

Kate was surprised to see that he was gripping a small holdall. Surely she’d made it clear that the invitation was just for dinner? It certainly wouldn’t have been like Alex to suggest an overnight stay. She shrugged it off – there had to be an explanation. ‘Come on in,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’ll find Alex on the terrace. I’ll come out in a minute and fix you both a drink.’

A couple of hours later at the dining table, Kate and Alex sat listening to Kingston’s long-winded discourse. For the most part, they ate in silence, occasionally stealing a knowing glance or smile at each other as Kingston described every detail of his afternoon with Jennifer Farrow.