Anthony Eglin - The Blue Rose

Alex looked around the paddock. ‘I guess they took off when Kingston was shot. Can’t say as I blame them.’

‘Who were they?’

‘One was Charlie Compton. He owns this place. The other was our friend Tanaka, the one who wrote us the letter. I’ll explain it all later, Kate.’

They walked over to Kingston. All this time he had been anchored to the ground nursing his wound, helplessly watching the horrendous spectacle that had just taken place.

Kate knelt beside him. He was still grasping his thigh. The scarf Alex had used as a bandage and Kingston’s trouser leg were both dark with blood. His face was ashen. She looked into his eyes. Despite his discomfort, they still had sparkle in them.

‘Looks a lot worse than it probably is,’ he grunted. ‘Bloody painful, though.’ He managed a smile, nodding toward the barn. ‘What the hell happened in there?’

‘An awful lot, Lawrence. But we’ve got to get you to a hospital – I think there’s an ambulance here.’

‘What about Wolff?’

‘Not too good, I’m afraid. He’s a bloody mess – but I think he’ll survive, they’re only scratches.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think so,’ Kingston said, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Alex and I have an awful lot to tell you, Kate.’

Baldie, two policemen and two ambulance attendants carrying a stretcher were walking towards them. Then a third policeman, with a hammerlock on Marcus, came into view. Marcus’s head was bloodied and he appeared to have trouble walking properly.

Kate gently patted Kingston’s arm. ‘And I’ve got quite a story to tell the two of you – believe me.’

‘Well, Kate, we might as well polish this off,’ said Alex, picking up the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and pouring the last of the champagne into their glasses.

It was an agreeable Sunday afternoon at The Parsonage, the sun going in and out, but enough to keep it pleasantly warm. They were relaxing in white wicker chairs on the flagstone terrace, at a round table draped with a Provençal print tablecloth. On the table, in addition to the now empty bottle of champagne and two almost empty bottles of wine, were the remains of lunch. It was a week to the day after the showdown in Sussex.

Kingston had left half an hour earlier to drive back to London. After his wound had been treated at the Victoria Hospital in Lewes, Kate and Alex had insisted – over Kingston’s thinly disguised protestations – that he come back with them and stay at The Parsonage for a few days to recover. On the drive home, Alex had to suffer the discomfort and indignity of the Alfa’s jump seat.

Towards the end of lunch Kate had expressed concern about the quantity of wine Kingston had consumed and had invited him to stay overnight.

‘The offer’s tempting, old girl, but I really must get back. You know I have an awful lot of catching up to do. Besides,’ he grinned, ‘there is a limit to how many times one’s underwear can be washed.’

In the hours and days after the Sunday in Sussex a clearer picture of what happened that morning had emerged. Surprisingly, it had all taken place in less than an hour. Nine people were involved. Of the nine, one had since died.

Two days after returning home, Alex had phoned the hospital in Lewes to inquire about Wolff ’s condition. The hospital spokesperson informed him that Wolff had succumbed to the massive infection resulting from his wounds. Describing Vicky’s symptoms and death and pointing out the similarity with Wolff ’s, Alex urged the Lewes doctors to confer with those at the John Radcliffe Hospital. He was assured that the hospital staff would follow up on the matter and keep him informed of their findings.

They had heard from Charlie Compton, too. He had phoned Alex to report that the local environmental health officer had visited the site and that the Department of Health had taken custody of the rose. The official informed Compton that the rose would ‘remain in the department’s custody until further notice’. That was the government’s official position.

Alex was curious to know what had happened after the two of them took off, when Wolff shot Kingston. Compton said that the minute he got to the office he phoned the police, telling them that all hell was breaking loose and that someone had been shot. He also told them about the shotgun blast, earlier. The police told him that they’d already received a similar call from a woman and that a car and ambulance were on their way. The policeman had been emphatic about his not going back outside, particularly with his shotgun, as he had wanted to. He told Compton under no circumstances should he intervene and that he should stay put until they arrived.

As for Tanaka, Compton said that the last he saw of him, he was running towards his car. He hadn’t heard from him since. He also learned that the police had later picked up Tanaka’s BMW, which turned out to be hired.

Questioned on the theft of the rose, Compton told Alex that he had no inkling Tanaka was involved in anything unlawful. He assumed, from the beginning, that what Adell and Tanaka had both told him was true: that Tanaka represented a wealthy Japanese industrialist who wanted to purchase the rose. And it was, of course. But Compton had no idea that it was Tanaka – or somebody in his pay – who had nicked the rose out of Nell’s garden.

Not surprisingly, when news of the blue rose’s discovery and the incidents and deaths linked to it hit the streets, an avalanche of press coverage followed. The story was splashed across the front page of just about every newspaper and magazine in Britain. The international press was quick to follow. Garden publications, of course, clamoured for stories and photos and several major American publications, including Newsweek and Time , dispatched reporters to cover Wiltshire’s now notorious blue rose. Even pictures of the farmhouse where Kate had been incarcerated appeared in the press. She had filed a police report of her kidnapping and her time held captive, and had helped the police locate the farmhouse.

Then there was the matter of Graham’s death. Soon after they had returned from Sussex, Alex had received a not-unexpected phone call from Inspector Holland, requesting a follow-up meeting. Naturally, Holland had seen all the press coverage. The get-together at The Parsonage with Kate, Alex and Kingston lasted over an hour. It was more cordial than the one to which Alex had been subjected the first time.

Holland informed them – as he had earlier told Alex – that at first it was thought that Graham had died from a heart attack caused during a struggle. But further examination by the pathologists had revealed that his skull was fractured. Blunt force trauma, Holland said. Confirming Kingston’s suspicions about Tanaka’s involvement, Holland volunteered that they had witnesses who had seen two men – one of them Asian – enter Cooke’s house about half an hour before Alex and Kingston discovered the body. Alex, of course, was no longer a suspect.

Alex leaned across the table and put his hand on Kate’s. ‘It’s going to seem awfully quiet around here for a while,’ he said.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Kate, with a winsome smile. ‘By the way, I gave Peg a sterling silver frame the other day for taking such good care of the shop and for looking after Asp while you were gone. She sold quite a lot of stuff, actually.’

‘That was nice of you.’

Their talk turned to more prosaic matters, mostly concerning the house, Kate’s shop and the amount of catching up facing Alex at his office. At a pause in the conversation Kate looked at him for a long moment, but said nothing.