of a lawyer I’m sure our life will return to normal. Until that happens – hopefully, soon – I wouldn’t worry too much about it.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Alex.’ She looked up at him and flashed an impish smile. ‘You don’t think we should concoct some story for Kingston, about it suddenly dying – and that could be the end of it?’
‘And never know what it’s like to be disgustingly rich?’ Alex pulled Kate closer and put his arm around her.
‘Just kidding, of course. But, truthfully, I
‘About what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘About all the things that might happen. I keep thinking of what Kingston said, “Your world will never be the same.” It’s – it’s just that I like things the way they are – the way we’d planned. I’m just afraid this rose business could spoil it all. That would be awful, Alex.’
He held her tightly, leaned down and brushed his lips across her hair. ‘Not a chance,’ he said.
Alex tried the doorbell again. ‘Perhaps she got the date mixed up,’ he said.
‘No, we agreed on today. I wrote it down,’ Kate replied. ‘She’s probably in the loo or something.’
‘It is the right house?’
‘I’ll check again.’ Kate pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. ‘Three thirty, Tuesday 24th, 12 St Margaret’s Mews. She said it was sheltered accommodation. This is it all right.’
Juggling their schedules, they had managed to set the meeting with Mrs Cooke for today. This worked out well because, if by chance they learned anything significant, they would be able to tell Christopher Adell. Alex had set up a meeting with him the coming Friday in London.
Alex was about to hammer on the door when an approaching image rippled in the dimpled glass pane. The front door to the neat bungalow opened. A thin, pale man stood there.
‘Kate and Alex Sheppard, I take it,’ he said in a flat voice.
Alex nodded affirmatively. ‘And you’re – Graham? Your aunt said you might be here.’
‘That’s me,’ he answered, with an awkward half-smile.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Alex said, thrusting out a hand. It was like shaking hands with a rubber glove.
Graham stepped aside. ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘Auntie’s in the living room, going over the racing form. Believe it or not, she makes quite a few bob on the ponies every week. Sorry to leave you standing on the doorstep like that. Her hearing’s not too good these days – I’m just fixing one of the cupboard doors in the kitchen. I’ll join you in a minute.’ Graham ushered them into the living room then departed.
Inside, as expected from the pristine exterior, the house was immaculate. Cheerful, too. The walls of the small living room were a sunny cream colour, making it look larger than its small space. An Oriental carpet, which Alex guessed to be an old Heriz, almost touched the walls on all sides. He recognized some of the antique pieces as being part of Mrs Cooke’s furnishings at The Parsonage when they had first seen it.
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.
