‘Well, Alex maintains that since the rose is on our property we are the rightful owners – possession being nine points of the law, as he says. But don’t you think that, if – and I grant you it’s a big “if” – it’s ultimately proved that the rose was created by Major Cooke, not by some freak accident of nature, shouldn’t Mrs Cooke be entitled to the money? Besides, from the staggering numbers being bandied around there’ll be much more money than any of us could ever want.’
‘It’s going to depend on how solid a case we can present,’ said Adell. ‘If, as you speculate, it’s proved later that Major Cooke did indeed create the rose, then Mrs Cooke could, should she so decide, contest our claim. I’m afraid that it’s not possible this early in the game to give you a definitive answer, Kate. Meanwhile, let’s proceed on the assumption that you are the sole owners.’
Alex smiled at Kate. ‘That’s fine by us,’ he said.
Kate nodded in agreement.
They had much to talk about on the cab ride to Paddington station.
With a sigh of resignation, Lawrence Kingston placed the folded newspaper on the side table next to him, took off his bifocals and rubbed his tired eyes. For tonight, he had gone as far as he could with the crossword. It was the Saturday
Draining the remains of his cognac, Kingston gazed pensively at the framed photo of his daughter, Julie, that occupied a prominent spot on the mantelpiece. She now lived in Seattle and he missed her deeply. She was the only woman remaining in his life and would undoubtedly continue so, for he had no further notions of any female relationships beyond the occasional dinner or theatre date. Since the death of his wife, Megan, some years earlier, he had chosen to remain single.
Most people dream of retiring to a cottage in the country after a lifetime of work in the city or suburbs, but Lawrence Kingston had chosen to move to London. The city, with its theatres, museums, concert halls, excellent restaurants and libraries, suited his aesthetic tastes. More for the challenge than the income, he accepted a modest consultation job now and again. His two-storey flat on Cadogan Square, conveniently located within walking distance of the elegant shops and amenities of Knightsbridge and Sloane Street, was ample for his needs. Packed into its high-ceilinged rooms, the furniture and trappings were decidedly masculine. Overstuffed couches and leather chairs, antique furniture, book-lined walls, tasteful art and an overabundance of artifacts and bibelots, signalled good taste and a well-travelled life. The only touch that might suggest a feminine hand at work was the large vase of white roses, lilies and freesias that always occupied the same position on top of a French sideboard. Megan had always loved flowers in the rooms of their house. To preserve the custom, Kingston paid a florist’s shop on the King’s Road a stiff sum to replace the arrangement every two weeks all year round. Despite this plenitude of possessions and memorabilia, there was a pleasant orderliness about the place.
That morning, he had received an express package from Alex containing an explanatory letter along with the eleven leather-bound journals thought to be those that Major Cooke and Thomas Farrow used in their greenhouse experiments. Since then he had studied them at great length and concluded that, in all likelihood, they were, indeed, records of hybridizing written in a code of some sort.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine thirty. Surely, by now, Alex and Kate would have returned from their meeting in London with the lawyer. He would give them one last try – he was curious to know how legal minds would assess such an earthshaking botanical discovery and what they would recommend.
After the fifth or sixth ring, he was about to place the phone back on the cradle when Alex answered.
‘Sorry to call so late, Alex,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d probably be late getting back from town, anyway.’
‘No problem at all, Lawrence. We stopped off at the Crown for a spot of supper on the way back. Let me tell you, it was quite a long day.’
‘I thought you might like to know that I’ve taken a thorough look at the journals.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Well, to be honest, there wasn’t much to go on. They are well organized and whoever compiled them did an exceptionally neat and thorough job. Sorry to say, though, I’m afraid they might not be of much use.’
‘That’s a shame. Wait a second – Kate will probably want to hear what you have to say. Let me put her on the other phone.’
Kate came on the line.
‘Hello, Kate,’ said Kingston. ‘I was about to tell Alex my thoughts about Major Cooke’s journals.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Kate.
‘Well, my considered opinion is that the books are, indeed, records of hybridizing. Given everything we know, it’s reasonable to conclude – though there’s no name affixed to any of them – that they belonged to Major Cooke.’
‘Isn’t there also the off-chance that they could have been compiled by the Farrow chap?’ Alex asked.
‘It’s immaterial. For whatever reason – as you already know – either or both used some kind of code to indicate all the crossings, the roses they used for cross-pollination, and all the accompanying notes. Unless we can break the code, we may never know whether your rose was the result of Major Cooke’s experiments or not. I’m afraid it’s starting to look as if we might be up against a brick wall.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Kate.
‘On the other hand, if we could, by some chance, prove that either of them was directly responsible for creating the blue rose, then it could also raise another issue.’
‘Like what?’ asked Alex.
‘It would mean that you could have a tough time proving ownership. Either of their heirs – or Farrow, if he’s still living – could rightfully claim the rose as theirs.’
Alex interrupted. ‘But we’ve just gone over that with Adell. He’s told us not to worry about it – at least, not for now.’
‘Well, he should know, I suppose,’ said Kingston.
‘So there’s not much more we can do at this point, then,’ said Kate.
‘Not necessarily.’ Kingston cleared his throat. ‘Here’s what I think. For the time being we have to rule out making further inquiries with Mrs Cooke. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more we can learn either from her or from her nephew. In any case, from what you’ve told me, doing so would only stir up a wasps’ nest in the form of the nephew.’
‘So what’s the next step?’ asked Kate.
‘If there is a next step, it’s to find out if Farrow is still alive. If he is, we’ll know for sure whether he took part in the hybridizing.’
‘If he did, he would obviously know the code.’
‘In all probability he would, yes. By the way, do we know how old Farrow was at the time?’
‘I do, actually,’ said Kate. ‘I called Mrs Cooke yesterday, mostly to thank her. Oddly enough, she mentioned Farrow again. He was quite amusing, apparently – clever with card tricks. Among other things, she told me that if her husband were alive today he would be in his mid-eighties. She also said that Farrow and her Jeffrey were about the same age – so there
‘Ticking, would be more like it, I would think,’ Alex quipped.
Kingston chuckled. ‘If he is, I’m sure we can track him down. I’ve already started working on it, in fact. I’ve been doing a little poking around on the garden club thing.’
‘Really?’ said Kate.
‘Yes. So far I’ve called over a dozen clubs, in Wiltshire, Hampshire and Avon – but, so far, no Thomas Farrow. I did unearth – if you’ll pardon the phrase – a Thomas Farr, but he was laid to rest over thirty years ago, poor chap, so he doesn’t qualify. I’ll keep at it, though. I simply had no idea that there were so many damned garden clubs around.’
‘It is the world’s most popular hobby,’ Kate commented.
‘Yes, I know,’ Kingston sighed. ‘You’ve only got to watch telly to know that. Doesn’t seem to matter what time of day you turn it on, it’s either a gardening programme or a cooking show.’ He paused, then said, ‘Oh, I had another theory, too.’
