The Blue Rose

‘Who knows? Probably hot on the trail of the mysterious American by now.’

‘His own Professor Moriarty.’

Kate placed her hand on Alex’s knee. ‘You know, we both kid about Kingston, but I sometimes wonder whether he knows a little more than he’s telling.’

‘About what?’

‘That’s the problem, I’m not sure. For one thing, I keep harking back to his not wanting us to take all the blooms off the rose as Adell suggested. Why would he object to that?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Alex, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘It’s when he talks about things like being watchful that I begin to get nervous. Isn’t that what he said?’

‘Yes, I believe he did.’

‘Well, what does he mean by that? That we might be under surveillance? Followed?’

‘I certainly hope not. But with everything that’s happening, who knows? When you think about the money involved, I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question.’

‘I agree, but it seems out of character. Didn’t you and Lawrence conclude that the American is a businessman of some kind?’

‘If you talked to him on the phone, you might not think so,’ Alex countered.

‘Maybe Kingston’s just overreacting. Next time we talk, I’ll simply ask him if he’s holding anything back.’

Nothing more was said for a couple of miles.

‘Roses,’ Alex said, breaking the long silence.

She turned and peered at him over her sunglasses. ‘What about them?’

‘Are they as finicky as everybody makes out?’

‘No, not really,’ said Kate, wondering where he was headed. ‘They’ve really had a lot of bad press over the years. Some modern hybrids are more susceptible to disease and insects, but as a genus the rose is a remarkably tough. Tougher than most, in fact.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘In fact,’ Kate continued, ‘all over the world roses have survived, untended, for hundreds of years. I read, not too long ago, of a bunch of rose nuts in America who go traipsing about the countryside and backwater towns taking cuttings of old roses – most of them over a hundred years old.’

‘The rose nuts?’

Kate ignored the remark. ‘One of the more likely hunting grounds – or unlikely, depending on your point of view – is cemeteries. Not your everyday graveyards, but ones that have been abandoned or receive little care. The Texas Rose Rustlers, I think the group is called.’

‘Clever name.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Often they can date the rose from the year on the neighbouring headstone.’

‘So is it reasonable to assume that a rose can be safely transplanted when it’s in bloom?’

‘It’s better to do it when it’s dormant. But, yes, if you’re careful and know what you’re doing, it’s fine.’

‘Well, then, let’s move Sapphire to another garden. A secret location.’

Kate wound up her window and adjusted the barrette in her windblown hair. ‘Not a bad idea. I’m not sure–’

‘No, Kate, think about it for a moment. It may be the answer we’ve been looking for. If the rose is no longer in our garden, the next time these creeps contact us we can simply tell them to bugger off. Explain that we don’t have it any more. There’ll be no point in their snooping around our house or badgering us if they know the rose is gone. We won’t even tell Adell where it’s hidden. Remember he wanted to have it guarded? Now that won’t be necessary. Only the two of us will know. Maybe we don’t even tell Kingston. It’ll take a lot of the pressure off. It’s brilliant.’

‘So, who’s going to take care of it in this secret location? It’s got to be watered. You can’t just go plop it in a field somewhere and forget about it.’

‘Kate, I realize that. I’m not a complete horticultural troglodyte.’

They drove in silent thought another mile or so. Deftly slipping the responsive Alfa into third gear, Alex slowed to negotiate a sharp bend in the road. On their right a collection of small buildings surrounding an old whitewashed barn came into view. Along the side of the barn was a gold-lettered sign on black background: Pennyroyal Nursery.

‘Yes, of course,’ Kate said, suddenly. ‘Holly Hill Nursery – Vicky.’

‘What about her?’ asked Alex.

‘She might know of a good hiding place.’

‘Good thinking, Kate. Why don’t you call her tomorrow? I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to help out – you two are like sisters.’

‘I will,’ said Kate. ‘Then, if we can get Sapphire out of our garden, perhaps we can get our lives back to normal. Close to normal, anyway.’

Chapter Eleven

There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.

Bidapi

Kate pulled the Trooper into the parking area at Holly Hill Nursery. She turned off the engine and, for a moment, sat in the car savouring the sight and smells. It had been a long time since she was last here and seeing Vicky again was going to be fun.

Next to their own precious gardens, and perhaps those of others, there is one other sight guaranteed to send gardeners into the state of benign delirium she now felt – and that is a nursery. Not a garden centre – those plant supermarkets with car parks the size of airfields and ghastly fluorescent lighting where, if you inquire about Leptospermum, an acned teenager will send you off to the local chemist’s. A proper nursery is unpretentious. In a manner of speaking it is a kind of garden but the plants are all in containers and tubs. It’s where names of trees, shrubs and perennials are handwritten on wooden markers. Where pyramids of compost and other organic matter attest that here is where the propagating and nurturing is done. It is a retreat for all the senses, not just the eye. Where overlapping aromas – earthy, cloying, pungent and perfumed – commingle with every step. A ready source when you want reliable answers to serious botanical questions. A place that you never leave empty-handed.

Holly Hill Nursery was such a place. Its discreet sign, Holly Hill Herbs and Scented Plants, suggested specialization. But the nursery was jam-packed with all kinds of plants, alphabetically displayed. Gardeners who journeyed to Holly Hill for the first time – and they came from several surrounding counties – were rewarded with a marvellous, added treat: an old walled herb garden. Within its boundaries, box hedging corralled a superb collection of old roses, scented shrubs, climbers, plants and, of course, herbs.

Most of the plants in Kate and Alex’s old garden at Bath had been purchased at Holly Hill Nursery. At one time, Vicky Jamieson was visiting their garden so frequently with deliveries and free advice that Alex had nicknamed her ‘Sis’.

Kate got out of the Trooper, stretched, and started towards the entry gate. Passing through it, she immediately saw Vicky up the path, loading plants on to a trolley. ‘Vicky!’ she shouted.

Vicky stopped and looked in her direction. Despite the distance between them Kate could see the look of surprise register on Vicky’s face.

Vicky took off her gloves and walked over to greet Kate.

‘What a nice surprise,’ she said, hugging Kate with unrestrained exuberance.

‘Careful, old girl, you’re going to crack one of my ribs,’ Kate giggled.

Vicky was an inch or so shorter than Kate. She was smoothly muscled and evenly tanned from years of working outdoors. Her features were unremarkable, save for apple-red cheeks that accentuated her ice-blue eyes.