Major Cooke’s journals.’
Kingston had couriered them to Cardwell the same day. In a follow-up phone call, Cardwell confided to Kingston that the reason for their making the exception was mostly because everybody at DSSS was proud of the magnificent work done by the cryptographers at Bletchley during the war. This was for one of their own, as it were. Secondly – but not for publication – was because he and his wife happened to be passionate gardeners. They were particularly fond of roses.
It never surprised Kingston how such a mutuality of interest in a simple flower could manage to open even the most stubbornly closed doors.
‘Come in – come on in,’ a voice boomed from inside Room 8 in answer to Kingston’s knock on the door.
When he entered, Kingston was taken aback. He had not expected such a large man, nor one quite so athletic-looking. Somehow, he had pictured an Intelligence Corps captain to look more bookish.
After a bone-cracking handshake, the two sat facing each other across the orderly surface of Cardwell’s desk. Cardwell was cordial and, as was to be expected, punctilious. Major Cooke’s journals sat in a tidy stack off to one side. The high-ceilinged room with its sparse furnishings and bare windows lent a hollow sound to Cardwell’s already stentorian voice. ‘Well, doctor, it looks like you came to the right place,’ he said. ‘The only place, I believe, where you could have got your books decoded. We’ve got some interesting news for you.’
Kingston didn’t want to appear unduly excited. ‘Excellent,’ he replied, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
Cardwell placed a beefy hand on the pile of journals. ‘As you surmised, doctor, all the entries in these books are references to hybridizing of roses. We estimate that the books contain a total close to five thousand of Major Cooke’s cross-pollination attempts. In the early books, all the crosses – as I believe they’re called – are between roses exclusively.’ He pulled out a book from the bottom of the pile, and opened it. ‘However, in the case of the last three books, in chronological order, all the references are between roses and other kinds of flowers.’ He held the open book up so that Kingston could see the translation clipped to the inside. ‘On this page, for example, it’s evident that he’s using the same parent rose – an old French one called Madame Plantier – and attempting to cross it with several different varieties of hardy geraniums. He also refers to them sometimes as Cranesbill – is that correct?’
‘Yes, that is right,’ Kingston replied.
‘Here, take a look,’ he said, passing the book to Kingston. A moment of silence followed as Kingston read the translation, nodding his head. He handed it back.
‘May I look at the last book – chronologically, that is?’ Kingston asked.
‘Of course.’ Cardwell extracted the lowest book from the pile, briefly checked the inside page and handed it to Kingston, who started to flip through its pages.
‘Were you aware that there could be a book missing?’ Cardwell asked, casually.
‘Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’
‘Our cryptographer spotted it, too. A gap in the dates.’
Kingston closed the book and looked up. ‘I suppose there is the possibility that Cooke stopped hybridizing for a while,’ he said. ‘Went on holiday, maybe.’
Cardwell shook his head. ‘No, it’s not only the dates that don’t match, nor do the hybridizing numbers. But you weren’t to know that. They’re out of sequence, too. Anyway, if he’d gone away, surely he would have picked up where he left off.’
‘You’re right.’
‘That’s not all.’
‘What do you mean?’
A disconcerted look clouded Cardwell’s face. ‘There’s something else you should know.’
‘What’s that?’ Kingston asked.
‘A few days after we’d decoded your journals somebody brought the missing book in and, unbeknownst to me, our chap decoded it, too.’
Chapter Thirteen
Birth, life and death – each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.
Toni Morrison
Before Alex could bring the van to a complete stop, Asp bounded out of the open window and bolted for Kate, standing at the front door. She picked him up, lifting her chin as he licked furiously at her neck.
‘Come and say goodbye to Vicky,’ Alex called to her as he got out of the van.
Kate walked over to see Vicky sliding over into the driver’s seat. ‘Aren’t you coming in, Vicky?’ she asked.
‘No thanks, Kate. ’Fraid I’m coming down with something. I think I’m just going to go home and get some rest. On the way out, I’ll stop at the shed and pick up the twelve cuttings I took yesterday. I’ll drop them off at the nursery on the way home.’
‘I can do that tomorrow, if you’d like.’
‘It’s no bother, I have to practically drive by there anyway.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Did everything go okay at your aunt’s?’
‘Yes. We found the perfect spot for Sapphire. Nobody will find her there. Alex enjoyed himself, too. He and Nell really hit it off. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.’
Vicky started the engine, turned the van around and, with a wave goodbye, took off down the driveway.
Vicky parked the van by the nursery greenhouse and got out. Stepping on to the gravel path, she felt slightly dizzy but shrugged it off as tiredness. She unlocked the padlock and opened the door. Back at the van, she took out the box containing the cuttings, and carried them inside. With a felt marker she wrote,
By the time she switched the lights on in the cottage it was past eight. Her mouth was dry and her limbs ached. Maybe it was the long drive and the glass of wine she’d had at lunchtime, she said to herself. Or perhaps the crab sandwich. No, it couldn’t be that, she’d hardly eaten any of it.
Rummaging through the refrigerator, she found a half-full bottle of Malvern water. There was some leftover pasta and a curling slice of pizza in there, too, but the very thought of eating anything made her feel queasy. The water had lost its fizz, but she poured it into a glass and drank it anyway. She was unusually thirsty. She went to the tap and refilled the glass, swallowing it in two gulps as she stood there.
She went into the living room and plopped down on the sofa with the idea of reading the two newspapers she’d brought in with her. Why was the cottage so warm? The radiators hadn’t been on for days. She took off her turtleneck sweater, reminding herself to tell Alex that she had his. He’d left it in the van.
She was now on her fourth glass of water. And when the words on the newspaper started to blur, she knew something was really wrong. She stood up, steadying herself on the arm of the sofa. Her eyes were focusing again but she felt very disoriented – as though she might pass out at any moment. Slowly she made her way to the phone and picked it up.
Alex put a hand round Kate’s waist. ‘Poor Vicky. I’m afraid she’s really under the weather. She slept most of the way back. I promised I’d give her a call in the morning to see how she’s doing.’
They walked into the living room. Alex slumped on the sofa and kicked off his loafers.
Kate put Asp down. He promptly leapt up on Alex’s lap.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
‘Not really, a snack, maybe. We had a pub lunch about one o’clock. Poor thing, she hardly touched anything
