The Blue Rose

wrote the article could be the very person they were looking for. Hopefully he could be persuaded to examine the rose, authenticate it, and, more important, give them advice on what they should do.

As the first glimmer of daybreak outlined the windows, she got out of bed and went down to the kitchen to make tea. There was no need to turn on the lights. The recently lime-washed walls were already bathed in the dawn light. With a steaming hot mug of tea in her hand, she went out to the living room and began rummaging through a stack of old gardening magazines till she found the one she was looking for. Then, with the magazine rolled under her arm and her mug of tea, she walked out into the garden and headed for the crescent to take another look at the rose.

The songbirds were in full chorus as she stood facing the rose, her hands clasped around the mug for warmth. It seemed even more seductive, certainly more real, in the cool grey morning light. How on earth had it happened? It must have something to do with the house’s previous owners. Hadn’t they created the garden? Surely they must have known about the rose. During the negotiations for the sale of the house, neither she nor Alex had met the former owner. All they knew was that she was an elderly widow, a Mrs Cooke. Perhaps she rarely ventured into the garden or was an invalid. But that wouldn’t necessarily explain it either. She or her deceased husband obviously enjoyed the garden. Judging by the size of it, the bush had certainly been growing in the same spot for more than just a couple of years. One of them should have known about it. On the other hand, the entire garden had become so overgrown that the chance of stumbling on the rose would have been unlikely. On top of that, the rose was extremely well hidden. After all, she and Alex hadn’t spotted it during their several walks through the garden. There was another thing, too. She and Alex had no idea how long it bloomed. If it was like most of the old garden rose varieties it would only put out roses once a year, the flowers sometimes lasting for as little as three to four weeks. After that, nobody would know it was a blue rose bush. Despite all this, she had an odd feeling that somebody must have known about it.

She turned her back on the rose and walked along the path to the white bench. It wobbled and creaked as she sat down. Placing her mug of tea beside her, she opened the magazine and began reading.

‘Kate!’

She sat up, startled. It was Alex, calling from the house. Glancing at her watch, she was astounded to see that she had been in the garden for over half an hour. She picked up her mug, swishing the dregs of cold tea alongside a clump of hardy geraniums, and walked up the path toward the house.

‘I’ve got a meeting this morning with that fussy Hendrickson woman,’ Alex said, putting his teacup down, dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘We’re going to revise the upstairs plan for the twentieth time. Never known anybody so indecisive as that blasted woman! God knows why she wants three loos – three mind you – upstairs. Her bladder must be completely shot!’

‘At least her bank account isn’t shot. She’s paying her bills, isn’t she?’ Kate asked.

‘Guess so,’ Alex said, smoothing his hair.

The evening before they had checked out ‘blue roses’ on the Internet and had quickly found out that no such rose existed, and that scientists were working hard to make the dream of a true blue rose a reality. None of the few sites on the subject had offered any speculation as to the value of the very first blue rose.

Alex picked up his canvas briefcase and lifted his leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Any more thoughts about the rose, Kate?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an interesting idea.’

‘Whenever you say, “I’ve got an interesting idea,” I get nervous. All right, what is it?’

‘There’s no need to look at me like that. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything. It’s just that I was thinking about what we discussed yesterday – having an individual, an expert, look at it. Last night, I thought of exactly who that might be.’ She held up the magazine, page open to the article. It included a picture of a man with a mop of white hair. ‘Dr Lawrence Kingston,’ she announced.

‘A rose expert, I take it?’

‘And then some. According to the article, he’s the foremost specialist in the world in the business of agro ecology, plant-pollinator relationships, genetics, all that kind of stuff. For years, he was a professor and head research botanist at Edinburgh University.’

Alex studied the page more closely. ‘He looks quite rakish. Love the bow tie.’

‘Well, if anybody’s going to know how a blue rose ended up in our garden, he certainly should,’ Kate said, closing the magazine and placing it on the table.

‘And how much it’s worth, hopefully.’

‘I’m sure he’ll have some thoughts on that, too. The big question is whether he can be persuaded to come down and take a look at it.’

‘Wouldn’t he leap at the chance?’

‘There’s no question he will – if we tell him it’s blue. But I don’t think we should tell him that on the phone.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because, right off, he’s going to think we’re a couple of crackpots. Besides, we can’t risk his leaking the word out before he’s seen the rose – before we get to find out what kind of person he is. Supposing he was – well, less than honest.’

‘I see your point. Anyway, if anyone can persuade him, you can, Kate.’

Kate kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll give the magazine a call today, see if I can reach the professor. I’ll check out the library, too. See what they have on the subject. See you tonight, darling.’

‘Good luck with the professor, then,’ Alex said, with a wink, as he walked out the door.

From the kitchen window Kate watched Alex get into the Alfa and drive off. Asp gave up his usual yapping pursuit of the car and turned back toward the house – but not before lifting a leg on one of Kate’s recently planted euphorbias.

The front of Kate’s shop in Bath was painted a shade of green so dark that on a cloudy day it appeared black. In rich contrast, raised serif letters in burnished gold stretched the width of the facade. They read: SHEPPARD’S PIE ANTIQUES. The name had been Alex’s idea. She liked it so much that immediately after they were married she adopted it. It was one of a cluster of antiques shops located in the heart of the city. Kate’s neighbour on one side was a dealer who specialized in antique clocks. On the other side was a shop with whimsical window displays featuring old dolls and collectible toys. Kate’s shop featured English and French country furniture and objets d’art. While Alex would often make unkind remarks about the craftsmanship and exorbitant prices of some of her more rustic pine purchases, he did admit that she was a good dealer. She had a good nose for finding quality items and an excellent eye for bargains. With her amiable personality, good looks and quick mind for business it was no surprise that the shop had shown a respectable, if inconsistent, profit in each of its nine years of operation. Once in a while she couldn’t resist ribbing Alex, getting back at him for some of his rude comments about the quality of her purchases. Occasionally she would drop a comment: ‘You know that hand- painted pine chest – the one you said looked like it was made of firewood and painted with a toothbrush – well, I just sold it for fifteen hundred pounds.’

It was nine thirty on Friday morning. With no customers in the shop, Kate picked up the phone and dialled the number of English Gardening magazine.

‘Hello, English Gardening.’ The woman’s voice was cheerful and not at all businesslike. ‘This is Molly Chapman, how may I help you?’

‘My name’s Kate, Kate Sheppard. I’m interested in contacting Dr Lawrence Kingston. He wrote a story on roses in your May issue, last year.’

‘Kingston?’ She paused briefly. ‘Oh, yes, I’m well aware of him – the chap with the mop of silver hair. A real character, that one. Former professor of botany – among other things.’

Kate frowned for a moment. A real character? Other things? What did that mean?

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘Could you give me an address or phone number where he can be reached?’

‘I’m sorry, we’re not permitted to divulge information of a personal nature concerning any of our staff or contributing writers. I’m sure you understand. What I can do, though, is attempt to contact him and pass on a message along with your phone number. We do that quite frequently for our readers.’