6.The Alcatraz Rose by Anthony Eglin Page A

before. “Well, in the first place, the rose in question is considerably rare, having been declared extinct fifty years ago. But what has made it somewhat of a celebrity lately is that it was discovered recently to be growing in America—of all places on Alcatraz Island.”
    “You mean the prison?”
    “The former prison, yes.”
    “What on earth has that got to do with Reggie?”
    “We believe that your brother was not only familiar with the rose but could also have been one of the few people who’d managed to clone it—that is, to replicate it from cuttings.”
    “Yes, I’m familiar with the process, not having been very successful at it, I’m afraid.”
    Kingston was ready to steer the conversation to her relationship with her brother and ask a few questions about him, when Grace interrupted.
    “What is it that you do, Dr. Kingston? I’m curious. Are you a medical doctor?”
    “No. It was remiss of me. I should have told you in the first place.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Emma, who was trying to get his attention—without being noticed by Grace—shaking her head almost imperceptibly. This, he knew, was a subtle signal to stick with the truth, which was his plan, anyway. So far, it had gone well, and there was really no reason for imposture, embellishment, or anything like that—as long as Grace was cooperating. He met her questioning eyes with a kindly half smile.
    “In addition to being a professor of botany,” Kingston said, “I have served as liaison to various law enforcement agencies, where my background and experience has been considered of help to the case. Another way of putting it would be that, in a court of law, I would be considered an expert witness.”
    “And what about you . . . Ms. Dixon, was it?” Grace asked, looking at Emma. “The doctor, here, said you were formerly with the police? I must say you look awfully young to be retired.”
    Emma smiled. “Thank you for the compliment. I was forced to step down from the force—a nasty accident.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, getting up and walking toward a butler’s table laden with various bottles, siphons, and glasses. “Would either of you care for something to drink? Fizzy water? Aperitif? Something stronger, perhaps?”
    Kingston and Emma asked for mineral water. Grace poured herself a rather generous measure of sherry, considering the time of day.
    “So let’s get to the point,” she said, placing the last of the drinks on the table and sitting. “All this twaddle about a rose that Reggie might or might not have been familiar with. Is there something you’re not telling me? What is it that you hope to find out?”
    Kingston took a sip of his Perrier and cleared his throat. “If it were only about the rose, we wouldn’t be here. And you’re right. The fact that a rose has migrated over five thousand miles, across an ocean, without help of any kind, would eventually come to be accepted as just another of those capricious tricks of nature and soon forgotten. However, quite recently, and by chance, in totally separate circumstances, while Emma and I were trying to help a distraught teenager, Letty McGuire, find out what happened to her mother who’s been missing for eight years, we stumbled upon something unexpected, puzzling.” He paused briefly. “On a bookshelf at Letty’s foster home we came across an old book about roses that might have belonged to her mother—or grandmother, perhaps. At first it appeared to be of no importance, but upon further examination it contained a handwritten note on the last page describing the rose in considerable detail. It’s called the Belmaris rose. The writer also knew that the rose was either extinct or about to become so.”
    Kingston scratched his cheek, pausing, while Grace took a large sip of sherry. “But here’s the interesting thing,” he continued. “The inscription in the front of the book was signed with just the initial
R
.