6.The Alcatraz Rose by Anthony Eglin Page B

No name. We think that it could—and I want to emphasize the ‘could’—have been written by your brother. If it was indeed Reginald’s hand, then it would not only corroborate his familiarity with the rose but might also connect him to the Fiona McGuire missing persons cold case in Cheltenham. It’s too early yet to say if this will have any bearing on the circumstancesof Reginald’s unfortunate death, but we—Emma, in particular, with her background and experience in these matters—felt the connection reasonably evidential to justify further inquiries.”
    “That was a charitable deed you did for the child,” she said. “And I can see why you became suspicious when you saw the inscription. But good heavens, it’s far from proof, isn’t it?”
    Kingston nodded. “That’s true, but it can’t be overlooked.”
    Emma added, “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that proof is a rare thing in police work.”
    “Have you told the police about it?” Grace asked.
    “Not yet. Emma will contact them in the coming days, but only if we feel that the information we have so far warrants it. That’s another reason why we needed to talk to you first. I’m sure they must have contacted you by now. The police?”
    “They have. Two days after I arrived.”
    “Did they give you an explanation of what happened? If it was an accident or not?”
    “Yes, they did. It seems like a wretched dream. I still can’t believe it,” she said in a tired voice, shaking her head. “He was such a kind and considerate man. I know it’s a cliché, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She brushed a finger across the corner of an eyelid. “It’s impossible to believe that anybody would want to kill him.”
    “Can you tell us what the police said?” Emma asked gently.
    She nodded. “There’s not much to tell. Anyway, from what I’ve gathered—as you know—it’s no longer a secret.” She took out a handkerchief that was tucked in the sleeve of her turtleneck and dabbed her nose delicately several times.
    Other than the distant sound of the lawn mower chattering again, a brief silence fell over the room. After a few moments, looking more composed, Grace continued.
    “The inspector I spoke to—his name escapes me right now—said that the pathologist’s report from the postmortem examination determined that Reginald had been forcibly drowned, in all likelihood in the house or another location, and then his body dragged to the pond in the garden to make it appear accidental. He went on to explain briefly howthey were able to determine it was a homicide—something to do with freshwater algae—but by that time, I’d heard enough.” She paused, looking right into Kingston’s sympathetic eyes. “His death wasn’t accidental. There’s no question about it.”
    “I wish that we could make things easier for you, Grace,” Emma said. “But I know from experience that in these circumstances there are no words to make things more tolerable. The best we can promise is to find out who did this, and why.”
    “I hope to God that you can. And I wish that I could be of help in some way.” She picked up her glass and downed the last of the sherry.
    “You can,” Emma said.
    “How?”
    “Tell us about Reginald. What it was like when you were children growing up together, in school, where you lived, what happened in later years, what hobbies Reggie had, his jobs, who his friends were, if he married, if he had problems of any kind like money, business failures, large debts, gambling—anything you can think of, no matter how trivial it seems to you.”
    “That’s quite a tall order. But that’s all right, because most of the things you mentioned about his past I can’t answer,” Grace said. “I told you I’ve been abroad for many years.”
    “That’s fine,” Emma said with a quick nod. “Just tell us what you can.”
    “I’ll do my best,” she replied doubtfully, dabbing her nose again with her hanky. “I’ve