The Blue Rose by Anthony Eglin Page B

the top of the steps the garden opened to a wide band of lawn, edged by shrub and perennial borders. On a more agreeable day the view to the south was undoubtedly splendid. Now a menacing parade of dark thunderclouds rolled across the rain-shrouded horizon. Turning away from the dispiriting view, he was cheered at the sight of the brightly painted peacock-blue door.
    He lifted the tarnished lion’s-head knocker and let it drop loudly. Almost immediately the door was opened by a slender young woman, casually but fashionably dressed.
    â€˜Good afternoon, my name’s Lawrence Kingston. Dr Kingston. I’m trying to locate a Mr Thomas Farrow,’ he said evenly. ‘I was given this address by a former acquaintance of his. I wondered whether he might still live here?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m so awfully sorry – you obviously don’t know,’ the young woman stammered. ‘Thomas died several years ago. I’m his niece. Was he a friend of yours?’
    â€˜Not exactly. More like a friend of a friend, really.’
    â€˜Your friend wasn’t aware, either, then – that Thomas had died?’
    Conscious of her apprehensive expression, as she gripped the edge of the partially open door, Kingston stepped back two paces. ‘No. No, he wasn’t,’ he said. His next words were lost, as a crack of thunder echoed across the leaden sky. He waited as it rumbled off into the distance. Then it started to bucket down. ‘I’m awfully sorry to learn about your uncle,’ he said.
    A sudden gust of wind threatened to blow Kingston’s umbrella inside out. Rain splattered noisily off the porch behind him. It suddenly occurred to him what a sorry sight he must present to this pleasant young woman.
    â€˜Please…’ She opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Do come in. It’s such a wretched day. At least you can dry off a little. I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. My name’s Jennifer, by the way.’
    â€˜Thank you, Jennifer, that’s awfully kind of you. It is getting a bit nasty out here. Yes, tea would be lovely.’
    He set his briefcase down on the tiled floor of the hallway, took off his sopping trench coat, and handed it to her. ‘You’re very kind.’
    â€˜I’ll put the kettle on. You get yourself warmed up a bit,’ she said, leaving Kingston standing with his back to the meagre fire smouldering in the hearth of the low-ceilinged living room.
    When Jennifer returned with the tea, they sat down and she talked about her uncle. She said he’d passed away, suddenly, about six or seven years ago. She confirmed that he had, indeed, been passionately interested in roses and, yes, he had belonged to a garden club. She had done her best, she said, to keep up his garden in the back of the cottage but, sadly, it was nowhere near as glorious now as it had been when he was alive.
    â€˜You haven’t told me your reason for coming,’ she said.
    â€˜I’m trying to establish whether your uncle was a friend or acquaintance of a man named Jeffrey Cooke. Major Jeffrey Cooke. He was also keenly interested in roses. I recently found out that they belonged to the same garden club.’
    â€˜You said, “was”. This Major Cooke – he’s no longer alive, then?’
    â€˜I’m afraid not.’
    â€˜You still haven’t told me how you think Thomas might have helped you.’
    â€˜You’re right, forgive me. Well, some close friends of mine recently purchased a nice old house from Major Cooke’s widow. There are lots of roses in the garden – upwards of two hundred – some quite old and rare. The garden’s large, of course.’
    â€˜It sounds lovely.’
    â€˜It is. Well, Mrs Cooke lent us some of her husband’s journals containing records of his hybridizing roses. We’re pretty certain they’re Major Cooke’s notes but it’s also possible that