Alex was debating whether Graham had had a particularly gruelling day or was in the grip of some debilitating bug. His mousy moustache drooped sourly at the corners of his mouth and thin strands of hair were vainly combed in a losing struggle to conceal the shiny pink dome of his forehead. His rumpled Donegal tweed suit, poorly knotted tie and suede shoes struck Alex as being more suited to the racetrack than the sales office. Alex had already pegged him as one of those irksome people who, despite being in reasonable health and comfortably off, are never satisfied with their lot. He also had an unsettling habit of blinking frequently through his wire-rimmed glasses, further adding to the impression of querulousness.
Graham pulled up a chair from alongside the nearby dining table, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘Well, how’s life in the country? Auntie tells me you’re asking about my uncle’s roses? About his notebooks.’ There was no friendliness in his voice.
Alex glanced at Kate. He knew that she was thinking the same thing. He’d better choose his words carefully. Certainly, Graham should be given no impression that they were there for any reason other than genuine interest in all the roses at The Parsonage, not just one. Earlier, he and Kate had debated about telling Mrs Cooke – or possibly hinting to her – that a particular rose in the garden was rare, even telling her it was blue. Kate had wanted to do that, but Alex had reminded her of Kingston’s admonitions and they had quickly dismissed that idea – at least for the time being.
‘Yes,’ Alex said, evenly. ‘There are a lot of roses we can’t identify. The markers have disappeared. It would just be nice – well, helpful – if we knew what they were.’
Kate turned to Mrs Cooke. ‘Did your husband spend a lot of his time tending the roses?’
‘Oh, yes. Barmy about ’em he was. Out there pottering in the garden seven days a week.’
‘Did he, by any chance, do any propagating? Hybridizing?’ Kate inquired, taking her eyes off Mrs Cooke to glance furtively at Graham. ‘Anything like that?’
‘What’s that got to do with identifying roses, might I ask?’ Graham interrupted.
‘We’re just curious, that’s all,’ said Alex. ‘Actually, Kate was thinking about trying her hand at it. We wondered whether there might be some useful information among your uncle’s books.’
Graham averted his eyes. ‘I haven’t looked at the books for years, but I rather doubt it. They’re quite old now, you know. Some are falling apart. Uncle died over seven years ago.’ He spoke as if he wished the subject could be dropped.
‘Would you like to borrow the books?’ Mrs Cooke asked.
Alex looked at Graham out of the corner of his eye just in time to see the imperceptible shake of his head and fleeting scowl at his aunt’s question.
‘Oh, that would be wonderful,’ Kate replied. ‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Mrs Cooke, turning to her nephew. ‘You still have them, I trust?’
Graham hesitated, his eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Yes – yes, they’re in my storage space. I won’t be able to get them for a couple of days. I’ll call you when I have them.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Mrs Cooke.
Saying that he had to make some phone calls, Graham got up, excused himself, and ambled to the door. By his body language and sullen expression, it was clear that he wasn’t pleased about giving up his uncle’s books.
‘Come to think of it, now,’ said Mrs Cooke after Graham had departed, ‘there was another chap who used to come over to help Jeffrey.’ She paused, twiddling away at her rings. ‘Thomas, I think his first name was.’
Kate and Alex exchanged glances while Mrs Cooke, with the tip of her forefinger pressed to her lips, stared at the ceiling.
‘Farrow,’ she blurted. ‘Thomas Farrow. That’s who it was. They used to spend hours on end in that infernal greenhouse of Jeffrey’s. Wouldn’t even come up for lunch some days.’ She paused, then chuckled. ‘Swore the two of them had a hussy in there, I did. But it was just the roses. That’s all they seemed to be interested in. Quite a charmer, that Farrow.’
‘Where is he now?’ Alex asked. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How did the two meet?’ asked Kate.
‘I think it was at the club Jeffrey belonged to. A garden club. I’m not certain, but it might have been in Marlborough. Perhaps there are newsletters or notes among those books of his that might help.’
Alex would have liked to pursue the question of Farrow’s involvement but knew that they’d asked enough questions already. Soon it might dawn on Mrs Cooke that their visit had to do with more than simply identifying roses in the Parsonage garden.
Graham never did return. After a few more pleasantries Mrs Cooke accompanied Kate and Alex to the front door where they said their goodbyes.
Early the next morning Kate and Alex received a call from Graham, saying that he was going to be in Marlborough the following day and could drop off his uncle’s books on the way back. ‘Just for the record, I’ve made a list of them,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it in one of the boxes. Still don’t know what you want with them,’ he added. Kate asked whether he could drop them off before nine thirty or after six, since they would both be working that day. Graham said he would try.
The next evening, when Kate arrived home from her shop, two large cardboard boxes containing Major Cooke’s books and sundry papers were sitting on the front door porch. There was no note from Graham. She carried the boxes, one by one, into the kitchen and placed them side by side on the floor. She was about to open one, out of curiosity, then decided to wait for Alex. Right then, she heard Alex’s car pull up outside, with the quick toot of the Alfa’s horn that always announced his arrival.
Kate poured two glasses of wine while Alex slit open the top of the first box with his Swiss Army knife.
‘There’s more than I thought,’ said Kate. ‘No wonder the boxes were so heavy.’
Kate sat cross-legged, put her glass beside her and started to take out the books, placing them in neat stacks on the floor. ‘There’s some really nice gardening books here, by the looks of it,’ she said, holding one up and studying its cover. ‘Hmm, this looks smashing, Visions of Paradise.’ She handed it to Alex.
Slowly they examined each book, and the miscellaneous printed items.
Alex cut open the flap of the second box and took out the top book.
‘This looks more interesting,’ he said.
Kate looked up from a garden club newsletter she was reading to see him leafing through a slim book with a dark red cover. ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked, handing it to her.
‘Most curious,’ she said, studying a couple of the pages.
‘There’s another like it here,’ he said, rummaging through the box. ‘In fact there are quite a lot of them. Journals of some sort, by the looks of it.’
‘It’s all gobbledygook. It doesn’t make any sense,’ Kate said, without looking up.
Alex was examining the second journal. ‘This one’s the same,’ he said.
Soon the box was emptied and a stack of books with identical bindings sat in front of him.
Kate placed her book on top of the pile and counted them. ‘There’s eleven,’ she said. ‘If it’s Major Cooke’s writing, he certainly was a neat old codger.’
‘It must be some kind of code.’
‘That’s what it looks like. We might be on to something, Alex.’
‘Major Cooke’s hybridizing records, in code?’