‘Let me tell you something, Sheppard.’ The man’s voice was now cold, bordering on hostile. ‘You and your lawyer are making a big mistake with this auction.’
‘And you’re making a big mistake trying to threaten me. I don’t like it one bit.’
The American laughed again.
Alex was now incensed. Despite what he thought was a civil and firm refusal on his part, the man showed no signs of being deterred.
When he spoke next, the man’s manner was more conciliatory. ‘Okay, Sheppard. It’s a big decision. I understand that. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to give me a definitive answer on the phone. Here’s what I suggest. You talk it over with Kate. Think about my proposal. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days with more specifics. How does that sound?’
The mention of Kate’s name threw Alex completely off balance.
‘Don’t call me again. Do you understand?’ he stammered.
‘Yes, I do understand. It’s probably quite a shock to get a call like this, out of the blue – if you’ll pardon the phrase – but I’m a businessman, Sheppard. And you’ve got something that is of great interest to me and my partners. So,’ his voice hardened again, ‘you and your wife consider my offer. Please.’
There was a momentary pause.
‘Think it over,’ he said, quietly. ‘Real hard.’
Before Alex could say anything, the man hung up.
Five thousand miles away, at his townhouse in iron-gated Vista del Lago country club estate, twenty miles south of Lakeford, Ira Wolff sat in the quiet luxury of his cherry wood-panelled study working at his desk. The phone rang. Before it could ring twice, he picked it up. ‘Yes?’ he said. He listened, nodding his head slowly in approval. ‘Excellent,’ he said, finally. ‘I agree, a couple of days is about right. That should give them plenty of time. Good work. Keep me posted, then.’ He stared at the phone for a moment before putting it down. ‘Black knight to blue queen, six,’ he said quietly.
Chapter Ten
A garden really lives only insofar as it is an expression of faith, the embodiment of a hope and a song of praise.
Russell Page, international garden designer
It was a day much more befitting mid-July. A little after eight thirty, when Alex had left for work, Kate gathered up tools from the potting shed and set off into the garden. Already she could feel the sun’s warmth on her bare arms.
She had tossed and turned all night, thinking the worst about the missing file and the disturbing phone call from the American stranger. She was convinced they were connected. Today, however, she would put aside all negative thoughts and enjoy her day off in the garden. Nothing strenuous – it would be spent simply pottering, enjoying.
A drowsy stillness hung over the garden, stirred every now and then by a gentle breeze that rustled only the topmost leaves of the old elms. High above, in the eggshell blue sky, the twittering of swallows and lazy cawing of rooks crystallized the sights and senses. It was so easy to shut off the outside world.
She busied herself deadheading roses, staking droopy delphiniums and foxgloves, and raking rose petals and dead leaves from under the thickly planted beds. Not for the first time, she was reminded of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s story, The Secret Garden. Though she hadn’t read it since childhood, she could still recall how the garden was first described: ‘The sweetest, most mysterious place anyone could imagine.’ Burnett could have been talking about the very same florid excess surrounding Kate this very minute. Even to ‘the high walls which shut it in’ and ‘the light swaying curtains, here and there, of climbing roses that had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves.’
Of late, Kate found herself consciously avoiding the blue rose as much as possible. She had no rational explanation for doing so, but for some time now a nagging voice skulking deep inside her warned her to be cautious. Don’t be lured by its captivating beauty and promise of vast riches, the voice kept saying. She knew that if she gave Alex even the slightest hint of her uneasiness it would only aggravate matters. She still had not been able to convince him of the downside potential of their discovery.
She stopped raking, to stare in fascination at a velvety bumblebee rolling drunkenly in the golden pollen of a peony. Quickly the bee flew off to find other temptations. Just as quickly, thoughts of the blue rose returned. The whole idea of turning it over to the lawyer had been to absolve themselves of responsibility and worry, to allow more time to themselves and enjoy their new home to the fullest. None of this was happening now. Worse, the sequence of unsettling developments was now starting to adversely affect their marriage, giving rise to ripples of dissension between her and Alex. To add further fuel to her misgivings, there was last night’s phone call. Alex wouldn’t admit it but she knew it had unnerved him. So much so that he had phoned Adell first thing that morning to tell him of the conversation.
The church clock striking twelve broke her train of thought. Why was she thinking about the damned rose again? She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do that. She just stood there for a moment, forcing her mind to think of something else – anything. She didn’t have much success. ‘Oh, bugger it,’ she said under her breath. It was obviously a good time to take a break. She gathered up her tools and set off for the house.
Kate kicked off her shoes, left them in the small room off the kitchen and walked into the house. The temperature inside was pleasantly cool – not surprising, since the old exterior stone walls of The Parsonage were over one foot thick. A heavy slate roof helped further insulate the house. The limestone floor tiles felt soothing on the soles of her feet. As she filled the kettle, she thought back to their meeting with Adell. Soon, the brochure would be sent out, and everybody and their uncle would know about their rose. Word of a blue rose would travel fast. No doubt it would hit the newspapers and then television. Up until now she hadn’t given that eventuality too much thought. What would happen then?
By the time the kettle had boiled, she knew what she would do. Saddling Alex with further debate about her qualms would only risk touching off more bickering. That was out of the question. The answer was simple: she would unburden herself on Kingston, good old Lawrence. She walked over to the Welsh dresser, picked up the phone, and punched in his number. While the phone was ringing, she reminded herself not to sound too worked up when she told him about what was happening. She was pleased when she heard his now familiar voice.
After exchanging pleasantries, mostly about the garden – and the weather, of course – she told him about the missing file.
‘Alex spoke to Adell again this morning,’ she said. ‘It still hasn’t shown up.’
‘That is strange, I must say, but you know how lost things have a way of eventually showing up,’ he said. ‘There’s probably a perfectly rational explanation. It got mixed in with another folder. Somebody put it in the wrong file, or took it home by mistake. Any number of possibilities.’
Kingston’s words were reassuring, but she knew he could hardly say anything else. He was turning out to be an incorrigible optimist. She was glad that she’d called him, though. ‘That’s true, I suppose,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the only recent development, Lawrence.’
‘What else?’
She told him about the phone call from the American. ‘Alex tried hard to convince me not to worry about it, that it was doubtful we’d hear from him again. But I could tell that he really didn’t believe that,’ she said. ‘At one point, he said the man became almost threatening.’