Slants of dust-speckled light entering the room through gaps in the heavy velvet curtains were just enough for her to make out the room. A few pieces of cheap furniture were placed at intervals around the high-ceilinged space. In places, seams of the faded and stained Victorian print wallpaper had separated and ripped, revealing earlier layers. In the far corner, a pedestal sink with a rust-stained porcelain bowl and oxidized brass taps stood next to a partially open door. Through it, she could see the edge of a bathtub.
She ran a hand down one arm. It was tender and she could now see the discoloration, bruising from the struggle. Turning her head, even slowly, made her wince. For several moments, she closed her eyes to shut out the dreariness and the pain.
She got up from the bed on wobbly legs and made it to the door. It was sturdy and, of course, locked. She went back to the bed, lay down and stared at the ceiling. It was blotched with brown-edged water stains and much of the paint was cracked or peeling. It reminded her of a similar ceiling, in an old seaside cottage in Cornwall that she and Alex had rented several summers back. Thinking back fondly to those wonderful days, she started to cry, quietly at first, then in heaving sobs. Her emotions had finally caught up with the enormity of her situation. Turning her damp pillow over, she eventually lapsed back into a deep sleep.
Since that awful day, she had done nothing but sleep – she only seemed to be able to manage a few hours at a time – and spend the waking hours trying to figure out who might have kidnapped her and why. She just knew the rose was behind it all. She thought constantly about Alex. He must be going out of his mind with worry by now.
The routine had been the same every day, until today – Thursday. When she had woken, she leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. Next to it was a plate with a raisin pastry of sorts and a browning banana. By the plate was a large manila envelope. Next to that, a ballpoint pen. She got up, sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the envelope. Her name was on the label, Shepard, spelled with one p. She slipped a fingernail under the flap, opened it and withdrew its contents, a document of some kind in a folder. Paper-clipped to the folder was a covering note:
Mrs Shepard:Please read, then sign and date the original and copies of the enclosed agreement effecting transfer of ownership of the blue rose presently in your and your husband’s possession. You will note that your husband has already signed.After you have signed on the lines indicated, return the agreement, the copies, and this letter to the envelope and place it by the door. Do nothing more – we will know when to retrieve it.
Kate read the letter again. Close to tears, she put a hand up to her mouth. If nothing else, she now knew why she’d been abducted. The letter also confirmed her suspicion that she was being watched. The thought made her shiver. Did that mean that Alex and The Parsonage were under surveillance, too?
Placing the letter on the bed, she opened the folder containing the agreement and flipped through its pages. She stopped at the sight of Alex’s signature and yesterday’s date. If he had signed it, it must mean that she had to, as well. What choice did she have?
A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Raindrops started to patter against the windows. She placed the agreement on the table, picked up the pen and signed the original and the copies. She then put everything back in the envelope as instructed.
After devouring the pastry and half the mushy banana, Kate was still hungry. At least a pot of tea would come soon. It had every day, thus far, about this time. She went to the door and placed the envelope on the floor. Then she went over to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. Outside, the rain had set in and the sky was the colour of pewter. The room looked even shabbier in daylight. Looking out to a gravel courtyard, she could see large bolts securing the windows from the outside. Beyond an overgrown yew hedge enclosing the forecourt, open countryside stretched to the horizon. She saw no signs of habitation in any direction.
As she stared at the dreary scene, she found herself once again thinking of the rose. The rose had brought them nothing but misery. Was it possible, having signed the agreement, that it could be all over? Suddenly she felt relief. For the first time in days, a wave of optimism. Now, perhaps, she and Alex would be free of the rose, for ever.
Chapter Twenty
It is curious, when one comes to think of it, how large a space the rose idea occupies in the world. It has almost a monopoly of admiration. A mysterious something in its nature – an inner fascination, a subtle witchery, a hidden charm which it has and other flowers have not – ensnares and holds the love of the whole world.
Candace Wheeler
Alex and Kingston arrived at the small house on St Margaret’s Mews. Unexpectedly, Mrs Cooke opened the door soon after the first ring of the doorbell. Once inside, Alex placed the box of journals under the table in the hallway. After a brief exchange of greetings and the introduction of Kingston, Mrs Cooke ushered them into the living room. This time Alex was careful to avoid the sofa. He watched with amusement as Kingston sank slowly into its marshmallow embrace.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ she said. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
Alex and Kingston declined, allowing that maybe a little later they would have some tea.
For a few minutes she talked quite openly about Graham. Alex was quite surprised – relieved, in fact – that she didn’t appear reluctant to discuss her nephew’s death. He had fully expected her to be in a much more grief-stricken state. Her seeming detachment led him to wonder whether there was much love lost between her and her nephew.
She stopped talking and looked down in her lap for a moment. Then she looked up again, her eyes moving about the room as if trying to avoid their gaze. ‘This business with the police, Alex,’ she said in a quiet but level voice. ‘That letter from the lawyer. I don’t mind telling you, that was an awful shock.’
Alex gave Kingston a fleeting glance, then looked at Mrs Cooke. ‘The police did come to see you, then?’
‘Oh, yes. They were here on Wednesday for at least an hour – an inspector and a sergeant.’
‘Was it Detective Inspector Holland?’
‘That’s right, Alex. A nice man.’
‘Yes, I suppose he is. He was the one who questioned me,’ said Alex. He paused for a moment. ‘I’m not sure whether he believed me when I told him the only reason Lawrence and I were there that afternoon was to drop off your husband’s books.’ He flashed Kingston another glance. ‘I don’t know whether they told you or not, Mrs Cooke, but I got the distinct impression that Holland thinks Lawrence and I are somehow mixed up with Graham’s death.’
‘Yes, they did mention that. Needless to say, I was stunned. They acted quite surprised when they learned that I knew it was you who found Graham. That you’d already told me when you phoned. They wanted to know what you might have been doing at Graham’s place. Whether there had ever been any disagreements or heated words between the three of you – you and Kate, and Graham.’
She paused for a moment, a flustered expression on her face, as if she would prefer not to be telling them this – or even talking to them at all. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, then continued. ‘Well, of course, I told them that you and Kate had bought The Parsonage and that I really didn’t know you at all well, that I’d only met you the one time. They asked what we’d talked about on that occasion, so I told them it was mostly about my husband’s roses – oh, and I mentioned lending you Jeffrey’s gardening books. They were very interested in that, and the fact that Graham was there at the time and had dropped them off at your house.’