For the most part, Alex remained silent.
‘So, how did the two of you meet?’ Kingston asked offhandedly, taking a sip of wine.
Alex glanced at Kate, as if to ask, should I tell him, then back to Kingston.
‘It was on Kate’s twenty-sixth birthday,’ he said. ‘At a picnic organized by one of her close friends, Annabel. It turned out to be a brilliant day – on the River Avon. I must say, when Annabel’s sister, Pam, asked me if I’d go with her I wasn’t too keen on the idea at first.’ Alex picked up his wineglass and cupped it in his hands. He rocked it gently to and fro, looking at it as if it were a crystal ball. ‘I’m not very big on crowds,’ he said, gazing at the glass. ‘The prospect of having to spend the best part of the day with a group of total strangers was about as appealing as being invited to an undertakers’ convention.’
‘Remind me not to throw any cocktail parties for you,’ Kingston chuckled.
Alex eyed Kate out of the corner of his eye. ‘Actually Kate’s not much better – well, maybe a little better.’ He paused to take a sip of wine. ‘It would be fair to say that we both have the tendency to be a trifle antisocial at times.’
‘Nevertheless, you obviously decided to go,’ Kingston observed.
‘I did, yes. In the first place, I’d always wanted to visit Bradford-on-Avon. It has some splendid old architecture and I thought, if time permitted, I’d pop up to Lacock Abbey to see the Henry Fox Talbot museum – you know, the photography fellow. Then, the more I thought about it, the idea of a picnic by the river did have a certain appeal – so I went.’ He took his eyes off Kingston and gave Kate an apologetic look, knowing that he was being far too talkative.
She flashed him a hurry-it-up look. ‘Annabel told me you and Pam never made it to Lacock.’
He looked flustered.
‘Did you?’ she asked with a knowing smile.
‘Well – no, as a matter of fact we–’ Alex put a hand to his mouth and coughed. ‘It simply got too late.’
The smile hadn’t left Kate’s face.
‘Anyway – where was I?’ Alex mumbled. He looked back to Kingston who seemed to be enjoying the story immensely. ‘Right. I never did get much of a chance to speak to Kate, though. In fact, the only words I can remember saying when we finally met were, “Happy birthday, Kate.” That was about it.’
Kingston was obviously now caught up in the story. ‘Did you meet again soon after?’
‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I was working crazy hours and weekends at my job. On top of that, two nights a week I was playing trombone in a jazz band.’
Kingston smiled benignly. ‘So that was the end of Pamela, I take it? Your friendship ended?’
Kate got up from the table, picked up the bottle of Pomerol and topped up their glasses. ‘Let’s just say that it petered out,’ she said, straight-faced.
Kingston raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled.
‘Needless to say, Kate and I did meet later, which happily led to all this,’ Alex said, reaching over and placing his hand on Kate’s.
‘I’m curious,’ said Kingston, taking another ninety-degree turn in the conversation, ‘who were the previous owners of The Parsonage?’
‘Owner,’ Kate answered. ‘An elderly widow by the name of Mabel Cooke.’
‘We never met her, though,’ said Alex.
‘So we don’t really know whether it was the Cookes who created the garden in the first place,’ said Kate. ‘For all we know, it could have been the owners of The Parsonage prior to the Cookes.’
Kingston took a deliberate sip of wine. ‘Well, we do know, for sure, that the garden has existed for many years and whoever had a hand in it knew what they were doing. The design and selection of plants are exceptional.’
It didn’t escape Kate’s attention that Kingston seemed to be consciously avoiding further conversation about the blue rose. At an appropriate lull in the conversation – when Alex left the table to open another bottle of wine, one of less distinguished parentage – she politely asked him why.
Lowering his wineglass, Kingston smiled at her. ‘I thought I’d save all that for this afternoon – not spoil your lovely lunch, Kate. You’re right, of course. There’s a lot to talk about.’ His voice had lowered and she noted that, for the first time since they’d sat down, the sparkle had gone from his eyes. ‘A lot more than you might imagine,’ he said.
Kate brought coffee into the living room, pouring a cup for Kingston and one for herself. Alex declined, opting to stick with the last of his wine. He was comfortably settled into an overstuffed armchair awaiting Kingston’s words.
Next to Alex, Kate sat perched on the edge of the sofa like a hungry fledgling about to be fed. Already she had taken a liking to Kingston. His frank yet quiet manner had a calming effect on her. At the same time, though she knew it was childish, she found it difficult not to picture him in some bygone era: as a dashing cavalry officer, flying ace or intrepid explorer. Certain of his mannerisms were not unlike those of her father.
She glanced across at Alex, hoping that he would refrain from flippant remarks about gardening. Not that it was of any consequence, since she’d already made it clear to Kingston that Alex was not much into gardening.
Kingston settled into the upholstered wing chair, which had surreptitiously become his chair, and eyed them from across the room over his glasses. He was obviously comfortable to be back again in his role of professor.
‘While I won’t rule out, entirely, the possibility that a human being has somehow fathomed the genetic riddle of the rose – which, I might add, has remained inviolate for millions of years – I’m more inclined to believe that your rose was an aberration of nature. That a freak cross-pollination has taken place between a rose and another plant. One which was probably blue, containing delphinidin pigment.’
‘What are the odds against that happening?’ Kate interrupted.
‘Gosh. The odds? In the many millions – could be billions, I suppose.’ He paused, rubbing a forefinger on his chin. ‘Remind me, would you – I’ll come to the delphinidin thing in a minute.’
It appeared that Kate’s interjection had broken his rhythm. He gathered his thoughts. ‘Not too long ago I was reading about an Australian company, Florigene. They call themselves molecular breeders of cut flowers. Since the mid-eighties, they’ve been working on genetic engineering projects with flowers, principally to create new colours in petals. Their number one goal is to create a blue rose. So far – over fifteen years in fact – they’ve spent millions on their mission, without success.’
‘Fifteen years!’ Kate exclaimed.
Alex whistled. ‘Millions, you said.’
‘That’s right,’ said Kingston. ‘The article stated that they have produced a blue carnation, now being sold commercially. But a blue rose was proving to be a much more complex and difficult task than they’d reckoned on. Let me tell you why.’ He got up from the chair.