Free 6.The Alcatraz Rose by Anthony Eglin Page A

inscription she had just described.
    “Lawrence?” Emma asked. “Was there something else?”
    “There is,” he replied, his mind off the book. “Among other things, I was going to tell you what happened after we left you the other day—but it’s quite a long tale. There’ll be plenty of time for that tomorrow. You’re going to be amazed. I’m not exaggerating.”
    “That’s not fair. Now I can’t wait.”
    “Until tomorrow, then. Good night.” he said with a satisfied smile, putting down the phone.
    Graham Stuart Thomas
, he thought. And then:
This may give you some ideas, R
.
    He considered Andrew’s law of “conditional probability” and wondered what the odds were that, somehow, all these incidents and events were in fact related.
    There was, he had already decided, only one way to find out.

8

    K INGSTON SAT AT a white-clothed corner table sipping a glass of Evian in the Ivy’s elegantly understated dining room. Keeping a close eye on the entrance, he eagerly awaited Emma’s arrival.
    As a matter of habit, whenever he invited a woman to lunch or dinner, each arriving separately, he made it a point to be at the restaurant fifteen minutes before reservation time. It had nothing to do with punctuality but everything to do with manners: not wanting to risk the chance that his guest would find herself waiting alone in a restaurant. He knew that in this he was one of a dying breed: men who still obeyed their mothers’ stern instructions on how to behave, and who always dressed for the occasion.
    Today, it was his Burberry double-breasted navy blazer with tan gabardine slacks and French-cuffed blue poplin shirt, with red-and-silver-striped university tie. It irked him to see people dining in London’s best restaurants wearing T-shirts and jeans. In addition to enjoying the Ivy’s excellent food, Kingston approved of the restaurant’s “dress code”: Men were required to wear ties, and shorts and microskirts were not “acceptable forms of attire” for women.
    At that moment, he looked up to see Emma being escorted across the room by the maître d’. She was dressed fashionably in a tailored gray-tweed jacket, silk blouse, and black, knee-length—thankfully not micro—skirt, quite a different Emma from the one he’d met in Winchcombe. He stood and took her hand in his while they exchanged greetings, and then sat down.
    “It’s a lovely room,” she said, looking around while reaching into her shoulder bag, taking out the book, and placing it on the table next to Kingston. “Here’s your special delivery, and thank you for inviting me.” She smiled. “The alternative would probably have been a ham and cheese baguette on the train home.”
    “Not on my watch,” he replied, picking up the book and opening it to the page with the inscription. He looked at it for a moment before closing it and putting it aside on the table. “I appreciate your thinking of me when you spotted the book, and please pass on my thanks to Molly when you next see her. It’s one that I don’t have and, as I mentioned on the phone, it holds special meaning for me, having known Graham and been a long-standing admirer of his enormous talents. Do you know most of the paintings and drawings in the book are his?”
    “I didn’t realize that. They’re exceptionally well done.”
    “They are. He could have made a decent living doing just that.” He glanced at the book. “Did you have any further thoughts on the inscription?”
    “I didn’t give it much thought, to tell the truth. Should I have?” She shrugged, as if wondering why he was bothering to ask. “It could only mean one of two things, I suppose. Either the book was given to her, or possibly to her husband, by a friend or acquaintance, whose first name started with
R
, or it came into their possession in the same way that books usually do: They bought it at a used-book store or a car boot sale, or it was a used book given to them by someone whose name