The Trail of the Wild Rose by Anthony Eglin

From the Publisher

The hunt for an ancient Chinese rose turns deadly in this latest English Garden Mystery featuring Dr. Lawrence Kingston.

A plant-hunting expedition haunted by tragedy leads to a perilous trail of greed, larceny, and deceit. Has Peter Mayhew, the man who plunged to his death on a mountain in China, come back to life? Which of the expedition members is hiding an explosive secret? Why are some being targeted for murder?

Once again, Dr. Lawrence Kingston—retired professor of botany and reluctant sleuth—finds himself at the center of a baffling case like none he has ever encountered. Following an ambiguous trail with only scant clues, he must find the hidden meaning dormant in a cache of valuable Chinese antiquities, shadow a ruthless assailant through London’s teeming Underground, and travel the length and breadth of Britain, from a hospital ward in Oxford and an anonymous rendezvous in a Hampshire garden, to a remote farm in Dorset and the mystical Cornish coast—even to the mountains of Wales—in his search for the truth. Even the most likely suspects are becoming victims themselves, and the stakes rise exponentially as each lead comes to a dead end...literally.

Racing to save the lives of the remaining plant hunters and not become a victim himself, Kingston discovers the extreme lengths to which desperate men will go for riches, recognition, and the thrill of the hunt. Clever and chilling, The Trail of the Wild Rose effortlessly combines Anthony Eglin’s horticultural knowledge and literary skills to create an innovative and riveting new mystery.

Publishers Weekly

A party of plant hunters who are dying off one by one is the intriguing, Agatha Christie-like scenario of Eglin's less than satisfying fourth English garden mystery (after 2007's The Water Lily Cross). A colleague dispatches retired botanist Lawrence Kingston after a member of a recent horticultural expedition to China is run off the road while on his motorcycle and lies gravely injured in an Oxford hospital. The patient's ramblings reveal that disquieting events may have occurred on the journey and raise questions about the man's identity and the group's objectives. After the patient's death, Kingston interviews other members of the party and their relatives, gradually uncovering a conspiracy of greed, blackmail, fraud and murder. In the end, the awkward introduction of plot elements, a propensity to tell instead of show, stilted and unrealistic dialogue, a title that bears only a peripheral relation to the narrative and digressions about Kingston's personal life bury a promising premise. (Apr.)

Jo Ann Vicarel - Library Journal

Gravely injured in a motorcycle accident, a man lies semicomatose in the hospital, mumbling about a plant-hunting trip to China. Horticulturalist and amateur sleuth Lawrence Kingston (The Blue Rose; The Lost Gardens) is asked to interpret what the man is saying and, of course, finds himself in a complicated investigation. Eglin demonstrates his knowledge of botany and plant hunting while parceling out plot tidbits to keep readers following the trail to the murderer. For cozy collections.

Kirkus Reviews

A retired professor of botany turned amateur sleuth does a favor for a friend that entangles him in a series of murders. Lawrence Kingston's peaceful retirement is rudely interrupted by an unusual request from a colleague from Kew Gardens. Peter Mayhew, badly injured in a motorcycle accident, is laid up in Oxford. His only communications are rambling descriptions of a plant-hunting expedition. Asked to go listen for clues, Kingston identifies the expedition as a search for wild roses in China. When Mayhew is murdered in hospital, a request for aid from Thames Valley DI Sheffield and Lawrence's own bump of curiosity land him in the midst of a dangerous case. Mayhew went to China in the company of five men-Julian Bell, Spenser Graves, David Jenkins, an American botanist and photographer Jeremy Lester-and several local guides. When Mayhew's half sister Sally says the body in the morgue is not that of her brother, who was earlier reported to have fallen to his death during the expedition, the hunt is on to discover who the dead man is and why he was killed. As more of the expedition members succumb to unusual deaths, Kingston finds himself in a nightmarish update of Ten Little Indians. The third in Eglin's English Garden series (The Water Lily Cross, 2007, etc.) is chock full of fascinating information about historical plant hunters. But the complicated mystery is marred by a pedantic denouement.

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Chapter One

June 2007, England

The road south out of Little Stanhope village could have been any one of hundreds that spider the picturesque Thames valley, south of the city of Oxford: narrow, with dense hedgerows—often blocking the view on both sides—and fraught with unremitting curves.

To anyone following the Vincent Black Lightning motorcycle, it would be apparent that the leather-jacketed rider was familiar with the quirky road, its capricious twists and turns. Allowing for the light drizzle, he maintained a steady but not excessive speed, barely slowing for some of the shallow bends, and swaying fluidly from one side to the other, like a boxer dodging blows, as he coaxed the sleek machine through the blind hairpins.

He was headed for the market town of Wallingford, one of many picture-postcard towns and villages that straddle the Thames on its slow-.owing journey southeast to Windsor, thence to London, and to the sea.

Despite his familiarity with the road, he knew that concentration was critical: The margin for error, for both him and the driver of an oncoming vehicle, would be slender. Physically and mentally committed, setting up his line through a particularly long curve, he was at first unaware of the car that had appeared suddenly from behind. Only when he emerged from the curve, accelerating for the straight stretch of road ahead, did he spot the fast-approaching car in his side mirror.

He heard a swish of tires on the wet road and glanced over his shoulder to see that the dark-colored car had closed the gap and was now on his tail. He sensed a road rage situation in the making but was in no mood for a confrontation—or the inclinationto outrun the car, which would have been easy. He slowed and pulled over to the left as far as the narrow road would permit. The hedgerow leaves whipped the sleeve of his jacket as he beckoned for the car to pass. He glanced in his mirror again to see why the driver, a man wearing a cap and wraparound sunglasses, wasn't taking what was a clear opportunity to pass.

Suddenly the hedgerow stopped; in its place was a raised grass verge with a post-and-barbed-wire fence farther back. The road widened, too, and there was no oncoming traffic. Now the drizzle had turned to rain. Wiping his face shield with his glove, the bike rider waved again for the car to pass. At last it accelerated and pulled alongside.

The rider glanced to his right, curious to get a closer look at the hot-footed driver, careful to make it quick. He wasn't about to give the man the slightest reason to think that he was being challenged.

The instant their eyes met, the car swerved hard to its left, slamming the rear wheel of the bike, spinning the 450-pound machine into the verge. Sliding on the slick road, it careered off the grassy mound in a twisting somersault, hurling the rider several feet into the air. The bike landed first,fragments of metal, chrome, and glass showering the road. Two seconds later, beyond the mangled machine, the rider plummeted headfirst to the ground. He crossed his arms in front of his face, but it did little good. His helmet hit the tarmac with a sickening crack, and his body rolled several feet before coming to rest facedown, unmoving.

An eerie silence fell on the scene. The white sound of gentle rain was foreboding.

Then flames started to lick around the ruptured tank.

Suddenly, a roaring explosion, as the motorcycle's twisted remains erupted into a searing ball of flame and smoke.

With a screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber, the car sped off.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, an NHS Oxfordshire ambulance arrived at the Accident and Emergency unit of St. George's Hospital on the outskirts of Oxford, where the unidentified rider, on life support, was rushed to the trauma center.

Excerpted from The Trail of the Wild Rose by Anthony Eglin

Copyright © 2009 by Anthony Eglin

Published in April 2009 by St. Martin's Press

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

Read a Sample Chapter

The Trail of the Wild Rose

Minotaur Books

Chapter One

June 2007, England

The road south out of Little Stanhope village could have been any one of hundreds that spider the picturesque Thames valley, south of the city of Oxford: narrow, with dense hedgerows—often blocking the view on both sides—and fraught with unremitting curves.

To anyone following the Vincent Black Lightning motorcycle, it would be apparent that the leather-jacketed rider was familiar with the quirky road, its capricious twists and turns. Allowing for the light drizzle, he maintained a steady but not excessive speed, barely slowing for some of the shallow bends, and swaying fluidly from one side to the other, like a boxer dodging blows, as he coaxed the sleek machine through the blind hairpins.

He was headed for the market town of Wallingford, one of many picture-postcard towns and villages that straddle the Thames on its slow-.owing journey southeast to Windsor, thence to London, and to the sea.

Despite his familiarity with the road, he knew that concentration was critical: The margin for error, for both him and the driver of an oncoming vehicle, would be slender. Physically and mentally committed, setting up his line through a particularly long curve, he was at first unaware of the car that hadappeared suddenly from behind. Only when he emerged from the curve, accelerating for the straight stretch of road ahead, did he spot the fast-approaching car in his side mirror.

He heard a swish of tires on the wet road and glanced over his shoulder to see that the dark-colored car had closed the gap and was now on his tail. He sensed a road rage situation in the making but was in no mood for a confrontation—or the inclination to outrun the car, which would have been easy. He slowed and pulled over to the left as far as the narrow road would permit. The hedgerow leaves whipped the sleeve of his jacket as he beckoned for the car to pass. He glanced in his mirror again to see why the driver, a man wearing a cap and wraparound sunglasses, wasn't taking what was a clear opportunity to pass.

Suddenly the hedgerow stopped; in its place was a raised grass verge with a post-and-barbed-wire fence farther back. The road widened, too, and there was no oncoming traffic. Now the drizzle had turned to rain. Wiping his face shield with his glove, the bike rider waved again for the car to pass. At last it accelerated and pulled alongside.

The rider glanced to his right, curious to get a closer look at the hot-footed driver, careful to make it quick. He wasn't about to give the man the slightest reason to think that he was being challenged.

The instant their eyes met, the car swerved hard to its left, slamming the rear wheel of the bike, spinning the 450-pound machine into the verge. Sliding on the slick road, it careered off the grassy mound in a twisting somersault, hurling the rider several feet into the air. The bike landed first,fragments of metal, chrome, and glass showering the road. Two seconds later, beyond the mangled machine, the rider plummeted headfirst to the ground. He crossed his arms in front of his face, but it did little good. His helmet hit the tarmac with a sickening crack, and his body rolled several feet before coming to rest facedown, unmoving.

An eerie silence fell on the scene. The white sound of gentle rain was foreboding.

Then flames started to lick around the ruptured tank.

Suddenly, a roaring explosion, as the motorcycle's twisted remains erupted into a searing ball of flame and smoke.

With a screech of tires and the smell of burning rubber, the car sped off.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, an NHS Oxfordshire ambulance arrived at the Accident and Emergency unit of St. George's Hospital on the outskirts of Oxford, where the unidentified rider, on life support, was rushed to the trauma center.

Excerpted from The Trail of the Wild Rose by Anthony Eglin

Copyright © 2009 by Anthony Eglin

Published in April 2009 by St. Martin's Press

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Excerpted from The Trail of the Wild Rose by Eglin, Anthony Copyright © 2009 by Eglin, Anthony. Excerpted by permission.
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