The Winter Rose (103 page)

Freddie smiled. "I don't care what you believe, Tom."

Meade's eyes hardened. "There are protocols," he said coldly. "Even
in Nairobi. The governor is not the only one who will need to be
notified. May I ask what you intend to do?"

"I plan to arrest him, of course. And then I plan to hang him."

Can you smell despair? Joe wondered. Can you see it? Touch it?

He had always believed it to be an intangible thing, a state of mind.
Until he'd come to Wandsworth. Here it was real. It stalked the
corridors, echoing in the hollow pok pok of the guards' steps. It
dripped down the gray granite walls, festering in their cracks, filling
the room with its moldering stink. It seeped into fiesh and bone, as
chilling as the damp, creeping cold of a grave.

"Wandsworth was a model prison in its day," the warden said cheerily,
as he accompanied Joe from his office to the visitors' room. "It was
built in the panopticon style in 1851 with cell blocks radiating from a
central control station from which the guards can see everything that's
going on. Designed to be a new type of humane prison. Panopticon," he
repeated, relishing the word.

"Really? Humane, you say?"

"In relative terms, of course."

"It's not relative, humanity. One's either humane or one isn't."

The warden smiled. "Everything's relative, Mr. Bristow. Ever been to Reading?"

"No."

"It antedates Wandsworth by a few years. It was operated on the
separate and silent system. Single cells with solid doors so that
prisoners couldn't see one another. Walls so thick you'd never hear
another human voice. The convicts were made to wear masks whenever they
were out of their cells--long pieces of fabric with holes cut out for
their eyes. Meals were taken in the cells. The inmates lived alone,
deprived of contact with others. No words of comfort. No friend to pat
you on the back, no cell mate to whisper comfort when you cried out at
night. It was all thought to be reforming and rehabilitating, but
prisoners went mad there, Mr. Bristow. So much for humanity. And
speaking of mad, how'd you fare with our friend Betts last time?"

"Not too well, I'm afraid."

The warden sighed. "Maybe you'll have better luck this time. I hope
so, for there may not be a next time. He's not long for this world. TB,
you know."

"I thought so," Joe said, remembering Frankie's sunken eyes, the high color in his cheeks.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," the warden said. "Do remember to
keep the table between you. The guard's there, of course, but prisoners
can become violent."

Joe laughed. "He can't possibly do me more harm than he's already done," he said.

The warden left and Joe wheeled himself over to one of the long
tables. He had come to try yet again to get answers from Frankie Betts.
Keeping what he'd discovered about Sid, and about Sid's child, from
Fiona was killing him. She was his wife and she had a right to know
these things, yet he couldn't betray Ella. Or Dr. Jones. Or the child.
His hands were tied, and he didn't know what to do to get them untied,
but he felt instinctively that any chance he might have of making things
come right lay with Frankie Betts.

After a few minutes the heavy iron door that led to the cell blocks opened and Frankie walked out.

"Jesus bloody Christ," he said. "Not you again."

He looked terrible. So bad, in fact, that Joe almost felt sorry for
him. Almost. "Hello, Frankie," he said. "I'm happy to see you, too."

"I want to go back to me cell," Frankie said to the guard.

"Sit down, Betts," the man said.

"I did some investigating, Frankie," Joe began.

"Well, ain't you a regular Sherlock Holmes."

"Found out about the doctor. The one you mentioned last time. Dr.
Jones. I can see how she must've rankled you. She took Sid away, didn't
she?"

"Never heard of her. Don't know what you're talking about. You should leave. You're wasting your time."

"You were angry, weren't you? You didn't want Sid to go away with the
doctor. You wanted him back in the fold. That's why you shot me. To
land Sid in the shit. Make him go underground. Make him a villain
again."

"You should write mystery stories, you."

"People I talked to think you killed Gemma Dean, Frankie. They say
you had to. You botched my shooting, so you needed to kill someone else.
As a way of keeping Sid on the run."

"Doesn't matter what people say. Gemma's dead as a doornail. And so's Sid."

Joe leaned in close. "Here's a bit of news for you ...Sid's not dead.
He's alive. The body in the river? Not his. He faked it. So he could
get out of London."

"You're lying," Frankie said. But in his eyes Joe saw a flicker of doubt.

"I'm not." Joe sat back again. He regarded Frankie for a few seconds,
then said, "Sid didn't kill Gemma. I know he didn't because I have his
word on it. You didn't, either. I've no idea how I know that, but I do.
So who did kill her, Frankie. Who?"

Joe got a cough for a reply. A deep, wet, racking cough that left Frankie wiping blood from his lips.

"You're dying, Frankie," Joe said softly. "Don't take Sid with you. Let him live. Let him come home."

Frankie, sick and gray and broken, looked at the floor. Joe could see
he was struggling--with his disease, with his conscience, with himself.

"Please, Frankie," he said. "It's me asking. Me. The man you put in a
wheelchair for the rest of his life. Do you have any idea who killed
Gemma Dean?"

Frankie raised his eyes and said, "Oh, aye, guv. I've an idea, all right. I saw him. I was there."

Sid knew.

He knew before the ox cart stopped at the end of Maggie's drive.
Before the horses were tied. Before the men from Nairobi stepped onto
her porch. He knew when he saw the dust rising in the distance, swirling
up from the red dirt road, that it was over. That they were coming for
him. Somehow, somewhere deep inside himself, he'd always known it would
end this way.

He was shoeing Maggie's mare when Baaru shouted at him that strangers were coming.

He straightened, gazing toward the road. He finished his work, gave
the horse to Baaru to lead back into the barn, and went into his house
to wash. He put the few pieces of clothing he had into his battered
leather satchel, and his books, for he knew how slowly the days passed
in jail.

I should've gone away, he thought. Far away. I should've headed into the bush and stayed there. Why didn't I?

He knew why. He'd wanted to see India. To be near her. What did it
matter if they jailed him now? If they hanged him? What did he have to
live for? For a moment he felt a deep and wild sadness at losing the
life he'd made for himself here, but then he asked himself, What life?
Life is what he would have had with India. This was no life. This was
just an existence.

When he finished packing his things, he went to Maggie's house. He
went in the back door and walked through Alice's kitchen and into the
sitting room. There were half a dozen men in there. And Maggie.

"If you don't take us to him, we'll have to get him ourselves," a man said. It was Ewart Grogan, one of Nairobi's judges.

"I'm not taking you anywhere until you tell me what this is about,"
Maggie replied. "Who in blazes do you think you are walking in here,
ordering me about, telling me you need to see my foreman, but not
telling me why?"

"It's all right, Maggs. I'm here," Sid said.

"Do you know why we're here, Sid?" Grogan asked.

"I've a fair idea."

Grogan nodded. "Take him," he said.

An officer advanced on Sid, pulling a pair of handcuffs off his belt.
"Sid Malone," he said, "you are under arrest. I'm charging you with the
murder of Gemma Dean."

"Murder?" Maggie squawked. "What are you doing? His name's Baxter, not Malone. You fools have the wrong man. Let go of him!"

"I can't do that, ma'am," the officer said, cuffing Sid.

"Will someone please tell me what's happening?" she yelled, as the
of?-cer led Sid out of her house and down the porch steps. There was a
popping sound and then a blinding flash of light. "What the devil was
that?" she shouted, looking around wildly. There was a camera on her
front lawn. A man stood behind it, his head hidden under a black cloth.

"You son of a bitch!" she shouted. She ran to him and kicked him in
the backside as hard as she could. He lost his balance and fell over.
The camera fell with him. "Get off my land! Now!"

"Mrs. Carr! Please calm down!"

Maggie spun around. "Tom Meade! Is that you skulking? What the hell is this about?"

Tom was standing in her front garden. "I'm sorry, Maggie. We have to take him," he said. "Governor's orders."

"Take him? Take him where?"

"To Nairobi. To jail."

"They're arresting me, Maggs," Sid said. "They think I murdered a woman. Years ago. In London. Her name was Gemma Dean."

"You didn't, did you?"

"No."

"You've nothing to worry about, then. I'll follow you in two days.
Soon as I can get Roos or the Thompson boys to take over here. I'll get
you a solicitor, Sid. I'll have you out of there in no time." She turned
to Grogan. "And I'll have your head! The cheek! Trespassing on my land,
marching into my house, making off with my foreman..."

As Maggie continued to harangue Grogan and Meade and everyone with
them, Sid saw a tall, blond man standing on the path, at a distance from
the house. Though he'd steeled himself, his blood still ran cold as the
man approached him.

"Mr. Malone," the man said. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough, Freddie."

Maggie, red-faced and sweating, grabbed Sid's arm. "Don't you worry,
lad. I'll have you out in no time. You'll be home before the harvest."

Sid looked into Freddie's cruel, triumphant eyes, then quietly said, "No, Maggie. I don't think I will."

"Why did you do it, Freddie? Why?" India cried, striding into her husband's bedroom.

Freddie, knotting his tie in front of a tall cheval mirror, turned to her and said, "Do what, my dear?"

"You know bloody well what!"

"Do keep your voice down. We are guests in the governor's house."

"And the governor's wife just told me about Sid Baxter's arrest. Over
tea and toast. That's where you were for the past few days, isn't it?
You rode out to Thika so you could arrest him yourself?"

India had almost cried out with shock at the news, almost wept with
fear for Sid. It had taken every ounce of control she possessed to
finish her breakfast and take her leave of Lady Hayes Sadler.

"Let him go, Freddie," she said now.

"You overestimate my authority."

"You don't have to do this."

"India, my conscience--"

"Your what?"

"Will simply not permit me to turn a blind eye to the law, to allow a murdering villain to walk free."

"You are the villain, Freddie. Not Sid."

"I did not murder Gemma Dean."

"Neither did he."

"A magistrate will decide that."

"A magistrate bought and paid for by you."

Freddie looked at his tie. The knot was lopsided. "Blast," he said and began again.

"How did you find out? Did you follow me?" India asked him.

"I rode to the Carr farm to make the acquaintance of Margaret Carr. I
saw him there. I had no choice but to order his arrest. I would be
negligent in my duties as undersecretary had I not."

"He will hang. You know that, don't you? If you persist in this, he will be convicted and executed."

"I certainly hope so."

India caught her breath. "Why, Freddie? Why must you be so cruel?"

"One must protect one's belongings."

"What do you want? The money? The houses? I'll give them to you. Sign
them over to you. I'll give you everything," she said, desperation in
her voice. "Just let him go. Please."

"It's not as easy as that, I'm afraid. Your wily father made the
terms of the trust rather iron-clad. And it's not just the money, you
know. I've my reputation to consider. I'll never become prime minister
if my wife runs off with her bit of rough."

India took a deep breath, steeling herself for the offensive. She had
never dared to do what she was about to do, she had been too afraid of
the consequences, but she had to act now or Sid would die. "If Sid
Malone is given a fair trial, Freddie, I give you my word that I will
never see him again. I will remain to all appearances your loyal wife.
If he is hanged, I will divorce you. And do everything I can to destroy
your reputation."

Freddie laughed. "Not if you care about Charlotte, you won't."

India had anticipated that threat and prepared for it.

"I will, Freddie," she said. "Even though I care greatly about
Charlotte. You forget that I have my own funds. I can afford to hire my
own solicitors. The best in London. I will get my divorce, make no
mistake, I'll take Charlotte with me, and I'll ruin you into the
bargain. You'll never be prime minister. Never."

Freddie frowned thoughtfully at his reflection. "I daresay that you'd
get your divorce and cause a scandal, too, but if you so much as
attempt it, I promise you, you will never see Charlotte again. I have
many friends. In the Inns of Court. In the Home office. Why, even in
Number Ten. I'll call upon them all to have you ruled an unfit mother."

"You're blufflng," India said, certain now that he was desperate,
con?-dent that she had the upper hand. "You have to prove me morally
lacking and you can't. Because I'm not. I've not put one foot wrong in
all the years of our marriage and you have nothing that says otherwise."

"Not during our marriage, no, but certainly before it. How about the
contraceptives you underhandedly dispensed as a new doctor? I'm sure
Edwin Gifford would be only too happy to testify about that. And the
time you spent with Malone, a known criminal. Your landlady in Arden
Street can tell the court how you pretended to be man and wife. And then
there's your mad dash from the Moskowitzes' to warn him of the trap the
police had set, so we can add aiding and abetting a fugitive to the
list. Hardly the sort of activities a mother of high moral standards
engages in. Don't you agree? No? Well, it doesn't matter if you do or
you don't. The magistrate will."