The Winter Rose (106 page)

"I didn't know he was going to kill her. Didn't think for a second
that he had it in him. If I had known, I would've stopped him. I thought
he was only roughing her up a bit. They were talking about Sid, you
see. He was trying to get an address out of her. The place where Sid
went to meet the doctor. I knew about that place. Arden Street. He
wasn't there. I'd looked for him. But I wanted to listen in case Gemma
knew about another hiding place. I thought she might've been holding out
on me. I thought Lytton might get it out of her."

"What happened next?"

"Gem never even made it to the hallway. Lytton grabbed her and
dragged her back into the sitting room. He wanted to throw her on the
settee, I think, but he missed and she hit a table instead. A marble
table. She hit it hard. Broke her neck."

"What did Lytton do then?"

"He went quiet for a bit. Then he started destroying the place.
Breaking things. Turning things over. Making a right bloody mess. He
must've had it in his head by then that he was going to blame Gem's
death on Sid. Make it look like a robbery and all. I saw him stuff her
diary and wallet into his pocket. Then he went into her bedroom. Wrecked
that, too. I was behind him, out in the hallway, watching. I saw him
steal her jewelry. The earrings and necklace Sid gave her. Worth a
fortune, those. Word got out. Everyone was waiting for them to
reappear."

"Who's �everyone'?"

"Every wide boy in London. Every rozzer, too."

"I don't understand."

"Lytton put it about that Sid killed Gemma. That he'd seen him do it.
The police investigating the murder found that Gem's diamonds were
missing, and naturally reckoned that Sid had taken them because he was
on the run and needed money. No respectable jeweler would touch them, of
course. No tuppenny-ha'penny pawnbroker could afford to. They were
worth thousands. Tens of thousands. So everyone knew he'd have to
approach a fence if he wanted to move them. Joey Griz was the biggest
and the best, and the rozzers were watching him night and day. They were
watching a lot of lesser lights, too. But Sid never showed. Because he
didn't have the goods. Freddie Lytton did."

Frankie went on to explain how Lytton had almost caught him. Frankie
had stepped on a creaky floorboard. Freddie'd heard him and picked up a
poker and Frankie had had to hightail it. There wasn't time to get back
down the long hallway to the door, so he'd ducked into the kitchen
instead. He hid in the broom cupboard, jostling a bucket as he did,
making more noise. He thought he'd be found out for sure, and then he'd
remembered the cat inside his coat. He tossed it out of the cupboard
into the kitchen, half dead. He hadn't had time to close the cupboard
door all the way and he saw what happened next. The cat just sat in the
middle of the kitchen floor for a few seconds, looking dazed, before it
came to its senses and ran off. Lytton, who saw the animal, must have
assumed it had made the noise. Frankie watched from inside the broom
cupboard as Freddie smashed a teapot into his face. Then he left the
flat, with Frankie not far behind him, and raised the alarm, telling two
men who came to his aid that Sid Malone had killed Gemma Dean.

Joe had been astonished by Frankie's story. He knew Lytton was an
underhanded politician, but he'd never thought him capable of murder.

"Why didn't you come forward?" he'd asked Frankie. "You could have helped Sid."

"I didn't want to help him. Back then, it suited me just fine if he
was wanted for Gemma's murder. It would bring him back to the Bark. Back
to the life," he said. "And besides, who'd believe me? Who's going to
believe me now, guv? Looking at you, I'm not even sure you do."

But Joe did believe him. Frankie had nothing to gain by telling his
story. And much to lose. When Lytton heard his accusations, he'd
undoubtedly pull some strings to have Frankie moved to a worse prison,
if not put into solitary.

Frankie had told him all of this a week ago. Joe had been spending
tense and hectic days ever since trying to arrange lawyers and police
of?-cers, apprising the warden of what was going on, and scheduling one
final visit to Frankie. He'd worried the whole time that it would all be
for nothing, that Frankie would change his mind at the last minute and
refuse to give a statement.

But Frankie hadn't changed his mind. He had made a condition,
though--he wouldn't speak to Alvin Donaldson. "You've got to get me
another copper," he said. "If someone's getting a promotion out of this,
it isn't going to be him."

Afterward, when the others had left, Joe had asked the warden for a few minutes alone with Frankie.

"Thank you," he said to him. "It's a good thing you've done."

"Will you get Lytton for this?"

"I'll try, but it's going to be bloody hard."

"The diamonds, mate. Find the diamonds and you'll find your man."

"Easier said than done," Joe replied.

Frankie nodded. He looked at the floor, then back at Joe. "Two nights
ago they gave me last rites. I'm a Catholic, me. Or was. Once upon a
time. It was bad, I don't mind telling you. Coughing blood all over
everything. I pulled through, though. By sheer bloody-mindedness. I
wanted a little more time. So I could do this. Will you tell him? Sid, I
mean. Will you tell him I did this?"

"Maybe you can tell him yourself one day."

Frankie smiled. "Ah, guv, we both know that's not going to happen."

"Do you want me to tell him?"

"Aye."

"I will then."

Frankie nodded. He looked at Joe's legs, at the chair he was sitting
in, and pain filled his eyes. "As much as I can, I want to set things
straight... as much as I can..."

He was a dying man asking for forgiveness. Should he give it? Frankie
had tried to kill him. He'd taken his legs from him. He would never run
with his children. Never dance with his wife. Never stand by his
daughter's side when she married. And yet it wasn't himself he pitied.
It was Frankie. He'd never known what it was to live. To love and be
loved. To have a family. Pride. Respect. And now he never would.

"I know, Frankie," Joe said. "I know you do. You have."

"Thank you," Frankie whispered. And then he was gone, shuffling back to his cell under the watchful eye of the guard.

Herbert Gladstone sat back in his chair now, shaking his head. "What
do you want me to do, Joe?" he asked. "I've just read the statement
again. Top to bottom. Just to make sure I didn't miss anything. There's
nothing there. Nothing I can work with. Just one man's word against
another's. And the man in question happens to be serving life in
prison."

"You can question Lytton. Send some detectives to his home."

"Not for some weeks. He's still in Africa. And what if I did? Say I
do send some detectives to ask him whether or not he murdered Gemma
Dean, what do you think will happen? Do you really think he'll say he
did it? Even if he did do it. Which I don't believe for one second."

Joe was about to argue with the man when his secretary rapped on the door and came into his office.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but this just arrived," he said, handing his boss a telegram.

Gladstone shook his head as he read it. His face darkened. "It never rains but it pours."

"Is something wrong?" Joe asked.

"I've just received word that your Mr. Malone has been arrested."

"What? Where?"

"In Nairobi. He's in jail there. He's going to be brought to Mombasa and shipped out to London."

"Lytton's there, too, isn't he?" Joe said.

"Yes, he is. He's the one who ordered the arrest."

"Of course he did," Joe said. "If he can get Malone convicted for
Gemma Dean and hanged, no one can ever point the finger at him."

"You're trumping things up now," Gladstone said testily. "Freddie
Lytton has no reason for wanting Sid Malone dead. He knows Malone was
accused of the murder, and I'm sure he wants only a fair trial and
justice for Miss Dean. As do we all."

Joe felt desperate. Freddie did indeed have a reason for wanting Sid
dead, but Joe couldn't tell Gladstone that. He couldn't tell him the
truth about Sid's connection to Freddie and to India. But he knew that
connection imperiled Sid's life. Much more than a false charge for the
Dean murder did. Freddie's wife loved Sid. His child belonged to Sid.
Freddie had reasons, all right. Far too many of them.

"Please, Herbert," Joe said now, "this case needs to be reopened.
Freddie Lytton is not above the law. No one is. He needs to be
questioned."

Gladstone cut him off. "No. Not until you get me something better
than this," he said, tapping Betts's statement. "I need more than the
word of a convict to do what you're asking me to do."

"If you won't reopen the case for me, can you at least do me this favor? Can you keep Malone's arrest quiet?"

Gladstone gave him a long look. "As a favor to you, Joe, I will keep
my office from giving it to the papers, but I cannot control what comes
from Africa. If Lytton alerts his associates in the press, they will
certainly run the story. And I imagine he will tell them. He enjoys
appearing in the headlines even more than you do."

Joe ignored the dig. "How long do you think I have?" he asked.

Gladstone shrugged. "A day. Two or three at most."

Joe nodded. "I'll be back," he said.

"I don't doubt it," Gladstone said wearily.

Inside his carriage, on his way home, Joe gave in to an
uncharacteristic feeling of hopelessness. He had exactly what he'd set
out to get--the true identity of Gemma Dean's killer--and yet he had
nothing, because he couldn't prove it.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the man whose name he was working so
hard to clear had just been arrested and faced a trial for murder.

God, just wait until Fiona finds out about that, he thought. She'll
be beside herself. And her with a baby due in only a few weeks' time. He
prayed that Gladstone would keep his word and keep the news out of the
papers.

And then there was the little issue of Sid's child. A daughter he
might or might not know he had. A niece Fiona knew nothing about, for
he, Joe, had still not found a way to tell her without breaking his
promise to Ella.

He thought about Frankie's statement and how he could always simply
go to the papers with Betts's confession himself. It might save Sid. And
it might well destroy Freddie Lytton. And either way, the child--an
innocent little girl--would be right in the middle of it all.

It seemed as if there were obstacles wherever he looked. He had no
idea how to proceed. He was well and truly stuck. As he was riding
along, brooding, Frankie's words came back to him. The diamonds, mate.
Find the diamonds and you'll find your man.

"Great idea," he muttered. "I'll just wire Freddie in Nairobi and ask him where he stashed them."

But the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there might
not be something there, some small possibility. Frankie said the fences
had been expecting Sid, but Sid had not shown up because he hadn't had
the jewels. What if Freddie had? What if he'd sold them?

It was a long shot, he knew it was. And yet anything, no matter how
slight, was better than nothing. He leaned forward and rapped on the
window at the front of the cab. It slid open.

"Yes, sir?" his driver said.

"Slight change of plan, Myles. Take me to Limehouse, please. Narrow Street. Pub called the Barkentine."

"Are you quite certain, sir?"

"I am."

"Very well, sir." The window slid shut.

He would ask a few questions, talk to a few people. See if Desi Shaw was still around and the fence, Joe Grizzard. Now. Tonight.

Before time ran out.

For Sid. For the child. For all of them.

India sat on the veranda of the house where she was staying, gazing
at the snow-capped peaks of Mount Kenya, so white against the turquoise
sky.

The house, a sprawling bungalow built of fieldstone, had a paved
terrace, tall windows, dormers, a shingled roof and dozens of rose
bushes climbing and tumbling all about it. It would have looked equally
at home nestled in the Cotswolds as it did in Kenya.

Lady Elizabeth Wilton, its owner, had written in a letter that it was
located in the most beautiful place in all of Africa, and that no one
who had visited it had ever disagreed. India, however, saw none of its
beauty, felt nothing of its magic.

She had barely been able to function since Sid's arrest. She was
hollow-eyed, listless, nearly ill with worry. Just thinking of him in a
jail cell tortured her, for she knew what prison had done to him, she
knew the despair he would be feeling. Thinking beyond that--to London,
to his trial and inevitable sentencing--made her weep.

She had to do something to help him, but what? She had money of her
own, more than enough to hire good lawyers for his defense, but she
would have to contact them on the sly. Freddie could not find out. There
was no telegraph office, no post office, for ten miles. Fort Henry was
the closest village, but if she sent a servant there with letters,
Freddie would know.

She would have to wait until she got back to London before she could
make her move. But what if she was too late? Freddie had told her
nothing about his immediate plans for Sid, but she'd been able to get
some information out of Tom Meade and had learned that he was going to
be taken from Nairobi to Mombasa on the railway, then put on a packet
boat bound for London. She and Freddie wouldn't leave for London
themselves until a fortnight later, and she knew Freddie had done this
on purpose. He wanted Sid tried and hanged before she reached London.
She would have to slip away from him somehow and contact her London
lawyers. When they returned to Nairobi. Or when they were in Mombasa,
awaiting their ship.

Could the fates be so cruel? she wondered for the millionth time. Had
she really been allowed to discover that Sid was alive, only to see him
hanged? India knew the answer to her questions: the fates were
indifferent; it was Freddie who was cruel.