The Winter Rose (24 page)

"Jesus Christ!" Joe shouted. "Jesus bloody Christ!"

"The whole damn thing's going up!" his driver cried.

But Joe barely heard him. He was out of his carriage and running down
Wapping High Street before Myles had even stopped the horses.

Morocco Wharf was burning. Angry, roiling flames were shooting out of
loopholes and windows. Thick, black smoke was billowing into the
midnight sky. A police constable had come to 94 Grosvenor Square an hour
ago to tell Joe his wharf was on fire. He'd woken the entire household.
Foster had called for the carriage. Joe had thrown some clothes on and
run out the door.

He was trying to get into the burning wharf now, but was being held back by a burly fireman.

"Let go of me!" he shouted, shaking the man off. "Where is he? Where the hell is he?"

"Who?" the fireman yelled.

"The foreman. Alf Stevens. Have you seen him?"

Another fireman took Joe's elbow. "Sir, if you'd just--"

"Touch me again, mate, and I'll break your fucking head. Where's Alf?"

A scream rose on the night air. A jagged, tearing sound of a human
being in agony. It came from up the street. From the neighboring Eagle
Wharf.

"Oh, God. Oh, no..." Joe said.

"Don't go over there," the first man said. "It is nothing you want to see."

But Joe was already gone, running as fast as he could. A group of men
was clustered in front of the wharf, looking at something on the
ground.

"Can't anyone do anything?" one of them said.

"Where's the bloody doctor?" another shouted.

Joe pushed his way through them. Alf Stevens, his foreman and his
friend, was writhing on the ground. He'd been horribly burned. The left
side of his face looked as if it had melted. The skin on his arms and
chest was charred black. It had split in places, revealing streaks of
raw, red fiesh. The eyes were the same, though. Wild, frantic, they were
still Alf's eyes. He saw Joe and reached his hand out to him. Joe knelt
beside him, afraid to take his hand, afraid to hurt him.

"Bets bets bets," Alf rasped. "No chance bets I says I hit him he swung lamp fell bets bets did for me bets..."

Alf was making no sense. He was delirious.

"Hang on, Alf," Joe said. "Don't talk. Help's coming. Just hang on...."

Another man pushed through the crowd as Joe was speaking. His frock
coat and leather bag told Joe that he was a doctor. He looked down at
Alf and shook his head. "How did this happen?" he asked.

"I don't know. He must have been inside the wharf when the fire started. Knowing him, he tried to put it out."

The doctor took a deep breath. He dug into his bag and pulled out a
syringe and a small brown bottle. "Morphine. For his pain," he said
quietly.

Joe watched him fill the syringe. He'd had morphine once for a broken
leg. His doctor had given him a fraction of what this man was giving
Alf. He knew it was a lethal dose. The doctor looked up; his eyes met
Joe's.

"It's all I can do," he said.

"Then do it," Joe said.

The doctor searched for a vein in Alf's leg. His arms were too far
gone. Alf began to convulse. It took the doctor three tries before he
could get the needle in. He emptied the syringe and the spasms subsided.

"Bertie ...my wife..." Alf said, suddenly lucid.

"I'll take care of her, Alf. She won't want for anything. I promise you."

Alf nodded. And then his eyes lost their focus. And dulled. A few
minutes later, the doctor listened for his heartbeat and said, "He's
gone."

Joe sat back on his heels. His face was wet with tears. The men
standing around him stared. He didn't care. He felt a hand on his
shoulder. It was Myles.

"The coroner's here, sir," he said. "They have to take Alf. There's
going to be an inquest. There's a detective inspector here, too. He
would like a word with you."

Joe stood up. He looked back down the street at the Morocco. It was
still burning. The fire was consuming the roof now. By morning it would
take the entire wharf. And everything in it. Thousands and thousands of
pounds' worth of stock. It would be a huge blow to his business. But
worse than all that, much worse, the fire had taken a man's life. A good
man. A man whom Joe had trusted and loved.

"Mr. Bristow?"

Joe turned around.

"I'm Detective Inspector Alvin Donaldson. I understand you were the
last person Alfred Stevens spoke to. Might I ask you a few questions?"

Joe nodded. Donaldson asked how long Stevens had worked for Joe and
in what capacity. He asked if there had been any trouble at the wharf
lately.

"What kind of trouble?" Joe asked.

"Yobs trying to get you to pay protection money."

"No," Joe said. "Alf would have told me."

"Did Mr. Stevens say anything to you before he died?"

"Yes, he did, but it was gibberish," Joe said.

"Would you mind repeating it for me?" Donaldson asked. Joe did.
Donaldson listened attentively, then nodded. "Well, that explains it,"
he said.

"Not to me," Joe said. "Alf kept talking about bets but he wasn't a gam-bling man. None of what he said made any sense at all."

"It wasn't wagers he was talking about. It was a name--B-e-t-t-s. Frankie Betts."

"Still doesn't make any sense to me."

"You're quite certain you don't pay anyone off, Mr. Bristow? I'm not looking to land you in any trouble, I just--"

"I told you, I don't pay a sodding soul."

"Then Frankie Betts probably decided it was time you started. Betts
is a criminal, Mr. Bristow. I'd wager that this is what happened here
tonight-- Frankie paid Alf Stevens a call and attempted to extort money.
Stevens told Frankie to bugger off. A fight broke out. A lamp was
knocked over and it started a fire. Frankie legged it. Alf tried to put
the fire out and was trapped."

Joe digested this, then said, "I want you to get Frank Betts. I want you to hang him."

"There's nothing I'd like better but it's not going to happen. I've
been talking to people, the watch at the Eagle Wharf and the Baltic, and
from what I can gather, there were no eyewitnesses to what happened
here to-night. All I have is Alf Stevens's dying words. You yourself
said they were gibberish. And that's what Betts's solicitor will say,
too. We won't be able to make any charges stick. We haven't yet, and
believe you me, we've tried."

"Since when do East End yobs get themselves solicitors?" Joe asked.

Donaldson laughed. "This is not your average yob, Mr. Bristow. This
one's rather well connected. Maybe you've heard of his boss. He's the
head of a group of thieves known as the Firm."

Joe knew what Donaldson was going to say. He braced himself against
the words, hoping that he was wrong. But he wasn't, and his heart sank
like a stone in the river when Donaldson spoke them.

"He's called the Chairman, but his name is Sid Malone."

India heard birds. Sparrows, she thought. Nasty things. They were
always congregating on the windowsill of her flat, shrilling and
fighting. She wished they would go away. She was exhausted and wanted to
go back to sleep. She'd been having such a lovely dream. She'd dreamed
she was a child again at Blackwood. Wrens and bramblings were chirping
in the trees, wel-coming the dawn. It was summer and she had the entire
day ahead of her. Hodgie, her nanny, would give her breakfast--boiled
eggs and toast soldiers--and then she and the others would find Bea and
Hugh, and they would have adventures in the woods. Her father and mother
were at Ascot for race week, so there was no one to say they shouldn't.

She sighed and opened her eyes, expecting to see the dreary wallpaper
of her Bedford Square bedroom. Instead she saw a pair of eyes staring
back at her. They were kind eyes, beautiful eyes, smiling with
amusement. And they were green, as deeply green as the dales of
Blackwood.

I'm still dreaming, she thought. She closed her eyes again and buried
her face in her pillow. She wrapped her arms around it, squeezing it
tightly.

"Ouch," the pillow said. "That's me sore spot, luv."

India yelped and sat bolt upright. It took her a few seconds to
realize that she wasn't at her flat in her bed. She was at the hospital.
With a pa-tient. With Sid Malone. And it appeared she had fallen asleep
on him.

"Oh, God... sorry," she babbled. "I fell asleep. I slept. Here. With you--"

"Just a minute, missus," Sid cut in. "That's how rumors get started.
I've me reputation to consider. You were not sleeping with me, all
right? You were sleeping on me. It's a different thing entirely."

India reached for Sid's wrist, her cheeks flaming. It all came back
to her. It was Monday morning now. The infection had overwhelmed his
system on Saturday night, and he'd gone into septic shock. She'd fought
for his life for the last thirty-six hours, and thought for certain
several times that she'd lost him, but he'd held on. His pulse was
regular now. Not strong, not yet, but regular.

She stood up to get a thermometer and caught sight of her reflection
in a mirror on the wall. Her once-crisp blouse was sweat-soaked and
rumpled. Her curls were springing up like coils out of a mattress. She
was bleary-eyed and mortified to discover that she had drool on her
cheek.

"You look terrible, Doctor. I think you need a doctor," Sid said.

India did not react. She was not going to give him the satisfaction.
She wiped the drool off, popped the thermometer in his mouth, and
regarded the second hand on her pocketwatch. Three minutes later, she
took it out.

"Ha! One hundred point seven!" she shouted. And then she smiled. It
was a broad, beautiful, utterly unself-conscious smile that lit up her
entire face. Her embarrassment was forgotten, as was the sorry state of
her ap-pearance. Only one thing mattered to her: She'd saved a life. Sid
Malone was not in the morgue. He was here, in this room, living and
breathing and being difficult. She'd fought hard and she'd won.

"You're doing much better, Mr. Malone. Much better. I have every
confidence that you'll live to rob another bank," she said triumphantly.

"It's Sid, I insist. May I call you India? I mean, after last night and all..."

"You may not." She was still smiling as she put the thermometer down. "Feel like eating?"

"No."

"Well, you're going to. I'm going to get some beef tea into you, if I have to strap you down to do it."

"Promise?"

India rolled her eyes. She sat down again and removed Sid's dressing.
Her movements were brisk and energetic. Her exhaustion was gone, swept
away by her victory. She inspected the wound. The swelling had
diminished.

"You're remarkably strong," she said. "What you've been through would have killed a weaker man."

"It's nothing to do with me. It's you," he said. "I heard your guv
saying I wasn't worth the effort. Most wouldn't have taken the trouble. I
owe you one, Dr. Jones."

Her eyes met his. She didn't know what to think. Had he meant what he
said, or was he mocking her again? She thought of his first night here.
Of the things she'd told him about herself. She didn't know why she'd
done it, and wished she hadn't.

"It's my job, Mr. Malone," she quickly said, brushing his gratitude off.

"Ah. Your job. Of course."

"Bleedin' hell! Are you still here?" said a voice at the door.

"Overstay me welcome, did I?" Sid asked.

"Not you, Malone," Ella Moskowitz said. "Dr. Jones."

"I guess I am," India said.

"You didn't go home?"

"No."

"But India, you've been here since Saturday night. Yesterday was your day off. You're due at Gifford's in an hour!"

"It's all right, Ella. I've got a change of clothing there."

"It's not how you look that I'm worried about. You've had no rest. You're going to drop down dead."

Sid looked at India, who looked away. "Why, Dr. Jones, I do believe you care," he said.

"You may believe whatever you like."

Ella looked from India to Sid and back again. "Did I miss something?"

"I have to go," India said. "Will you tell the matron that he's to
have beef tea and ten milligrams of morphine subcutaneously every three
hours? I want the dressing changed at noon. I'll be back this evening to
check on him. I'll see you at Gifford's. Good day, Mr. Malone."

"Wait a minute! When can I get out of here?" Sid asked.

"Not for a week at least," India said, collecting her things.

"A week? You're joking!" Sid bellowed. "I can't stay here for a whole bloody week. I'm checking meself out."

"Do that, and you'll be back by evening. Only this time you won't be in a private room. You'll be in the morgue."

"Oh, bollocks. I'm fine. As right as rain."

"Go on, luv. I'll sort him," Ella said to India. "You get to work. Get yourself some breakfast first."

India dashed out of the room. She could hear Ella's voice carrying
all the way down the hall. "Now look, you. If you don't quiet down I'll
call the orderlies. They'll come with a big long needle and stick you
straight in the arse with it. That'll shut you up."

As she hurried out of the hospital, anxious to get to work on time,
India felt that she'd forgotten something. She mentally reviewed her
instructions to Ella and found that she'd left nothing out. She'd also
taken and recorded Sid's vital signs. She would write up his notes
later. What was it? What had she forgotten?

As she turned off the Whitechapel High Street onto Varden Street, it
hit her--it was Sid's story. She'd never heard his story. They'd agreed
on a quid pro quo. She'd tell her story, and he'd tell his. But he never
had. And she realized, to her discomforted surprise, that she wanted to
hear his story. She wanted it very much.

"Let me get this straight," Joe's brother Jimmy said. "Alf is dead.
The Morocco's burned to the ground. You know who did it. And the police
can't do anything about it?"