The Winter Rose (31 page)

He was keenly aware that his performance would be watched carefully
by politicians and the press at home and abroad. If he succeeded, his
triumph would virtually guarantee his ascendancy within the party and
ensure a win come election time--for many of his Tower Hamlets
constituents were Irish, and he had shamelessly played up to their
patriotic feelings.

And if he failed ll, he wouldn't fail. He couldn't fail. Too much

...we

was at stake.

Irish Home Rule had a history of defeat. Under Gladstone, the
Liberals had pushed Home Rule Bills through the Commons in '86 and again
in '93, only to see them killed in the House of Lords. Hand over power
to one part of the Empire, the Lords argued, and you'd soon be forced to
do so every-where else. Home Rule's history of defeat might have
intimidated some, but not Freddie. He was confident in his arguments and
in his ability to de-liver them persuasively. When the bill won today,
as it surely would, its for-mer defeats would make his own victory shine
all the more brightly.

The Chamber was nearly full now. Freddie felt a current of excitement
run through his body. Politics was his life. It was his highest
ambition, his one true love, and he was never happier than at times like
these--when the game was afoot. His nerves were crackling, but he felt
good. Confident. Everything was going his way now. Absolutely
everything. India had finally been brought to heel. His finances would
soon improve. And Gemma would shortly be back in his life. He would
succeed with his speech, too.

The House was called into session. The Speaker's chaplain read the
prayers and the day's business began. The Home Rule Bill was first on
the Order Paper. As the Speaker finished his opening remarks, Freddie
rose from his seat, signaling his wish to be called. "The Honorable
Member for Tower Hamlets," the Speaker said.

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker," Freddie replied. "Prime Minister, Right
Honorable Gentlemen, fellow Members, I come before you today to address
the future of Ireland, and in so doing, to secure nothing less than the
future of Britain--" a loud and lusty volley of "Hear! Hear!"s, bellowed
from the Liberal benches, filled the Chamber--"Britain today is an
empire the like of which has not been seen since the Caesars' Rome. An
empire vast and magnificent, one upon which the sun never sets. We, her
citizens, rightly bask in the brightness of our country's strength, of
her unparalleled achievements..." Another round of cheers went up. "And
yet I fear that too much time spent basking in the bright sun has
blinded Members seated on the right of this esteemed House to the storm
that now approaches." Grumbles were heard. Freddie quickly cut them off.
"A distant thunder rumbles at our shores," he said, "a thunder that
grows louder as these self-same Members continue to make an enemy of our
neighbor Ireland by denying her the same political self-determination
that we, the heirs of Magna Carta, enjoy ...by denying her the
privileges and rights of Home Rule."

A roof-raising howl went up from the Tories. It was met by a roar of
ap-proval from the Liberals. Freddie smiled, pleased that his words had
nearly incited a riot, for it meant his colleagues were paying
attention. He waited for the noise to die down, then continued, artfully
juxtaposing ideological arguments with hard examples, facts, and
figures with stirring rhetoric. His supporters frequently broke into
cheers. His detractors booed him. But all Members, from both sides of
the floor, listened raptly. No one fidgeted. No one yawned. Every man
sat forward in his seat.

Half an hour into his speech, Edward Berridge, a Tory backbencher,
ran into the Chamber clutching a pile of newspapers. Freddie saw him out
of the corner of his eye and assumed he was late. He turned away from
him slightly, so as not to be distracted by his movements. He didn't see
Berridge hand the papers to the Tory chief whip. He didn't see the whip
read the front page and smile. He saw only his own victory, his
forthcoming glory.

He spoke masterfully for more than an hour, laying out for the House
what it cost to maintain the British Empire in terms of men, money, and
the military, arguing impressively for the judicious use of Britain's
resources in commodity-rich lands that rewarded investment--Africa,
Ara-bia, India--and a more limited role in Ireland, which did not.

"We are still fighting a war in the Transvaal, and facing unrest in
India," he said, concluding his impressive performance. "Let us not turn
Republi-cans into revolutionaries. Home Rule must carry the day.
Ireland must govern Irish affairs," he said. "This is not devolutionary
politics, gentlemen. This is not defeatism. It is political pragmatism,
and it is the future."

When Freddie finally sat, there was thunderous applause from the
Liberal benches for what had been a powerful and affecting speech. He
smiled, certain he'd gained the majority needed to pass the bill,
certain he would shortly be celebrating his success at the Reform Club.
He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the Speaker to call for a vote
on the bill, but instead Edward Berridge stood.

What the hell is he doing? Freddie wondered, his nerves suddenly taut.

Berridge was a great friend of Dickie Lambert's--Freddie's rival for
the Tower Hamlets seat. Not currently a Member of Parliament, Lambert
could not be present on the floor, but Berridge could.

"The Honorable Member for Banbury," the Speaker called out.

Berridge cleared his throat, then gravely said, "I wonder if the
Honorable Member for Tower Hamlets has seen today's edition of the
Times?"

The hairs on Freddie's neck prickled. Hadn't Bingham asked him the same thing just as he was hurrying to the Chamber? Why?

"I'm afraid I have not. Perhaps the honorable gentleman's countryside
constituency affords him more time for leisurely pursuits than mine
affords me," he said.

Freddie's supporters laughed. The Tories sat stony-faced.

"Mr. Speaker, I wish to make a reasoned amendment," Berridge said.

A chorus of "Hear! Hear!"s rang out from across the floor. Freddie
felt blindsided. He knew, as did everyone else in the Chamber, that
Berridge was following protocol not to have the Home Rule Bill amended,
as his words suggested, but to have it killed.

"Your reasons, sir?" the Speaker asked.

Berridge held up a copy of the Times. At least two dozen other Tories
did the same. "Five Killed in Dublin Shooting," the front page blared.
"Republicans Ambush Police with Guns from London Wharf Robbery."

The House erupted in outrage. Catcalls and boos rained down. Freddie
felt as if someone had punched him. He could barely breathe.

Berridge waited for the uproar to die down, then continued. "The men
killed in Dublin were Englishmen," he said. "They leave behind English
wives and English children. Republicans, revolutionaries, rebels ...call
these Irishmen what you will, it does not change what they
are--murderers. Every one of them. Are these men--these criminals, these
killers--are these the men the Honorable Member wishes England to
empower? Are these the men who should control the fate of our nearest
neighbor, and by extension our own? Are these the men who should be
granted Home Rule?"

Freddie tried to respond, but he was shouted down by rabid Tory
back-benchers. The Speaker called for order, and eventually got it, but
as Freddie was about to speak, Berridge attacked again.

"The guns used in the slaughter were stolen from the Stronghold, a
wharf in East London, in Tower Hamlets," he said. He paused for a
sec-ond, then delivered the killing blow. "Apparently the Honorable
Member wishes to turn Ireland into a place as lawless and renegade as
his own con-stituency."

Laughter erupted now--harsh, derisive, shattering. Berridge and his
pack had attacked, and the Tories--sensing an advantage for one of their
own--had let him. Meanwhile, Freddie's own party--realizing that the
cause was lost--had abandoned him to them. The Speaker called for order
once more. The House quieted. Berridge motioned that the bill be put to a
vote. It was, and the nays carried it. Home Rule was finished.

And very possibly so am I, Freddie thought.

Recess was called. Members stood, milled around, left the Chamber for
a smoke or a drink. He felt a hand on his shoulder, a pat on his back.
There was noise from above him--whispers, gasps, and murmured
exclamations. Freddie gazed up at the Strangers' Gallery. He saw a
grim-faced Bingham with Wish beside him. He saw his opponent Richard
Lambert smiling and members of the press scribbling furiously.

He remained where he was. He was in no hurry to leave his seat and
resume the day's business, for he knew that when he did, he would no
longer be fighting for Home Rule, but for his very survival. He watched
Berridge leave the Chamber, accompanied by the smiling prime minister,
and felt curiously free of animosity toward him. He'd only been fighting
for his party. Berridge had engineered his defeat, but Freddie knew he
would have done the same thing in the same circumstances.

No, there was only one man to blame for what had happened. Not Berridge. Not Lambert. And most definitely not himself.

It was Sid Malone who had done this to him. Had he not robbed the
Stronghold, those guns would never have made it to Ireland. There would
have been no shooting. Home Rule would have carried the day, and its
success would have guaranteed his own.

It was Malone who had ruined him, and it was Malone who would pay. Quite soon. And dearly.

Sid lay splayed out on his bed in his flat above the Barkentine. A naked Gemma Dean lay sprawled on top of him.

"Christ, Gem, me side," he wheezed.

"Hurts, does it?"

"Like a bastard."

"Poor thing," she said, rolling off him. "Any better?"

"Much."

"Like a drink?"

"I would."

Gemma got out of Sid's bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and padded to
his bureau to pour two whiskies, singing some music-hall song as she
did. Sid touched his fingers gingerly to his wound, making sure the
dressing was still in place. It had been three days since he'd come out
of the hospital, two weeks since he'd had his accident. His side was
healing nicely, but even so it would be some time before he could
withstand Gem's sexual ac-robatics. What that girl could do with her
hands, her mouth...

She handed him a whisky and climbed back into bed, sloshing some of
her own drink on his chest as she did. She bent over, licked it off,
then smiled at him. "Missed you," she said, kissing his mouth.

"Missed you too, luv," he said, downing his drink and placing the glass on his night table.

He reached under his pillow slowly, carefully, so she couldn't see what he was doing. When he had what he wanted, he sat up.

"You'll never believe what Frankie did while you were gone," Gemma said.

"I probably would."

"He nicked one of them listening things from the doctor. You know, the thing they use to hear your heart?"

"From what doctor?"

"The lady doctor. The one who fixed you up."

"Fucking Frankie! She needs that thing," Sid said angrily.

Gemma looked at him as if he were mad. "It's only a wotsit, Sid.
Doctors make plenty of brass. Bet she's already bought a new one.
Anyway, he's been using it to listen to locks. Been putting it on Desi's
safe. Says he can hear the tumblers falling. Des caught him at it and
Frankie told him the safe was poorly and he was doctoring it. He almost
had him. Funny, isn't it?"

Sid forced a smile. "Aye. Funny," he said. But it wasn't. How could
Dr. Jones work without that thing? What if she did have to buy a new
one? The price would have to come out of her clinic savings. He would
tell that sod of a Frankie to give it back.

"What's up? Something wrong?" Gemma asked.

"Just a bit tired," he said. He remembered what he had in his hand.

"That Frankie's a piece of work, ain't he?"

"Aye, and he's not the only one." Sid hooked a finger in the V of her
gown. He pulled it open and nuzzled her breasts. "Why, you could bury
treasure in here," he said.

Gemma giggled as he reached in and stuck his fingers into the deep
cleft between her breasts and let the object he'd hidden in his palm
fall into it. "I'm serious, Gem, there's no telling what a bloke might
find in here. Why, just look at this!"

He pulled out a dazzling necklace and dangled it before her eyes. It
was made of flawless white diamonds. It had a medallion in the center
with the initials GD worked in more diamonds. She turned the necklace
over. There was an inscription on the back.

"For Gemma. Break a leg. Love Sid," she read. "Blimey!" she gasped. "Is it for me?"

"It is," he said, fastening it around her neck. "Pity there aren't any ear-rings to go with it."

"Sid, you didn't..."

"I didn't check? You're right, I didn't. Very careless of me." He
played with her bosom again, pretending to hunt for additional treasure,
then frowned. "That's it, I guess."

Gemma pouted.

"Wait a mo'," he said, opening the robe the rest of the way. "There's
one more place I could look." He slid his hand between her legs.

"You dirty bugger!" she said, giggling.

"Here we are!" He handed her a pair of chandelier earrings, a match to the necklace.

"Oh, Sid!" she squealed. "They're lovely! Really they are! And huuuuuge!"

She kissed him hard on the lips, then bounced out of bed and ran to the mirror to put them on.

"A little something for your debut," he said. "I'm glad you like
them." And he was. The stones were from a job he and the lads had done
up in Greenwich some months ago. They'd cracked a mansion there and
stolen a good deal of jewelry. He'd had the pieces broken up and the
diamonds reset. He'd been sleeping with her for a few months now, and
felt that he should show his appreciation. The diamonds were a nice bit
of flash. They'd look good on her now, and when she was a bit older and
hard up for cash, she could sell them. Sid had known many girls like
Gem. They always ended up older and hard up for cash.