The Winter Rose (5 page)

"Good God, not another one!" Lipton cried.

"Mathematics, economics, accounting es, those are unusual courses for
girls, but what should we teach them? Why are we educating them? So
that they can read Shakespeare in a cold room by candlelight when the
sweatshop closes? No, if they are to break the cycle of deprivation,
they need better jobs, better wages, better opportunities...."

Joe looked at his wife as she spoke, and thought--as he had a million
times before--that he had never seen a more captivating woman. He had
known her since they were children, and it seemed to him that her beauty
never diminished; it only grew richer. She was wearing a white blouse
and a sky-blue silk jacket. Its matching skirt had been cleverly cut to
hide her growing belly. She was three months pregnant with their second
child, and radiant. Her black hair, thick and lustrous, had been swept
up and secured with pearl combs. Her cheeks glowed pink with the warmth
of the day and her incomparable sapphire eyes flashed with feeling. No
one chatted or fidgeted as she spoke. Every eye was upon her.

Pride surged in him as he watched her, but beneath the feelings of
pride, worry gnawed. There were smudges under her blue eyes and her
lovely face looked thin. She does too much, he thought. She kept a
punishing work schedule, rising at five, working in her study until
eight, breakfasting with Katie and himself, then departing for her
Mincing Lane offices. She was almost always home in time for the nursery
tea, and then it was back to work until nine, when she and Joe met to
share supper, a few glasses of wine, and details of their day. And
somehow she still found the time to work tirelessly on behalf of her
charitable foundation--the East London Aid Society--and the schools,
orphanages, and soup kitchens which it funded.

He often told her that the problems of East London were far too huge
for one woman to solve, and that she was only sticking her finger in a
dike. He told her that real help had to come from above, from
government. Programs had to be devised to help the poor and monies
allotted by Parliament to fund them. Fiona would smile sweetly and tell
him he was right, of course he was, but in the meantime, the
such-and-such soup kitchen had a line down the street and around the
corner, and if she sent a wagon to Covent Garden would he and his mates
donate some fruit and vegetables? He would tell her yes and then he'd
tell her to stop working so hard, or at least slow down, but she never
listened.

Fiona finished her speech--to a burst of applause--and was engulfed
by people eager to contribute. Joe was still clapping loudly himself
when he felt a hand on his back. "Old chap!"

It was Freddie Lytton, Member of Parliament for Tower Hamlets, a
district which included Whitechapel, where the girls' school was
located. Joe wondered what he was doing here. He doubted Freddie was
making a con-tribution. Fiona had met him many times in the hope of
getting government funds for her various causes, but all she'd ever
received for her trouble were a few vague promises.

"Hello, Freddie," Joe said now. "Glad to see you here."

"Fantastic do," Freddie said, swigging champagne. "Thought I heard someone say Fiona had raised two thousand. Splendid sum."

Joe decided to put him on the spot. "It is a nice sum, isn't it?" he
said. "Be even nicer if the government was to kick in. Any chance of
that?"

"As it happens, the Reverend and Mrs. Barnett came to see me, too. I
put forth a request for funds in the Commons--five hundred quid--and
made a damned good case for it, if I say so myself," Freddie said
smoothly. "Been pushing hard. Should have an answer any day."

Joe was not placated. In his opinion, his wife worked harder on
behalf of the children of Whitechapel than Whitechapel's elected
representative did, and it angered him.

"The morning papers said Parliament just approved the sum of forty
thousand pounds to refurbish the queen's stables," he said. "Surely it
can find five hundred quid for a school. Are children less important
than horses?"

"Of course not."

Joe gave him a shrewd look. "No, not children per se. Poor children,
well, that's another matter. Their fathers don't vote, do they? Can't
vote. They don't make enough money. God help you all when they can.
You'll all be out of a job."

"It'll take another Reform Act to extend the vote to the entire
working class. And that won't happen. Not on Salisbury's watch," Freddie
said dis-missively.

"The prime minister's knocking on. He won't be around forever and
nei-ther will his old hat policies," Joe said, bristling at Freddie's
patronizing tone. "Perhaps one day government will allow all of its
citizens to have a voice. Poor as well as rich."

"The policies of government should be determined by those who best understand them," Freddie said.

"The policies of government should be determined by those who have to suffer them, mate."

"So what you're saying is that any man--any shiftless know-nothing-- should have a voice in government?"

"Why not? Plenty already do."

"Oh, touch�old man. Touch� Freddie said. There was a smile on his
mouth, but there was a sudden flash of something hard and menacing in
his eyes. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he was his
pol-ished, affable self again. "Listen, Joe, we're on the same side,
essentially."

Joe snorted.

"No, we are. We're both concerned about East London, its people, and its prospects, are we not?"

"Yes, but..."

"I knew we were. That's why I'm here, Joe. I've been wanting to talk
to you. There's talk of a general election being called in September,
you know..."

Ah, that's it, Joe thought. He knew Freddie hadn't turned up to hear "Come into the Garden, Maud."

"... and the Tories are certain to win it. I need your help. I need
your support to keep Tower Hamlets a Liberal seat. We must all of us
stand to-gether as a bulwark against the Tories."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Who's we?"

"The upper class."

"Don't count me in that group."

"Don't count you in what group?" said a female voice. Fiona had
joined him. She squeezed his hand and smiled at him, her eyes shining.

"Your husband's being very modest, Fiona--lovely do, by the way--I
was just telling him that he's a member of the upper class now. One of
so-ciety's leaders."

"Freddie, I'm not--" Joe began.

"But you are," Freddie said, as if reading his mind. "You're from the
working class, but no longer of it, Joe. You're a self-made man. Owner
of the biggest chain store in the country and the biggest produce
concern as well. And you've done it all under your own steam. By
harnessing the forces of private enterprise."

"Blimey, Freddie, hop off your soap box, will you?" Joe said. "What do you want?"

"I want your endorsement. Yours and Fiona's."

"Mine? But I can't even vote!" Fiona exclaimed.

"But you wield influence," Freddie replied. "You have factories and
warehouses in East London, both of you. You employ hundreds of men
there, many of whom are eligible to vote. I need those votes. I won the
seat as a Conservative then crossed the floor. The Tories want it back.
Dickie Lambert's their man and he's damned aggressive. Means to give me a
proper fight. He's already canvassing in the pubs on the mere rumor of
an election."

"What makes you think the working man won't vote Labour?" Fiona asked.

Freddie laughed. "You must be joking! They're a bunch of potty Marx-ists! No one takes them seriously."

"I think our workers can sort out the candidates for themselves," Joe said. "They don't need us to tell them how to vote."

"Ah, but they do. You're an example to them. They look up to you. They want to be like you and they'll do as you do."

"And what will you do for them?" Fiona asked.

"Work with private enterprise to bring more capital into East London.
More refineries. Breweries. Factories. We'll offer incentives to
businessmen-- tax relief, for example--to get them to relocate."

"All that's going to do is make the factory owners richer."

"That's beside the point," Freddie said dismissively. "There'll be more factories and more factories mean more jobs."

Joe shook his head, astonished. Freddie's lack of understanding about
the lives of his own constituents was astonishing. Even offensive.
"Yes, but what kind of jobs?" he asked, his voice rising. "The jam
factory, the match works, the tannery, the docks--they pay nothing. The
poor bastards taking those jobs work from dawn till dark six days a week
and still have to decide between coal and food."

Freddie gave Joe a pitying look, as if he were a backward child. "It
cer-tainly isn't government's fault if a man can't manage his money," he
said.

"But there's no bloody money to manage!" Joe nearly bellowed.

"There's money enough to keep the public houses busy. I know that for
a fact," Freddie said. "I've overseen the closure of some of the worst.
And that's another thing the Liberals will do for East London--enforce
law and order. I'm personally going to oversee a crackdown on crime.
I've already started. I've put more officers on the streets and started
river patrols as well. I'm pushing for harsher sentences for offenders."

"Every politician says that," Joe said.

"Not every politician means it, though. I'm after Sid Malone, you know. Yes, Malone."

Joe's heart lurched at the sound of that name. He stole a glance at
Fiona. She caught his eye, warning him to say nothing. He looked away
again quickly, not wanting Freddie to see what had passed between them.
If Freddie had noticed, he gave no indication. He kept on talking.

"I haven't got him yet," he said, "but I will. I'm going to make an
exam-ple of him. He'll slip up. They all do. He'll maim someone in a
robbery, or kill someone, and then I'll hang him. You have my word on
that."

Fiona was now so pale that Joe was afraid for her. He took her arm
and was about to steer her toward a chair when Foster suddenly appeared
at her elbow. Joe heard him quietly tell her that she had a visitor.

"Please ask him to join us," she said.

"I think not, madam," Foster replied. He inclined his head toward the glass-walled conservatory.

Joe followed his gaze and saw an unfamiliar man standing there. He
was wearing an ill-fitting suit and what looked like a sling on one arm.
Joe took an instant dislike to him and was about to ask Fiona who he
was, but she was already excusing herself.

"A bit of business to attend to," she said briskly. "Won't be a minute."

An uneasy feeling gripped Joe. He was protective of his wife--overly
pro-tective, she always said. Though he had no idea why, he wanted to
stop Fiona and almost went after her, but then Freddie said something to
him and Joe saw Fiona shake the man's good hand. He told himself he was
being silly.

"I'm sorry, Freddie, what was that?" he said.

"I said if Malone were hanged, it would send a strong message to the rest of East London's thieves and cutthroats."

"Law and order's all well and good," Joe said, "but it's not the
whole answer. Drunkenness, violence, crime ...they all come from the
same thing--poverty. Fix that and you fix the other problems, too."

Freddie laughed. "You know, old mole, you're sounding increasingly
like one of those crackpot socialists. How exactly would you have the
government fix poverty? Perhaps we should just open the doors to the
Royal Mint and hand out guineas?"

Joe's simmering irritation with Freddie flared into anger. He
reminded himself that Freddie was a guest in his home, then he said,
"How about this, mate? Offer working men and women decent wages for
their work. Offer them compensation if they're hurt on the job so their
families don't starve. Offer their children a proper education so they
have something bet-ter to look forward to than a factory or the docks.
You really want to win this election, Freddie? It's easy. Offer your
voters some hope."

He excused himself, glancing toward the conservatory again. Fiona and
her visitor were nowhere to be seen. The uneasiness he'd felt became
alarm. He went into the house and collared Foster. "Where's Mrs.
Bristow?" he asked tersely.

"In her study with her visitor, sir," Foster replied.

"Who is this bloke? Why's he here?"

"His name is Michael Bennett, sir. He would not state his business."

Joe headed toward the staircase. He didn't like the sound of that. No
respectable visitor would hesitate to state his business. He took the
steps two at a time, wishing he'd followed his instincts instead of
staying to argue with Freddie. The door to Fiona's study was closed. He
knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer. Fiona was at her
desk. Her eyes were red; she was clutching a handkerchief. Michael
Bennett was seated across from her.

"Fiona, what's going on? Are you all right?" Joe asked. He looked at Ben-nett. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm fine, Joe," Fiona said. "This is Michael Bennett. He's a private detective."

"A detective? Why do you need a detective?"

Fiona looked away, then said, "To find Charlie."

Joe's face hardened. He turned to Bennett. "How much do we owe you?"

Bennett shifted in his chair. "There's fifty quid outstanding. That's
what we agreed to, but that was before me arm and all. There's doctor's
bills and..."

"Will a hundred do it?" Joe asked.

Bennett's eyes widened. "Aye. Quite nicely," he said.

Joe paid him. He pocketed the money and said, "As I was telling your wife--"

"That's all, Mr. Bennett, thank you," Joe said.

"But I haven't told Mrs. Bristow everything yet. I was just--"

"Thank you, Mr. Bennett," Joe said. The study door had closed. He opened it again.

Bennett shrugged and left. When he was gone, Joe turned back to Fiona. "What happened to his arm?" he asked her.