The Winter Rose (50 page)

"It is, sir," she said. She did not like Dr. Gifford, but she had
never lied to him and would not start now. "If you'll allow me to
explain..."

"There is nothing to explain. Miss Little is nineteen years old,
unmarried, and mentally unsound. Her mother says she is promiscuous. A
nymphoma-niac, Dr. Jones. And you have encouraged her in her illness. I
will ask you once more, where are they?"

"Alice Little has had children, Dr. Gifford. I performed an exam."

"You may clear out your desk. I will not be requiring your services any longer."

India felt as if she'd been slapped. She was being dismissed. She
would have no job, no income. For a few seconds she couldn't speak. "But
Dr. Gifford, why?" she said, finally finding her voice.

"You know perfectly well why. You know that I do not sanction the use
of contraceptives. Sexual congress is solely for the creation of
children. That is God's plan."

"Then why do so many of those children die? Is that part of God's
plan?" she said. The words were out of her, sudden and sharp, before she
could stop them. That was happening more frequently now, since her
break-down, but their vehemence still startled her. It startled Dr.
Gifford, too.

"They die because of the slovenliness, drunkenness, and idleness of their parents," he retorted.

India laughed. Two months ago she might have said the same thing.
before Whitechapel. Before Miss Milo and tiny Harry Coburn. Before Sid.

"Dr. Gifford, have you ever seen a mother of six try to raise her
children in two small rooms?" she asked, rising from her chair. "How is
she to keep them clean with no money to buy coal to heat water? How is
she to feed them on a pound a week?"

"Do not change the subject. The use of contraceptives is immoral.
It's unconscionable to dispense these devices to any woman, never mind
to one who is unmarried and unstable."

India came around the desk. "What is unconscionable, sir, is your
refusal to acknowledge the suffering caused to women by constant
child-bearing and to their children by chronic poverty."

"That will be all, Dr. Jones. You will be hearing from the
authorities at the British Medical Association. I intend to have your
license revoked. Leave my premises immediately."

"You ...you wouldn't do that. You can't!" India whispered, stunned.

"What's going on here? What's happened? Dr. Gifford? Dr. Jones?"

It was Ella, wide-eyed. She was standing in the doorway clutching a
pile of folders. India knew what they were--the records of recently
deceased patients. Once a month Ella brought them to her or to Dr.
Gifford to review and sign before packing them off to storage.

India couldn't reply to Ella and Gifford didn't deign to.

"I should never have hired you, Dr. Jones," he said acidly. "Your
judgment is deplorable. I did so only because your dean begged me to."

Anger surged inside India--anger at the injustice of his remarks, at
his archaic morality, at his careless treatment of his patients--and
again the words came tumbling out of her before she could bite them
back. "You did it only because you could pay me less than my male
colleagues and work me harder," India said. "We're seeing four times as
many patients here now as when I started. They come because of me. Not
you... me."

Ella's jaw dropped.

Gifford shook his head in disgust. "This is what comes of allowing women to study medicine. This insolence..."

India's anger at Gifford exploded into rage. "And this"--she said,
striding over to Ella--"this is what comes of allowing men to practice
it."

She snatched a folder from the top of the pile and opened it.

"James, Suzannah. Thirty-one years of age," she read, her voice
shaking with anger. "Five children. Tears suffered at her last
delivery--performed by you, with forceps--resulting fistula rendered her
incontinent and incapable of intercourse. Abandoned by her husband,
committed suicide.

"Rosen, Rachael. Twenty-five. Admitted to the lying-in ward of London
Hospital July twenty-fourth. Delivered of twin boys same day.
Contracted puerperal fever July twenty-sixth. Died three days later.
Weinstein, Tovuh. Admitted July nineteenth, died July twenty-seventh.
Puerperal fever. Biggs, Amanda. Died August first. Puerperal fever.
Three in a week, and all your patients. Tell me, Dr. Gifford, did you
wash your hands after Rachael? After Tovuh? And Amanda? Who else did you
infect? I guess we'll find that out next week."

"See here, Dr. Jones..." Gifford spluttered.

India opened another folder. "Johnson, Elsa. Protracted labor. Ergot
administered. Twice. Fetus stillborn. Symptoms consistent with
overdose."

"Dr. Jones--"

"Randall, Laura. Twenty-two. Delivered of a girl. Incomplete delivery
of placenta. Septicemia resulting. Died July sixth. Infant
malnourished. Died July fourteenth."

"Dr. Jones, that is enough!" Gifford roared.

India stopped reading. She looked him in the eye and said, "Take my
license and I promise you that I will do everything I
can--everything--to see that you lose yours."

"Give me those folders."

"You'll have to knock me down first."

Ella gasped.

"You forget that you are very much a junior doctor. The BMA won't
listen to you. They'd never revoke my license based on your
accusations."

"Maybe not, but at the very least I'll cost you patients. Here and at
Harley Street. Lost patients means lost fees, and that's what really
matters to you, isn't it, Dr. Gifford? I'll take these files to the
Clarion, The Times, the Gazette. I'll make certain your wealthy patients
find out how carelessly you treat their poorer sisters. Worse yet, I'll
make them wonder if you wash your hands before you come to see them."

Gifford blanched. "Get out!" he hissed. "Now!"

India grabbed her coat from the hook behind the door, picked up her
bag, and left--with the files tucked firmly under her arm. As she headed
down the staircase she heard Gifford call, "Sister Moskowitz, where are
you going?"

"Out the bloody door!" Ella shouted. "If she goes, I go." She came
flying out the front door as India was standing on the pavement,
fumbling the files into her bag.

"Ella, what are you doing?" she asked her.

"Quitting."

"You can't!"

"Too late." She started toward the High Street, pulling India after her. "Come on. This way," she said.

"Where are we going? To the restaurant?"

"No. To a pub. It's not soup we need now, it's alcohol." She led
India across Varden Street. After five minutes' walk they were at the
Blind Beggar.

"Sit there," Ella told her, pointing to the corner. She went to the
bar and India settled herself at a table. Her heart was hammering in her
chest and her body had gone cold. She wondered if she was in shock.

Ella returned and set two pints of porter down on the table.

"Good God, what have I done?" India said. "I've lost my position. And
I've lost you yours. How will we live? Pay our bills? What are we going
to do?"

"We'll just have to find ourselves new positions," Ella said, pulling up a stool.

India laughed mirthlessly. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure Dr. Gifford will give us glowing references."

Ella sat down heavily and picked up her drink. "Well, Doctor. I've
really got to hand it to you. Blackmail, intimidation, theft--I think
you broke more laws in ten minutes than Sid Malone has all year."

India covered her face with her hands. "You're right. What have I
done? Yelling. Threatening. Stealing files. My God, Ella, what have I
become?"

"A human being. At last!" Ella said, laughing. She touched her glass to India's. "Cheers!"

"Well, well, well. If it ain't young Francis Betts."

Frankie whirled around. It was dark. There was a gas lamp on the
street, but it was ten yards away. Usually the Taj's own lamps were lit,
but not tonight. Donaldson's men had raided the place yesterday. They'd
broken everything they could, arrested Susie and the girls.

"Who is it?" he growled, squinting into the darkness. "Who's there?"

Three figures stepped out of the gloom. Big Billy Madden and two of his men--Delroy Lawson and Mickey McGregor.

"What are you doing, Frankie? You a charlady now?" Del asked, nodding
at the mop and bucket he was carrying. The bucket was full of kitchen
garbage that had been forgotten and left to rot. Frankie had been taking
it to the curb for the nightmen to collect. "Uh, oh. Looks like someone
dropped the soap," Mickey said, giggling.

"Bend over and pick it up, will you, Bettsie?" That was Del again.

A split second later the bucket went over Del's head, and then Del
and the bucket went flying into the Taj's brick wall. Del fell to the
ground, trying to claw the bucket off. He quickly pulled it back down,
however, when Frankie started to kick it.

"Still laughing, Ding Dong? Stand up, you cunt. Stand up and laugh some more. Come on!" Frankie shouted.

"Don't call me Ding Dong!" Del shouted, his words muffled by the bucket.

Frankie would have stomped the bucket--and Del's head--to splinters,
if Mickey hadn't come up behind him and pulled him off. Frankie
strug-gled, but Mickey held him fast, arms pinned behind his back.

"All right, boys. That's enough," Billy said. "Calm yourself down,
Frankie. We meant no harm. If Mickey lets you go, you promise to behave
yourself? Have a think before you answer. There's one of you and three
of us."

Frankie made one last effort to heave Mickey off. When he saw he couldn't budge him, he nodded curtly.

"All right, Mick," Billy said.

Frankie straightened his jacket. "What do you want?" he snarled.

"You, Francis."

"I'm flattered, Billy, truly. But I'm not that kind of bloke."

Billy ignored the remark. "Rumor has it Malone's losing his grip," he said. "First the Bark gets raided. Then the Taj."

Frankie shrugged. "It happens," he said. "Susie took a beating, but
she kept shtum. Said she ran a lodging house, not a whorehouse. Coppers
can't get anyone else to say different."

Billy looked up at the Taj. "Then why isn't the Taj open?"

"We're redecorating. Fancy a new color scheme."

"I heard Sid took a thousand quid out of this place a week. Maybe
that's nothing to him. He's got more money than God, right? But what
about your cut? What about you, Frankie?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Just rolling in it, me."

"But what of your talent, lad? Your skill? Likely lad like yourself oughtn't to be taking out rubbish, should he?"

Frankie bristled with embarrassment. He'd been thinking the very same
thing. "I just came to check on the place is all," he said.

"So you're a watchman now? That ain't right. And from what I hear,
it's not just you. Tommy, Ronnie, Oz, Desi--Del says they're in the Bark
every evening. Just sitting on their arses. Sid's a businessman, right?
Or so he likes to say. But as far as I can see, he ain't taking care of
business. So what do you say?"

Frankie smiled. "I say go to hell, Billy."

Madden shook his head. He looked pained. "That was stupid, Frankie.
Very stupid. Mickey, Del, teach our young friend here some manners."

But Mickey and Del never got the chance to teach Frankie anything.

There were villains who had to work up their anger in order to become
violent. Men who went about the darkest side of their business
reluctantly and clumsily. For Frankie, it was just the opposite.
Violence was his calling, his art--and there was nothing he liked more
than a chance to express himself.

Before Billy had even finished speaking, Frankie had turned, and
smoothly, swiftly, even gracefully, thrown a punch to Mickey's windpipe.
As the man staggered backward, he leaped at Del, grabbed his lapels,
and kneed him in the balls. Del fell to his knees screaming, then
vomited his supper onto the cobbles.

"School's closed, Billy," Frankie said. "Sod off back to Hammersmith. Don't come round here no more."

Billy shook his head. "Malone's not worth it, lad. No one is. I'm coming. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm happy for you, Billy. Want me handkerchief?"

For a few seconds Madden was silent, then he said, "Teddy Ko buy any
hop off you lately?" He waited for an answer, but Frankie didn't give
him one. "Didn't think so. Know why? Because he's buying from Georgie
Fook now. Georgie's got his own connections in Canton. Bringing in loads
of the stuff in the bottom of tea chests. Got himself quite a gang
these days, too, and they're making a play for Limehouse. Better keep an
eye on Whitechapel, too, mate. Max Moses and his madmen beat the
publican down the Beggar silly last night. Told him he was to pay them
now, not Sid. Why, Frankie, you look surprised!"

Frankie, never good at hiding his emotion, tried for a neutral
expres-sion, but Madden's words had unnerved him. He'd heard about the
beating at the Beggar and he'd told Sid just last week that Ko was too
quiet. But Sid had done nothing, just buggered off west with some sick
kiddie in his carriage. He should've put paid to Ko and Moses. And he
should put paid to Billy Madden, too, for standing here bold as brass in
his manor. But he wouldn't. Because Madden was right. He'd become weak.
Or barmy. Or both.

"It's coming apart, Frankie. Can't you see that? Malone's played out and everyone knows it."

"Shut up, Billy," Frankie warned, but Billy didn't.

"The Chinese, the Italians, the Jews, they're all circling. They all
want a piece. Not me. I want the whole thing. And I want you. I'll need a
man like you and I'll make it worth your while. Think on it, Frankie.
Malone's a sinking ship. Don't let him take you down with him." He
turned to his men and barked, "You two! Get up! You're a disgrace, the
both of you."

As Del and Mickey gathered themselves, rain began to patter on the cobbles. There was a dull rumble of thunder.