The Winter Rose (71 page)

"Please try to remain calm," Foster pleaded.

But Fiona wouldn't. If Foster couldn't answer her, someone must.
"Why, Mr. Donaldson, why?" she persisted, turning to the officer and
clutching at his arm.

Foster stole a quick, anxious glance at the door. There was no sign of Sarah. "Best to answer, sir," he said quietly.

"We're not sure, Mrs. Bristow, but from what we can piece together it
appears that Mr. Bristow went to the Barkentine, a pub in Limehouse, a
few days ago to see Malone. He didn't succeed in finding him, but he did
find a lad by the name of Frankie Betts. Mr. Bristow warned that there
would be trouble between himself and Malone now that he was MP. He
wanted Malone to leave before there was. Words were exchanged. A fight
occurred..."

Fiona closed her eyes and began to sob.

"What is it, madam?" Foster asked.

"It's my fault, Mr. Foster. It's all my fault," she cried.

"Of course it isn't."

She sank against him, keening. "It is. He did it for me. He tried to
help him. To save him. Because of me. Oh God... oh, Joe... it's all my
fault, Mr. Foster. Don't you see? I've killed him. I've killed my Joe."

Freddie Lytton closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on
the door to Gemma Dean's flat. She had the top floor of a two-story
building in Stepney.

He hadn't seen her since the party, the one where she'd told him
about Sid and India, then refused to give him their address. He'd been
stunned by her news, and furious, too. Malone had taken Gemma from him,
then the election, now he had India. Freddie had brooded over the news
for days. He hadn't left his flat. He hadn't eaten. Barely slept. He
just sat in a wing chair, impotent and defeated, hating Sid Malone with
every fiber of his being.

And then something had happened. A gift, the most most amazing,
astonishing, wondrous gift had fallen right into his lap. Right out of
the blue, Malone had walked into Joe Bristow's office and shot him at
point-blank range. In a single stroke, both of his rivals had been
vanquished. The police were mounting a manhunt for Malone--it was only a
matter of time until they caught him--and Bristow, currently at the
London Hospital, was not expected to live.

The Liberals' Whip had rung him up to tell him the news. "There'll be a by-election within the month," he'd said.

That was all Freddie needed to hear. His torpor vanished. He was out
of his chair, bathed, and dressed in no time. He had not a second to
waste. He'd hailed a cab and had gone directly to the hospital.

He arrived there just as Fiona Bristow had. There were reporters
everywhere. They mobbed her, pelting her with questions. Freddie ran to
her side, put a protective arm around her, and said, "I promise you that
the man who did this will be brought to justice. I won't rest until he
is."

Fiona had nodded at him, dazed and in shock, before the ward sister
escorted her away. The reporters present had caught both the gesture and
his every word--just as he'd planned. They all asked for interviews and
he gave them--passionately extolling the virtues of his erstwhile
opponent, expressing his deep concern for the Bristow family, and then
decrying the lawlessness of the East End.

"If one criminal may be so emboldened by the lack of proper law
enforcement in East London, what may twenty do?" he asked them. "This
heinous piece of villainy is an attack not only on an innocent and
upstanding citizen, but on a Member of Parliament, and as such on
government itself. Lawlessness of this magnitude can lead to only one
thing--anarchy. Malone and his ilk must be stopped, and they must be
stopped now!"

He finished his interview by telling the assembled reporters that he
was putting up a thousand pounds of his own money as a reward for
information leading to the capture of Sid Malone. He didn't have the
money, but he hadn't let that stop him.

Before Dickie Lambert even knew that Joe Bristow had been shot,
Freddie had commandeered the press and captured the public's interest.
He'd gone to his club for supper later that night and read as many of
the evening papers as he could get his hands on. Article after article
about the Bristow shooting had run--and article after article about him,
too. His earlier disgraces--the Stronghold robbery, the Home Rule
flasco--had been forgotten. Most of the reporters, sensing a good story,
had painted him as a selfless leader, a knight in shining armor to his
fallen adversary's grief-stricken wife and, most important, a prescient
politician who understood-- perhaps better than the man so recently
elected--the threat posed to law and order by the criminal population of
East London.

When he'd finished at the hospital, he went to see Alvin Donaldson.
He met him as he was coming out of the police station with some
officers. Freddie said he needed to talk to him. Donaldson said he had
no time to talk; he had to find Malone. Freddie ended up following him
to the Blind Beggar and through a series of tunnels under East London.
While they were down there, Donaldson confirmed that it was indeed
Malone who'd done for Bristow. They had witnesses.

"Then why isn't he in jail?" Freddie had fumed.

"Because we have to catch him first," Donaldson replied. "We almost
nabbed him a few hours ago at the Bark, but he got away. He's down here
somewhere, I know he is."

They hadn't found him; they'd found India instead. Freddie had told
Donaldson about Gemma Dean and her visit to Sid's and India's flat, and
Donaldson had told him to get that address. Sid would surface there. He
was sure of it.

Freddie pulled a slim buff envelope out of his breast pocket now and
weighed it in his palm. It felt right to him; he hoped it would to
Gemma. He'd stuffed it himself only an hour ago. He heard footsteps
approaching from the other side of the door and quickly slid the
envelope back into his pocket. There was the sound of a lock turning and
then Gemma was standing in the doorway in a satin dressing gown. She
looked worn and unhappy. He smelled gin on her.

"Hello, Gem," he said. "You look lovely. As always." He tried to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face away.

"What do you want, Freddie?"

"A bit of information."

Her eyes sharpened. "Come in, then."

He followed her down the long hallway into her sitting room. There
were trunks and suitcases everywhere. Clothes were heaped over chairs.
Shoes were in piles on the floor.

"Going on holiday?" Freddie asked.

"I'm off to Paris."

"For how long?"

"Forever. I'm giving up the London halls. Going to the Moulin Rouge.
That's where the money is. And speaking of money, did you bring any?
That address is going to cost you. The price is still four hundred
quid."

Freddie touched his jacket pocket. "It's right here."

"Hand it over."

Freddie shook his head. "Not until you give me the address."

Gemma snorted. "Not a chance. You're always skint. How do I know you even have the money? Until I see it, no address."

Freddie reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope. "Here you
are," he said, handing it to Gemma, hoping she didn't look inside it.

She took it, sighing ruefully. "I'm a Judas, me," she said.

"Hardly. Malone's a murderer, Gem."

"Do you really think he shot that MP?"

"I know he did. There were witnesses. You're doing the right thing."

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Paris flats don't come cheap."

She opened the envelope. Freddie swore under his breath. He truly
wished she hadn't done that. Now things were going to get complicated.
He watched her face as her expression changed from confusion to anger.

"You son of a bitch!" she finally cried, turning the envelope upside
down. Pieces of newspaper cut to size fluttered out. "What are you
playing at?"

"I need that address, Gem."

"Oh, aye? Well, you can go sing for it! Four hundred quid or no deal."

Freddie rose from his chair, crossed the room, and slapped her. Hard.

Gemma's hand came up to her cheek. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of here!"

Freddie threw her down on the settee and wrapped his hands around her
neck, pressing his thumbs against her throat. "Where is it? Where's the
flat?" he said.

She clawed at his hands, tore at his sleeves, trying to break his
grip. Her heels scraped against the floorboards. "Please..." she gasped.

"The address," he said.

"Let me go!" Gemma kicked at him. Her knee caught him in the groin.
The pain was blinding. He staggered backward, bellowing. She broke free
and ran for the door. He ran after her, sick with pain, but knowing that
if she got out, all was lost. His hands closed on the back of her gown.
He pulled her back and hurled her toward the settee. But he missed his
mark. She hit a heavy marble-topped table instead. Headfirst.

There was a sharp, dry crack, like a branch breaking. The table went
over. Gemma fell to the floor. She moaned once and was still.

Freddie was panting, his hands on his knees, trying not to vomit.
"Give me that fucking address!" he spat at her, as the pain began to
subside.

But Gemma made no reply.

He walked over to her. "Gemma, I'll beat you bloody, I swear I will,"
he said, grabbing her. Her head lolled as he pulled her up, then fell
forward. Too far forward. Freddie gasped and let her go.

Gemma's neck was broken. She was dead.

As he stood there, looking at her, he realized that he would be in a
great deal of trouble unless he could think very fast and very well. He
felt no remorse, no horror or sadness over what he'd done. He was well
past all that now. He needed two things--he needed Sid and India's
address, and he needed to make it look like someone else had killed
Gemma Dean.

He thought for a few minutes, coldly and clearly, and then it came to him--an answer. He nodded and set to work.

He knew Gemma kept a diary. He'd seen it. It was slim with a red
leather cover. If she had written down the address anywhere, it would be
there. He went to her desk and rifled through her papers. He pulled out
the drawers and dumped their contents on the floor. He tore the clothes
out of her trunks, dug in pockets, but found nothing.

"Where are you?" he whispered, turning around in the room. "Where?"

Then he spotted a carpetbag. It was leaning against an umbrella
stand. He turned it over, tumbling its contents out. A wallet, compact,
sweets, and cigarettes all fell to the floor, but no diary. Swearing
now, he turned the bag inside out and found a pocket. Inside it was the
diary. He flipped through the month of November. There were names of
people, addresses of restaurants and theaters. He flipped to the inside
front cover, and then the back--and then he saw something: Arden Street.
Number 16. Richmond Hill.

It was scribbled, as if it had been written hastily, or angrily.
That's it, he thought. That's the one to try. He pocketed the diary,
pleased. He picked up the envelope he'd brought with him, and the fake
money, and pocketed those, too. He decided to take Gemma's wallet,
because that's what a thief would do, and then he turned the sitting
room upside down.

He went into the bedroom next and ransacked it, too, strewing
clothing, dumping a mirror, combs, and perfume bottles on the floor. Her
jewelry box caught his eye. He turned it over, spilling bits of costume
jewelry across the bureau. As he did, her magnificent diamonds fell out
and glinted up at him. He picked up the earrings. Then the necklace. He
read the inscription: For Gemma. Break a leg. Love, Sid. He slipped
them into his pocket. They were just the sort of thing a man desperate
for money, a man on the run, would take. Especially if that man had
given them to her and knew what they were worth.

Freddie was just about to leave the bedroom when he heard it--a long,
groaning creak. The kind a loose floorboard makes when someone's
stepped on it.

He froze. "Who's there?" he called.

There was no answer. He bent down to the fireplace, picked up a
poker, and walked back into the sitting room, slowly and quietly. The
sitting room was empty. He made his way down the long hallway to the
kitchen. Whoever had made the noise had to be in there now. It was the
only room left. He raised the poker, his heart hammering, and rounded
the doorway.

A cat was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. A white cat
with a glittering pink collar. Freddie swore at the animal. He lunged at
it, but it was too quick for him. It darted between his legs and shot
under the settee.

He let it be and put the poker back. He was nearly finished now,
nearly out of the woods, but he knew the last part would be the hardest
part. He looked at his hands. They were scratched and bloodied. One of
his sleeves was torn. That was good. He would have to do something about
his face, though. He went back into the kitchen and found a teapot. He
closed his eyes, steeling himself, then smashed the pot into his
forehead. He lurched forward at the impact, nearly fell, but righted
himself against the sink. When he could see again, he took a bread knife
from the cutlery drawer and drew it across his left cheek, from his ear
to his jaw. It didn't hurt nearly as much as the teapot had. He waited
until he could feel the blood dripping down into his shirt collar, then
he walked downstairs and into the street.

Two workmen were walking by. Freddie stumbled toward them. "Help me. Help me, please," he cried.

"Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" one of them said, taking his arm, trying to steady him.

"He...he killed her. I saw him. I tried to stop him ...I couldn't.
Call the police. Hurry. He mustn't get away. He mustn't. It's him!"

"It's who, mate, who?"

"Malone. Sid Malone."

"You're going to have to get off the game," India said to the
emaciated woman sitting on the examination table in the garden shed in
the Moskowitzes' backyard.