The Winter Rose (72 page)

"I can't, Dr. Jones. You know that."

India peered at the woman's puffy eyes and then examined her chest,
tapping the ribs and listening. It was full of liquid. Her breathing was
labored.

"How does your water look?"

"Bloody."

"Can you at least stop drinking?"

The woman, Elizabeth Durkin, a prostitute, laughed. "Could you? If you was in my place?"

India sighed. Once she would have lectured the poor woman on the
evils of drink and the necessity of vegetables. Now she simply said,
"No, Elizabeth, I couldn't."

"What is it? What's wrong with me?"

"Edema, inflammation. I'd have to say Bright's disease."

"In English, Dr. Jones."

"Ginny kidney."

Elizabeth nodded. "What are me prospects?"

"If I could get you into a sanatorium and on bed rest, get the
syphilis under control, keep you off the gin and put you on a milk diet,
they might be decent."

"And if not?"

"Not so good."

Elizabeth looked up at the slatted wooden ceiling, then said, "You've
taken good care of me. The syphilis. The bronchitis. That bout of
influenza. I wish you weren't leaving."

"I wish it, too."

"Why are you?"

"There's someone--someone very dear to me--who needs looking after."

"Who'll look after me when you're gone?"

"Dr. Hatcher will. At the new clinic."

"She's not you."

"She's a damn sight funnier. I've seen her make a patient laugh while she was sticking a needle in his bum."

"God knows where I'd be without a laugh now and then," Elizabeth said. She swallowed, then asked, "Is it a hard end, then?"

"Not the hardest, but not the easiest, either. You'll be all right,
though. The clinic's almost open. There will be a bed for you there and
nurses to look after you. And morphine at the end. You make sure you go
when it gets bad."

Elizabeth nodded. Then she reached into her skirt pocket. "I've a
shilling to give you today. A ship docked last night. I was the first
one there."

India took the woman's hand and curled her fingers over the coin.
"You keep that, Liz," she said. "Go in the caff and buy yourself some
soup."

Elizabeth hugged her, hard and tight. "Wherever it is you're going, Dr. Jones, the ones there'll be lucky to get you," she said.

And then she was gone. India looked after her, tears smarting. How
she would miss Elizabeth Durkin and all the women of Whitechapel. The
chattering factory girls. The raucous whores. The new wives. And all the
mothers--English, Irish, Russian, Chinese--who somehow kept their
children clothed and fed on a pound a week and a prayer. They had taught
her so well. More things, and better things, than any textbook ever
had.

She heard the bells at Christ Church ring the hour. Ten o'clock. Time
to go. The new clinic wasn't even open yet; she and Harriet and Ella
were still seeing patients in the Moskowitzes' backyard. And now she
would never see it open. She was meeting Sid in a few hours, and they
were leaving London--not in a fortnight as planned, but tonight. At
least, she hoped she was meeting him. She hadn't seen him, or even heard
from him, for three days. Since he'd made his last trip to the Bark.
Since Joe Bristow had been shot.

Ever since her trip through the tunnels, she'd been sick with worry,
hoping against hope that he'd gotten the message she'd left with Sally.
They had to get out of London. Immediately. There was no choice. Joe had
been transferred to the London Hospital and his condition had not
improved. Though he was now under the care of another doctor, she
visited him there as often as she could. He was still unconscious, his
poor pregnant wife was in shock--India had seen her, she could barely
speak--and the papers were howling for Sid Malone's head.

India knew in her heart that Sid had not committed this brutal,
senseless act. No one who knew him believed he had. But Freddie did, and
the police did, and the press, too. If he was found, he'd be arrested.
She knew that he knew that, too, and that he would rather die than go
back to prison.

A maelstrom of emotion gripped her now--fear for Sid, and grief at
leaving her dream behind. She stepped out of the shed and Harriet
Hatcher stepped in, leading a little girl by the hand. The girl's mother
trailed after them.

"I know Emily likes the dog, Mrs. Burke, but still, you mustn't let
her sleep in the dog's bed. That's how she's getting the worms in the
first place," Harriet said, rolling her eyes at India as she passed.

India smiled sadly. She looked all around at the yard that had served
as her clinic for the past few months, trying to impress every detail
of it into her mind. The mangy tom sitting on the fence, and Eddie, the
neighbor's ancient, toothless bull terrier, barking at him from the next
yard. A dozen chickens in their coop. Aaron, Miriam, and Solly plucking
a dozen more. The ancient copper pot, still full of murky water from
the morning's wash. And her patients. All the women and children.
Harriet's patients now. India had already said goodbye to Harriet. She
walked into the kitchen to do what she dreaded most--say goodbye to Ella
and her mother. They were working in there. Ella was washing dishes;
Mrs. Moskowitz was cooking.

"Crikey, India, is this really goodbye?" Ella asked, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Oh, Ella, I'm afraid so."

"But what'll I do without you? You're my best friend."

"And you're mine," India said, hugging her. "I'll write. As soon as we're settled."

"And you'll come back someday, won't you?"

"I hope so," India said, sniffling.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just feel like I'm leaving... well, everything! I wonder
if I'll ever practice medicine again," she said, her voice quavering.

"Du hok a chainik!"

"My mother just told you that you're talking nonsense," Ella said.

"Are there no sick people in America?" Mrs. Moskowitz asked. "With
all that gold in California, there must be plenty of money to pay for
doctors."

"You're right, of course," India said, smiling. She kissed her on the cheek. "You were right about something else, too."

"What's that?"

"About love. You were right when you said you don't choose love, it chooses you."

"Don't tell her she's right, India! She'll be impossible!"

Mrs. Moskowitz swatted Ella with her wooden spoon. "Sid Malone is a
good man," she said to India. "And he'll become a better one with you at
his side."

She kissed India's forehead, then embraced her. She smelled of
parsley and garlic and chicken. Of clean laundry and fresh bread. The
tears India had been holding back spilled over. She had not felt so sad
when she'd left Blackwood. But the crowded noisy flat above the caf�ad
been more of a home to her than Blackwood ever had. And the Moskowitzes
had been more a family to her than her own family.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Moskowitz," she said. "Thank you for everything."

Mrs. Moskowitz released her and hastily wiped her eyes on her apron.
"Ich bin verklempt. Go now, zeeskyte, before my salty tears ruin the
soup. And may God go with you."

"India."

India flinched. She recognized that voice. It was Freddie's. She
turned around and gasped. She hardly recognized him. His forehead was
horribly bruised and there was a long gash on his cheek.

"Freddie, what happened to you?"

"I need to talk to you. In private."

"I'm sorry, but I was just leaving."

"I'm afraid you can't do that. I'm here with these two
constables"--he gestured to the two uniformed men behind him--"on
official police business. Their superior, Alvin Donaldson, has allowed
me to talk to you, to try to get you to do the sensible thing, the right
thing."

"What are you talking about?"

Freddie turned to Mrs. Moskowitz. "Might I have a word with Dr. Jones
in private?" he said. "Would you please leave us for a few moments?"

"I will not," Mrs. Moskowitz said. "This is my kitchen. I'm cooking. Go sit in the restaurant like everyone else."

"There are people dining in there and I require privacy. You may
leave the kitchen voluntarily or these constables will escort you."

Mrs. Moskowitz threw her spoon in the sink. She took her soup pot off
the stove, slammed it down on a table, then turned on her heel.

"Gai platz!" she said, pushing open the door to the dining room.

"Mama!" Ella hissed.

"What?"

"You told him to go explode, that's what!"

"He should. No one orders me about in my own kitchen! No one!"

The door slammed shut and India turned to Freddie. "That was very
nice, Freddie," she said. "Almost as nice as getting me sacked, but not
quite."

"I'm sorry. I had no choice. I need to speak to you."

"First tell me what happened to you."

"A woman was murdered last night. For a bit of cash and some jewelry.
I saw it. I tried to stop it and was beaten. Her name was Gemma Dean.
She was Sid Malone's former girlfriend, and it was Malone who killed
her."

Though her heart was pounding, India's face betrayed nothing.

"And what, exactly, is that to me?"

"Quite a lot, I should think."

"Why have you come here, Freddie?"

"To stop you from running off with him."

Panic gripped her. How does he know? she wondered.

"What nonsense," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I
barely know Sid Malone and have no plans to run off with him or with
anyone else. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to see."

"India, the police know."

"About what?" she said lightly.

Freddie didn't reply; he just stood there, watching her face.

He's enjoying this, she thought, and her composure suddenly shattered. "I asked you a question. Answer me, damn it!"

"About your plans to meet Malone. To go away with him."

India's fear turned into full-blown terror. Sid was in terrible
danger. But then she remembered that the police couldn't possibly know
about the flat. Even if they strong-armed Sally, she couldn't have told
them because she didn't know herself. India hadn't told her.

"They don't."

"They do. They know you're leaving today. How? It was easy. One of
the officers, a local man, asked a few of your patients if his wife
could go to you. They told him you wouldn't be here after today."

"They don't know where," India said frantically, "and they don't have an address."

"Actually, they do. Number sixteen Arden Street, Richmond Hill.
That's what I was doing at Gemma Dean's. I've taken a personal interest
in this case because of Joe Bristow, and I've been doing everything I
can to help the police track Malone. I thought if one person might know
his whereabouts, it would be Miss Dean. It's common knowledge that they
were an item, and that's why I went to her flat. She knew; she'd
followed Sid once. She managed to give me the location before she died."

India got to her feet, but Freddie was quicker. He rose, too, and blocked her way to the door.

"Get out of my way," she said.

"India, these constables have orders to keep you here until they
receive word that Malone has been captured. If you try to leave, if you
try to help him in any way, they will arrest you."

"Is this true?" India asked one of the officers.

"Yes, ma'am, it is," he replied.

India looked at Freddie. "You did this, you bastard," she said.

Freddie's emotion flared, too. "Yes, India, I did. For you, you
bloody ungrateful woman. As soon as I learned what was going on, I
begged Alvin Donaldson to keep you out of this mess. To keep you out of
the newspapers and out of jail. Do you know what happens to people who
help murderers? Do you want to lose your medical license? Do you want to
go to prison?"

"He's not a murderer. He didn't shoot Joe Bristow and he didn't kill
Gemma Dean. I know he didn't. You're lying, Freddie. Again."

"Stop being so blind! He is a murderer. It's not only me saying it.
There are witnesses, for God's sake--Bristow's secretary and the
cleaner--who swear it was Sid Malone who shot Joe."

"Why, Freddie? Why are you doing this? Do you hate him so much? Or is it me whom you hate?"

"Hate you? Hate you?" He stood close to her so that the officers
could not hear him. "I care deeply about you, India. So much that I
can't stand by while you destroy your life. You've been down this road
before. Haven't you learned your lesson?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Hugh Mullins. He stole from your family and broke your heart, and he
was only a thief. Sid Malone is ten times more dangerous. He shot
Bristow in cold blood. He turned on Gemma Dean. He would have turned on
you, too."

India said nothing. She sat back down at the table and lowered her
face into her hands. She was sick to her very soul with fear for Sid. If
only she could get out of here. If only she had some way to warn him.

"Would it have been so bad, India?" Freddie said quietly. "The two of
us together? We would have had a proper marriage, children, friends,
important work, a place in society. Everything."

India raised her head. "Everything? What about love, Freddie?"

"Yes, of course. I was going to say that--"

"No, you weren't."

"Can't you give me another chance, India? We could start again."

India had no capacity left to feel frights or shocks, or Freddie's
words would have floored her. Here he was, sending the man she loved to
his doom and trying to win her back at the same time.

She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Go to hell, Freddie."

Freddie colored. He was about to reply, but Ella knocked on the kitchen door and entered, stopping him.

"What is it?" he barked at her.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a woman just came to the clinic,
Dr. Jones. She's eight months gone. Twins. She's begun to bleed. No
contractions. Dr. Hatcher's seen her and thinks it might be placenta
previa. She wants to send her to the hospital, but she wants your
opinion first. I know this is not a good time, but it's a very serious
case. Could you take a look at her?"