The Winter Rose (74 page)

"You shot him," India said brokenly.

"I saw that he was going to run and I shot to wound him, yes."

"How very kind of you. Blood loss and infections kill, too, you know.
But I suppose that's irrelevant. Why are you here, Detective Inspector?
Why aren't you out hunting him down? Can't you find any bloodhounds?
Any bounty hunters?"

"My men are hunting him, Dr. Jones. I stayed behind to search your
flat to see if I could find anything that might tell me where he's
running to. But now that you're here, I can ask you."

"I don't know. I wouldn't tell you if I did. You must realize that."

Donaldson started to remonstrate with her, but she cut him off. "Why
did you have to do this? Why?" she asked, her voice anguished. "He's
changed. He wanted to leave the life. He was on the road to redemption."

Donaldson snorted. "Oh, aye? He'll be on it for a while, miss, don't you worry. That's the longest bloody road in the world."

India looked away, her mind racing. She had to find Sid. To help him.

As if reading her mind, Donaldson said, "We'll be watching you, you know."

"I rather thought you'd be arresting me. That's what Mr. Lytton said."

Donaldson shook his head. "By rights I should. But you're more
valuable to us out of jail. Malone surfaced today to see you. Maybe
he'll do so again."

India closed her eyes. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give them the
satisfaction. But it hurt her almost beyond bearing to know that Sid had
been injured trying to get to her, that he was wounded and she could do
nothing for him. She couldn't even look for him now. If she found him,
she'd lead the police right to him.

"Dr. Jones, I don't want to argue with you. I want to help you. I
know how this happened," Donaldson said, his voice suddenly sympathetic.
"I'm no fool. I know what sort of woman you are."

"Do you?" she said, opening her eyes.

"I see your type in East London all the time. In the missions and the
soup kitchens. In the orphanages and prisons. Well-bred young ladies
looking to do some good. Soft-hearted, well-intentioned, and--if I may
be frank--dead easy marks for the likes of Malone. He's obviously sold
you some story, but you should know that leopards don't change their
spots. Sid Malone is one thing and one thing only--a criminal. He's
ruthless and dangerous. He's done a lot of harm to a lot of people, and
now it's time he paid for his sins."

"Are you going to pay for yours?" she asked, her voice hard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are you going to pay for your sins, Detective Inspector? You're a
corrupt police officer who accepts money to break up political rallies.
You sell opium that you confiscate. You accept bribes from madams."

The young constables' eyes widened.

"That's enough!" Donaldson thundered. "You want to watch your tongue,
Dr. Jones. The only reason you're not in jail right now is because of
me."

"The only reason I'm not in jail right now is because of Mr. Lytton.
Because he paid you not to put me there. Because he still has hopes I'll
marry him and doesn't want his future wife's name in a police blotter.
If you're going to arrest me, then do so. If not, get out of my flat."

"I won't arrest you, but I'll get Malone, make no mistake. I am going to see that he's tried, convicted, and hanged."

"For two murders he didn't commit? I wouldn't count on it."

"Why is that?"

"Because it costs to bribe magistrates and Mr. Lytton's coffers are low."

Donaldson, glaring, bit back a reply, then left. India watched him
go. She would have dropped to her knees in front of him and begged for
Sid if she'd thought for an instant it would help, but she knew it would
not.

India walked to the broken window--the window where she'd spent so
many happy evenings watching for Sid--and carefully pulled jagged pieces
of shattered glass out of the panes. When she was finished, she wrapped
them in sheets of newspaper and put them by the door.

An image came to her, a picture of Sid alone and bleeding in some
dirty alley. She sagged down onto the settee and put her head in her
hands and wept. The nausea she'd felt earlier rose again and this time
she was sick. As sick as she'd been when she'd lost Mrs. Coburn and baby
Harry. She felt now like she did then--weak and despairing, like she
was breaking down again. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know
where Sid was or if he was even alive. She had sacrificed everything for
him--her home, her work, her dreams. She would sacrifice more if she
could, but there was nothing left to give.

She stood up. She would go to the landlord's. Then to a glazier's.
The flat had been damaged, and it had to be put right. Then she would
make her way back to Brick Lane and the Moskowitzes', where she would
wait and worry and hope to hear from him. It was all she could do.

"Madam, please! Do allow me. It's a terribly unsafe hour," Foster said, rushing down the hall to the foyer.

But Fiona was already at the door. She'd heard the bell and had come
tearing downstairs from her study. She undid the lock now and grasped
the doorknob, but her courage suddenly deserted her and all she could do
was lean her head against the door, unable to open it.

"Please, madam," Foster said gently.

Fiona looked at him, tears in her eyes, but shook her head. It was
news about Joe, she was certain of it. And at half past midnight it was
far too late to be good news. Whatever was coming, she had to face it.
She twisted the knob and wrenched the door open. She expected to see a
police officer or a messenger from the hospital, but the man standing
before her was neither. He was sickeningly pale. His clothes were dirty
and bloodstained. His left arm hung limply at his side.

"Fiona," he said. "Please..."

"No!" she screamed. "No, Charlie! God damn you, no!" She fiew at him, pounding her fists against his chest.

The man reeled backward, almost fell down the steps, then righted himself.

Foster was down the steps in an instant. "Mrs. Bristow, please go
back inside," he said, pulling Fiona away from her brother. "Leave
immediately, sir, or I shall summon the authorities," he said to Sid.

"I didn't do it, Fiona!" Sid cried. "I swear to God. I would never hurt Joe. Never."

Fiona broke free of Foster. "You liar!" she shouted. "There were witnesses!"

"It was Frankie Betts. One of my lads. I think he must've dressed
like me. Gave my name. He must've done..." Sid's words trailed off.

"Why?" Fiona shouted.

"I don't know. But I didn't do it, Fiona, you have to believe me. Joe will tell you. When he wakes up, he'll tell you."

Fiona shook her head. She was weeping now. "If he wakes up."

"He will, Fiona. I know he will. He's tougher than steel, Joe."

"I looked for you, I tried to find you. Why wouldn't you see me?"

"I had to stay away. To keep you away. I wanted to protect you."

"This is my last warning, sir," Foster said menacingly, but Sid cut him off.

"I'm going... but please, Fee, please say you believe me. I didn't hurt Joe."

Fiona looked into her brother's eyes. Deep inside. Just as she'd done
when they were children and she wanted to know if he was telling the
truth. What she saw there told her that he was. She gave a cry and ran
to him. He put his good arm around her and pulled her close.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," he whispered. "I just ...I nted you to know. I've got to

wa

go now."

"No, you can't. You're coming inside."

"No, Fiona."

"You're hurt. You're coming inside!"

"Madam, are you quite certain?" Foster asked, alarmed.

"Yes," she said, suddenly remembering that her brother was a wanted
man, and worried that he might have been seen. "Hurry, Mr. Foster!"

When they were in the foyer, with the door locked behind them, Foster said, "I'll call for a doctor."

"No! No doctors," Sid quickly said.

"But you're bleeding," Fiona said. "You need help."

"I'll be all right. I can't risk anyone else seeing me."

"I think I may be able to help," Foster said. "I was assigned to my
ship's surgeon in the navy. If we could go into the kitchen..."

"Fiona? What's going on? I heard shouting." It was Seamie. He'd come
back from the Aldens' to be with her when he heard about Joe. He was
standing at the bottom of the stairs in his pajamas, groggy with sleep.

Fiona looked at Seamie, her heart aching for him, for all that he didn't

know, but soon would. "I didn't ...I dn't want it to be like this, Seamie.

di

I wanted to tell you, but I ...I c

ouldn't."

"Tell me what?" Seamie said uncertainly. "Fee, who is that?"

"Hello, nipper. Remember me?" Sid said, steadying himself against the foyer wall. He reached out a shaking hand to his brother.

Seamie went white. "Jesus Christ," he said. "It can't be."

"I'm afraid it is," Sid said. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor.

"Charlie!" Fiona shouted, terrifled. She ran to him but Foster was ahead of her.

"Master Seamus, kindly take his legs," he said, carefully lifting Sid's torso.

Together they got him downstairs to the kitchen table. Foster laid him out, then took his jacket and shirt off.

"My God, his back," Fiona said, horrifled by the scars there. "What happened to him?"

"Cat o' nine tails from the looks of it," Foster said briskly. "The
wound's not too deep," he added, pointing to a bullet hole in the fieshy
part of Sid's back, just under his left shoulder blade. "Not much
damage at all. I'll have the bullet out in short order."

"What about his arm? Is it broken?"

"The arm is fine. His shoulder is dislocated, but I think I can pop it back in."

Foster set Fiona and Seamie to work boiling water and assembling
whisky, quinine, and gauze to dress the wound, plus fresh clothing to
replace Sid's bloodied things. Sid woke, yelling, when Foster started
probing the wound, but the extraction was quick and expert, and he was
able to endure it with a shot of whisky. When the wound was dressed,
Foster poured him another shot, and then manipulated his shoulder back
into place. Fiona could see it hurt him more than the bullet wound. When
it was finally over, he dressed himself in one of Joe's old shirts, got
off the kitchen table, and sat in a chair, pale and shaking, but better
than he'd been.

Foster procured a bottle of Bordeaux, then made a hasty meal of hot soup and sandwiches.

"I'll prepare the larger of the guest rooms, madam," he said when he'd finished. "Might I suggest that Mr...."

"Finnegan," Fiona said.

"That Mr. Finnegan retires before the maids wake and the cook arrives--at five o'clock. They do tend to talk."

Fiona nodded. She took his meaning. Her brother was a fugitive, and
she was endangering not only herself but the entire household, by
harboring him.

"Thank you, Mr. Foster. Very, very much," she said. "We will all be very careful."

Foster nodded and departed, leaving Fiona alone with her brothers.
Seamie was sitting at the head of the long pine table. Sid was sitting
on one side of it. She took a seat across from him. There had been so
much commotion--crying and shouting, Sid's collapse, the kitchen-table
surgery. Now it was quiet. She could hear the kitchen clock ticking. A
slow dripping from a tap.

She looked across the table at her brother. His face was different.
Older, haggard. His eyes were wary and hard. But in them she could still
see the boy she remembered.

She shook her head, biting her lip to keep fresh tears back, but they
came anyway. She reached across the table and covered his large,
scarred hand with her own. He was here with her, at last. They were
together again, she and Charlie and Seamie, for the first time in twelve
years.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said. "For Joe. For this. For everything."

Fiona wiped her eyes. "Eat your soup," she said. "You need
nourishment." She looked at her younger brother. He hadn't touched his
food either; he looked dazed. "Seamie, luv, eat," she said.

He pushed the bowl away. "I don't want any soup," he said angrily. "Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Fiona started to, but Sid cut her off. He told Seamie what had really
happened to him back in 1889, how he had become Sid Malone, how he had
lived his life, why he was now on the run. He glossed over nothing and
when he had finished, Seamie, who had been completely silent, turned to
their sister and in an unsteady voice, said, "How could you not tell me,
Fiona? He's my brother, too."

Fiona tried to explain. "I ...I thought you would be upset. You were so close, you and Charlie, and I didn't want--"

He didn't let her finish, but jumped to his feet and exploded into a rage. "Christ, Fiona! You are always mollycoddling me!"

"Mind your manners, lad," Sid said.

"Mind my manners? Mind my manners? That's rich coming from you. Don't
you think it's just slightly rude to crack safes and rob banks?"

"Seamie, that's enough!" Fiona said.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked her.

"I wanted to. I was hoping to. I wanted to find Charlie first and persuade him to--"

"To what? Blend tea? Peddle peaches?" Seamie shook his head. "I can't
believe this! My brother's not dead, he's alive and well, and the
biggest criminal in all of London, and you don't tell me. Anything else
you're not telling me, Fee?" He pulled out his chair. "Wait, don't
answer. Let me sit down first."

Sid looked at Fiona. "He's angry," he said.

"You're goddamned right I'm angry!"

"What good would telling you have done?" Fiona asked him. "Charlie
wanted no part of me. Of us. I didn't want to tell you because I thought
knowing those things would hurt you. I only wanted to protect you."