The Winter Rose (78 page)

"Wait a minute," Seamie had said. "That's Whitechapel. That's your
turf. Isn't there a safe house? Somewhere I could hide? Isn't there
anyone there who's loyal?"

Charlie had laughed. "Oh, aye. Everyone there is loyal. To himself. There's a price on my head, remember? A thousand quid."

"What about honor among thieves?"

"For Christ's sake, lad, stop reading the penny dreadfuls. There's no
such thing. Where's the bloody honor in taking what belongs to someone
else?"

Seamie got down Cornhill and crossed Bishopsgate. So far so good, he
thought, walking past the small shops and houses that lined the street.
Women were washing the steps to their homes or walking toward the market
with baskets on their arms. Nobody was paying him the least bit of
attention. On the other side of Bishopsgate, he reached Leadenhall. From
there he veered onto Aldgate and into the High Street.

He picked up his pace, relieved. He could see the market now, full of
strutting costers, thronged with harried shoppers. He had just stepped
down off the pavement into the bustle when two uniformed constables came
out of nowhere to flank him, moving through the crowd like sharks
through water. A third man, in plainclothes, came up behind him.

Seamie felt them before he saw them. There was a sudden tingling up
his spine, a tightening in his guts. He glanced back, saw two bobbies'
helmets, and tried to run. But he couldn't; the crowd was too dense. He
looked about wildly for a place to hide, but all he saw was a butcher's
shop.

A fishmonger's. A pub. All dead ends. He was desperate for a side street, an open stretch, but there was nothing.

"Oi! You in the cap! Stop right there!" a voice ordered from behind
him. A split-second later he felt a rough hand close on his back.

Seamie took a deep breath and turned around. "What the hell you
doin', boy?" he said in a drawling American accent. "Take your goddamned
hands off me!"

The officer released Seamie. He looked at his partner, who looked
every bit as confused as he did. The man in plainclothes caught up with
them. "Well done!" he panted. Then he frowned. "Hold on a mo'. That's
not Malone," he said. "What's your name?" he asked Seamie.

"Byron K. LaFountain the Third."

Donaldson's eyes narrowed. "Hand over your bag," he ordered.

"Now wait just a minute--" Seamie said.

"Now!" Donaldson barked.

Seamie did so, grumbling all the while about the lawless people in this lawless country. "Worse than El Paso," he said.

Donaldson ignored him. He was pawing in the bag. He pulled out
Seamie's jacket. "This is it," he said. "This is what Malone was
wearing-- a yellow jacket." He held the bag upside down and shook it
violently. "Where's the money?" he shouted.

Seamie blinked at him. He took out his wallet and handed it over. There were ten pounds in it.

Donaldson swore. "Weren't you just in the Albion Bank?" he asked.

"Why, yes sir, I was."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was puttin' up some jewels for my momma," Seamie said. "She didn't
trust the hotel safe. She was worried about being robbed, y'see. I told
her she was plumb crazy, but now I'm thinking she had the right idea.
If this is how the law behaves here, I'd surely hate to see what the
criminals do."

Seamie could feel beads of sweat rolling down his back as he spoke.
Would Donaldson buy his cornpone charade? Or see right through it? He
didn't have long to wonder, for the penny finally dropped.

"Malone's back there," Donaldson said. "At the bank. I bet he was
watching. Waiting for us to leave, the canny bastard." He nodded at
Seamie. "Grab him. He's part of it."

But Seamie didn't give them the chance.

He ducked the officer's hands, bolted into the crowd, swerved around
an old woman hefting a turnip, then ducked under a vegetable cart. The
surprised coster gave a shout as he emerged on the other side, but
Seamie kept on going, pushing his way through a sea of squawking women
milling about on the pavement. He got about ten yards down the pavement
when he got stuck by the entrance to a church. A group of worshippers
was leaving a midday mass. The priest was with them, bidding them all
goodbye. He couldn't move forward, the pavement was blocked. He couldn't
go back, so he went up instead. Up the stone steps and into the church.
He pelted down the aisle and over the altar. He tried the door to the
vestry; it was locked.

"Goddamn it!" he swore.

The constables were running up the aisle now. He had only seconds
before they were on him. He spun around in a circle, panic-stricken,
desperate for a way out--and then he saw it: a narrow door to the right
of the altar. It was slightly ajar. He didn't know where it led. He
didn't care. He sprinted across the altar, leaped over a low wooden
railing, and stumbled to the door. There was a key in its lock. He tore
it out, slammed the door shut behind himself, and fumbled it into the
lock, throwing the bolt just as the one of the officers threw himself
against the door. It shuddered in its frame, but it held.

There was nothing in the room but a staircase leading up. Seamie took
the steps two at a time. He heard the police shouting at him through
the door to come out.

"Not a chance, boys," he said, climbing higher and higher. He finally
got to the top, pushed open a door above his head, and found himself in
the church's belltower. The tower was open on all four sides. The bell
hung above his head. Below he could see the teeming high street, the
buildings on either side of the church, and the alley which ran along
the back of the church. There was no way down, not unless he had wings.

He was trapped. The police would get the door unlocked or kick it
down. It would be only a matter of minutes until they nabbed him. He
swore, kicking the sides of the belltower. And then he spotted a neatly
coiled pile of rope. It was all he needed.

He would use the rope to rappel down the belltower, down the church's
slanting roof, and onto the roof of the neighboring building. He'd done
it a hundred times before. In the Rockies. The Adirondacks.

No one would see him because no one in this godforsaken place ever
looked up. He peered over the side of the tower. The drop was sheer. It
was about ten yards to the slanting roof and another twenty to the
closest building. The buildings stretched off from the church in both
directions. From what he could see, most of them had roof doors. If he
could just get to one, he could get back to the street.

It might actually work, he thought. Or I might die.

He bent down, reaching for the rope, then saw that one end of it rose up into the bell.

"Great," he said. If he climbed down that, the bell would start to
ring. The police would twig what he was up to in no time. They'd be
waiting to catch him when he dropped. He had to silence it.

There was an iron loop on the top of the trapdoor. Seamie grabbed the
free end of the rope and pulled the entire length of it through the
ring. The rope was long and it took time. When it was through, he made
sure there was a little bit of slack in the portion that hung from the
bell, then knotted the rope on the ring. By the time he finished he
could hear pounding from below. The police were battering at the
trapdoor with something heavy. He knew he had only minutes at the most.
And no time to knot the rope around himself as he knew he ought to.

He grabbed the rope, climbed over the railing, and righted himself
against the side of the tower. No climbing boots. No chalk for his
hands. If he managed not to fall and smash himself to pieces, it would
be a miracle. He wanted to say a prayer--but he didn't know to whom.
Jesus had gone in for fishing, not climbing.

John the Baptist, maybe? No, he was a hiker. Strictly deserts.

Quasimodo? Was he even a saint?

The sound of shouts from below and the crunch of splintering wood
convinced him that Quasimodo would do. He crossed himself, took a deep
breath, and started his descent.

"Something is strange, Ella."

"I'll say so. Why does Yanki have to practice the �Kaddish Yatom' in
the house? Why can't he go somewhere else to sing? Honestly, Mama, I
feel like I'm at a funeral when he does this. Make him stop."

"He's a chazzan. You know that. He must practice," Mrs. Moskowitz
said absently, staring out of the sitting room window at the street.

"He should go in the back alley, then, and sing to the tomcats," Ella groused.

Yanki had a beautiful voice and normally she loved to hear him
singing prayers--but not this one. The "Kaddish Yatom" was a prayer for
the dead, and hearing it made her uneasy.

"Mama, what are you doing at the window? Minding everyone else's
business? Come away, already! You're making me nervous! You and Yanki
both," she said peevishly.

But Mrs. Moskowitz didn't move. "Why are all the police gone?" she
said. "They've been outside the caf�inside the caf�upstairs,
downstairs, for days looking for some sign of Sid Malone. And now I
can't see one of them!"

"Maybe they followed India. She left half an hour ago. To visit Joe Bristow."

"Usually only one goes after her. It is very, very strange," she
said, finally releasing the curtain. "Almost as if they do not wish to
catch him anymore."

"I doubt that," Ella said.

"I wonder where he can be."

"God only knows."

No one had heard from Sid for more than a week. Poor India was
absolutely beside herself, convinced he was suffering, injured and
alone, in some abandoned warehouse or derelict wharf. Ella was
suffering, too. For her friend. The whole family was. No one could bear
to see India so unhappy, and everyone was chafing from being under
constant observation by the police. It was not good for business. Nerves
were strained and tempers were fraying.

It was Saturday. The Sabbath. The restaurant was closed and the
family was taking a well-deserved rest. Mr. Moskowitz was napping on the
settee. Aaron was reading. The younger children were playing a game. As
Ella tried to return her attention to a magazine, Yanki's voice rose,
grew louder. He was in the dining room, but his voice carried out to the
sitting room.

"Ach!" Ella shouted. "Yanki! Genug!"

Yanki sang louder.

From downstairs the sound of knocking could be heard.

"Another peaceful Sabbath at the Moskowitz residence," Ella sighed.

"Go, Aaron, will you, please? See who it is," Mrs. Moskowitz said.

Aaron trotted downstairs and was back up in the sitting room a few
minutes later carrying a large, lumpy parcel wrapped in brown paper. "It
was the postman. Here, Ella," he said.

"What is it?" Mrs. Moskowitz asked.

"I don't know," Ella said.

"Did you send away for something?" Miriam asked.

"No."

"Who is it from?" Posy asked.

"It doesn't say."

"Open it already!" Solly said.

Ella did. Under the paper was an old Gladstone bag. She opened that and cried out, "It's money!"

Mr. Moskowitz opened one eye. "This has happened once before, no?"

"No, Papa," Ella breathed. "It hasn't. Not like this. Look at it all!"

She opened the bag wider so that her family could see the bundles of
hundred-pound notes. When she did, she spotted a piece of paper that had
slipped down between the stacks. She quickly pulled it out and opened
it.

"Blimey, El!" Aaron said, picking one up. "These are thick! There must be five thousand pounds in there!"

"No, Aaron," Ella said, her voice shaking. "Five hundred thousand pounds."

Mrs. Moskowitz, who had been standing over her, sat down on the floor with a thump, her hand pressed to her chest.

Alarmed, Mr. Moskowitz got up from the settee, grabbed Ella's
magazine, and fanned his wife with it. "Are you all right, Mama?" he
asked. "Miriam! The brandy!"

"Five hundred thousand?" she whispered.

Ella nodded. "Yes. It says so right here. There's a note."

Dear Ella,

Here's � 500,000. Use it for the clinic. Use it to help the people of

Whitechapel. The ones who have nothing and no one. Keep them

alive. Keep a beautiful dream alive. Help a bad man do a good

deed.

There was no date. No signature. There didn't need to be. Ella knew who'd sent it.

"Is that all it says? Where is he? What is he doing?" Mrs. Moskowitz asked, motioning for the note.

Miriam brought brandy and a glass from the sideboard. Solly picked up
a stack of notes, wide-eyed. Posy draped herself over Ella's back and
clasped her arms around her neck. There was so much noise and commotion
that no one noticed India standing in the hallway. In the shadows.

"Was that the �Kaddish' that Yanki was singing?" she asked softly.

She knew many Hebrew prayers now, from listening to Yanki and Mr. Moskowitz sing them.

"India!" Ella cried. "Thank God you're here!"

"It's a beautiful prayer, isn't it?" India said. "Beautiful and sad. I
can't imagine he had any prayers at the end to comfort him. None at
all."

"India, never mind the prayer, look at this! Look! Five hundred
thousand pounds! From Sid. I know it. It must be. Who else could it be?"
She held up her hands. "I know what you're thinking, but we're not
going to send it back. We're just going to thank him."

"We can't thank him, Ella."

"Not yet, not yet. But soon. He will come soon."

"No, he won't. Not soon. Not ever."

"What are you saying? Haven't I told you not to talk that way? Why
are you standing out there in the hallway? Come! Come and look at this."

India walked into the sitting room.

Ella gasped at the sight of her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

India's eyes were red with crying and in them Ella saw the deepest despair.

"I didn't know. It's been days and days and I didn't know. Not until I
heard them. As I was coming down the hospital steps I heard them
shouting it."