The Winter Rose (94 page)

Sid fumbled the glasses back into his pack. He spurred his horse. It
was her, Charlotte. She was up in that tree and lions were circling
below. Hope sparked again. He tried to damp it, telling himself that he
didn't know if she was alone in that tree. Or alive. The big cats
sometimes defended their kills by dragging them up into low-lying
branches.

A hundred yards away he saw them clearly--two lionesses. One reared,
put her front feet on the tree, and tensed her haunches, then quickly
dropped down again, snarling. Fifty yards away he stopped his horse,
grabbed his rifle, and fired into the air. The animals ran. Seconds
later he was off his horse and at the tree, looking up into the
branches.

A little girl, blond and very dirty, sat about twenty feet off the
ground in the crux of two limbs, her head resting against the larger of
them. She held stones in her hands. Her skirt pockets bulged with more.
Sid was amazed by her resourcefulness. The stones had kept the lions at
bay.

"Charlotte? Charlotte Lytton?" Sid called.

The girl picked up her head. She opened her eyes. They were gray
eyes, soft as a gull's wing. They were India's eyes. "I'm very sorry,
sir," she said hoarsely, "but I am not allowed to speak to strangers."

"I'm not a stranger. My name is Sid Baxter. Your parents sent me to find you."

"What are their names, please?"

"India. India and Freddie... Frederick ...Lytton."

Charlotte nodded. She tried to say something, but her eyes fluttered
and she slumped forward. The stones fell from her hands and pattered to
the ground. She nearly fell, too. Sid was up the tree in a twinkling. He
put the girl over his shoulder and got her down. He laid her on the
ground, grabbed the canteen from his saddle pack, and trickled water on
her face and throat. She woke, clutched at the canteen, and drank
deeply.

"Slow down," Sid said, easing her into a sitting position. "Take a little at a time or you'll be sick."

She took another sip, then said, "Please, sir, you forgot Jane."

Sid looked around. "Who the devil is Jane?"

"In the tree," Charlotte said. She tried to point.

Sid looked up at the spot where she'd been sitting. Just above it was a doll wedged into another, smaller crux.

"I'll get her in a minute. I'm more worried about you. How did you get all the way out here?"

"Walked. Sometimes I ran. When I heard things."

"I'll bet you did."

He propped her against the tree trunk, fed her bits of hard cheese
that he had in his pack, and gave her more water. He rescued the doll,
then he gently patted a cooling salve Maggie had made him for sunburn
over Charlotte's face. Eventually, her eyes became more focused. She
leaned forward, able now to sit up on her own. Sid felt an immense
admiration for this brave little person.

"You are a very clever little girl, do you know that? I know some
grown men who would never have thought to get up a tree, much less take
stones up with them."

"My mummy says I must always think for myself. She says all girls must."

"Does she?" Sid asked.

"Do you know my mummy, Mr. Baxter?" Charlotte asked, her eyes large and searching.

"No, I don't," Sid lied.

"I think she knows you. Someone said your name once. On the train. It made her very sad. I don't know why it would. Do you?"

"No idea," Sid said, his voice suddenly husky. He coughed to clear
it, then quickly changed the subject. "Do you feel up to riding? For an
hour, maybe two? Give us a bit of a head start, it would."

Charlotte nodded.

"We'll get as far as we can tonight, then we'll rest. You can sleep.
We'll head out again at dawn. With any luck, I'll have you back at Thika
in time for dinner tomorrow."

Charlotte got to her feet. She was a bit wobbly, and Sid was
concerned about her, but he was more concerned about the lions. They
were the real reason he wanted to get going. He fished in his pack for
an extra shirt and tied it around her head for protection against the
still-strong sun, then he lifted her into the saddle. He swung up
himself, crossed his arms in front of her, and picked up the reins.

She turned and looked at him. "Thank you for finding me, Mr. Baxter. Mummy would have been sad if the lions had eaten me."

"I'm sure she would. And your father, too."

"No, I don't think so."

Sid was sure he'd misheard her. He was about to start off when she
said, "I wish you were the Sid Baxter my mummy knew. You seem very nice.
I think you would make her smile."

"Shh, now," Sid said. "Don't talk. Lean back against me as we ride and rest as much as you can. You need to save your strength."

They set off at a gentle pace and Charlotte was soon dozing against
him. He held the reins in one hand as they rode. His other arm was
curled protectively around her. He had ridden in wide, sweeping arcs
while searching for her, but now he would make a beeline for Thika. He
was certain he could be back in half the time it had taken him to get
here.

By the time they stopped for the night and he had gotten Charlotte to
sleep in a bed he'd made from plains grass and an old wool blanket,
he'd decided that he would leave her at the McGregors' farm, east of
Thika village, tomorrow, then get one of the McGregor boys to ride to
the Lytton camp to tell them where she was. The McGregors had a nice
stone house. Charlotte would be comfortable there. She needed rest and
quiet and good wholesome food to recover from her ordeal. Elspeth
McGregor had been a nurse back in Edinburgh before she married and
emigrated. Sid knew she would take good care of the girl.

He would stay long enough to see her tucked up in bed and then he
would ride back to Maggie's. He wanted to be well away by the time
Charlotte was reunited with her mother. For despite what the little girl
said, Sid doubted very much that seeing him again would make India
Lytton smile.

Joe sat in the visitors' room of Wandsworth Prison, waiting. It was a
grim place, all cold stone and dark wood. He took a deep breath, trying
to steady

himself. It was a hard thing to do, facing the man who'd shot him,
but there was no other way. He believed that Frankie Betts, not Sid
Malone, had murdered Gemma Dean. And he'd come to Wandsworth to try to
get him to confess.

Ever since the day he'd seen Fiona weeping in the cemetery, Joe had
been determined to find a way to clear her brother's name. He'd decided
to make good use of his political connections and had gone straight to
the home secretary, Herbert Gladstone, to lobby him personally for
permission to reopen the case.

"But why should we reopen it?" Gladstone had asked Joe, perusing the file.

"Because it was never really closed," Joe said. "Not properly. The
man accused of killing Gemma Dean, Sid Malone, was never actually
charged. He died before he could be."

"It says here that there was an eyewitness--Freddie Lytton, no less--
who swore he saw Malone finish the poor woman off," Gladstone said.

"Perhaps Lytton only thought he saw Malone."

"Doesn't sound very likely. I'm sure he knows what he saw. He's an able-bodied young man, not some doddery old codger."

"Actually, Herbert, it does sound likely. The man who shot me,
Frankie Betts, tried to pass himself off as Sid Malone when he pulled
the trigger and nearly succeeded. He said in court that he dressed up as
Sid and pulled out a gun to frighten me. I didn't believe it then and I
don't now. But I do believe he might've done the same thing with Gemma
Dean. Passed himself off as Sid Malone in order to frame him for the
crime."

"But why? Why would he do such a thing? And twice?"

"I don't know, but I mean to find out. If you'll allow me to."

Gladstone, brooding over the top of his spectacles, said, "This
sudden interest of yours in the case... it wouldn't have anything to do
with vengeance, would it? Dissatisfaction over Betts's sentence? Perhaps
you're thinking he should've swung for what he did to you, so you'll
make sure he does for what he did-- allegedly did--to Gemma Dean?"

"No, Herbert, it has nothing to do with vengeance and everything to do with justice."

Gladstone had remained skeptical. He hadn't agreed to officially
reopen the case, but he'd told Joe to go ahead and see what he could dig
up. Then, to aid him in his quest, he'd written to the warden at
Wandsworth, explaining Joe's interest in the case and expressing his
hope that he and his staff would do everything they could to accommodate
him.

Joe hadn't seen Betts since the day, five years ago, that Betts had
stepped into his office and shot him--he'd been too weak to attend the
trial and sentencing--and it took him a few seconds now to realize that
the man whom the guard ushered in and sat down at a table across from
him was indeed Frankie Betts. Joe was shocked by his appearance. He
seemed to have aged fifty years, not five. He was thin, with the
beginnings of an old man's stoop, and his hair had gone gray. His cheeks
were sunken, but their color was high. His eyes were bright.

The two men looked at each other for a long time, saying nothing. Frankie was the first to break the silence.

"Come to have a gander, did you? Make sure I wasn't having too good a time? Happy with what you see?"

Joe looked at the man who'd taken his legs from him, and nearly his
life, and said, "No, I'm not happy, Frankie. I wish you weren't in here.
I wish I wasn't in this chair."

Understanding dawned on Frankie. "Ah, that's it, then. You've come to
take a crack at me. Any minute now, the screw'll tie me hands behind me
back, me ankles to the chair, and then it's all hear no evil, see no
evil."

"I'm not here for revenge, Frankie. I don't need to be. I'm not angry at you."

Frankie laughed in disbelief. "C'mon, guv. You're not even the tiniest bit put out? A little miffed? A tad perturbed?"

"I was, Frankie, but I let it go. I had to or it would have killed
me. Sitting in this chair for the rest of my life is a harsh enough
sentence. I wasn't going to become a prisoner of my anger, too."

"That's what he said," Frankie said bitterly, almost inaudibly. "About the anger. To let it go."

"Who said that?"

Frankie shook his head. "No one. Why did you come? What do you want?"

"Your help."

"My help," Frankie said flatly.

"Yes."

"I'm all ears."

"I'm here about the Gemma Dean case."

Frankie sucked his teeth. He said nothing.

"The police believe Sid Malone killed Gemma Dean. Just like they
believed it was Sid Malone who shot me until I woke up and told them
different."

Frankie broke Joe's gaze, just for a second. "Aye? So?" he said.

"I think you killed Gemma Dean. Did you?"

Frankie burst into laughter. "No, I fucking well didn't! And even if I
had done, do you think I'd tell you? I didn't get the death sentence,
remember? I got life. I'd like to keep it that way."

Joe eyed him closely, then said, "Maybe the magistrate didn't give you a death sentence, but Wandsworth did."

Frankie didn't reply.

"It's consumption, isn't it?"

Frankie turned to the guard, who was standing by the wall, arms
crossed over his chest. "I want to go back to me cell now," he said.

"Sit down, Betts," the guard said.

"I want to go back. I ain't staying here. You can't make me."

"Warden says you're to answer the MP's questions. Sit down."

Frankie sat. He glared at Joe.

"Help me, Frankie. I'm asking you. You owe me."

Frankie shot forward in his chair. "I'm paying what I owe, mate.
Every miserable minute of every miserable day for the rest of my
miserable life."

"If you won't help me, help Malone. Help clear his name."

Frankie banged his manacled hands down on the table. "Fuck Sid Malone!" he shouted.

The guard pulled his truncheon from his belt. Joe held a hand up, staying him.

"None of this would have happened if it weren't for Malone," Frankie
said angrily. "I wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be in that bleedin'
chair. I ain't helpin' him. He's dead. He can go straight to hell for
all I care. And that bloody doctor with him."

"Wait a minute. Slow down, mate. What doctor?" Joe asked, confused.

"The doctor! The one with the clinic..." He stopped talking. When he
spoke again, his voice cracked with grief. "We was the kings, y'see. We
had everything, owned the whole of East London. It would have gone on
forever, too. Nothing could have stopped us. Nothing but that bloody
doctor. Ruined him. Ruined everything." He shook his head, still
talking, but not to Joe. "He told me, didn't he? He told me that scars
on the outside are nothing compared to the ones they'll put on the
inside. He was right. Why didn't I listen?"

Frankie put his head in his hands. Joe waited a bit, giving him time
to collect himself, then he pressed him again. "What clinic, Frankie?
What doctor?"

Frankie looked at him as if he'd only just walked in off the street.
"No one. Nobody. Never mind. I'm finished here." He stood up quickly,
knocking his chair over.

Joe swore under his breath. For a moment, he'd nearly had him, he'd
been softening, but then he'd pushed too hard and the moment was gone.

"You done with him, sir?" the guard asked.

Joe nodded. "Write to me if you change your mind, Frankie," he said.

"Oh, aye. With love and kisses. On me best scented paper."

"It's a chance," Joe called out, as the guard led him away. "A chance to do some good for once. You won't get many more."

He waited for a reply, but there was none, just the sound of an iron
door clanging shut. He knows who killed Gemma Dean, Joe thought. I saw
it in his eyes. He knows, but he won't say. It's not fear that's keeping
him quiet, either. It's anger. He's furious. At Sid. And at someone
else--a doctor. But why? And who is he?