The Winter Rose (98 page)

It had all been too easy, he thought now. The Chagga had agreed to
guide them, brought them here, and left them. It must have been their
plan all along to go back to their village, assemble more of their
tribesmen, and then attack. First the Masai porters. And then himself
and Willa, too. He remembered that the guides had asked when they were
coming back and he had told them. His blood froze at the thought.

He had to get out of here. Now. Whoever had done this might still be
close by. Christ, why had he yelled for Tepili? Why had he made so much
bloody noise? He had to get off the hills and back up the mountain and
he had to do it before daybreak.

Exhausted, hungry, afraid for his life, Seamie wanted nothing more
than to sit down and rest, if only for a few minutes, but he couldn't.
It was too dangerous. For him and for Willa. If the Chagga found him
here and killed him they would kill her, too. She couldn't hope to
survive on Kilimanjaro alone.

He started back the way he'd come, walking as quietly--and as
quickly--as he could. And then something occurred to him--something that
scared him more than what he'd just seen, more than the Chagga--he
would have to get Willa off the mountain by himself. There were no more
porters. No more Tepili. There was no one to help him now. He was all
alone.

Joe rapped on a frosted glass door on the ground floor of the Whitechapel Free Clinic for Women and Children.

"Come in, already!" a woman's voice called.

Joe poked his head around the door. "Sister Moskowitz?" he said.

A heavily pregnant woman was sitting at a desk. She raised her head
and smiled at him. "Wrong on both counts. It's Rosen, not Moskowitz. I'm
a married woman now. And it's Doctor, not Sister. I finished my degree
last spring. And you're to call me Ella. Always. Anyone who gets the
government to give my clinic ten thousand quid is on a first-name basis
with me for life."

"Married? And a doctor?! Congratulations on both counts!" Joe said, smiling. "Who's the lucky bloke?"

"His name is David Rosen. He's a doctor, too. Works at the Royal Free Hospital. I met him there during my clinical training."

"Am I right in thinking that there might be an addition to the Rosen household soon? Perhaps I'm being too forward."

Ella laughed. "You're on the maternity wing, Joe, and I'm the head
obstetrician. We talk about these things here. Come in, come in! Does
your chair fit through the door? Good! Will you have some rugelach?"

Ella fed him pastries and had a nurse bring him a cup of tea. He knew
better than to refuse either. This is how it worked with Ella and her
family. Whether he was sitting with her and discussing infant mortality
in the East End, visiting her mother and father at their caf�o talk
about economic opportunities for immigrants, or meeting her brother
Yanki, a rabbi now and head of East London's largest synagogue, to talk
funding for the Jewish Orphans' Home, it was always the same--first you
ate, then you talked.

"So," Ella said, after she and Joe had polished off a dozen rugelach
between them. "What can I do for you? Another bill to go before the
Commons? You need statistics? Case histories?"

"No statistics today, Ella. But history of a sort. I'm trying to get the home secretary to reopen a murder case."

"Whose?"

"Gemma Dean's. An actress. She was killed a few days after I was shot."

"I remember the name, but I didn't know Miss Dean personally. How can I help you?"

"You're going to think this is a barmy question, but here goes. Do you remember Sid Malone? Big-time East London wide boy?"

"Of course I do. Him and his lads ate at the caff all the time. Oz,
Ronnie, Des--the lot. He was a good bloke, was Sid. Not everyone would
say so, but I do."

"Malone was accused of shooting me. He didn't do it, of course.
Frankie Betts did. Sid was also accused of murdering Gemma Dean. I don't
believe he did that, either. I thought Frankie might have done it, so I
went to see him. Asked him point-blank if he did and he said no. I
believe him. Then I asked him if he knew who did do it. He said no to
that, too, but I don't believe him. He knows, but he's not saying. I'm
not sure why."

"What does all of this have to do with me?" Ella asked.

"Frankie got very shirty with me while I was asking him about Sid.
Furious, in fact. Started raving about a doctor. And how he'd ruined
everything, this doctor. Said he worked in Whitechapel. At a clinic.
Well, there's only one clinic in Whitechapel--this one. You were
involved in it from the start, so I thought you might know if Sid was
ever connected to it, and if so, who this mystery doctor is."

Ella looked away. His questions had clearly made her uncomfortable.

"I promise you, Ella, I'm not looking to land anybody in the shit. Was Sid involved?"

"Very much so," Ella finally said. "The reason we're still here and
have been able to take over the buildings on either side of us is due to
him. He gave us half a million quid. Right before he died."

Joe whistled at the amount. "What about the doctor?" he said. "Can you tell me his name?"

"Her name."

"How's that?"

"The doctor was a she not a he. Dr. Jones. India Selwyn Jones."

Joe thought he recalled the name. "Jones? Not the one who saved Fiona at the Labour rally? The one who married Freddie Lytton?"

"The very same."

"How are she and Sid connected?"

Ella looked at him, saying nothing, taking his measure. "This goes nowhere, right?" she finally said.

"Right."

"Sid and India were lovers. She was going to give up everything to be
with him. They were going to leave the country together. They almost
did, but all hell broke loose. Sid was accused of shooting you. And of
killing Gemma Dean. He had to hide. India was terrifled for him. Scared
that he'd be caught and hanged."

"But she didn't leave with him..." Joe said.

"No, she didn't. Sid died and she married Freddie Lytton."

"Why?"

Ella shook her head. "That's something I can't tell you."

"Ella, I have to know. I want to clear Sid's name. It's not right that he was blamed for a murder he didn't commit."

"It doesn't matter what he's blamed for anymore, does it? Sid's dead.
But other people are still alive. And they could be hurt if certain
things were revealed. Badly hurt."

Joe decided that if he wanted more information he would have to volunteer some of his own.

"Ella, Sid's not dead."

"What?"

"He faked his death so he could get out of London. Start again somewhere else."

Ella sat back in her chair, blinking at him. "Gott in Himmel," she whispered. "How do you know this?"

"Because I know Sid. He's my wife's brother."

"You're joking!"

"No, I'm not."

"How could he have done that to India? How could he let her think he
was dead? She was devastated when she heard his body had been found in
the Thames."

"Maybe he thought she'd be better off without him."

"She wasn't. Isn't," Ella said. She shook her head, obviously
stunned. "Blimey, that's some bit of news, Joe. I really have to hand it
to you."

"Now you see why I want to clear Sid's name. As long as he's wanted
for the Dean killing, he can never see Fiona again. Or any of his
family. He can never come home."

"Good," Ella said quietly. "He shouldn't."

Joe gave her a puzzled look. "Why, Ella?"

Ella looked away from him. "It's complicated, Joe. Very bloody complicated."

"You have to tell me what you know. You have to trust me."

"If I do, you must swear to tell no one."

"But--"

"No one. Not even your wife. Especially your wife. Swear it, otherwise I won't tell you."

"All right, then," Joe said unwillingly. "I swear."

"India was pregnant. With Sid Malone's child. When she learned that
he was dead, she went to Freddie Lytton and asked him to marry her and
to raise the child as his own. He agreed. For a price." Ella explained
India's and Freddie's history to Joe, then said, "She would never have
married Lytton if she thought Malone was alive. Never. She loved Sid
deeply and she despised Freddie. But she felt she had no choice. She did
not want her child to be illegitimate."

"Sid never knew?"

"India never had the chance to tell him."

It was Joe's turn to feel stunned. His mind was swirling with all that Ella had told him. "That means..." he started to say.

"That means Freddie Lytton's daughter is really Sid Malone's," Ella said bluntly. "And that you and your wife have a niece."

"My God, Ella. I have to tell Fiona. I have to. She's my wife. I
can't keep this from her. And Sid...if he ever does come home, he has a
right to know, too. He's the child's real father."

"You can't, Joe. Think, for God's sake! What if Sid does come back?
And what if you and Fiona tell him? What if he goes to see India?
Demands to see the child? It could destroy the girl's life. And India's,
too. Freddie Lytton, as we all know, is not a very nice bloke."

Joe knew Fiona would want to know about this. To withhold information
like this from her felt like a betrayal, but he'd sworn to Ella that he
wouldn't tell her. He didn't know what to do.

"Maybe Freddie would be reasonable, Ella. Maybe he would--"

"What? Invite Sid in for tea and scones? Let him visit the girl on
weekends? Make sure everyone lives happily ever after? Keep dreaming,
lad. The only way that I can see Fiona finding out, or anyone finding
out, is if India chooses to tell her. And that's just not going to
happen, is it?"

Joe took a deep breath and blew it out again. "You've put me in an awful position, Ella," he said.

"You put yourself there. I didn't want to tell you, remember? I did
only because I know you're an honorable man. A man who'll keep his word
to me. Was it worth it? Do you have your answers now?"

"Far from it," Joe said. "Only more questions. Mainly, how does Frankie Betts fit into all of this?"

"I have no idea," Ella said. "But I'll tell you one thing. I never
believed one word of his bollocks about not meaning to shoot you and the
gun going off by accident. I saw those bullet wounds. He meant it."

"I think he meant it, too. I could see him having it in for me after I
fought with him in the Bark. But one thing I've never understood is why
he would dress up as Sid to come after me and tell my secretary that he
was Sid?"

They both sat in silence for a bit, mulling this over, then Ella
said, "You know, in a strange way, I think that might also have had
something to do with love."

"Don't tell me Frankie was in love with Dr. Jones, too?"

"No, not Dr. Jones, Sid. He loved him as a friend, as a brother, and
then Sid betrayed him by walking away. By leaving to be with India. By
going straight."

"But if Frankie loved Sid, wouldn't he want to help me clear his name?"

"You're thinking like the good man you are, not the vindictive little
shit Frankie Betts is. Try to see it like he did. He's angry at Sid, he
wants to hurt him. How do you hurt a man who wants to go straight? You
vilify him.

Make him out to be a murderer. Shoot one person, murder another, see
that he gets the blame for both. Force him back into the fold. It didn't
work, though. Sid died. Or so we thought. But Frankie still found a way
to make the best of it. He couldn't have Sid alive and a villain, so
he'll have him dead and a villain. It's not much, but it's all he's
got."

Joe shook his head. "Dr. Rosen, you're a wonder. Where'd you learn to think like a villain?"

Ella grinned. "Same place you did... Whitechapel."

Joe affected an insulted expression. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've been reading those articles by Jacob Riis. Scorchers, every one."

"It's responsible photojournalism in the service of social reform."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I do."

"Some might call it blackmail."

"Might they?"

"What are you after?"

"One hundred thousand. For schools and clinics in Hackney."

"Good. Keep up the pressure."

Joe thanked Ella for her time and her information, then rolled his chair out of her office.

Ella walked with him.

"What's your next step, then?" she asked, as they reached the front door.

"I think it's back to Wandsworth. To go one more round with Frankie."

Ella's eyes searched his. "You still don't think he killed Gemma Dean, do you?"

"Everything you said makes sense, but I saw Frankie's eyes when I
asked him if he'd done it. Either he's a bloody good actor or I'm a very
poor judge of who's lying and who's not. So that begs the question: if
he didn't do it, then who did?"

Freddie shaded his eyes from the blazing sun and gazed out over the
African veldt. Joshua, Ash McGregor's roan stallion, tossed his head and

whinnied, eager to gallop.

"In a moment, old chap, in a moment," Freddie said.

The tall grass waved lazily in the breeze, a vast golden ocean, but
Freddie barely saw it. He was imagining the beautiful plains plowed
under, turned into farms for coffee and sisal, or pasture for cattle and
sheep.

The weeks he had spent in Africa, talking to everyone from government
officials to planters and ranchers, guides and missionaries, had
convinced him of one thing--with more settlers and a proper
infrastructure, British East Africa could become an engine of
unparalleled economic growth, growth that would benefit not only the
colony itself, but all of Britain. Crops and animals on the plains,
rubber and quinine plantations in the jungle, tourism everywhere--the
possibilities, and the tax revenue, were endless. And those same
settlers selling their goods back to mother England would be buying
goods from her as well--farm implements made from Sheffield steel, cloth
woven in Lancashire mills, china from the Staffordshire potteries.