"You know who did this?" India asked.
"Aye, Dr. Jones, we do. Bristow's secretary--Miss Mellors--told us. She was there. She saw him. She was hysterical, as you know, but we managed to get some sense out of her. We got his name. You know him, I believe. You tended to him."
India's blood ran cold. No, she silently prayed. Please God, no.
"He was your patient a few months back. His name is Sid Malone."
Chapter 62
Sid Malone stood at the open window of his bedroom in the Barkentine gazing out at the Thames. It was low tide. A fog lay heavily on the water.
Only a few bargemen dared move about in it. Their disembodied voices carried up to him as they called out to one another. For a second he imagined long, twining tendrils of fog wrapping around him, pulling him under, holding him there. He turned away, remembering how India had begged him to stay away from this place.
"Don't go, Sid. Please. I don't want you to," she'd said.
"I'll be fine, luv," he said, shushing her. "I've a bit of business to finish up, that's all. I'll be there and back before you know it."
"Promise?" she asked, her gray eyes huge with worry.
"Promise."
"You won't go back to it, will you? To the life?"
"Not a chance," he said, smiling. "You're stuck with me now, missus. You wanted me, you've got me."
He resumed his packing. A battered leather satchel lay open on his bed. He'd put very little into it. A few pieces of clothing. Some masculine odds and ends. He wanted nothing else, no mementos. He'd come back only to give Desi and the rest of his men their due. The day after he'd beaten Frankie silly for burning down the Morocco and killing Alf Stevens, he'd gone to see a lawyer to put the deeds to the Taj Mahal, the Bark, the Alhambra, and the rest of his properties in Desi's name. Des was a fair man and Sid knew he could trust him to do right by the others. The properties themselves weren't worth so much, but the businesses run from them were. The Firm would make out all right.
Sid folded an old tweed jacket now and placed it in his satchel. He put his pea coat on top of it, then closed it. He took a last look around his room. Once, he could not have imagined a life lived anywhere but in here, on the banks of the stinking gray Thames. He could not have imagined leaving London. And Whitechapel. And his past. But now he could imagine these things. Because of India.
The last night they'd spent together at Arden Street--the night he'd told her about his past--he'd felt something kindle deep within himself. Something bright and warm and perilously fragile. It was a feeling. One he'd lived without for years. One he'd forgotten. But one he still recognized. It was hope.
India had made him believe again. In new beginnings. In forgiveness and redemption. In the possibility of love. She'd healed his heart that night as surely as she'd healed his body months ago. And all he wanted now was to be with her. He didn't know what he'd do once they got to California and he didn't care. He was strong, capable. He'd find honest work. He was done with villainy. He was on the straight and narrow now.
He picked up his bag and headed for the stairs. He would give the deeds to Desi and then there would be only one thing left to do. Just one more thing and he'd be done with Whitechapel, and with his old life, forever.
He had to get his dosh.
It was no secret that he kept money at the Albion Bank. He had legitimate accounts there in which he regularly deposited earnings from his businesses--lending credence to his claim to be a legitimate businessman. What was not known, however, was that he also kept a large safe deposit box there. It was full of cash. He was going to take five hundred pounds for himself--he figured he'd earned that much legitimately over the past few years--to pay for his and India's way to California. The rest--every penny of it--was going to India's clinic. She was giving up her dream for him. The least he could do was make certain the dream survived. He would give the money to Ella. She would know what to do with it.
Sid was glad that he and India were leaving London soon. Word would be spreading that he was off the game. People--people who weren't terribly fond of him--would soon know that he was alone, without his men to protect him. He trotted downstairs now, his satchel clasped tightly. He didn't look forward to this next bit. Desi was angry. They all were. They wanted him to stay. They wanted everything to go on as it always had. Sid understood. It was easier to leave than it was to be left. He was grateful that he could do his leave-taking in private. It was half four and the Bark was closed. Desi stood behind the bar drying glasses.
"That all you're taking?" he asked, eyeing Sid's bag.
"Aye. What's left is yours. These, too," he said, placing a bundle of deeds on the bar.
"Ta, guv. It's decent of you. More than most would have done."
An awkward silence descended. Sid finally broke it.
"Frankie about?"
"No, he isn't. Don't know where he got to. Haven't seen him for days."
Sid nodded. "Well, I'm off, then," he said. "Take care, Des. Keep your eye on Madden and Ko, keep Frankie reined in, and you'll be all right."
Desi nodded. He was about to say something when his words were cut off by a thunderous bashing on the door. "Oi! Go easy!" he shouted, throwing his bar rag down.
"It's me, Ozzie! Open up, Des!"
Des hurried to unlock the door.
"Where's the guv? Is he here?" Ozzie asked, stumbling into the pub. He was carrying a newspaper. Ronnie was right behind him.
"You lost your sight as well as your wits? He's right there! What the hell are you playing at?" Desi said.
Ozzie slammed the door and threw the lock. He tossed the newspaper to Desi. "We haven't much time. Rozzers are only two minutes behind me." He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "Got to hand it to you, guv, you know how to go out with a bang."
"Oz, for fuck's sake, talk sense, will you?" Desi barked. "What's happened?"
"Ask him," Ozzie wheezed, nodding at Sid.
Desi looked at Sid.
"I don't know what he's talking about," Sid said.
"Read the bloody paper, then!" Ozzie yelled. "It's everywhere! You can't go two yards without hearing some poxy newsboy yellin' his head off about it. The cops are coming down on us like a ton of bricks."
"They've already nicked Pete and Tom," Ronnie said.
Desi unfolded the paper. Sid read over his shoulder. What he saw made his heart stop.
"M.P. Shot," the headline screamed. "Malone on Murder Spree."
He quickly read the lead:
Joseph Bristow, newly elected to Parliament on the Labour ticket, is clinging to life this afternoon after being shot twice in the chest at approximately 10 a.m. in his Commercial Street offices. Several eyewitnesses, including Miss Gertrude Mellors, Mr. Bristow's secretary, have put East London businessman Sid Malone in Bristow's office at the time of the shooting. Gladys Howe of Smithy Street, Hoxton, told the Clarion that she saw Malone push Henry Wilkins, a glazier, to his death as he was leaving the scene of the crime. Police have detained several of Mr. Malone's associates and are now hunting for Malone himself. D.I. Alvin Donaldson earnestly entreats anyone having information on Mr. Malone's whereabouts to contact him...
No, he said silently, not thinking of himself and the trouble he was in, but of his sister. Not them. Please. Not Fee. Not Joe.
"We're done for," Desi said. "Why'd you do it, Sid? The bloody MP of all people! Did you think no one would notice?"
"I didn't do it!" Sid said.
"Oh, aye? Who did, then?"
"Desmond Shaw! This is Detective Inspector Alvin Donaldson. I have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door."
"Bloody hell!" Desi swore. "On what charges?" he yelled back.
"Harboring a fugitive. Open the door!"
"Keep your knickers on!" Desi yelled. He turned to Sid. "The tunnels," he said. "Go. All of you. I'll hold them off long as I can."
"No. Oz and Ron should stay."
"And get nicked into the ba
rgain? No thanks," Ozzie said.
"They'll keep you overnight, then let you go. They'll have to," Sid argued.
"Keep talking, ladies, and we're all nicked," Desi said tightly.
"We're going with you. There's strength in numbers," Ronnie said, pulling Sid toward the basement stairs. Sid knew that, as much as they hated him right now, they hated the law even more and they'd do everything they could to keep him out of Donaldson's hands.
The three men were down the steps and at the trapdoor in seconds. Sid hoisted it up. Ronnie jumped down and scrabbled for the lantern they kept at the ready. Oz followed. Sid was just pulling the door closed when they heard Donaldson's voice overhead.
"The basement. Quickly," he barked. "There's a bolthole down there."
Feet pounded down the stairs. Sid slammed the door down. He grabbed the large metal ring attached to its underside and hung from it. Ozzie leaped up, caught the ring, and did the same. Together they made more than 350 pounds of dead weight.
"We can't open it, sir," said a voice from above them.
"Get a shovel, wedge it under the edge," Donaldson ordered.
"There isn't one."
"Then smash a bloody keg! We'll use a stave."
"Guv, I can't find the lantern!" Ronnie whispered, panic in his voice.
"Never mind the lantern, find the hook!" Sid hissed.
A thick metal chain hung down from the ring in the door. At its end was an iron grappling hook. There was another ring in the floor. All Ronnie had to do was find it and hook the chain to it. Sid heard him fumbling in the dark, felt his hands against his legs. Finally, he found the chain. There was the sound of metal scraping against metal and then, "She's in. Let's go!"
Sid and Ozzie released the ring and fell to the ground. There was a square of light above their heads as the door came up an inch or so, then slammed back down.
"They've hooked it shut!" one of the officers yelled.
"Find an axe," Donaldson yelled. "We'll chop it open."
Sid found the lantern, pulled a pack of matches from his pocket, and lit it. The light was weak, but it was enough to illuminate a yard or so in front of them, and that was all they needed.
"The Blind Beggar?" Ronnie asked, leading the way.
"No. They'll have men there. I'm sure of it. Head to Sally's. She'll take care of us."
They'd walked fifty or so yards into the tunnel when Ozzie suddenly said, "Guv?"
"What?"
"Why'd you do it?"
"I didn't do it."
"Come on, guv."
"You've been with me for five years now, Oz. Is shooting a man in broad daylight with a room full of witnesses my style?"
"No. But if you didn't, who did? And why did he give your name?"
"I don't know."
"It don't look good."
"No, it doesn't."
"Whoever did it knows Bristow had a beef with you. Maybe it was someone in the Bark. Someone who was there the other day. When he came looking for you and had ructions with Frankie instead. Remember? And when he left, you had a row with Frankie and told him you was out, and then Frankie..."
Sid stopped dead. He turned around. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Frankie."
Chapter 63
India stopped dead in the middle of Dean Street. She turned around in a circle, panting with exhaustion, hoping to spot a familiar building or sign.
Some kind of landmark. They'd come this way when they were running from Devlin, she and Sid. She was sure of it. They'd made a right, hadn't they? Or was it a left?
She started walking again, certain the house she wanted was just up ahead, then stopped again, disoriented. In the time that had elapsed since she'd left the clinic she'd raced to the Bark and the Taj Mahal, desperately trying to find him, but she hadn't.
She closed her eyes, trying to fight down the panic rising in her, trying to clear her head so that she could remember the way. But her mind was jammed with voices. Donaldson's--telling her that Sid had shot Joseph Bristow. Harriet's--pleading with her to hide from him. Ella's--urging her to find him.
"Let me understand this," Harriet had said, following her into her office after Donaldson had left. "You're leaving the clinic to run off with a murderer."
"Don't say that!" India cried, grabbing her jacket and bag. "He didn't do it. I know he didn't."
"When did you last see him, India?" Ella asked.
"This morning, Ella. At your house. He said he was going to Whitechapel. I didn't want him to go. But he said he had to. That he had one last thing to do."
"Good God, India! What more proof do you need?" Harriet shouted.
"None. I don't need any bloody proof. Because I know he didn't do it!" India shouted back.
"Be quiet! Both of you," Ella said. She bit her lip, thinking, then said, "There's one man who can tell us everything we need to know--Joe Bristow."
"If only he would regain consciousness," India said.
"Yes, well, we know what the likelihood of that is, don't we?" Harriet snapped.
"He'll pull through. He will. He's made it this far. And when he does he can tell the police that it wasn't Sid."
"Could be days before that happens. Could be never. Go, India. Find Sid. Before the police do," Ella said.
"Do that, India, and you'll become part of it," Harriet warned. "Help him in any way at all and you're an accessory to a crime."
India had looked at them both, her face a picture of anguish. She told them to take good care of Joe Bristow, that she'd be back in an hour or two, and then she'd run out of the building into Gunthorpe Street, where she'd nearly thrown herself in front of a cab to get it to stop.
"Can I help you, miss?" a friendly voice said now.
India opened her eyes. An elderly man, gray-haired with a black mustache, was leaning on a broom by the curb in front of her.
"I'm looking for someone," she said. "Sally is her name. She's an older woman. She's small, with gray hair."
"That sounds like Raysie's missus. Sally Garrett. She's number four. See it? It's just up there. On your right."
India thanked the man and hurried off. She knocked on the front door of number 4. When no one came, she pushed it open and walked inside. She remembered which was Sally's door; it was all the way at the back of the hall. She knocked but got no answer. She tried again.
"What the hell do you want?" a voice called.
"I want to talk to you," India called back. "I'm a friend of Sid Malone's."
The door was wrenched open. "Keep your bloody voice down!" Sally hissed. She grabbed India's arm and pulled her inside.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean--" India began.
"Did anyone see you?"
"See me?" India echoed, confused.
"Coming in. Whole of Whitechapel is crawling with rozzers. Were you followed?"
"I ...I don't think so."
"Did anyone talk to you? Stop you?"
"No ait, yes. A street sweeper. I was lost. He helped me find my way."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know. Average height. Gray hair..."
"Did he have a mustache?"
"Yes."
Sally spat into her fireplace. "Bleedin' Willie Dobbs," she growled. "They'll be here in a few minutes. Bound to be."
"Who will be here?"
"The rozzers. Willie's from the local constabulary. Well, he was. He's retired now. Can't believe he's still using that same mustache. Looks like he tore it off a cat."
"But I don't understand."
Sally frowned. "Not Sid's usual type, you. Not too quick on the uptake. His last one, Gemma Dean, now she was a sharp lass."
She cackled at India's puzzled expression, then rubbed her thumb and fingers together. "Willie's after the reward money, luv. Him and half of Whitechapel. He thinks he's going to get it by watching me. He's seen Sid come and go from here before and he must think he's going to pay me another call. He don't know about the tunnels, though."
"Mrs. Garrett, please... w
hat are you talking about? What reward money?"
"A thousand quid. For information leading to Sid Malone's arrest. Bloody MP put it up, didn't he? Pillock's gone and got the whole of East London fired up. Promising rewards. Calling for Sid's head. Spouting off in all the newspapers."
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