And then the tunnel veered sharply left and she was past them. She stopped to catch her breath, to slow the mad banging of her heart. She closed her eyes, willing the sound and smell and sight of the rats away. When she opened them again, she felt calmer--until she glanced at her torch. Most of the fabric had burned away; the flame was dying.
"Bloody hell!" she swore, running again.
Two rights and a left. She'd made the two rights, was that last bend the left? It had to be. She remembered it from the time before, remembered the feeling of being safe in Sid's arms as he carried her past it. Two rights and a left and then the tunnel veers to the right and then you're there, Sally had said.
The tunnel had just started leading to the right when the torch began to gutter. India made another five yards before the flame died. There was no more chloral. No matches. She would have to make the rest of her way in the dark.
Fear started whispering in her ear again, but she refused to listen to it. She was almost there; she knew she was. The Beggar couldn't be far. Another twenty feet. Thirty at the most. She could feel her way. She put her forceps into her bag, placed her hand on the wall, and started to walk again.
It was then that she heard it. A noise up ahead of her. It sounded like a cough... like a cough cut short. She stopped dead to listen, but heard nothing. She stood perfectly still for a full minute, then two, but there was no more sound.
Had there ever been? Had she only imagined it? No one but herself would be unfortunate enough--or stupid enough--to be down here without any light.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" she called.
There was no reply. Maybe it's Sid! she thought. Maybe he's hiding out down here.
"Sid? Sid, is that you?"
Still no answer.
The darkness had blinded her eyes, but sharpened the rest of her senses. There was someone else down here with her. She could feel him. And it wasn't Sid.
Terror erupted inside of her. She bolted forward, her hand still on the wall, feeling for the door to the Beggar. She had to get to it before whoever was down here got to her. Another yard, two more, then three, and then suddenly there was no wall under her hand, only air and India knew she'd found it--the doorway to the Beggar. She lunged through it, knocking full force into something hard and immobile. The barrel, she thought frantically. She pushed against it, but it didn't budge. She dug her heels into the dirt floor and put her shoulder against it. It moved, ever so slightly, allowing a crack of light through. A terrifled cry escaped her. Whoever was down here would see the light. And her in it. She threw her weight against the barrel, sending a bolt of pain through her body. It moved again, and then a bit more. And then she was squeezing past it, pulling her bag behind her. She didn't stop to move the barrel back, but bolted up the cellar stairs.
She did not see a match flare inside the tunnel, only a few feet from the doorway. She did not see its glow illuminate the face of the police constable who used it to light his bull's-eye lantern. She did not see Alvin Donaldson turn to a stunned Freddie Lytton and say, "Looks like Miss Dean was right. Looks like the good doctor has taken up with Sid Malone. You heard her call his name, didn't you?"
"Stop her. Why don't you go after her? Arrest her, damn it!" Freddie hissed.
Donaldson shook his head. "No, we'll let her go. She's trying to find Malone. I'd wager they're going to meet somewhere. If we let her go free, she'll draw him to her, draw him out."
"But where? They could be meeting in a thousand different places. Nobody knows where their flat is."
Donaldson smiled. "Gemma Dean knows. Isn't that what you said?"
"Yes, and she wants four hundred pounds before she'll tell me."
"If you want Malone, you'll give it to her."
Chapter 64
Fiona stood in front of her armoire, frowning. She was supposed to have afternoon tea with the owner of a building in Edinburgh that she wanted to buy, and she needed to look polished and professional.
"And instead I look like a circus tent," she muttered, looking herself up and down. The navy-and-cream-striped suit did not flatter her. She reached for another suit, one made of red silk faille, and held it up in front of her. It was no better. "Now I look like a tomato," she sighed, putting it back.
It didn't matter what she wore. There was simply no hiding the bump; her swelling belly had ceased to be sweet and cute. It was enormous and heavy, and she felt more like a whale than a woman.
Her hands went to her belly now. The baby would come soon. She wondered if his father would be here to welcome him when he arrived.
Joe's armoire was next to hers. She opened it impulsively, took out one of his suits, and pressed it to her face. It smelled of him--clean and masculine. God, how she missed him. She wanted him to come home. She wanted to be a family again.
"Go and make it up with him," her uncle Roddy had told her. Only this morning. "He loves you."
She almost had. She'd tried. She'd rung Joe's office, his MP's office on Commercial Street, but there was no answer. Then she'd rung Covent Garden, but again there was no answer there either. She'd found it strange-- Trudy never let the phone go unanswered--then thought perhaps he'd gone to Westminster and Trudy had accompanied him.
She wanted to make up with him. Desperately. But she knew that for that to happen she would have to let go of Charlie once and for all. Forever. Roddy told her she had lost her brother, and if she didn't accept that she would lose her husband, too. He'd come to visit her earlier in the day, dropping by her Mincing Lane offices unexpectedly.
"Mrs. Bristow? I've a Rodney O'Meara here to see you. No appointment," Minna Calvert, her secretary, had said.
Fiona had immediately brightened. "Send him in!" she said, rushing to the door to greet him.
Roddy was not a blood relation, but he had been her father's closest friend. He had lived with the family and the children had all considered him their uncle. When Fiona's parents had died, Roddy had been both mother and father to herself and Seamie. Later, as a police sergeant, he'd helped her ruin her father's murderer, William Burton. Roddy had left London shortly after learning that Charlie Finnegan had become a criminal because he was devastated by the news and because he never wanted to find himself arresting his old friend's son. Besides Fiona and Joe, only Roddy knew who Sid Malone really was, and he'd agreed with their decision to keep this knowledge from Seamie.
"Hello, Fiona lass!" he'd said, embracing her warmly.
Fiona hugged him back, exclaiming over him. She smiled at his voice, so Irish, so like her father's. It had been months since she'd seen him. He'd grown a little stouter, a little grayer, but he was still her beloved Uncle Roddy.
"What a surprise! Sit down, won't you?" she said, as Minna brought a tea tray. "I didn't know you were coming into London. Why didn't you write to let me know?"
"Didn't know meself till today, lass," Roddy said, settling himself in a chair by Fiona's desk. "A sergeant at the Covent Garden station sent me a telegram this morning. A man named Tom Cunningham killed a woman there two days ago. I've a Tom Cunningham wanted for murder up in me own neck of the woods, so I went to see if he's the same man, and he is. We've got a good case against him. Witnesses in both places. He'll swing for certain and that will be one less villain in the world."
Fiona flinched slightly at that and Roddy's sharp policeman's eyes had caught her discomfort. He was silent for a few seconds, sipping his tea, then he'd put his cup down and said, "Speaking of villains, I paid a quick visit to Montague's while I was in Covent Garden. I saw Joe."
Fiona looked down at her own teacup. "Yes, speaking of villains," she said softly.
"I didn't mean him," Roddy said.
Fiona sighed. "No, I didn't think you did. I guess he told you about Charlie."
"He did."
"And about us."
"Aye."
"Well, I hope you told him off," she said.
Roddy held her gaze. "No, lass, I didn't. In fact, I came here to tell you off."
"I am."
"But why, Uncle Roddy?"
"Because he's right. It hurts me as much as it does you to know what Charlie's done. What he's become. But there's one thing I know about villains that you don't--once someone goes over to the other side, he doesn't come back."
"But Charlie could. I know he could."
"Fiona, lass, you're stubborn as hell and we both know it. I personally t'ink stubbornness is a virtue, but I also t'ink that this time you're taking it too far."
"But I only want to talk to him. To help him."
"I know, lass, but you can't. He doesn't want your help. He's made that plain, hasn't he? So let go. Let go of him."
"I can't, Uncle Roddy. He's my brother. It's hard."
"You've done harder t'ings. Much harder. Charlie's made his choice. He's destroyed his own life and now he's destroying yours."
"He isn't!"
"He is. Look at yourself. You look terrible. Miserable. And no wonder. You need your husband. Especially now with a new baby coming. Katie needs her father."
Fiona nodded. Roddy was the only one who understood her feelings for both her brother and her husband.
"I am miserable, Uncle Roddy. I miss Joe so much. I want him to come home."
"Then go and make it up with him. He's hurting, too. He loves you, Fee."
"I don't know how," she said helplessly. "I know how to win fights. I don't know how to lose them."
"You're not losing, you damned bullheaded woman. Can't you see that? The only way you lose is if you let the darkness that ruined Charlie ruin you, too."
Roddy's right, Fiona thought now. She hung Joe's suit back in his armoire and closed the door. She would ring him again. Right after her meeting. She would see if they could have supper together tonight. Just the two of them.
There was a knock at her door.
"Yes?" she called.
Sarah, the maid, poked her head in. "Beg your pardon, ma'am, but Mr. Foster said to tell you there's a police officer in the foyer who wishes to speak with you."
"My goodness. About what?"
"He wouldn't say, ma'am, but he did tell Mr. Foster that his business is urgent."
Fiona nodded. "Please tell Mr. Foster I'll be down in a few minutes," she said. It's probably about a shop theft or a damaged delivery wagon or some such thing, she thought. Those sorts of unfortunate occurrences were not uncommon in her business or Joe's.
She looked at herself in the mirror one last time. "Circus tent it is," she sighed. She added a string of pearls Joe had given her to the ensemble, then went downstairs to receive her visitor.
She wanted to get the bad news over with quickly. Robbery, accident-- whatever it was, she hoped it was not too terribly time-consuming. Her mind was on Joe. She wanted to put their disagreement behind them. She wanted him to know that she cared for him and their family above everything else.
The house was so empty without him. She longed to hear him whistling in his bath, chasing Katie around the dining-room table, or even bellowing at the dogs. She longed to reach for him in the night and feel his strong arms around her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bristow, I'm Detective Inspector Alvin Donaldson," the visitor said, as Fiona entered the drawing room. She realized that she vaguely remembered him. He had been involved in the hunt for William Burton.
"Would you like a cup of tea, Detective Inspector?" Fiona said, ready to ring for Sarah.
"No, thank you," Donaldson replied. He was standing, hat in hand. His eyes flicked nervously to her belly. "Will you sit, ma'am?" he asked, gesturing to her own settee.
"I survived William Burton, as I'm certain you remember. Surely I can withstand the shock of a broken wagon axle or the theft of a few crates of tea. Even in my current condition."
"Please, ma'am," Donaldson said gently.
Fiona sighed. "All right, then. If it will make you happy." She sat down and fixed him with a look of strained patience. "Now then, what's happened?"
Donaldson sat down next to her, cleared his throat, and said, "Mrs. Bristow, have you ever heard the name Sid Malone?"
Fiona felt everything warm and vital inside her turn to stone. Had Donaldson somehow worked out the connection between them? How? And then a darker, far more terrifying thought entered her mind.
"Is he... is he all right?" she asked, ashen.
"What?"
"Is he all right?" she repeated, more urgently.
"Malone?" Donaldson asked, not seeming to understand her question.
"Yes."
"For the moment he is, as far as I know. But he won't be once we bring him in."
"Bring him in? Why? What's he done?"
Donaldson shook his head. "Mrs. Bristow, you misunderstand me. I am not here to trouble you over the welfare of Sid Malone."
"But he's done something. What is it? Has he burned one of my warehouses? Broken into a wharf?"
"Sid Malone's done something, Mrs. Bristow, but not to your property." He paused, then said, "Mrs. Bristow ...a few hours ago Sid Malone tried to murder your husband."
Fiona tilted her head as if she hadn't heard him properly. She gave a small laugh. "That's not possible," she said.
"I'm afraid it is. Malone walked into Mr. Bristow's office on Commercial Street and shot him in the chest. Twice. His condition is very poor, ma'am. The doctor who operated got one bullet out, but another's lodged near his spine and can't be removed. He was at a clinic near his office, but he's been moved to the London Hospital and he ...he's not expected to live. I'm so sorry."
"No. That's not true!" she cried. "It can't be!"
The door to the drawing room opened. Foster entered, looking concerned. "Pardon me, madam, but I heard shouting," he said.
"Mr. Foster!" Fiona cried. She tried to stand, but her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.
"Good God, madam! What is it?" Foster said, rushing to her. Donaldson helped him get her back on the settee, explaining what had happened as he did.
"It's not true," Fiona said again. She shook her head furiously. "It's not true, Mr. Foster. Tell him. Please."
Sarah ran into the room, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Mr. Foster, what's happened?"
Foster couldn't answer her, for Fiona was trying to stand again. "Please, madam, please sit down," he said.
"I have to see Joe," she said wildly, trying to shake him off. "I have to go now. Let go of me!"
"Sarah, have the carriage brought," Foster barked. "Then ring the Alden household. Twelve Wilmington Crescent. Inform Master Seamus that Mr. Bristow has been injured and is in the London Hospital. Hurry."
Sarah didn't move. She stood quaking like a terrifled rabbit.
"I said bring the carriage! Now, girl!" Foster shouted. Sarah shot off and he turned back to Fiona. "It's all right, madam," he said. "The carriage is coming. Please, madam, please sit quietly until it arrives. You must remember the baby."
Fiona began to cry. "Why, Mr. Foster? Why did he shoot him?" she moaned.
"Please try to remain calm," Foster pleaded.
But Fiona wouldn't. If Foster couldn't answer her, someone must. "Why, Mr. Donaldson, why?" she persisted, turning to the officer and clutching at his arm.
Foster stole a quick, anxious glance at the door. There was no sign of Sarah. "Best to answer, sir," he said quietly.
"We're not sure, Mrs. Bristow, but from what we can piece together it appears that Mr. Bristow went to the Barkentine, a pub in Limehouse, a few days ago to see Malone. He didn't succeed in finding him, but he did find a lad by the name of Frankie Betts. Mr. Bristow warned that there would be trouble between himself and Malone now that he was MP. He wanted Malone to leave before there was. Words were exchanged. A fight occurred..."
Fiona closed her eyes and began to sob.
"What is it, madam?" Foster asked.
"It's my fault, Mr. Foster. It's all my fault," she cried.
"Of
course it isn't."
She sank against him, keening. "It is. He did it for me. He tried to help him. To save him. Because of me. Oh God... oh, Joe... it's all my fault, Mr. Foster. Don't you see? I've killed him. I've killed my Joe."
Chapter 65
Freddie Lytton closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door to Gemma Dean's flat. She had the top floor of a two-story building in Stepney.
He hadn't seen her since the party, the one where she'd told him about Sid and India, then refused to give him their address. He'd been stunned by her news, and furious, too. Malone had taken Gemma from him, then the election, now he had India. Freddie had brooded over the news for days. He hadn't left his flat. He hadn't eaten. Barely slept. He just sat in a wing chair, impotent and defeated, hating Sid Malone with every fiber of his being.
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