The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  And then something had happened. A gift, the most most amazing, astonishing, wondrous gift had fallen right into his lap. Right out of the blue, Malone had walked into Joe Bristow's office and shot him at point-blank range. In a single stroke, both of his rivals had been vanquished. The police were mounting a manhunt for Malone--it was only a matter of time until they caught him--and Bristow, currently at the London Hospital, was not expected to live.

  The Liberals' Whip had rung him up to tell him the news. "There'll be a by-election within the month," he'd said.

  That was all Freddie needed to hear. His torpor vanished. He was out of his chair, bathed, and dressed in no time. He had not a second to waste. He'd hailed a cab and had gone directly to the hospital.

  He arrived there just as Fiona Bristow had. There were reporters everywhere. They mobbed her, pelting her with questions. Freddie ran to her side, put a protective arm around her, and said, "I promise you that the man who did this will be brought to justice. I won't rest until he is."

  Fiona had nodded at him, dazed and in shock, before the ward sister escorted her away. The reporters present had caught both the gesture and his every word--just as he'd planned. They all asked for interviews and he gave them--passionately extolling the virtues of his erstwhile opponent, expressing his deep concern for the Bristow family, and then decrying the lawlessness of the East End.

  "If one criminal may be so emboldened by the lack of proper law enforcement in East London, what may twenty do?" he asked them. "This heinous piece of villainy is an attack not only on an innocent and upstanding citizen, but on a Member of Parliament, and as such on government itself. Lawlessness of this magnitude can lead to only one thing--anarchy. Malone and his ilk must be stopped, and they must be stopped now!"

  He finished his interview by telling the assembled reporters that he was putting up a thousand pounds of his own money as a reward for information leading to the capture of Sid Malone. He didn't have the money, but he hadn't let that stop him.

  Before Dickie Lambert even knew that Joe Bristow had been shot, Freddie had commandeered the press and captured the public's interest. He'd gone to his club for supper later that night and read as many of the evening papers as he could get his hands on. Article after article about the Bristow shooting had run--and article after article about him, too. His earlier disgraces--the Stronghold robbery, the Home Rule flasco--had been forgotten. Most of the reporters, sensing a good story, had painted him as a selfless leader, a knight in shining armor to his fallen adversary's grief-stricken wife and, most important, a prescient politician who understood-- perhaps better than the man so recently elected--the threat posed to law and order by the criminal population of East London.

  When he'd finished at the hospital, he went to see Alvin Donaldson. He met him as he was coming out of the police station with some officers. Freddie said he needed to talk to him. Donaldson said he had no time to talk; he had to find Malone. Freddie ended up following him to the Blind Beggar and through a series of tunnels under East London. While they were down there, Donaldson confirmed that it was indeed Malone who'd done for Bristow. They had witnesses.

  "Then why isn't he in jail?" Freddie had fumed.

  "Because we have to catch him first," Donaldson replied. "We almost nabbed him a few hours ago at the Bark, but he got away. He's down here somewhere, I know he is."

  They hadn't found him; they'd found India instead. Freddie had told Donaldson about Gemma Dean and her visit to Sid's and India's flat, and Donaldson had told him to get that address. Sid would surface there. He was sure of it.

  Freddie pulled a slim buff envelope out of his breast pocket now and weighed it in his palm. It felt right to him; he hoped it would to Gemma. He'd stuffed it himself only an hour ago. He heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door and quickly slid the envelope back into his pocket. There was the sound of a lock turning and then Gemma was standing in the doorway in a satin dressing gown. She looked worn and unhappy. He smelled gin on her.

  "Hello, Gem," he said. "You look lovely. As always." He tried to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face away.

  "What do you want, Freddie?"

  "A bit of information."

  Her eyes sharpened. "Come in, then."

  He followed her down the long hallway into her sitting room. There were trunks and suitcases everywhere. Clothes were heaped over chairs. Shoes were in piles on the floor.

  "Going on holiday?" Freddie asked.

  "I'm off to Paris."

  "For how long?"

  "Forever. I'm giving up the London halls. Going to the Moulin Rouge. That's where the money is. And speaking of money, did you bring any? That address is going to cost you. The price is still four hundred quid."

  Freddie touched his jacket pocket. "It's right here."

  "Hand it over."

  Freddie shook his head. "Not until you give me the address."

  Gemma snorted. "Not a chance. You're always skint. How do I know you even have the money? Until I see it, no address."

  Freddie reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope. "Here you are," he said, handing it to Gemma, hoping she didn't look inside it.

  She took it, sighing ruefully. "I'm a Judas, me," she said.

  "Hardly. Malone's a murderer, Gem."

  "Do you really think he shot that MP?"

  "I know he did. There were witnesses. You're doing the right thing."

  "Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Paris flats don't come cheap."

  She opened the envelope. Freddie swore under his breath. He truly wished she hadn't done that. Now things were going to get complicated. He watched her face as her expression changed from confusion to anger.

  "You son of a bitch!" she finally cried, turning the envelope upside down. Pieces of newspaper cut to size fluttered out. "What are you playing at?"

  "I need that address, Gem."

  "Oh, aye? Well, you can go sing for it! Four hundred quid or no deal."

  Freddie rose from his chair, crossed the room, and slapped her. Hard.

  Gemma's hand came up to her cheek. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of here!"

  Freddie threw her down on the settee and wrapped his hands around her neck, pressing his thumbs against her throat. "Where is it? Where's the flat?" he said.

  She clawed at his hands, tore at his sleeves, trying to break his grip. Her heels scraped against the floorboards. "Please..." she gasped.

  "The address," he said.

  "Let me go!" Gemma kicked at him. Her knee caught him in the groin. The pain was blinding. He staggered backward, bellowing. She broke free and ran for the door. He ran after her, sick with pain, but knowing that if she got out, all was lost. His hands closed on the back of her gown. He pulled her back and hurled her toward the settee. But he missed his mark. She hit a heavy marble-topped table instead. Headfirst.

  There was a sharp, dry crack, like a branch breaking. The table went over. Gemma fell to the floor. She moaned once and was still.

  Freddie was panting, his hands on his knees, trying not to vomit. "Give me that fucking address!" he spat at her, as the pain began to subside.

  But Gemma made no reply.

  He walked over to her. "Gemma, I'll beat you bloody, I swear I will," he said, grabbing her. Her head lolled as he pulled her up, then fell forward. Too far forward. Freddie gasped and let her go.

  Gemma's neck was broken. She was dead.

  As he stood there, looking at her, he realized that he would be in a great deal of trouble unless he could think very fast and very well. He felt no remorse, no horror or sadness over what he'd done. He was well past all that now. He needed two things--he needed Sid and India's address, and he needed to make it look like someone else had killed Gemma Dean.

  He thought for a few minutes, coldly and clearly, and then it came to him--an answer. He nodded and set to work.

  He knew Gemma kept a diary. He'd seen it. It was slim with a red leather cover. If she had written down the address anywhere
, it would be there. He went to her desk and rifled through her papers. He pulled out the drawers and dumped their contents on the floor. He tore the clothes out of her trunks, dug in pockets, but found nothing.

  "Where are you?" he whispered, turning around in the room. "Where?"

  Then he spotted a carpetbag. It was leaning against an umbrella stand. He turned it over, tumbling its contents out. A wallet, compact, sweets, and cigarettes all fell to the floor, but no diary. Swearing now, he turned the bag inside out and found a pocket. Inside it was the diary. He flipped through the month of November. There were names of people, addresses of restaurants and theaters. He flipped to the inside front cover, and then the back--and then he saw something: Arden Street. Number 16. Richmond Hill.

  It was scribbled, as if it had been written hastily, or angrily. That's it, he thought. That's the one to try. He pocketed the diary, pleased. He picked up the envelope he'd brought with him, and the fake money, and pocketed those, too. He decided to take Gemma's wallet, because that's what a thief would do, and then he turned the sitting room upside down.

  He went into the bedroom next and ransacked it, too, strewing clothing, dumping a mirror, combs, and perfume bottles on the floor. Her jewelry box caught his eye. He turned it over, spilling bits of costume jewelry across the bureau. As he did, her magnificent diamonds fell out and glinted up at him. He picked up the earrings. Then the necklace. He read the inscription: For Gemma. Break a leg. Love, Sid. He slipped them into his pocket. They were just the sort of thing a man desperate for money, a man on the run, would take. Especially if that man had given them to her and knew what they were worth.

  Freddie was just about to leave the bedroom when he heard it--a long, groaning creak. The kind a loose floorboard makes when someone's stepped on it.

  He froze. "Who's there?" he called.

  There was no answer. He bent down to the fireplace, picked up a poker, and walked back into the sitting room, slowly and quietly. The sitting room was empty. He made his way down the long hallway to the kitchen. Whoever had made the noise had to be in there now. It was the only room left. He raised the poker, his heart hammering, and rounded the doorway.

  A cat was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. A white cat with a glittering pink collar. Freddie swore at the animal. He lunged at it, but it was too quick for him. It darted between his legs and shot under the settee.

  He let it be and put the poker back. He was nearly finished now, nearly out of the woods, but he knew the last part would be the hardest part. He looked at his hands. They were scratched and bloodied. One of his sleeves was torn. That was good. He would have to do something about his face, though. He went back into the kitchen and found a teapot. He closed his eyes, steeling himself, then smashed the pot into his forehead. He lurched forward at the impact, nearly fell, but righted himself against the sink. When he could see again, he took a bread knife from the cutlery drawer and drew it across his left cheek, from his ear to his jaw. It didn't hurt nearly as much as the teapot had. He waited until he could feel the blood dripping down into his shirt collar, then he walked downstairs and into the street.

  Two workmen were walking by. Freddie stumbled toward them. "Help me. Help me, please," he cried.

  "Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" one of them said, taking his arm, trying to steady him.

  "He...he killed her. I saw him. I tried to stop him ...I couldn't. Call the police. Hurry. He mustn't get away. He mustn't. It's him!"

  "It's who, mate, who?"

  "Malone. Sid Malone."

  Chapter 66

  "You're going to have to get off the game," India said to the emaciated woman sitting on the examination table in the garden shed in the Moskowitzes' backyard.

  "I can't, Dr. Jones. You know that."

  India peered at the woman's puffy eyes and then examined her chest, tapping the ribs and listening. It was full of liquid. Her breathing was labored.

  "How does your water look?"

  "Bloody."

  "Can you at least stop drinking?"

  The woman, Elizabeth Durkin, a prostitute, laughed. "Could you? If you was in my place?"

  India sighed. Once she would have lectured the poor woman on the evils of drink and the necessity of vegetables. Now she simply said, "No, Elizabeth, I couldn't."

  "What is it? What's wrong with me?"

  "Edema, inflammation. I'd have to say Bright's disease."

  "In English, Dr. Jones."

  "Ginny kidney."

  Elizabeth nodded. "What are me prospects?"

  "If I could get you into a sanatorium and on bed rest, get the syphilis under control, keep you off the gin and put you on a milk diet, they might be decent."

  "And if not?"

  "Not so good."

  Elizabeth looked up at the slatted wooden ceiling, then said, "You've taken good care of me. The syphilis. The bronchitis. That bout of influenza. I wish you weren't leaving."

  "I wish it, too."

  "Why are you?"

  "There's someone--someone very dear to me--who needs looking after."

  "Who'll look after me when you're gone?"

  "Dr. Hatcher will. At the new clinic."

  "She's not you."

  "She's a damn sight funnier. I've seen her make a patient laugh while she was sticking a needle in his bum."

  "God knows where I'd be without a laugh now and then," Elizabeth said. She swallowed, then asked, "Is it a hard end, then?"

  "Not the hardest, but not the easiest, either. You'll be all right, though. The clinic's almost open. There will be a bed for you there and nurses to look after you. And morphine at the end. You make sure you go when it gets bad."

  Elizabeth nodded. Then she reached into her skirt pocket. "I've a shilling to give you today. A ship docked last night. I was the first one there."

  India took the woman's hand and curled her fingers over the coin. "You keep that, Liz," she said. "Go in the caff and buy yourself some soup."

  Elizabeth hugged her, hard and tight. "Wherever it is you're going, Dr. Jones, the ones there'll be lucky to get you," she said.

  And then she was gone. India looked after her, tears smarting. How she would miss Elizabeth Durkin and all the women of Whitechapel. The chattering factory girls. The raucous whores. The new wives. And all the mothers--English, Irish, Russian, Chinese--who somehow kept their children clothed and fed on a pound a week and a prayer. They had taught her so well. More things, and better things, than any textbook ever had.

  She heard the bells at Christ Church ring the hour. Ten o'clock. Time to go. The new clinic wasn't even open yet; she and Harriet and Ella were still seeing patients in the Moskowitzes' backyard. And now she would never see it open. She was meeting Sid in a few hours, and they were leaving London--not in a fortnight as planned, but tonight. At least, she hoped she was meeting him. She hadn't seen him, or even heard from him, for three days. Since he'd made his last trip to the Bark. Since Joe Bristow had been shot.

  Ever since her trip through the tunnels, she'd been sick with worry, hoping against hope that he'd gotten the message she'd left with Sally. They had to get out of London. Immediately. There was no choice. Joe had been transferred to the London Hospital and his condition had not improved. Though he was now under the care of another doctor, she visited him there as often as she could. He was still unconscious, his poor pregnant wife was in shock--India had seen her, she could barely speak--and the papers were howling for Sid Malone's head.

  India knew in her heart that Sid had not committed this brutal, senseless act. No one who knew him believed he had. But Freddie did, and the police did, and the press, too. If he was found, he'd be arrested. She knew that he knew that, too, and that he would rather die than go back to prison.

  A maelstrom of emotion gripped her now--fear for Sid, and grief at leaving her dream behind. She stepped out of the shed and Harriet Hatcher stepped in, leading a little girl by the hand. The girl's mother trailed after them.

  "I know Emily
likes the dog, Mrs. Burke, but still, you mustn't let her sleep in the dog's bed. That's how she's getting the worms in the first place," Harriet said, rolling her eyes at India as she passed.

  India smiled sadly. She looked all around at the yard that had served as her clinic for the past few months, trying to impress every detail of it into her mind. The mangy tom sitting on the fence, and Eddie, the neighbor's ancient, toothless bull terrier, barking at him from the next yard. A dozen chickens in their coop. Aaron, Miriam, and Solly plucking a dozen more. The ancient copper pot, still full of murky water from the morning's wash. And her patients. All the women and children. Harriet's patients now. India had already said goodbye to Harriet. She walked into the kitchen to do what she dreaded most--say goodbye to Ella and her mother. They were working in there. Ella was washing dishes; Mrs. Moskowitz was cooking.