The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "I'll try, but it's going to be bloody hard."

  "The diamonds, mate. Find the diamonds and you'll find your man."

  "Easier said than done," Joe replied.

  Frankie nodded. He looked at the floor, then back at Joe. "Two nights ago they gave me last rites. I'm a Catholic, me. Or was. Once upon a time. It was bad, I don't mind telling you. Coughing blood all over everything. I pulled through, though. By sheer bloody-mindedness. I wanted a little more time. So I could do this. Will you tell him? Sid, I mean. Will you tell him I did this?"

  "Maybe you can tell him yourself one day."

  Frankie smiled. "Ah, guv, we both know that's not going to happen."

  "Do you want me to tell him?"

  "Aye."

  "I will then."

  Frankie nodded. He looked at Joe's legs, at the chair he was sitting in, and pain filled his eyes. "As much as I can, I want to set things straight... as much as I can..."

  He was a dying man asking for forgiveness. Should he give it? Frankie had tried to kill him. He'd taken his legs from him. He would never run with his children. Never dance with his wife. Never stand by his daughter's side when she married. And yet it wasn't himself he pitied. It was Frankie. He'd never known what it was to live. To love and be loved. To have a family. Pride. Respect. And now he never would.

  "I know, Frankie," Joe said. "I know you do. You have."

  "Thank you," Frankie whispered. And then he was gone, shuffling back to his cell under the watchful eye of the guard.

  Herbert Gladstone sat back in his chair now, shaking his head. "What do you want me to do, Joe?" he asked. "I've just read the statement again. Top to bottom. Just to make sure I didn't miss anything. There's nothing there. Nothing I can work with. Just one man's word against another's. And the man in question happens to be serving life in prison."

  "You can question Lytton. Send some detectives to his home."

  "Not for some weeks. He's still in Africa. And what if I did? Say I do send some detectives to ask him whether or not he murdered Gemma Dean, what do you think will happen? Do you really think he'll say he did it? Even if he did do it. Which I don't believe for one second."

  Joe was about to argue with the man when his secretary rapped on the door and came into his office.

  "Beg your pardon, sir, but this just arrived," he said, handing his boss a telegram.

  Gladstone shook his head as he read it. His face darkened. "It never rains but it pours."

  "Is something wrong?" Joe asked.

  "I've just received word that your Mr. Malone has been arrested."

  "What? Where?"

  "In Nairobi. He's in jail there. He's going to be brought to Mombasa and shipped out to London."

  "Lytton's there, too, isn't he?" Joe said.

  "Yes, he is. He's the one who ordered the arrest."

  "Of course he did," Joe said. "If he can get Malone convicted for Gemma Dean and hanged, no one can ever point the finger at him."

  "You're trumping things up now," Gladstone said testily. "Freddie Lytton has no reason for wanting Sid Malone dead. He knows Malone was accused of the murder, and I'm sure he wants only a fair trial and justice for Miss Dean. As do we all."

  Joe felt desperate. Freddie did indeed have a reason for wanting Sid dead, but Joe couldn't tell Gladstone that. He couldn't tell him the truth about Sid's connection to Freddie and to India. But he knew that connection imperiled Sid's life. Much more than a false charge for the Dean murder did. Freddie's wife loved Sid. His child belonged to Sid. Freddie had reasons, all right. Far too many of them.

  "Please, Herbert," Joe said now, "this case needs to be reopened. Freddie Lytton is not above the law. No one is. He needs to be questioned."

  Gladstone cut him off. "No. Not until you get me something better than this," he said, tapping Betts's statement. "I need more than the word of a convict to do what you're asking me to do."

  "If you won't reopen the case for me, can you at least do me this favor? Can you keep Malone's arrest quiet?"

  Gladstone gave him a long look. "As a favor to you, Joe, I will keep my office from giving it to the papers, but I cannot control what comes from Africa. If Lytton alerts his associates in the press, they will certainly run the story. And I imagine he will tell them. He enjoys appearing in the headlines even more than you do."

  Joe ignored the dig. "How long do you think I have?" he asked.

  Gladstone shrugged. "A day. Two or three at most."

  Joe nodded. "I'll be back," he said.

  "I don't doubt it," Gladstone said wearily.

  Inside his carriage, on his way home, Joe gave in to an uncharacteristic feeling of hopelessness. He had exactly what he'd set out to get--the true identity of Gemma Dean's killer--and yet he had nothing, because he couldn't prove it.

  And if that wasn't bad enough, the man whose name he was working so hard to clear had just been arrested and faced a trial for murder.

  God, just wait until Fiona finds out about that, he thought. She'll be beside herself. And her with a baby due in only a few weeks' time. He prayed that Gladstone would keep his word and keep the news out of the papers.

  And then there was the little issue of Sid's child. A daughter he might or might not know he had. A niece Fiona knew nothing about, for he, Joe, had still not found a way to tell her without breaking his promise to Ella.

  He thought about Frankie's statement and how he could always simply go to the papers with Betts's confession himself. It might save Sid. And it might well destroy Freddie Lytton. And either way, the child--an innocent little girl--would be right in the middle of it all.

  It seemed as if there were obstacles wherever he looked. He had no idea how to proceed. He was well and truly stuck. As he was riding along, brooding, Frankie's words came back to him. The diamonds, mate. Find the diamonds and you'll find your man.

  "Great idea," he muttered. "I'll just wire Freddie in Nairobi and ask him where he stashed them."

  But the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there might not be something there, some small possibility. Frankie said the fences had been expecting Sid, but Sid had not shown up because he hadn't had the jewels. What if Freddie had? What if he'd sold them?

  It was a long shot, he knew it was. And yet anything, no matter how slight, was better than nothing. He leaned forward and rapped on the window at the front of the cab. It slid open.

  "Yes, sir?" his driver said.

  "Slight change of plan, Myles. Take me to Limehouse, please. Narrow Street. Pub called the Barkentine."

  "Are you quite certain, sir?"

  "I am."

  "Very well, sir." The window slid shut.

  He would ask a few questions, talk to a few people. See if Desi Shaw was still around and the fence, Joe Grizzard. Now. Tonight.

  Before time ran out.

  For Sid. For the child. For all of them.

  Chapter 117

  India sat on the veranda of the house where she was staying, gazing at the snow-capped peaks of Mount Kenya, so white against the turquoise sky.

  The house, a sprawling bungalow built of fieldstone, had a paved terrace, tall windows, dormers, a shingled roof and dozens of rose bushes climbing and tumbling all about it. It would have looked equally at home nestled in the Cotswolds as it did in Kenya.

  Lady Elizabeth Wilton, its owner, had written in a letter that it was located in the most beautiful place in all of Africa, and that no one who had visited it had ever disagreed. India, however, saw none of its beauty, felt nothing of its magic.

  She had barely been able to function since Sid's arrest. She was hollow-eyed, listless, nearly ill with worry. Just thinking of him in a jail cell tortured her, for she knew what prison had done to him, she knew the despair he would be feeling. Thinking beyond that--to London, to his trial and inevitable sentencing--made her weep.

  She had to do something to help him, but what? She had money of her own, more than enough to hire good lawyers for his defense, but she
would have to contact them on the sly. Freddie could not find out. There was no telegraph office, no post office, for ten miles. Fort Henry was the closest village, but if she sent a servant there with letters, Freddie would know.

  She would have to wait until she got back to London before she could make her move. But what if she was too late? Freddie had told her nothing about his immediate plans for Sid, but she'd been able to get some information out of Tom Meade and had learned that he was going to be taken from Nairobi to Mombasa on the railway, then put on a packet boat bound for London. She and Freddie wouldn't leave for London themselves until a fortnight later, and she knew Freddie had done this on purpose. He wanted Sid tried and hanged before she reached London. She would have to slip away from him somehow and contact her London lawyers. When they returned to Nairobi. Or when they were in Mombasa, awaiting their ship.

  Could the fates be so cruel? she wondered for the millionth time. Had she really been allowed to discover that Sid was alive, only to see him hanged? India knew the answer to her questions: the fates were indifferent; it was Freddie who was cruel.

  "More tea, Msabu?"

  India turned to Lady Wilton's butler. They had rented the house from her and the servants, too. The butler was a tall, graceful man dressed in a white tunic and trousers. "No, thank you, Joseph," she said.

  "And for the Missy?" Joseph asked, nodding at Charlotte's empty cup and her empty chair.

  India realized, with a start, that her daughter was gone. When had she slipped away? And how had she not noticed?

  "No, I don't think she'll be wanting more. Have you seen her?"

  "She was in the kitchen with the cook. Helping her make a cake. But I think now she is hunting for nightingales."

  "She's not underfoot, is she?"

  Joseph smiled. "No, Msabu. She is not that kind of child."

  "If you see her, will you send her to me, please?"

  India felt terrible. She was so wrapped up in her private pain, she hadn't even noticed her child's absence. Charlotte had obviously become bored and had slipped away. As soon as she came back, India would make it up to her. They would go for a walk or take a picnic into the hills. She must put a brave face on things for Charlotte's sake. She mustn't be so inward, so distant; she was all the girl had.

  India thought, with a brief flush of pleasure, how happy Charlotte was here. In fact, she was flourishing. She'd made a full recovery. Her color was good again and her spirits high. She was free here to ride and explore the whole day long, without her father demanding her quiet, decorous presence at this ceremony or on that tour.

  Mercifully, they'd both seen very little of Freddie. He'd gone riding today. He wanted to see the mountain, he'd said, and wouldn't be back until after supper--hours from now. She was glad of his absences. He was always either out riding or shut up in Lady Wilton's study, writing his endless reports.

  He tended to rise late here, take lunch, and then disappear into the hills, or into his work, laboring far into the night, not stopping until two or three o'clock the next morning. She always knew when he finished. Awake in her bed, she would hear the haunting strains of the "Raindrop Prelude" echoing through the house and smell the scent of tobacco. He liked to smoke when he finished his work. And he liked to listen to his music box. He never went anywhere without it. At home it resided in his study, under the portrait of his ancestor, Richard Lytton, the Red Earl. When he traveled, he insisted on bringing it with him and insisted on packing it himself. No one else could touch it. Not even Charlotte, who, for some strange reason, also loved the sad melody. She had taken it down once when she was quite small to listen to it. Freddie had found her sitting on the floor with it, and had punished her severely. She was never to touch it, he said. Never. No one was.

  As India was thinking of the music box, she suddenly heard a crash from inside the house, and then a few notes of the melody, strangely off key.

  She was just rising from her chair, about to go and see what had happened, when Charlotte appeared, white-faced.

  "There you are, darling," India said. "I was wondering where you'd got to."

  "Mummy," she said quietly. "Mummy, come quick."

  "Why? What is it?"

  "I've broken Father's music box."

  "Charlotte, no!" India said. "How?"

  "I was playing in the study. With Jane. We were under the desk, pretending it was a fort. We pretended that the Masai were attacking. I got up to run out of the study and knocked the table where the music box was resting. It fell to the floor."

  "Charlotte, you should never have gone in there!"

  "I know, Mummy. I'm sorry," she said, panic in her eyes.

  "How bad is it? Maybe we can fix it. Is it smashed? Are there springs sticking out?"

  "No, Mummy. No springs. Just jewelry."

  "Jewelry?" India repeated, puzzled. She followed an anxious Charlotte into the study. The box was on the floor, open and upside down. One of its feet had come off. A small drawer was sticking out of it, spilling what indeed looked like jewelry across the carpet. India knelt down. She carefully picked it up. "It has a hidden drawer," she said. "It must've popped out when it hit the floor."

  Something glinted against the dark colors of the carpet. India picked it up. She stared at it, not comprehending. It was her dragonfly comb; the one that had belonged to her mother. The one that Hugh Mullins had taken and pawned. She turned it over. It had her mother's initials, ISJ--the same as her own--engraved on the back.

  But it can't be, India thought, her hand going to the back of her head, because that comb was in her hair. Her father had gotten it back from the police. Its mate had never been found. Hugh had been accused of stealing them both and had gone to jail for refusing to return the second one.

  "It's just like yours, Mummy," Charlotte said. "The one in your hair."

  India pulled her comb out and held it next to the one from the music box. Two perfectly matched dragonflies. Commissioned from Louis Comfort Tiffany by her father as a gift for her mother. The only two of their kind. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  "Mummy?" Charlotte said. "Mummy, are you all right?"

  "Charlotte, darling, fetch that for Mummy, please," she said, pointing to a sparkling diamond earring a few feet away. Charlotte did so. India turned it over in her hand. It was long, a chandelier style, made of flawless, brilliant white diamonds. It had a small medallion near the bottom. Worked in tiny diamonds in the medallion were the initials GD. India did not recognize the piece; the initials meant nothing to her. She reached across the carpet for the necklace. It, too, had the same medallion, but larger and in the center of the piece. She turned the necklace over. There was an inscription on the back:

  For Gemma. Break a leg. Love, Sid.

  India's hand came to her mouth. Break a leg... That's what one said to performers to wish them luck before a show. Gemma. Gemma Dean. The woman with whose murder Sid had just been charged. She had been an actress--and Sid Malone's lover. This necklace, these earrings ...they were hers. Sid had given them to her. They'd gone missing after her death. She remembered hearing about that. What were they doing here, in Freddie's music box?

  India's stomach suddenly knotted with fear.

  "Charlotte..." she said, pointing to the last piece of jewelry, a heavy gold ring. A man's ring. Charlotte picked it up and placed it in India's hand. The fear she'd felt was replaced by grief now. The ring had a crest on it. She recognized the crest, for she had seen it many, many times. On her cousin's hand. It was Wish's ring.

  "No. God, no ...," she moaned. She closed her eyes, still clutching the ring, and doubled over. Her head sank to the floor. "Hugh, Wish, Gemma Dean.... It couldn't be ...he couldn't have..."

  "Mummy!" Charlotte cried, alarmed. "Mummy, what is it?"

  Charlotte's voice seemed to come to her from far away. It sounded muffled and distant. And then she heard another voice. A man's voice. Only yards away.

  "Joseph!" it bellowed. "Where's the blasted boy?
Call him to my office! I need help with my boots."

  India's head snapped up. It was Freddie. He'd returned from his ride early. She could hear his footsteps. On the porch. In the foyer. And heading toward the study.

  Chapter 118

  India grabbed Charlotte's arm so tightly that the little girl winced.

  "Charlotte, say nothing about this to anyone," she hissed. "Nothing!

  Go to your room. No, not that way! Use the veranda door. Wait for me there."

  "But Mummy--"

  "Do as I say! Go!"