The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “For good luck,” he said, winking.

  “Thank you, Teddy,” Sid said, putting the figurine in his jacket pocket.

  “Here, this’ll interest you. Come take a look,” Teddy said.

  He led Sid upstairs to the second floor. It was filled with tea chests. Teddy pried the lid off one, dug deep down into the rich black tea that filled it, and pulled up a large, dark brown lump, roughly the shape and size of a cannonball.

  “Chinese opium. The purest. The very best. It comes in buried in tea chests. Stuffed inside statues. Teapots. Furniture. And it goes out through my laundries, cut up and wrapped in brown paper like a bundle of napkins or shirts. And Old Bill’s none the wiser.”

  “You were always a clever one, Teddy. Always going places,” Sid said. “I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  Teddy didn’t give a damn about the people the drug enslaved. He didn’t care whether they could afford it or not. Whether they went without shoes, or clothes, or food to fund their habit. Or whether their children did. He’d made himself a bundle in the opium trade, stood to make a lot more, and that’s all that counted. Sid knew this, for he’d been the same as Teddy once, done the same things. A long time ago. In another life. Before he’d met India.

  Teddy held the fat brown lump out to Sid now. “You want a taste? I’ll have Mai fix us a pipe. Get us a couple of girls, too. Just like old times.”

  “Thanks, Teddy, but I have to be off.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Sid said his good-byes. Teddy shook his hand, glancing up the street as he did, and said, “I’ll start asking around on the other thing. Hopefully I’ll get something for you. Same day next month, right?”

  “Right-o,” Sid said. He hunched his shoulders against a sudden August rain shower and started walking west. He passed by several small, dreary shops, a rope-maker’s, and two dingy pubs. On the corner, three little girls, not one of whom was dressed for the weather, were jumping rope and singing a morbid rhyme.

  There was a little bird, her name was Enza.

  I opened the window and in flew Enza.

  The Spanish flu had already cropped up in Scotland, India had said. Sid shuddered to think what would happen if it hit the East End. The area, with its notorious overcrowding and poor sanitation, would provide an ideal breeding ground for the disease. It would move through the slums like wildfire.

  Five minutes later, he found a hackney cab, climbed inside, and told the driver to take him to Paddington Station. He was well on his way out of Limehouse by the time a carriage, sleek and black, pulled up in front of Teddy’s offices, so he did not see the two men step out of it—one wearing the rough clothes of a riverman, the other in a flash suit, tugging on a gold earring and smiling with a mouthful of black, rotted teeth.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “Hello, Mai, darling,” Billy Madden said. “Where’s that boss of yours?”

  “He’s in his office, Mr. Madden,” Mai said. “He’s expecting you. What may I get for you? Tea? Whiskey?”

  Billy put his hands on Mai’s desk. He leaned in close to her and smiled horribly. “How about yourself, you lovely little lotus flower? Buck naked on a bed in the back? I’ve always wanted to see what’s under those pretty silk dresses of yours.”

  The man with Billy looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Mai colored, but her polite smile didn’t falter. “If you would like, Mr. Madden, I can arrange a girl for you when your are finished with Mr. Ko,” she said.

  Billy’s smile faded. His eyes turned hard. “I told you what I would like. You. On your back. Now get up and get your knickers off, you useless …”

  Teddy, hearing Billy’s voice, stepped out of his office and saw what was going on.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Billy, you don’t want her,” he said, trying to defuse the situation. “She’s got smaller tits than you do. Why do you think she’s here doing my typing instead of working in one of my whorehouses?”

  “Is that so?” Billy said.

  He walked around Mai’s desk, behind Mai herself. Then he reached around her and cupped her small breasts, weighing them in his hands. Mai stiffened. She swallowed hard, stared straight ahead, and did not make a sound.

  Anger rose in Teddy. He liked Mai. She was a nice girl, not a tart. She was good at her job. She didn’t deserve this. But Billy was the guv’nor. He took what he wanted. If he wanted Mai, he’d have her, and there wasn’t a damn thing Teddy or anyone else could do about it.

  “You’re right, Teddy,” Billy finally said. “Not enough here to keep me happy. Back to your typing, darlin’.”

  Mai picked up a pencil. Teddy saw that her hands were shaking. He swore under his breath. Scenes like this were becoming more frequent. Billy Madden was a bastard and always had been, but he was getting worse. Bothering women. Losing his temper. Starting fights for no good reason. He’d bashed a lad’s skull in a month ago at the Bark because he thought he was laughing at him. He’d got this mad, wild look in his eyes, then did for the poor sod.

  “Come have a glass of whiskey with me, Billy,” Teddy said now. “You and John, both. Afterward, I’ll fix you up with a girl who’s worth your while. Two girls, if you like. From Shanghai. They’ll have you begging for mercy. Come on, come inside now, I’ve got things I need to discuss with you.”

  “And I’ve got things to discuss with you, Edward,” Billy said, sitting down behind Teddy’s desk. “You were short. Two weeks in a row.” Billy’s man, John, stood behind him.

  “I wasn’t short. That was twenty-five percent. Same as always. Your cut was less because I sold less. My supplies were low. Got another shipment in at Millwall as we speak. Soon as I get it, and get selling it—”

  Billy cut him off. “John here is going with you to unload your tea from the Ning Hai tonight. Him and three more of my men.”

  “Tonight? Why tonight? It’s supposed to be unloaded tomorrow afternoon,” Teddy asked.

  “Because the next high tide’s at two A.M.,” John Harris said.

  “And because I don’t want you offloading any of the cargo before tomorrow,” Billy said, picking his nails with Teddy’s letter opener. “John and the others are going to get it, bring it here to the warehouse, open it, and see just how much hop you’re bringing in. So I can figure out myself what you should be paying me.”

  “You think I’m cheating you out of your cut,” Teddy said.

  The anger Billy had kindled in Teddy flamed into a hot fury. Billy was the guv’nor, yes, but even so, he was taking a few too many liberties. Accusing him, Teddy, of cheating him out of money, the cheek of it. Teddy was cheating him, of course, but still—he shouldn’t just come in here, rough up his help, and make Teddy look small on his own turf.

  “I’m just keeping my eye on things, that’s all,” Billy said.

  “Is that so? Well, you know what, Billy? You might want to start keeping both eyes on things,” Teddy said hotly

  Billy leaned forward. “Oh, aye? And just what do you mean by that?”

  “Sid Malone’s back in town.”

  Billy stopped picking his nails. He looked up at Teddy, and Teddy saw, to his satisfaction, that Billy had paled. Teddy knew that there was only one thing Billy hated more than another villain cheating him out of money, and that was another villain making a play for his manor—a manor they both knew used to belong to Sid.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said Sid Malone’s back in town.”

  “Now I know where all your hop’s gone, Teddy. You’ve been smoking it yourself.”

  “He was here. Right in this office. Not ten minutes ago.”

  “Sid Malone was fished out of the Thames years ago. He’s dead.”

  “Not anymore he isn’t.”

  “Are you sure, Teddy?”

  “I’m sure. I know him. I used to work for him. Remember? It was Sid Malone in my office, sure as I’m standing here.”

  Billy glowered at him. Then he slammed his fists on the desk and stood up. “Why didn’t you tell
me that?” he shouted.

  “I wanted to!” Teddy shouted back. “But you were too busy interfering with my girl, and with my business! I even tried to keep him here until you came. Tried to stall. But he said he had to be off.”

  “What the fuck was he doing here?” he said. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted information on that woman’s death—Selwyn Jones. The rich one. The one who topped herself a few years back. He wanted to know if I’d sold her the drugs.”

  “What? Why the hell would he want to know that?”

  “I asked him. He didn’t tell me.”

  “You tell him about Stiles?”

  Teddy shook his head.

  A man named Peter Stiles had bought quite a bit of morphine from Teddy only days before Maud Selwyn Jones died. Billy knew about it; he was the one who’d sent Stiles to Teddy. Both Billy and Teddy had wondered at the time if there was any connection between Stiles and the Selwyn Jones woman’s death.

  “Why is he nosing into this?” Billy asked. “What’s this Jones woman’s suicide to him?”

  “I have no idea,” Teddy said. “It makes no sense.”

  Billy made no response at first, then, at length, he said, “Yes, it does. Sid Malone’s back and he wants his old manor back. He has to get me out of the way first, though, and he’s looking to see if there’s any way he can land me in the shit with Old Bill. He’s trying to do it through you. Wants to have me sent down for the Selwyn Jones woman. Do it all nice and clean-like. No violence. No blood. At least not to begin with, that is.”

  Billy lit up a cigarette as he spoke, and started pacing the room. Teddy wasn’t quite sure that Billy had it right. Sid Malone certainly hadn’t acted like a man planning to launch a big turf war. But Teddy also knew that once Billy Madden got an idea into his head, there was no getting it out.

  “Did you tell him anything at all?”

  “I said I’d dig around, see what I could come up with. We’re supposed to meet again next month. Right here.”

  “Good. Well done, Teddy lad.”

  “What do you want me to do when he comes back? Give him something? Give him nothing?”

  “Just keep him here, Teddy. Keep him talking.”

  “You’re going to do for him,” Teddy said.

  Billy Madden shook his head. His eyes had that mad look in them. The one Teddy knew all too well, and wished he didn’t.

  “No,” Billy said, “I’m going to beat him bloody first. Make him tell me what he’s got on me. Who he’s working with. And then I’m going to do for him.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Willa opened her eyes.

  The world, bright and sand-colored, spun sickeningly beneath her. She tried to move, but pain, breathtaking and horrible, shot through her side. She tried to right herself, tried to sit up, but she could not make her arms and legs work.

  She wondered, for a few seconds, if she was dead.

  She managed to pick her head up, but was seized by a dizziness so strong that she was sick. Her stomach heaved again and again, but nothing came up. She lowered her head. Her cheek pressed into something thick and soft. It seemed to be moving. She seemed to be moving.

  “Water,” she moaned, closing her eyes. Her throat was parched. It felt like it was on fire. Her lips were cracked. “Water, please. …”

  A voice was yelling. A man’s voice. The words sounded like Bedouin, but she couldn’t understand them.

  She opened her eyes again, and this time they focused. She saw rocks and sand going by. She saw a camel’s leg. And her own hands, tied at the wrists by a length of rope, hanging down in front of her.

  She realized she was lying across the back of a camel, bound fast against the back of the rider’s saddle. How long had she been like this? Hours? Days?

  She struggled, trying again to right herself, to sit up. The rider must have felt her movements, or heard them, for he turned around to shout at her. He was telling her to stop, to lie still, but she did not understand him, and would not have heeded him if she had. Frenzied by pain and fear, she kept struggling, kept pleading for water.

  The camel driver was angered by this, for her movements were spooking his animal. He shouted once more for her to be still, then he struck her where he could easily reach her—on her side. Willa screamed with pain as her damaged ribs received his blows.

  Pain filled her senses. She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but it’s awful suffocating blackness. She cried out once more, and then she was still.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “Come on, Albie. What’s the news? Did Lawrence take Damascus yet? Are Gerry and Johnny Turkey chasing him all around the sand dunes?” Seamie Finnegan said. He was sitting in a chair in Albie’s office in the building that housed the Bureau of Arab Affairs in Haifa.

  “I could tell you,” Albie Alden said, not looking up from the document he was reading—a telegram, taken from a stack that his secretary had just delivered. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  Seamie shook his head. “I still can’t believe it: Albie Alden, spy catcher. The Secret Service Bureau. Room 40. And you cool as a cucumber the whole time. Never said a word.”

  Albie looked at Seamie over the top of his spectacles. “Stop pestering me and let me get these telegrams read. Or else I’ll have the guards come and escort you back to hospital. Where you should be. In your bed. Recovering.”

  “Bugger that. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going mad in hospital. I shouldn’t be there at all. I’m fit enough to take command of another vessel right now, but the bloody doctors won’t let me. I’m getting a new ship, the Exeter, but not for another five weeks.”

  “Fit? Didn’t you just take a two-inch chunk of shrapnel to the torso? Lift up your shirt. No, go on. Lift it up. …” Albie stared at Seamie’s torso, shaking his head. “Your dressings haven’t even come off yet,” he said. “They’re covering your entire right side. What happened anyway? You still haven’t told me the whole story.”

  “My ship, Hawk—she was a destroyer—tangled with a German gunboat about twenty miles west of here. We took a hit to the hull, just above the waterline. And then another to the foredeck. I caught a piece of it.”

  “Bloody hell,” Albie said.

  “Yes, it was,” Seamie said, with a sardonic smile. “The shrapnel missed my ribs and my vitals, but it took a chunk of flesh out of my side. Luckily, we’d sited the gunboat and were able to radio one of our own boats about fifteen minutes before we were hit. They got there too late to stop the attack, but in time to rescue us.” His smile faded. “Well, most of us. I lost five men.”

  “I’m sorry,” Albie said.

  Seamie nodded. “I am, too. The gunboat got us back to Haifa and the hospital here, but I swear, if I’d known they were going to keep hold of me for so long, I’d have stayed in the water. I’m going off my nut with boredom. I was so happy when I heard you’d arrived in Haifa. I still can’t believe it.”

  “How did you hear about it? I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile here.”

  “Completely by chance. I overheard one of the nurses talking to her friend about you. Seems you were in for some sort of stomach trouble.”

  Albie made a face. “Yes. Dysentery. Picked it up in Cairo. Bloody awful thing.”

  “Anyway, I guess she gave you some medicine and fell in love at the same time. God knows why. The heat must be affecting her head. When I heard your name, I asked her to describe you. When she had, I knew it was you. Couldn’t possibly be two gangly, four-eyed boffins in the world with the name of Albie Alden.”

  Albie laughed. “Can you keep quiet for two more minutes so I can finish reading these telegrams?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Seamie said, picking up a folder and fanning himself with it, for the August heat was brutal.

  He had knocked on Albie’s door about half an hour ago. His old friend had been so surprised to see him. He’d invited him in and had him sit down, and Seamie had learned that Albie had
arrived in Haifa two days ago. After Albie had sworn him to secrecy, he’d also learned that Albie had been posted from London, where he’d been working since 1914 for Room 40, a group of code breakers under the aegis of the Royal Navy, to head intelligence and espionage in western Arabia.

  Seamie was astonished to learn that his shy, quiet friend was part of Room 40. He remembered Albie back in 1914, remembered how weary and tense he’d been. He’d thought it had all been caused by his father’s illness and by overwork. Now he knew that Albie and a team of brilliant Cambridge academics had been working feverishly, before the war had even begun, to intercept and unravel German intelligence communications. He had always admired Albie greatly; he admired him even more now, knowing how relentlessly he had worked—literally night and day—even when he had lost his beloved father.

  Albie, finished with the stack of telegrams now, rose and called for his secretary. He asked her to file them all before she left, then he picked up his briefcase.

  “Sorry to be so distracted. It’s been a bit hectic. I just have to gather some things for an early meeting tomorrow and then we can go,” he said. He stopped shuffling papers for a few seconds, looked at Seamie, and earnestly said, “It’s ever so good to see you here. Truly.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Alb,” Seamie replied. “Haifa … who’d have guessed it?”

  Neither man said, for it was not in either’s nature to be overly emotional, but they both knew what their words really meant—not so much that they had never expected to see each other in Haifa, but that they had never expected to see each other anywhere again. Ever.

  The war had taken millions of lives, including those of many of their friends—men they’d known as boys, men they’d gone to school with, grown up with, sailed and hiked and climbed and drunk with. Sometimes it seemed everyone they’d ever known was gone.