“Tillet’s trying to cobble them together again, but ’e’s only got a few. A ragtag bunch at best.”
“Yes, but knowing him, he won’t give up until he has a full, functioning union again. If only we could get him the way we got that bastard Finnegan.”
Fiona froze.
“Aye, that was a good job, wasn’t it?” Sheehan said, chuckling. “Fucking flawless! Snuck up there and put the grease down meself, I did. Un’ooked the door, banged it a few times, then ’id be’ind a tea chest and watched Mr. Union Organizer slip and fall five stories. And O’Neill got the blame!” He laughed loudly.
Fiona bit her lip to keep from screaming. Images and snatches of conversation flew through her mind in a blinding rush. Her father’s funeral. Mr. Farrell and Mr. Dolan saying how strange it was that Paddy had fallen when he was so careful. The fact that the accident happened soon after her da had taken on leadership of the local. Davey O’Neill following her down Barrow Street.
Her breath came in short little gasps. She couldn’t get her mind around it. Her da, murdered. Because Burton didn’t want his workers to go union. Murdered by Bowler Sheehan, who was sitting only yards away from her, laughing about it. Disoriented, no longer aware of where she was in the room, she took a clumsy step backward. Her heel hit the desk with a loud thud. She lost her balance, stumbled, and righted herself. Her hand came down on a pile of notes.
Inside the office, the talking stopped.
“Fred? Is that you?” The door was jerked open and William Burton emerged. His eyes widened at the sight of Fiona. His gaze traveled to the top of his secretary’s desk, where her hand was resting on his money. “What are you doing in here? Who let you in?”
Fiona didn’t answer; her fingers tightened around the notes. In an instant her fear vanished and a white-hot rage surged through her. She threw the stack of money at Burton; it sailed over his shoulder. He advanced on her and she heaved the desk lamp. It hit the floor in front of him and exploded in a shower of glass and oil. “You murdering bastard!” she shrieked. “You killed ’im! You killed my father!” She threw a letter tray; it hit him in the chest. She threw an inkwell, another stack of money.
“Sheehan!” he bellowed. “Get out here!”
At the sound of that name, she bolted. Her fear had come back full force. She ran out of the office, slamming the door after herself. Out the double doors, down the hallway, and down the staircase she flew, clutching an unthrown pile of notes in one hand, her skirts in the other. She was halfway to the first floor when she heard feet pounding after her.
“Stop her, Fred!” Burton shouted down the staircase. “Stop the girl!”
She was at the top of the last staircase when the footsteps started to gain on her. It was Sheehan; she knew it without looking. She hurtled down the stairs at breakneck speed, running for her life. The porter’s office came into view. If he’d heard Burton yelling, he’d be outside of it waiting to block her and she’d have just one chance to dodge him. She cleared the last of the steps, bracing herself for a confrontation, but he wasn’t in his office. She shot through the entrance doors, down the steps and toward the gate, with Sheehan only yards behind her. It was then that she saw the porter. He was standing by the gate, fiddling with the lock. His back was toward her. Sheehan bellowed for him from behind her. He turned; he had an oil can in his hands. “What the devil…” he started to say. Fiona put on a final, desperate burst of speed, ran past him and through the gate before he knew what was happening. As she cleared it, she reached back for one of the bars and jerked it toward her. The gate locked shut. And that’s what saved her.
She took off down Mincing Lane. Behind her, she heard Sheehan screaming at the porter to get the bloody gate open. She risked a glance back. The man fumbled the key and dropped it. Enraged, Bowler kicked him, then kicked the gate. Next to them, William Burton watched her run. Their eyes locked for a split second, and looking into them, she knew that if the two men got hold of her now, he, not Sheehan, would be the one who would beat the life out of her.
She ran into Tower Street. There she saw an eastbound bus pulling away from its stop, caught up with it and jumped on the back. She hunkered down in a seat, gasping for breath, and looked out the window. They could be right behind her; she was certain they saw her turn off Mincing Lane. They might’ve seen her get on the bus. What if they got into a cab and followed her? Fear shrieked at her. She was too visible. The bus trundled down Tower Hill. She jumped off when it stopped to pick up passengers.
She scurried across to the north side of the street and ducked inside the entry of a public house. From there, she watched the traffic. It was sparse because of the hour – nearly seven – and she could see every vehicle. She watched a westbound bus go by, two growlers, a horse and cart, and three hansoms. And then, not three minutes after she’d got inside the pub, she saw a private carriage, sleek and black, traveling east at a fast clip. She stepped back into the shadows as it passed, watching as one of its occupants shouted at the driver. It was Sheehan. The carriage picked up speed and veered off to East Smithfield Street and the Highway, following the route of the bus she’d been on. She closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, and started to shake.
“You all right, miss?”
Her eyes snapped open. She looked into the face of a rheumy-eyed old gentleman on his way out of the pub.
“If it’s a drink you’re after, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like you could use one, the ladies’ parlor’s across the taproom, through that door.”
A drink. Yes, that was a good idea. She had never ordered herself a drink in a pub in her entire life, but now seemed like a good time to start. She could sit down for a few minutes and try to still her trembling legs. She could figure out what to do next.
She entered the pub, moved through the crowded, smoky taproom, and pushed open a door marked LADIES. She found herself alone in a dingy, gaslit room that had a few wooden tables, velvet-covered stools, mirrors, and flocked wallpaper. The publican bustled in behind her, took her order, and disappeared again. By the time she’d sat down and smoothed her hair back, he’d returned with her half-pint of beer. She reached into her pocket for the coins she knew she had and felt paper crinkling instead. What’s this? she wondered, peering into her pocket. She saw the notes and her heart skipped a beat. Quickly, she fished out a half-shilling and handed it to the publican, who gave her change and left.
She peered into her pocket again. How the hell did the notes get in there? She thought back to the scene in Burton’s office. She’d been throwing things, everything she could find. She must’ve had the money in her hand when he called for Sheehan and stuffed it into her pocket as she ran. She pulled the bundle out. It was a stack of twenty-pound notes. She counted them. When she finished, she refolded the stack and put it back in her pocket. She had five hundred pounds of William Burton’s money.
She lifted her glass to her mouth, drained it in one go, and licked the foam from her lips. Then she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror, blinked at it, and said, “You’re dead.”
“Lord, child, where ’ave you been? I was worried sick,” Grace said.
Fiona had arrived at her door just after eight, flushed and out of breath.
“I’m so sorry, Grace. I was at Burton Tea. I went to collect the compensation money from my father’s death. They kept me waiting for ages! I ran all the way back ’ere; I didn’t want to keep you up too late,” she said, forcing herself to smile.
“And somebody was there this late? They must work awfully long hours at Burton’s.”
“Aye, they do. The man’s a slave driver.” She saw her brother sitting at the table looking at a book of nursery rhymes. “Come on, Seamie, luv,” she said. “We’ve got to go.” She buttoned his jacket, then turned to Grace to thank her. She knew she might never see her again. Her throat tightened. Grace and Roddy were the only people she had in the world, and after tonight they, too, would be out of her life. “Thank you, Grace,
” she said.
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing. ’E’s an angel.”
“I don’t just mean tonight. I mean for everything you’ve done.”
“Oh, go on,” she said, embarrassed now. “I ’aven’t done a thing.”
“You ’ave and I’ll never forget it,” Fiona said, hugging her tightly.
When she got to White Lion Street, where Roddy lived, she looked down it to make sure no one was loitering. Then she hurried into his building and ran upstairs. She let herself into the flat, hustling Seamie ahead of her, locked the door, and wedged a chair against it. She began to pack. There wasn’t much time. Sheehan was looking for her at this very moment. By now he and Burton had undoubtedly pieced everything together with the help of the porter, to whom she’d given her name. They knew who she was, why she’d come, and what she’d overheard. It might take him a day or two to find her, but she wasn’t taking any chances. They had to leave Whitechapel. Tonight.
She had no idea where to go, but she’d decided that they’d get on a train. Any train. It didn’t matter where they went as long as it was far away from London. She hoped that when she wasn’t seen for weeks, Burton would assume she’d gone to ground and forget about her.
She had no valise, so she got an old flour sack from under the sink and put her and Seamie’s clothing in it. What else should she take? She got her father’s cigar box down from the mantel and dumped its contents on the table. Birth certificates, she would take those. A lock of red hair – Charlie’s baby hair – keep that. Her parents’ wedding photograph … she looked at it, at the young woman in it, so pretty, so full of life, of hope. Thank God her mother would never know that the handsome man by her side had been murdered. At least she’d been spared that.
Overcome by a fit of trembling, Fiona closed her eyes and leaned against the table. Though she was thinking and functioning, she was still in shock. She’d heard it with her own ears, yet she couldn’t comprehend it. Her da … murdered. Because William Burton did not wish to pay his dock workers sixpence an hour instead of five. Rage boiled up inside her again. I won’t run away, she thought wildly; I’ll stay here and go to the police. They’ll help me. They will. They’ll listen to me … and I’ll tell them what Burton’s done and they’ll…
… laugh in my face. How outrageous it would look. Her accusing William Burton of murdering her father. The police would never trouble the likes of him based on her accusation, and even if they did, he’d never confess. He’d tell them that she’d broken into his office, destroyed his property, and stolen his money. He’d say he’d caught her red-handed and had witnesses. And then she would go to prison. Seamie would be alone; Roddy and Grace would have to raise him. It was hopeless! Burton had murdered her father and there was nothing she could do about it. And not only would there be no justice for his death, if she didn’t get out of London, she’d surely have an accident of her own. Searing tears of impotence rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto her parents’ picture.
“You all right, Fee?” Seamie asked.
She hadn’t realized he was watching her. “I’m fine, Seamie, luv,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Are we going somewhere?” he asked, eyeing the sack.
“Aye, we’re taking a trip, you and me.”
His eyes widened. “A trip? Where?”
She didn’t know. “Where? Well, it’s … um … a surprise. We’ll ride on a train and it’ll be lots of fun.”
While Seamie entertained himself by making train noises, Fiona continued to sort through the contents of the cigar box. Her parents’ wedding rings … she would take those. Her father’s clasp knife … keep that. Rent receipts … those could go in the fire. At the very bottom of the box she found a pile of letters from her Uncle Michael.
She held one up. The return address said: “M. Finnegan, 164 Eighth Avenue, New York City, New York, U.S.A.” She was wrong. Dead wrong. Roddy and Grace weren’t the only people she had. She had an uncle in New York. Michael Finnegan would take them in. He would look after them until they got on their feet and she would repay him by working in his shop. “New York,” she whispered, as if saying the place’s name might make it real. It was so far away. All the way across the Atlantic Ocean. They’d be safe there.
In an instant, she made her decision. They’d take a train to Southampton and a boat to America. Burton’s money would buy their passage. Working quickly, she got another flour sack and cut a square out of it. She unbuttoned her blouse, untied her camisole, and with a needle and thread stitched three sides of the fabric to the inside of the garment to make a pocket. She took the notes out of her skirt and slid them into it, all but one. She planned to go to the Commercial Road, where she could hire a cab to the station, but she wanted to stop at the pawnbroker’s first, to see if she could find a traveling bag. She couldn’t go to New York with a flour sack.
“We going yet, Fee?” Seamie asked, all wound up now.
“In one minute. I just ’ave to write Uncle Roddy a note.”
“Why?”
“To tell ’im about our trip,” she said. To tell him good-bye, she thought. “Be a good lad and put your jacket on.”
Fiona hunted for a sheet of paper and tried to figure out what to write. She wanted to tell Roddy the truth, but she didn’t want him worrying, and most of all, she didn’t want to put him in any danger. Sheehan would certainly come calling at his flat when he learned she had been living here. She doubted he was stupid enough to mess about with a police officer, but he might break in hoping to find something that would tell him where she was. She found a pencil and started to write.
Dear Uncle Roddy,
My money came from Burton Tea. It was more than I thought we would get and I am going to use it to take Seamie and myself off to start a new life. Please don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine. I’m sorry to go so suddenly, but it’s easier for me this way. There have been too many hard good-byes of late and I want to go tonight, before I lose my nerve. Thank you for taking care of us. We would never have made it if it wasn’t for you. You’ve been like a father to us and we’ll miss you more than I can say. I will write when I can. Seamie
There … no names, no addresses. She put the note on the table. She felt terrible about running away like this, but there was nothing she could do. Roddy wouldn’t be able to save her when Sheehan found her. Casting one last glance around the flat, she gathered her brother and her sack, opened the door, locked it behind them and pushed the key under it.
She was just about to start down the staircase when she heard the front door open. There were heavy footsteps in the entry and male voices. Three of them. She felt a tug on her skirt. “Fee …” Seamie started to say. She clapped a hand over his mouth and told him to be quiet. The voices were low; the words indistinct, but as one of the men moved closer to the stairs, she heard him quite clearly. “This is where the copper lives,” he said. “She’s bound to be ’ere, too.”
It was Sheehan.
She dug frantically in her pocket for the key to Roddy’s flat. She had to get inside; she had to hide Seamie. Where was the bloody key? She turned her pocket out, then she remembered that she’d pushed it under the door. Way under, so no one could get it. Panic-stricken, she knocked on the neighbor’s door as softly as she could. “Mrs. Ferris?” she whispered. “Mrs. Ferris … are you there? Please, Mrs. Ferris …” There was no answer. She tried the other door. “Mrs. Dean? Danny? Are you there?” No one answered. Either they weren’t home, or they couldn’t hear her.
She listened at the banister again. Snatches of conversation drifted up. “… on the second floor … need to take care of it… not ’ere … too much noise …” Suddenly, there were feet on the stairs. They’d be on the first landing in seconds, and then it was only one short flight of stairs to the second. Her fear turned into terror. She picked Seamie up, grabbed the flour sack, and dashed upstairs to the third landing, hoping that their heavy steps covered the sound of her own. She heard them
stop at Roddy’s door, then she heard scrabbling.
“Come on, ’urry it up,” Sheehan said. “My granny can pick a lock faster.”
When she heard the door open and the men go inside, she started up the last flight of stairs. If she could get out onto the roof, they could walk across to the neighboring building and hide behind the chimneys until Sheehan left. She reached the landing; it was piled high with rubbish – crates, buckets, burlap bags. A moldy old mattress, full of holes, was propped against the wall. She tried the door; it was locked. “Come on, come on …” she pleaded, twisting and tugging at the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. They were trapped. If Sheehan thought to look up here, they were done for.
She rooted in the flour sack for her father’s clasp knife and opened it with trembling fingers. She glanced at her brother, standing by the mattress wide-eyed and frightened. She held her finger to her lips and he did the same back to her, then she leaned over the banister to listen. She heard nothing; they must still be inside the flat. She leaned over farther, straining for some sound, some indication of what they were up to, when she suddenly heard Seamie utter a cry.
Only inches from his leg, a huge brown rat was wriggling out of a hole in the mattress. It sniffed at him and bared its teeth. Fiona ran over and jabbed at the animal with her knife. It snapped at her. She kicked the mattress and it withdrew. She quickly stuffed a rag into the hole, then returned to the railing. They were just coming out of the flat.
“Maybe O’Meara does know more than she put in the note, Bowler, but you’ll ’ave to work ’im over if you want to find out,” she heard one of them say. “ ’E’s not going to volunteer the information, is ’e?”
“I don’t touch coppers,” Sheehan replied. “They’re like bloody bees. Swat at one and the whole damn ’ive comes after you.”
There was some mumbling – Fiona couldn’t make it out – and then she heard Sheehan tell his men to check the roof.
The Tea Rose Page 22