The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

Bowler smiled. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Not if they t’ink you’re going to get out,” Roddy conceded. “But if I assure them you won’t, you’re done for. I hear Ronnie Black who owns that gin shop on Lamb Street was playing snooker when you arrived. T’ink he liked paying you off all these years? I bet he hates your guts. Bet he’d sing like a budgerigar. Bet any bloke in the room would. They’d love to get shut of you.”

  Bowler took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out. “What do you want?”

  “The truth. About Quinn. About Paddy Finnegan, too. I want you to say how the Finnegan murder happened. How William Burton put you up to it.”

  Bowler nodded. “That’s exactly ’ow it did ’appen! ’E put me up to it!”

  “I t’ought so,” Roddy said encouragingly. “Burton’s the one I really want.”

  Bowler leaned forward, eager now. “If I do this, what’s in it for me?”

  A place on the hangman’s dance card, Roddy thought. “I’ll take care of you, Bowler,” he said. “I’m not one to hide my appreciation. I’ll make sure the magistrate knows that you helped me out and I’ll do my best to get him to go easy on you. You’ll get prison instead of the gallows, with time off for good behavior. Ten, fifteen years, you’ll be a free man.” He paused, then said, “But if you refuse, I’ll call in every favor I’ve ever done, every debt I’m owed, to make sure you hang for Quinn.”

  Bowler sucked his teeth, deliberating. “All right,” he finally said. “I know when the game’s up. But if I’m going down, Burton’s coming with me. You ’ave some paper in this dog ’ole? A pen? Let’s get this over with.”

  Chapter 76

  Fiona, wearing a somber gray suit, hurried down Commercial Street, past Christ Church, and into a tumbledown pub called the Bells. It was an overcast morning, not quite six o’clock. A few workmen, hard types, sat at the bar, washing down meat pies or Scotch eggs with tea.

  “Fiona! Over here!”

  It was Roddy. He was seated at a table in the snug. He’d sent her a note last night asking her to meet him here. He said he had information pertaining to her father’s death. To their plan. He had a pot of tea and the remains of a cooked breakfast in front of him. She noticed he was unshaven and bleary-eyed. “You look like you haven’t slept. What happened?” she asked as she sat down.

  “More like what hasn’t happened,” he said wearily. “Got called out at two o’clock this morning.” He glanced around the room, then lowered his voice. “A body was found in an alley off Fournier Street. A prostitute. Her t’roat had been cut. A man heard her scream, went to help her, and found her dead.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “It sounds just like Jack.”

  Roddy scrubbed his face with his hands. “Aye, that it does,” he said. “And the papers are going to have a holiday with it. Reporters were crawling all over the crime scene trying to get information. We’re under orders not to give them anyt’ing, but that’s not stopping them. What they can’t find out, they just make up. Bloody Bob Devlin, the editor at the Clarion, will have the whole East End in a frenzy by evening. We’ve asked for reinforcements from Limehouse, Wapping, and Bow in case there’s trouble. But none of this concerns you, lass.” He paused as the barmaid brought a fresh pot of tea to the table and asked Fiona what she wanted to eat.

  “Nothing, thank you,” she said.

  “This time of day, snug’s only for customers who are dining,” the woman said sulkily.

  “Fine. Bring me a cooked breakfast.”

  “Do you want chipped potatoes or tomatoes –”

  “Everything. I want everything,” Fiona said, wanting the woman gone. She poured herself a cup of tea and sloshed in some milk while Roddy continued.

  “I asked you to come down here because I knew I wouldn’t be able to get to you today and I wanted to tell you what’s happened,” he said. “A few days ago, a man by the name of Dennis Quinn was murdered along with his girlfriend, Janey Symms.”

  Fiona nodded, uncertain what Quinn’s murder had to do with her father’s death.

  “It was Bowler Sheehan who did it. Another criminal, man by the name of Sid Malone, gave him to me. In a roundabout sort of a way.”

  “Malone?” Fiona repeated. “The same Sid Malone who tried to drag me down an alley once?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I don’t know for sure. Haven’t seen the bloke in ten years.” Roddy explained how Malone’s men had brought Reg and Stan to the station and how his own men had found Sheehan holed up in his sister’s house in Stepney. “I told him I had him for Quinn,” Roddy said, “but that I’d get the beak to go easy on him if he confessed to your father’s murder … and fingered William Burton.”

  Fiona clattered her teacup back into its saucer. Her eyes were enormous. “And did he?”

  “Aye.”

  She sat back in her chair, floored by this sudden turn of events. As she considered all the implications, she realized she didn’t have to wait six months for Nick’s shares. She didn’t need them. Sheehan’s confession would hang both himself and William Burton. “You can arrest Burton now, right? You can put him in prison and bring him to trial and hang him for what he did,” she said.

  Roddy hesitated. “I hope so, lass,” he said, “but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “But why?” she asked, distressed. “You have Sheehan’s confession.”

  “All I’ve really got is the word of a known criminal against that of a respected merchant. There were no eyewitnesses to your father’s murder. No way to prove what Sheehan says is true,” Roddy said. “I’ve done the best I could do. And maybe with a little luck, it’ll be enough. I’ve sent a pair of constables to Burton’s offices to apprise him of Sheehan’s confession and conduct a formal interview. Maybe we’ll get a miracle. Maybe he’ll confess. It’s happened before. A person can only live with murder on his conscience for so long before the guilt does him in.” He covered her hand with his own. “Try to have a little faith now.”

  Fiona nodded disconsolately. William Burton was not such a person and faith was not her strong point. She was close, so close to avenging her father’s death. Roddy had done so much. He’d put most of the puzzle pieces in place. Now all she needed was a bit of additional leverage, some way to trap Burton, to compel him to confess. But what?

  Her meal arrived. She picked at it. It’s all right, she told herself. No matter what, Roddy has Sheehan. He’s going to hang for what he did. And if Burton doesn’t confess, then you just go back to your original plan – Neville gets the shares and you use them to get Burton. She took a sip of tea, trying to quell her disappointment. Her eyes fell on Roddy’s newspaper. The Clarion. He’d placed it on the table. “Murder in Whitechapel!” the headline screamed. “Woman Slashed in Alley.” Below that was one about a brawl. “Twenty-Five Injured in Public House Melee.” And under that, “Scandal! Local Minister and Fallen Woman. Details on Page 5.” With headlines like these, the Clarion makes the New York papers look downright restrained, she thought. She read them again. For some reason, one word in particular jumped out at her.

  Scandal.

  It was a word she was well acquainted with. She’d married Nick to avoid one. And over the next six months she might well lose her tea business if her father-in-law made good on his threat to create another.

  Scandal.

  Shouted or whispered, it was a powerful word. Intimidating. Terrifying, even. Marriages were ruined by scandals. Businesses, reputations, lives. A mere threat could be devastating. People went to great lengths to prevent them. Threaten someone with a scandal and you had power over him. Leverage. Control.

  She pushed her plate aside. “We don’t need a miracle, Uncle Roddy,” she said quietly.

  “No?”

  “No. All we need is a friend at a newspaper. Any newspaper. How well do you know the man you mentioned? Devlin?”

  “Very well. We’ve done a lot of favors for one another over the yea
rs.”

  She opened her purse, placed a few coins on the table, and stood up. “Let’s go see him.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if he’ll help us engineer a scandal. We may not be able to convict Burton for my father’s murder, but we’re going to make people believe we can.”

  “I don’t understand. What will that do?” Roddy asked, balling up his napkin.

  “Everything, I hope. Come on, let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Roddy paused, his hand on the door to the Clarion’s offices. He turned to Fiona and said, “You know, lass, this just might work.”

  “It better, Uncle Roddy.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  He pushed the door open and they entered a long, noisy room containing the printing presses. It smelled strongly of oil and ink.

  “Come on,” he said, leading her toward a flight of stairs. “The newsroom’s this way.”

  He knew the building. He’d visited it many times. The Clarion was hardly the Times, but it was a feisty, two-fisted paper with a strong circulation. It broke all the local stories, many of which were picked up by the Times and other leading papers. It would serve their purpose well.

  Fiona had explained her plan to him. It was brilliant, but whether it worked or not depended entirely on Devlin. He was generally an all-right bloke, but he did have a stubborn streak. Just in case he proved to be in a balky mood today, Roddy had stopped by the station on the way over to pick up some insurance. A little present. Grease for the gears.

  Tobacco smoke hung thickly in the air of the newsroom, mingling with the smell of uneaten breakfasts. A dozen or so reporters sat hunched over desks typing, while in the middle of the room, a short man stood and yelled.

  “Call yourself a reporter, Lewis? You’re a peabrain! Where’s the detail? Where’s the color? You said her throat was cut? How long was the wound? How deep? Did he get the windpipe? Was there blood on the ground or did it soak into her clothes? These are the things our readers want to know. Now get out and don’t come back until you’ve got a real story for me.”

  “But, Mr. Devlin, sir, the police aren’t giving us a thing! I can’t get a look at the weapon. I can’t even get into the alley!”

  “Are you a man, Lewis? Have you got anything in those trousers? Stop whining and get the story! If the police won’t help you, find someone who will. A lodger in a neighboring building. The coroner’s assistant. The bloke who mopped the floor after the autopsy. A few coins in the right hand work wonders. Find a way!”

  The reporter, a lad of no more than eighteen or nineteen, slinked off, his head down, his cheeks burning. Devlin watched him go, shaking his head, then spotted Roddy.

  “Sergeant! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, walking over.

  “Got to talk to you, Bobby. In private.”

  Devlin nodded and ushered them into his office. Roddy introduced Fiona, then, before the man could start asking questions, said, “I’ve a story for you. A good one. And I need it to go on the front of tonight’s paper.”

  Devlin angled his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “That makes a change,” he said. “I’m used to you trying to keep the good stories out of the paper, not get them in. And with top billing, no less. What’s it about?”

  Roddy told him how a union leader named Patrick Finnegan had been murdered ten years ago, right before the dock strike, and that Bowler Sheehan had just confessed to the crime. The second suspect, he said, was William Burton – the tea merchant.

  Devlin frowned. “It’s an interesting story,” he said. “But the accusations can’t be proved. I’ll put it in if it helps you, but not on the cover. Page four, maybe. Murdered whore’s getting the cover. I’d hoped that’s what you were here about.”

  Roddy had anticipated a negative answer. “Come on, Bobby. I’ve done plenty of favors for you. Given you plenty of leads. I gave you the Turner Street Murders in ’96, remember?” he said. “Made your career, those did. And the Blind Beggar gang. You wrote a whole series of stories on those thieves. Got you promoted to editor.”

  Devlin, fiddling with a paperweight, huffed with irritation. “Why’s this story so important to you?”

  “Can’t tell you that. Not yet. Just do it for me, Bobby. I’m calling in me debts.”

  “It’s just not bloody enough! It happened ten years ago. It’s too old. People want fresh murders. Like the whore with her throat cut. Now that’s a good murder!”

  Roddy played his trump card. “There were two,” he said.

  Devlin stopped fiddling with the paperweight. “Two?”

  Roddy nodded. “The body found in Fournier Street last night was the second prostitute killed in a fortnight. Both had their t’roats cut.”

  “Jesus bloody Christ!”

  “We didn’t want a panic on our hands. We’ve tried to keep it quiet. Obviously, if you don’t know, we’ve done a good job.”

  “But how did you –”

  “We lied about the first victim’s profession. Said she was a seamstress. It was half true. It’s what she told everyone. We blamed her murder on a botched robbery.”

  “It’s the Ripper all over again!” Devlin said excitedly. “Where was the first one found? Same area? How old was she? Same type of knife used on both of them? Any other wounds? Any bruising?”

  Roddy answered by unbuttoning his jacket, reaching inside, and pulling out a sheaf of paper. “These are the coroner’s reports on both women.” Devlin reached for them, but he withheld them. “They’re yours … if you put Sheehan and Burton on tonight’s cover.”

  Devlin chewed his lip, deliberating. His curiosity finally got the better of him. As Roddy knew it would. “All right, all right,” he said.

  “And I need you to provide my colleague here, Mrs. Soames, with a hundred advance copies.”

  “Anything else you want? A picture of your kids on page two?”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes! Now give me the reports!”

  Roddy handed them over. “I need these brought back to me in an hour, Bobby. One hour. Send one of the new lads. Tell him to bring me a bacon sandwich. Fish and chips. Anyt’ing. Make it look like he’s delivering me dinner. He can’t look like a reporter. You got that? I’m taking a risk giving you these.”

  Devlin nodded, his eyes trained on the documents. “Listen to this, O’Meara. Throat cut left to right… trachea severed … esophagus, too … knife marks on the vertebrae … facial mutilation … possible attempt at evisceration … it’s him!” he said gleefully.

  Roddy stood. Fiona did, too. He noticed she looked pale. He wanted to get her out of there. Given how her mother had died, he doubted she shared Devlin’s enthusiasm for blood. – “You’ll give your readers a straight story on the whores, right, Bobby?” Roddy said. “You won’t do anything irresponsible, like blaming the murders on the Ripper when we all know he’s dead?”

  “Not a chance,” Devlin said, still reading.

  “Good,” Roddy said, relieved.

  Devlin looked up and grinned. “We’ll say it’s the Ripper’s ghost!”

  “I can’t believe this, Roddy,” Joe said softly. “Paddy Finnegan was murdered?”

  “Aye, lad. To keep the dockers from organizing.”

  Joe was silent for a few seconds, then said, “She needed me, Roddy. She needed me so badly. And I abandoned ’er. I turned my back on ’er. I didn’t ’elp ’er.”

  “Help her now. If you ever loved her, do what I’m asking.”

  “I will. And I’ll see to it that ’Arrods and Sainbury’s and a dozen others follow suit. ’E won’t get away with this. Not if I ’ave anything to do with it.”

  “Thank you, lad. I knew I could count on you. I want to buy her a little insurance. From you and your fellow merchants. And from the union lads.” He stood. He was in Joe’s office, in Covent Garden, and he had a long ride ahead of him. “I’ve got to go.
I’ve still got to find Pete Miller, the head of the Wapping local.”

  “Roddy, wait.”

  “Aye?”

  “Where is she?”

  Roddy shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Please, Roddy.”

  “I don’t t’ink she wants to see you, lad.”

  “Let ’er tell me that. Let ’er tell me ’erself and I’ll never bother ’er again.”

  “You can’t just barge in on her, Joe!” Roddy said angrily. “Jaysus! Don’t you t’ink she’s got enough on her mind tonight without you turning up at her door?”

  “I won’t go tonight. I’ll go tomorrow. When it’s over. I want to go right now, I won’t lie to you. But I won’t. You ’ave my word.”

  Roddy stared at him. “The Savoy,” he finally said. He was about to remind him of his promise, but Joe didn’t give him the chance.

  “Trudy!” he bellowed, running past him to his secretary’s office. “Get me ’Arrods on the line. Right away!”

  Lowering rain clouds, dark and ominous, swept in upon London. A sharp wind whipped them along, scudding them inland from the Thames, over the riverside slums, westward over City counting-houses, and farther inland still, over Westminster and St. James’s – rarefied enclaves of privilege and power.

  A storm’s coming, Fiona thought, from the east. She could smell the river on the wind. Had that same wind which now swept about her gusted through the bleak streets of Whitechapel? she wondered. Had it blown through the thin walls of the crumbling houses there, through the ragged clothes of the people in them? Was it just her imagination, or did the wind carry the bitter stench of poverty?

  Two men, well-dressed and well-fed, hurried by her and disappeared into White’s, the exclusive gentleman’s club outside of which she now stood. Her father-in-law, Lord Elgin, the Duke of Winchester, was inside, too. He dined there nightly. She knew this because Nick had told her the man spent more time at his club than he did in his home.

  If all went well, in a matter of mere minutes she would come face-to-face with him. And then everything would depend upon her. Upon her ability to act, to posture, to feign a certainty about money and markets and the habits of English investors, to bluff a man who was the head of one of England’s most powerful banks, a man more sophisticated in the ways of finance than she could ever hope to be. How on earth would she do it? She was terrified of failing when so much was at stake.