What did it take to put the man away? He'd lit into Donaldson just the other day, asking him why he still hadn't arrested the bastard, but Donald-son said he had to have something on him first, something that would stick. Malone was too clever, too cautious, to get himself caught. Donaldson had said that he was putting on the pressure, though. He'd destroyed one of Malone's pubs, the Bark, with a trumped-up warrant, and had arrested two of his associates--Nicky Lee and Charlie Zhao--for peddling smuggled opium. They would both do time.
"Patience," Donaldson had said. "We'll get him yet. You'll see."
"Gemma, you can't be serious," Freddie said now, working to keep his voice even. "Malone's a bloody criminal!"
"You want to watch your mouth. Sid Malone's a gentleman. He treats me a lot better than you ever did. And I'll tell you something else. I'm not your only woman friend who keeps company with him."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your intended was with him the other night."
"Who?"
Gemma rolled her eyes. "Blimey, Freddie, the woman you're marrying? Remember her? The doctor?"
"India? With Sid Malone?" Freddie laughed out loud. "Maybe you ought to pawn those earrings for a pair of specs, Gem."
"I know it was her. She came to the Bark. I saw her leave."
"I'm sure you did."
"I can prove it. She wanted him to do something for her. I'm not sure what. Sid wouldn't tell me. All he'd say was that they had a business deal. I know one of the blokes who was sitting near them, though. He overheard their conversation and said it had to do with rubber johnnies. Hardly sounds right, though, does it? Her coming all the way to the Bark to ask the likes of Sid Malone for rubber johnnies?"
Freddie stopped smirking. It sounded exactly right--exactly like the sort of women's welfare bollixy do-gooding rubbish India would get involved with.
"I guess he must've told her a high price for whatever it was she wanted," Gemma continued. "And she must not have had the dosh because she gave him her watch. I saw it on his night table. It had Think of me on the back. Now, am I right or not?"
"Yes, Gem, you are," he said slowly, turning this piece of news over in his mind.
Gemma lifted her chin. "He's going to marry me, Freddie. Sid Malone is going to make me his wife."
"Congrats, old girl," he said, forcing a smile. "Let's see the ring."
Gemma hesitated. "I don't have it quite yet. I haven't picked it out," she said.
Gemma was a good actress, not a great one, and Freddie could see that she was lying. Sid Malone had no intention of marrying her, but she wanted to hurt him. She wanted to make him jealous. He would let her. It might get him what he wanted.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and took her hand. "I'm happy for you, Gem," he said, smiling ruefully. "Sad for myself, though. If only my life were my own, things would have been different. So very different."
"What are you on about?"
"You and I. We could have made a go of it."
"That's not what you said a few weeks ago, Freddie. You told me you were getting married--and not to me."
"I don't love her, Gemma, you know that. I love you, but it's impossible," Freddie lied.
"Why?"
"Because I need India's money. MPs don't make much. The job is about public service, not private gain, but it's hard to fight the good fight, to try to make England, and indeed the world, a better place when you can't even pay the rent on your own flat."
"Oh, Freddie, how absolutely full of shit you are. You can't fool me. I know you, remember? You're a competitive, power-mad man who needs money to finance his ambitions. You don't want to make the world a better place, you just want to rule it." She leaned forward and kissed him. "And you will one day. So I'd better get into your good books now. I'll do what you ask. I'll get some girls together on Saturday. Cause a few ructions."
"Really, Gem? You'd do that for me?"
"No, but I'd do it for fifty quid."
He wanted to slap her. It was an outrageous sum. Instead he said, "Thanks, Gemma, truly. I'll have the money for you next time I see you."
"You'd better."
He kissed her goodbye and left the Gaiety. Out on Commercial Street he searched for a hackney. Where was he going to get fifty quid for Gemma? The dinner he'd hosted at the Reform Club a few weeks ago had all but bankrupted him. The thought of his debts weighed heavily on him, as did Joe Bristow's campaign, but more troubling than any of those was Gemma's news about India. She was trying to get her hands on contracep-tives. She must be forging ahead with her mad scheme for a clinic--which could mean only one thing: that she wasn't pregnant, for she obviously didn't intend to stop working any time soon.
"Damn it!" he swore. Everything had been going so well, and now it was all wrong again. The Home Rule debacle had nearly destroyed him. He was broke. And Isabelle was being troublesome. She was pleased that a wed-ding date had been set, but was adamant that no monies would be paid, or property transferred, until India had given up medicine.
"What the hell am I going to do?" Freddie asked himself, pacing in the street, his arm outstretched for a cab.
He tried to think of an answer, but all that came to mind was rubber johnnies. What a thing to be thinking about at a time like this. But he couldn't get them out of his head. There was something in all this, some-thing he was missing, but what?
A cabbie driving in the opposite direction noticed him and signaled that he would turn around. Freddie nodded at him. "Calm down, old boy. Calm down and think," he told himself.
He reviewed it all again. He still couldn't believe that India had enlisted Sid Malone's help. Malone of all people. She despised him. So why had she gone to him? He would ask her. In fact, he would take her to task for this. Tell her that someone had seen them together and had told him. It was completely unacceptable, her consorting with the likes of Malone. It was utter madness.
There must be a reason, a damn good one, for her to have taken such a measure. But what was it? The more Freddie thought about it, the more he saw that his assumption that India would use the devices in her clinic was wrong, because there was no clinic. Not yet. He knew she was putting aside money from her wages to fund the clinic, and he knew that those savings did not amount to much. Why would she spend the precious little money she had on supplies when the clinic wasn't even open?
Was she going to use the devices at Gifford's surgery? That was a more likely explanation. But if she was, why hadn't she just ordered them from a medical supplier?
And then it hit him. She doesn't want Gifford to know.
Gifford must be against it, he thought. It would make sense that he was. He was terribly upright. A bit of a relic, actually. India must be planning to prescribe them without his knowledge.
Freddie watched the hackney carefully turn around in the middle of the street, and decided to do a bit of an about-face himself. He wouldn't con-front India about this. Not yet. He would bide his time. Something inside him told him to stow this information away for now. It would serve him better later.
The cab finally pulled up beside him. As he climbed in, he felt a bit calmer. He thought of Gemma and her promise to help him. At least he'd come up with a solution to Joe Bristow. What cheek Bristow had, waltzing into his constituency, denouncing him to all and sundry. Freddie had tried fair means of stalling Joe's progress--arguing the issues, pointing up Bris-tow's lack of experience--and foul. He'd also paid Donaldson to get some of his lads to smash up Joe's headquarters and rip down his flyers. They'd be at the Labour rally, too. Some in street clothes ready to stir things up; others in uniform waiting to arrest law breakers. With any amount of luck, Donaldson's lads and Gemma and her friends would turn the event into a free-for-all.
As the cab rolled west down busy Commercial Street, Freddie glimpsed a pub called the Red Earl. There were more than a few of them in England. They were named in honor of his ancestor, Richard Lytton. The sign outside this pub showed Lytton in armor, holding a
sword. His expression was heart-less, fearless, remorseless. He looked like a man who could do whatever it took to get what he wanted. A man who would win no matter the cost.
It comes in handy to be a Lytton at times like these, Freddie thought. He had no conscience whatsoever about scheming to break up the Labour rally and disgrace Joe Bristow. All was fair in love and war. And the contest for the Tower Hamlets seat was indeed turning into a war.
As he passed by his ancestor, he smiled at him. "Buck up, old boy," he said to himself. "A Lytton brought the Scots to heel, and the Welsh. And a Lytton will bring East London to heel, too. No matter the cost."
Chapter 27
"Ah, Whitechapel in the summer," Ella said, sidestepping a heap of freshly deposited horse manure. "There's no place lovelier."
India, following her, waved her hat in front of her face as she walked, trying to cool herself. "Why am I doing this?" she wondered aloud. "I'm only fanning the stinks."
Privies and drains, the odd dead dog, market refuse, and the July heat had combined to create an unholy stench. During summer's first hot days, India had felt like retching as she'd walked through the narrow streets and alleys. She'd gotten used to it, however. She'd had to. Whitechapel was not about to accommodate her, so she'd learned to accommodate it.
She walked without her jacket now, and with her sleeves rolled up. She hadn't bothered to roll them down after seeing her last patient, and didn't intend to do so now. It was cooler this way. Her cheeks were pink with the heat, her hair was springing loose from its twist. Her blouse was sodden. She was sweaty and exhausted. She and Ella looked less like doctor and nurse and more like two charladies.
"I could murder a lemon squash. I hope my mother's made some," Ella said.
"I hope she's made a tubful. I could bathe in it," India said.
It was late afternoon. She and Ella were in Stepney, walking back to Whitechapel after seeing their last patient of the day, a child with dysen-tery. They were seeing many such cases these days as the heat, combined with the unsanitary conditions in so many shops and homes, meant that children were eating tainted food. India knew from several studies, and now from her own experience, that the mortality rate among Whitechapel's children would skyrocket before leveling off again in the autumn.
"Ella, look at this," India said, tugging on her arm. She pulled her over to an old brick building. It was enormous. Five stories tall. At least forty feet wide. "It's for sale. See the sign?"
They both read it. The building was a former bakery and the owner was asking �4,000.
"We don't even have four hundred pounds," Ella said. "And even if we did have four thousand, Wish wouldn't let us buy it. It's too dear. He told us we have to stick to the plan. Weren't you listening?"
"Yes, I was," India sighed. "But it's such a nice, big place."
"We'll find another nice, big place. First we need to raise twenty-five thousand pounds."
India and Ella had met Wish again two nights ago at the caf�He had a banker's draft for �100 with him, donated by an old school friend of his, and a rudimentary business plan. He would triple the �5,000 India had invested in his Point Reyes project and put it into an account. Meanwhile they would all work like demons to solicit another �10,000 in donations. Once they had that, Wish would require them to add �5,000 of it to India's �15,000--giving them a total endowment of �20,000. That money he would never allow them to touch. It would go into an aggressive investment ac-count which would return ten percent annually. They would use that return, roughly �2,000, to run the clinic--to pay staff salaries, utilities, and rates, and to buy supplies.
He would allow them to spend the remaining �5,000 of donation money thus: �2,000 on a building, �2,000 on repairs, and �1,000 on furnishings and supplies. He made no bones about the fact that for the first few years of its life the clinic would be run on a shoestring, but he also said that once it was open they would continue to seek donations. These would be added to the endowment. The original �20,000 would grow, the returns on it would grow, and so would the clinic's operating budget. He saw no reason that the endowment wouldn't one day reach �200,000, giving them �20,000 a year to spend on their patients.
"Twenty thousand a year to spend," India said now, peering into one of the building's windows. "Can you imagine? Think we'll ever get there?"
"Not if we don't get busy and get ourselves more money," Ella said. "Come on, let's go."
They crossed Shandy Street, with its Saturday market, planning to head to Ella's house. The restaurant would be closed today for the Sabbath, when cooking, and work of any nature, was forbidden, but they were hoping there might be some leftover brisket from the Moskowitzes' Friday night supper.
Ella warned India that there would be a lecture to endure. Her mother was frum, observant of the rules of her faith, and was unhappy whenever Ella went to work on the Sabbath.
"What am I supposed to do?" she said now. "Tell a woman with a baby coming to wait until Sunday? If a woman labors, I labor. If God doesn't want me out on the Sabbath, He should stop sending babies to be born on the Sabbath." She sighed. "You'll stick up for me, won't you, Indy?"
"Not a chance. While you're being scolded, I'm going to sneak into the kitchen and make a start on that brisket."
Ella cocked her head. "Why, Dr. Jones, I do believe you're joking again! That's twice in a week. Better be careful or people will think you've a sense of humor."
India made a face at her. They got to the end of Shandy Street, turned left onto Horse Lane, and headed toward Stepney Green. They'd planned to take a shortcut through the green, then walk west to Brick Lane, but as they approached it they found that the green was jam-packed with people.
"I wonder what's going on?"
"I think it's a rally for the Labour Party. I remember my father saying something about it."
"Oh yes, you're right. Freddie mentioned it. He said that Joe Bristow was going to be speaking. The man who's challenging him for the Tower Hamlets seat. One of them. He said that--"
"Jones! Windy Indy Jones! Over here!"
India whirled around. She knew that voice. She turned, eyes searching, and spotted a young woman in a fashionable straw hat making her way to-ward her through the crowd.
"Why, Dr. Hatcher, what an unexpected pleasure," she said, as the woman joined them. She hadn't seen Harriet, a fellow alumna, since their graduation day.
"Windy Indy?" Ella echoed.
"A childhood nickname that followed me to medical school," India explained. "Good old Harriet heard Wish use it once and made sure it stuck. Dreadful, isn't it? And completely undeserved."
"I don't know, India, I rather think it suits you," Ella said mischievously.
India introduced Ella and Harriet, then commented on the size of the crowd that had assembled on the green.
"I came to hear Mrs. Pankhurst," Harriet said. "Have you heard her speak?"
India said she had.
"She's brilliant, isn't she?" Harriet said passionately. "She'll do it, you know. She'll get us the vote. Mark my words." She squinted up at the podium. "Is the Honorable Member here?"
"Hardly," India said. "It's a Labour rally, Harriet."
"But he should have Mrs. Pankhurst on his side. I thought Freddie was an enlightened politician. A new breed of leader. The future of the Liberal Party. That's what The Times says. Doesn't he believe in woman suffrage?"
India looked uncomfortable. "Of course he does. In theory, if not in practice."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"He wants women to have the vote, just... not yet. He believes that the Liberals are too vulnerable to fight on too many fronts at one time. He thinks they must first consolidate power and win back the premiership. And once that is accomplished, then they can fight for woman suffrage."
"Sounds like bollocks to me."
"I'll make sure to tell him that."
"I cannot imagine why you're marrying him, Indy. The two of you are like chalk and chee
se. No, that's not true. I can imagine why. Have you met him, Ella?"
"No, I haven't."
"He's absolutely glorious. Charming, handsome ...the most golden of golden boys. Every woman in our class got hot and bothered whenever he came to call on India."
"Harriet!" India exclaimed, blushing.
Harriet smiled devilishly. "Oh, right! Sorry, I forgot. We women don't have those sorts of feelings, do we? Not if we're moral and decent and up-standing. That's what old Brearly says."
"Oh, here we go," India said.
Harriet affected the stern, sonorous voice of Dr. Anthony Brearly, their anatomy professor. "Vagina, a narrow conduit between the vulva and the cervix, composed largely of muscle, devoid of nerve tissue. Clitoris, an extraneous appendage, useless to the process of reproduction. A locus of mental instability in women, its removal is often recommended in the treatment of hysteria, psychosis, and persistent nymphomania..." She burst into laughter, then said, "Extraneous to him, maybe. Couldn't bloody live without mine."
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