"Crikey, India, is this really goodbye?" Ella asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Oh, Ella, I'm afraid so."
"But what'll I do without you? You're my best friend."
"And you're mine," India said, hugging her. "I'll write. As soon as we're settled."
"And you'll come back someday, won't you?"
"I hope so," India said, sniffling.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just feel like I'm leaving... well, everything! I wonder if I'll ever practice medicine again," she said, her voice quavering.
"Du hok a chainik!"
"My mother just told you that you're talking nonsense," Ella said.
"Are there no sick people in America?" Mrs. Moskowitz asked. "With all that gold in California, there must be plenty of money to pay for doctors."
"You're right, of course," India said, smiling. She kissed her on the cheek. "You were right about something else, too."
"What's that?"
"About love. You were right when you said you don't choose love, it chooses you."
"Don't tell her she's right, India! She'll be impossible!"
Mrs. Moskowitz swatted Ella with her wooden spoon. "Sid Malone is a good man," she said to India. "And he'll become a better one with you at his side."
She kissed India's forehead, then embraced her. She smelled of parsley and garlic and chicken. Of clean laundry and fresh bread. The tears India had been holding back spilled over. She had not felt so sad when she'd left Blackwood. But the crowded noisy flat above the caf�ad been more of a home to her than Blackwood ever had. And the Moskowitzes had been more a family to her than her own family.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Moskowitz," she said. "Thank you for everything."
Mrs. Moskowitz released her and hastily wiped her eyes on her apron. "Ich bin verklempt. Go now, zeeskyte, before my salty tears ruin the soup. And may God go with you."
"India."
India flinched. She recognized that voice. It was Freddie's. She turned around and gasped. She hardly recognized him. His forehead was horribly bruised and there was a long gash on his cheek.
"Freddie, what happened to you?"
"I need to talk to you. In private."
"I'm sorry, but I was just leaving."
"I'm afraid you can't do that. I'm here with these two constables"--he gestured to the two uniformed men behind him--"on official police business. Their superior, Alvin Donaldson, has allowed me to talk to you, to try to get you to do the sensible thing, the right thing."
"What are you talking about?"
Freddie turned to Mrs. Moskowitz. "Might I have a word with Dr. Jones in private?" he said. "Would you please leave us for a few moments?"
"I will not," Mrs. Moskowitz said. "This is my kitchen. I'm cooking. Go sit in the restaurant like everyone else."
"There are people dining in there and I require privacy. You may leave the kitchen voluntarily or these constables will escort you."
Mrs. Moskowitz threw her spoon in the sink. She took her soup pot off the stove, slammed it down on a table, then turned on her heel.
"Gai platz!" she said, pushing open the door to the dining room.
"Mama!" Ella hissed.
"What?"
"You told him to go explode, that's what!"
"He should. No one orders me about in my own kitchen! No one!"
The door slammed shut and India turned to Freddie. "That was very nice, Freddie," she said. "Almost as nice as getting me sacked, but not quite."
"I'm sorry. I had no choice. I need to speak to you."
"First tell me what happened to you."
"A woman was murdered last night. For a bit of cash and some jewelry. I saw it. I tried to stop it and was beaten. Her name was Gemma Dean. She was Sid Malone's former girlfriend, and it was Malone who killed her."
Though her heart was pounding, India's face betrayed nothing.
"And what, exactly, is that to me?"
"Quite a lot, I should think."
"Why have you come here, Freddie?"
"To stop you from running off with him."
Panic gripped her. How does he know? she wondered.
"What nonsense," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I barely know Sid Malone and have no plans to run off with him or with anyone else. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to see."
"India, the police know."
"About what?" she said lightly.
Freddie didn't reply; he just stood there, watching her face.
He's enjoying this, she thought, and her composure suddenly shattered. "I asked you a question. Answer me, damn it!"
"About your plans to meet Malone. To go away with him."
India's fear turned into full-blown terror. Sid was in terrible danger. But then she remembered that the police couldn't possibly know about the flat. Even if they strong-armed Sally, she couldn't have told them because she didn't know herself. India hadn't told her.
"They don't."
"They do. They know you're leaving today. How? It was easy. One of the officers, a local man, asked a few of your patients if his wife could go to you. They told him you wouldn't be here after today."
"They don't know where," India said frantically, "and they don't have an address."
"Actually, they do. Number sixteen Arden Street, Richmond Hill. That's what I was doing at Gemma Dean's. I've taken a personal interest in this case because of Joe Bristow, and I've been doing everything I can to help the police track Malone. I thought if one person might know his whereabouts, it would be Miss Dean. It's common knowledge that they were an item, and that's why I went to her flat. She knew; she'd followed Sid once. She managed to give me the location before she died."
India got to her feet, but Freddie was quicker. He rose, too, and blocked her way to the door.
"Get out of my way," she said.
"India, these constables have orders to keep you here until they receive word that Malone has been captured. If you try to leave, if you try to help him in any way, they will arrest you."
"Is this true?" India asked one of the officers.
"Yes, ma'am, it is," he replied.
India looked at Freddie. "You did this, you bastard," she said.
Freddie's emotion flared, too. "Yes, India, I did. For you, you bloody ungrateful woman. As soon as I learned what was going on, I begged Alvin Donaldson to keep you out of this mess. To keep you out of the newspapers and out of jail. Do you know what happens to people who help murderers? Do you want to lose your medical license? Do you want to go to prison?"
"He's not a murderer. He didn't shoot Joe Bristow and he didn't kill Gemma Dean. I know he didn't. You're lying, Freddie. Again."
"Stop being so blind! He is a murderer. It's not only me saying it. There are witnesses, for God's sake--Bristow's secretary and the cleaner--who swear it was Sid Malone who shot Joe."
"Why, Freddie? Why are you doing this? Do you hate him so much? Or is it me whom you hate?"
"Hate you? Hate you?" He stood close to her so that the officers could not hear him. "I care deeply about you, India. So much that I can't stand by while you destroy your life. You've been down this road before. Haven't you learned your lesson?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Hugh Mullins. He stole from your family and broke your heart, and he was only a thief. Sid Malone is ten times more dangerous. He shot Bristow in cold blood. He turned on Gemma Dean. He would have turned on you, too."
India said nothing. She sat back down at the table and lowered her face into her hands. She was sick to her very soul with fear for Sid. If only she could get out of here. If only she had some way to warn him.
"Would it have been so bad, India?" Freddie said quietly. "The two of us together? We would have had a proper marriage, children, friends, important work, a place in society. Everything."
India raised her head. "Everything? What about love, Freddie?"
"Yes, of course. I was going to say that--"
"No, you weren't."
"Can't you give me another chance, India? We could start again."
India had no capacity left to feel frights or shocks, or Freddie's words would have floored her. Here he was, sending the man she loved to his doom and trying to win her back at the same time.
She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Go to hell, Freddie."
Freddie colored. He was about to reply, but Ella knocked on the kitchen door and entered, stopping him.
"What is it?" he barked at her.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a woman just came to the clinic, Dr. Jones. She's eight months gone. Twins. She's begun to bleed. No contractions. Dr. Hatcher's seen her and thinks it might be placenta previa. She wants to send her to the hospital, but she wants your opinion first. I know this is not a good time, but it's a very serious case. Could you take a look at her?"
"Well, Freddie, can I?"
Freddie hesitated. He looked at the constables.
"It's a garden shed, gentlemen. It has a roof, walls, and a floor. I won't be tunneling out."
"I don't see why not," Freddie said. "We'll have to go with you, however. We'll turn our backs during the examination."
"Very well."
India walked out of the restaurant and into the kitchen with one constable ahead of her, and the second one, plus Freddie, behind her. Ella was walking next to her.
"Here are Dr. Hatcher's notes," she said, handing India a lined notebook. India gave her a puzzled look. They rarely took notes in the clinic. They couldn't afford the paper. She looked closer and saw that it was Miriam's lesson book. She opened it. One of the constables held the kitchen door open for her. She walked down the steps into the yard, flipping past page after page of cursive writing exercises. And then she saw them. Two lines. In Ella's handwriting: Mama earwigged. Get ready to run.
India had barely digested these words when all hell broke loose.
It began with a horrible sound--the deep, snarling bark of a bull terrier on the rampage.
"Mama!" Miriam screamed. "Help, Mama, help! Eddie got in! He'll kill us all!"
Kill us all? India thought. Eddie? He has no teeth!
The next thing she knew, the fearsome-looking dog was tearing around the yard after the orange tom, who had been pitched off its high perch.
"Gott in Himmel, do something!" Mrs. Moskowitz shrilled at the constables. "He'll tear the children limb from limb!"
The mothers and children, not knowing that Eddie was noisy but harmless, started to scream and scatter. Chairs and fruit crates went over. Infants were hoisted high. The two officers tried to corner the dog, but Eddie, maddened by the sight of the tom, plowed into one, flattening him, and skirted the other. He raced through the mountain of feathers from the plucked chickens, sending them into the air, careened off the wash pot and into the chicken coop. The wash pot went over and the door to the chicken coop fiew open. A dozen terrifled hens fiew out. The tom leaped on one, and Eddie leaped on the tom. India was blinking at the whirling ball of fur and feathers when she felt Ella's hands on her back.
"The door, Indy! Go!" she shouted.
Panicking, she looked back at the kitchen door. There was no one there.
"Here, India, over here!" a little voice piped. Solly was down at the bottom of the yard, waving at her furiously and holding open a door to a narrow alley that ran along the backs of the houses. India hitched up her skirts and ran. As soon as she was through, Solly slammed the door shut. He grabbed a plank, jammed one end of it against the door, and the other against the alley wall.
"Keep going!" he yelled. "Down there!" He pointed at the east end of the alley. Aaron was waiting there, standing in the back of a wagon.
"Hurry up!" he shouted. India ran to him, stumbling over the cobbles. "Get in," he said, reaching down for her.
She grasped his hand and he pulled her up. Her bag and jacket were already there. The driver tipped his hat to her. She recognized him. She'd delivered his wife of twins.
"Mr. Fein--" she said.
"Lie down behind the potatoes, Dr. Jones. Quickly, please. Before we all go to jail."
Large, fifty-pound burlap sacks were propped up inside the wagon. There was a small space behind them. India wedged herself in it. Aaron pushed her things in after her, then plugged the space with another sack.
"Can you breathe?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Herschel will take you as far as Covent Garden," Aaron said. "Hire a cab from there. There's still time. You can make it." He jumped out and banged on the side of the wagon.
"Go!"
India heard a whip crack and felt the horses strain forward in their traces. The wagon moved, then picked up speed. She guessed they were heading for the Commercial Road. If they made it, they would soon be lost in the ocean of traffic that flowed around Spitalfields Market. If only Herschel Fein could get her to Covent Garden! She would do as Aaron had said--hire a cab and pay the man to drive hell for leather to Richmond. She heard the bells from Christ Church again. It was eleven now. She had an hour. She needed a miracle.
Sid would come by cab, too. She was certain he wouldn't risk being spotted on public transport. He would come on the Upper Richmond Road, as she would, then turn onto Hill Street. She had to get there before he did. She had to stop him before he turned onto Arden Street. She closed her eyes, urging Herschel Fein on, hoping, praying that she was not too late.
Chapter 67
The cab stopped halfway up Richmond Hill, at the mouth of Arden Street. Sid peered down the street, eyes searching, ready to tell the driver
to move on at the first hint of anything suspicious. But there were no vans parked outside of Number 16, no carriages. There were no men painting the house or fixing the road. There was nothing out of the ordinary. He paid the driver and got out.
He heard the newsboys. Their cries carried up from the bottom of Richmond Hill.
"Actress murdered! Killer on a rampage! East End villain strikes again!"
He ducked his head and jammed his hands in his pockets. He'd discovered that he'd killed Gemma Dean the same way the rest of London had-- from the headlines. Had Frankie done for Gemma, too? Why, for God's sake? The poor girl was innocent. She'd never harmed him or anyone else. And why was he getting the blame?
He walked up the street, nerves jangling, muscles tensed for danger, but there was none. A cat strolled across the cobblestones. A woman was pruning her garden. Another was cleaning her stoop. A man oiled the hinges on his front gate.
Sid let out a deep breath--one he felt as if he'd been holding for the last three days. He'd gone to Sally Garrett's flat via the tunnels the night Joe was shot to eat and sleep, and she'd given him India's message. And then she told him how India had left her flat--just as he'd entered it. He knew how terrifled India was of the tunnels. He was almost unable to believe that she would do all that she had done--brave the tunnels, leave the clinic, her home, and go all the way to America--for him.
The man oiling his hinges doffed his hat. "Beautiful weather," he said.
Sid nodded back. "Aye, that it is."
He glanced up at their flat, at the big bay window. It was empty. India often stood in it, looking down the street, waiting for him. He let himself into the building, casting a wary glance about the foyer, then quietly walked up the stairs. He hoped she was ready to leave. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and London. He'd be nervous until the ship docked in New York, until they were able to disappear in the crowds and tumult of that city.
He paused at the door to the flat, leaned toward it, and listened. Nothing. He wondered if India had arrived yet. He opened the door and saw that she had. She was standing across the room in the big bay window, looking out of it. For me, he thought, smiling. She must've been just ahead of him, for he hadn't seen her there when he'd looked up just a moment ago.
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