The Winter Rose (18 page)

He'd betrayed her then, and a part of her felt like he was betraying
her now by forcing her to ignore her heart, to turn her back on her
brother. He had never lost family, but she had. She knew the searing
pain of burying her own blood. She had buried her father, her mother,
her infant sister, and she was determined that she would not do the same
for Charlie.

She sighed heavily, knowing it had to stop--the harsh words, the
arguments. This was the second time they'd fought over Charlie. It
wasn't good. Not for them, not for Katie. She knew there was only one
way to make that happen. She had to stop searching for Charlie--and
bloody well find him.

When she returned from Paris, she would redouble her efforts. She
would try Wapping's riverside pubs, Whitechapel's gambling dens. She
would go on foot, dressed in shabby clothes. She would be careful, of
course she would. She wasn't a fool. She knew as well as anyone how
dan-gerous the dark streets of London could be, but like her brother,
she also knew how to survive them.

"It'll be all right," she said, still talking to Joe. "You'll see.
I'll find him. I will. Nothing will happen to me. Charlie wouldn't let
it."

But Joe wasn't there to answer. He wasn't there to tell her that she
was headstrong and blinded by love, and that her words were at best
foolish, at worst dangerous.

And so Fiona made a bad mistake.

She believed them.

"Home Rule is defeatist politics, that's what it is! It's
capitulation!" bellowed Sir Stuart Walton, a sugar baron with a refinery
in Whitechapel, as he ripped a leg off his truffled roast quail.

A round of "Hear! Hear!"s rose from the assembled company of
mer-chants and manufacturers. Freddie held his hands up for silence. He
was standing, not sitting. He'd left the table to pace the room. He
could never sit still when talking politics.

"I understand your views completely, Sir Stuart," he said, "but if I
may beg your indulgence ...if I may ask you to think not only as a loyal
subject, but also as the brilliant businessman we all know that you
are..."

There were more cheers at that, the sound of crystal glasses
clinking. Sir Stuart flapped a hand. Freddie continued, "Ireland demands
much in terms of money and manpower, and unlike India or South Africa,
it gives a poor return on the investment. There is no cotton to be had
from it. No tea or coffee. No diamonds, gold, or sugar. Home Rule will
give the truculent Irish self-government--limited self-government--but
still allow Britain to collect taxes. We don't feed the cow, we don't
shelter the cow, but we take the cow's milk. It's good business, Sir
Stuart, you can't deny it. And today-- at the dawn of a new century--an
international century which finds Britain competing like never before
against Germany, Russia, France, and the colossus that is America, good
business is good government."

"Absolutely right, my boy!" shouted John Phillips, a paper manufacturer.

There were shouts of approval, words of encouragement, applause. Even
Sir Stuart nodded, seemingly mollified. John Phillips stood, wiped his
mouth, and proposed a toast.

"To Freddie Lytton," he said. "He understands us, he speaks for us,
and I, for one, want him to represent us. Freddie, my boy, you have my
full support."

Another chorus of "Hear! Hear!"s went up. Glasses were raised. Nearly
all of them. Freddie smiled warmly, but his sharp eyes were busy. He
noted that Edwin Walters, a button manufacturer, hadn't raised his, but
only because he was motioning for a refill. Donald Lamb, who owned a
silver-plating works, hadn't either, because he'd dropped a roll in his
lap and was busy retrieving it. Joe Bristow had not raised his glass
either, but he seemed to have no reason for not doing so. He was sitting
back in his chair, an unreadable expression on his face.

"What does Home Rule do for East London, Freddie?" he finally asked
when the cheering died down. "What does it do for dockers and matchgirls
and charladies in Whitechapel and Wapping and Limehouse?"

Freddie's smile tightened. He should have expected as much from
Bris-tow. He was a merchant, but he didn't act like one. He didn't
complain about taxes. He didn't demand that the government control
unions and jail striking workers. Instead, he championed labor's causes.
It was bloody irri-tating. Bloody perverse.

"Well, Joe, as you know, quite a few of my constituents, and your
workers, are Irish. By speaking for Home Rule, I speak for them.
Ireland's con-cerns are their concerns. Surely you see that?"

"No, Freddie, I don't," Joe said. "If an Irishman's in East London,
then he's no longer in Ireland, is he? Why has he left? To find work. To
earn higher wages. So he can feed and clothe his kids. Keep them in
school instead of sending them into the factories. He doesn't give a
damn if West-minster's rowing with Dublin. He wants to know he can join a
union without getting sacked. What are you going to do for him?"

"I'm very glad you asked that," Freddie said, practiced and smooth.
"The answer is this: as much as I possibly can. I've already embarked on
an am-bitious agenda of social reform in the East End. I've recently
secured a do-nation to the Toynbee Mission Girls' School, as I'm sure
you know, and I'm working closely with a young doctor in Whitechapel on
an idea of mine to open free clinics for expectant mothers and babies.
I'm looking into milk allowances for infants, a program of health and
hygiene instruction for primary-school children, and I'm chairing a
committee on how to promote better school attendance among poor children
of all ages. There's more to my plan, so much more, but I see that the
waiters are trying to bring out the Beef Wellington, and I fear I shall
have an insurrection on my hands if I delay them a minute longer."

Joe looked as if he wished to say more, but laughter from the other
guests curtailed further questions--as Freddie had known it would.
Phillips, Wal-ton, and all the rest were more concerned about their beef
growing cold than they were about transplanted Paddies who couldn't
even vote.

Freddie took his seat again and smiled, pleased. It was shaping up to
be a successful evening--despite Joe Bristow. Freddie calculated that
he'd bought himself the support of nearly every man here--about forty in
all-- and by extension the votes of their enfranchised East London
workers, which would total in the thousands. His guests were certainly
enjoying themselves--eating and drinking, laughing and talking.

He'd certainly given them plenty to talk about. Earlier in the
evening, he'd spoken at length on his anti-crime measures and his strong
support for the Employers' Parliamentary Council--an organization that
existed to curb the advances made by workers and their unions. He'd made
sure that when answering Joe's questions, he kept his concessions to
workers fo-cused on children. Even the most grasping employers realized
that today's slum children were tomorrow's dockworkers, and that
ignorance and hunger would leave them too stupid to read the label on a
tea chest and too weak to lift it. The hardest sell of the evening had
been Home Rule, but he'd even managed to make that palatable.

Freddie commended himself on his decision to host the dinner at his
club. There was something about the Reform Club, something that
imme-diately put a man at ease, made him feel genial and expansive. No
matter how terrible a day he'd had, Freddie always felt better when he
walked through its doors. Perhaps it was the smell--leather mixed with
wine, wood, and tobacco. Perhaps it was the calming presence of the
waiters-- polite, unobtrusive souls who always knew what he wished to
eat and drink, and brought it, before he himself did. Perhaps it was the
company-- all fellow Whigs with whom he could talk politics endlessly.
Or perhaps it was the refreshing lack of women.

The Reform was a club for members of the Liberal Party. Built of
Port-land stone in the style of an Italian palazzo, its exterior was
solid and com-manding, its interior spare and masculine, totally devoid
of feminine clutter. It was an oasis, a place where men could escape
their wives and mistresses. Where they could sit in comfortable chairs
by a blazing fire and read the papers with a glass of port and a plate
of Stilton, undisturbed. A place where they could speak freely and
colorfully, without worrying about offending feminine sensibilities.

Freddie had reserved a private room for his guests. He had told the
chef to spare no expense on the food, the wine, or the cigars. And it
had paid off. He was just beginning to relax, to enjoy the meal, when a
waiter bent to his ear and quietly informed him that a visitor, a
detective, wished to see him.

Freddie followed the waiter downstairs to a small reception room.
Alvin Donaldson was waiting for him. He was Freddie's man. He paid some
vil-lains for information, knocked it out of others, and generally kept
Freddie apprised of laws bent or broken by both sides--the villains and
the police.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Donaldson said, skipping a greeting, "but
there's been a robbery on the river and I thought you'd want to know."

"Where?" Freddie asked tersely.

"The Stronghold Wharf."

"Damn it!" That was in Limehouse. His constituency.

"It's a big one. A large shipment of guns was taken. No one knows
exactly how or exactly when, but they were stolen. No doubt about it.
And the papers are all over it."

"Bloody hell! It's Malone!" Freddie said, furious. "You know it is! Arrest him! I want his head!"

"We can't arrest him. We have suspicions, that's all. Nothing concrete."

"Find something!"

"We don't even have a witness."

"Get one! Pay somebody, can't you? How much do you need?" he asked, reaching for his wallet.

Donaldson laughed. "There isn't enough money in all of London to pay a man to finger Sid Malone. You know that, Mr. Lytton."

Freddie swore again. He ran a hand through his hair. This was a
disas-ter. He'd just spent the evening, and a small fortune, trying to
convince forty important businessmen--all of whom owned premises on or
near the river--that he was tough on crime, that he had the criminal
element under control. What would they think when they saw the morning
papers?

"I want him in jail by tomorrow morning."

"But--"

"I said I want him in jail. Since you can't seem to nab him for any
robberies, find something else. Does he beat his horse? Kick his dog?
Are his bloody library books overdue? Get something on him, Donaldson.
Don't disappoint me or I'll make some other crooked detective rich," he
said, slapping two ten-pound notes into the man's hand.

Then he left Donaldson to pocket his cash and rejoined his guests.

"Everything all right?" the man on his left asked him. He owned two breweries in Whitechapel and a wharf in Wapping.

"Right as rain," Freddie said, smiling. "A bit of government business
to attend to, that's all." He took a deep breath, cut into his beef,
and pretended to enjoy it. His nerves were humming, but he couldn't show
it. Hopefully his twenty-pound bribe would motivate Donaldson. If he
found a reason to arrest Malone, if the man was already in jail when the
story broke, then he--Freddie--might just come out of this a hero.

And if not? he asked himself. Well then, old mole, he thought, you've
just guaranteed a win come election time ...for Dickie Lambert.

"You still here, Dr. Jones?" asked Bridget Malloy, matron of the
London Hospital's casual ward, where the poorest patients were tended.
"I thought

you'd finished your rounds."

"I have, but I want to stay for a bit to check up on the little girl
who came in an hour ago. Mary Ellerton. Admitted as an emergency.
Couldn't catch her breath. She's stable now, but I'm still worried,"
India replied, flip-ping back pages on her clipboard to get to the notes
she'd taken.

"TB?"

"I think so."

"Has she had any treatment? Have the parents done anything at all for her?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. They gave her a fried mouse to eat."

Sister Malloy laughed. "I can't believe that one's still around. It was old when I was a girl."

India did not laugh. "I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen
it once myself. As a student. I also saw a child fed live maggots to
cure her of tu-berculosis. Another was made to walk seven times around a
donkey to ease her whooping cough."

"Well, at least little Mary Ellerton got a bite of meat," Sister Malloy said.

"What could her mother have been thinking? Frying vermin..."

"You've children yourself, have you, Dr. Jones?"

"No, I haven't." People were always asking that. It drove her mad.

"Ah, well," Sister Malloy said. As if that explained everything.

It didn't. Not to India. " �Ah, well' what?" she pressed.

"Mrs. Ellerton's a very poor woman, isn't she? The poor don't have money, but they have mice."

"Sister Malloy, I deplore such willful ignorance. Surely you don't de-fend it?"

Sister Malloy's pale blue eyes regarded India. The look in them
sug-gested that she indeed deplored willful ignorance, but not in Mrs.
Ellerton.

"Dr. Jones," she said, "it's a terrible thing to love a child and see
her suf-fer and not be able to do anything for her. Frying a mouse is
doing some-thing. Not the best thing, I'll admit, but something. It's
only an old wives' tale to you and me, but to a poor desperate mother
whose child is failing... well, it's hope, isn't it?"

India was just about to lecture her on the diseases mice carried when
a junior sister came flying down the corridor. "Dr. Jones!" she yelled.
"You're needed on the emergency ward, ma'am."

"Stop shouting, Evans," Sister Malloy ordered.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

"Is it Mary Ellerton?" India said, starting down the corridor.