The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "But that can't be," India said. "I've just come from operating on him and he's unconscious. He hasn't spoken at all."

  "Not him. The old one. Lytton."

  Oh God, not Freddie, India thought. She knew how deeply he hated Sid. He'd obviously seen his chance to go after him and he'd taken it.

  "I saw him standing on the steps of the MP's office not two hours ago. He was giving statements to the papers. Telling anyone who'd listen that Sid Malone had done for Joe Bristow, that it was an outrage and not to be borne by decent folk. He was up there making out like he was all broken up over what had happened to Bristow, when only a few weeks ago, he was slagging him off."

  "Mrs. Garrett..."

  "Now, them what are the real villains wouldn't turn Sid in for any amount of money, but there are those round here who'd sell their mothers for tuppence. And Willie Dobbs is one. He's in a great deal of trouble, Sid is."

  "I know he is, Mrs. Garrett. That's why I'm here. To ask you if you've any idea where he might be."

  Sally shrugged. "The usual places, I'd guess. The Bark, the Taj, the Beggar..."

  "I've been to all of those."

  "You went to them places?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that was bloody stupid of you," Sally said angrily.

  "But why? I want to help him," India said, stung.

  "In case you haven't noticed, you don't exactly blend in round here. Woman like you popping into the Bark or the Taj is bound to draw attention. Bound to start tongues wagging. The rozzers aren't entirely daft. They know a villain will surface for two things--his money and his mistress. Nobody knows where Sid keeps his pile, but now, thanks to your antics, they know who his fancy lady is. They don't even need Willie Dobbs, they've prob'ly been following you. You want to help him, dearie? Go back to Mayfair or Knightsbridge or wherever it is you're from and stay the hell away from him."

  India looked at the floor. She cleared her throat, then softly said, "I have a letter. I hoped you might be able to give it to him."

  "You hoped wrong. If Dobbs does bring the police here, they'll tear me flat apart. They always do."

  India reached into her doctor's bag and drew out an envelope. "Please," she said.

  Sally snatched it from her and threw it onto the fire. India watched helplessly as it burned.

  "You'll put us all in danger now, you daft girl! No letters! Just tell me what it is you want him to know. I'll give him the message."

  "Tell him to meet me at the flat on Friday at noon. We'll leave from there."

  "That's it?"

  "Yes, that's it." Sally might think her foolish, but she was smart enough not to mention the Arden Street address if she didn't have to.

  "If I see him I'll tell him," Sally said. "Now it's time for you to be on your way."

  She opened the door to let India out, then quickly slammed it shut.

  "The police are here," she said. "All thanks to you. Going to give me flat a right going over, I just know it. If they put me in jail, I won't be able to visit Raysie in the hospital, and he lives for me visits. Come on," she said, pulling on her sleeve.

  "Where are we going?"

  "I'm not going anywhere. You are, though. You're leaving."

  "But the door..."

  "Not that way. Through the tunnels. I'll tell the police Dobbsie's imagining things. That no one came to see me. I'm not getting nicked today. Not over the likes of you."

  "The tunnels?" she repeated, paling. "But I don't ...I n't go down

  ca

  there."

  There was a battering on Sally's door.

  "Sorry," she said. "You've no choice."

  "I can't do this. I don't know my way," India said two minutes later. She was hunched in the tunnel, clutching her doctor's bag, peering back at Sally through the old wardrobe.

  A fresh volley of pounding was heard above them.

  "You want the Blind Beggar," Sally said. "It's a quarter of a mile. Take two rights, a left, and then the path curves right again. You'll pass smaller tunnels. Steer clear of them."

  "What if I get lost?"

  "See that you don't."

  And with that, the door to the wardrobe slammed shut and India stood alone in the darkness. The smell of earth was so strong she could taste it. She felt as if she'd been buried alive.

  Sally had given her a box of matches and a candle. After a few fumbling attempts she got the candle lit, but the guttering flame barely illuminated the ground in front of her. Her chest tightened; it was hard to draw air.

  "Breathe," India told herself. "Just breathe." A drop of icy water fell onto the back of her neck, making her shiver. More water trickled down the walls. She realized she was standing in a puddle. "Move. Now," she said. "One step...then another."

  She forced herself forward, holding her candle in front of her. After she'd gone a few yards, a narrow tunnel snaked off to the left. Two rights and a left, Sally had said. Or was it two lefts and a right? No, two rights, she was sure of it.

  After she'd gone a few more yards she saw a turning to the right and took it. Only one more and then a left, bear to the right, and she'd be there. It wasn't as bad as she'd thought it would be. She'd be at the Beggar in no time.

  But a few steps into the turn the ceiling suddenly seemed lower and the walls closer together.

  Did I take the first right turn? she wondered. Or did I take one of the smaller tunnels Sally warned me about?

  Something gleamed whitely a few feet ahead of her. She lowered her candle to it, then gasped. It was a skeleton. The long bones poked through what was left of its rotted clothing. Black beetles crawled over its ribs. India started to shake. She had seen plenty of skeletons, but never one like this. Its wrists were tied together with a frayed rope. Its skull was fractured. Whoever this person was, he had not come down here willingly.

  She turned and ran back down the tunnel. Hot wax dripped from the candle onto her hand. The pain made her wince, but she welcomed it. It brought her up short.

  Stop it. Stop it right now, she told herself, slowing to a walk. If you don't keep your wits about you, someone will find your bones down here.

  She got herself back to the main tunnel, wrapped her skirt hem around the candle's base to shield her hand, and pressed on. It was only a quarter of a mile. That wasn't so much. All she had to do was pay attention and get the turns right. After nearly a quarter of an hour she came to another turning. She held her candle to the ceiling and the walls to make sure it was a proper turning, not a small tunnel, then took it. A few minutes later she sighted the second right. There was only one more turn now. Only one more. She would make it. It couldn't be far.

  The ground grew soggier as she walked, and the constant trickling of water grew louder. She knew she was walking under houses, under their cisterns and their middens, and shuddered to think what was in that water.

  And then she smelled it--something far worse than cistern water, a stench that was low and gut-tightening: rats. She'd tried not to think about them. She'd tried to tell herself that they might not be there anymore, but they were.

  She stopped, not knowing whether to laugh with relief that she was going the right way--or cry with fear. Sid had carried her over them before, but Sid wasn't here now. She would have to walk through them alone.

  India heard the trickling water grow louder still. That must be why they like it here, she thought. There's water for them. And then her foot caught on something and she stumbled. She flailed wildly, trying to right herself. The candle fiew out of her hand. She landed facedown in something soft and wet. Her arms and chest sank into it. It oozed into her nose and mouth. She sat up, screaming and spitting, trying to wipe it off. It was mud, stinking and thick. She rose up on her knees and reached for the wall, trying to pull herself up on it, but there was no wall.

  She sank back to the ground and felt for the candle. Her movements were jerky and random in the darkness. Her hands covered some patches of ground over and over again and skipped others
entirely. She realized she would never find the candle this way. It was gone. Buried in the mud. Even if by some miracle she did find it, its wick would be sodden and impossible to light.

  Fear frothed up inside her, threatening to boil over into hysteria. She remembered that she had the matches. She had put them in her skirt pocket. She got to her feet and patted her pocket. They were still there. Her skirt was wet with mud, though. Would the matches be too wet to use? She wiped her hands on her jacket, then carefully took the box out of her pocket. Her fingers told her that part of it was wet, but part of it was dry. She slid the cover back ever so slightly, careful to make sure she had the box right side up, then pulled a match out. She struck the match. It sputtered, then flared. India nearly sobbed with relief. She held the match up and saw that part of the wall had collapsed. The trickling water had turned the earth to mud. She walked through the sucking mud, then suddenly turned back, disoriented. She was going the wrong way, she was sure of it. And then the match's flame burned her fingers and she dropped it and stood in darkness again.

  She went to light another one, but stopped herself. How many matches did she have left? Twenty? Ten? Two? She opened the box again and felt for them, counting with her fingertip. Five, she had five matches left. How would she find the Beggar's doorway with only five matches?

  She leaned against the wall, beaten. She simply did not know what to do next. She couldn't go forward. Without light, she couldn't see where she was going. Without light, she had nothing to keep the rats at bay. They would smell her, and when they did they would swarm her. She couldn't go back, either. It was too far and the police might still be there. She felt tears welling behind her eyes, tears of terror and despair.

  An image flashed into her mind--of Sid as a boy. He was alone, keening in the hull of an abandoned boat after his mother's death. Another image followed it. He was a young man now. He was sitting on a metal cot. His hands were clenched into fists. His head was bent. A door clanged open. His head lifted. And then he was on his feet, leaping at the tiny window far above him in the wall. Scrabbling at the uncaring stones, half-mad with the awful knowledge of what was coming and that nothing and no one would stop it. And then a final image. Of him covering a sleeping street child with his coat the night they'd walked the streets of London.

  India did weep then--not for herself, but for Sid. For all that he'd suffered. She'd convinced him that he could break away from his past, and he was trying, but someone didn't want him to. Someone wanted to pull him back in. She didn't know who or why, but she knew that she could not let it happen. Even if she had to cross an ocean of rats. She had to help him, because no one else would. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but her sleeve was covered with mud. She laughed bitterly. How could she help Sid when she couldn't even get herself out of this damned tunnel?

  "Improvise, Jones. Improvise," a voice said.

  Some people heard the voice of God in times of trouble. Or the voice of a beloved mother, long dead. A husband. A friend. Not her. She heard Professor Fenwick.

  "You are out for an evening at the theater," he was saying to her and her classmates. "As you stroll down Drury Lane, a runaway carriage mounts the curb. The horses trample a man. His leg is crushed. His femoral artery is severed. You left your doctor's bag at your home. What will save him? Armstrong?"

  "Making the proper diagnosis, sir?"

  Fenwick had closed his eyes at that; the pain of his students' stupidity was too much to bear.

  "Hatcher?" he barked.

  "A thorough knowledge of anatomy, sir?"

  "Jones?"

  "Technical abilities, sir?"

  "No, no, no, no, no! When all hell is breaking loose, there is only one thing that will save you--improvisation. Turn your gloves into tourniquets. Your bloomers into slings. A bottle of whisky, obtained from a nearby pub, becomes your antiseptic. Jackets and shirts are your dressings. Hardly ideal, but in extremis you have little choice."

  India took a deep, calming breath. "Improvise, Jones," she said determinedly. "Improvise."

  She thought back to the night she and Sid had come down here. He had been wearing heavy boots and thick trousers. She had neither of those. Her kid shoes and woolen stockings and cotton skirts were no match for sharp teeth. She thought of what she did have: a few matches, a matchbox. She could light the matchbox itself, but it wouldn't blaze for long, and when it went out she'd have nothing left.

  "Come on, Jones, what else have you got?"

  She had her medical bag. She quickly reviewed its contents. Scalpels and scissors and clamps--all useless. Gauze and needles and suturing thread and chloral. She thought about lighting the gauze, but it was so thin and she didn't have much of it. It would burn out long before she got past the rats.

  Chloral, she thought, chloral ...She ied to move on, to think of other

  tr

  things in her bag, but her mind kept circling back to the anesthetic. It knocked people out. Could it do the same to rats? She scrabbled in the bag for the bottle. It was there. Maybe it would work. Maybe she could knock out enough of them. Maybe they'd run from the smell. Maybe...

  "Maybe you've lost your mind," she said. "What are you going to do? Make a tiny rat mask? Ask them to line up in an orderly fashion?"

  She'd have to open the bottle and splash the liquid around in order to knock the rats out, and she was as enclosed in the tunnels as they were. She might put a few of them under, but she'd certainly knock herself out. Perhaps permanently.

  Panic was gnawing at her, fraying the edge of her resolve. The darkness was unnerving. She decided to use one of her precious matches. She needed light, if only for a few seconds. She was still holding the bottle of chloral. Checking to make sure its stopper was in place, she put it back in her bag, then lit the match. The liquid was highly flammable, and...

  Flammable. A flame. A torch. I could use the chloral to make a torch, she thought. The only thing is, I haven't anything to burn.

  She held the match over her bag, hoping against hope that she'd put extra dressings in it, and forgotten about them, but she hadn't. The match went out. "Bloody hell!" she yelled. It was hopeless. Futile. She'd never get out of here. Someone would find her body here. Her bones, actually. The rats would get the rest. They'd eat the leather of her bag, her shoes, everything but her muddy cotton suit.

  Her suit... her suit! She put the chloral down and unbuttoned her jacket. It was muddy and damp, but underneath it her blouse was dry. She stood up and felt under her skirt for her petticoat. It was also damp, but her bloomers were dry. She took her blouse off, stepped out of her bloomers, and wadded them up. She had an idea and it might just work.

  She shrugged her jacket back on and knelt on the ground. Feeling her way with her fingers, she pulled out a pad of gauze from her bag and laid it on the ground. Then she took the matchbox from her pocket, took the four remaining matches out of it and laid them on the gauze to keep them dry. Next, she took her scalpel from its case and used it to poke a hole in the top of the matchbox. Then she took her forceps out of the bag, and the chloral, and placed them both on the ground. Satisfied that her preparations were complete, she picked up one match, lit it, and quickly jammed it into the hole in the matchbox.

  Working swiftly in its light, she bundled her blouse and bloomers together, grabbed the forceps, and clamped the fabric in its blades. The blades opened on her, the fabric flopped over limply. The match died.

  "Damn it!" she cried.

  She began again, twisting her blouse tightly. She did the same with her bloomers, then wound them together. The knot of fabric felt small in her hands. She wished it were bigger. A lot bigger. She lit another match and dropped it into a puddle.

  She took another deep breath to steady herself, lit another match, and placed it in the box. Then she grabbed a spool of suturing silver--a filament used for closing birth lacerations--clamped the fabric in the forceps, wound the filament tightly around the blades to keep them closed, then secured it arou
nd the handle.

  The match went out. India laid her jury-rigged torch on her lap. She checked for the chloral one last time, took a deep breath, and lit her last match.

  Moving like lightning, she unstoppered the bottle, poured chloral on the fabric, and held it to the fading match. For a long second, nothing happened, then there was a tremendous whoosh, and the torch was blazing.

  India jumped to her feet. The metal grew hot in her hand. She wrapped her skirt around it, grabbed her bag, and started to run. The tunnel snaked sharply left, the smell intensified, and then she saw them--hundreds of them. For an instant she faltered, then she plunged ahead yelling like an Amazon and holding the torch low to the ground. Frightened by the noise and light, the rats scrambled madly over one another to get away from her. A few ran at her, clawing at her boots, her skirt. She kicked at them and kept going.