The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Then he and Seamie heaved the body into the Thames. They'd watched as it bobbed on top of the water, then slowly sank beneath the surface.

  "Ta-ra, Sid Malone," he said. "He'll rise again in a day or two. Hopefully not till the fish have had at his face."

  They'd made it back to Grosvenor Square just before dawn. Sid got all of three hours' sleep before he was up again, lopping off his ponytail and dyeing his red hair brown. Seamie knocked on his door at ten with a breakfast tray.

  "That's a very fetching color on you," he said.

  "Very funny. I need to do one more job. You game?"

  "Where are we going?" Seamie asked.

  "To the Albion Bank."

  "No kidding! Are we going to rob it?"

  "No, Seamie. Jesus! Would I take a risk like that with you?"

  "I suppose not," Seamie'd said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  "We're going to make a withdrawal. A very large withdrawal. I need you to go along as a decoy. You game?"

  "You bet. What's the plan?"

  "Sit down, lad, and I'll tell you."

  After they'd talked and eaten and dressed, they left Grosvenor Square a few minutes apart and traveled to the City separately. Sid did not want Seamie with him in the daylight in case someone recognized him and nabbed him.

  Where the hell is he? Sid wondered anxiously now, still sitting in the pub. From now on everything would depend on timing.

  He knew that his plan might well blow up on him. Alvin Donaldson might have had his bank accounts frozen. He might have seized his safe deposit box. But Sid was gambling that he hadn't. He was good at thinking like a rozzer; it had kept him out of jail on many occasions. He knew that Donaldson was still after him, and he was certain that he'd leave the money right where it was--as bait. He probably thought that Sid was the same as every other villain--in love with the dosh. He didn't know Sid, didn't know he hated the money so much he could barely bring himself to touch it. Donaldson had probably been in to talk to Davies, the bank manager, to warn him that Sid would not leave London without his money, and to be prepared for a visit.

  How he hoped he was right.

  The plan was for Seamie to pose as him. He would go into the bank and ask for access to Sid Malone's safe deposit box. The clerk would certainly know that Malone was a wanted man and dangerous. He would check the passbook Seamie was carrying to confirm his identity, then lead him to the vaults. Then he'd call the police. Sid doubted he'd be brave enough, or foolish enough, to attempt to collar a murderer by himself. Seamie, meanwhile, was to get the box out, take it to the private viewing room, dump the money into one of the bags he was carrying, and kick the bag under the table. Then he was to get out of the bank as fast as he could, head east on Cornhill Street, toss away his jacket, and do his best to lose anyone following him in the narrow streets that led from the City into Whitechapel. He made Seamie run through the whole plan twice, then warned him that no matter what, he was to leave the passbook and key in the bank. If the police picked him up with those on him, he was done for.

  The rest would be up to Sid.

  Timing, luck, the stone walls of Albion, and a whole city of gung-ho rozzers stood between him and his money. Between him and redemption.

  Sid took another sip of his porter, then he saw it. A flash of red hair. The mustard-colored jacket. Seamie was walking up the steps to the bank right on time. He had a battered Gladstone bag in his right hand. Sid knew there was another bag inside it.

  At a quick glance, Seamie looked very much like him. The hair. The clothes. Even the walk. It hadn't come right away, though, the walk. They'd had to work on it. The lad was wiry, his movements quick.

  "Walk around the room," Sid had ordered.

  Seamie had.

  Sid shook his head. "Get off your toes, lad. Walk like the weight is your own."

  Seamie tried again, but to no avail. Sid could see that he didn't have an ounce of wide boy in him.

  He thought for a few seconds, then said, "Do you have an enemy? A bloke you don't like? Pretend he made a play for your girl. And then you hit him. Laid him out right in front of his mates."

  Seamie digested this. Then he walked around the room once more, getting the walk exactly right. Watching him, Sid realized with a deep pang of sadness that there must indeed be a girl. Who she was, he'd never know, for he'd soon be out of his brother's life again. Forever.

  He'd forced himself to smile. "Much better," he'd said.

  Sid watched now as Seamie disappeared through the bank's front doors. He waited until five minutes had passed, then he put a few coins on the table and left the pub.

  He crossed Cornhill Street and climbed the steps to the bank, pulling an envelope out of his pocket as he did, ready to play the part of a working man, awed and befuddled by a grand bank.

  But the second he stepped inside he could tell something had gone wrong. The bank's usual security guard, a reedy old geezer who looked like he'd blow over in a breeze, was gone. There were two burly men in his place. The bank manager was talking to them in hushed, agitated tones, pointing toward the back of the bank where the vaults were. He realized, with a sick feeling, that the manager must have put the new guards on in case Sid Malone came calling. Of course he had. Christ, how stupid could he be? He hadn't even thought of that. He'd meant for Seamie to lead the police on a wild goose chase, but he couldn't do that if he didn't make it out of the bank.

  "Excuse me, sir," Sid said, walking up to the manager and tugging on his hat brim, "where do I go to open meself an account?"

  "Over there," the manager said, gesturing impatiently toward the tellers.

  "You see, I've me wages here, and I want to--"

  "If you'll just walk that way, sir," one of the guards said.

  "Sorry? You'll have to speak up. I've only one good ear."

  At that very second Seamie came up the stairs from the vaults and into the foyer.

  "Out of the way!" the second guard snapped, pushing Sid behind him.

  The guards immediately advanced on Seamie. He saw them and stopped dead.

  Keep moving, lad! Sid thought. It's your only chance.

  But Seamie didn't.

  He's panicking. He doesn't know what to do. He's too green, Sid thought. He took a deep breath, readying himself to take on both bulls. He was ready to fight them to the death if it meant Seamie could get out, but before he could take a step, Seamie's hand went to his jacket pocket. He pulled out a pistol.

  Fucking hell! Sid thought. It was the pistol he'd used to put a bullet hole in the corpse. Had he thought his brother had no wide boy in him? He had plenty.

  "Think, gentlemen," Seamie said, in an impeccable Cockney accent. "Think real hard. I've nothing to lose. Nothing at all. Can you say the same?"

  "Mother of God!" Sid cried. "It's him! It's Sid Malone!" He raised his hands. The manager, the guards, and a few frightened customers did the same.

  "Get away from the door. All of you," Seamie ordered.

  Sid moved toward the left side of the foyer where the tellers were. He heard whispers coming from behind him. "What the devil's going on?" a man said. He moved to block their view. The others followed him. As they did, Seamie moved closer to the doors.

  "Slide the keys to me," he said.

  The guard hesitated.

  "For God's sake, man, do as he says!" Sid cried. "He's killed two people already!"

  The guard unhooked a key ring from his belt and slid it across the floor to Seamie. Seamie put his bag down, never taking his eye off the guards. He picked up the keys and dropped them into his pocket, then picked up his bag again.

  "Back up now," he said. "That way. Toward the vaults."

  Sid, behind the others now, did as Seamie said. He walked backward quietly and quickly, blessing his brother's quick mind. The guards' eyes, and the manager's, were trained on Seamie. Sid slipped away toward the vaults as Seamie slipped out of the bank's front doors, locking them behind him.

  "The key!
Get me another key!" Sid heard the manager shout. He ran downstairs and was almost in the viewing room when a woman--a pigeon-breasted, no-nonsense clerk--stopped him.

  "Your passbook, please!" she said.

  "There's a man robbing the bank," he said breathlessly. "He's threatening to shoot everyone. Run, missus! Hide!"

  The terrifled woman ran off with a gasp. Sid shot into the viewing room, looked under the table, and saw the battered satchel Seamie had left. He grabbed it and ran back upstairs, heading for the doors, but when he reached the foyer he stopped short and spun around. Alvin Donaldson stood in the doorway, flanked by three constables. The agitated bank manager had gotten the door open. He and the guards were telling him what had happened. Frightened tellers and customers had gathered at the foyer's perimeter and were talking excitedly. Sid fell in among them and edged toward the doors. He could hear Donaldson over the din.

  "How the hell did he escape? There were three of you!" he said angrily. "I was right upstairs where I've been for two bloody days! Couldn't one of you have fetched me?"

  Sid's heart nearly stopped.

  "He threatened to kill us!" the manager said indignantly.

  "Are you certain it was Malone? What did he look like?"

  "Red hair. Green eyes. Waving a pistol..."

  "Good Christ," Donaldson said disgustedly. "We could have had him. Fan out," he barked at his men. "Go after him." The constables were out the door and down the steps in no time.

  The manager tried to reassure his staff and his customers, telling everyone it was business as usual. He told the guards to get back to their posts. Before they could, Sid ducked behind a pillar, skirted the foyer, and ran out of the door. He trotted down the steps, searching for Seamie, but there was no sign of him. No sign of the three constables, either. More would probably be on the way, however, and he wasn't going to wait around for them. He and Seamie had planned to rendezvous back at Grosvenor Square, and after seeing him in action, he was sure Seamie would make it. The lad had more bottle, more brains, than most of the villains he knew.

  He wondered, however, if he would make it.

  He saw a hackney trolling for customers and flagged it down.

  "Where to, sir?" the driver asked as he climbed in.

  "King's Cross," he replied. He planned to hole up in a cheap hotel there until after dark. He couldn't let himself back into Fiona's house until after the cook had left and the maids had gone to sleep.

  The cab lurched off. Sid put the heavy bag on the seat next to him and looked inside it, at the fat bundles of hundred-pound notes.

  Blood money, India had called it.

  He was going to wash the blood off now. Even if it cost him his life.

  Chapter 74

  Seamie stopped outside a stationer's shop, ripped his bag open, and pulled out a cap. He slapped it on his head, took off his mustard jacket, and

  stuffed it inside the bag--ensuring that any constable looking for a red-headed man in a yellow tweed jacket wouldn't look at him twice. He glanced over his shoulder, closed his bag, and kept on walking.

  "Head east out of the City as fast as you can," Charlie had told him. "Get to Leadenhall and take it to the High Street. There's a market on today. Lose yourself in the crowd. Keep going until you reach the London Hospital. You can pick up a hackney cab there. Take it back home."

  "Wait a minute," Seamie had said. "That's Whitechapel. That's your turf. Isn't there a safe house? Somewhere I could hide? Isn't there anyone there who's loyal?"

  Charlie had laughed. "Oh, aye. Everyone there is loyal. To himself. There's a price on my head, remember? A thousand quid."

  "What about honor among thieves?"

  "For Christ's sake, lad, stop reading the penny dreadfuls. There's no such thing. Where's the bloody honor in taking what belongs to someone else?"

  Seamie got down Cornhill and crossed Bishopsgate. So far so good, he thought, walking past the small shops and houses that lined the street. Women were washing the steps to their homes or walking toward the market with baskets on their arms. Nobody was paying him the least bit of attention. On the other side of Bishopsgate, he reached Leadenhall. From there he veered onto Aldgate and into the High Street.

  He picked up his pace, relieved. He could see the market now, full of strutting costers, thronged with harried shoppers. He had just stepped down off the pavement into the bustle when two uniformed constables came out of nowhere to flank him, moving through the crowd like sharks through water. A third man, in plainclothes, came up behind him.

  Seamie felt them before he saw them. There was a sudden tingling up his spine, a tightening in his guts. He glanced back, saw two bobbies' helmets, and tried to run. But he couldn't; the crowd was too dense. He looked about wildly for a place to hide, but all he saw was a butcher's shop.

  A fishmonger's. A pub. All dead ends. He was desperate for a side street, an open stretch, but there was nothing.

  "Oi! You in the cap! Stop right there!" a voice ordered from behind him. A split-second later he felt a rough hand close on his back.

  Seamie took a deep breath and turned around. "What the hell you doin', boy?" he said in a drawling American accent. "Take your goddamned hands off me!"

  The officer released Seamie. He looked at his partner, who looked every bit as confused as he did. The man in plainclothes caught up with them. "Well done!" he panted. Then he frowned. "Hold on a mo'. That's not Malone," he said. "What's your name?" he asked Seamie.

  "Byron K. LaFountain the Third."

  Donaldson's eyes narrowed. "Hand over your bag," he ordered.

  "Now wait just a minute--" Seamie said.

  "Now!" Donaldson barked.

  Seamie did so, grumbling all the while about the lawless people in this lawless country. "Worse than El Paso," he said.

  Donaldson ignored him. He was pawing in the bag. He pulled out Seamie's jacket. "This is it," he said. "This is what Malone was wearing-- a yellow jacket." He held the bag upside down and shook it violently. "Where's the money?" he shouted.

  Seamie blinked at him. He took out his wallet and handed it over. There were ten pounds in it.

  Donaldson swore. "Weren't you just in the Albion Bank?" he asked.

  "Why, yes sir, I was."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "I was puttin' up some jewels for my momma," Seamie said. "She didn't trust the hotel safe. She was worried about being robbed, y'see. I told her she was plumb crazy, but now I'm thinking she had the right idea. If this is how the law behaves here, I'd surely hate to see what the criminals do."

  Seamie could feel beads of sweat rolling down his back as he spoke. Would Donaldson buy his cornpone charade? Or see right through it? He didn't have long to wonder, for the penny finally dropped.

  "Malone's back there," Donaldson said. "At the bank. I bet he was watching. Waiting for us to leave, the canny bastard." He nodded at Seamie. "Grab him. He's part of it."

  But Seamie didn't give them the chance.

  He ducked the officer's hands, bolted into the crowd, swerved around an old woman hefting a turnip, then ducked under a vegetable cart. The surprised coster gave a shout as he emerged on the other side, but Seamie kept on going, pushing his way through a sea of squawking women milling about on the pavement. He got about ten yards down the pavement when he got stuck by the entrance to a church. A group of worshippers was leaving a midday mass. The priest was with them, bidding them all goodbye. He couldn't move forward, the pavement was blocked. He couldn't go back, so he went up instead. Up the stone steps and into the church. He pelted down the aisle and over the altar. He tried the door to the vestry; it was locked.

  "Goddamn it!" he swore.

  The constables were running up the aisle now. He had only seconds before they were on him. He spun around in a circle, panic-stricken, desperate for a way out--and then he saw it: a narrow door to the right of the altar. It was slightly ajar. He didn't know where it led. He didn't care. He sprinted across the altar, leaped over a lo
w wooden railing, and stumbled to the door. There was a key in its lock. He tore it out, slammed the door shut behind himself, and fumbled it into the lock, throwing the bolt just as the one of the officers threw himself against the door. It shuddered in its frame, but it held.