Charlotte nodded.
"We'll get as far as we can tonight, then we'll rest. You can sleep. We'll head out again at dawn. With any luck, I'll have you back at Thika in time for dinner tomorrow."
Charlotte got to her feet. She was a bit wobbly, and Sid was concerned about her, but he was more concerned about the lions. They were the real reason he wanted to get going. He fished in his pack for an extra shirt and tied it around her head for protection against the still-strong sun, then he lifted her into the saddle. He swung up himself, crossed his arms in front of her, and picked up the reins.
She turned and looked at him. "Thank you for finding me, Mr. Baxter. Mummy would have been sad if the lions had eaten me."
"I'm sure she would. And your father, too."
"No, I don't think so."
Sid was sure he'd misheard her. He was about to start off when she said, "I wish you were the Sid Baxter my mummy knew. You seem very nice. I think you would make her smile."
"Shh, now," Sid said. "Don't talk. Lean back against me as we ride and rest as much as you can. You need to save your strength."
They set off at a gentle pace and Charlotte was soon dozing against him. He held the reins in one hand as they rode. His other arm was curled protectively around her. He had ridden in wide, sweeping arcs while searching for her, but now he would make a beeline for Thika. He was certain he could be back in half the time it had taken him to get here.
By the time they stopped for the night and he had gotten Charlotte to sleep in a bed he'd made from plains grass and an old wool blanket, he'd decided that he would leave her at the McGregors' farm, east of Thika village, tomorrow, then get one of the McGregor boys to ride to the Lytton camp to tell them where she was. The McGregors had a nice stone house. Charlotte would be comfortable there. She needed rest and quiet and good wholesome food to recover from her ordeal. Elspeth McGregor had been a nurse back in Edinburgh before she married and emigrated. Sid knew she would take good care of the girl.
He would stay long enough to see her tucked up in bed and then he would ride back to Maggie's. He wanted to be well away by the time Charlotte was reunited with her mother. For despite what the little girl said, Sid doubted very much that seeing him again would make India Lytton smile.
Chapter 97
Joe sat in the visitors' room of Wandsworth Prison, waiting. It was a grim place, all cold stone and dark wood. He took a deep breath, trying to steady
himself. It was a hard thing to do, facing the man who'd shot him, but there was no other way. He believed that Frankie Betts, not Sid Malone, had murdered Gemma Dean. And he'd come to Wandsworth to try to get him to confess.
Ever since the day he'd seen Fiona weeping in the cemetery, Joe had been determined to find a way to clear her brother's name. He'd decided to make good use of his political connections and had gone straight to the home secretary, Herbert Gladstone, to lobby him personally for permission to reopen the case.
"But why should we reopen it?" Gladstone had asked Joe, perusing the file.
"Because it was never really closed," Joe said. "Not properly. The man accused of killing Gemma Dean, Sid Malone, was never actually charged. He died before he could be."
"It says here that there was an eyewitness--Freddie Lytton, no less-- who swore he saw Malone finish the poor woman off," Gladstone said.
"Perhaps Lytton only thought he saw Malone."
"Doesn't sound very likely. I'm sure he knows what he saw. He's an able-bodied young man, not some doddery old codger."
"Actually, Herbert, it does sound likely. The man who shot me, Frankie Betts, tried to pass himself off as Sid Malone when he pulled the trigger and nearly succeeded. He said in court that he dressed up as Sid and pulled out a gun to frighten me. I didn't believe it then and I don't now. But I do believe he might've done the same thing with Gemma Dean. Passed himself off as Sid Malone in order to frame him for the crime."
"But why? Why would he do such a thing? And twice?"
"I don't know, but I mean to find out. If you'll allow me to."
Gladstone, brooding over the top of his spectacles, said, "This sudden interest of yours in the case... it wouldn't have anything to do with vengeance, would it? Dissatisfaction over Betts's sentence? Perhaps you're thinking he should've swung for what he did to you, so you'll make sure he does for what he did-- allegedly did--to Gemma Dean?"
"No, Herbert, it has nothing to do with vengeance and everything to do with justice."
Gladstone had remained skeptical. He hadn't agreed to officially reopen the case, but he'd told Joe to go ahead and see what he could dig up. Then, to aid him in his quest, he'd written to the warden at Wandsworth, explaining Joe's interest in the case and expressing his hope that he and his staff would do everything they could to accommodate him.
Joe hadn't seen Betts since the day, five years ago, that Betts had stepped into his office and shot him--he'd been too weak to attend the trial and sentencing--and it took him a few seconds now to realize that the man whom the guard ushered in and sat down at a table across from him was indeed Frankie Betts. Joe was shocked by his appearance. He seemed to have aged fifty years, not five. He was thin, with the beginnings of an old man's stoop, and his hair had gone gray. His cheeks were sunken, but their color was high. His eyes were bright.
The two men looked at each other for a long time, saying nothing. Frankie was the first to break the silence.
"Come to have a gander, did you? Make sure I wasn't having too good a time? Happy with what you see?"
Joe looked at the man who'd taken his legs from him, and nearly his life, and said, "No, I'm not happy, Frankie. I wish you weren't in here. I wish I wasn't in this chair."
Understanding dawned on Frankie. "Ah, that's it, then. You've come to take a crack at me. Any minute now, the screw'll tie me hands behind me back, me ankles to the chair, and then it's all hear no evil, see no evil."
"I'm not here for revenge, Frankie. I don't need to be. I'm not angry at you."
Frankie laughed in disbelief. "C'mon, guv. You're not even the tiniest bit put out? A little miffed? A tad perturbed?"
"I was, Frankie, but I let it go. I had to or it would have killed me. Sitting in this chair for the rest of my life is a harsh enough sentence. I wasn't going to become a prisoner of my anger, too."
"That's what he said," Frankie said bitterly, almost inaudibly. "About the anger. To let it go."
"Who said that?"
Frankie shook his head. "No one. Why did you come? What do you want?"
"Your help."
"My help," Frankie said flatly.
"Yes."
"I'm all ears."
"I'm here about the Gemma Dean case."
Frankie sucked his teeth. He said nothing.
"The police believe Sid Malone killed Gemma Dean. Just like they believed it was Sid Malone who shot me until I woke up and told them different."
Frankie broke Joe's gaze, just for a second. "Aye? So?" he said.
"I think you killed Gemma Dean. Did you?"
Frankie burst into laughter. "No, I fucking well didn't! And even if I had done, do you think I'd tell you? I didn't get the death sentence, remember? I got life. I'd like to keep it that way."
Joe eyed him closely, then said, "Maybe the magistrate didn't give you a death sentence, but Wandsworth did."
Frankie didn't reply.
"It's consumption, isn't it?"
Frankie turned to the guard, who was standing by the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "I want to go back to me cell now," he said.
"Sit down, Betts," the guard said.
"I want to go back. I ain't staying here. You can't make me."
"Warden says you're to answer the MP's questions. Sit down."
Frankie sat. He glared at Joe.
"Help me, Frankie. I'm asking you. You owe me."
Frankie shot forward in his chair. "I'm paying what I owe, mate. Every miserable minute of every miserable day for the rest of my miserable life."
/>
"If you won't help me, help Malone. Help clear his name."
Frankie banged his manacled hands down on the table. "Fuck Sid Malone!" he shouted.
The guard pulled his truncheon from his belt. Joe held a hand up, staying him.
"None of this would have happened if it weren't for Malone," Frankie said angrily. "I wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be in that bleedin' chair. I ain't helpin' him. He's dead. He can go straight to hell for all I care. And that bloody doctor with him."
"Wait a minute. Slow down, mate. What doctor?" Joe asked, confused.
"The doctor! The one with the clinic..." He stopped talking. When he spoke again, his voice cracked with grief. "We was the kings, y'see. We had everything, owned the whole of East London. It would have gone on forever, too. Nothing could have stopped us. Nothing but that bloody doctor. Ruined him. Ruined everything." He shook his head, still talking, but not to Joe. "He told me, didn't he? He told me that scars on the outside are nothing compared to the ones they'll put on the inside. He was right. Why didn't I listen?"
Frankie put his head in his hands. Joe waited a bit, giving him time to collect himself, then he pressed him again. "What clinic, Frankie? What doctor?"
Frankie looked at him as if he'd only just walked in off the street. "No one. Nobody. Never mind. I'm finished here." He stood up quickly, knocking his chair over.
Joe swore under his breath. For a moment, he'd nearly had him, he'd been softening, but then he'd pushed too hard and the moment was gone.
"You done with him, sir?" the guard asked.
Joe nodded. "Write to me if you change your mind, Frankie," he said.
"Oh, aye. With love and kisses. On me best scented paper."
"It's a chance," Joe called out, as the guard led him away. "A chance to do some good for once. You won't get many more."
He waited for a reply, but there was none, just the sound of an iron door clanging shut. He knows who killed Gemma Dean, Joe thought. I saw it in his eyes. He knows, but he won't say. It's not fear that's keeping him quiet, either. It's anger. He's furious. At Sid. And at someone else--a doctor. But why? And who is he?
Joe sat staring at the door, scowling in frustration. He'd been so close. So bloody close. He would have to come back and push at Frankie again until he broke him. But he needed more information first. He needed to find out who the mysterious doctor was.
His frown faded. A look of determination took its place. He knew just the person to help him. She was connected. She knew everyone. Most important, she knew doctors. She would help him; he knew she would because she owed him. He'd gotten her ten thousand pounds of government money and five thousand more in private donations several years ago to put a new children's wing on her clinic.
"Home, sir?" Joe's driver asked, as he came to the visitors' room to fetch him.
"No, Myles," Joe said. "Not yet. I want to go to Gunthorpe Street first. To the Whitechapel Free Clinic for Women and Children."
Chapter 98
India and Charlotte Lytton climbed the steps to Sid Baxter's house and peered inside.
"Hello? Mr. Baxter?" India called.
There was no reply.
"Didn't think he'd be in," Maggie Carr said from behind them. She'd met them at the gate as they'd rode up from the McGregor farm. "He told me last night that he was going to ride out to the plains today. Hoped to bag a gazelle for Alice, my cook. I'll tell him you called."
"May I leave him this note, please, Mrs. Carr?" Charlotte asked, holding up an envelope.
"I wrote it to tell him thank you for saving me."
"Of course you may. Why don't you put it on his table?"
Charlotte nodded. She entered the house. India followed, looking all around the small, single room. It was tidy and cozy, yet lonely somehow, as if all the comfortable little touches--the red Masai shawl draped over a chair, the chipped teapot and mugs by the fire, the books stacked on a wooden bench--had been made in expectation of company that never arrived.
"I would like to live here, Mummy," Charlotte suddenly said. "I would like it very much. Do you think Mr. Baxter would let us?"
"I think he would find it awfully crowded, darling," India said.
"I like it here better than camp. Better than Nairobi, too. The governor's house is stuffy. And Lady Hayes Sadler fusses so."
"She does, doesn't she?" India said, smiling conspiratorially.
There was something so wonderfully comforting about Sid Baxter's modest bungalow. So welcoming and familiar. India found herself drawn to the house, and--though she'd never met him--to the man who lived in it.
"I should like to sit at this table and eat a bowl of porridge," Charlotte said. "And then I would like to sleep in that bed. I would have a lovely sleep there. Much better than on a lumpy old camp bed."
India laughed. "You sound just like Goldilocks. Maybe we'd better leave before the bears return."
"Will you join me for a pot of coffee?" Maggie asked.
"Don't you drink tea, Mrs. Carr?" Charlotte asked.
"I certainly do not! Not on the best damn coffee plantation in all of Africa!" she said, grinning.
Charlotte giggled.
"Care for a cup? I'll have Alice fix it for you with a bit of sugar and lots of milk. Plus a biscuit or two."
"Oh, yes, please!" Charlotte said, before India could refuse.
Maggie led them to her house. It was a modest affair, like Sid Baxter's, but much larger. It had a proper sitting room, a kitchen, dining room, two bedrooms, plus an attic. Maggie asked her cook to bring coffee and biscuits, then led her guests to the veranda.
India sat down. She looked out over the fields of glossy green coffee plants. They gave way to the warm, golden plains. Beyond them she could see Mount Kenya towering in the distance, its peak piercing the cloudless sky.
"Mrs. Carr, if I had this view, and this veranda on which to sit and gaze at it, I should never accomplish anything," she said.
Maggie laughed. "If you had seven hundred acres under coffee, you would, my dear. You'd have to."
"Have you no help?"
"I do. The best. That's what Sid does for me. Oversees the farm and workers. Gets my harvest to market. We set a record in London last year. Most money ever paid for British East African coffee. At the moment we have to do our roasting at a neighbor's farm. And pay for the privilege. But soon we'll be roasting right here. I've ordered the machinery. It's supposed to arrive in September. Have to build a barn for it, of course, but we've started. Should be done by summer." Maggie turned to Charlotte. "You tell that father of yours that if he wants to help the planters, he should build a train line from Nairobi up to Thika. Help us get our crop to market faster."
"My father doesn't listen to children, Mrs. Carr. He believes we should be seen, not heard," Charlotte said solemnly.
"Well, isn't he old-fashioned? I get some of my best advice from children. Just the other day little Mattie Thompson told me I should climb trees at sunset. I tried it. He's right. You get the most beautiful view of the evening sky. You tell your father to come and see me, Charlotte. I'll set him straight. On coffee and on children."
"I'm sure he would love to come, Mrs. Carr. Unfortunately, he may not have the time. He works very hard," India said quickly, apologetically.
Maggie Carr nodded, listening to India, but looking, thoughtfully, at Charlotte.
"How old are you, Charlotte?"
"I'm nearly six years old, Mrs. Carr."
Maggie shook her head. "Six is far too young to be sitting on the veranda for long periods of time with grown-ups. There's a new calf in the cattle pen, a dozen new chicks in the henhouse, and we've a tame gazelle named Mocha who walks around the farm as though she owns it. Would you like to see them?"
"Yes, please!" Charlotte said.
"Go into the kitchen and ask for Baaru. He'll take you. Just steer clear of the barn. There's a very bad-tempered ox in there."
"Yes, ma'am. I will."
Maggie smiled as Charlotte
clattered off to the kitchen. "Beautiful girl, your daughter," she said.
"Thank you."
"Takes after you."
India blushed, then said, "I can't tell you the agony I suffered when I learned she was gone, Mrs. Carr. I couldn't stop thinking of her all alone out there. With lions and snakes and God knows what else. Apparently I went a bit mad. Had to be sedated to be kept from riding out after her myself. The men all thought it was a bad idea."
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