The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  And then he did smell something--something so strong, so foul, that it doubled him over and made him retch. It was the smell of death, of human bodies rotting. Seamie grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over his face. He stumbled on toward the camp, dreading what he would find.

  He saw the tent; it was shredded. A trunk was opened and up-ended. Boxes and crates were smashed. The entire site had been ransacked.

  "Tepili?" he called out. "Tepili, are you there?"

  There was no reply, only a low, menacing growl. He looked to his right; a leopard was standing over what was left of a body, baring his teeth. Bones and fangs glinted whitely in the moonlight.

  "Get out of here!" Seamie shouted. He picked up a rock and threw it at him. The animal ran. Seamie stumbled through the camp. He found another body and another. They had arrows in them. Leopards didn't shoot arrows. The Chagga did, though--poison-tipped ones.

  Boedeker had told him the Chagga could be hostile. Tepili had, too. Their chieftain, Rindi, was not fond of outsiders, Tepili had said. He'd tolerated the Germans and British at times, fought with them at others. His son Sina was the same. And it wasn't only whites who angered the Chagga; they clashed with the Masai, even with members of other Chagga villages.

  Seamie had thought Tepili a bit of an old woman, seeing trouble where there was none, but now he saw that he was right.

  It had all been too easy, he thought now. The Chagga had agreed to guide them, brought them here, and left them. It must have been their plan all along to go back to their village, assemble more of their tribesmen, and then attack. First the Masai porters. And then himself and Willa, too. He remembered that the guides had asked when they were coming back and he had told them. His blood froze at the thought.

  He had to get out of here. Now. Whoever had done this might still be close by. Christ, why had he yelled for Tepili? Why had he made so much bloody noise? He had to get off the hills and back up the mountain and he had to do it before daybreak.

  Exhausted, hungry, afraid for his life, Seamie wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, if only for a few minutes, but he couldn't. It was too dangerous. For him and for Willa. If the Chagga found him here and killed him they would kill her, too. She couldn't hope to survive on Kilimanjaro alone.

  He started back the way he'd come, walking as quietly--and as quickly--as he could. And then something occurred to him--something that scared him more than what he'd just seen, more than the Chagga--he would have to get Willa off the mountain by himself. There were no more porters. No more Tepili. There was no one to help him now. He was all alone.

  Chapter 103

  Joe rapped on a frosted glass door on the ground floor of the Whitechapel Free Clinic for Women and Children.

  "Come in, already!" a woman's voice called.

  Joe poked his head around the door. "Sister Moskowitz?" he said.

  A heavily pregnant woman was sitting at a desk. She raised her head and smiled at him. "Wrong on both counts. It's Rosen, not Moskowitz. I'm a married woman now. And it's Doctor, not Sister. I finished my degree last spring. And you're to call me Ella. Always. Anyone who gets the government to give my clinic ten thousand quid is on a first-name basis with me for life."

  "Married? And a doctor?! Congratulations on both counts!" Joe said, smiling. "Who's the lucky bloke?"

  "His name is David Rosen. He's a doctor, too. Works at the Royal Free Hospital. I met him there during my clinical training."

  "Am I right in thinking that there might be an addition to the Rosen household soon? Perhaps I'm being too forward."

  Ella laughed. "You're on the maternity wing, Joe, and I'm the head obstetrician. We talk about these things here. Come in, come in! Does your chair fit through the door? Good! Will you have some rugelach?"

  Ella fed him pastries and had a nurse bring him a cup of tea. He knew better than to refuse either. This is how it worked with Ella and her family. Whether he was sitting with her and discussing infant mortality in the East End, visiting her mother and father at their caf�o talk about economic opportunities for immigrants, or meeting her brother Yanki, a rabbi now and head of East London's largest synagogue, to talk funding for the Jewish Orphans' Home, it was always the same--first you ate, then you talked.

  "So," Ella said, after she and Joe had polished off a dozen rugelach between them. "What can I do for you? Another bill to go before the Commons? You need statistics? Case histories?"

  "No statistics today, Ella. But history of a sort. I'm trying to get the home secretary to reopen a murder case."

  "Whose?"

  "Gemma Dean's. An actress. She was killed a few days after I was shot."

  "I remember the name, but I didn't know Miss Dean personally. How can I help you?"

  "You're going to think this is a barmy question, but here goes. Do you remember Sid Malone? Big-time East London wide boy?"

  "Of course I do. Him and his lads ate at the caff all the time. Oz, Ronnie, Des--the lot. He was a good bloke, was Sid. Not everyone would say so, but I do."

  "Malone was accused of shooting me. He didn't do it, of course. Frankie Betts did. Sid was also accused of murdering Gemma Dean. I don't believe he did that, either. I thought Frankie might have done it, so I went to see him. Asked him point-blank if he did and he said no. I believe him. Then I asked him if he knew who did do it. He said no to that, too, but I don't believe him. He knows, but he's not saying. I'm not sure why."

  "What does all of this have to do with me?" Ella asked.

  "Frankie got very shirty with me while I was asking him about Sid. Furious, in fact. Started raving about a doctor. And how he'd ruined everything, this doctor. Said he worked in Whitechapel. At a clinic. Well, there's only one clinic in Whitechapel--this one. You were involved in it from the start, so I thought you might know if Sid was ever connected to it, and if so, who this mystery doctor is."

  Ella looked away. His questions had clearly made her uncomfortable.

  "I promise you, Ella, I'm not looking to land anybody in the shit. Was Sid involved?"

  "Very much so," Ella finally said. "The reason we're still here and have been able to take over the buildings on either side of us is due to him. He gave us half a million quid. Right before he died."

  Joe whistled at the amount. "What about the doctor?" he said. "Can you tell me his name?"

  "Her name."

  "How's that?"

  "The doctor was a she not a he. Dr. Jones. India Selwyn Jones."

  Joe thought he recalled the name. "Jones? Not the one who saved Fiona at the Labour rally? The one who married Freddie Lytton?"

  "The very same."

  "How are she and Sid connected?"

  Ella looked at him, saying nothing, taking his measure. "This goes nowhere, right?" she finally said.

  "Right."

  "Sid and India were lovers. She was going to give up everything to be with him. They were going to leave the country together. They almost did, but all hell broke loose. Sid was accused of shooting you. And of killing Gemma Dean. He had to hide. India was terrifled for him. Scared that he'd be caught and hanged."

  "But she didn't leave with him..." Joe said.

  "No, she didn't. Sid died and she married Freddie Lytton."

  "Why?"

  Ella shook her head. "That's something I can't tell you."

  "Ella, I have to know. I want to clear Sid's name. It's not right that he was blamed for a murder he didn't commit."

  "It doesn't matter what he's blamed for anymore, does it? Sid's dead. But other people are still alive. And they could be hurt if certain things were revealed. Badly hurt."

  Joe decided that if he wanted more information he would have to volunteer some of his own.

  "Ella, Sid's not dead."

  "What?"

  "He faked his death so he could get out of London. Start again somewhere else."

  Ella sat back in her chair, blinking at him. "Gott in Himmel," she whispered. "How do you know this?"

 
"Because I know Sid. He's my wife's brother."

  "You're joking!"

  "No, I'm not."

  "How could he have done that to India? How could he let her think he was dead? She was devastated when she heard his body had been found in the Thames."

  "Maybe he thought she'd be better off without him."

  "She wasn't. Isn't," Ella said. She shook her head, obviously stunned. "Blimey, that's some bit of news, Joe. I really have to hand it to you."

  "Now you see why I want to clear Sid's name. As long as he's wanted for the Dean killing, he can never see Fiona again. Or any of his family. He can never come home."

  "Good," Ella said quietly. "He shouldn't."

  Joe gave her a puzzled look. "Why, Ella?"

  Ella looked away from him. "It's complicated, Joe. Very bloody complicated."

  "You have to tell me what you know. You have to trust me."

  "If I do, you must swear to tell no one."

  "But--"

  "No one. Not even your wife. Especially your wife. Swear it, otherwise I won't tell you."

  "All right, then," Joe said unwillingly. "I swear."

  "India was pregnant. With Sid Malone's child. When she learned that he was dead, she went to Freddie Lytton and asked him to marry her and to raise the child as his own. He agreed. For a price." Ella explained India's and Freddie's history to Joe, then said, "She would never have married Lytton if she thought Malone was alive. Never. She loved Sid deeply and she despised Freddie. But she felt she had no choice. She did not want her child to be illegitimate."

  "Sid never knew?"

  "India never had the chance to tell him."

  It was Joe's turn to feel stunned. His mind was swirling with all that Ella had told him. "That means..." he started to say.

  "That means Freddie Lytton's daughter is really Sid Malone's," Ella said bluntly. "And that you and your wife have a niece."

  "My God, Ella. I have to tell Fiona. I have to. She's my wife. I can't keep this from her. And Sid...if he ever does come home, he has a right to know, too. He's the child's real father."

  "You can't, Joe. Think, for God's sake! What if Sid does come back? And what if you and Fiona tell him? What if he goes to see India? Demands to see the child? It could destroy the girl's life. And India's, too. Freddie Lytton, as we all know, is not a very nice bloke."

  Joe knew Fiona would want to know about this. To withhold information like this from her felt like a betrayal, but he'd sworn to Ella that he wouldn't tell her. He didn't know what to do.

  "Maybe Freddie would be reasonable, Ella. Maybe he would--"

  "What? Invite Sid in for tea and scones? Let him visit the girl on weekends? Make sure everyone lives happily ever after? Keep dreaming, lad. The only way that I can see Fiona finding out, or anyone finding out, is if India chooses to tell her. And that's just not going to happen, is it?"

  Joe took a deep breath and blew it out again. "You've put me in an awful position, Ella," he said.

  "You put yourself there. I didn't want to tell you, remember? I did only because I know you're an honorable man. A man who'll keep his word to me. Was it worth it? Do you have your answers now?"

  "Far from it," Joe said. "Only more questions. Mainly, how does Frankie Betts fit into all of this?"

  "I have no idea," Ella said. "But I'll tell you one thing. I never believed one word of his bollocks about not meaning to shoot you and the gun going off by accident. I saw those bullet wounds. He meant it."

  "I think he meant it, too. I could see him having it in for me after I fought with him in the Bark. But one thing I've never understood is why he would dress up as Sid to come after me and tell my secretary that he was Sid?"

  They both sat in silence for a bit, mulling this over, then Ella said, "You know, in a strange way, I think that might also have had something to do with love."

  "Don't tell me Frankie was in love with Dr. Jones, too?"

  "No, not Dr. Jones, Sid. He loved him as a friend, as a brother, and then Sid betrayed him by walking away. By leaving to be with India. By going straight."

  "But if Frankie loved Sid, wouldn't he want to help me clear his name?"

  "You're thinking like the good man you are, not the vindictive little shit Frankie Betts is. Try to see it like he did. He's angry at Sid, he wants to hurt him. How do you hurt a man who wants to go straight? You vilify him.

  Make him out to be a murderer. Shoot one person, murder another, see that he gets the blame for both. Force him back into the fold. It didn't work, though. Sid died. Or so we thought. But Frankie still found a way to make the best of it. He couldn't have Sid alive and a villain, so he'll have him dead and a villain. It's not much, but it's all he's got."

  Joe shook his head. "Dr. Rosen, you're a wonder. Where'd you learn to think like a villain?"

  Ella grinned. "Same place you did... Whitechapel."

  Joe affected an insulted expression. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I've been reading those articles by Jacob Riis. Scorchers, every one."

  "It's responsible photojournalism in the service of social reform."

  "Is that what you call it?"

  "I do."

  "Some might call it blackmail."

  "Might they?"

  "What are you after?"

  "One hundred thousand. For schools and clinics in Hackney."

  "Good. Keep up the pressure."

  Joe thanked Ella for her time and her information, then rolled his chair out of her office.

  Ella walked with him.

  "What's your next step, then?" she asked, as they reached the front door.

  "I think it's back to Wandsworth. To go one more round with Frankie."

  Ella's eyes searched his. "You still don't think he killed Gemma Dean, do you?"

  "Everything you said makes sense, but I saw Frankie's eyes when I asked him if he'd done it. Either he's a bloody good actor or I'm a very poor judge of who's lying and who's not. So that begs the question: if he didn't do it, then who did?"

  Chapter 104

  Freddie shaded his eyes from the blazing sun and gazed out over the African veldt. Joshua, Ash McGregor's roan stallion, tossed his head and

  whinnied, eager to gallop.

  "In a moment, old chap, in a moment," Freddie said.

  The tall grass waved lazily in the breeze, a vast golden ocean, but Freddie barely saw it. He was imagining the beautiful plains plowed under, turned into farms for coffee and sisal, or pasture for cattle and sheep.

  The weeks he had spent in Africa, talking to everyone from government officials to planters and ranchers, guides and missionaries, had convinced him of one thing--with more settlers and a proper infrastructure, British East Africa could become an engine of unparalleled economic growth, growth that would benefit not only the colony itself, but all of Britain. Crops and animals on the plains, rubber and quinine plantations in the jungle, tourism everywhere--the possibilities, and the tax revenue, were endless. And those same settlers selling their goods back to mother England would be buying goods from her as well--farm implements made from Sheffield steel, cloth woven in Lancashire mills, china from the Staffordshire potteries.

  As Freddie saw it, the problem wasn't that the British government had put too much money into Africa, but that they hadn't put enough in. Whatever was invested would be returned a hundredfold. He knew that his task, once he returned home, was to convince his peers in the Commons, Lord Elgin, and the PM himself, of Africa's potential.

  He intended to ask the government to enlarge the Uganda railway, to add routes north and south off the main line. He would also ask for old roads to be improved and new ones to be laid. For dams and water lines to be built. For telegraph lines to be extended. And to accomplish all this, he would ask for funds. Four million to start.

  He knew he would have to make a damned good case in the Commons for money like that, especially when feeling against further expenditure on the railway was high, but he'd already begun. He was writing glowing article
s on BEA, its bounty and its beauty, for The Times, and sending back detailed reports, packed with figures, tables, and photographs, to Elgin. By the time he returned home, he hoped to have swayed both the public and their elected representatives to his cause. With the pump thus primed, he would go before the Commons and make his case. And then it would be his name that was regularly seen in the headlines, not Joe Bristow's.

  How he would relish that, turning the tables on Bristow. As far as he was concerned, Joe and his tedious demands for clinics and schools in East London could go to hell. Educating the working class was nothing but a waste of good servants. England's future lay with her colonies, not in her slums.