The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. The whole thing sounds mad, but after the other night—after all the things that Sid told us about Max von Brandt—I couldn’t dismiss it. I had to bring you here.”

  “I’m glad you did, India. Can I go in to her?”

  “Normally the hospital won’t allow anyone but medical staff in a quarantine ward, but I’ve explained to Dr. Howell that Jennie has critical information that needs to be shared with a member of government and he’s agreed to let you on the ward for ten minutes. The Reverend Wilcott’s with her, too. He’s her minister as well as her father, and clergymen have special privileges. You’ll have to wear this,” she said, handing a mask to Joe. “And I must tell you that you are taking a great risk. The Spanish flu, if contracted by an adult, is often fatal.”

  “Let’s go,” Joe said, without hesitating.

  “Sid, Fiona … we’ll be back shortly,” India said.

  “Please give her our love. Tell her James is fine. That his cousins are taking good care of him …,” Fiona said, her voice breaking with grief.

  Sid went to her and put his arm around her. “Go,” he said quietly to India and Joe. “Hurry.”

  After a brief elevator ride, India and Joe were at the doors to the quarantine ward, on the hospital’s second floor. India tied Joe’s mask around his nose and mouth, and then he followed her through the ward’s large double-door entry.

  He stopped short a few feet into the ward, momentarily stunned by the sheer number of people there, and by their suffering. He saw one woman coughing up blood, another struggling grievously for air. A man, skeletally thin, was moaning deliriously.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “She’s down this way,” India said. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” he said.

  He and India continued down the walkway. “Dad?” he heard a small, weak voice say, as they neared a bed in the center of the ward. “Dad, is that Joe? I thought I heard him. Will you get him for me?”

  India stopped. Joe did, too. He looked at Jennie, but barely recognized her. She was horribly thin and her skin had a frightening blue tinge. Her breathing was labored. Her eyes were open. They were wild and glassy. He looked at the Reverend Wilcott, and the grief he saw in the older man’s eyes was devastating.

  “Dad!” she said again, louder this time.

  “I’m right here, Jennie,” the Reverend Wilcott said, rushing to take her hand.

  “I need my bag,” she said. Her voice was thin and agitated.

  “It’s right here, Jennie. Please calm down. You mustn’t worry yourself over—”

  “Please, Dad!”

  “All right … yes, yes … it’s here, right here,” the Reverend Wilcott said, pulling a carpetbag out from under the bed. “What do you need from it?” he asked.

  “There’s an envelope inside it,” she said. “Get Joe, Dad. Promise me you will. Get him and give him the envelope and tell him to read what’s inside of it. Tell him—”

  “Jennie, darling, Joe’s here. He came. He’s right here,” the reverend said.

  Jennie tried to sit up, but could not. Her father caught her in his arms and helped her.

  “Jennie, what is it?” Joe said gently, wheeling himself over to her and taking her hand.

  Jennie coughed hard; blood dripped from her nose. As her father wiped it away, Joe could see the effort it cost her to talk, to merely breathe, and he knew that she was fighting—not for her life, which was lost, but for a few extra minutes.

  “I have to … I have to tell you something. In 1914, Max von Brandt came to me. …”

  So it’s true, Joe thought. No. God, no. Not you, Jennie.

  “… He told me he was a double agent and that he needed help smuggling forged papers to Germany, in order to get German dissidents out of the country. He told me I would receive an envelope—”

  “From Gladys Bigelow,” Joe said.

  Jennie nodded. “How do you know?” she asked him.

  “Gladys killed herself. We think she was being blackmailed,” Joe said. “Jennie, we think Max is dead, too,” he added, hoping it would give her some comfort.

  Jennie closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks. A few seconds passed before she could continue. When she started speaking again, she sounded even weaker.

  “He told me to put the envelope in the basement of the church, inside the statue of St. Nicholas, and that a man would come for it. He told me I’d be helping him save innocent people. And so I did it. But he lied. I opened the envelope last week. I should have done it years ago.” She pushed her bag toward Joe. “It’s in there. Take it. He’s a spy and I’ve been helping him. All these years. They know, Joe. About Seamie. About all the ships. The Germans know. Please help him … help Seamie. …” She stopped talking, closed her eyes, and collapsed back against her father.

  Joe opened the envelope. His blood froze in his veins as he saw the carbons from Burgess’s office. He held one after another up to the light and read information on ships—their names, captains’ names, the size of their crews, their whereabouts.

  “Jennie …,” he started to say.

  “Don’t,” the Reverend Wilcott said, crying. “She hasn’t the strength. Can’t you see that?”

  But Jennie opened her eyes again. She looked at Joe.

  “When were you supposed to put the envelope in the basement? What day exactly?”

  “Wednesdays,” Jennie said. “The day I always clean the sacristy.”

  “Does the courier—Max’s man—pick them up on Wednesdays?”

  “I don’t know. I never checked. Every time I went down with a new one, the old one was gone,” Jennie said.

  “Thank you, love,” Joe said. He squeezed her hand tightly. “We’ll fix it, Jennie. I promise you. We’ll set it to rights.”

  Jennie gave Joe a tearful smile. “Take care of James,” she said. “Promise me you will. Tell him that I loved him … that he was always my beautiful boy, no matter what happens. Will you tell him that? Will you?” she said, suddenly agitated again. “Please tell him that. …”

  “Shh, Jennie. Of course I will. James is fine. He’s with his cousins and they’re taking good care of him. He sends his love to you. Fiona and Sid, too.”

  Jennie closed her eyes. “Tell Seamie I love him, too … and tell him I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Oh, my darling girl, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Do you hear me, Jennie? Do you?” the Reverend Wilcott said.

  But it was too late. Jennie was gone. The reverend leaned his head against hers and wept. India went to him. She put a soft hand on his back. Joe, still holding the envelope, quietly left them. A nurse stopped him outside the ward, took his mask off, and had him wash his hands. Then he went to find Fiona and Sid again.

  “She’s gone,” Joe said, when he saw them.

  Fiona shook her head. “James is home with Mr. Foster and the children. How will I tell him his mother is gone? How will I tell Seamie?” she asked. She wiped her eyes.

  “Fiona, love,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I’ll be back and I’ll do my grieving later, but if I don’t get to Sir George right away, we might all be grieving another family member soon—Seamie.”

  “What Jennie told you … the things you asked her … they all have to do with what Sid told us the other night, don’t they? With John Harris and Madden and Max von Brandt?”

  “Yes, they do,” Joe said. “Seamie’s in great danger. Many men are.”

  “Go,” Fiona said tearfully. “And for God’s sake, stop that man Flynn.”

  Fiona went to wait for India, and Joe took Sid aside. He quickly explained to him exactly what he’d learned from Jennie.

  “I’m going to the Admiralty,” he told him. “I’ve got to tell Burgess what I just found out. Are you coming?”

  “You go,” Sid said. “Tell Burgess what you know, but give me the envelope.”

  “Why?”

  “I
t’s our only chance of catching Flynn. You said Jennie doesn’t know what day he picks up the envelope. Maybe it’s Wednesday. But maybe we’ll catch a bit of luck and it’s today—Thursday. If it is, we’ve got to make sure it’s there—just like it always is—or he’ll spook. If we’re really lucky, he hasn’t read about Gladys. And he can’t know about Jennie—why would he? Hopefully, he’ll come today, take the envelope, go on his merry way, and show up at the boatyard tomorrow night, right on time. Only difference is, I’ll be there waiting for him. And you’ll be waiting for me. Upriver. With a carriage.”

  Joe smiled.

  “I’ll meet you at your house,” Sid said. “Tomorrow night. At five o’clock. Tell Burgess he’s to be there, too. Waiting upriver with you.”

  “I’ll have the carriage ready. Anything else I can do?” Joe asked, handing Sid the envelope.

  “Yes, one other thing,” Sid said.

  “What?”

  “Hope like hell we’re not too late.”

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  “He’s not coming,” Sid said.

  “He is. He’s never here on the dot. Sometimes it’s ten. Eleven. Midnight. It’s always different,” John Harris said.

  “Something spooked him.”

  “The rain slowed him. It’s pissing it down, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “He’s twigged. I know he has. He’s a wily one, our boy. He’s managed to not get himself captured all these years. He’s cagey and cautious and he can likely smell trouble from ten miles away. He’ll not come tonight. I know it.”

  John threw the hand he was playing down on the table. “You’re a right old woman, you know that, Sid?”

  It was Friday night, nearly eleven o’clock. Sid and John were sitting playing spoil-five in the hold of John’s lighter, which was moored at Billy Madden’s boatyard. Sid’s mind wasn’t on his cards, though. He was too tense. John was as well, though he was doing a better job of not showing it.

  They were waiting for Flynn. Sid had taken the envelope Jennie had given Joe and hidden it in the basement of St. Nick’s, inside the broken statue of the saint. He’d done it immediately after he’d left the hospital, but had he been early enough?

  He had no idea when Flynn came through the tunnels to pick up the envelope. What if he’d come earlier in the week? What if he’d heard about Gladys Bigelow? Burgess’s office had told the newspapers to hold their stories for a day, but they couldn’t keep Gladys Bigelow’s neighbors and friends from talking. Or her landlord. The man who’d sold her a pound of apples the day before. Or the newsagent at the corner.

  So much depended on timing tonight. On sheer bloody luck. Burgess needed Flynn. He needed to find out from him just how much Berlin knew. Sid needed him, too. He needed to find out how much trouble his brother Seamie was in. And John needed him. He needed Flynn to show up and get on the fucking boat. Now. He needed to look as if he was headed to the North Sea, as usual, so he could get a good three days’ head start before Madden figured out he was gone for good.

  “Go above and see if he’s—” Sid started to say. And then they both heard it—the sound of footsteps on the dock. Sid rose from the table wordlessly and positioned himself so that he was close to the ladder, but so that Flynn would not see him as he came down it. John had told him that Flynn always climbed down facing the rungs.

  Sid saw a pair of booted feet, then strong, slim legs, a satchel hanging down from a shoulder strap, and then the rest of what was a good-sized man. Looking at him, Sid was glad he’d taken Joe up on the offer of a pistol earlier in the evening.

  As Flynn climbed down the last rung of the ladder, Sid stepped forward noiselessly and pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of his head. He cocked the trigger. The sound it made was unmistakable. Flynn froze.

  “That’s far enough, old son,” Sid said. “Hands up now, where I can see them.”

  Flynn did as he was told. And then, just as Sid was going to snap a handcuff around one of his wrists, Flynn suddenly ducked, whirled around, and drove his fist into Sid’s gut, knocking the wind out of him.

  Sid staggered away from the ladder, his hands clutching his gut, trying to breathe, and Flynn scrambled up it.

  No! Sid shouted silently, stumbling toward the ladder. But John was ahead of him. He shot up the ladder in a blur of speed, wrapped one arm around Flynn’s neck, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and drove the man’s head into a ladder rung.

  Flynn screamed in pain. His hands came off the ladder. He lost his balance and fell, with John still hanging on to him. Both men crashed to the floor. John gave Flynn no time to recover. He was nowhere near as big as Flynn, but he was quick. He straddled the man and started throwing vicious jabs to his face. Flynn swung wildly at him, trying to knock him off. John ducked some blows and took others, but they didn’t stop him. They didn’t even slow him. He was fighting for his life—his and his family’s.

  Sid, in the meantime, had caught his breath. He found the handcuffs he’d dropped and snatched them off the floor. Flynn, already bleeding and bruised, was no match for two men. In a matter of minutes, Sid and John were able to cuff his hands behind his back, gag him, and bind his ankles.

  “Well done,” Sid said to John when they’d finished with him. Sid was breathing heavily. John was bleeding. But they’d both be fine.

  “For a minute there, I thought we’d lost him,” John said.

  “Me, too. I—”

  “John!” a voice bellowed from above. “John Harris!”

  Sid and John froze. They knew that voice. It was Billy Madden.

  “John! You down there?”

  “Go up!” Sid hissed at him. “Act like you’re waiting for Flynn.”

  “Right here, Billy!” John shouted.

  Flynn’s eyes followed him. Sid picked up a long, thin, horribly sharp knife that John used for cutting lines. He quietly bent over Flynn.

  “One sound from you and I go up and shoot Madden. Then I come back down here. I won’t shoot you, though. I’ll cut your throat,” he said. “Ear to ear and very slowly.”

  Flynn’s eyes widened. He nodded.

  “Where’s Flynn?” Billy barked when John was abovedecks.

  “He hasn’t shown yet,” John said.

  Billy swore. “Bastard owes me money. Or rather his master does. I was getting an envelope every month, nice and regular. This month I’ve got nothing. You tell him—”

  “Billy! Come on, darlin’!” a voice called. A woman’s voice. It sounded farther away. “You said we wuz going to the Casbah, not a manky old boatyard!”

  “Shut your mouth, you silly bitch!” Billy shouted. “Or I’ll throw you off the dock!”

  “Billeeee!” the woman whined.

  “She doesn’t watch herself, I’ll have another body for you to dump off Margate,” Billy said darkly. “Anyways, when Flynn shows up, you tell him I want to see him. The minute he sets foot back on land. I’m running a business here, not a charity.”

  “Aye, Billy, I’ll tell him.”

  “When are you back?”

  “Three or four days, as usual. Should be fair on the way out. Might get some weather on the way back. If we do, it’ll slow us.”

  “Come see me when you’re done. I’ve got another job for you. Paintings this time. Got ’em out of a big manor house in Essex. They need to go south.”

  “Will do.”

  Sid heard footsteps on the dock. He waited for John to come back belowdecks, but it was a good, and nerve-racking, ten minutes, before he did.

  “Christ, lad, where were you? I’m nearly shitting meself here!”

  “Making sure Billy was gone.”

  “Is he?” Sid asked.

  “Aye. I watched him. Waited till he and his tart got back in his carriage.”

  “Let’s go,” Sid said.

  John didn’t need telling twice. He’d already untied the lines. Minutes later, he had the boat’s engine going and they were off. They needed to make Millwall by one o’clock,
and it looked like they would. About half an hour later, John and Sid were bringing the boat alongside a small dock behind the Wellington, a riverside pub. To both men’s great relief, Maggie Harris and her children were on the dock waiting for them.

  “Come on! Hurry!” John hissed at them, not even bothering to tie up. One by one, he got his family on board, looking fearfully about the whole time.

  Earlier that day, Sid had gone to John and Maggie’s rooms. He’d given Maggie five hundred pounds, an enormous sum of money that she’d been terrified to take, and a piece of paper with two addresses on it—one in Inverness, one in Point Reyes.

  “You’ll go to Inverness first,” he had told her. “To Smythson’s Estate Agents. A man there—Alastair Brown—will look after you. There’s a little house waiting for you there. Rent’s all taken care of. When the war ends and you can travel across the Atlantic again, you can sell your boat, get yourselves to New York, and then to California. I’ll be waiting there for you. Hope you like cattle. I’ve got four hundred head.”

  Maggie had burst into tears then, and Sid had had to wait until she’d calmed down to explain the rest of the plan to her. He had to make sure she was listening, that she understood what he was telling her. There was no room for error.

  When she’d dried her eyes, he told her that just before teatime, she and the children must leave their rooms with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and that they must get to Millwall, to the Wellington, check into the room he’d booked under a fake name, and stay there.

  “You lot,” he’d said to three of the older children, “you leave home one by one. As if you’re going out to see a friend, or do an errand. Maggie, you take the others, and your basket, as if you’re going to the market. No suitcases, you understand? You mustn’t look as if you’re leaving. Madden’s got eyes and ears all over East London.”

  Maggie said she understood. The children all nodded.

  “Good. Get yourselves to the Wellington and stay in the room. Just before one o’clock in the morning, get downstairs to the dock in back of the pub and wait there. Do it as quietly as you can. John and I will come for you then. Don’t say a word about any of this to anyone.”