Lizzie Flowers and the Family Firm: The long-awaited third book in the gritty Lizzie Flowers East End saga series.

by Carol Rivers

  'Flo, how could you!'

  'It's true, ain't it? Added to which, Frank sees Polly on a regular basis now. And that means he sees you. If you really wanted to be rid of him, you'd have given him the old heave-ho long ago.'

  Lizzie tried to hide her annoyance. She knew that Flo would have said exactly this to Danny, embellished with more of her own opinion.

  'I asked him if he liked flogging posh cars,' Flo went on. 'I have to say, Danny looks the part - '

  'Flo, what's this all got to do with April Williams?' Lizzie interrupted.

  Her sister let out a long sigh. 'He kept dropping her name into the conversation. April this. April that.'

  'Was that all?'

  'Why don't you tell him you're divorcing Frank?'

  Lizzie stared at her sister. 'Because I'm not.'

  Flo shook her head in frustration. 'Well you should. After Chancel Lane and what Savage did to you and Danny, he deserves to be part of your life. He's a good man, Lizzie.'

  'I know that, Flo.'

  'I'm just saying, if you're not careful, you'll lose him. Danny said they were moving from Terrace Street in Poplar to Euston.'

  'What, all of them?'

  Flo nodded. 'Course, she'd expect a ring on her finger first.'

  'Is that what Danny told you?'

  Flo rolled her eyes. 'Not in so many words. But it was a bloody big hint.'

  Lizzie fell silent as she thought of the cross words that she and Danny had shared at their last meeting. It was not April Williams they had argued over, or Frank, but her refusal to leave the island. Now it seemed, if Flo wasn't exaggerating, there had been another reason for Danny to make changes.

  She could still hear his voice; 'I want a peaceful life, Lizzie,' he'd told her. 'Savage almost destroyed us.'

  'But he's dead,' she'd argued confidently. 'We did it, Danny. You and me together. We fought for what was ours. And won.'

  He'd looked sadly at her with his lovely blue eyes. 'Come with me, Lizzie. We deserve a new start.'

  'Maybe,' she'd answered quietly. 'But Ebondale Street is my home. Your dad loved the shop. He worked hard to make it the success it is. There's never a day goes by that I'm not grateful for the good living its provided me with.'

  'Then stay if you must,' he'd replied with such conviction her heart had sunk to her boots. 'But it's the end of the road for me. I'm asking you one last time. If it's a yes, we'll find a nice gaff together in the city. Live the life that's due to us. Bugger Frank and you still being married. That don't count. What's a piece of paper, after all? We'll be a real family and Tom and Pol will grow up decent, not chancers or street kids living on their wits like we did.'

  But Danny had seen the refusal in her eyes. Though in her heart she had always believed that somehow, they would come together again.

  'Nelson's crying,' Flo said and Lizzie came out of her thoughts.

  She held her sister's hand once more. They might have their differences but Lizzie knew that, as the eldest, she had to be the one to make up.

  She hid her hurt over Danny and swallowed, hugging her sister close.

  Chapter 20

  Danny drove the car through the imposing iron gates and along the driveway that led to St Augustine's Boarding School for Boys. Either side, the mowed lawns were like velvet, bordered by neat copses of trees and playing fields. He was impressed. The huge red-brick building set in acres of countryside looked more like a stately home than a school. In spite of his reluctance to agree to a visit, his eyes were riveted to the scene.

  Two hours driving had brought them north of London. For this appointment with the school Head, he had brought the Singer Sports Tourer. The rare day out was a treat for April and he liked to see her excitement. Of late, Tom had been difficult. Although his son's nature was a happy one, he had become withdrawn and often a little rude. Though Danny had no complaint with the teachers at Ebondale Street, April had suggested St Augustine's. After all, Danny reflected, he now had the money to give Tom a sound education.

  'It's beautiful here, don't you think?' said April who sat beside him. 'Just look at the architecture. Edith was right. It's a very fine school indeed.'

  Danny pulled on the brake and nodded. 'Yes, it is.'

  'Mr Herbert will meet us in the reception hall.'

  Danny climbed out of the car and walked with April up the wide steps that led up to the entrance. The heavy oak doors were decorated with a coat of arms, and once inside, an official-looking person in a grey suit greeted them.

  'Mr Flowers, Mrs Williams?'

  'Yes,' said April shyly from under the brim of her hat. 'You must be the headmaster, Mr Herbert?'

  'Indeed. How was your journey?'

  'Very good,' said Danny pleasantly.

  'Right, onwards and upwards,' said Mr Herbert, leading the way through wood-panelled corridors to the cloistered passages. 'First, a round trip. Then a little refreshment. The school was built in the early 1800s to accommodate two hundred children, but now we have three hundred on the register – and growing!'

  Danny fell behind, listening with one ear, as they were shown through the many rooms; formidable-looking classrooms with polished desks and just as polished boys. Then, smaller rooms, the science laboratory, storerooms full of powdered inks, pencils, pens, nibs and books. Next, a common room at the end of a stone-flagged hallway, a dining room filled with tables and benches and the music room, complete with piano and organ. Marching on for what seemed an eternity, they ascended a wide staircase, passing the lines of pupils as they scattered down the stairs, and on to the dormitories, where Danny paused for a moment, imagining his boy in one of the many austere grey-blanketed beds, as neat and tidy as if their mothers had made them.

  Then back again, this time to tread over the lawns to visit Matron and Nurse to view the sick and injured. Danny smiled at the young patients, with their striped pyjamas and pale faces. He indulged Matron by complimenting the wholesome atmosphere. But that was not what was really in his heart. How would Tom ever cope in such a place? They had never been parted and Danny had never thought he would be considering such an option. But was April right? Did a boy need this kind of education that only wealth and affluence could offer?

  He gazed through the tall windows to the fields, to the boys on the playing fields beyond. Tom would be given a head start in life. He would benefit in the long run. And yet …

  'Come along,' said Mr Herbert, tapping his arm. 'Just the gymnasium now.' He turned, raising his eyebrows to April. 'I hope so far, you've enjoyed what you've seen?'

  April took a little gasp of breath. 'Everything,' she said, 'is just perfect.'

  They returned to the ground floor and Danny braced himself. He could smell the ancient mustiness, the polish and the scrubbed wooden floors over which the uniformed boys were hurrying.

  He pictured Tom amongst them, wearing his long grey trousers and boater. He tried to imagine his son growing into the routine of this prestigious boarding school. But the picture escaped him.

  'Oh, Danny, what do you think?' April squeezed her hands tightly together as, two hours later, Danny sped them along the drive and the through the big iron gate. 'Tom would love it here, don't you agree?'

  'A big change though, for the lad.' Danny concentrated on the road. He wanted to think, not talk, but April was overjoyed.

  'Each morning and evening, the boys sing hymns and psalms,' said April in raptures. 'And did you see those beautiful classrooms? So many teachers and staff. Even maids and housekeepers! Edith told me to expect a surprise, but really, what more could we want for Tom?'

  Danny was aware that April did not need an answer. She sat with a dreamy smile on her face. 'Such beautifully tended lawns and fields where the boys play rugby and hockey. And did you hear what Mr Herbert said about Sunday breakfast? Not just cereals but bacon! I should never have dreamt it was possible.'

  'I suppose - ' began Danny hesitantly.

  'Hot and cold showers,' continued April excitedly. 'A pret
ty walk through the village to church – plenty of things to see and do. Seven weeks holiday in summer, three weeks at Easter and Christmas - time for Tom to come home and be with us. Oh Daniel, I do hope you see the sense of it.'

  'Tom's never been away from home before,' he protested. 'After his mother and father died in Aussie, I promised him we'd never be parted. They were good friends of mine you see, and I owe them.'

  'What better way to keep your promise?' April replied. 'An education that will give him the key to many doors in society. I'm sure his parents would approve.'

  Danny smiled as April clasped his arm eagerly. Her face turned up to him and he nodded. 'Perhaps you're right. I'll give it all some thought.'

  'Oh, do, please do. Edith says they have never looked back since sending Ralph there.'

  Danny's smile faded. He hadn't thought much of the pompous twelve-year-old who had scowled his way through dinner at the Murdoch's. He'd felt Tom's dismay and Danny's heart had clenched. He wanted to do what was right for his son. There was the question of marriage, too.

  A matter he must soon resolve.

  Chapter 21

  It was a cold, crisp day in December when Lizzie drove from the East End to Gerrard Street in Soho. Her meeting with Murphy was arranged on neutral territory. They were both to arrive unaccompanied.

  Bert had objected fiercely to this news, citing all manner of danger. Her brother meant well, she knew, but he had been like her shadow after the confrontation with Vella. She only had to turn and there he was. His huge body loomed over her, narrowing his eyes at the six square feet either side of her, as if the space contained an invisible enemy.

  Today she needed no distractions. Bert's presence would only hinder; it had taken a great deal of Lizzie's resolve to refuse her brother's well-intentioned but unnecessary company. If there was one person she knew she could trust, it was Murphy.

  Parking the Wolseley close by and pressing her fox fur collar up to her chin to keep out the cold, Lizzie made her way through the bustling streets of Soho. She had dressed accordingly; a small, smart beige hat under which she had pinned her hair, lowering the brim across her forehead and wearing a discreet set of pearls around her neck. Her steps were slow but assured as she made her way to the market and the Blue Posts public house where she expected to find Murphy.

  The street darkened as she walked under the canopy of awnings and canvas that stretched across its narrow perimeters. Shopkeepers displayed their wares on the pavements, interspersed with the wares of the market traders. Busy crowds milled beneath, making a dense sea of bobbing heads, cloth caps, trilby hats, scarves and permanently waved hairstyles. The working women loitered, flaunting their painted faces, red-stained lips and encouraging smiles. The new bakeries – fancily called patisseries – abounded. Delicious smells followed her as she paused at the stalls. Customers elbowed each other, inspecting the cheap fabrics; row upon row of skirts, suits, jackets, trousers, blouses as far as the eye could see.

  Across from the market stood the Blue Posts, a three-storey tavern gracing the busy street. As she entered, the punters were lined up at the bar, drinking in a well-behaved manner. City gents and tradesmen alike enjoying the warm hospitality. The interior had an old-world glow. There was not a dirty glass in sight.

  She felt a light touch on her arm. 'Lizzie?'

  There stood Murphy and her stomach clenched. For it was Leonard Savage – unfairly – whom she recalled whenever she set eyes on the Irishman. That night at the Chancel Lane hostelry when, had it not been for the man standing by her now, she would almost certainly have taken her last breath.

  'Ah sure, Lizzie, 'tis good to see you,' he said with a broad smile, his Irish accent as beguiling as ever.

  He took her gloved hand, drawing her close, to press a kiss to her cheek. She shivered. What was it that so disturbed her about this man, she wondered? For Murphy was not overbearing or intimidating, though he walked with an assured stride. He was lean and straight-backed with short-cropped brown hair and the leather waistcoat he wore was his trademark. His gaze was steady and confident; a confidence that she knew was perfectly justified.

  'Likewise, Murphy,' she replied warmly.

  'Come along, I've saved us a table.' He escorted her to the rear of the busy room where it was quieter. The semi-circle of polished walnut chairs and tables were set against the gold and green wallpaper that gave the place a comfortable elegance. Murphy asked her what she would like to drink and she ordered her customary port, her eyes following his agile figure as he joined the other punters at the bar.

  Her first thought was that Murphy had chosen their meeting place wisely. The pleasant buzz of voices was kept to a minimum without rowdy interruption. Every table's surface was freshly wiped, enhancing the reflection of the polished wood under the tall windows.

  Briefly she thought of the Mill Wall, a disappointing contrast to the Blue Posts. What effort would it have cost Frank to clean its interior? Or, at the very least, to have ejected the unsavoury sorts that had seemed quite at home in her snug.

  She put the annoyance aside as Murphy returned with their drinks; a dainty glass of port for her and a tankard of ale for himself.

  Easing himself into the cushioned seat beside her, he raised an amused eyebrow. 'So, Lizzie, this is a rare treat. We meet in favourable circumstances for once!' His handsome grin broadened. 'Your runner was most keen to get our date set.'

  'Whippet's a decent lad,' she replied with a smile. 'I hope he minded his manners?'

  'Oh, that he did,' Murphy assured her. 'My guess is the boy will be a fine addition to your ranks, given time.'

  Lizzie gazed steadily into the Irishman's brown eyes. 'Time is what I don't have Murphy.'

  'Ah, 'tis a common complaint affecting the population at large, I fear. The grey hairs and aching bones beset us mercilessly, though you Lizzie, have escaped such ravages and look even more beautiful than when we last met.'

  Lizzie felt a stir of affection, for their previous meeting had been a happy one. Their rendezvous had been on the banks of the Thames on a fine summer's day almost six months before. They had strolled the embankment and eaten from a fish stall and talked of their lives since Chancel Lane. Of how Murphy now ran a legitimate business, or so he insisted, providing his fellow countrymen with employment in the security services.

  As for herself, she had been about to take on the Mill Wall. Murphy had expressed his concerns but had not pressed the subject. They had enjoyed the day and indeed the evening together, parting closer friends than ever before.

  'You're still as charming as ever yourself,' she teased, for neither of them had sought each other out since that day. 'But it's not your silver tongue or your wit that I'd value right now. It's more in the way of advice.'

  He nodded slowly as if reading her thoughts.

  'After last year, I'd hoped things might be easier,' she continued. 'For a while at least.'

  'But you took down one of the biggest London faces,' he answered unsympathetically. 'Leonard Savage was no easy conquest. It was inevitable that others should fill his shoes.'

  'If I took Savage down,' Lizzie retaliated, 'it was only with your help.'

  A cold darkness filled the Irishman's gaze. 'When I first came to London that cold-blooded eejit robbed me of my hostelry. He stole my livelihood and murdered my friends. He would have despatched me if I hadn't escaped by the skin of my teeth.'

  'He also made you into the successful businessman you are today,' Lizzie reminded him kindly.

  He raised his tankard towards her. 'And you, Lizzie Flowers, into the woman you are now.'

  Lizzie nodded with a brief smile. 'However, I owe you, Murphy. Don't think I've forgotten the debt.'

  'Ah, 'tis endearing to hear it, Lizzie. But the transaction benefits me too. A deed, good or bad, is always returned by fate. We are now allies – and close friends.' Briefly his eyes twinkled. 'Now, in that state of rare grace, let us address your current problem. You have trouble with your recent
acquisition, the Mill Wall?'

  'How did you know?' she asked in surprise.

  'I warned you the liquor trade would not be easy. The Mill Wall has a chequered history. A publican's role does not come easy.'

  Lizzie knew full well that Murphy's story was a cautionary one. Like her, he had worked hard to make a success of his Chancel Lane tavern. And then the day had arrived when Leonard Savage had made his appearance. Murphy had refused to pay him his so-called protection money and Savage had taken his revenge. Not so far different from the night when Savage had lured her own kith and kin into a trap, intending to do away with the Flowers family forever.

  'I may have taken your advice, Murphy,' she responded softly, 'but may I remind you that even a woman can think on her feet.'

  'I have no doubt of that. But I've had the luck of the Irish with me,' he told her lightly, 'an advantage I can highly recommend – if you should be of a mind.'

  She felt the colour rise in her cheeks. 'Is that so? Then I should be proud to share it.'

  For a moment they held each other's eyes and Lizzie knew this rough, tough Irishman would never disappoint her.

  'So, tell me,' he whispered at last, 'is it my soldiers you need?'

  Lizzie posed her question carefully. 'I have made myself an enemy, Murphy. His name is Salvo Vella.'

  Murphy stared at her incredulously. 'The Prince?' he breathed, drawing away.

  'Is he royalty then?' Lizzie asked in surprise.

  'Only to his subjects,' Murphy replied disdainfully. 'The man is pure mischief; a leprechaun, a master at disguise. The women he runs would die for him, such is his charm. He is as lethal as the blade he is known for carrying in his belt and would have no hesitation to use on an adversary's throat.'

  'Where does he come from? Who is he?'