“I need to see the Finnegans,” he said, panting. “Fiona. Is she ’ome?”
The woman looked at him as if he were mad. “The Finnegans?”
“Aye. Can you get Fiona for me, missus?”
“Who are you, lad?”
“My name’s Joe Bristow. I’m Fiona’s … I’m a friend of ’ers.”
“I… I don’t know ’ow to tell you this, but the Finnegans … they don’t live ’ere anymore.”
Joe’s heart filled with dread. “Where did they go? Did something ’appen? Something ’appened, didn’t it? Is Fiona all right?”
“You’d better come inside.”
“No, tell me what ’appened!” he shouted, wild-eyed with fear.
“It’s better if you come in,” the woman said. “Please.” She grabbed his sleeve and led him down a short hallway to a room at the back of the house. She bade him sit on the only chair in the room and she sat down on the bed, her baby on her lap. “I’m Lucy Brady,” she said. “I used to be Kate’s neighbor, before –” She shook her head, upset. “I can’t believe you didn’t ’ear about it or read about it. It was in all the papers.”
“ ’Ear about what? You’ve got to tell me, Mrs. Brady, please.”
Lucy swallowed. “There was a murder. It was the Ripper,” she began. “ ’E killed a woman at number ten, Frances Sawyer. It was very late at night, but the police think Kate saw ’im. She was on ’er way to the doctor’s, ’er baby was ill. Jack … ’e … ’e killed ’er, too. Oh, Lord, I’m sorry to be the one telling you this.”
Joe’s whole body began to shake. He felt a terror like he had never known. One that turned his blood, his bones, his very heart, to sand. “Did ’e … did Fiona …”
“She was the one that found ’er mother.” Lucy closed her eyes. “The poor lass, I’ll never forget that night as long as I live.”
“Where is she now?” he asked, weak with relief.
“Last I ’eard, she went to live with a friend of the family. ’E’s a police constable.”
“Roddy. Roddy O’Meara.”
“Aye, that sounds right. ’E was looking after ’er and ’er little brother.”
“What about Charlie? And the baby?”
“Dead, both of them. The baby right after ’er mother. And the lad soon after. ’E came ’ome from a fight, saw ’is mother, and ran off. They found ’is body in the river.”
Joe covered his face with his hands. “My God,” he whispered. “What ’ave I done to ’er? I left ’er ’ere in this shit’ole. Left ’er to this …”
“Are you all right, Mr. Bristow?” Lucy asked.
Joe didn’t hear her. He stood up, dazed, barely able to breathe. “I’ve got to find ’er …” he said. He took a step toward the door. His vision faded. His legs buckled and he collapsed.
“You’ve a visitor, Mr. O’Meara. A lad. ’E’s waiting for you upstairs.”
From where he was sitting, two steps above the landing to Roddy’s flat, Joe heard Roddy and his landlady talking in the downstairs hallway. He heard Roddy’s heavy tramp on the steps and then the man was on the landing. He was wearing his constable’s uniform and carrying groceries. He seemed to have aged since Joe’d last seen him. The loss of Paddy and the rest of the Finnegans must have grieved him deeply. Joe knew that they had been more than friends to him. They were his family. The only one he had. Feelings of sorrow, guilt, and remorse, his constant companions now, rose up inside, him. He hadn’t eaten or slept since he’d seen Lucy Brady yesterday. This was all his fault. All of it.
“ ’Ello, Roddy.”
“Evening,” Roddy said. His expression told Joe he was not pleased to see him. “You look like shite, lad, I don’t mind telling you,” he said. “That wife of yours feed you?” He opened the door to his flat and ushered him in. He motioned for him to sit, but Joe remained standing.
“Roddy, I… I need to see Fiona. Is she ’ere?”
“No,” Roddy replied, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
Joe didn’t believe him. “Come on, Roddy.”
“I said I don’t bloody know where she is!”
“You don’t know? You looked after ’er, took care of ’er.”
Roddy turned, skewering him with the anger in his eyes. “Aye, I did. And that’s more than I can say for some!”
Joe looked at the floor. “Look, Roddy … I know I’m a bastard. I don’t need you to tell me. I just need to know she’s all right. I just want to see ’er. Tell me where she is. Please.”
“Lad, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know where she is.”
Joe was about to argue further when he saw that the anger had left Roddy’s face and a worried look had taken its place. Something was wrong.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew.” Roddy sat down at his table and poured himself a glass of ale from a stoneware jug. “I have to say, lad, I’m very disappointed to see you. And not only because I don’t care for you.” He tipped the jug toward him, but Joe shook his head. “You waiting for a bus? Sit down.” Joe did as he was told and Roddy continued. “Fiona was here. She and Seamie both.”
Joe nodded. “I saw Lucy Brady yesterday. She told me what ’appened.”
“She stayed with me after her mother was killed. It took a while till she was back on her feet, but after a few weeks she was managing again. She was talking about looking for work and a room of her own, and then I get home one night and there’s a note on the table saying she’s left. Right out of the blue. It said she got some money from Burton’s – compensation money for Paddy’s death – and that she wanted to leave quick-like, with no long good-byes. She didn’t say where she was going.”
“That doesn’t sound like ’er. Why wouldn’t she want you to know where she’d gone?”
“At first I reckoned it was because she’d taken off to be with you and didn’t want me to find out, knowing full well I’d stop her. But you sitting here puts paid to that theory.”
“What do you think now?”
Roddy took a swallow of his beer and set the glass down. “I don’t know. None of it makes any bloody sense.”
“Roddy, she’s all alone somewhere,” Joe said anxiously. “We’ve got to find ’er.”
“I’ve tried! I’ve got all the men at my station looking. I managed to get a description of her and Seamie to practically every station in the city, but I’ve heard not’ing. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of them.”
“What about a private detective?”
“I t’ought about that but I haven’t got the money.”
“I do. Give me a name. I’ll ’ire ’im tonight. She ’as to be in London. It’s not like she would’ve taken a train somewhere, she wouldn’t know where to go. She’d never even been on a bus before I took ’er to Covent Garden. She can’t ’ave gone far.”
Roddy wrote down a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Joe, telling him to make sure he told the man that P. C. O’Meara sent him. He told him to come see him the minute he heard anything. He walked Joe to the door and though he didn’t take his hand, he wished him luck. And for the briefest of seconds, Joe thought he saw something besides anger and worry in Roddy’s brown eyes. He thought he saw an expression of sadness. For him.
At ten o’clock at night, the outlying stalls of the Covent Garden market were eerily silent. The round willow baskets the porters used to carry produce were piled high; a few carts stood empty. Here and there, broken flowers and crushed fruit littered the streets and the air was pungent with the smell of rotted vegetables. It always amazed Joe, who was walking back to his office after a late dinner with a client, that a place as hellishly noisy as the market was in the morning could ever be so still, so deserted. As he crossed a narrow lane and walked through an open arcade into a large cobbled piazza, he could smell the scent of horses from a nearby stable. He heard one wh
inny and kick against its stall. A rat in its hay, he thought. Wynne, his father’s horse, hated them.
“Joe. Joe Bristow,” a voice suddenly called from the darkness.
Joe stopped. He hadn’t seen a soul when he entered the square.
“Over ’ere.”
He turned around and saw a man leaning against one of the arcade’s iron columns. The figure pushed itself off and walked out of the shadows. Joe recognized him. It was Stan Christie. A lad from Whitechapel. They’d been in the same class as youngsters until the day their teacher decided to discipline Stan with a cane, and Stan, at the tender age of twelve, had ripped it out of the man’s hand and beaten him unconscious with it.
“ ’Ow’s things?” Stan asked, sauntering toward him.
“Smashing. You’re a little far afield tonight, aren’t you?”
“Aye. I came all this way just to see you.”
“I’m touched, mate. I didn’t know you cared.”
Stan walked with his arms clasped behind his back like a professor or a priest. Since he was neither, Joe was certain he was concealing something. A club. A knife. Explosives. One never knew with Stan.
“Making some inquiries, I am. For the guv’nor,” he said. His right hand came out from behind his back. He touched his finger to the side of his nose and gave Joe a knowing look.
“Oh, aye? Which guv’nor would that be? The prime minister? The Prince of Wales?”
“You want to watch your mouth, lad. Mr. Sheehan don’t take no gyp.”
Sheehan. Bowler Sheehan. Jesus. He had no idea Stan worked for him.
“What does Sheehan want with me?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“ ’E wants to know where the Finnegan girl is. Everyone knows you were sweet on ’er before you put Peterson’s daughter up the pole, so I was thinking you might know.”
“What’s Fiona to ’im?” Joe asked angrily, his apprehension gone. He didn’t like Sheehan’s interest in Fiona. Not one bit. Stan was closer now and Joe wished to God he had his clasp knife on him. Or the pry bar he used on fruit crates. A razor. A bunch of keys he could thread through his fingers. Christ, he’d take a fucking corkscrew.
“Mr. Sheehan asks the questions, Joe. ’E don’t answer them.”
“Oh, aye? Well, ’ere’s ’is answer: Tell ’im ’e can go shit in ’is big black bowler ’at. ’Ow’s that?”
Stan chuckled, then, a split second later, swung the cosh he’d been hiding behind his back. Joe had been expecting it; he ducked the blow. The club missed his head and clipped his shoulder. Swearing at the pain, he drove his head into Stan’s face and was gratified to hear a sickening crack as his nose shattered. Stan shrieked. His hands flew up to his nose, leaving his body open. Joe landed a savage kidney punch. Stan dropped the cosh. Joe picked it up, slid it under his throat, and jerked it hard.
“You move and I’ll choke the life out of you, I swear I will…”
“All right, all right…” he rasped, holding up his bloodied hands.
“What does Sheehan want with Fiona?”
Stan didn’t answer. Joe pulled the cosh tighter. Stan’s hands scrabbled at it; he dropped to his knees. He was choking. Joe eased the pressure. That was a mistake; Stan had been faking. He grabbed Joe’s arms and flipped him over his head. Joe landed hard, smacking his head against a cobble. The bright lights in his eyes blinded him for a few seconds; he tried to get up but faltered. Stan was standing over him now, threatening to cave his skull in if he didn’t tell him where Fiona was. Joe, lying on his left side, still had the cosh in his hand. He knew he had about two seconds to make use of it or they’d find him here in the morning, his head crushed like a melon. With a yell, he sat up and slammed the club into Stan’s kneecap, eliciting a bloodcurdling scream. Stan had had enough. Promising Joe he’d kill him the next time he saw him, he staggered off.
Joe got to his feet. He wanted to give chase, but his legs were too shaky. His head was throbbing. He touched it, wincing as his fingers found a goose egg. He had to get to Roddy and tell him what happened. This was bad news. If Stan was ready to beat the life out of him on the mere suspicion that he knew where Fiona was, what would he do to her when he found her? How the hell had she gotten tangled up with Sheehan, of all people? And why? He’d have to get to Henry Benjamin, too, the private detective he’d hired, and tell him to speed up the search. He’d met with him two days ago. Benjamin said it was unlikely Fiona had gone far. He was confident he’d be able to find her in a week or two. That was too long. Joe wanted her found tomorrow. Fiona was smart, she was tough; but Bowler Sheehan was a damn sight tougher.
“That’s the hardest thing, you know,” Millie said. “Finding a good baby nurse. I’ve seen ten already and I wouldn’t let any of them mind a cat, never mind a baby. You can’t be too careful. I liked the last woman, but Mrs. Parrish saw her put biscuits in her pocket when I went out of the room. She didn’t know she was watching. You can’t have a sneaky nurse. God knows what she’d do if my back was turned. Sally Ennis said she caught her nurse putting gin in her baby’s milk. Can you imagine?”
Joe lifted his head from the balance sheet he was reading. “No, I can’t,” he said, trying his best to sound interested.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said anxiously, putting her needlework down. “The agency said they’d send more women over, but what if I don’t find someone in time? What if the baby comes and I haven’t got a nurse?”
“Millie, you’ll find someone. You’ve got plenty of time. Your aunt will come and stay and she’ll ’elp, too. She’ll find you a nurse if need be. Don’t fret over it. What you need to do is finish that christening gown. The baby can’t be christened in ’is nappies, can ’e?” Joe tried to sound positive. He knew what was really bothering her and he didn’t want her dwelling on it.
“You’re right,” she said. She smiled bravely and he was relieved to see it.
Four days ago, after lifting a heavy vase down from a high shelf, she had suddenly started to bleed. Her doctor had been sent for. He managed to stanch the bleeding and save the baby, but he said the risk of a miscarriage still existed. He’d confined her to bed and instructed that she was to have no physical strain or emotional upsets whatsoever. Looking at her now, in the waning light of a Sunday afternoon, Joe saw how drawn she looked. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was far too pale. He felt sorry for her. It pained him to see her suffer.
She had felt uncomfortable earlier and had sent Olive, her maid, to his study to ask him if he might sit with her and keep her company until she fell asleep. He had agreed, bringing the ledgers he was working on with him and pulling up a chair next to her bed. He was trying hard to be a better husband to her, to be a comfort.
She chattered on about the christening gown and other clothing she was making for the baby. He tried his best to pay attention and take part in the conversation, but it was hard. He was so distracted. Last night he’d met with Benjamin again. The man had walked into the pub where Joe was waiting. “Recognize this?” he’d asked, dropping something into his hand. It was the blue stone from the river. The one he’d given Fiona.
Benjamin said he’d gotten it at a pawnshop near Roddy’s flat. Not only had the pawnbroker remembered a girl matching Fiona’s description, he remembered that she’d traded the stone for cash and a traveling bag, and that she’d had a young boy with her. He said she’d also pawned a gold ring with a tiny sapphire, but he’d already sold that. Benjamin had to pay five quid to get the stone. The pawnbroker knew what he had – an ancient scarab, probably dropped from the ring of a conquering Roman noble as he brought his fleet up the Thames.
Joe had paid Benjamin for the stone. He’d closed his fingers around it as the detective finished speaking, knowing for certain then that Fiona was no longer in London. That she was truly gone. But where? Benjamin also felt she had left the city. He would, too, he said, if Sheehan were after him.
That was going to make it a lot harder to find her. She
had no family, no friends outside of London, which meant there was no single, logical destination for her. She could be anywhere. Benjamin told him not to give up hope. He was sure someone besides the pawnbroker had seen her leaving Whitechapel. He was going to talk to the hackney drivers who plied the Commercial Road to see if one of them remembered her and, if they were really lucky, where he’d taken her.
Joe knew Benjamin was doing his best, but the waiting was killing him. The knowledge that the person he loved most was alone in the world, with no one to turn to, maybe in terrible trouble, occupied his every waking hour.
He looked at Millie, propped up in a confection of lacy pillows and bolsters, working her needle in and out of the white silk of the christening gown, and was once again seized by the unreality of his life. None of this was supposed to be happening. He wasn’t supposed to be here in this house, married to this woman. He was supposed to be in Whitechapel, married to Fiona. They would have just opened their first shop and they’d be working every minute of every day to make it a success. It would be hard, a constant struggle, but it would be everything he’d ever wanted. Just to sit across the table from her at night as they talked about the day. To sleep in the same bed with her, make love to her in the dark, slowly and sweetly. To hear someone call her Mrs. Bristow. To dandle their baby on his knee and listen to his mother and hers argue about whose side of the family the child favored.
“Joe, dear? Which do you like better? Annabelle or Lucy?”
Millie’s voice shattered his lovely daydream and brought him back to reality. “What, Millie? I’m sorry, I was thinking about work.”
“I asked which name you like better if the baby’s a girl. If it’s a boy, I’d like to call him Thomas, after my father. Thomas Bristow. I think it has a nice ring to it. I’m sure it’s a boy. I just have this feeling. I –” Millie stopped talking and pressed her hands to her belly.
Joe shot forward in his chair; the ledger slid off his lap. “Millie, what is it? Is something wrong? Should I get the doctor?” he asked, alarmed.
The Tea Rose Page 31
