The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Joe covered his mother’s hand with his own. “Let’s go find Sally, then. But no matchmaking, Mum. I don’t need a wife. I’ve got you and. Cathy to ’enpeck me and that’s all one man can stand.”

  Chapter 68

  “He’s going to fight, Fiona,” Teddy Sissons said, slapping a thick bundle of documents down on her desk. “These arrived at my office this morning. His lawyers are good. They’ve thrown up every obstacle I anticipated and a few more besides.”

  As Fiona started reading the papers, Teddy sat down. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his glasses, and mopped his brow. It was an unseasonably hot June day.

  “This is outrageous!” Fiona exclaimed. “He’s offering me a third of the shares’ value in cash if I withdraw my claim immediately. A bloody third! And the offer expires in sixty days, after which time I will receive nothing! This is completely illegal. Can you believe the man’s cheek?”

  “I can,” Teddy said, tucking his handkerchief away. “And as your attorney, I advise you to accept his offer.”

  “What?”

  Teddy put his glasses back on. “I advise you to accept.”

  “But, Teddy, you know how much I want those shares,” she said angrily, perplexed by his turncoat behavior.

  “Let me finish, Fiona. You must understand something. This whole business is about to turn ugly. You’re a very wealthy woman. You don’t need these shares. You don’t need this fight. Let it go.”

  Fiona tilted her head as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “I’m not afraid of a fight. What in the world makes you think I’d settle?”

  “There’s going to be a tremendous cost involved.”

  “I said I’d pay whatever it took –”

  “In time as well as money,” Teddy said brusquely, cutting her off. “Before the suit ever goes before a judge, they’ll waste a year or two of your time and thousands of your dollars sending for original documents – your birth certificate, marriage license, Nick’s will, his death certificate – all to establish your identity, to confirm Nick’s, to verify that a wedding indeed took place. They’ll tie up the proceedings forever.”

  “Perhaps someone from the firm could go to London with the documents in hand. It might be a good idea to have a man there keeping the pressure on,” Fiona said.

  “That wouldn’t work. No one in my firm is licensed to practice in England.”

  “Surely you have affiliates there. What do you do if an American client dies and has assets in England?” Fiona felt she was stating the obvious and wondered why Teddy, who was usually such a bulldog, hadn’t brought it up.

  “Well, yes. There is a group of London barristers we work with.”

  “Then arrange a meeting for me. I’ll go to London myself next week if I have to.”

  “What about your businesses? You can’t just leave them.”

  “Stuart Bryce is more than capable of running TasTea in my absence and Michael can handle the tearooms and the grocery shops,” she said.

  Teddy shifted in his chair. Then he said, “When you have time to study the papers, you’ll see that Elgin’s lawyers got their hands on Nick’s medical records. Not Eckhardt’s – he wouldn’t surrender them – but records from a Dr. Hadley. As I understand it, it was he who first diagnosed Nick’s syphilis.”

  Fiona nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Hadley was Nick’s family’s doctor.”

  “According to Hadley’s notes, Nicholas contracted his illness from another man.”

  “How did the lawyers get these notes? That’s all confidential information.”

  “If Hadley’s a friend to Elgin, he probably handed them over.”

  “Why are you bringing it up, Teddy? What does it have to do with my claim?”

  “A great deal. Elgin’s lawyers intend to use Nick’s syphilis and his … er … alleged sexual proclivities to argue that your marriage was a sham, that Nick was mentally incompetent from his illness when he entered into it, that it was never consummated, and that you’ve no rights to his estate.”

  Fiona shook her head, her eyes wide with disbelief. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “With this much money at stake, they certainly would.”

  “It makes no difference,” she said hotly. “I’m still going to fight them.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes! You know I will,” she said impatiently. “I’ve told you so again and again. Why are you even asking?”

  Teddy looked away. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and said, “Fiona, whether a marriage has been consummated is a terribly difficult thing to prove or disprove. But that doesn’t stop lawyers from trying. Do you understand me?”

  “No, Teddy, I bloody well don’t! Stop being so delicate. Are you saying they’re going to ask me whether Nick and I made love? I’ll tell them we did.”

  Teddy turned his gaze on her. “You know, I’ve always admired your rather formidable will, your refusal to back away from difficulties. But sometimes strength isn’t about perseverance. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to quit.”

  “Teddy, listen to me –”

  “No. You listen to me,” he said sharply. “You have no idea what trial lawyers are capable of. What if Elgin’s men insist that a doctor – one of their choosing – examines you? What if they come to New York to depose your household staff?”

  “It’ll never happen,” Fiona said.

  “Won’t it? Compare the cost of sending a couple of lawyers across the Atlantic to losing over three million dollars! Of course it will! They’ll ask your own maid if you and Nick ever shared a bed. They’ll ask about stains on the sheets, Fiona. They’ll subpoena your doctor and ask if you were ever pregnant. If you ever miscarried. If there’s any reason why, in ten years of marriage, you failed to conceive.”

  Fiona swallowed, sickened by the very idea.

  “Ugly enough?” Teddy asked. “Just wait. If they find things aren’t going their way, they’ll get themselves a London rent boy – some poor syphilitic who’s sick and destitute. They’ll pay him to say he had intercourse with Nick on several occasions. He’ll give dates, times, locations. He’ll know whether Nick had a mole on his back-side or a scar on his thigh. They’ll get an old school friend of his, someone with heavy gambling debts, to swear that he couldn’t function with women.”

  “They can’t do that!” Fiona cried, slamming her hands down on the desk.

  “Don’t be so damned naive! They can and they will! Randolph Elgin is not playing games. He wants to hold on to those shares every bit as much as you want to take them. He’ll stop at nothing.” Upset to find himself yelling, Teddy leaned back in his chair and took a breath.

  There was silence in the room as Fiona got up from her desk and poured two cups of tea from the pot on her credenza. She put one in front of Teddy and took hers over to a window. As she sipped it, she gazed at the Hudson’s gray waters. She had expected underhanded behavior from Elgin and he had not disappointed her. Yet she still found herself shocked that he would drag his dead son’s past into a courtroom. Randolph Elgin, it appeared, was as ruthless as his associate William Burton when it came to matters of money.

  Teddy wanted her to settle. To walk away from what promised to be a vicious fight. She knew his advice was prompted by a desire to protect her and she appreciated it. But it seemed to her that Teddy was missing something important. He’d read the letter from Elgin’s lawyers and saw only a vile court battle brewing, but she saw something else. Something written between the lines. Fear. Randolph Elgin was afraid.

  Clearly, he hoped that his threat to pry into her private life and expose the most intimate details of her marriage would scare her off. He must be worried, she reasoned, to stoop to such measures. He must think I can win. His lawyers have told him my claim is good and that he stands to lose Nick’s fund. He’s dreading the prospect of telling Burton he lost his shares. If he can intimidate me into dropping my claim, he’ll never have to.

  The knowledge that Elgin feared h
er gave Fiona courage. She would not back down. “Teddy, this is what I want done,” she said, sitting down next to him. “Write Elgin’s lawyers and tell them that one third is an insult. Tell them –”

  “Fiona, I urge you to accept his offer. If you persist in your claim, I can no longer represent you. I gave Nick my word that I would look after you. I would be breaking my promise if I encouraged you in this.”

  “I’m going back to London.”

  Teddy heaved a great, defeated sigh. “When?”

  “Within the week.”

  “Fiona,” he said wearily. “I’m begging … begging you not to. They’ll tear you to shreds. They’ll make sure every sordid accusation makes the New York papers. There will be a scandal and this time I won’t be able to stop it. You’ll be ruined. You can close the doors to TasTea today. We all knew about Nick and it didn’t make any difference, he was our friend. Not everyone is as open-minded. What Nick was is a sin to some people and they won’t buy tea from you if they see you as a party to immorality.”

  Fiona took his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t desert me now, Teddy. I need you. You’ve always been there for me. Always. Be there now.”

  Teddy looked into her eyes, trying – she imagined – to fathom a reason for her obsession. “Don’t do this, Fiona, it’s madness,” he said quietly. “You’ll destroy everything you’ve worked for.”

  “You’re wrong, Teddy,” she replied. “This is everything I’ve worked for.”

  Chapter 69

  “Sure, but it’s been awhile since I set foot in this particular shithole,” Roddy said, looking up at the Taj Mahal’s garishly painted sign. He shifted his gaze to the brick building’s upper stories and saw a row of broken windows. “That the damage you were telling me about?”

  P. C. McPherson nodded. “All them windows, plus the door, were pushed in, and the till was robbed.”

  “Just last night?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did Quinn report it himself?”

  “No, one of the neighbors ’eard the glass going in and started shouting for the police. I ’eard the racket and came running. Told Quinn I’d sort it out for ’im, but ’e didn’t want my ’elp. Said it was ’is problem and ’e’d take care of it. Trouble with some local lads, ’e said.”

  “A pair of mischievous little tykes named Bowler Sheehan and Sid Malone,” Roddy said grimly.

  “Aye, but which one? I’d always ’eard Quinn was Sheehan’s man. You think ’e switched sides?”

  “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. Somet’ing’s up. What with Malone suddenly making appearances, and Quinn’s windows going in, there’s a battle brewing for East London. I feel it. Whoever this boyo is, he’s got himself some big plans and they include our side of the river.”

  “You think Denny’ll tell you what’s what?”

  “He will if he doesn’t want his fine establishment closed down. Come on, let’s go.”

  Roddy opened the door to the Taj and went inside, followed closely by McPherson. He was prepared for the usual unpleasantries – the surly glances and muttered curses. The vulgar remarks. The remains of someone’s supper thrown at his feet, beer sloshed on his jacket, a bottle aimed at his head. He was prepared for one of Denny’s girls to offer her services. Even for Denny himself to collar him and ply him with offers of whiskey and beefsteak, all on the house. But he wasn’t prepared for what he did see.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  There was no one around. Not a soul. On a flipping Friday night. The lights were out. The billiard tables were empty. There were no punters lined up at the bar. There was no barman. Nobody was tucking into a nice fry-up, nobody was traipsing upstairs after one of the girls. He turned around in a circle, astonished by the quiet.

  “Quinn?” he called out uncertainly. “Denny?” He got no answer.

  He looked at McPherson, but McPherson was no wiser than he was. Hands on their truncheons, the two men walked behind the bar and through a door that led into the kitchen. Nobody was there either, but the sink was full of peeled potatoes. A rope of sausages had been placed on a wooden board as if someone had meant to cut it up.

  The hair on the back of Roddy’s neck started to prickle. Something was very wrong. He led the way back out of the kitchen, through the taproom, and up the main staircase. Quinn’s office was just off the landing. Quinn himself or Janey Symms, Den’s lady friend and madam to his stable of whores, would likely be inside. They’d explain what was going on.

  “Quinn!” he shouted, outside the office door. There was no answer. He turned the knob, but the door was locked. “Den? You in there?” he yelled, thumping on the door. Still no answer. He was about to knock again when he heard a low, faint groan. He backed up, then charged forward, heaving his shoulder into the door. It shuddered, but held. He did it again. The lock gave way. He rushed in.

  Dennis Quinn lay on the floor, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood pooling about his body like an obscene red flower.

  “Jesus Christ,” McPherson said.

  Roddy knelt down and felt Quinn’s neck for a pulse, causing fresh blood to trickle from the knife wound there. His eyes traveled down Denny’s body; his shirtfront was red with blood. As he stood up, he heard the groan again. It took him a second to realize it wasn’t coming from the dead man. It was coming from behind the desk at the far end of the room. He knew what he would see – whom he would see – before he even got there.

  Janey Symms lay on her side, gasping for breath, her skin slick with sweat. One hand was pressed to the deep wound in her chest, the other was stretched out in front of her. She looked at Roddy with wild, glassy eyes.

  “Janey, who did this? Tell me. Give me a name.”

  Janey swallowed, tried to speak, but could not.

  “Hold on, luv,” Roddy said. “I’m going to get you to hospital.” He took off his jacket, placed it over her, and tried to lift her, but she screamed in pain and he had to put her down. “I know, Janey, I know it hurts, just hold on, you’ll be all right …”

  Janey shook her head. She raised her hand. Roddy took it. She pressed it against the floor.

  “We’ve got to go, Janey. I’m going to pick you up again.”

  Janey closed her eyes. With the last of her strength, she raised Roddy’s hand and slammed it down. He looked at his hand, pinned down against the pine boards by hers, saw her crimson index finger and saw, finally, what she wanted him to see. She’d written the letter S on the floor. In blood. Her own blood.

  “Sheehan,” he said.

  “Or Sid,” McPherson said.

  “Which one was it, Janey? Was it Sheehan or Sid Malone?” Roddy asked urgently. He knew she couldn’t last much longer. Janey swallowed again. Her chest rose and sank rapidly. “You hang on,” he said fiercely, squeezing her hand. “I’m going to get you out of here.” But even as he was talking, he felt the life drain out of her. She was gone. Roddy shook his head, cursing. He released her hand. Already, the blood from her wounds was seeping across the floorboards, blotting out her S. “What’s your guess?” he said, looking at McPherson.

  “Sheehan if Quinn turned against him. Malone if ’e didn’t.”

  “That’s a big help,” Roddy said. “Almost as big a help as our dead witness here, and the evidence that just got blotted out and the fact that there were probably fifty-odd people downstairs when whoever did this came in, and not one of them is going to come forward. Two people were murdered and we’ve got not’ing to go on. Bloody not’ing.”

  “You’re right about that, Sergeant. But you were wrong about what you said earlier.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The battle for East London’s not brewing. It’s already begun.”

  Chapter 70

  Neville Pearson, a chatty, portly, bespectacled man of sixty or so, ducked around a ladder, stepped over a bucket of paint, and reached for Fiona’s hand. “Mrs. Soames, is it?” he asked, shaking it so vigorously that her teeth rattled. “A pleasure.
Teddy’s written. Told me all about you.”

  He wore a fusty brown suit that might have been stylish twenty years ago and a yellow tattersall waistcoat that sported tea stains and bread crumbs. He was bald except for tufts of pure white hair on the sides of his head and he had the florid complexion of a man who enjoyed his food and drink. He looked nothing like Teddy or any of the other New York lawyers Fiona knew with their smart suits and haircuts, their manicured hands and expensive shoes. With his worn briefcase under his arm and his glasses perched low on his nose, Pearson looked more like a befuddled academic than one of London’s most esteemed civil-law barristers, a Queen’s Counsel.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Pearson,” Fiona replied.

  “Hmmm. Yes, well…” he said, looking around himself, “… let’s try and find a quiet corner, shall we? I’d take you to my rooms, but the builders are tearing them apart. Terribly sorry about all this. We’re refurbishing. A junior barrister’s idea. Says the place looks old, behind the times. Wants us to look modern. A misuse of money and a blasted inconvenience, I say. Edwards!”

  “Yes, Mr. Pearson?” a young man behind the reception desk replied.

  “I need an office.”

  “I believe Mr. Lazenby’s is free, sir.”

  “Good. Follow me, Mrs. Soames, and mind your skirts.”

  He led her from the reception area down a long hallway, telling her all about the venerable Gray’s Inn – one of the four Inns of Court – how parts of it had been built in the fourteenth century and enlarged under the Tudors, and how it had survived all these years very nicely, thank you, without the assistance of know-nothing renovators.

  Fiona smiled as she followed him, enjoying the sound of his voice. She had missed the music of English voices. New Yorkers skated roughly over their words, rushing through their speech as they rushed through everything else. Londoners delighted in their language, every one of them. From the plummy-voiced concierge at her hotel, his lips crisply forming his consonants, giving his vowels their due, to the cabby who’d brought her here – a Lambeth man who chewed his letters with relish, as if he had a delicious bite of beefsteak in his mouth.