The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  It’s not him, she told herself. Why would he be out on his own? He works for Peterson’s. Probably runs the place by now. But it must be. Who else could it be? He had a younger brother named Jimmy – she vaguely remembered him – that would be the Jas. Bristow. And sisters, too. She couldn’t picture either of them. It had been too long. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. And her hands were trembling. She told herself it was because of her fall.

  Men and women, market workers all, passed her on the sidewalk, some ignoring her, others giving her curious glances. She looked at the door. It was painted a rich hunter green, just like the fronts of her and Michael’s grocery shops. She remembered seeing that same color on the facade of Fortnum & Mason’s. On the outing they’d once taken. They’d both liked it, both thought it was a wonderful color for a shop door.

  She wanted to go upstairs. She wanted to see him. But she was afraid. She took a step toward the door, then stopped. Don’t, she told herself. There’s no point. You’ll only hurt yourself. Turn away and start walking. Then at least you can say you’ve never seen him with her ring on, happy. But she didn’t move. “Go,” she hissed at herself. “Now, you bloody fool!”

  She walked on. Woodenly at first, then more decisively. She got to number thirty-two Tavistock, twisted the doorknob, then turned and ran back to the building on the corner. One thing she had never given in to was fear. She could handle this. She was past it all now – the anger, the sorrow. She just wanted to see him again. As she would any old friend. Just to catch up and see how life had treated him. “Liar,” she whispered. What she wanted to see was those laughing blue eyes.

  She stopped outside the building, winded, and looked at it. Huge doors, partially opened, revealed a warehouse. She doubted he would be in there. The hunter-green door must lead to the offices, she reasoned. She would try that. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open and walked up a flight of stairs to an open reception area awash in light from a row of tall windows. There was a long wooden counter, behind which two young women sat at desks, typing furiously; a third desk had two telephones on it, which rang continually and were attended by a harried young man who kept glancing at the large clock on the wall. Fruit and vegetable crates, full of fresh produce – to be inspected and sampled, she guessed – were stacked haphazardly.

  A boy in kitchen whites, who’d just arrived with an envelope under his arm, stood in the center of the room, refusing to relinquish his missive to an angry clerk. “It’s the menu for the party,” he said defiantly. “Chef Reynaud said ’and it to the guv’nor ’imself and not no poxy clerk.” The clerk threatened to wring the lad’s neck for him. The boy manning the phones never looked up, neither did the typists. Fiona began to despair of getting anyone’s attention when she noticed a pretty young blond woman talking to two porters near a second stairway that led directly down to the warehouse. The woman handed them a lengthy order sheet, then turned toward her. She stared for a few seconds, then, with a strange look of what Fiona thought was almost alarm, said, “Can I ’elp you?”

  “I’d … I’d like to see Joseph Bristow,” Fiona said.

  The woman hesitated. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but ’e isn’t in right now.”

  “Tell me, is Mr. Bristow … is he from Montague Street? In Whitechapel?”

  “Aye.”

  Fiona, her heart hammering, opened her purse and dug out a calling card. “May I leave this for him?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She felt the woman’s eyes on her as she scribbled a quick note on the back of the card. She handed it to her. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Ta-ra.”

  “Yes. Well … ta-ra,” Fiona said, feeling awkward and disappointed. Then she headed for the staircase and Tavistock Street and her appointment at Bekins and Brown.

  Cathy Bristow stared after the beautiful black-haired woman as she disappeared down the stairwell then looked at the card in her hand. MRS. NICHOLAS SOAMES, it read.

  It’s her. Fiona. I’m sure of it, she said to herself. She has a face that’s hard to forget. Though she’s obviously forgotten mine, she thought, irritated. Then again, I was probably what? Eight years old the last time we saw each other?

  “Cathy!” a voice bellowed down the hallway.

  “What is it, Joe?” She looked past the reception desk, down the hallway. Her brother was leaning out of the doorway to his office.

  “I need the guest list. For Saturday. Can you bring it, luv?”

  “Right away,” she said.

  He vanished back into his office. Cathy looked at the card again. This is none of your business, she told herself. She read the message anyway. “Dear Joe, I’m in London for a few weeks. Staying at the Savoy. Would love to see you. Best regards, Fiona Finnegan Soames.”

  She bit her lip. You should’ve had her wait, her conscience said. You should’ve fetched Joe. He’ll be furious if he finds out what you’ve done. You can still catch her, it’s not too late. Go after her!

  She started for the stairs, then stopped. Why? she asked herself. What for? To rip open old wounds? Fiona Finnegan is married. Mrs. Nicholas Soames, that’s what the card said, didn’t it? There’s no point in going after her. None at all. And why does she want to see him? Maybe she’s still angry at him, she reasoned. Maybe she wants to have some kind of revenge. To show him that she’s happily married and quite unavailable.

  Cathy could imagine her brother’s expression when he saw the card. The bloody fool would leap up and run all the way to the Savoy. And after he’d seen her, after she told him all about her husband and her wonderful life in New York, he’d be devastated. Cathy loved her brother very much and it pained her greatly to see the ever-present sadness in his eyes. She knew it would go away if only he could fall in love again. And she knew he never would if he saw Fiona.

  She’d promised Sally Gordon she would help her catch Joe and she meant to keep her word. They’d talked at Jimmy’s wedding and it seemed to go well. Joe had been very charming and Sally looked so sweet and pretty. How could he not fall for her? They’d make such a good match. Joe just had to be brought round to seeing it. And Fiona’s reappearance in his life would only derail things.

  “Cathy!” Joe shouted again. “Where’s that guest list?”

  In a flash, she made her decision. She tore up the card and tossed the pieces away. As they fluttered to the bottom of the rubbish bin, she shouted, “ ’Ang on a mo’, will you! I’m coming!”

  Chapter 73

  “It’s ’im, Sergeant,” P. C. McPherson said, waving a sheaf of paper in the air.

  Roddy turned from the small rectangular mirror hanging on his closet door and regarded the man. “Except it’s not,” he said. “Because it can’t be. Because he’s dead.”

  “Aye, right you are,” McPherson said dutifully.

  “But, just between you and me …’

  “… all ’ypothetical like …”

  “… the coroner’s report indicates …”

  “… that the fucker’s alive and well and at it again.”

  “Good Christ,” Roddy sighed. He turned back to the mirror and resumed fumbling with the metal emblems that were supposed to sit straight on his collar. A letter had just arrived, not ten minutes ago, summoning him to his superintendent’s office. He was to leave immediately. He had been expecting the summons, but he was not looking forward to answering it.

  Two days ago, McPherson and another police constable had been alerted to the presence of a decomposing corpse stuffed into a privy in the back of a derelict house in Thrawl Street. A group of boys had discovered it. McPherson had recognized the jacket, a gaudy purple thing, and had identified the body as that of Maggie Riggs, a streetwalker. Her throat had been cut and an attempt had been made to cut off her face. Her dress pocket was ripped open and she’d had no money on her, so Roddy put out the word that she’d been the victim of a robbery that had turned violent. He gave the press no description of her wounds, hop
ing to quell any comparisons between this crime and the Ripper murders. He’d managed to keep it pretty quiet, but the superintendent had gotten word. Now he would have to present the coroner’s report to the man and assure him that his officers were patrolling the streets night and day and that everything was under control.

  He gave himself an appraising look, shifting this way and that, trying to see as much of himself in the small glass as he could. Then he turned to McPherson and said, “Are me badges straight?”

  McPherson looked at Roddy’s collar, his shoulders, his front pocket, taking in the various insignia of his rank. “Right as rain.”

  “What about the Quinn murder? Anyt’ing on that?”

  “Not a sausage.”

  “Not’ing at all? Nobody heard anyt’ing? Saw anyt’ing?”

  “Sergeant, does anybody ever see anything round ’ere? You’d think every man, woman, and child in Whitechapel was deaf, dumb, and blind. A murder could happen in the middle of Commercial Street at noon on a Saturday and nobody would see nothing.”

  Roddy nodded. It never rains in Whitechapel but it pours, he thought. First the double murder at the Taj and now the butchered prostitute.

  “Keep the pressure up, McPherson,” Roddy said. “It’s possible that we’re barking up the wrong tree t’inking it’s Sheehan or Malone. Could be anyone. Who had a grudge against Denny? Who’d he owe money to? Who owed him? Squeeze the bartender. Potter’s his name. Runs a lucrative sideline in opium, I’m told. T’reaten to choke it off.”

  “You know where ’e lives?”

  “Dean Street.”

  “Thanks, guv. I’ll leave the Thrawl Street report on your desk.”

  McPherson left. Roddy stole one last glance at himself in the mirror, glad that he’d gotten his hair cut and his beard trimmed the day before. He looked tired, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. Ever since he’d seen Fiona and learned what had really happened to Paddy, he’d had trouble sleeping. Try as he might, he could not come up with a way to nab Sheehan. He was desperate for a solution. He wanted to help Fiona, he couldn’t let her down, but four whole days had passed and he still had nothing. He picked up his report. He would attack the problem again tonight when he was home and his mind was clear. Right now, he had an appointment to keep. But just as he was about to leave his office he heard shouting from the front of the station.

  “Get in there, you fucking bastards! Go on – both of you!”

  “Oi! ’Old on a minute …” he heard one of his officers yell.

  There was the sound of scuffling, then a crash. A man yelped in pain, and then: “Try and run again and I’ll break your leg.”

  “Ripton! What the hell is going on?” Roddy shouted, striding down the hall toward the station’s receiving area.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  Roddy looked toward the doorway. Two men were standing in it. Staggering in it, to be exact. Their faces were pulp – running messes of blood and bruises. Their clothing was torn. Roddy shook his head, dazed by the sight. He approached the men and suddenly realized he knew them – they were Reg Smith and Stan Christie. Bowler Sheehan’s men.

  “Good morning, Sergeant O’Meara,” said a voice from behind them.

  A young man, fearsomely muscular, wearing narrow-cut trousers and a red kingsman, stepped forward. He was followed by another man wearing similar attire.

  Bully boys, Roddy thought. You can tell by the clothes. They just can’t help themselves. Might as well wear a sign. “Do I know you two?” he said, taking in the scar across the first lad’s chin and the doughy fighter’s nose on the second one.

  “Tom Smith,” the first lad said, perfectly straight-faced.

  “Dick Jones,” said the second one.

  “So all we’re missing is Harry Bollocks,” Roddy said.

  “Beg your pardon, Sergeant?” Tom said.

  “Don’t play the smart-arse with me, son. What are you doing here?”

  “They ’ave something to tell you,” Tom said. He gave his captives a shove. “Speak up, you gobshites. Nice and loud so the whole place can ’ear you.”

  Neither Reg nor Stan spoke. Tom, looking murderous, gripped one of his hands with the other and cracked his knuckles loudly. Reg winced. Stan, through livid, swollen lips, said, “It was us who did for Den Quinn and ’is tart.”

  “And who else?” Tom prompted.

  “Bowler Sheehan.”

  Roddy looked at Reg and Stan in disbelief. “Are you prepared to write that down and sign it?”

  They nodded miserably and Roddy had the officers who’d gathered lead them away. Tom and Dick moved off toward the door.

  “Hold on a minute,” he ordered. “How did they get like this?”

  Tom shrugged. “Don’t know. We found them that way. Outside a pub.”

  “Outside a pub? Which pub?”

  “Anyone you like.”

  “Who are you working for?” Roddy asked.

  Tom smiled. “I don’t follow your meaning, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Ah. You don’t follow my meaning.” Roddy walked over to the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. “Do you t’ink a few days in the nick might help make it clear?”

  “On what charges?”

  “On charges of I feel like it and there’s no one to stop me. How’s that?”

  Tom looked at Dick. Dick nodded. “For a friend of Denny Quinn’s. For a man who don’t think it’s right that Bowler Sheehan gets away with murder.”

  “Friend, my arse. You work for Malone. Your man wants Sheehan out of the way. He’s given me Reg and Stan and now he figures I’m going to do the rest of his dirty work for him, doesn’t he?”

  Neither lad answered. They just stared at Roddy with a gaze that was polite and respectful, patronizing and infuriating.

  “What I can’t figure out, though,” Roddy continued, “is why Malone didn’t just kill Reg and Stan. And why he doesn’t just kill Sheehan. Unless Sheehan’s gone to ground and Malone can’t find him. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s using those two yobs in there as bait. He knows Sheehan wouldn’t want them in the nick. He’d be too worried about them talking. He’ll come get them. He’ll show himself and Malone will put paid to him. Am I right, lads?”

  Tom swallowed. Dick blinked. Neither said a word.

  Roddy unlocked the door. He had his answers. “Be good lads,” he said, “and tell Mr. Malone to stay on his side of the river. Tell him if he doesn’t, he’s going to be very sorry.”

  Tom paused on his way out. “Can you convict them, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “If they sign confessions, yes.”

  “And Sheehan, too? For Quinn’s murder?”

  “If we can get enough evidence against him, or get his confession, then yes,” Roddy said.

  Tom nodded. “Denny Quinn was a good man. And ’e didn’t deserve to die like that. Bowler Sheehan deserves it, though. ’E’s going to ’ang for this.” He smiled tightly. “One way or another.”

  “You leave that to us,” Roddy cautioned. “Sheehan turns up dead, it’s you I’m looking for.”

  But Tom and Dick were already heading down the street. Roddy stood looking after them for a few seconds. He was so distracted, so completely astonished by the enormity of the gift that they had just unintentionally dropped into his lap, that he forgot he was holding the report on the murdered prostitute and that he was supposed to be on his way to the superintendent’s office.

  Tom was right. Bowler certainly would hang. Not just for Den and Janey, but for Paddy Finnegan, too.

  He had it. At last he had a plan to help Fiona. A long-shot plan, admittedly, but a plan nonetheless. He would have to act quickly. Before word of Stan’s and Reg’s arrest spread and Sheehan went so far underground he’d never find him.

  “Ripton!” Roddy shouted.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Get half a dozen men and bring Bowler Sheehan in. Look under every cobblestone, every dog turd in Whitechapel if you have to, but find him.
”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “And Ripton …”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it before those two do,” Roddy said, hooking his thumb in the direction of the door. “I need him in one piece.”

  Chapter 74

  “I say!” Neville Pearson declared, squinting through his spectacles. “Terribly dramatic, aren’t they?”

  “They’re the four seasons!” his wife Charlotte exclaimed. “See? That one’s spring, that’s summer, there’s autumn, and that’s winter. Each is offering her bounty. What a clever idea!”

  “They’re absolutely enormous,” Neville said. “Must be what … twenty feet by thirty? At least!”

  Fiona said nothing. She turned in a slow circle, spellbound by the beauty of the unframed murals on the four opposing walls of Montague’s produce hall. She recognized the artist – John William Waterhouse – one of the English Pre-Raphaelites. Nick had owned two of his romantic canvases.

  Her eyes lingered on each season in turn. Summer, a brunette, wore a vibrant green gown and stood in a meadow, berries in her hands, her face lifted to the sun. Autumn gathered pears in an orchard. Her copper hair was long and flowing like her crimson dress. Winter was a pale blond snow queen in a white gown. She stood among evergreens wearing a crown of holly. And Spring was a lithe black-haired girl, a water sprite in a pale blue dress, with eyes of deepest indigo. She held rosebuds in her hands and stood by a stream. Cherry trees flowered behind her. Green buds poked up out of the black earth under her feet. Hers was not the harvest or winter’s respite, but the promise of things to come.

  Who would have thought to hang paintings in a grocery shop? Fiona wondered. The same person, no doubt, who’d put iridescent blue and green tiles on the floor instead of white ones. Who’d lit the place with chandeliers and sconces shaped like lilies. Who knew enough to put mirror glass in back of his food cases to make the displays look twice as big. Who gave his sales staff silver name tags with the word “Specialist” engraved under their names, not “Clerk.” Who’d situated the stairs to the upper levels of the shop at the back of the main floor, making it necessary for shoppers en route to the florist or tobacconist to wend their way past myriad tempting goods.