Whoever he is, he’s a bloody genius, Fiona thought. Everything he’d chosen, every decision he’d made – from the paintings to the glorious flower arrangements to the artful displays of exotic fruits and vegetables – raised the tone of the place, elevating it from a loud and clanging food hall to a refined, luxurious emporium. Neville had promised her an introduction as soon as they could find the man … this Mr. Barston or Barton – he still couldn’t remember which.
“Looks like you, Fiona,” Neville said, pointing at Spring.
Fiona looked at the painted girl. “She’s much younger. And far too pretty,” she replied.
“Nonsense, Neville’s right. She looks exactly like you, my dear,” Charlotte Pearson said.
Fiona flapped her hand and told them they were seeing things. A waiter passed by with champagne. Neville plucked a glass from his tray and took a sip. Fiona took one, too, to be polite, but declined the lovely petits fours that followed. She was too tense to eat. She had far too much on her mind.
First, there was Neville. During the dinner she’d shared with the Pearsons at the Savoy before the party, he’d told her that he believed it would take him six months to get the Burton stock. He suggested they meet on Tuesday afternoon at his office to discuss the details. Six months seemed impossibly long. She wanted the shares now, not half a year from now. How would she run her businesses from London? She’d have to travel back and forth constantly – a prospect she did not relish.
Then there was Roddy. She’d received a note from him yesterday. “Got him,” it read. “Give me two days.” One day had already elapsed. One more to go. How had he nabbed Sheehan? And what on earth was he doing with him? She couldn’t sleep at night for worrying. What was he plotting? And would it work, whatever it was? The wait was unbearable, but she would have to be patient. With any luck, she would know by Monday.
And then there was Joe. She looked around the room again, at the displays, at a woman’s dress, at anything at all to take her mind off the fact that it had been three whole days since she’d left her card at his office. Three whole days in which she’d heard nothing from him. She was foolish to have done it. He obviously wanted nothing to do with her. Of course he didn’t. He’d made that perfectly clear ten years ago. He’d probably thrown the card away the second that woman had handed it to him. She cringed at the very thought. She had tried to shrug his silence off, tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. But it did. It hurt. Still.
It seemed she was spending all her time waiting these days. For a reply from Joe. For a resolution of her suit against Randolph Elgin. For further word from Roddy. She wasn’t accustomed to waiting for solutions to her problems; she was used to taking action. And being forced to sit still, to be useless and idle, was driving her mad.
“What do you suppose this is?” Neville asked, a ribbed green pod pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He’d wandered off to the fruit and vegetable displays and come back again.
“Okra,” Fiona said. “From America. It’s grown in the Southern states.” She wondered how it had remained so green and fresh. She and Michael often had difficulties getting good produce from Georgia and the Carolinas. They rejected much of what their wholesalers supplied. It must’ve come over on ice on a very fast boat directly out of a Southern port, she decided.
“Okra. How unusual,” Neville said. He took a tentative bite, made a face, and tossed the offending vegetable onto a waiter’s tray. “You must come with me, all of you,” he said, “and see what I’ve discovered. It’s remarkable! I was standing by a vegetable case wondering how they’ve kept everything so fresh in the summer heat when all of a sudden fog started coming out of it.”
“Fog?” Charlotte said. “That can’t be right.”
“Yes, fog, my dear. It’s most ingenious! Come see.”
“That’s all we need in London, more fog,” Charlotte said, trotting after her husband.
Fiona followed the Pearsons and saw what Neville was talking about. The produce was displayed in tall, raked cases made of enameled metal. Someone had devised a way to make the cases release a gentle mist over the produce to keep it crisp. She reached up under the top and felt around. “There’s a hose here,” she said. “There must be tiny holes in it. They’re forcing water through it somehow. A pump, maybe. But where is it?” She ducked her head into the case to try and get a better look, but got a face full of mist instead. “You’re right, Neville, it is ingenious!” she said excitedly, dabbing her wet cheeks with her sleeve. “I must find out how it’s done. Where is this Mr. Barton?”
“I don’t know,” Neville said, frowning as he searched the crowd. “He must be here somewhere, but I haven’t seen him. Let’s walk around, shall we?” he said, offering her one arm, and his wife the other. “We’re bound to bump into him.”
As they strolled off in search of the proprietor, the threesome investigated the rest of Montague’s main floor, marveling at the immense variety of breads – Charlotte stopped counting after forty – the mouth-watering display of cakes, puddings, and biscuits; the beautiful mosaic of fish and shellfish; the wealth of game birds, venison, elk, and boar; the luscious cuts of beef and pork; the prepared foods – rich pâtés, salads, aspics, meat pies decorated with pastry garlands and hunting scenes; and the towering display of cheeses.
As Fiona took everything in, captivated, she managed to forget about her Burton Tea shares, and Joe’s snub, and Roddy and Bowler Sheehan for a little while. It was impossible to worry while tasting a sliver of fine aged Parmesan, or questioning a clerk – no, a specialist about a type of coffee she’d never seen before. She was full of admiration for this remarkable merchant Barton and quite impatient to meet him.
Charlotte spotted a friend and broke away to chat with her. “Let’s go upstairs,” Neville said to Fiona. “I want to visit the tobacco shop. Our secret, my dear. Charlotte doesn’t approve.”
Fiona laughed. Her mood had lightened. Heads turned as they walked up the large marble staircase. People stared, not recognizing the lovely smiling woman on Pearson’s arm. She wore a summery gown of cream silk mousseline trimmed with Chantilly lace and cinched at the waist with a narrow length of satin. The open collar showed off her long graceful neck, its delicacy emphasized by a necklace and earrings of pearls, opals, and amethysts. Eyes darted toward her, attracted by her beauty, then lingered, enchanted by the spirit and animation evident in her every gesture.
At the top, the railings branched off to the left and right, creating little areas where people could stand and watch the scene below. Fiona accompanied Neville into the tobacconist’s, which boasted a built-in humidor. She observed, curious, as he passed several cigars under his nose, pressing them slightly to ascertain their freshness, before making his selection. The cigars were paid for, then promptly secreted in his breast pocket.
Back outside, Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. Fiona and Neville walked back to the railing to wait for her. Fresh glasses of champagne were brought. Fiona had abandoned her first, undrunk, downstairs. More relaxed now, she sipped from this one. A handsome young waiter handed her a perfect crimson rose. “A gift from our florist,” he said.
“Quite a do,” Neville said.
“Isn’t it?” Fiona agreed, inhaling the scent of her rose. “What an extraordinary shop.”
Neville leaned his forearms on the railing. “Just look at all the people. Must be costing the chap a fortune in champagne.”
“Yes, but he’ll earn it back in spades when they all become customers,” Fiona said, her eyes roving over the glittering, glamorous crowd below. These were people with money. Socially prominent people. She could tell by the richness of their clothing, their upper-crust voices. They would be dazzled by tonight’s party, then go home and tell their housekeepers to buy at Montague’s. Whatever its owner was spending now was only a small investment against his future profits.
“Shall we visit the restaurant?” Neville asked. “It’s on the next floor. It’s supposed to be extraor
dinary.”
“Yes, let’s. I’ll just finish my drink …” Her words suddenly trailed off. Her eyes – locked upon a face in the crowd, a man’s face – widened.
The ponytail was gone. The blond hair was neatly cut now, but still thick and curling. The threadbare shirt, the cap, and the red kingsman were gone, too. He wore a suit. A perfectly cut gray frock coat and trousers. But the wide, generous smile was the same. And the eyes, as blue and limitless as a summer sky, were the same. The boy was gone. A man had taken his place. The most beautiful man she had ever seen.
She heard a voice in her mind, the one she’d heard during her visit to Neville’s firm. She’d been inexplicably drawn to it. Because it was his voice. “Barton or Barston,” Neville had said. “I’m so bad with names.” No, Bristow. Joe Bristow. Her Joe.
She could barely breathe as she watched him. He was talking to a couple, smiling, his hand on the man’s shoulder. Her heart was so full of emotion that tears suddenly came to her eyes. The other day, in his Covent Garden office, she had told herself she could handle seeing him again. Handle it? She could barely stand up straight. The mere sight of him left her overwhelmed by feelings of love and longing. Feelings she thought she’d conquered long ago. She wanted to go to him, to hear his voice, touch his hand, and look into his eyes once again. To put her arms around him and feel his arms around her and pretend, if only for a few seconds, that they had never parted.
As she continued to watch him, drinking in every detail of his appearance – the way he stood, the way he jammed his hands in his pockets as he talked, the way he cocked his head to listen – he was suddenly mobbed by three boisterous blond children. He bent down to pick up the youngest, kissed her cheek, then plucked a sweet from a passing tray for her. As he put her down again, Fiona realized the little girl must be his. All three children were his. His and Millie’s. Because he was married to Millie and had been for the last ten years and didn’t want anything to do with her.
She backed away from the railing feeling physically ill. She had to get out of here. Now. Before he saw her. Or she’d look like some lovesick idiot who just couldn’t stay away. A desperate, pathetic woman.
Neville noticed her stricken expression. “Fiona? What is it? What’s wrong?”
She forced herself to smile. “Nothing, Neville. A touch of vertigo, that’s all. I can’t abide heights,” she lied. Then she told him that she’d enjoyed herself immensely, but that she was tired and had a busy day ahead of her, so she had to get back to her hotel. She asked him to please tell Charlotte good-bye for her and said she would see him at his offices on Tuesday.
Then she started down the long, sweeping staircase. She’d seen a side door and planned to make a beeline for it. She wanted to run, but forced herself to descend at a proper pace. When she finally reached the ground floor, she quickly threaded her way through the crowd toward the door. It opened into an alleyway that ran alongside the Montague’s building. Once outside, she did run. Out of the alley and into the street, where she found a hackney immediately.
Inside the carriage, she gave vent to her emotion. The cabbie heard her choked sobs. Concerned, he turned and asked if she was all right.
“No, I’m not. Not at all,” she said, too upset to be mortified that she was crying in front of a total stranger.
“Don’t tell me – it’s a bloke, ain’t it?” the man asked.
She nodded.
“You’re daft, missus. Fine woman like yourself … why, you could do better than ’im any day of the week. I don’t give a toss who ’e is.”
Fiona sighed. “That’s what I tell myself. Maybe someday I’ll believe it.”
“It was ’er,” Joe said to himself, standing on the street outside his shop, frantically looking for a woman in a cream-colored dress among the crush of people. Those blue eyes, that face … it was Fiona. She was here.
He’d glimpsed her on the stairs. The sudden shock of seeing her had been so great, he’d dropped the glass he was holding. It had shattered at his feet. Before he could even call her name, she was down the steps and out a side door. He’d run after her, but the crowd slowed him. By the time he made it down the alley to the street, she’d disappeared.
Fiona. Here in London. In his shop. He’d seen her. He took a few paces down the sidewalk, looking in carriage windows; crossed the street, looked up and down it, but he couldn’t find her anywhere.
It was her, I’m certain of it, he told himself. The only thing is, she lives in New York, not London. With her husband.
“Joe!” someone shouted. “Joe … over ’ere!”
He spun in the direction of the voice. It was Cathy. She was waving at him.
“Where ’ave you been?” she asked after he’d crossed back. “I saw you run out. I thought something ’ad ’appened.”
“No, nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought –”
“You’re needed back inside. Lady Churchill’s just arrived. She wants a guided tour.” She gave him a close look. “Joe, luv, what’s wrong? You look ’alf distracted.”
He shook his head. “You won’t believe this, but I could swear I just saw Fiona Finnegan.”
Cathy cast an anxious glance down the street and then at him. He realized he must be worrying her. “You think I’m barmy, don’t you?” he said.
“You’re not barmy, luv. Just overworked. It’s been eighteen-hour days, seven days a week for all of us for over a month. But the shop’s open now, and it’s going to be a smashing success if tonight’s any indication. As soon as the dust settles, you should take a few days off. Stay in Greenwich and rest yourself.”
Joe nodded. “Aye, I think I will.”
“Come on, then,” she said brightly. “Mustn’t keep ’er ladyship waiting.”
Cathy led the way back down the alley. It would be quicker than trying to get in through the main entrance. Joe paused at the door to allow his sister to go ahead of him. He was about to follow her in when he saw a red rose lying on the cobbles near his feet.
He picked it up. Fiona had loved red roses. He used to bring her one whenever he could.
“Joe? You coming?”
“Right away.” He shoved the bloom into his pocket. He was going mad. No doubt about it. Cathy was right. A few days’ rest would do him a world of good.
Chapter 75
“You bastard! You pig-fucking, cock-sucking, shit-eating bastard! You can’t keep me ’ere! I want my solicitor and I want ’im now! I know me rights! When I get out of ’ere, O’Meara, you’re going to be out, too! Out on your spotty Irish arse! You ’ear me? I’ll ’ave your badge, you fucker! Yours and the bollocks who ’auled me in ’ere …”
Roddy, arms folded across his chest, regarded the man on the other side of the iron bars with a smirk. He’d run out of steam in a minute or two. Two days without food or water left even the toughest men weak. And Bowler, for all his noise, wasn’t that tough. He was nowhere near as big as Reg or Stan. He was wiry without much fat to absorb blows. Roddy guessed he’d bleed like hell.
He pulled his battered truncheon from his belt and took a couple of practice swings. Bowler saw him do it and unleashed another torrent of invective. It lacked the color and vigor of the previous one. The man was tiring.
It had been a long time since Roddy had conducted an interview of this nature. McPherson had offered to help, but he’d declined. He wanted Bowler all to himself.
He waited a few more minutes, until Bowler, finally exhausted, sat down on the bench inside his cell. Then he took a ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. As he expected, Bowler rushed him the second the door clicked shut. Roddy was prepared. He deflected the blow with his truncheon, grabbed Bowler’s arm, spun him around, and threw him against the bars. Bowler bounced off and came at him again. Roddy brought his truncheon down on his skull, opening a gash above one eye.
Bowler shrieked. Roddy grabbed him by his shirt and pitched him back onto the bench. “Paddy Finnegan was like a brother to me,�
�� he said.
“What the fuck ’as that got to do with me?” Bowler shouted, wiping blood out of his eye.
“You murdered him. You and William Burton.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You also murdered Dennis Quinn and Janey Symms.”
Bowler spat a gob of bloody phlegm. “You’ve got the wrong man. It was Sid Malone. ’E wants into the East End. ’E was trying to throw ’is weight around with Quinn, but Quinn wasn’t ’aving it. So Malone did for ’im.”
Roddy drew two pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket, unfolded them, and held them up before Bowler’s eyes. “Can you read?” he asked.
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Roddy said. “Read these carefully. They’re signed confessions made by Reg Smith and Stan Christie and witnessed by two of my constables. They say that you yourself stabbed Quinn and that Reg and Stan cut Janey Symms.”
Roddy watched Bowler’s eyes as he read the documents, pleased to see a flicker of fear in them.
“So what?” Bowler said when he was done. “That’s what those two say. I say different. I was nowhere near the Taj when Den was murdered.”
“Listen, Bowler, I’m going to make you an offer. We both know you did this. I’ve got Reg and Stan’s statements to back it up. And if I need to, I’ll get more witnesses. Potter the bartender will place you there. So will half a dozen of Den’s girls.”
The Tea Rose Page 65
