The hackney slowed as it neared the corner of Southampton and Tavistock. Davey threw money at the driver and was out the door before it could stop.
The return address on the letter had read “J. Bristow, 4 Tavistock Street, Covent Garden.” But Bristow hadn’t sent that note and Davey had to tell him who had. Maybe he would know what to do.
He ran the few yards to number four. BRISTOW’S OF COVENT GARDEN WHOLESALE PRODUCE, JOS. AND JAS. BRISTOW, PROPRIETORS, the name-plate read. He turned the doorknob, but the door was locked. He pounded on it. “Mr. Bristow!” he shouted. “Mr. Bristow! Anybody!” But there was no answer. It was late on a Saturday afternoon, most businesses were closed, but maybe there’d still be a porter about or a clerk, someone who could tell him where this J. Bristow was. “Mr. Bristow!” he shouted again.
“Mr. O’Neill,” a voice said quietly from behind him.
Davey spun around expecting to see William Burton standing behind him, staring at him with his awful black eyes. But it wasn’t Burton. It was a lad. He was wearing a flat cap and a kingsman. He had a mean scar on his chin and was built like a bull. Another lad was standing at his side.
“Would you come with us, please?” the first one said.
“ ’Ow do you know my name?” Davey asked them, backing away.
“Let’s go, Davey,” the second lad said.
“I’m not going anywhere with you … I… I need to find Mr. Bristow,” Davey stammered. And then he bolted.
The lad with the scar tackled him against the building. “Don’t do that again,” he warned.
“Let go of me!” Davey shouted, struggling.
“In good time. We’ve a few questions need answering first.” He gave Davey a shove toward a waiting carriage. “Get moving,” he told him.
“You tell Burton I’m all through,” Davey said, his voice rising. “I want nothing more to do with ’im! We ’ad a deal –”
The lad grabbed Davey’s arm, twisted it up his back, and marched him to the carriage. “We don’t work for William Burton, you stupid cunt. By the time we finish with you, though, you might wish we did.”
“Ow! Fuck! Me arm!” he screamed. “Where are you from? Who sent you?”
“The guv’nor sent us, Davey. Sid Malone.”
Joe loped up the steps to number sixteen Grosvenor Square, a bouquet of crimson roses in his hand. He rang the bell, expecting Mrs. Merton, the housekeeper, to open the door. Instead a big mustached face greeted him.
“Joe? What the hell are you doing here?” Roddy asked.
“Nice to see you, too,” Joe said. “Mind if I come in? Where’s Fiona?”
“I might ask you the same t’ing. She’s supposed to be with you, and you’re supposed to be at Oliver’s.”
Joe laid his roses on the hallway table. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I’m not supposed to be anywhere. I finished up early at work and came by spur-of-the-moment to see if she wanted to get an early supper and ride out to Greenwich with me.”
Roddy looked confused. “I don’t understand this. I got here a few minutes ago and Mrs. Merton told me Fiona had left to go meet you. She said you’d sent her a note. Something about a tea shipment.”
“I didn’t send a note,” Joe said, confused now himself. And worried.
“Hold on … maybe I got it wrong,” Roddy said. “Mrs. Merton!” he yelled. “Mrs. Merton, are you there?”
They heard brisk footsteps and then the housekeeper appeared. “Yes? What is it?”
“You said Mrs. Soames was going to Oliver’s, didn’t you? That she’d received a note from Mr. Bristow?”
“Yes, that’s right. That’s what she told me. She said she wouldn’t be gone long and that she planned to return here with Mr. Bristow.”
“But I didn’t write any note,” Joe said, feeling fear’s first greasy waves ripple through him.
Mrs. Merton frowned. “I’m sure Mrs. Soames mentioned your name, sir. I didn’t read the note myself, of course.”
“Is it still here?” Joe asked. “Did she take it with her?”
“I don’t know,” the housekeeper said, sorting through the mail scattered on top of the hall table. When she didn’t find any opened envelopes there, she pulled a lacquered wastebasket out from under the table and reached into it. “Here it is,” she said, handing him a crumpled envelope and card.
He smoothed them out on the table so Roddy could see them, too. The envelope had his office’s address on the back. It had been typed. The card, also typed, said that a large shipment of tea had arrived earlier than anticipated and that there was no room for it at the Orient Wharf, where he usually landed his tea. It asked if he could store it at Oliver’s and asked her to meet him there at six. There was an apology for the typing, saying he was pressed for time, that he’d dictated the note. By the time Joe got to his own typed name, his fear had turned to full-blown terror.
“Christ, Roddy … it’s Burton,” he said.
“He’s at Oliver’s …”
“… and she’s on ’er way to meet him.”
And then they were out the door and down the steps, shouting for Joe’s driver.
* * *
Andrew Taylor sighed, then ploddingly said, “Sergeant O’Meara said I wasn’t to let you go anywhere alone. I ’ave to stay with you at all times.”
“Andrew, I’m just going inside the wharf,” Fiona said. “Mr. Bristow’s inside already. And the foreman, too.”
“Mrs. Soames, can’t you wait one minute till I tie the ’orses?”
“Don’t be silly! Look, the door’s three yards away! There it is, Andrew, wide open! Tie the horses and come in,” Fiona said. Andrew was getting to be as impossible as Roddy. He knew she was meeting Joe. He’d been standing right next to her as she told Mrs. Merton she was taking the carriage to meet him at Oliver’s. It was all getting to be too much. Burton was gone. Sheehan was dead. Donaldson had dismissed the constables who’d been guarding her house, but Roddy still insisted Andrew accompany her everywhere. If she wanted to have afternoon tea, he went to Fortnum & Mason’s with her. If she wanted to buy a new dress, or some pretty underthings, they both went to Harrods. As if William Burton were going to hide himself under a tea table or pop out from a pile of bloomers!
She twisted her beautiful scarab ring around her finger in irritation as she headed into Oliver’s, but the frown on her face quickly dissolved. She was happy, far too happy these days, to be angry about anything for long. Sometimes, when she thought about the last few weeks, about everything that had happened to her – it all seemed so incomprehensible – she felt so overwhelmed, that she tried to stop thinking about it. Instead, she gloried in it. In the warmth of Joe’s love, and in her own newfound capacity for happiness.
She looked at her ring now. Though she had teased Joe about their courting the night he’d given it to her, it had indeed turned-out be her engagement ring. They would be married in a fortnight’s time, she and Joe. And whenever she thought about how it had all been arranged, she couldn’t keep from laughing.
A week ago, they’d gone to visit his parents. Fiona was so eager to see them again, she’d barely been able to contain herself on the ride over. As soon as the door to number four Montague had opened, and Rose had come rushing out, both women had burst into tears at the sight of each other. Rose had smelled so wonderful, of all the memories of Fiona’s childhood – lavender soap cut from a huge block at the corner shop, roast potatoes, stewed apples with cinnamon, strong tea. Her embrace, so fierce and so soft all at once, felt just like her own mother’s. When they could finally bear to release each other, Rose led her inside to see Peter and the rest of the family, and Joe trailed behind them. She met Joe’s grandfather again. Jimmy and his wife, Meg, who was expecting their first child; Ellen, her husband, Tom, and their three children; and finally, Cathy, who’d been studying the floor during the greetings and introductions.
“Sorry about the card,” Cathy said awkwardly, finally glancing up at her. “F
riends?”
“Friends,” Fiona said, reaching for her hand. Cathy took it in her own. “Cor, what a pretty ring!” she said, admiring Fiona’s scarab. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Isn’t it lovely? Joe gave it to me,” Fiona said, without thinking.
“Did ’e? Are you engaged, then?” Cathy asked.
Fiona didn’t know what to say. They’d only joked about it. There was a dreadful silence, then Ellen hissed, “Crikey, Cathy, what a thing to ask!”
“Why? ’E gave ’er a ring, didn’t ’e? And ’e’s only been mooning after ’er for the better part of the century. Of course ’e wants to marry ’er.”
“Good Lord,” Peter sighed, looking at the ceiling.
“Cathy, you are the rudest, most ignorant little …” Rose began. Then she stopped and turned to Fiona. Her expression softened. “Are you, luv?”
Fiona waited for the floor to swallow her up. When it didn’t, she said, “I don’t … we haven’t …”
“Well, I know ’e wants to marry you,” Rose said anxiously. “It’s all ’e’s ever wanted. You will marry ’im, won’t you, pet?”
Fiona blushed crimson, then smiled. “If it’ll make you happy, Rose, I will.”
Rose whooped and hugged her. “Did you ’ear that, lad?” she shouted. “She’s going to marry you!”
“Aye, so I gathered. Thanks, Mum. Last thing I wanted to do was ask ’er meself,” he’d grumbled.
By the time they’d sat down to dinner, it had been decided that she and Joe would be married in three weeks’ time, for that’s what Rose thought it would take to get family and friends assembled and a proper wedding breakfast arranged. Fiona caught Joe’s eye in the midst of it all, silently beseeching him to rescue her or at least help to change the subject, but he’d simply smiled and shrugged, defenseless against his mother and sisters.
She’d had the most wonderful afternoon with the Bristows. She felt so at home with them and couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. They were such a loud, roistering bunch. Somebody was always saying or doing something completely inappropriate. It was from costering, she was sure of it. You couldn’t put people in front of a cart day after day, tell them to sing their wares, then expect them to be quiet simply because they were at the table. Soon they would be her in-laws. And Joe would be her husband. How had this all happened? she wondered. How could one person suddenly be granted so much happiness?
She shook her head and laughed, unable to answer her own questions. She walked past the wooden stairs that led to Oliver’s second floor and into the large ground-floor room. It was darker inside the wharf than it was outside and her eyes took a few seconds to adjust. Looking across the room, she could see tea chests, just arrived from her new estate in India. She saw, too, that the new loophole doors had been hung, replacing the ones Pete Miller’s men had torn off.
“Joe?” she called out. “Mr. Curran?” There was no answer. The wharf was very quiet. The street had been, too. A half-day, she thought, remembering her father’s Saturday work schedule.
“Anyone here?” she shouted. Still no answer. They must be on one of the upper floors, she reasoned. She was about to head up the stairs when she noticed a light was on in the foreman’s office. It was all the way on the other side of the floor, near the river. Maybe they were in there and hadn’t heard her.
She picked her way around tea chests. The office door was open a few inches. “Mr. Curran? Are you in there?” Thomas Curran was sitting in his chair. His back was toward her. “There you are,” she said. “Has Mr. Bristow arrived yet?”
But Curran didn’t answer her. His head was bowed. He looked as if he were sleeping.
“Mr. Curran?” She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. His head lolled forward, then rolled back. Too far back. There was blood down the front of shirt. On his blotter, his typewriter. His throat had been slashed.
“Oh, no … no … oh, God,” she whimpered, backing away from him. She banged into the door, unable to tear her eyes away from the ghastly sight, then turned and ran. “Joe!” she shrieked. She didn’t see the tea chest in front of her and smashed into it, crying out with pain. “Joe!” she screamed again, panic-stricken, “joe, please! Come quick!”
But there was no answer. She hobbled toward the streetside doors, her leg throbbing. “Joe! Andrew! Is anyone there?”
Ten yards away from the door, she heard them. Footsteps. Slow and measured.
“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed. “Joe, it’s Mr. Curran. He’s dead!”
But the figure walking toward her in the gloom was not Joe.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. This isn’t happening, she thought. This can’t be happening. He’s not real. He’s only a nightmare. He doesn’t exist.
Shaking and sick with fear, she opened them again and gazed into the mad, hateful eyes of the dark man.
“Joe!” Fiona screamed. “Help me!”
“He’s not here,” William Burton said, walking toward her, his hands at his side. “He never was. I sent you the note. No one’s here.”
Her mind tried to understand what he’d said. Joe wasn’t here. No one was here. But he was wrong. “Andrew!” she shouted. “In here! Hurry!”
Burton shook his head. “He can’t hear you, I’m afraid.” He extended his right hand toward her and she saw he was holding a knife. Its silver blade was wet with blood.
“Andrew … oh, no!” she cried, her hand coming to her mouth. He was dead. Andrew was dead. All because he’d been trying to look out for her. “You bastard!” she screamed, suddenly furious. “You filthy, murdering bastard!”
He made no reply, just smiled. While she’d been screaming at him, he’d been advancing. He was now only yards away.
Move, you fool! a voice inside her ordered. She edged around the tea chest in front of her, trying to judge the distance between herself and the door. If she could only get outside. The Town of Ramsgate was right next door. If she could get to it, she’d be safe.
Burton saw where she was looking and stepped aside to afford her a clear view. “Locked,” he said. “You could try the stairs, I suppose. If you think you can get to them before I get to you. But what’s the point, really? They lead up, not out. You’d only be prolonging things.”
She glanced around herself frantically. There was nowhere to go. The sides of the building were solid brick. In the back left corner was Curran’s office. Hope flared briefly. She could lock herself inside it. He wouldn’t be able to get to her through the thick oak door. As if reading her mind, he cut to his right, blocking her way. She looked behind herself. The riverside wall had loopholes but they were locked. Iron padlocks on chains hung from their handles. There was nothing on the right wall, no office, no loopholes, no windows – nothing. Just a grappling hook someone had left hanging on a peg on the wall and a few tea rakes leaning up against it.
And still Burton advanced, pushing her farther and farther back toward the wall. And suddenly it was right behind her. She hit her heel against it and there was a sharp, sudden pain in her shoulder blade. She tried to flatten herself against the bricks like a cornered animal, but she couldn’t. Something was sticking into her, hurting her.
The grappling hook.
She didn’t dare risk a look. She bent her arm up behind her back, forcing her hand higher and higher until her muscles were screaming with pain.
He was only ten yards away now.
“I’m going to slit your throat and watch you die, Mrs. Soames,” he said. “And then I’m going to burn this place to the ground.”
“You won’t get away with it. They’ll find you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. Her joints were on fire. Where was it? Where the hell was it? Just when she thought her arm would surely rip free of its socket, her scrabbling fingers touched metal. Easy, she told herself. Don’t drop it, don’t you dare drop it.
“They won’t. I’ll be on a boat to Calais in an hour.”
Nine yar
ds, eight.
“Did you know that after your father fell, he lay in his own blood, his legs broken, for a good hour before his screams attracted attention?”
For a second, Fiona’s courage failed her and she almost crumpled. Don’t listen to him, she told herself. Don’t listen. She coaxed the hook off its pegs, then twisted it around in her hand until the smooth wooden handle was in her palm and the curved iron jutted out between her fingers.
Seven yards, six, five.
“It doesn’t take as long to die from a cut throat as it does a fall,” Burton said. “But it isn’t instantaneous, as some people believe.”
She squeezed her hand into a fist. Every fiber in her body was snapping and sparking with fear. Four yards, three yards, two … she knew what happened next, she’d seen it in her dreams … night after night for ten long years.
Except this time, she wasn’t sleeping.
With a yell, she swung the hook. The curved metal bit into Burton’s cheek and ripped it open. He roared in pain. His knife clattered to the floor.
She darted past him, weaving her way in and out of tea chests, and bolted up the wooden stairs to the second floor, then the third, where new chests were piled three and four high. She heard his feet pounding up the stairs, heard him shouting on the second floor. The tea chests weren’t piled on top of each other down there; they’d been opened for inspection. It wouldn’t take him long to see she wasn’t there. Moving quickly, she made her way to the center of the room and crouched behind a tall stack.
And then he was on the landing. “Come out!” he shouted. “Come out now and I’ll make it fast. But if I have to find you, I’ll carve your thieving heart out!”
Fiona pressed her hands over her ears and hunched into a ball, numb with fear. There was no way out. She had seen the new loophole doors, they were locked. And even if they weren’t, she couldn’t jump. The dock was below. The fall would kill her as surely as Burton’s knife. All she’d done was buy herself some time. In another minute or two, he would find her and when he did it would be all over. Silently, she started to weep.
The Tea Rose Page 73
