Winter Rose, The Page 1
THE WINTER ROSE
A Novel
Jennifer Donnelly
In memory of FRED SAGE and the London he knew
Contents
Part One -- May 1900
Part Two -- London, September 1900
Part Three -- London, 1906
PART ONE
May 1900
Prologue
Lily Walker could smell a copper a mile away.
Cops reeked of beer and bay rum. They walked as though their shoes pinched. In poor neighborhoods filled with hungry people, they looked as plump and glossy as veal calves, fattened up from all the free meals they cadged.
Cops scared Lily. It was a cop who'd taken her kids away from her and put them in the workhouse. It was another cop, a man named Alvin Donaldson, who'd put her in jail after she'd gone on the game to get them back.
And now there was one sitting at the bar right in front of her. Inside the Barkentine, the Firm's own stronghold. Pretending to be a regular bloke. Talking. Drinking. Reading a paper. Ordering food.
The bloody cheek.
What did he want? Was he looking to nick Sid? To shut the place down?
The thought of the Bark closing more than scared Lily; it terrified her. She had her kids with her now. They had a room. It was small, but it kept them warm and dry. If she lost her barmaid's job, and the wages it brought, she would lose the room. And her kids. Again.
As she stood behind the bar, nearly paralyzed with worry, a sudden movement caught her eye. It was Frankie Betts, Sid's right-hand man. He'd been sitting down, knocking back glass after glass of whisky, but now he was on his feet. He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed back his sleeves.
He's sussed the cop, Lily thought, he must have. And now he's going to do for him.
But before Frankie could make a move, a fresh drink appeared on the bar. Desi Shaw, the publican, had put it there.
"Not leaving yet, are you, mate?" Desi said. "You only just got here." Desi was smiling, but his eyes flashed a warning.
Frankie nodded. "Ta," he said tightly, sitting back down.
Desi was right to have stopped him. Sid would be angry. He would say he was disappointed. Frankie knew better than to disappoint Sid. They all did.
Desi turned to Lily. "Look lively, darlin'. Bloke down the end needs a refill."
"Sorry, Des. Right away," she said.
Lily served her customer, barely smiling, her nerves taut. It was a tense time. For Sid. For the Firm. For all of them. A dangerous time. The rozzers were all over Sid. He and his lads had robbed a wages van last week and had made off with more than a thousand quid, prompting Freddie Lytton, the local Member of Parliament, to declare war. He'd had Sid arrested. Frankie and Desi, too. But the beak had let them go. Turned out there were no witnesses. Two men and a woman had seen the robbery, but when they'd learned it was Sid Malone they'd be testifying against, they'd suddenly been unable to recall what the robbers looked like.
"A mistake's been made. The police arrested the wrong man," Sid had said to the press on the steps of the Old Bailey after he'd been released. "I'm no villain, me. Just a businessman trying to make an honest living." It was a phrase he'd used many times--whenever the police raided his boatyard or one of his pubs. He said it so often, in fact, that Alvin Donaldson had christened him the Chairman and his gang the Firm. Lytton had been furious. He vowed he'd have Sid's head on a platter. He swore he'd find someone, some honest man, who wasn't afraid to speak the truth, who wasn't afraid of Malone and his pack of thugs, and when he did, he'd lock them away for life.
"He's just blowing smoke," Sid had said. "Wants his picture in the papers. It's almost election time."
Lily had believed him, but now this cop was sitting here, as bold as brass, and she was no longer sure he was right. She picked up a rag and wiped the bar with it, stealing glances at the man.
Is he one of Lytton's? Or someone else's? Why the hell is he here?
Lily well knew that where there was one cop, there were usually more. She scanned the room, looking for more unfamiliar faces.
If ever a pub deserved to be called a den of thieves, she thought, it's the Bark.
Dark and low-ceilinged, it sat squeezed between two wharves in Limehouse, on the north bank of the Thames. Its front touched Narrow Street and its back sagged brokenly over the river. At high tide you could hear the Thames lapping at the rear wall. She recognized almost every face. Three local blokes were standing by the fire, passing bits of jewelry back and forth. In a corner, four more played cards while a fifth threw sharks' teeth at a dartboard. Others sat clustered around rickety tables or at the bar itself. Smoking and drinking. Talking too loudly. Laughing too hard. Bragging and swaggering. Minor villains, all.
The man this cop was after, well ...he n't brag and he didn't swagger, and there was nothing minor about him. He was one of the most powerful, most feared criminal bosses in London, and Lily thought that if this barmy rozzer knew what was good for him, he'd get up and leave now. While his legs still worked.
While she continued to watch the man, Desi came bustling out of the kitchen and banged a bowl down in front of him, sloshing broth on his newspaper.
"One Limehouse hotpot," he said.
The man stared at the steaming horror. "It's fish," he said flatly.
"Proper Sherlock Holmes, you. What was you expecting? Rack of lamb?"
"Pork, I guess."
"This is Limehouse, innit? Not the bloody home counties. That'll be tuppence."
The man slid a coin across the bar, then stirred the gray broth with a dirty spoon. Bits of bone and skin whirled through it. A scrap of potato, some celery. A chunk of white flesh.
"Oi, Lily!" Frankie shouted, pointing at his empty glass.
"Right away, luv," Lily said, taking the glass from him. As she put the new pint down, Frankie caught her hand, pulled her toward him, and kissed her cheek. She batted him away. It was an act. They were both laughing, but there was no mirth in their eyes. He kissed her again. "Find out what he's after," he whispered in her ear, then he let her go.
Lily knew what to do. She served a few more customers, then took a handkerchief from her pocket and made a show of mopping her neck with it.
"It's like a bloody furnace in here tonight," she said aloud. "You lot have me run off my feet."
Then she unbuttoned the top of her blouse, fanning herself with her hand. Her soft, freckled bosom was large and firm--so large, in fact, that Sid often joked he could hide his dosh down it. She walked over to the man, placed her hands on the bar, and leaned forward, giving him an eyeful.
"Something wrong with your supper, luv?" she asked, smiling warmly. "You ain't touched it."
The stranger put his spoon down. He hesitated.
This ought to be good, she thought.
"Can't eat a bloody thing no matter how hard I try," he finally said. "Been livin' on porter. Anything else and me stomach just heaves at it."
"What? Nothing at all?" she asked, feigning concern.
"Porridge. Milk. Sometimes an egg. Screws did it. Kicked me guts in. Haven't been right since."
Lily nearly laughed out loud, but she kept her face straight. "Sent down, was you?" she asked.
"Aye. Smash-and-grab. Jewelry shop up Camden way. Had a clasp knife in me pocket so the coppers said I was armed. Beak gave me five."
"You just come out?"
The stranger nodded. He pulled his cap off, revealing what looked like a prison-issue haircut.
"You poor bloke," Lily said. "Think your stomach's bad, you should see your head. What nick was you in? Reading?"
"Pentonville."
"My late husband did a bit of bird there. Warden's a right hard case. Willocks, his nam
e was. He still giving everyone gyp?"
"Oh, aye."
Drummond, you git, Lily thought. Should have asked round. There was no Willocks at Pentonville; there never had been. The bollocks was pretending.
"Well, that's all behind you now," she said brightly. "Like another pint, would you?"
The man said he would. As she moved off to get it, Frankie's eyes caught hers. Take care of this, they said.
Lily nodded. She pulled a pint, then returned to her customer. "Here you are. On the house." As she set the glass down, she purposely sloshed some of its contents onto his newspaper.
"Oh, how clumsy!" she said. "I'm so sorry. Between me and Desi, we've soaked your paper."
"No harm done," the man said, smiling. "Mopping spills is about the only thing this bloody rag's good for."
Lily laughed prettily and the man took her false good humor for an opening--just as she'd known he would.
"Name's Michael Bennett," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
"Lily Walker. Likewise."
"You hear about this?" Bennett asked, pointing to a story on the paper's front page. "It's about that wages robbery. They say Sid Malone done it. That he got away with ten thousand quid."
Doesn't Sid wish, Lily thought. Those flipping papers always exaggerated.
Bennett touched the back of her hand. "I heard Malone stashes some of his dosh on a barge in the Thames," he said. "And some in a sugar warehouse."
"Did you?" Lily asked, leaning in to give him a better look at her breasts.
"Aye. I also heard he keeps some here in the Bark. Why, we might be sitting on it right now," he said, tapping his foot on the floorboards. "Don't happen to have a prybar in your pocket, do you?"
Lily forced another laugh.
"Wherever he stores it, it must be a big place. The Firm don't go in for any tuppenny-ha'penny Fagin rubbish. One bloke told me their bullion thefts alone have brought them thousands. Thousands! Cor, can you imagine having all that money?"
Lily felt anger flash inside of her. Her fingers twitched. She wished she were a man; she would break this bastard's nose. It would teach him to keep it out of other blokes' business.
"I've also heard Malone frequents this pub," Bennett said. "Heard it's his headquarters."
"I wouldn't know about that," Lily replied.
Bennett leaned in close. He took her hand in his. "I need a word with him. Just a word, is all. Know how I can find him?"
Lily shook her head. "I'm sorry, luv, I don't." She leaned over farther and bent her head to his. "What do you want with him anyway? Good-looking man like yourself... just out of the nick... seems to me it's a woman you'd be wanting, not a bloke."
Bennett mulled over her offer. "How much?" he finally asked.
"I usually get a pound."
The man snorted. "A bloody pound?" he said. Too loudly.
Typical rozzer, quibbling over money, she thought. Villains never did. She placed a finger on his lips. "For you, darlin', fifty pence."
Bennett's eyes flickered back to her chest. He licked his lips. "All right, then," he said. "Where do we go? Upstairs?"
Lily shook her head. "Meet me outside. By the river. There's a stairway round the side. It'll be quiet there this time of night. Quiet and dark."
"When?"
"Give me fifteen minutes."
She winked at him, then disappeared into the kitchen. Once there, she swiftly climbed a flight of wooden steps that led from the kitchen to the upper floor. Her fake smile was gone now; her expression grim. She ran down a dingy hallway and knocked twice on a locked door. It was opened by a rangy man in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat who made no effort to hide the cosh he was holding. Behind him, in the middle of the room, another man sat at a table, counting money. He raised his emerald-green eyes to hers.
"Trouble," she said. "One of Lytton's. Must be. Says his name is Bennett. I'll have him out back in a few minutes."
The emerald-eyed man nodded. "Keep him there," he said, resuming his counting.
Lily shot back to the kitchen and made her way down to the basement. She let herself outside through a rickety door and crept behind a cluster of pilings. It was low tide. She could barely see the river in the darkness, but she could hear it--lapping at the hulls of barges moored midstream, hissing about the lines and buoys, gurgling in tiny, whirling eddies. Bennett was already there. Lily watched him as he took a long piss. When he finished, he lit a cigarette.
Good, she thought, that'll take up some time. She didn't want to do this. Not with him. Not with any man. She didn't want to go back to what she'd been.
She bit her lip, remembering what it was like to be on the game. To give herself to any man who asked her. She'd done it so many times she'd lost count. She'd done it for her children.
She'd lost them a few weeks after her husband died. He'd been a tan-ner, working fourteen-hour days in the yards in all sorts of weather. The coroner had written pneumonia on his death certificate, but Lily knew it was the work that had killed him.
She'd taken what she could find after he'd died--a bit of charring, a few hours behind the counter of a tuckshop. And then a full-time job had come along at a jam factory. It paid, but not enough. She got behind on the rent, and then the factory went under. It was wintertime when the place closed. People were hungry and cold and desperate for work. Every job in East London was taken. When she was two months in arrears, the bailiff evicted her. She slept rough with her children for a few days, but then a pair of cops had caught her begging and they'd taken the children to the workhouse. Sometimes, in her sleep, she still heard them screaming, still saw their little hands knotted in her skirts as the officers pulled them from her.
Desperate, she'd done the only thing left to do--she went on the game. She forced herself to go numb while she was with the men, and she let her-self cry afterward--but she made money, for unlike a lot of women on the streets, she still had her looks. She'd managed to earn a few shillings, and was just beginning to have hopes of renting a new room, a place to bring her children, when she'd been arrested.
Alvin Donaldson's men had done it. Word had it Lytton leaned on him to clear the streets. She and a dozen other women had been rounded up and kept overnight. They'd been let go the next day--all of them except for Lily, for Donaldson had taken a liking to her.
He'd had her brought up from the cells to his office. He'd closed the door, and then he told her what he wanted. He said he'd send her down for good if she refused him. He knew she needed money badly. And he knew she couldn't earn it if she was in prison. He'd taken her then and there, and many times afterward. In filthy alleys and lodging houses. Behind pubs. And he'd never given her a penny.
One night, after she'd been on the streets for a few months, Sid had caught sight of her.
"Lily?" he'd called out. He knew her from when she'd worked at the tuckshop. She'd tried to hurry away, but he'd run after her. "Tell me you're not on the game," he'd said.
She hadn't answered. She couldn't; she'd been too ashamed.
"Don't do this, Lily. You're not the type. You'll never survive it."
"I've no choice. I've lost me job. Me kids are in the spike," she'd said, her voice cracking. He'd given her a new job on the spot. Barmaid at the Barkentine. He'd told her a girl had just quit and Desi was shorthanded. It was a lie; she'd known it was. The fact that he'd taken the trouble to tell it had made her cry.
"Here now, none of that," he'd said sharply, for he didn't like tears. Then he'd marched her to the Bark, pointed at pile of dirty glasses, and told her to get busy.
Lily Walker knew who Sid Malone was; she knew what he did, but she didn't care. He'd done more for her than any cop, any priest, any Sallie Army do-gooder ever had. He'd given her her children back, and as long as she lived, she would never forget it.
"Bloody woman! Where the hell are you?" Bennett suddenly yelled, star-tling her.
He'd finished his smoke. There was no more putting it off. She took a deep breath, then stepped o
ut from behind the pilings.
"What took you?" he asked.
"Had to wait till me guv's back was turned," she answered. "He's not too keen on his help sneaking off."
"Come on, then," Bennett said, reaching for her.
"Not so fast, luv. Business before pleasure," she said, stalling.
Bennett reached into his pocket. He counted out fifty pence and gave it to her. She counted it again, then pocketed it. He pulled her close and kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She nearly gagged. His rough hands were everywhere--inside her blouse, between her legs. It was all she could do not to push him away.
