"Bertie ...my wife..." Alf said, suddenly lucid.
"I'll take care of her, Alf. She won't want for anything. I promise you."
Alf nodded. And then his eyes lost their focus. And dulled. A few minutes later, the doctor listened for his heartbeat and said, "He's gone."
Joe sat back on his heels. His face was wet with tears. The men standing around him stared. He didn't care. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Myles.
"The coroner's here, sir," he said. "They have to take Alf. There's going to be an inquest. There's a detective inspector here, too. He would like a word with you."
Joe stood up. He looked back down the street at the Morocco. It was still burning. The fire was consuming the roof now. By morning it would take the entire wharf. And everything in it. Thousands and thousands of pounds' worth of stock. It would be a huge blow to his business. But worse than all that, much worse, the fire had taken a man's life. A good man. A man whom Joe had trusted and loved.
"Mr. Bristow?"
Joe turned around.
"I'm Detective Inspector Alvin Donaldson. I understand you were the last person Alfred Stevens spoke to. Might I ask you a few questions?"
Joe nodded. Donaldson asked how long Stevens had worked for Joe and in what capacity. He asked if there had been any trouble at the wharf lately.
"What kind of trouble?" Joe asked.
"Yobs trying to get you to pay protection money."
"No," Joe said. "Alf would have told me."
"Did Mr. Stevens say anything to you before he died?"
"Yes, he did, but it was gibberish," Joe said.
"Would you mind repeating it for me?" Donaldson asked. Joe did. Donaldson listened attentively, then nodded. "Well, that explains it," he said.
"Not to me," Joe said. "Alf kept talking about bets but he wasn't a gam-bling man. None of what he said made any sense at all."
"It wasn't wagers he was talking about. It was a name--B-e-t-t-s. Frankie Betts."
"Still doesn't make any sense to me."
"You're quite certain you don't pay anyone off, Mr. Bristow? I'm not looking to land you in any trouble, I just--"
"I told you, I don't pay a sodding soul."
"Then Frankie Betts probably decided it was time you started. Betts is a criminal, Mr. Bristow. I'd wager that this is what happened here tonight-- Frankie paid Alf Stevens a call and attempted to extort money. Stevens told Frankie to bugger off. A fight broke out. A lamp was knocked over and it started a fire. Frankie legged it. Alf tried to put the fire out and was trapped."
Joe digested this, then said, "I want you to get Frank Betts. I want you to hang him."
"There's nothing I'd like better but it's not going to happen. I've been talking to people, the watch at the Eagle Wharf and the Baltic, and from what I can gather, there were no eyewitnesses to what happened here to-night. All I have is Alf Stevens's dying words. You yourself said they were gibberish. And that's what Betts's solicitor will say, too. We won't be able to make any charges stick. We haven't yet, and believe you me, we've tried."
"Since when do East End yobs get themselves solicitors?" Joe asked.
Donaldson laughed. "This is not your average yob, Mr. Bristow. This one's rather well connected. Maybe you've heard of his boss. He's the head of a group of thieves known as the Firm."
Joe knew what Donaldson was going to say. He braced himself against the words, hoping that he was wrong. But he wasn't, and his heart sank like a stone in the river when Donaldson spoke them.
"He's called the Chairman, but his name is Sid Malone."
Chapter 16
India heard birds. Sparrows, she thought. Nasty things. They were always congregating on the windowsill of her flat, shrilling and fighting. She wished they would go away. She was exhausted and wanted to go back to sleep. She'd been having such a lovely dream. She'd dreamed she was a child again at Blackwood. Wrens and bramblings were chirping in the trees, wel-coming the dawn. It was summer and she had the entire day ahead of her. Hodgie, her nanny, would give her breakfast--boiled eggs and toast soldiers--and then she and the others would find Bea and Hugh, and they would have adventures in the woods. Her father and mother were at Ascot for race week, so there was no one to say they shouldn't.
She sighed and opened her eyes, expecting to see the dreary wallpaper of her Bedford Square bedroom. Instead she saw a pair of eyes staring back at her. They were kind eyes, beautiful eyes, smiling with amusement. And they were green, as deeply green as the dales of Blackwood.
I'm still dreaming, she thought. She closed her eyes again and buried her face in her pillow. She wrapped her arms around it, squeezing it tightly.
"Ouch," the pillow said. "That's me sore spot, luv."
India yelped and sat bolt upright. It took her a few seconds to realize that she wasn't at her flat in her bed. She was at the hospital. With a pa-tient. With Sid Malone. And it appeared she had fallen asleep on him.
"Oh, God... sorry," she babbled. "I fell asleep. I slept. Here. With you--"
"Just a minute, missus," Sid cut in. "That's how rumors get started. I've me reputation to consider. You were not sleeping with me, all right? You were sleeping on me. It's a different thing entirely."
India reached for Sid's wrist, her cheeks flaming. It all came back to her. It was Monday morning now. The infection had overwhelmed his system on Saturday night, and he'd gone into septic shock. She'd fought for his life for the last thirty-six hours, and thought for certain several times that she'd lost him, but he'd held on. His pulse was regular now. Not strong, not yet, but regular.
She stood up to get a thermometer and caught sight of her reflection in a mirror on the wall. Her once-crisp blouse was sweat-soaked and rumpled. Her curls were springing up like coils out of a mattress. She was bleary-eyed and mortified to discover that she had drool on her cheek.
"You look terrible, Doctor. I think you need a doctor," Sid said.
India did not react. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. She wiped the drool off, popped the thermometer in his mouth, and regarded the second hand on her pocketwatch. Three minutes later, she took it out.
"Ha! One hundred point seven!" she shouted. And then she smiled. It was a broad, beautiful, utterly unself-conscious smile that lit up her entire face. Her embarrassment was forgotten, as was the sorry state of her ap-pearance. Only one thing mattered to her: She'd saved a life. Sid Malone was not in the morgue. He was here, in this room, living and breathing and being difficult. She'd fought hard and she'd won.
"You're doing much better, Mr. Malone. Much better. I have every confidence that you'll live to rob another bank," she said triumphantly.
"It's Sid, I insist. May I call you India? I mean, after last night and all..."
"You may not." She was still smiling as she put the thermometer down. "Feel like eating?"
"No."
"Well, you're going to. I'm going to get some beef tea into you, if I have to strap you down to do it."
"Promise?"
India rolled her eyes. She sat down again and removed Sid's dressing. Her movements were brisk and energetic. Her exhaustion was gone, swept away by her victory. She inspected the wound. The swelling had diminished.
"You're remarkably strong," she said. "What you've been through would have killed a weaker man."
"It's nothing to do with me. It's you," he said. "I heard your guv saying I wasn't worth the effort. Most wouldn't have taken the trouble. I owe you one, Dr. Jones."
Her eyes met his. She didn't know what to think. Had he meant what he said, or was he mocking her again? She thought of his first night here. Of the things she'd told him about herself. She didn't know why she'd done it, and wished she hadn't.
"It's my job, Mr. Malone," she quickly said, brushing his gratitude off.
"Ah. Your job. Of course."
"Bleedin' hell! Are you still here?" said a voice at the door.
"Overstay me welcome, did I?" Sid asked.
"Not you, Malone," Ella
Moskowitz said. "Dr. Jones."
"I guess I am," India said.
"You didn't go home?"
"No."
"But India, you've been here since Saturday night. Yesterday was your day off. You're due at Gifford's in an hour!"
"It's all right, Ella. I've got a change of clothing there."
"It's not how you look that I'm worried about. You've had no rest. You're going to drop down dead."
Sid looked at India, who looked away. "Why, Dr. Jones, I do believe you care," he said.
"You may believe whatever you like."
Ella looked from India to Sid and back again. "Did I miss something?"
"I have to go," India said. "Will you tell the matron that he's to have beef tea and ten milligrams of morphine subcutaneously every three hours? I want the dressing changed at noon. I'll be back this evening to check on him. I'll see you at Gifford's. Good day, Mr. Malone."
"Wait a minute! When can I get out of here?" Sid asked.
"Not for a week at least," India said, collecting her things.
"A week? You're joking!" Sid bellowed. "I can't stay here for a whole bloody week. I'm checking meself out."
"Do that, and you'll be back by evening. Only this time you won't be in a private room. You'll be in the morgue."
"Oh, bollocks. I'm fine. As right as rain."
"Go on, luv. I'll sort him," Ella said to India. "You get to work. Get yourself some breakfast first."
India dashed out of the room. She could hear Ella's voice carrying all the way down the hall. "Now look, you. If you don't quiet down I'll call the orderlies. They'll come with a big long needle and stick you straight in the arse with it. That'll shut you up."
As she hurried out of the hospital, anxious to get to work on time, India felt that she'd forgotten something. She mentally reviewed her instructions to Ella and found that she'd left nothing out. She'd also taken and recorded Sid's vital signs. She would write up his notes later. What was it? What had she forgotten?
As she turned off the Whitechapel High Street onto Varden Street, it hit her--it was Sid's story. She'd never heard his story. They'd agreed on a quid pro quo. She'd tell her story, and he'd tell his. But he never had. And she realized, to her discomforted surprise, that she wanted to hear his story. She wanted it very much.
Chapter 17
"Let me get this straight," Joe's brother Jimmy said. "Alf is dead. The Morocco's burned to the ground. You know who did it. And the police can't do anything about it?"
"So they say. There are no eyewitnesses. Just one man's word against another's," Joe replied.
He and Jimmy were in his study drinking Scotch. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Joe's clothes stank of smoke. His face was streaked with soot. He'd returned home two hours ago and had rung up Jimmy. Jimmy had come right over.
"Aren't they going to even try to get the bloke?" he asked now, devastated by Alf's death.
"Oh, aye. They said they'd try, but they won't be able to make any charges stick."
Joe swallowed another mouthful of Scotch. He hadn't slept for more than twenty-four hours, but he wasn't tired. In fact he couldn't recall ever having felt more awake. A storm of emotion had engulfed him over the course of the night--fury, outrage, grief. But now the storm had subsided and something quite different was emerging in the calm--a fierce, im-placable resolve.
"Nothing ever changes there, Jimmy, do you know that?" he suddenly said. "The crime. The poverty. The sheer fucking brutality. I was looking out the carriage window on the way home. At the houses. The bleak streets. Wapping, Whitechapel ...the whole bloody East End. None of it ever bloody changes."
"It's grim, all right," Jimmy said.
As he was speaking, they both heard footsteps in the hallway, light and quick.
"We're in here, Fee," Joe called. "Don't run, luv. You'll jostle the baby."
Two seconds later Fiona was in the study, flushed and breathless, still in her coat and gloves, just home from her trip to Paris.
"Mr. Foster told me what happened," she said. "Are you all right, Joe? You look terrible! And Alf! My God, is it true? Is he really dead?"
"Aye, luv, he is."
She sat down, stricken. Her eyes filled with tears. Jimmy stood. He said he was going to the kitchen to get something to eat. Joe appreciated his tactful departure. There were things he had to discuss with Fiona alone. When she could speak again, Fiona asked him how the fire had started. He told her about Frankie Betts. When he finished, she stood up and began to pace the room.
"What about your deliveries? I'm sure the river pilots have heard about the fire, and they'll hold off any new ships, but some may have already headed up-river. Can you reroute them to Oliver's?" she asked. "I've room enough there."
"We stopped there on our way home. Mel said the second floor's empty. Jimmy's going to the Morocco shortly. He's going to get two of the lads who worked there to stay on-site and redirect any incoming barges."
"What about the insurers? Shouldn't we contact them?" Fiona said. She continued to pace, her hands on her hips, her gaze directed at the floor.
"Trudy's done it. She's going to meet them at the Morocco later this morning."
Fiona nodded. "And the Customs House ...we'll have to tell--"
Joe cut her off. "Fiona, there's something I have to tell you."
She stopped pacing and raised her eyes to his. He could see the fear in them.
"You don't have to," she said softly. "It's him, isn't it?"
Joe nodded. "There was a detective inspector there. He said Frankie Betts works for Sid Malone. He also said that without eyewitnesses we'll never be able to touch him."
"I can't believe it, Joe. I just can't," she whispered.
"I'm sorry, Fee. I know it's a hard thing to hear. Part of me didn't want to tell you, but part of me did. To make you see what Sid Malone really is. To make you stop trying to find him."
Fiona said nothing.
"We never finished our discussion about Sid. The one we were having when you left for Paris. I want to finish it now. I want you to stop looking for him. He burned my warehouse to the ground. He killed Alf Stevens."
"Don't say that, Joe. It's not true. He didn't do those things. Frankie Betts did."
"On Sid's orders."
"You don't know that."
"Fiona, how can you be so bloody blind?"
"I'm not being blind. He's my brother, Joe, and I can't give up on him. He needs me. I know he does. More than ever now. I can't tell you how I know. I just... feel it."
Joe shook his head. "Fiona, I need you," he said.
There was an ottoman by Joe's chair. Fiona sat down on it. She took his hands in hers. "I know you do. I know how sad you are, how much Alf meant to you," she said.
"Aye, he did. But it's not just about Alf," Joe said.
"What is it about, then? Tell me," she said.
Joe looked at his beloved wife. In her beautiful sapphire eyes, he saw everything that he was. His past, present, and future. They had known each other since they were children. She was his heart and soul, and he shared every dream and hope he had with her. She supported the decisions he made, the risks he took in order to expand his business, and, more im-portant, she supported him. But what was brewing inside him now had nothing to do with shops and business. What he wanted to tell her now might well change their lives forever, and he wondered if she would still support him when she heard it.
"I'm angry, Fee. I'm so bloody angry I could burst. That's why I'm sitting here with a drink in me hand. Why I haven't gone to work. I'm afraid I'll punch a hole in a wall or kick over a table."
"There's a lot to be angry about," Fiona said. "A good man was killed. Your wharf was burned to the ground."
"But that's only a part of it. I'm angry at what led to all that. I'm angry that things never change in East London. Twelve whole years have gone by since the Ripper murders. Eleven years since the dock strike. Every news-paper in the country was writing stories about East London t
hen. About the terrible conditions people endured. Every politician was calling for change. And what's happened, Fee? Bloody nothing. Do you remember it? From when we were kids? Your mother and mine struggling to keep us fed. My father out selling seven days a week. Yours trying to bring a union into Wapping. And getting himself killed for it."
"I remember," Fiona said. "I remember my father practicing a speech he was going to give about the union, striding back and forth in front of the fireplace. We were his audience. Charlie, Seamie, our mam, and the baby." She smiled at the memory, then said, "He'd probably still be giving speeches if he'd lived. Organizing his fellow dockers. Calling for a strike."
Winter Rose, The Page 20
