"You are here," he said. "Thank God for that. I was worried. Had a bad feeling."
India made no reply. Had she not heard him?
"India, luv? Is something wrong?" he asked.
She inclined her head slightly, but still said nothing. He walked over to her and put a gentle hand on her back. She turned around.
"Sid Malone, you're under arrest for the murder of Gemma Dean and the attempted murder of Joseph Bristow," she said.
"Jesus!" Sid gasped. It wasn't India. It was a stranger. She must be a policewoman. He backed away, then headed for the doorway. He drew up short when he saw that Alvin Donaldson was standing in it, smiling. behind him were two uniformed constables.
"Hello, Malone," Donaldson said. "I've waited a long time for this."
"How did you get here? How did you know?" Sid asked.
"Your lady gave us the address."
No, he thought, not India. She would never tell them about Arden Street. She would never betray him. Unless someone got to her, a voice inside him said. And made her believe that you shot Joe Bristow. And killed Gemma Dean.
"I don't believe you. You're lying," he said.
"Believe whatever you like. Just come along quietly."
"Where?"
"To Scotland Yard."
The words came back to him: under arrest... murder.
"Listen to me," he said quickly. "I didn't shoot Joe Bristow. And I didn't kill Gemma Dean. And while you're here arsing about, the real murderer's on the loose."
"Tell it to the beak. You'll have plenty of time to rehearse your story while you're sitting in a prison cell."
Prison. Sid shook his head, wildeyed, a bull in a slaughterhouse.
Donaldson held out a pair of handcuffs. "You're done, lad. You can go hard or easy. It's up to you."
Sid looked around; there was no way out but the way he'd come in. Donaldson's soft, he thought. I can take him. But the two blokes behind him were huge.
Donaldson followed his gaze. "I wouldn't," he said, opening his jacket to reveal a holster.
Sid took a step backward. And then another. He was not going back to prison. Not now, not ever. He looked out of the big bay window again, at the beautiful November day, the blue sky, the white clouds scudding in the breeze.
And then he hurled himself through it.
Chapter 68
"Bonjour, Madame," India said breathlessly to the woman behind the counter of the French bakery on Richmond Road. "Has Mr. Baxter been in
yet today?"
"No, Madame Baxter, he has not," the woman said in accented English. "If I see him, what shall I tell him to buy?"
"Oh ...um...the madeleines!" India said quickly, forcing a smile. "Au revoir, Madame!"
She raced out of the baker's and headed for Hammond's, the florists.
"Where are you, Sid? Where are you?" she said aloud.
She'd been dashing in and out of shops on the Richmond Road for the last fifteen minutes, ever since her cab had dropped her there. She looked at her watch. "Only twelve oh six," she said. "He's still on the way. Must be. He's always late getting here." She prayed that he was late today.
He usually got out of his cab on Richmond Road, not at the flat. He liked to amble along the pretty village street, buying a bottle of wine and a dozen white roses before he strolled up Richmond Hill. White roses for his winter rose, he always said. And cakes, always cakes. Because she was too thin. She could see him, his green eyes clouded by concern, trying to coax her to eat one more jam tart, one more biscuit, and her heart twisted inside her.
Why had this happened now? Now, when he was about to renounce his old life and everyone in it? Why couldn't they leave him alone? Let him go?
Her fear threatened to overwhelm her. She refused to give in to it and bravely pressed on, dashing across the street heedless of traffic. At Hammond's the florist's boy said that Mr. Baxter hadn't been in today. The man at the wine shop said the same thing. She checked the newsagent's, the greengrofficer's, the bookseller's, the butcher's, her desperation growing with every regretful smile, every shake of the head, every no.
Her only hope was to intercept him here. She knew the police were already at the flat, waiting. She looked at her watch again. It was now 12:35. She spent nearly another half hour standing on the pavement, watching cabs arrive and depart, hoping against hope that she would suddenly see Sid stepping down from one. And then a church bell tolled one o'clock, and she knew it was futile to wait any longer.
With a growing sense of doom, she crossed back over the Richmond Road and began the walk up Richmond Hill as if she were walking to the gallows. Nausea clawed at her. Only one thing enabled her to put one foot in front of the other--the fragile, tiny hope that Sid had not come. That he'd somehow gotten wind of Donaldson's plans. She reminded herself that he was smart and strong, that he'd survived the tough streets of East London. She prayed that the instincts that had kept him alive in a dark world for so long would serve him now.
It was quiet when she reached Arden Street. There were no police wagons, no strange men milling about. She quickened her step, hope surging inside her, and then she saw the broken window, gaping and jagged. It looked as if it were shrieking. She ran the rest of the way, flung open the gate, and dashed up the path. She saw blood on the grass. It was spattered over the dark green leaves of the rose bushes and their faded blooms.
"Oh, God," she cried.
The front door was ajar. She pushed it open and ran to the second floor. The door to the flat was open, too.
"Sid?" she called. "Sid, are you here?"
"Not anymore," a voice said.
India whirled around. Alvin Donaldson was sitting on her settee. A young constable was standing nearby.
"What happened to him? What have you done?"
"I tried to arrest him. I urged him to come quietly, but he didn't. Instead he threw himself through the window."
India sagged. The constable was at her side in an instant.
"Take your hands off me," she said, stumbling to a chair. She did not sit, but held on to the chair back to keep herself upright.
"Where is the body?" she asked. "I want to see him."
"There is no body."
"How can there be no body?"
"He's not dead, Dr. Jones."
India nearly wept with relief. "Where did you take him then? Which jail?"
"He escaped. We expect to find him shortly. He won't last long on his own. He was wounded in the fall and he has a bullet hole in his back as well."
"You shot him," India said brokenly.
"I saw that he was going to run and I shot to wound him, yes."
"How very kind of you. Blood loss and infections kill, too, you know. But I suppose that's irrelevant. Why are you here, Detective Inspector? Why aren't you out hunting him down? Can't you find any bloodhounds? Any bounty hunters?"
"My men are hunting him, Dr. Jones. I stayed behind to search your flat to see if I could find anything that might tell me where he's running to. But now that you're here, I can ask you."
"I don't know. I wouldn't tell you if I did. You must realize that."
Donaldson started to remonstrate with her, but she cut him off. "Why did you have to do this? Why?" she asked, her voice anguished. "He's changed. He wanted to leave the life. He was on the road to redemption."
Donaldson snorted. "Oh, aye? He'll be on it for a while, miss, don't you worry. That's the longest bloody road in the world."
India looked away, her mind racing. She had to find Sid. To help him.
As if reading her mind, Donaldson said, "We'll be watching you, you know."
"I rather thought you'd be arresting me. That's what Mr. Lytton said."
Donaldson shook his head. "By rights I should. But you're more valuable to us out of jail. Malone surfaced today to see you. Maybe he'll do so again."
India closed her eyes. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. But it hurt her almost beyond bearing to know that Sid
had been injured trying to get to her, that he was wounded and she could do nothing for him. She couldn't even look for him now. If she found him, she'd lead the police right to him.
"Dr. Jones, I don't want to argue with you. I want to help you. I know how this happened," Donaldson said, his voice suddenly sympathetic. "I'm no fool. I know what sort of woman you are."
"Do you?" she said, opening her eyes.
"I see your type in East London all the time. In the missions and the soup kitchens. In the orphanages and prisons. Well-bred young ladies looking to do some good. Soft-hearted, well-intentioned, and--if I may be frank--dead easy marks for the likes of Malone. He's obviously sold you some story, but you should know that leopards don't change their spots. Sid Malone is one thing and one thing only--a criminal. He's ruthless and dangerous. He's done a lot of harm to a lot of people, and now it's time he paid for his sins."
"Are you going to pay for yours?" she asked, her voice hard.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Are you going to pay for your sins, Detective Inspector? You're a corrupt police officer who accepts money to break up political rallies. You sell opium that you confiscate. You accept bribes from madams."
The young constables' eyes widened.
"That's enough!" Donaldson thundered. "You want to watch your tongue, Dr. Jones. The only reason you're not in jail right now is because of me."
"The only reason I'm not in jail right now is because of Mr. Lytton. Because he paid you not to put me there. Because he still has hopes I'll marry him and doesn't want his future wife's name in a police blotter. If you're going to arrest me, then do so. If not, get out of my flat."
"I won't arrest you, but I'll get Malone, make no mistake. I am going to see that he's tried, convicted, and hanged."
"For two murders he didn't commit? I wouldn't count on it."
"Why is that?"
"Because it costs to bribe magistrates and Mr. Lytton's coffers are low."
Donaldson, glaring, bit back a reply, then left. India watched him go. She would have dropped to her knees in front of him and begged for Sid if she'd thought for an instant it would help, but she knew it would not.
India walked to the broken window--the window where she'd spent so many happy evenings watching for Sid--and carefully pulled jagged pieces of shattered glass out of the panes. When she was finished, she wrapped them in sheets of newspaper and put them by the door.
An image came to her, a picture of Sid alone and bleeding in some dirty alley. She sagged down onto the settee and put her head in her hands and wept. The nausea she'd felt earlier rose again and this time she was sick. As sick as she'd been when she'd lost Mrs. Coburn and baby Harry. She felt now like she did then--weak and despairing, like she was breaking down again. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know where Sid was or if he was even alive. She had sacrificed everything for him--her home, her work, her dreams. She would sacrifice more if she could, but there was nothing left to give.
She stood up. She would go to the landlord's. Then to a glazier's. The flat had been damaged, and it had to be put right. Then she would make her way back to Brick Lane and the Moskowitzes', where she would wait and worry and hope to hear from him. It was all she could do.
Chapter 69
"Madam, please! Do allow me. It's a terribly unsafe hour," Foster said, rushing down the hall to the foyer.
But Fiona was already at the door. She'd heard the bell and had come tearing downstairs from her study. She undid the lock now and grasped the doorknob, but her courage suddenly deserted her and all she could do was lean her head against the door, unable to open it.
"Please, madam," Foster said gently.
Fiona looked at him, tears in her eyes, but shook her head. It was news about Joe, she was certain of it. And at half past midnight it was far too late to be good news. Whatever was coming, she had to face it. She twisted the knob and wrenched the door open. She expected to see a police officer or a messenger from the hospital, but the man standing before her was neither. He was sickeningly pale. His clothes were dirty and bloodstained. His left arm hung limply at his side.
"Fiona," he said. "Please..."
"No!" she screamed. "No, Charlie! God damn you, no!" She fiew at him, pounding her fists against his chest.
The man reeled backward, almost fell down the steps, then righted himself.
Foster was down the steps in an instant. "Mrs. Bristow, please go back inside," he said, pulling Fiona away from her brother. "Leave immediately, sir, or I shall summon the authorities," he said to Sid.
"I didn't do it, Fiona!" Sid cried. "I swear to God. I would never hurt Joe. Never."
Fiona broke free of Foster. "You liar!" she shouted. "There were witnesses!"
"It was Frankie Betts. One of my lads. I think he must've dressed like me. Gave my name. He must've done..." Sid's words trailed off.
"Why?" Fiona shouted.
"I don't know. But I didn't do it, Fiona, you have to believe me. Joe will tell you. When he wakes up, he'll tell you."
Fiona shook her head. She was weeping now. "If he wakes up."
"He will, Fiona. I know he will. He's tougher than steel, Joe."
"I looked for you, I tried to find you. Why wouldn't you see me?"
"I had to stay away. To keep you away. I wanted to protect you."
"This is my last warning, sir," Foster said menacingly, but Sid cut him off.
"I'm going... but please, Fee, please say you believe me. I didn't hurt Joe."
Fiona looked into her brother's eyes. Deep inside. Just as she'd done when they were children and she wanted to know if he was telling the truth. What she saw there told her that he was. She gave a cry and ran to him. He put his good arm around her and pulled her close.
"I'm sorry, Charlie," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."
"It's all right," he whispered. "I just ...I nted you to know. I've got to
wa
go now."
"No, you can't. You're coming inside."
"No, Fiona."
"You're hurt. You're coming inside!"
"Madam, are you quite certain?" Foster asked, alarmed.
"Yes," she said, suddenly remembering that her brother was a wanted man, and worried that he might have been seen. "Hurry, Mr. Foster!"
When they were in the foyer, with the door locked behind them, Foster said, "I'll call for a doctor."
"No! No doctors," Sid quickly said.
"But you're bleeding," Fiona said. "You need help."
"I'll be all right. I can't risk anyone else seeing me."
"I think I may be able to help," Foster said. "I was assigned to my ship's surgeon in the navy. If we could go into the kitchen..."
"Fiona? What's going on? I heard shouting." It was Seamie. He'd come back from the Aldens' to be with her when he heard about Joe. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs in his pajamas, groggy with sleep.
Fiona looked at Seamie, her heart aching for him, for all that he didn't
know, but soon would. "I didn't ...I dn't want it to be like this, Seamie.
di
I wanted to tell you, but I ...I c
ouldn't."
"Tell me what?" Seamie said uncertainly. "Fee, who is that?"
"Hello, nipper. Remember me?" Sid said, steadying himself against the foyer wall. He reached out a shaking hand to his brother.
Seamie went white. "Jesus Christ," he said. "It can't be."
"I'm afraid it is," Sid said. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor.
"Charlie!" Fiona shouted, terrifled. She ran to him but Foster was ahead of her.
"Master Seamus, kindly take his legs," he said, carefully lifting Sid's torso.
Together they got him downstairs to the kitchen table. Foster laid him out, then took his jacket and shirt off.
"My God, his back," Fiona said, horrifled by the scars there. "What happened to him?"
"Cat o' nine tails from the looks of it," Foster said briskly. "The wound's not too deep," h
e added, pointing to a bullet hole in the fieshy part of Sid's back, just under his left shoulder blade. "Not much damage at all. I'll have the bullet out in short order."
"What about his arm? Is it broken?"
"The arm is fine. His shoulder is dislocated, but I think I can pop it back in."
Foster set Fiona and Seamie to work boiling water and assembling whisky, quinine, and gauze to dress the wound, plus fresh clothing to replace Sid's bloodied things. Sid woke, yelling, when Foster started probing the wound, but the extraction was quick and expert, and he was able to endure it with a shot of whisky. When the wound was dressed, Foster poured him another shot, and then manipulated his shoulder back into place. Fiona could see it hurt him more than the bullet wound. When it was finally over, he dressed himself in one of Joe's old shirts, got off the kitchen table, and sat in a chair, pale and shaking, but better than he'd been.
Winter Rose, The Page 61
