"Mmm. Morning," Freddie replied absently. He was busy writing up his account of bagging a lion at Thika for the readers of The Times. He would leave out the part about Charlotte going missing. It made the place look dangerous and him look careless.
"Your schedule, sir," Tom said, placing a typed agenda on Freddie's desk.
Freddie glanced at it.
"You should never have come back to Nairobi," Tom said. "Everyone's clamoring for you now that you're here again. You've a ten o'clock ribbon-cutting at the racetrack. New stables, I believe. An eleven o'clock with the surveyor for Seyidie Province--seems there's a bit of a bother with the Germans over a boundary dispute in the Vanga District--a noon luncheon with the Merchants' Association, and a two o'clock with the DC for the Northern Frontier. I've scheduled nothing after that as you've the dinner at the governor's residence tonight to prepare for." Tom then started placing the folders he was carrying on Freddie's desk one by one. "For your remarks tonight. Here's the population summary for the whole of BEA by district, farm classification by size and by type of crop..."
"Is there anything from London?" Freddie asked impatiently.
"Yes. A telegram from Scotland Yard, I believe." Tom reached into yet another folder and drew a telegram from it.
"Good man. Thank you," Freddie said, eagerly reaching for it.
He'd sent a telegram to Alvin Donaldson, now a superintendent at the Yard, four days ago, asking him to find the coroner's report on Sid Malone's body and advise whether or not the identification was irrefutable. Donaldson had replied to say that it was not. The body fished out of the Thames back in 1900 had been so badly decomposed that no facial features had remained, only a few patches of red hair. It had had a few personal effects on it--effects identified as having belonged to Malone--and those were what had been used to identify it. It was just as Freddie had thought. Sid Malone had faked his own death. He hadn't needed Donaldson to tell him that; he'd only wanted him to provide confirmation. He'd discovered for himself that Malone was alive and well in Thika.
If Freddie had been concerned about what was going on with India when he'd ridden out to the Carr farm, he'd become downright fearful of her intentions by the time he'd returned. This was no stray fancy on her part; this was Malone. She'd left him for Sid once; she'd do it again--he was certain of it.
He remembered now how she'd looked the evening before they'd left on the long journey to Nairobi--upset, flushed, and tousled. She'd been with Malone; he was certain of it--the devious little bitch. Perhaps she was already putting her plans into place, figuring out how to escape. He could not permit that to happen. Would not. He'd worked so hard to get where he wanted to go, and nothing--and no one--was going to stop him.
"Is there anything the matter, sir?"
Freddie, tense and anxious, lost in his thoughts, had completely forgotten about the ADC, who was still in his office, awaiting further instructions.
He looked at him now and gravely said, "Yes, Tom, I'm afraid there is. We've a very dangerous man in our midst. A fugitive. He's wanted in London for murder. I need to speak to the governor this morning. I want this man found immediately and taken alive. I will accompany the police and personally oversee the arrest."
"A murderer? Here? Who is he?"
"He went by the name of Malone in London. He goes by another name now. Baxter. Sid Baxter."
"Sid Baxter? I don't believe it, sir."
Freddie smiled. "I don't care what you believe, Tom."
Meade's eyes hardened. "There are protocols," he said coldly. "Even in Nairobi. The governor is not the only one who will need to be notified. May I ask what you intend to do?"
"I plan to arrest him, of course. And then I plan to hang him."
Chapter 110
Can you smell despair? Joe wondered. Can you see it? Touch it?
He had always believed it to be an intangible thing, a state of mind. Until he'd come to Wandsworth. Here it was real. It stalked the corridors, echoing in the hollow pok pok of the guards' steps. It dripped down the gray granite walls, festering in their cracks, filling the room with its moldering stink. It seeped into fiesh and bone, as chilling as the damp, creeping cold of a grave.
"Wandsworth was a model prison in its day," the warden said cheerily, as he accompanied Joe from his office to the visitors' room. "It was built in the panopticon style in 1851 with cell blocks radiating from a central control station from which the guards can see everything that's going on. Designed to be a new type of humane prison. Panopticon," he repeated, relishing the word.
"Really? Humane, you say?"
"In relative terms, of course."
"It's not relative, humanity. One's either humane or one isn't."
The warden smiled. "Everything's relative, Mr. Bristow. Ever been to Reading?"
"No."
"It antedates Wandsworth by a few years. It was operated on the separate and silent system. Single cells with solid doors so that prisoners couldn't see one another. Walls so thick you'd never hear another human voice. The convicts were made to wear masks whenever they were out of their cells--long pieces of fabric with holes cut out for their eyes. Meals were taken in the cells. The inmates lived alone, deprived of contact with others. No words of comfort. No friend to pat you on the back, no cell mate to whisper comfort when you cried out at night. It was all thought to be reforming and rehabilitating, but prisoners went mad there, Mr. Bristow. So much for humanity. And speaking of mad, how'd you fare with our friend Betts last time?"
"Not too well, I'm afraid."
The warden sighed. "Maybe you'll have better luck this time. I hope so, for there may not be a next time. He's not long for this world. TB, you know."
"I thought so," Joe said, remembering Frankie's sunken eyes, the high color in his cheeks.
"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," the warden said. "Do remember to keep the table between you. The guard's there, of course, but prisoners can become violent."
Joe laughed. "He can't possibly do me more harm than he's already done," he said.
The warden left and Joe wheeled himself over to one of the long tables. He had come to try yet again to get answers from Frankie Betts. Keeping what he'd discovered about Sid, and about Sid's child, from Fiona was killing him. She was his wife and she had a right to know these things, yet he couldn't betray Ella. Or Dr. Jones. Or the child. His hands were tied, and he didn't know what to do to get them untied, but he felt instinctively that any chance he might have of making things come right lay with Frankie Betts.
After a few minutes the heavy iron door that led to the cell blocks opened and Frankie walked out.
"Jesus bloody Christ," he said. "Not you again."
He looked terrible. So bad, in fact, that Joe almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "Hello, Frankie," he said. "I'm happy to see you, too."
"I want to go back to me cell," Frankie said to the guard.
"Sit down, Betts," the man said.
"I did some investigating, Frankie," Joe began.
"Well, ain't you a regular Sherlock Holmes."
"Found out about the doctor. The one you mentioned last time. Dr. Jones. I can see how she must've rankled you. She took Sid away, didn't she?"
"Never heard of her. Don't know what you're talking about. You should leave. You're wasting your time."
"You were angry, weren't you? You didn't want Sid to go away with the doctor. You wanted him back in the fold. That's why you shot me. To land Sid in the shit. Make him go underground. Make him a villain again."
"You should write mystery stories, you."
"People I talked to think you killed Gemma Dean, Frankie. They say you had to. You botched my shooting, so you needed to kill someone else. As a way of keeping Sid on the run."
"Doesn't matter what people say. Gemma's dead as a doornail. And so's Sid."
Joe leaned in close. "Here's a bit of news for you ...Sid's not dead. He's alive. The body in the river? Not his. He faked it. So he could get out of London."
/> "You're lying," Frankie said. But in his eyes Joe saw a flicker of doubt.
"I'm not." Joe sat back again. He regarded Frankie for a few seconds, then said, "Sid didn't kill Gemma. I know he didn't because I have his word on it. You didn't, either. I've no idea how I know that, but I do. So who did kill her, Frankie. Who?"
Joe got a cough for a reply. A deep, wet, racking cough that left Frankie wiping blood from his lips.
"You're dying, Frankie," Joe said softly. "Don't take Sid with you. Let him live. Let him come home."
Frankie, sick and gray and broken, looked at the floor. Joe could see he was struggling--with his disease, with his conscience, with himself.
"Please, Frankie," he said. "It's me asking. Me. The man you put in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Do you have any idea who killed Gemma Dean?"
Frankie raised his eyes and said, "Oh, aye, guv. I've an idea, all right. I saw him. I was there."
Chapter 111
Sid knew.
He knew before the ox cart stopped at the end of Maggie's drive. Before the horses were tied. Before the men from Nairobi stepped onto her porch. He knew when he saw the dust rising in the distance, swirling up from the red dirt road, that it was over. That they were coming for him. Somehow, somewhere deep inside himself, he'd always known it would end this way.
He was shoeing Maggie's mare when Baaru shouted at him that strangers were coming.
He straightened, gazing toward the road. He finished his work, gave the horse to Baaru to lead back into the barn, and went into his house to wash. He put the few pieces of clothing he had into his battered leather satchel, and his books, for he knew how slowly the days passed in jail.
I should've gone away, he thought. Far away. I should've headed into the bush and stayed there. Why didn't I?
He knew why. He'd wanted to see India. To be near her. What did it matter if they jailed him now? If they hanged him? What did he have to live for? For a moment he felt a deep and wild sadness at losing the life he'd made for himself here, but then he asked himself, What life? Life is what he would have had with India. This was no life. This was just an existence.
When he finished packing his things, he went to Maggie's house. He went in the back door and walked through Alice's kitchen and into the sitting room. There were half a dozen men in there. And Maggie.
"If you don't take us to him, we'll have to get him ourselves," a man said. It was Ewart Grogan, one of Nairobi's judges.
"I'm not taking you anywhere until you tell me what this is about," Maggie replied. "Who in blazes do you think you are walking in here, ordering me about, telling me you need to see my foreman, but not telling me why?"
"It's all right, Maggs. I'm here," Sid said.
"Do you know why we're here, Sid?" Grogan asked.
"I've a fair idea."
Grogan nodded. "Take him," he said.
An officer advanced on Sid, pulling a pair of handcuffs off his belt. "Sid Malone," he said, "you are under arrest. I'm charging you with the murder of Gemma Dean."
"Murder?" Maggie squawked. "What are you doing? His name's Baxter, not Malone. You fools have the wrong man. Let go of him!"
"I can't do that, ma'am," the officer said, cuffing Sid.
"Will someone please tell me what's happening?" she yelled, as the of?-cer led Sid out of her house and down the porch steps. There was a popping sound and then a blinding flash of light. "What the devil was that?" she shouted, looking around wildly. There was a camera on her front lawn. A man stood behind it, his head hidden under a black cloth.
"You son of a bitch!" she shouted. She ran to him and kicked him in the backside as hard as she could. He lost his balance and fell over. The camera fell with him. "Get off my land! Now!"
"Mrs. Carr! Please calm down!"
Maggie spun around. "Tom Meade! Is that you skulking? What the hell is this about?"
Tom was standing in her front garden. "I'm sorry, Maggie. We have to take him," he said. "Governor's orders."
"Take him? Take him where?"
"To Nairobi. To jail."
"They're arresting me, Maggs," Sid said. "They think I murdered a woman. Years ago. In London. Her name was Gemma Dean."
"You didn't, did you?"
"No."
"You've nothing to worry about, then. I'll follow you in two days. Soon as I can get Roos or the Thompson boys to take over here. I'll get you a solicitor, Sid. I'll have you out of there in no time." She turned to Grogan. "And I'll have your head! The cheek! Trespassing on my land, marching into my house, making off with my foreman..."
As Maggie continued to harangue Grogan and Meade and everyone with them, Sid saw a tall, blond man standing on the path, at a distance from the house. Though he'd steeled himself, his blood still ran cold as the man approached him.
"Mr. Malone," the man said. "It's been a long time."
"Not long enough, Freddie."
Maggie, red-faced and sweating, grabbed Sid's arm. "Don't you worry, lad. I'll have you out in no time. You'll be home before the harvest."
Sid looked into Freddie's cruel, triumphant eyes, then quietly said, "No, Maggie. I don't think I will."
Chapter 112
"Why did you do it, Freddie? Why?" India cried, striding into her husband's bedroom.
Freddie, knotting his tie in front of a tall cheval mirror, turned to her and said, "Do what, my dear?"
"You know bloody well what!"
"Do keep your voice down. We are guests in the governor's house."
"And the governor's wife just told me about Sid Baxter's arrest. Over tea and toast. That's where you were for the past few days, isn't it? You rode out to Thika so you could arrest him yourself?"
India had almost cried out with shock at the news, almost wept with fear for Sid. It had taken every ounce of control she possessed to finish her breakfast and take her leave of Lady Hayes Sadler.
"Let him go, Freddie," she said now.
"You overestimate my authority."
"You don't have to do this."
"India, my conscience--"
"Your what?"
"Will simply not permit me to turn a blind eye to the law, to allow a murdering villain to walk free."
"You are the villain, Freddie. Not Sid."
"I did not murder Gemma Dean."
"Neither did he."
"A magistrate will decide that."
"A magistrate bought and paid for by you."
Freddie looked at his tie. The knot was lopsided. "Blast," he said and began again.
"How did you find out? Did you follow me?" India asked him.
"I rode to the Carr farm to make the acquaintance of Margaret Carr. I saw him there. I had no choice but to order his arrest. I would be negligent in my duties as undersecretary had I not."
"He will hang. You know that, don't you? If you persist in this, he will be convicted and executed."
"I certainly hope so."
India caught her breath. "Why, Freddie? Why must you be so cruel?"
"One must protect one's belongings."
"What do you want? The money? The houses? I'll give them to you. Sign them over to you. I'll give you everything," she said, desperation in her voice. "Just let him go. Please."
"It's not as easy as that, I'm afraid. Your wily father made the terms of the trust rather iron-clad. And it's not just the money, you know. I've my reputation to consider. I'll never become prime minister if my wife runs off with her bit of rough."
India took a deep breath, steeling herself for the offensive. She had never dared to do what she was about to do, she had been too afraid of the consequences, but she had to act now or Sid would die. "If Sid Malone is given a fair trial, Freddie, I give you my word that I will never see him again. I will remain to all appearances your loyal wife. If he is hanged, I will divorce you. And do everything I can to destroy your reputation."
Freddie laughed. "Not if you care about Charlotte, you won't."
India had anticipated that threat and
prepared for it.
"I will, Freddie," she said. "Even though I care greatly about Charlotte. You forget that I have my own funds. I can afford to hire my own solicitors. The best in London. I will get my divorce, make no mistake, I'll take Charlotte with me, and I'll ruin you into the bargain. You'll never be prime minister. Never."
Freddie frowned thoughtfully at his reflection. "I daresay that you'd get your divorce and cause a scandal, too, but if you so much as attempt it, I promise you, you will never see Charlotte again. I have many friends. In the Inns of Court. In the Home office. Why, even in Number Ten. I'll call upon them all to have you ruled an unfit mother."
Winter Rose, The Page 85
