The Tea Rose Part 68

"I ... I don't know," the sister said, fl.u.s.tered. "The roses were so lovely, I was looking at them, not the lads."

"Can you remember anything? Anything at all?"

"They had dark hair, I think ... and were maybe twenty years of age. Maybe younger. They were big. Brawny."

You've just described half the toughs in Whitechapel, Roddy thought.

"Does this door lock?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, rooting in her pocket. "Here's the key."

"Stay here with Mrs. Soames. Lock the door when I leave. My badge number is zero-four-two-three. Ask me for it before you open the door again."

"Uncle Roddy, what's wrong?" Fiona asked.

"Not'ing, I hope," he said, "but keep that door locked."

Every cell in Roddy's body sensed danger as he sped down the corridor toward the back stairwell. He pushed the door open and peered down the spiraling steps. He saw nothing, but he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps, and then a door slamming shut below him. He was down the stairs in no time and out through a side door, emerging in a foul alley where the hospital's waste was stored. Panting now, he ran to the alley's mouth, his trained eyes scanning the scores of pedestrians on the Whitechapel Road, looking for two men who fit the nurse's description. He saw several~one pair heading into a pub, another boarding a bus, a third talking to a costermonger. Not one of them looked suspicious. A few were laughing or smiling; all were easy and unhurried.

Maybe they were just deliverymen, he thought, feeling foolish. And maybe they had been lost. He turned and headed back up the alley, wondering if his sixth sense, the intuition he relied so heavily upon, was too tightly wound in the wake of the day's events and sending out false alarms. He felt bad that he'd snapped at the sister and alarmed Fiona.

As he pa.s.sed a large metal rubbish bin, a brilliant patch of red caught his eye. He turned his head, steeling himself against what he was sure would be b.l.o.o.d.y rags or bedsheets. Instead he saw roses. At least two dozen of them. Not the wilted remains of some spent arrangement, but fresh, beautiful flowers. He reached in, looking for a card, a bit of wrapping with a return address on it, or even the florist's address, but there was nothing.

It didn't matter. He didn't need an address to know who'd sent them ... and the two lads carrying them; The City boys were wrong. William Burton hadn't left London. He was still here. And he meant to finish what he'd started.

Chapter 79.

"Is there an address for the driver, Sergeant O'Meara?" the bellboy asked.

"No. I'll tell 'im me self. We're going to ride with 'im, Mrs. Soames and 1."

"Very well, sir. I'll take some of the lighter things now. I'll be back for the trunks." The lad tucked a hatbox under his arm and scooped up two suitcases.

Roddy held the door for him, then locked it. He picked his way through the stacks of luggage in the foyer on his way to the sitting room, glancing at the door to Fiona's bedroom as he pa.s.sed it. It was closed. She was still napping. He would let her rest until the trunks were downstairs. Packing had tired her. She'd only gotten out of hospital this morning and she was still weak.

Roddy worried about overtaxing her. He worried that the move he'd insisted she make would drain her fragile reserves, but he also felt he had no choice. Two days after he'd tried to murder Fiona, William Burton was still on the loose. The police were scouring the city for him. Constables were posted at his house, at Mincing Lane, and Albion Bank. His picture had appeared in several newspapers and appeals were made to the public to be on the lookout, but there had been no sign of him. Not one.

No one knew where he was, but he, if he wanted to, could easily find out where Fiona was.

Plenty of newspapers had run stories about her. Readers wanted to know everything about the brave young widow who'd avenged her father's death. Some papers had even stated that she was staying at the Savoy. All Burton had to do was pick one up and read it. And though the rooms were private, the lobby was open to the public. Anyone could troop through. Hundreds of people did every day. And a few coins in the hands of an unscrupulous bellboy or maid could easily buy information on one of the hotel's guests.

Roddy had decided that Fiona would be much safer in a private house.

He'd engaged an agency in Knightsbridge and had told the proprietoress that he needed a place that was completely secure, and that he needed it immediately. She'd found one the same day-a beautifully furnished town house in Mayfair that was situated in the middle of a limestone square and could only be accessed from the front. It belonged to a diplomat who'd recently been posted to Spain.

Roddy had also badgered Alvin Donaldson, the superintendent who was heading up the Burton investigation, to post two constables in front of it.

Fiona believed that Burton was long gone, that London was too dangerous a place for him.

She told him he was being a worrywart, but Roddy had stood his ground. Burton had murdered her father merely because he perceived him as a threat to his company. What would he do to the person who'd actually taken that company? He'd kill her in the blink of an eye. All he needed was a chance.

As he searched the sitting room for any forgotten belongings, he heard a knock on the door.

He felt for his truncheon. He was certain it was only the bellboy back for the trunks, but he was taking no chances. "Who is it?" he yelled, his hand on the doork.n.o.b. There was a slight pause, then a reply. "Joe Bristow."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Roddy said to himself. He opened the door.

" 'Ello, Roddy. Is ... is she 'ere?"

Roddy shook his head. "She was," he lied, gesturing at the trunks piled up behind him, "but she left for America. Just this morning." He had no intention of letting Joe Bristow loose on Fiona.

Not after she'd said she didn't want to see him again.

Joe looked crestfallen. "I can't believe I missed 'er," he said. "I tried to see 'er in 'ospital after I read what 'ad 'appened in the papers, but they weren't allowing any visitors. Wouldn't even send me name up."

"Aye, that was my doing," Roddy said. "I was worried about Burton, or someone working for him, trying to get to her. I'll let her know you stopped by, Joe. I'll give her your regards."

''I'd like to let 'er know myself," he said. "Can I 'ave 'er address in New York?"

Roddy deliberated for a second, trying to figure out what he could say to soften the blow, then decided to be honest with him. "Joe, she knows about our meeting, about everything you did for her and she's grateful to you. But she doesn't want to see you. She told me so herself. I'm sorry, lad."

Joe looked at the ground, then at Roddy again. "Would you at least tell 'er I called?"

"I will."

"And would you give 'er this?" He handed him his card.

"I'll send it to 'er."

"Thank you. Good-bye, Roddy."

"Good-bye, Joe." Roddy closed the door and jammed the card into his pocket.

The bedroom door opened. Fiona came out, her face puffy with sleep, her skirts creased. "I thought I heard voices," she said. "Was someone at the door?"

"At the door? Ah, no. No one. Just ... urn ... just a barrow boy trying to peddle his rubbish."

Fiona blinked at him. "A barrow boy? In the hotel?"

"I told you the security here isn't all it should be," he said, then quickly changed the subject.

Chapter 80.

Fiona regarded the sad wooden crosses sticking out of the ground. The plots they marked were tangled and matted with long gra.s.s and weeds. Two stood crookedly. One had broken off at its base. A fourth was discolored by rust marks from the nails that held it together. She could just make out the remains of a name on it: "Patrick Finnegan."

She turned to her companion, a large East London man, whom Roddy had hired as her driver and guard. He was carrying a rake, a spade, a trowel, a pair of clippers, a watering can, and a bag of fertilizer.

"You can put them down right there, Andrew," she said.

"Shall I get your 'amper? And the rest of the flowers, Mrs. Soames?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

She set the parcels she'd been carrying down and unwrapped them. They were young rosebushes-tea roses. She'd spent her entire afternoon travelling from florist to florist hunting for just the right ones. The churchyard was small and Andrew's carriage was right outside the gate. It only took a minute before he was at her side again with a flat of colorful primroses and a wicker basket.

He set them down, then stood close by, his hands on his hips.

''I'd like to be alone for a while, Andrew. Could you wait for me in the carriage?" she asked.

He frowned. "Sergeant O'Meara said I wasn't to leave you alone."

''I'll be perfectly fine. Unlike Sergeant O'Meara, I doubt very much that William Burton is still in London, and even if he is, he's not likely to be hanging about a graveyard, is he?"

"I guess not. All right, then- Just shout if you need me."

"I will."

She picked up her rake and started in. It was a clear, cloudless August day and the sunshine was hot upon her back. It felt wonderful to move, to use her body again. Her st.i.tches had come out yesterday. She'd had very little exercise since Burton had put her in hospital nearly three weeks ago.

She was chafing under Roddy's restrictions, and hungry for fresh air, freedom, and time to herself.

Roddy had not been happy about this trip. He was so certain that Burton was still in London, whereas she didn't see how he could be. Where could he possibly hide? Alvin Donaldson had visited her just that morning to apprise her of any new developments in the case-but there were none.

Burton's home and office, and the bank where he kept his money, were under constant surveillance.

Donaldson felt that his lack of access to his known destinations, coupled with the fact that no one had so much as glimpsed him over the past fortnight, indicated that he'd had a sum of money stashed somewhere and had used it to buy himself a private pa.s.sage across the Channel. The French were looking for him now; it was only a matter of time until he was caught.

Roddy had been with her during Donaldson's visit. He'd heard everything the man said, and admitted his reasoning was sound, but he still hadn't wanted her to leave the house. He'd had obligations today and asked her to wait until tomorrow, when he could go with her, but she'd refused.

William Burton, she'd decided, had overshadowed her life for far too long. She didn't want him to ruin even one more day.

After an hour Fiona had the weeds cleared away and the gra.s.s clipped back on the four plots.

Next, she planted the roses, then the primroses, and then she filled her watering can from a nearby spigot and gave everything a good dousing. She had muddied her hands and her skirt, but she didn't care. After today she would arrange for a gardener to tend the plots, but these things she wanted to do herself. Needed to. She'd been away for far too long.

As she worked, she had the churchyard almost entirely to herself. Two old ladies pa.s.sed by on their way to leave flowers at a grave, murmuring quiet greetings. Likewise a young mother dressed in black and her small son. And then two lads strolled by, hands in their pockets. They were stopping every now and again, examining headstones. She glanced at them once, watching them as they pointed at markers or toed aside weeds. The second time she looked up, they were closer. Much closer.

"Looks nice what you did there, with the roses," one said.

"Thank you," Fiona said, looking up at them. They were young lads, strongly built. They wore narrow trousers, collarless cotton shirts, vests, and red kingsmen. Their faces showed evidence of sc.r.a.ppy dispositions-one had a scar, the other's nose had obviously been broken.

"We're looking for 'is granddad," the same one said, pointing at the other, "but we can't find 'im."

"What was his name?" Fiona asked.

"'Is what?"

"His name. What's the name on the headstone?" "Smith, Tom Smith. Same as mine," the second lad said.

Fiona looked at the neighboring markers, but none had the name "Smith" on it. "I don't think he's here," she said.

"What's that name?" Tom Smith asked, pointing at her father's marker.

"Patrick Finnegan," Fiona said. "My father."

"Is that so?" Tom said. He stepped up next to her to peer at the marker, so close that Fiona could smell the smoke in his clothes and the beer on his breath, and for a split second she felt afraid.

Roddy had told her about the two men-Burton's men, he'd said-who'd come looking for her while she was in hospital. What if these were the very same men? Then she spotted Andrew. He was standing only five or six yards away, watching the lads' every move. They saw him, too. Tom Smith touched the rim of his cap. Andrew nodded back, unsmiling, arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, we'll keep looking, I guess. 'E's bound to be 'ere somewhere. 'E surely didn't get up and walk out, now did 'e?" Tom said, grinning. "Ta-ra, missus."

"Ta-ra," Fiona replied, feeling silly. They were just a pair of friendly lads and had meant her no harm. Probably the one was sent by his mother to tidy his grandfather's grave or some such thing.

Roddy's dire warnings were making her jumpy. She resolved to put them out of her mind. She returned to her work and after a few minutes, when the lads had left the churchyard, Andrew returned to his carriage.

When she finished tending the plots, she spread a cloth on the ground, fished out a flask of tea and some sandwiches from her hamper, and sat awhile with her family. As she ate, she told them everything that had happened to her. All about her visit to William Burton's office so many years ago and what had happened there. About New York and Michael and Mary and her entire extended family. She told them about her tea business. About Will and Nick. She told them about Seamie and how they wouldn't even recognize him, he was so American now. He was going to discover something someday, she was sure of it. A cure for a disease, or a dinosaur, or maybe a whole new country. He was handsome, she said, as handsome as Charlie had been. She told them they could be proud of her brother, every bit as proud as she was.

And then she told them how she'd taken William Burton's tea company.

He was ruined, she said, and as soon as he was caught he would go to prison, and then the gallows. "It's not enough, Da," she said, laying her hand on her father's grave. "But I hope it's something. I hope it helps you rest a little easier." Tears stung behind her eyes as she continued. "I miss you, Da. I miss you every single day. And I love you. Kiss Mam and Charlie and the baby for me, will you? And tell them I love them, too."

She sat quietly for a few more minutes, watching the early-evening sun slant through the trees, dappling the gra.s.s, and then, after promising she wouldn't wait ten years to come back, she rose to go.

She called for Andrew and the two of them piled all her clobber back into the carriage. He helped her in, closed the door after her, then nosed his horses through the narrow streets of White chapel on his way back to Mayfair. As Fiona gazed out the window, she glimpsed familiar street signs and buildings. She saw men on their way home from work and heard their voices as they called to each other or greeted their children. She saw the brewery where Charlie once worked and realized she wasn't far from Montague Street. She was suddenly seized by an overpowering longing to see her old street, her house, the place where she had grown up.

"Andrew!" she yelled, rapping on the small sliding window at the front of her compartment.

"Andrew, stop!"

The carriage came to a halt. "What is it, Mrs. Soames? What's wrong?"

"I want to get out. I'm going to walk for a bit. I'll make my own way home." "You can't do that, ma'am. Sergeant O'Meara told me not to let you out of my sight. 'E said to bring you to the graveyard and straight back."