The Tea Rose Part 8

The white cotton parted and slipped from her body to the ground, leaving her naked to the waist. She raised her eyes to his and saw the desire in them, but she couldn't possibly know how deep, how strong that desire was. Joe had seen her nearly every day of his life, knew all her moods, her expressions and gestures, but he had never seen her like this-her hair tumbling down her shoulders, jet-black against her ivory skin. Her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, round and ripe and pretty. And her eyes, as deep and darkly blue as the ocean.

"G.o.d, la.s.s, but you're beautiful," he whispered.

Gently, with infinite tenderness, he cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his hands and kissed them, and the place between, and finally, he kissed the place over her heart. Then he bent down, gathered her clothes, and handed them back to her.

"Why?" she asked, wounded. "Don't you want me?"

He snorted laughter. "Don't I?" He took her hand roughly and pressed it between his legs.

"Does this feel like I don't want you?"

Fiona drew her hand back, blushing furiously.

"I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in me whole life, Fiona.

A second ago, I almost took you right there on the ground. And G.o.d only knows where I found the strength to stop."

"Why did you? I didn't want you to stop."

"Because what if we did, and something' appened? And then I'm in Covent Garden and you're' ere with a big belly and a father fit to kill us both."

Fiona bit her lip. It was no use telling him she'd wanted him so badly, she'd been ready to take that chance.

''I'd marry you in a second if that 'appened, Fee. You know I would, but 'ow could we take on a baby right now? We can't afford to. We've got to stick to our plan-the savings, and then the shop, and then we'll get married. And that way, when the babies come, we'll 'ave the money to give 'em what they need. Right?"

"Right," she said quietly. She slipped her camisole back on, then her blouse. Then she gathered her hair back into a neat plait and tried to affect a calm, collected manner. Her mind agreed with what Joe said, but her body did not. It was hot, uncomfortable, and deeply unsatisfied. It still ached for what it wanted, regardless of reason.

"Come on, then," he said, offering her his hand. He pulled her to him. and they stood that way for a long time before he led her out of the pilings. They walked back to the Old Stairs, climbed them, then paused briefly at the top, while he cast one last glance over the barges, the tea wharves, and the river. He wouldn't be seeing them again for a while.

As they walked home, Joe, as always, could not resist teasing her. He kept looking at her and grinning. And when she finally turned to him and demanded to know what he was looking at, he laughed and shook his head. "I never knew," he said.

"Never knew what?"

"Never knew that my shy little violet, the la.s.s who once was worried lest I go too far be'ind the brewery wall, is really as randy as a goat."

"Oh, Joe!" she cried, reddening. "Don't you dare tease me!"

"I think it's grand. I do. And you better be at least that randy the day I marry you or I won't'

ave you. I'll take you back to your father's. Return you like a crate of bad apples."

"Be quiet, will you? Somebody will' ear!"

A couple, an older man and woman, pa.s.sed them on the sidewalk. Joe affected a serious, businesslike voice for their benefit. "Oh, well, even if I couldn't close the deal today, at least I got a good look at the merchandise And fine goods they are, la.s.s."

He made her laugh so much all the way from Wapping to her home that she almost forgot he was leaving. But when they rounded the corner of Montague Street, it came back to her. He was going tomorrow. When she got back from Burton's, he wouldn't be here.

As if sensing her feelings, he took her hand and said, "Remember what I told you. It's not forever. I'll be back to see you before you know it."

She nodded.

"Take care of yourself," he said, kissing her good-bye.

"And you," she murmured, watching him as he walked down the street watching as he walked away from her.

RODDY O'MEARA doubled over and groaned. With one great, wrenching heave, his stomach emptied itself of the beef-and-onion pie he'd eaten for supper. He leaned against the pitted brick wall in the yard behind 29 Hanbury Street and forced himself to breathe deeply, willing the nausea still gripping his gut to subside. As he pa.s.sed a hand over his damp brow, he became aware that his helmet had fallen off.

"Jaysus, I hope I haven't puked on that."

He hawked a gob of spit, located his helmet, and after a quick inspection placed it back on his head, tightening the strap under his chin. Then he forced himself to walk back to the body. He wasn't about to allow his weak stomach to keep him from doing his job.

"Better?" George Phillips, the police surgeon, asked him. Roddy nodded, picking up the bull's-eye lantern he'd left next to the body. "Good man," Dr. Phillips said, crouching by the corpse.

"Shine that over here."

He directed the beam to the woman's head. As the doctor began to scribble in his notebook, trading questions and comments with the officer in charge, Inspector Joseph Chandler, and various detectives, Roddy's eyes swept over the body. What had only hours ago been a living, breathing woman was now a gutted carca.s.s. She lay before them on her back, her legs obscenely splayed, her abdomen yawning. Her killer had disemboweled her and deposited her glistening intestines beside her. He'd sliced into her thighs and hacked at the flesh between them. A gash lay across her throat like a garnet choker, the congealing blood glinting darkly in the lantern's light.

"Good Christ," one of the detectives said. "Just wait until the papers get hold of this one, with her guts all over the place."

"There's to be no press in here. None," Chandler barked, looking up from the body.

"Davidson," he said to the detective. "Take a dozen men and position them in front of the building.

No one's to come in here unless they're on police business."

It was the worst murder yet. In spite of all the extra officers on patrol after Polly Nichols was found cut up in Bucks Row nine days ago, the murderer had hacked another streetwalker to death.

Roddy had seen death before. Women beaten lifeless by their husbands.

Children starved and neglected. Victims of fires and accidents. Nothing approached this. This was hatred-black and insane and staggering. Whoever had killed this woman, and the others, hated them with an incomprehensible fury.

He now had another image of the killer's work to store in his brain. But this time, he wouldn't let it keep him up at night; this time he would channel the horror and anger into his casework. They'd catch the man; it was only a matter of time. And when they had him, he'd hang for what he'd done.

Even now, as Dr. Phillips examined the body, scores of constables and detectives were fanning out through the area, searching for clues, knocking on doors, rousing residents to find out if they'd heard anything, seen anything.

"Over here," Dr. Phillips said, moving from the woman's neck to her abdomen.

Roddy followed, stepping over a puddle of blood. He shone the lantern into the cavity. His stomach twisted again, tightening itself to the size of a walnut. The sweet, coppery smell of her blood, the stench of human organs and their contents were overpowering.

"Her throat was cut left to right. She's only been dead a half hour, no rigor yet," Phillips told the inspector, still scribbling as he talked. "Abdominal mutilation is worse than the last time. It appears as if -"

Above their heads, a sticky window was forced open. Dr. Phillips looked up; Roddy and the others followed his gaze. Out of almost all the windows in the upper stories of the houses that bordered the tiny yard, heads protruded and fingers pointed.

"Please go back inside!" the doctor shouted. "This is no sight for decent folk!"

Some of the heads were withdrawn, most remained.

"Did you hear the man? Go inside or I'll have you brought up on charges of obstructing police inquiries!" Chandler bellowed.

"You can't do that, guv'nor!" came one indignant reply. "I paid the geezer what lives 'ere tuppence for a gander."

"Good G.o.d," Phillips groaned. He turned back to the body, a scowl darkening his face.

"Come on, let's finish and then we'll cover her. Give them less to gawk at, the b.l.o.o.d.y ghouls."

He finished his examination and dismissed Roddy, who joined the other constables in front of the building. While the inspector and his detectives searched the area around the body for evidence, Roddy and his fellow officers faced down an ugly crowd.

A woman wearing a man's greatcoat over her nightdress glared at him, a mixture of fear and anger in her eyes. "Constable!" she shouted, taking a few steps toward him. "It's 'im, ain't it? The Whitechapel Murderer. 'E's struck again, 'asn't 'e? Why don't you coppers get 'im?"

In keeping with official policy, Roddy made no reply. He trained his gaze on the house across the street.

"You're doing nothing!" the woman cried, her voice as shrill as a rook, "And it's because it's all poor women, ain't it? n.o.body cares about us. Jus' wait till 'e goes west and threatens the fine ladies there. Then you'll catch 'im!"

"Aw missus," a man shouted, "them peelers couldn't catch clap in a wh.o.r.ehouse."

The crowd threw more taunts and jeers, growing larger-and surlier by the minute. Inspector Chandler pushed his way through the officers to check on the source of all the noise. He looked at the crowd, then turned to his men and told them that the ambulance should arrive momentarily. "As soon as the body's gone, the rabble will disperse," he said .

'Ow many more will 'e get?" a woman screeched. " 'Ow many?" Giving the crowd a filthy look, Chandler turned to rejoin his detectives.

Before he could leave, however, a new voice piped up.

"Yes, Inspector, how many more?" Roddy saw Chandler grimace.

"How many more, sir? The public have a right to know!"

Roddy's eyes darted to the speaker. He knew that voice. Brisk, excited, almost cheerful in tone, it belonged to a wiry, rumpled figure hastily making his way toward Chandler.

''I've nothing for you, Devlin," the inspector growled.

"Was her throat cut?"

"No comment."

"Body slashed?"

"I said no comment!" Chandler snapped. He shouted orders at his men to stand firm and rejoined Phillips.

Undaunted, the reporter sized up the row of constables before him.

"How about you men? Seems like our boy got another one, eh? And the poIice were nowhere in sight as usual. Heard she only just died. Might've lived if you lot had been faster. Too slow off the mark ... "

Devlin's fishing expedition paid off. One young constable, offended by his words, took the bait. "We wasn't too slow! She died right away from the wound to 'er throat. She -"

Devlin pounced. "What time? Who found her?"

A quick elbow in the ribs reminded the lad to close his mouth and left Devlin, pad in hand, to try his luck elsewhere.

Roddy sighed. He felt edgy and restless. He didn't want to stand here.

He wanted to be out, pounding on doors. He needed to move, to be active; that was the only thing that would erase the sights that plagued his memory - her torn body, her splayed legs, the little red flower pinned to her jacket. Would he be able to sleep when this night was over? He closed his eyes and found that the images persisted behind his shuttered eyelids, and that Devlin's voice, badgering, relentless, echoed in his head: "How many more will he get? How many more?"

Chapter 7.

Hot water straight from the tap. Drains that never backed up. It was b.l.o.o.d.y amazing. b.l.o.o.d.y wonderful! Joe dipped his razor into a basin of warm soapy water and marveled again at the miracle of modern conveniences. A sink. A bathtub. A flush toilet. All indoors! Eyeing himself in the bathroom mirror, he puffed out his cheek and sc.r.a.ped away the blond stubble covering it.

When Peterson told him he'd be living in a room over the company offices, he expected a dark, drafty rathole with a dank privy in the backyard. He couldn't have been more wrong. The room-the top floor of a three story brick building-had been used for storage, then as sleeping quarters for farmers in from the country. When his nephew Harry came up from Brighton to work for him, Peterson had had it renovated into serviceable bachelor's quarters. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished, but bright and clean. The walls were painted a warm cream. There was a cast-iron stove' to warm the room and heat a dinner or water for tea. An old braided rug covered the floor in front of it and a pair of worn leather wing chairs-pulled from the attic of Peterson's house-flanked it. Each lad had a bed and a narrow wardrobe to call his own, plus a fruit crate for a night table and an oil lamp.

Tommy's done right by me so far, Joe thought. The pay's good and the quarters are first-rate.

But Peterson had given him something more than a room and wages, something he valued greatly.

He listened to him. The man was mind-bogglingly busy-he oversaw an entire army of workers: buyers. sellers, porters, drivers-yet he took the time to hear his employees' ideas. from the lowliest porter to the head buyer. When Joe suggested that the pea-sh.e.l.lers might get more done if they had a boy to keep them stocked rather than getting up from their stools to get the pods themselves, a boy was hired. Output increased and the whole experiment earned him a "Good lad!" and a slap on the back. When he noticed that the chefs from the grand hotels and restaurants-a picky, impatient bunch-tended to move around from seller to seller, buying apples here and broccoli there, he asked if he could have tea available for them. Tommy agreed, and the chefs, grateful for a hot drink at four in the morning, lingered and brought.

The money, the room they both pleased him greatly, but the encouragement he got from Tommy-that made him happiest of all. His father had never been interested in his ideas; he'd resisted every one. Now Joe was seeing his good ideas confirmed, commended even.

The first free moment he had, he wrote to Fiona and told her about his new life: "Hot baths whenever I want, a bed all to myself, and a warm room with buckets of coal" he wrote. "We'll have all this someday and more besides." He told her about the job, his roommate, the farmers from Devon and Cornwall, and the incredible commotion of Covent Garden. It took four pages to tell her these things and a fifth to tell her that in a fortnight, when he had a full weekend off-Tommy only gave one full weekend off a month - he was going to take her to see the shops on Regent and Bond Streets. And this was just the beginning. He was able to put more money aside, just as he'd said.

They would have their shop sooner than they thought, and when they were rich they would have a nice house with a modern bathroom. He closed the letter by saying that he hoped she missed him, for he missed her.

And he did. Terribly. He was lonely for his home and his family, but mainly for her. Every day he was bursting with new things to tell her. So many new people, so many new experiences. He wished he could talk to her at night, share it all with her and see what she made of it. He missed the sound of her voice and her excited eyes. He thought of her every night before he fell asleep, picturing her pretty face, her smile. Most of all, he thought about the way she had looked by the river, under the pilings, when she'd wanted to give herself to him. Part of him knew he'd done the right thing, but another part said he'd been a fool. What lad in his right mind would turn down a beautiful, half-naked girl? One thing was certain: the next time they were alone and she took off her blouse, he wouldn't be handing it back to her. He'd learned one or two things since he'd come to Covent Garden that had nothing to do with produce, thanks to his new roommate.

Joe's thoughts of Fiona were interrupted by a gust of rain against the bathroom window. It was a foul day. He'd planned to go walking with Harry, who was snoozing in front of the stove, but they weren't going anywhere in this. It was a shame. Today-Sunday-was their only day off for the week and it would've been nice to stretch their legs, maybe get a pint. But staying in and reading the paper would be all right, too. After all, they were both exhausted. Peterson was a demanding employer and he worked them hard especially on Sat.u.r.days, when he wanted to clear out leftover stock. Joe's voice was always raw by the end of the day, his body weary and sore. Neither he nor Harry had gotten up until noon; they'd snored through the church bells, the newsboys, and the m.u.f.fin man singing his wares beneath their window.

Joe toweled his face dry. His stomach growled. He wondered if Harry wanted to brave the weather to go after some dinner. He was just about to ask him when he heard a loud banging on the downstairs door. He put on his shirt, hitched up his suspenders, and came out of the bathroom. Harry was sitting in his chair, blinking.

"Who is it?" Joe asked him.

"Haven't a clue," he said, yawning. "Go see, you're closest."

Joe opened the door to the stairway and skipped down the steps.

"Harry! Let me in, I'm half drowned!" a woman shouted. He yanked the door open and found himself face-to-face with a drenched Millie Peterson. "Joe, luv!" she exclaimed, handing him a wicker hamper. "Take this, will you? There's one more. Harris will help you get it." She bustled by him, all smiles, and ran upstairs. Joe and the driver got the second hamper out of the carriage. He thanked the man, then staggered upstairs with both baskets.

"Silly Millie!" he heard Harry shout. "You've come to visit us!" "Indeed, I have. I wanted to surprise you, Harry. I brought a picnic I was hoping we could go to the park, but we'll have to have it indoors."

Joe, panting, closed the door to the landing, put Millie's baskets down. then laughed as Harry swept her up in a big bear hug, lifting her clear off the floor.

"Harry, put me down! You'll crush me!"

Instead, he spun her around until she was screeching and begging him to stop. When he finally did put her down, they both staggered, completely dizzy, then burst into laughter at the sight of each other.