Authors: Jennifer Donnelly
"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
then. 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."
Joe sat forward in his chair. There was an intensity to his voice
now. "No, Fiona," he said, "I'm not sure he would. Your father was a
sharp man. He started organizing the dockers' union in 1888. A dozen
years on he would have seen the futility of strikes. He would have seen
the writing on the wall."
"What do you mean?"
"Strikes are only battles, and this is a war. If things are to change
for the working class, to really change, they have to learn that it's
no use fighting on the factory floor or on the waterfront. They have to
learn to fight where it matters--at Westminster."
"Joe... how did we get from the Morocco Wharf to Westminster?" Fiona asked, puzzled.
"Freddie Lytton came by this morning. Just as the fire brigade put the blaze out."
"Offering his condolences, was he?"
Joe laughed bitterly. "Oh, aye. For all of two seconds. Then he
launched into a campaign speech. Told me for the tenth bloody time that a
general election will be called this autumn, and that if he gets
reelected, his first priority will be a crackdown on crime. Asked me for
my endorsement..." His words trailed off.
"And you said?" Fiona prompted.
Joe didn't answer her. Instead he reached for the locket Fiona was
wearing, opened it, and gazed at the photograph of their daughter
inside. "Look at our Katie," he said. "She's the picture of health. Her
little arms and legs are straight and strong because she eats good food.
She's never known what it's like to cry in her bed at night from
hunger. Or to shiver because she's got no coat."
"Luv, where is all this coming from?" Fiona asked.
"From everywhere. From everything. From watching Alf die. From riding
home this morning and seeing kids with no shoes playing in a dirty
gut-ter and thanking my lucky stars it's not our Katie."
Fiona shook her head. "I don't follow you," she said. "You're all over the
place." She paused, then said, "Joe, luv ...are you dr
unk?"
"A little, maybe. But I swear, I've never been more clear-headed in
me life. Can't you see, Fee? It was the same when we were coming up. And
when our parents were. And their parents, too. It's still going on. It
doesn't change. You've got villains on the streets and villains in the
counting houses and villains in Parliament--and in the last few hours,
after everything that's happened, I can see something I've never seen
before. That I'm as big a vil-lain as any of them. For standing back and
letting it happen and not doing a bloody thing to stop it."
"Joseph Bristow, that is not true!" Fiona said hotly. "We give a great deal of money to East London causes."
"I know we do," he said impatiently. "And it's good, it's something,
but it's not enough. Nowhere near enough. It's too big for us, Fiona. We
could throw every penny we have at it and never change a thing."
Fiona sighed with frustration. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?"
Joe looked at her. He took a deep breath then said, "I want to run, Fee."
"To run? Where?" she asked, completely confused now.
"Not where. For. I want to run for Parliament. For the Tower Hamlets seat."
Fiona blinked at him.
"Against Freddie Lytton."
Her mouth dropped open.
"On the new Labour ticket."
"India! For God's sake stop!" Freddie shouted.
India didn't hear him. She dug her heels into her cantering mount. The
mare, a dappled gray named Long's Lady, broke into a gallop, heading
di-rectly for an impossibly tall hedge that Wish had dared her to jump.
"Indy, I was joking!" Wish yelled. "Don't do it! It's too high!"
"Bloody hell! India!" Freddie bellowed.
His breath caught as Lady's front legs came off the ground. Wish,
Bingham, and Maud gave a collective gasp as the animal sailed over the
hedge and disappeared from sight. A whoop on the other side told them
that both horse and rider had landed well.
"God, but she's brave," Bingham said. "I'd never have dared it."
"She's a damned fool, that's what she is!" Freddie said.
"I say, Lytton, is that your heart showing? Didn't know you had one!"
"Shut up, Wish!"
"Why, old man, how positively touching."
Freddie did not answer. He dug his heels into Boy, his own horse, and cantered toward the stables, fuming.
Wish was right--he did care. Deeply. He cared about the Selwyn Jones
fortune. In his mind's eye he'd just seen Lady's foreleg catch on the
too high hedge. He'd seen India disappear under the animal's flailing
hooves, and with her, all his cherished hopes.
In the stable yard a groom came out to take the reins of Freddie's horse. A second came for India's.
"Freddie? Why didn't you wait for me?" she asked, trotting up behind him.
"That was a stupid stunt," he said angrily, swinging down out of his sad-dle. "Damned stupid." For once his emotion was genuine.
"You're not angry with me, are you?"
"I certainly am!" he snapped. "For God's sake, India, you're a
doctor! You've seen enough broken necks and crushed bodies to know
better."
"I'm sorry I worried you, but I knew Lady could take the hedge."
She was contrite. Good. He would use that. Maybe he could make her
sorry enough to give him a wedding date. He'd been trying for the last
twenty-four hours to get one out of her and had gotten nowhere. She was
still putting him off, just as she'd done at her graduation, just as
she'd done for the past two years.
Freddie threw his crop at the groom and headed into the house. He
strode through the enormous foyer up the main staircase to his bedroom
on the second floor. Still angry, he tossed his jacket onto his desk,
knocking to the floor a few pages of the speech he'd been writing.
They'd all arrived at Longmarsh yesterday afternoon--himself, Wish,
Maud, and India. It was now Saturday evening. Tomorrow they would return
to London. Isabelle would be expecting good news. He'd promised her
he'd have a date.
He grabbed a decanter of gin, poured himself a drink, and banged the
decanter back down. The force jarred an ebony box that was also on the
desk. A few notes of music floated out of it: The "Raindrop Prelude."
Freddie picked the box up. It was inlaid with malachite and silver. His
grand-mother had given it to him before she died. He never went anywhere
without it. Instinctively, his fingers felt for the indentation, nearly
invisible to the eye, that was on the box's underside. He pressed it,
and pressed one of the malachite panels on the back of the box at the
same time. There was a soft click and a drawer slid out. In it was a
woman's hair comb. A Tiffany dragonfly. One of a pair.
As he stared at it, he heard footsteps in the hallway. A knock at his
door. India had followed him--as he'd known she would. He slid the
drawer back into the music box and placed the box on his desk. Then he
downed his drink, fortifying himself for what was to come.
"Freddie? Darling, are you in there?" India opened the door and came
in. "Don't be angry," she said. "Come and walk outside with me. It's
such a beautiful summer evening. And we're having the loveliest time,
all of us."
Freddie put his glass down and looked at her. "You don't care, do you?" he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's perfectly plain, India. You don't care for me."
"Freddie, how can you--"
"You know full well that if anything ever happened to you it would
ab-solutely destroy me, yet you take risks with your life with utter
disregard for my feelings."
India rushed to his side, explaining, trying to make him understand
that her jump was only an impulsive bit of fun, and that far from
disregarding his feelings, she held them in the highest possible esteem.