The Tea Rose Part 21

"Come on, 'urry it up," Sheehan said. "My granny can pick a lock faster." When she heard the door open and the men go inside, she started up the last flight of stairs. If she could get out onto the roof, they could walk across to the neighboring building and hide behind the chimneys until Sheehan left. She reached the landing; it was piled high with rubbish-crates, buckets, burlap bags. A moldy old mattress, full of holes, was propped against the wall. She tried the door; it was locked. "Come on, come on ... " she pleaded, twisting and tugging at the k.n.o.b, but it wouldn't budge. They were trapped. If Sheehan thought to look up here, they were done for.

She rooted in the flour sack for her father's clasp knife and opened it with trembling fingers.

She glanced at her brother, standing by the mattress wide-eyed and frightened. She held her finger to her lips and he did the same back to her, then she leaned over the banister to listen. She heard nothing; they must still be inside the flat. She leaned over farther, straining for some sound, some indication of what they were up to, when she suddenly heard Seamie utter a cry.

Only inches from his leg, a huge brown rat was wriggling out of a hole in the mattress. It sniffed at him and bared its teeth. Fiona ran over and jabbed at the animal with her knife. It snapped at her. She kicked the mattress and it withdrew. She quickly stuffed a rag into the hole, then returned to the railing. They were just coming out of the flat.

"Maybe O'Meara does know more than she put in the note, Bowler, but you'll' ave to work 'im over if you want to find out," she heard one of them say. " 'E's not going to volunteer the information, is 'e?"

"I don't touch coppers," Sheehan replied. "They're like b.l.o.o.d.y bees. Swat at one and the whole d.a.m.n 'ive comes after you."

There was some mumbling-Fiona couldn't make it out- and then she heard Sheehan tell his men to check the roof.

"Oh, G.o.d," she gasped, "oh, no." He'd see them. They had to hide. Quick! But where? There was only the mattress. She lunged across the landing, stuffed her flour sack into the s.p.a.ce behind it, then reached for her brother. "Come on, Seamie," she whispered. But he wouldn't. He stood away from it, shaking his head. She could hear feet coming up the stairs. "It's all right, luv, it's all right ...

the rat's gone. Please, Seamie... Come on!" He turned fearfully toward the sound of the footsteps, then bolted toward her. She pushed him in, then wedged in next to him, her back against the wall, her knees straining into the mattress. She felt for him in the dark. "Sshhh ... " she whispered. The stench of rats was suffocating. There's more than one, she thought, there must be dozens. Just then, the ticking bulged against her leg. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

"You see anyone?" she heard Sheehan shout.

"No!" The man was on the landing now. She heard him try the k.n.o.b.

"Door's locked," he shouted. "There's nothing up 'ere but rubbish."

"Look around, Reg. Make sure."

The man, Reg, was kicking at things and swearing. He was coming closer. Terror bound Fiona's chest tightly; she could barely breathe. Greasy heads of sweat rolled down her skin. She tightened her grip on the knife, desperate to protect Seamie. Please, please, don't come any closer, she begged silently. Go away, just go away ...

Something brushed her foot. She dug her nails into her palm. Then she felt a fat, oily body slither over her ankle and her control broke. She plunged the knife into it. There was a horrible, high-pitched squealing. Again and again she stabbed the rat. Its cries alerted the others. The mattress came alive with warm, squirming bodies.

There was shouting, then stamping. "f.u.c.k! Get off! f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds Jesus!"

"Reg what is it?" There were more feet on the stairs.

"b.l.o.o.d.y rats! A whole f.u.c.king nest of them!"

Fiona heard the others laugh, heard Reg run down the steps. There was the sound of scuffling, then a loud thump, like someone getting knocked against a wall.

"It's not f.u.c.king funny, Stan! One crawled up me trouser leg. Big as a b.l.o.o.d.y cat, it was!"

"Shut up. Both of you. You see any signs of 'er up there?"

"There's n.o.body up there. Go 'ave a gander yourself if you don't believe me."

Bowler let out of a string of curses. "She can't 'ave gone far," he said.

"Reg, you take the Whitechapel Road. Stan, take Commercial Street. I'll take Stepney. We'll meet at the Blind Beggar. The thieving b.i.t.c.h! When I find' er, I'm going to bash' er b.l.o.o.d.y skull in."

Fiona heard them go. She waited until she heard the downstairs door slam, then scrambled out from behind the mattress, stamping her feet. Seamie was teary and trembling. She held him close and told him he was very, very brave.

"Who were they, Fee?" he asked.

"Very bad men."

"Why did they come after us?"

She couldn't tell him the truth. "They wanted to steal our money," she said.

"Can we still go on our train ride?"

"Of course we can. We'll go right now."

"Will they come after us again?"

"No. Never again. I won't let them." She picked up the flour sack, took her brother by the hand, and started down the steps.

THE IDEA THAT William Burton was certifiably insane had crossed Bowler Sheehan's mind before. As the man paced back and forth in his study, crazed by anger, it crossed his mind again.

He'd arrived at Burton's home half an hour ago to tell him that Fiona Finnegan had fled Whitechapel.

He thought Burton would be relieved, but he wasn't. He was furious, enraged beyond reason. He screamed abuse at Sheehan for letting her slip through his fingers, screamed until the veins stood out in his neck and the spit flew from his lips and his icy black eyes blazed.

He was no longer shouting now, but he was still pacing. "She's dangerous," he said. "I can't have this. I've just begun negotiations with Albion Bank to take Burton Tea public. They're leery as it is with all the talk of a dock strike. They're not going to care much for a murder accusation leveled against me, either. She can do me harm, Bowler. She knows what I did to her father."

"It doesn't matter what she knows," Sheehan said, picking his nails with a knife blade. "She can't touch you. Even if she told the police, they'd never believe 'er, she 'as no proof. The last place she'd go right now is to the coppers. She s got a lot more to worry about than you do. She stole a large sum of money and there are witnesses to the fact."

But Burton would have none of it. He kept going on and on about how she was a sneaking, meddling b.i.t.c.h and how this was going to destroy his public offering, and how he needed the money the shares would raise to finance his expansion.

Sheehan closed his knife, thinking how blokes like Burton made the getting of money so f.u.c.king complicated with all their stocks and shares .. It was much easier to just take it. He'd had just about enough for one night. It was late. He needed a good meal and a gla.s.s of whiskey. He did not need to sit here, listening to this barmy c.u.n.t rant.

"What exactly would you like me to do? Knock on every bleeding door in London?"

Burton stopped pacing. He turned his bottomless black eyes on him. And Bowler, a ruthless individual who could kill a man with his bare hands when warranted, was surprised to feel a chill go down his spine.

"What I would like," he said, "is for you to find the girl as quickly as you can and then dispose of her, as I asked you to do earlier."

"I told you. I've tried-"

Burton brought his fist cras.h.i.+ng down on his desk. "Try harder!" Sheehan stood and left.

Outside, he spat disgustedly, then informed Reg and Stan that he would be going to Quinn's alone and they would be spending the night on White Lion Street watching Roddy O'Meara's flat. They started complaining immediately. They wanted a pint ... they were hungry ... they had a couple of girls waiting for them. Bowler told them to shut lip. First he had to listen to Burton, now to these two. If Burton didn't pay so well, he would've cut him loose long ago. The f.u.c.ker was far more trouble than he was worth.

Chapter 21.

The nightmare was always the same. The dark man was gaining on her. He'd chased her into an alley that ended in a brick wall. There was no escape. She threw herself at the wall, tried to scrabble up it. The footsteps grew louder, a hand closed on her shoulder, and- "Half an hour to Southampton, miss."

Fiona jerked awake, wild-eyed. The conductor was shaking her. "Sorry to startle you, but we'll be pulling in shortly."

"Th-thank you," she stammered. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It was always so real, that awful dream, so b.l.o.o.d.y real. She looked over at Seamie. He was sleeping. He'd dozed off just after they'd boarded the train at seven that morning. As soon as the conductor had taken their tickets, she'd fallen asleep, too, worn out from her ordeal. They'd been on the move ever since they'd left Roddy's nearly ten hours ago. Their first stop had been the p.a.w.nbroker's, where she'd found a carpetbag. As she'd pulled a twenty-pound note from her pocket to pay for it, the blue stone Joe had given her had fallen out on the counter. The p.a.w.nbroker had looked it over and asked if it was for sale. Fiona wondered why she was keeping it Joe was gone; why hang on to a painful reminder of him?

"'Ow much?" she said.

"One pound, six s.h.i.+llings."

She was astonished at the amount. She didn't answer, trying to decide whether to part with it.

The p.a.w.nbroker mistook her indecision for unhappiness with the price.

"All right, two pounds, plus the carpetbag thrown in, and that's me final offer."

She blinked at the man. Two whole pounds for a stone, and the bag for free? He must be barmy. She quickly accepted his offer before he could change his mind.

" 'Ave you got any more like this?" he asked, pocketing the stone.

"No, but I 'ave this." She slid Joe's ring off her finger and handed it to him.

"It's not worth much. Give you three s.h.i.+llings for it."

"Done," she said, pleased to be two pounds, three s.h.i.+llings, and a carpetbag richer.

She repacked their belongings and headed to the Commercial Road. She was very jumpy.

Every step of the way she expected to hear Sheehan's voice, to feel a rough hand come down on her shoulder. She'd felt safer when they finally got into a cab. The driver took them to Waterloo Station, where they made their way to the ticket counter. To her dismay, they'd missed the last train by twenty minutes. She purchased two tickets for the morning train, then bought herself and Seamie hot tea and thick bacon sandwiches. They holed up in the ladies' waiting room for the night. Away from the windows. Just in case.

Now, as she stretched in her seat, Fiona tried to antic.i.p.ate what would come next. They had to find their way from the train station to wherever the pa.s.senger s.h.i.+ps docked. A cab would be the best idea. It would cost money, but it would save them from getting lost. Seamie woke up a few minutes outside of Southampton and she had just enough time to get his boots and jacket on him before the train pulled into the station. The second they got off, he had to go to the bathroom.

"You'll 'ave to 'old it for a second," she told him. "I don't know where the loo is."

As they walked down the platform, she saw a billboard for Burton Tea She shuddered. She had no idea how far William Burton's reach extended. The sooner she got herself and Seamie on a boat, the better.

She finally spotted the ladies' room and whisked her brother in. When he finished, she marched him to the sink, where she washed his hands and grubby face. Then she took care of her own needs, took another twenty pounds out of her camisole and put it in her pocket. Back in the station, they followed signs directing them to the cabs. They pa.s.sed the platform and she instinctively cast a glance up it, just to make sure Sheehan wasn't standing at the other end. It was empty except for a man so burdened with baggage that he could barely walk. He was staggering under the weight of his suitcases, and he didn't see the stack of newspapers directly in his path.

"Look out!" Fiona yelled to him.

Too late. He caught his foot and stumbled. He landed with a bang, his cases flying everywhere. She ran to him. "Blimey!" she cried, hooking her hands under his arm and helping him up. "Are you all right? That was some fall."

"I-I think so," he replied, getting to his feet. He inspected himself. "Nothing seems broken.

Useless porters, never around when you want them." He smiled at her, pus.h.i.+ng his hair out of his eyes. "Nicholas Soames," he said, offering her his hand. "Most obliged."

Fiona was about to take it when she noticed it was bleeding. "You're 'urt!" she said.

"Oh, dear. I hate the sight of blood. Especially my own. Makes me feel ... quite ... lightheaded ... ".

"Oh, no! Don't! I won't be able to pick you up if you faint!"

She led him to a bench. He sat down and put his head between his knees.

"Terribly sorry."

"Sshhh. Just sit still till you feel better. I'll see to your bags."

"Too good of you," he mumbled.

Fiona turned back to the platform to survey the damage. A hatbox had rolled away. She sent Seamie after it. One suitcase had landed intact. The other two had sprung open, scattering clothes. A large portfolio lay open, revealing two paintings. They were bright and odd, almost childish. It would take a bit of doing to get everything back in the cases. She sighed impatiently; she didn't want to be fooling with somebody else's belongings. She wanted to be on her way to the boat. But she couldn't just leave the man. He needed help. She started gathering his things.

"Are the paintings all right?" he asked, picking his head up. "They're not damaged, are they?"

"They're fine," she said. "Nothing's damaged as far as I can tell."

"Thank goodness. They're my stock. I'm going to sell them."

"What?" she asked irritably, trying to wrestle all the clobber back into the suitcase.

'I'm going to sell them in New York."

"Oh, aye?" she said, closing the case. She had no clue what Mr. Nicholas Soames was on about. He's babbling, she thought. Must be dizzy. n.o.body could sell those paintings; they looked as if Seamie had made them. As soon as she got the one suitcase closed, she scrambled over to the other and put his clothes neatly back inside of it. Seamie reappeared, dragging the hatbox behind him.

"Thank you, my good man," Nicholas said, making room on the bench for him.

Fiona carried one suitcase over, then the other. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked, anxious to be going.

"Much, thank you. You've been too kind. Don't let me keep you, I'll be fine."

"But 'ow will you carry all these bags?" she asked, concerned.

"Oh, I imagine a porter will be along any minute. They're probably madly busy with people arriving for the New York s.h.i.+p."

"You wouldn't know 'ow to get to the s.h.i.+p, would you?"

"Not exactly, but I'm headed to the docks myself. To the White Star Terminal. Are you?

Would you like to share a cab?"

"Yes," she said eagerly, relieved not to have to find her way alone. "Right, then. Let's go, shall we?" he suggested. Fiona nodded and they set off down the platform together, Nicholas with only three suitcases this time. Fiona carried his portfolio and her carpetbag, and Seamie brought up the rear with a hatbox.

IN THE HACKNEY, Fiona, Nicholas, and Seamie had the chance to make introductions properly, and Fiona was better able to study her strange new companion.

Tall and angular, Nicholas Soames looked very boyish. She guessed he wasn't much older than she was-early twenties at the most. He had straight blond hair, cut long in front, which he was constantly sweeping off his brow. His features were finely sculpted, his nose perfectly straight. He had a handsome smile, but his eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were turquoise-blue and framed by long curling lashes that any woman would've envied, From the way he spoke, and from his elegant clothes and leather suitcases, she guessed he was a gentleman. He told them he was bound for New York and Fiona said she was, too.

"Going first cla.s.s, are you?" he asked. She shook her head no, thinking that Nicholas Soames was very polite. It was painfully obvious that they, with their poor clothes and worn carpetbag, were going steerage.