The Wild Rose (54 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

“Shall we try again, gentlemen?” Joe said, wheeling himself into Sir George Burgess’s office. Sid Malone came in behind him. “Can hostilities cease for the duration of this meeting?”

Sid nodded. Burgess, standing behind his desk, did the same. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to the two chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

Sid pulled one of the chairs out of the way of Joe’s wheelchair, then sat down in the other. Burgess poured tea for both of them from a big silver teapot. He splashed some on Joe’s saucer as he did.

“Forgive me. I usually have a girl to do this—you know her, Joe—Gladys Bigelow—but she hasn’t come to work today. Most unlike her. I hope it’s not the Spanish flu. Just sent my man, Haines, around to her flat to see what’s going on. I hear your sister-in-law’s laid up with it.”

“She is, indeed,” Joe said. “She’s in hospital.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you, Sir George,” Joe said. He paused, then said, “All right, then. Let’s get down to business. We’ve a spymaster, von Brandt, whom, it seems, we can’t touch, and we’ve a courier, Flynn, whom we can catch. We know where to find him, and when. What we don’t have is our inside man. The person inside the Admiralty who’s getting the information to the courier. Are we agreed on that much?”

Both Sid and Burgess said that they were.

“Good,” Joe said, relieved. “That’s a start.”

He had brought Sid to Burgess’s office at the Admiralty two days ago so that Sid could tell Burgess everything he’d told Joe about Max von Brandt and the man called Flynn. Without naming him, Sid had also told Burgess about his friend John, who’d been ferrying Flynn to the North Sea, and who’d saved Sid’s life.

Burgess, alarmed, had wanted to immediately take John in for questioning and to nab Flynn, too. Sid had told him they could not immediately nab Flynn, for he only came to John’s boatyard every fortnight. He’d also informed him that he would not allow John to be taken in or questioned, because to do so might endanger his life. He explained Billy Madden’s role in the proceedings and told Burgess that Madden had threatened John and his family.

Burgess, however, made it clear he didn’t care about Billy Madden or his threats; he wanted John, and he wanted him now. Sid refused to give John up, and the meeting had devolved into a shouting match.

“God only knows how much havoc this network has wreaked, how many deaths it’s caused!” Burgess had yelled, banging his fist on the table. “I must have the name of your contact, Sid. I demand that you give it me.”

“You what?” Sid said, leaning forward in his chair. “You
demand
it?”

“I do indeed.”

Sid laughed. “I’m giving you nothing. No names, dates, or places,” he said.

“I could have you arrested. It’s certainly within my power.”

“Go ahead. I’ll deny everything I’ve told you. You’ll look even more of a git than you already do.”

“Now, see here!”

“No,
you
see here. You’ve no understanding—none at all—for the hardship that drove my friend to do what he’s done,” Sid said. “I’ll not have him sacrificed.”

“What about all the other men who are being sacrificed? Right this very minute. Because of a spy ring that is operating in London. What about them?” Burgess had asked.

Sid, glowering, said, “Well, we’d better sit down and hash out a plan then, hadn’t we?”

And they’d tried, but they’d failed. Neither man would give an inch. Sid would do nothing to endanger John and his family. Burgess would give no guarantees that he would spare them. Sid had finally stormed out, disgusted. He and Joe had left Burgess’s office no closer to capturing von Brandt’s spy than they had been when they walked in.

“We got nothing done, Joe,” Sid had furiously said afterward. “Bloody nothing!”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of politics, old son,” Joe replied.

Now, two days later, they’d decided to meet again in Burgess’s office, to see if they could work together to fashion a plan. Joe knew, as did they all, that they could not afford to leave the premises today without one. Too much was at stake.

“So, chaps,” Burgess began now, “the question remains: How do we take Flynn without implicating Mr. Malone’s friend?”

Sid, apparently, was ready for the question. “We don’t,” he said. “At least not right now.”

Burgess raised an eyebrow.

“Hear me out,” Sid said. “You don’t want Flynn by himself. Flynn’s low-hanging fruit. Take him and you break the pipeline from London to Berlin, sure . . . but for how long? Von Brandt, wherever he is, just puts another courier into play. There are probably a dozen of them in London right now, just waiting for the nod. If you want to stop the flow of secrets to Germany, you have to find out who the inside man is—the man in the Admiralty—and get him at the same time that you get Flynn.”

“Go on,” Burgess said, intrigued.

But before Sid could, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Burgess barked.

A young man hurried into the room and closed the door behind him.

“My assistant, William Haines,” Burgess said. “What is it, Haines?”

“Sir George,” the young man said breathlessly, “there’s been a rather important development in the matter we were discussing earlier, and I—”

“What matter would that be? We discussed several.”

“Well, sir, it’s one of rather sensitive dimensions. . . .” Haines paused, glancing at Joe and Sid.

“Speak freely, old chap,” Burgess said.

“Thank you, sir, I shall. We have just received a communication from Haifa indicating that a person of particular interest—a Mr. Max von Brandt—is thought to have been killed in Damascus. By a person close to Lawrence. A chap by the name of Alden Williams.”

“Well, that’s good news. One less spymaster to worry about, but unfortunately, his protégés are still at large in London. Thank you, Haines,” Burgess said, waving the man away.

“There is one other thing, Sir George . . . ,” Haines said.

“Yes? What is it?”

“The matter of Miss Bigelow’s whereabouts. I’m sorry to tell you that Gladys has been found dead in her home.”

“What?” Burgess said, shocked. “Gladys is
dead
?”

“Yes, sir. We were all rather upset about it, I might add. It was gas inhalation. Given where she works—worked—the police notified us immediately. The press was already sniffing about. At our request, the police have put it about that she accidentally left the gas turned on. She’d just bought a new oven, you see. But they—and we—actually suspect she committed suicide.”

“Good God, man. Why do you think that?” Burgess asked.

“Because sir, all four stove burners were turned on. One doesn’t leave all four on accidentally. And the grill. And the oven. The kitchen window was shut tight, and there was a rug pushed up against the bottom of the door.”

“I see,” Burgess said.

“Miss Bigelow’s mother was with her in the kitchen. She, too, died from gas inhalation. Miss Bigelow left no note, but the two officers who found her also found this in the rubbish bin. They pieced it back together and gave it to us,” Haines said, handing Burgess a glued-together black-and-white photograph.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Thank you, Haines, that will be all for now,” he added, pushing the photograph across the desk to Joe and Sid.

“Somebody was blackmailing her,” Joe said, as Haines closed the door behind him. “She looks drugged in this photograph. Or drunk. Somebody slipped her something, took this picture, then used it to make her do what he wanted—which was to smuggle secrets out of your office. Bet you a hundred quid it’s von Brandt. Or rather, it
was
von Brandt.”

“Looks like we’ve got our inside man,” Sid said. “Sooner than we thought we would. Only she’s a woman. And she’s dead.”

Burgess was silent for a bit, then he shook his head and said, “No, it’s not possible. There is simply no way that Gladys Bigelow took those documents to Flynn.”

“How can you be sure?” Joe asked.

“Because we had her watched and followed. On numerous occasions.”

“You suspected her?” Sid asked.

“Not at all. In fact, if there was one person I trusted above all, it was Gladys,” Burgess said sadly, “but when war was declared, we watched everyone. As a matter of course. To be absolutely certain of them. I am quite sure that I myself am regularly followed. At least I hope I am.”

Burgess paused to pour more tea, then continued. “I read the surveillance reports on Gladys myself. Her movements were as regular as the rain. She had her knitting club and her suffrage meetings. She did her marketing at Hansen’s. Bought her clothes at Guilford’s. On Sundays she took her mother to the park. There were no men in her life, not one. I can tell you with utmost confidence that Gladys Bigelow was not meeting German spies in smoky pubs or on the riverfront in the dead of night or anywhere else. So how the devil did the documents get from her hands to Flynn’s?”

“You think there was yet another person involved?” Sid asked. “Someone who took the documents from Gladys and got them to Flynn?”

“There had to be,” Burgess said.

“So we’re only slightly better off than we were ten minutes ago. We’ve got the inside man accounted for, but now there’s another courier to find. And we’ve no idea who he is,” Joe said.

“I’m afraid so,” Burgess said. “I’m also afraid that we cannot wait to find out who he is. When we first spoke, Sid, you told me your friend is scheduled to depart on his North Sea run on Friday—tomorrow. Flynn undoubtedly reads the papers, just like the rest of us. He’ll find out that Gladys Bigelow is dead. Without her, he can’t get his information and has no reason to stay in London. He’ll go underground or leave England altogether. We’ll lose him, and more importantly, we’ll lose any information we could’ve squeezed out of him.” Burgess looked at Sid. “We have to make a move. There is simply no other choice. I am asking for your help. Not demanding, asking.”

Sid nodded. “Give me a few hours. I’ll come up with something,” he said. “Give me until tomorrow morning.”

Burgess nodded. “Until tomorrow morning,” he said.

There was another knock on the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt again, Sir George,” Haines said, “but we’ve just had an urgent message for Mr. Bristow, from his wife.”

“What is it?” Joe asked, alarmed.

Haines read from the piece of paper in his hand. “Mrs. Bristow asks that you meet her at the Whitechapel Hospital immediately. She says that your sister-in-law is in a very critical state and not expected to live much longer.” Haines looked up at Joe. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir,” he said.

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

“How is she?” Joe asked Fiona, as Sid wheeled him into the lobby of the Whitechapel Hospital.

Fiona, her eyes red with tears, shook her head.

“It won’t be much longer,” India said. She’d also been crying. She’d loosened the mask she’d been wearing on the quarantine ward; it was hanging around her neck. “She’s been in and out of consciousness for the last few hours. She’s been asking for you, Joe.”

“Me?” Joe said, puzzled. “Why?”

India took a deep breath, then said, “She says she needs to tell you something—something that concerns Max von Brandt . . . and the Admiralty.”

“
What?
” Joe said, stunned. “What does Jennie know about von Brandt and the Admiralty?”

“We’re not sure. At first the nurses and the ward doctor—Dr. Howell—thought she was delirious,” India said. “But she’s persisted in her claims, and earlier this afternoon, when I came to visit her, she made me fetch her carpetbag from home. She wouldn’t settle until I’d done it. There was an envelope in there. It contains carbons. She says they’re from letters sent by Sir George Burgess at the Admiralty.”

“My God. How did Jennie get those?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. The whole thing sounds mad, but after the other night—after all the things that Sid told us about Max von Brandt—I couldn’t dismiss it. I had to bring you here.”

“I’m glad you did, India. Can I go in to her?”

“Normally the hospital won’t allow anyone but medical staff in a quarantine ward, but I’ve explained to Dr. Howell that Jennie has critical information that needs to be shared with a member of government and he’s agreed to let you on the ward for ten minutes. The Reverend Wilcott’s with her, too. He’s her minister as well as her father, and clergymen have special privileges. You’ll have to wear this,” she said, handing a mask to Joe. “And I must tell you that you are taking a great risk. The Spanish flu, if contracted by an adult, is often fatal.”

“Let’s go,” Joe said, without hesitating.

“Sid, Fiona . . . we’ll be back shortly,” India said.

“Please give her our love. Tell her James is fine. That his cousins are taking good care of him . . . ,” Fiona said, her voice breaking with grief.

Sid went to her and put his arm around her. “Go,” he said quietly to India and Joe. “Hurry.”

After a brief elevator ride, India and Joe were at the doors to the quarantine ward, on the hospital’s second floor. India tied Joe’s mask around his nose and mouth, and then he followed her through the ward’s large double-door entry.

He stopped short a few feet into the ward, momentarily stunned by the sheer number of people there, and by their suffering. He saw one woman coughing up blood, another struggling grievously for air. A man, skeletally thin, was moaning deliriously.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She’s down this way,” India said. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” he said.

He and India continued down the walkway. “Dad?” he heard a small, weak voice say, as they neared a bed in the center of the ward. “Dad, is that Joe? I thought I heard him. Will you get him for me?”

India stopped. Joe did, too. He looked at Jennie, but barely recognized her. She was horribly thin and her skin had a frightening blue tinge. Her breathing was labored. Her eyes were open. They were wild and glassy. He looked at the Reverend Wilcott, and the grief he saw in the older man’s eyes was devastating.

“Dad!” she said again, louder this time.

“I’m right here, Jennie,” the Reverend Wilcott said, rushing to take her hand.

“I need my bag,” she said. Her voice was thin and agitated.

“It’s right here, Jennie. Please calm down. You mustn’t worry yourself over—”

“Please, Dad!”

“All right . . . yes, yes . . . it’s here, right here,” the Reverend Wilcott said, pulling a carpetbag out from under the bed. “What do you need from it?” he asked.

“There’s an envelope inside it,” she said. “Get Joe, Dad. Promise me you will. Get him and give him the envelope and tell him to read what’s inside of it. Tell him—”

“Jennie, darling, Joe’s here. He came. He’s right here,” the reverend said.

Jennie tried to sit up, but could not. Her father caught her in his arms and helped her.

“Jennie, what is it?” Joe said gently, wheeling himself over to her and taking her hand.

Jennie coughed hard; blood dripped from her nose. As her father wiped it away, Joe could see the effort it cost her to talk, to merely breathe, and he knew that she was fighting—not for her life, which was lost, but for a few extra minutes.

“I have to . . . I have to tell you something. In 1914, Max von Brandt came to me. . . .”

So it’s true, Joe thought. No. God, no. Not you, Jennie.

“. . . He told me he was a double agent and that he needed help smuggling forged papers to Germany, in order to get German dissidents out of the country. He told me I would receive an envelope—”

“From Gladys Bigelow,” Joe said.

Jennie nodded. “How do you know?” she asked him.

“Gladys killed herself. We think she was being blackmailed,” Joe said. “Jennie, we think Max is dead, too,” he added, hoping it would give her some comfort.

Jennie closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks. A few seconds passed before she could continue. When she started speaking again, she sounded even weaker.

“He told me to put the envelope in the basement of the church, inside the statue of St. Nicholas, and that a man would come for it. He told me I’d be helping him save innocent people. And so I did it. But he lied. I opened the envelope last week. I should have done it years ago.” She pushed her bag toward Joe. “It’s in there. Take it. He’s a spy and I’ve been helping him. All these years. They know, Joe. About Seamie. About all the ships. The Germans know. Please help him . . . help Seamie. . . .” She stopped talking, closed her eyes, and collapsed back against her father.

Joe opened the envelope. His blood froze in his veins as he saw the carbons from Burgess’s office. He held one after another up to the light and read information on ships—their names, captains’ names, the size of their crews, their whereabouts.

“Jennie . . . ,” he started to say.

“Don’t,” the Reverend Wilcott said, crying. “She hasn’t the strength. Can’t you see that?”

But Jennie opened her eyes again. She looked at Joe.

“When were you supposed to put the envelope in the basement? What day exactly?”

“Wednesdays,” Jennie said. “The day I always clean the sacristy.”

“Does the courier—Max’s man—pick them up on Wednesdays?”

“I don’t know. I never checked. Every time I went down with a new one, the old one was gone,” Jennie said.

“Thank you, love,” Joe said. He squeezed her hand tightly. “We’ll fix it, Jennie. I promise you. We’ll set it to rights.”

Jennie gave Joe a tearful smile. “Take care of James,” she said. “Promise me you will. Tell him that I loved him . . . that he was always my beautiful boy, no matter what happens. Will you tell him that? Will you?” she said, suddenly agitated again. “Please tell him that. . . .”

“Shh, Jennie. Of course I will. James is fine. He’s with his cousins and they’re taking good care of him. He sends his love to you. Fiona and Sid, too.”

Jennie closed her eyes. “Tell Seamie I love him, too . . . and tell him I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Oh, my darling girl, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Do you hear me, Jennie? Do you?” the Reverend Wilcott said.

But it was too late. Jennie was gone. The reverend leaned his head against hers and wept. India went to him. She put a soft hand on his back. Joe, still holding the envelope, quietly left them. A nurse stopped him outside the ward, took his mask off, and had him wash his hands. Then he went to find Fiona and Sid again.

“She’s gone,” Joe said, when he saw them.

Fiona shook her head. “James is home with Mr. Foster and the children. How will I tell him his mother is gone? How will I tell Seamie?” she asked. She wiped her eyes.

“Fiona, love,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I’ll be back and I’ll do my grieving later, but if I don’t get to Sir George right away, we might all be grieving another family member soon—Seamie.”

“What Jennie told you . . . the things you asked her . . . they all have to do with what Sid told us the other night, don’t they? With John Harris and Madden and Max von Brandt?”

“Yes, they do,” Joe said. “Seamie’s in great danger. Many men are.”

“Go,” Fiona said tearfully. “And for God’s sake, stop that man Flynn.”

Fiona went to wait for India, and Joe took Sid aside. He quickly explained to him exactly what he’d learned from Jennie.

“I’m going to the Admiralty,” he told him. “I’ve got to tell Burgess what I just found out. Are you coming?”

“You go,” Sid said. “Tell Burgess what you know, but give me the envelope.”

“Why?”

“It’s our only chance of catching Flynn. You said Jennie doesn’t know what day he picks up the envelope. Maybe it’s Wednesday. But maybe we’ll catch a bit of luck and it’s today—Thursday. If it is, we’ve got to make sure it’s there—just like it always is—or he’ll spook. If we’re really lucky, he hasn’t read about Gladys. And he can’t know about Jennie—why would he? Hopefully, he’ll come today, take the envelope, go on his merry way, and show up at the boatyard tomorrow night, right on time. Only difference is, I’ll be there waiting for him. And you’ll be waiting for me. Upriver. With a carriage.”

Joe smiled.

“I’ll meet you at your house,” Sid said. “Tomorrow night. At five o’clock. Tell Burgess he’s to be there, too. Waiting upriver with you.”

“I’ll have the carriage ready. Anything else I can do?” Joe asked, handing Sid the envelope.

“Yes, one other thing,” Sid said.

“What?”

“Hope like hell we’re not too late.”