The Wild Rose (27 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Max von Brandt loved churches.

Churches were quiet and peaceful. Sometimes they had magnificent works of art to look at or wonderful choirs to listen to. But what he loved best about churches was that they were full of good people and good people were so easily used.

He opened the door of St. Nicholas’s, in Wapping, removed his hat, and went inside. He moved quietly through the foyer into the nave. The church was empty, except for one person—a young blond woman. Gladys Bigelow had told him the woman would be here, that she cleaned the altar and brought fresh flowers for it every Wednesday.

She wasn’t cleaning now, though. She was kneeling in a church pew near a statue of the Virgin Mary, her blond head bent, praying. He could see her belly, looking rounder. How interesting. It had not looked that way last week, when he’d seen her hanging out the washing at the back of her cottage at Binsey.

Max had decided to take a look around the village after learning from notes Harriet had written in her file that Jennie was staying there. He’d had to stay out of sight for most of the time he was there—skulking in the woods behind the cottage during the day, listening at the window at night, cooling his heels in his room at the pub—but even so, it had been such a productive trip. He’d discovered so much.

As he stood patiently now, waiting for Jennie to finish her prayers, he heard a sob escape her. And then another. She was weeping. Max was certain he knew why. He was certain, too, that her tears—and the reason behind them—would make his present task easier.

My God, he thought watching her, what havoc love wreaks. What damage it does. And had done. To Gladys Bigelow. Maud. Jennie. To Seamie. And Willa. And to him.

Even he had not escaped love’s destruction, try as he might. He’d had his dinner with Willa. She had been friendly and lovely, but that was all, for she was in love with another man. And he? He had sat next to her for two hours, tortured the whole time by his feelings for her—feelings he knew she did not return. Afterward, he had made a vow, again, never to be so dangerously moved by his emotions.

He walked up the aisle to where Jennie was seated. “Mrs. Finnegan?” he said, gently touching her arm.

Jennie quickly sat up and wiped her eyes. “Mr. von Brandt . . . this . . . this is very unexpected,” she stammered.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Finnegan, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I tried the rectory first, but no one was there,” Max said. He paused, then hesitatingly continued, “It grieves me to see you so upset. If I may be so bold . . . what is troubling you? Tell me. Perhaps I can be of help.”

“Nothing. Nothing at all, really,” Jennie said, trying hard to smile. “It’s my condition, I’m afraid. It makes me rather prone to moods and tears.”

Max looked down at his hat. He fingered its brim, then said, “I don’t believe you, Mrs. Finnegan.” He looked up again and said, “Is it Willa Alden?”

Jennie paled. She looked as if she wanted to be sick. “Willa?” she said, working to keep her voice even. “No. Of course not. Why do you ask?”

Max affected a flustered look. “No reason,” he said. “I misspoke. Please forgive me.”

But Jennie pressed him, as he’d known she would, until finally, with feigned reluctance, he said, “I thought you knew. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that I was so certain that’s why you were crying.”

“Mr. von Brandt . . . please,” Jennie said, her voice strained. She made room for him in the pew, and he sat down next to her. “What do you know about Willa Alden?”

“I know that Willa and your husband are having an affair,” Max said. Jennie said nothing. It was very quiet inside the church. Max could hear horses clopping past the open window, hear their traces jingling and their driver shouting at someone to get out of his way. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Jennie nodded. She sat back in the pew. Then she put her head in her hands and wept again. Max patted her hand. He waited until she composed herself, then he said, “I’m sure that I can help you.”

“How?” Jennie asked miserably.

“I’m acquainted with Miss Alden. I may be able to prevail upon her to stop seeing your husband.”

Jennie laughed unhappily. “But will my husband stop seeing her?” she said.

“I will convince her to leave London.”

“She might not wish to.”

“I think she will.”

He knew she would. He’d met Willa’s brother at Jennie and Seamie’s wedding. Albie was still in London. Max would contrive to meet him, seemingly by chance, and make sure to mention that he’d bumped into both his sister and his good friend Seamus at the Coburg recently.

Jennie looked at Max with anguished eyes now. “If you could do that, Mr. von Brandt, if you could get Willa to leave London, I would be forever in your debt.” She wiped her eyes again, and then, as if remembering herself, she said, “I’m certain you did not come here today with the intention of discussing my marital problems.”

Max smiled. “No, I didn’t actually. I came here to ask for your help.”

Jennie looked surprised. “I cannot imagine how I could be of help to you, Mr. von Brandt.”

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I need you to help me pass along some information. Some rather crucial information. If you decide to help me, every fortnight Gladys Bigelow will give you an envelope containing documents. She will do this at your women’s suffrage meetings. You would bring them here to the church during your Wednesday visits. You would go into the church, just as you always do, then go down to the basement. There’s a statue of St. Nicholas down there. It’s broken. All you would have to do is put the envelope inside the statue’s head.”

Jennie’s expression changed from one of surprise to one of anger. “Do you take me for a fool, Mr. von Brandt?” she said.

“I do not,” Max said.

“I know where Gladys works,” Jennie said. “And for whom she works. What will be in those envelopes? Secrets? Information for your government?”

Max had anticipated this question and was prepared for it.

“Forgeries will be in those envelopes, Mrs. Finnegan,” he said earnestly. “Fake travel papers, fake histories. Fake work contracts. Fake lives. They are to be delivered to dissidents in Germany—high-ranking professors, scientists, and ministers—pacifists all. Men who have been vocal critics of Germany’s militarization. We are trying to help them and their families get out. Now. Before it’s too late. We’ve already lost some. A physicist, a professor at one of our universities, tried to leave the country two days ago. His papers were confiscated. No one has heard from him or seen him since. Two ministers were jailed last week for speaking out against war. We are doing our best to get to them quickly, but sometimes we are not quick enough.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Britain’s Secret Service. I am a spy, Mrs. Finnegan. A double agent. The kaiser thinks I am working for Germany. I am not. I am working against her. Germany is trying to start a war. An unjust war. I am doing all I can to stop it.”

Jennie looked as if she was wavering, just a little. “And Gladys . . . is she a willing participant in this?” she asked.

“She is,” Max replied. “But you must never discuss it with her. You must simply accept the envelope she gives you, put it in your own bag, and then bring it to St. Nicholas’s basement. Everyone is watched. Gladys, too.”

“But why me?” Jennie asks. “Why couldn’t you get someone else?”

“Because you had the misfortune to be perfectly placed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We needed a friend of Gladys Bigelow’s, someone whom Gladys sees regularly and has for years. If Gladys suddenly changed her daily patterns—if she suddenly started meeting a new person and traveling to a new place to do so—it would raise suspicions.”

“Whose suspicions?”

“My fellow spies. Both British and German. There are double-agents everywhere. There are British agents who are feeding secrets to Germany as we speak. For money. If they figure out what Gladys is doing, the people we’re trying to help are lost.”

“Surely Gladys has other friends besides me,” Jennie says.

“Yes, of course, but none with ties to this church. There is a network of tunnels under Wapping, Mrs. Finnegan. And under St. Nicholas’s. Our man will be using them to move the documents. So you see, you are the critical link. Of course you must say nothing of this to anyone. Not your husband. Your father. No one. The more people who know about this, the more dangerous it becomes for all involved.”

“I cannot do it, Mr. von Brandt. I cannot keep secrets from my husband,” Jennie said resolutely, shaking her head.

Max had thought that perhaps he had her, but no, he’d lost her. No matter, he would get her back. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it had.

“I understand your reservations, Mrs. Finnegan,” he said. He was no longer feigning earnestness, concern, or anything else. His voice was quiet now and deadly serious. “Let us discuss it with your husband, then. Perhaps he would like to join us—all of us—you, myself, and Miss Meadows, in that lovely cottage of yours in Binsey. I took the train there last week. What a beautiful little village. I stayed at the King’s Head.”

Jennie’s eyes widened. Her hand came up to her mouth. “No,” she said. “Stop. Please, stop.”

But Max didn’t stop. “Of course, if we were to do that,” he said, “we might have to explain more than my request, mightn’t we? We might have to explain Miss Meadows’s presence at your cottage. We might also have to explain the contents of your file—the one I read a few weeks ago in Harriet Hatcher’s office while Harriet was in the loo. And we might have to explain what, exactly, you have up under your skirts. I don’t think it’s a baby, is it, Mrs. Finnegan? Not anymore. At least, that’s what Mrs. Cobb, Dr. Cobb’s wife, said to Mrs. Kerrigan, the publican’s wife, as Mrs. Kerrigan was doing her washing last week. I’m sure they thought no one could hear them, but my window faced the yard. Of course, Mrs. Cobb thinks it was Josie Meadows who lost her baby. Which, I must say, was an exceedingly clever idea. Tell me, was it yours? Or Josie’s?”

“My God,” Jennie said, a look of horror on her face. “You are a monster. A
monster
.”

“Your husband will be leaving the RGS in about a half hour’s time, I believe. I shall ask you one more time, Mrs. Finnegan . . . will you help me? Or do I tell him what’s been going on at Binsey?”

Jennie looked at the altar, at the statue of Christ on the crucifix. Then she looked at her hand, the one with her wedding ring on it.

“I will help you,” she said. “And God help me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Finnegan. Regarding the other matter we discussed, I shall do all that I can. Immediately. Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. von Brandt,” Jennie said woodenly.

Max moved quickly once he was outside of the church. He headed west, toward the Katharine Docks, where he hoped to hire a hackney cab. He did not want to be seen and recognized in Wapping.

He thought of Sarajevo as he walked. Of the kaiser’s determination to go to war. Of the armaments on both sides. War was coming, of this he was certain. He had seen war, and what it did, and he wanted a quick and decisive battle, with as few lives lost as possible.

He thought of all the young German men ready and willing to fight, and of all the young men in England and France and Russia and Austria ready to do the same. They had no idea what they were in for. Young men never did. They thought it was all a great adventure. Which made it that much easier for old men to send them to the slaughter.

By the time Max found a cab, he felt good—better than he’d felt in many weeks. He’d finally been able to reestablish the chain of communication to Berlin, and not before time. Berlin was getting restive. They were doubting him, and that was not good.

Thank God for good people, Max thought again, as he climbed into the cab and shut the door behind him. Good people were loving and kind and charitable. They had the best intentions. Like Jennie Finnegan. She only wanted to save her marriage, to give her husband a child so that he might love her. Max closed his eyes. He leaned back in his seat and sighed. How very odd, he thought, that it’s always people’s best intentions, not their worst, that bury them.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“Madam, I believe—”

Mr. Foster didn’t get to finish his sentence. Fiona was already out of her chair, out of the drawing room, and racing down the hallway to the foyer of her home.

The front door was open. The driver and the under-butler were carrying bags. Miss Simon, the governess, was corralling the excited children. In the midst of it all stood a weary-looking blond woman holding a small boy by the hand and a baby in her arms. A willowy, beautiful girl, blond with huge gray eyes, stood next to her.

Wordlessly, Fiona ran to them. She threw one arm around the woman’s neck, enfolding her and the baby. With her other arm, she gathered the girl and the little boy into her embrace. The blond woman hugged her back. Fiona could feel her tense, hitching breaths, and knew that she was trying hard not to cry. Tears ran down Fiona’s own cheeks.

“Oh, India,” she said, releasing her. “I’m so happy to see you. Thank God you and the children made it here safely.”

India Baxter nodded. She tried to speak, but burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry about Maud anymore. Not in front of the children,” she said.

India’s small son looked at his mother, saw that she was crying, and promptly burst into tears, too. The baby, tired and flushed, followed suit.

“I’m sure he’s wet,” India said tiredly. “And hungry. I’ll just go change him and then—”

“No, India, you must sit down. Miss Simon, where’s Pillowy?” Fiona asked.

“Right here, ma’am!” a large voice boomed.

It was the children’s nurse. Her real name was Mrs. Pillower, but when Katie was tiny, she had christened her Pillowy because she was large, soft, and comforting.

“I’ve just drawn baths—one for Miss Charlotte and another for Mrs. Baxter’s wee ones,” she said. “I’ll get them washed and dressed in fresh clothes, and then we’ll pop down to the kitchen for a nice meal.”

“Come on, Charlotte,” Katie said, taking her cousin’s hand. The two girls were almost the same age. “You’re sleeping in my room. I’ll show you where it is, and then you can have your bath.”

Charlotte followed her cousin, and Mrs. Pillower offered her hand to six-year-old Wish, but he shook his head.

“I don’t want a bath and I’m not hungry,” he said, hiding behind his mother’s skirts.

Mrs. Pillower put her hands on her large hips and shook her head sadly. “You aren’t? What a pity! Cook’s just made the loveliest berry pudding and a big dish of whipped cream to go with it. I suppose I shall have to eat it all myself now.”

“No, Pillowy! Don’t!” Patrick, one of Fiona’s twin boys, said. “We want some!”

“And I would love to let you have some, my ducks, but I can’t, you see. I’ve got to get Master Aloysius here bathed, and I can’t very well let you two loose in the kitchen on your own. Cook will have my head.”

“Oh, come on, Wish!” Patrick said. “Just get your bath, will you? It’ll only take a minute and then we can all have pudding!”

“Pudding! Pudding! We want pudding!” Michael, the other twin, started chanting.

“Pudding,” Wish said solemnly, taking a tentative step out from behind his mother. “Pudding!” he said again, with more conviction.

“That’s the spirit, old son,” Mrs. Pillower said. “Now, tell me, do you like a little demerara sugar sprinkled on top of your cream? I do. Gives it a bit of crunch. Sometimes I like to put a few fresh raspberries on top, too.”

“I like raspberries,” Wish said shyly.

“Course you do! Who doesn’t? Nutters, that’s who.” Mrs. Pillower paused and affected a worried look, as if she’d just thought of something disturbing. “You’re not a nutter, are you?” she asked Wish.

The little boy giggled. He quickly shook his head no.

“Didn’t think so,” Mrs. Pillower said. “But it pays to ask. You can’t be too careful these days.” She gently took Elizabeth from India’s arms, and when she started to fuss, Mrs. Pillower produced a rattle from her pocket, which made the baby smile again. “Oh, you’re damp as a mop, you,” Mrs. Pillower said. Then she turned to India and added, “I’ll have them back in an hour, washed, fed, and good as new.”

India smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Pillower,” she said. “I’m very grateful to you.”

As Mrs. Pillower disappeared upstairs with Wish and Elizabeth, the twins and Charlotte following her, Fiona led India into the drawing room, where a pot of tea and a tray of scones, cakes, and biscuits had been thoughtfully set out.

“Mr. Foster, no doubt,” India said when she saw it. “How is he?”

“Well,” Fiona said. “Getting on a bit, as we all are. The under butler’s doing more of the heavy work, but Mr. Foster is still captain of the ship. Thank God. It would be utter chaos without him.”

The two women sat down on a settee. India rested her head against the back of it as Fiona poured the tea. She handed India a cup. “This will knit body and soul back together,” she said. “Sarah, the maid, is unpacking your things. After you’ve rested a bit, I’ll have her draw you a bath.”

“Thank you,” India said. “It’s so good to finally be here, Fiona. There were days when I thought we’d never make it. Two weeks to get from California to New York,” she said. “And then three more on the ship from New York to Southampton. I don’t ever want to see a train, a boat, or a hackney cab again. At least not until the children are grown. I had no idea Wish would be seasick. Charlotte isn’t. I think it’s because she’s constantly out with Sid on his boat.”

“How is my brother?” Fiona asked.

India smiled. “Happy and well. Delivering a calf one minute, off to meet the fishing boats to collect our supper the next. I’ve never seen anyone take to a new life so quickly. It’s as if he’d been born at Point Reyes. We all miss him, of course. It’s been weeks and weeks since we’ve seen him, and it’ll be months before we return home.”

“I wish he could have come,” Fiona said.

“He wishes it, too. We all do,” India said. “But it’s not safe for him in London, given his past.”

Fiona nodded. Her brother had spent many years in London’s underworld, as one of the East End’s leading crime bosses. Many of the people he’d known were dead, but many were still alive—and possessed of long memories.

She looked at India, who was too thin and too pale, and had dark smudges under her eyes, and said, “And how are you?”

India shook her head. “I don’t know, Fiona. I’m heartbroken, of course. But I think I’m mostly still in shock, really. Maud died nearly six weeks ago now, and yet I still cannot get her death through my head. It makes no sense to me. Suicide, of all things. That’s something I’d never thought she’d do in a million years. Not Maud.”

“But if she was addicted to morphine, perhaps she was not in her right mind,” Fiona said.

“That makes no sense, either,” India said. “She used to smoke opium, quite frequently, but she’d stopped. For the most part. I think she still indulged in the odd doctored-up cigarette, but that was all.”

“Perhaps she’d started again,” Fiona said gently. “Max von Brandt—the man she was seeing at the time of her death—seemed to think that she had.”

“That must be it, then,” India said. “She must’ve started taking drugs, and more heavily than she ever had before. There’s no other way her death can be explained. I can’t imagine Maud killing herself over anything, least of all a man, if she was in her right mind.”

India drained her teacup. Fiona poured her more.

“She left everything to me,” India said. “The London flat, the Oxford estate. I’ll have to sell them both, and most of her things. And I can’t bear to even think about it. The thought of going into her house, and her not being there, is too painful.”

“No, don’t think about it right now,” Fiona said. “I’ve already engaged an estate lawyer to help you. You can meet him in a few days, after you’ve rested and recovered from your journey. I’ll help you with Maud’s belongings, too. I’ll go with you, if you like, to sort through them.”

“Would you?” India said. “I feel like it’s too much to ask of you. I’ve already descended upon you with the children, when I should probably just have gone to Maud’s house. You have enough on your plate without us moving in.”

“Don’t be silly, and don’t you dare say another word about going to Maud’s house. Joe and I want you here, and so do the children. They were wild with excitement when they heard you were coming.”

India looked down at her teacup. “I think I’ll go to her grave site first, before anything else,” she said.

“I’ll go with you. We’ll take the train,” Fiona said. Maud had been buried in Oxford. In a small churchyard on her estate.

India looked at her, her eyes suddenly fierce and full of tears. “And I’m going to the police, too,” she said. “I’m going to look at the coroner’s pictures. I want to see her for myself. See the needle marks on her arms. See the bruises. Maybe that will make it real for me. Maybe that will help me make some sense of it.”

Fiona shuddered at the idea of India doing any such thing. How could cold, black-and-white photographs of Maud’s lifeless body offer her any comfort? It was her grief speaking—mad and wild and searching for answers.

Fiona put an arm around her. “I know you are very upset, India, but are you certain you want to do that?” she asked her. “Wouldn’t it be better to remember Maud the way she was—beautiful and funny and full of life?”

India leaned her head against Fiona and gave vent to her grief. “Full of life,” she sobbed. “That was my sister. My God, Fiona, what went wrong?”