The Wild Rose (63 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

Billy Madden picked up his glass of whiskey—his fifth in the last hour—and downed it. On the table in front of him—next to the bottle—was a photograph of his three sons. It had been taken right before they’d shipped off to France. All three were in uniform.

“I still can’t believe it, Bennie,” he said. “William and Tommy dead. And Peter in hospital and a right fucking mess. He can’t talk. He can barely walk. All he can do is shake—so fucking hard that he can’t hold a spoon, or a pen, or his own fucking cock. The nurses have to do everything for him.”

Bennie Deen, one of Billy’s heavies, was sitting across from him at a table in the Bark. He was reading a newspaper. It was four o’clock. The pub was quiet. Only a few other men were in it. Bennie lowered his paper now and said, “You’ve got him in a good place, guv. The best place. He’ll get better there. Didn’t that doctor—Barnes, was it?—say that they’re making strides with some of the worst of the lot?”

“Better? What’s better? Maybe one day he’ll be able to walk by himself. Or eat by himself. But he’s never getting out of there. He’ll die in that place. He’ll never have a life, a woman, kids, nothing. He might as well be dead, too.”

Billy poured himself another whiskey. “It’s hardest on me wife,” he said. “She don’t do nothing anymore. She won’t talk. Won’t eat. She just sits in the kitchen, looking out the window. Like she was waiting for them all to come home.”

“Can’t she have no more?”

“No more what?”

“Kids.”

“No, you stupid git, she can’t. She’s old. Forty, forty-one . . . I don’t know. And even if she could, kids aren’t hats, you know. You lose one, you can’t just fucking replace him. For Christ’s sake, go back to reading the funny pages, will you?”

At that moment, the door to the Barkentine opened and a young, well-dressed woman came inside. She was carrying a stack of newspapers.

“Is Mr. Madden about?” she asked the bartender. The man was just saying no, when she spotted Billy seated in his usual spot by the windows. “Ah! There he is. Thank you so much!” she said to the barman.

“Mr. Madden, might I join you for a moment?” she asked, as she approached his table. “My name is Katie Bristow. I’m the editor and publisher of the
Battle Cry,
and I work for Sam Wilson, your local member of Parliament.”

“I don’t care who you are, lass, you’re not welcome here,” Billy said. “This ain’t a pub for ladies.”

“Mr. Madden, Sam Wilson has a matter of great importance that he wishes to discuss with you,” Katie said.

“Then why doesn’t he come here himself?” Madden growled.

Katie frowned. She looked down at the floor, then back up at Billy. “Just between us, Mr. Madden . . . I think he’s afraid,” she said. “It’s not everyone who’ll come down to this part of Limehouse.”

“Oh, aye? And why aren’t you afraid, you cheeky little snip?”

“Because I’ve seen you with your son Peter. At Wickersham Hall. At Christmastime. You ate mince pies and didn’t seem terribly fearsome.”

Billy sat back in his chair, dumbfounded that this girl knew about Peter and, moreover, that she had the stones to talk to him so plainly.

“My brother Charlie is a resident of Wickersham Hall, you see,” Katie explained. “He came back from France with severe shell shock. Members of my family founded the hospital. My parents contribute to its upkeep. I go there as much as I can. It’s difficult though, what with my classes, and the paper, and my work for Mr. Wilson. I was there in December, though, and I saw you both—you and Peter.”

“What do want?” Madden said gruffly. He didn’t like talking about his son with strangers.

“The government is in talks with the Germans about siting two motorcycle factories in London. One possible site is in Limehouse, but there is competition. Other MPs are against us. They want the factories situated in their own constituencies. Sam Wilson is going to hold a rally next Saturday in support of the factory. He wants you to come.”

Bennie burst into laughter. “Maybe you can carry the banner, Boss. Hand out badges.”

Madden laughed, too. “You must be joking. You want
me
to come to a rally . . . for the Gerries? The same people who started the war that killed two of my sons and damaged the third one?”

“It is not a rally for the Gerries,” Katie said. “It is a rally calling on government to site a German factory here in Limehouse instead of somewhere else. Because the people of Limehouse desperately need work, Mr. Madden. It is one of the poorest areas of London, of the entire United Kingdom. Life expectancy rates here are among the lowest in the country, and everything else—infant mortality, unemployment, crime, malnutrition—are extremely high. You are a powerful figure in Limehouse, Mr. Madden . . .”

“Too right!” Bennie chimed in.

“. . . and if people see you come out for it, they will come out for it, and we need numbers if we are to convince government to put the factory here.”

Madden was getting tired of this girl and her tedious speeches. “You’ve got the wrong man,” he said. “Rallies ain’t in my line of work.”

But Katie was not to be deterred. “I know what your line of work is. Must it always be? I saw you with your son, Mr. Madden,” she said quietly. “You were kind and concerned. You were—”

Billy Madden had had enough. Talk of his son made him feel helpless, and feeling helpless made him furious.

“My son is none of your bloody business. Get out. Now,” he said, his voice rising.

Katie blinked, but did not falter. “Can I leave a copy of my newspaper with you? It has a story on the factory. Maybe you could take a look at it sometime.”

Billy was barely keeping his temper under control now. “If I say yes, will you fuck off out of here?” he asked.

“Right away,” Katie replied.

“Yes, then. Leave your bloody paper. If nothing else, the pictures will keep Bennie here amused.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Madden, and thank you,” Katie said, as she placed a copy of the
Battle Cry
on top of his table.

Madden, staring out at the river, made no reply.

“The fucking cheek,” he said when she was gone. “Wilson can take his bloody factory and stuff it up his arse. I’ll never have anything to do with it or with the bloody Gerries.” He pointed at Katie’s paper. “Take that rag and burn it,” he said to Bennie. Then he poured himself another drink and continued to stare at the river, remembering Peter as he once was.

Bennie reached for the
Battle Cry.
As he lumbered over to the fireplace with it, he read the cover article. There were photographs to go along with the story, photos of the prime minister and his cabinet and the German trade commission. He stopped short, staring at one of the pictures.

“Oi, guv,” he said, walking over to Madden. “Take a look at this. . . . Isn’t this the bloke who used to come here? The one who hired a boat from you to take his man out to the North Sea? Name’s different, but I could swear it’s him.”

“What are you on about now?” Madden said.

Bennie put the paper on the table in front of him. “There,” he said, pointing at a picture. ‘Maximilian von Brandt, Spokesman for the German Trade Delegation,’ it says. See him? Second from the left.”

Billy squinted at the photograph. The whiskey had made his mind foggy. “You’re right. It is him. Without a doubt,” he said at length. “Peter Stiles he called himself. Says here his name is von Brandt, though. Well, whatever it is, the son of a bitch cost me a good boatman. John Harris disappeared right after the busies took his man Flynn. If I ever see Harris again, I’ll gut him for walking out on me.”

Billy kept reading and as he did, the whiskey fog lifted. “Bennie, listen to this. It says here that von Brandt was an officer in the German Army during the war and was pals with the kaiser, and that he’s now a high-ranking government man and that the new guv’nor, Friedrich Ebert, handpicked him to come over to London and make nice.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So?
So?
” Billy said angrily. “So he lied to us! He came here to the Bark sounding as English as me grandmother. Made out like he was one of us. But that wasn’t true. He was
German,
Bennie. An officer in Gerry’s army. Pals with the kaiser . . . it says so right here!”

“So?”

“So, I’ll bet you my right ball that it wasn’t jewelry his man was taking to the North Sea!”

“You . . . you don’t think he was a spy, guv?” Bennie said slowly.

“No, you daft bastard, I
know
he was a spy!” Billy said. He shook his head in disbelief. “All that time, Bennie . . . all that time I thought he was a villain moving some swag. But he wasn’t. And me, Bennie? What was I doing? I was helping Max von bloody Brandt feed secrets to the Gerries. I was helping a dirty spy. Fuck me! No . . . fuck
him
!”

Billy stood up, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and threw it across the room. It nearly hit the barman and it shattered the mirror behind him.

“Easy, guv,” Bennie said.

But it was too late. The table Billy had been sitting at went over. Then every table in the room did. Pictures were smashed. Windows, too. Chairs were thrown against the wall. Billy was screaming and cursing, out of his mind. He only stopped his mad rampage when there was nothing left to break.

“I bet it was him who did for my boys,” he said then, wild-eyed and panting. “I bet it was him who gave the Gerries all the information they needed. It’s his fault, Bennie. It’s Max von Brandt’s fault William and Tommy are dead and Peter’s off his nut.”

“You’ve got to calm down, guv. This is no good.”

“Oh, I’ll calm down all right, Bennie. Just long enough to find von Brandt.”

“Billy, be reasonable,” Bennie said. “Von Brandt’s a government man. He spends his days with the likes of the prime minister. We couldn’t even get close to him.”

“Oh, but I am being reasonable,” Billy said, his eyes blazing with rage. “In fact, I’ve reasoned it all out very nicely. I’m going to make his father grieve the way I’m grieving. I’m going to make the man know what it feels like to lose a son.”

“You don’t mean that. We can’t just—”

“We can, Bennie,” Billy said. “And we will. There’s got to be a way. Whatever it is, I’ll find it, and when I do, Max von Brandt is a dead man.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

Max von Brandt poured himself a cup of strong coffee and sat down at the desk in his hotel suite. It was only half past three, but he was already exhausted. The day, full of meetings at Westminster and interviews with the London dailies, had been a grueling one.

He was due at the chancellor’s house for supper tonight—an event which would likely go quite late, and before that, he had a dozen telephone calls to make and a thick stack of reports to read through. He was just reaching for the telephone when he heard a knock on his hotel room door.

“Telegram for Mr. von Brandt,” a man’s voice called.

“One moment, please,” Max called back.

He rose, quickly crossed the room, and opened the door. Before he could even shout, the two men were on him. The first man, a broad-shouldered giant, drove his fist into Max’s face, knocking him to the floor.

The second man quickly closed the door and locked it. “Get him in the chair, Bennie,” the first man said. “Over there. Tie him.”

Max, dazed from the blow and bleeding from the gash it had left on his jaw, felt himself being lifted up and dragged backward. He tried to reach into his pocket, to get hold of the knife that was there, but before he could, he was dumped into a chair and a length of rope was wound around him, pinning his arms tightly against his body.

“Well done, lad,” the second man said. “He won’t be going anywhere soon. Will you, Mr. Stiles?”

Max, who’d been straining against his bonds, looked up just in time to see Billy’s fist come flying toward him. The blow opened up another gash—this one across his cheekbone. His head snapped back. Blood sprayed across the wall behind him in an arc.

When the pain had subsided a bit, when he could see properly, and speak, he said, “Hello, Billy. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

“Shut your mouth, you bastard. You cunt. You filthy spy.”

“Billy, I don’t—”

“Shut your mouth!” Billy screamed.

He pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket and pointed it at Max.

“You killed them,” he said. “You killed my boys William and Tommy. You put Peter in hospital for the rest of his life.”

Max realized he was in very great danger. Billy Madden had never been entirely right; now he seemed to have gone completely insane. His eyes were dark and mad and full of rage. Flecks of spit flew from his lips as he spoke. He was sweating and shaking.

“Billy, let me talk, listen to me. . . . I did not hurt your sons. I swear it.”

“Listen to him, will you, Bennie? Listen to his lies. You
did
kill them,” Madden shouted. “I saw you, von Brandt. I saw your picture in the paper. The German guv’nor himself sent you here to make nice with the prime minister. How stupid do you think I am? You’re not Peter Stiles. You’re not English. And that wasn’t swag you were sending to the North Sea. You and that murdering bastard of a kaiser were thick as thieves. You stole information here, you and your men, and you gave it to Germany. You told the kaiser where my boys would be and he dropped his shells on them. You killed them sure as I’m standing here, and now I’m going to kill you.”

Madden raised the gun again, and Max knew he had seconds, only seconds, to save his own life.

“It would be a terrible mistake to kill me, Billy,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” Madden replied. He walked over to Max and pressed the pistol’s barrel against his head.

“You have another son.”

“The fuck I do,” Madden said, cocking the trigger.

“Josie Meadows,” Max said. “She was pregnant when she gave you the slip, wasn’t she? Pregnant with your child. Put the gun down, Billy, and I’ll tell you where she is.”