The Wild Rose (66 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

“I can’t believe this,” Willa said. “I can’t bloody believe this!”

She had traveled all the way from Paris to Calais, and then Calais to Dover in just under twenty-four hours. She’d taken a hackney from the ferry terminal to the train station, yelling at the man to driver faster the whole way, only to discover that she’d missed the Dover to London train by six minutes. Six bloody minutes! And the next one was not for another five hours.

She didn’t have five hours to waste twiddling her thumbs here. Seamie and James didn’t have five hours. God only knew where Billy Madden was. Fear chattered at her, telling her he could be back in London by now, looking for them. She clamped down on it, reminding herself—as she’d done ever since she’d left Josie’s flat—that Josie had
not
given Madden Jennie’s name. Or Seamie’s. Without those names, he couldn’t track James down. Without those names, there was still time. But then she remembered that someone had told Madden that Josie had a son—did that someone also know where the boy was now?

There had to be another way to get to London, and to Paddington Station, where she could get a train to the Cotswolds. Perhaps there was a bus going there, perhaps she could hire another hackney to at least take her partway. As she walked out of the train station, looking around, trying to figure out what that other way might be, she spotted a delivery boy on a motorbike with a wooden crate strapped to the back. He’d just dropped off a bundle of papers at a newsagents and was about to motor off again.

“Wait!” she shouted. “Don’t go!”

The boy turned. She started running toward him, waving. He gave her a quizzical look and pointed at himself.

“Yes, you!” she shouted. “How much for the motorbike?” she asked breathlessly, when she reached him.

“Depends where you want me to go. For local deliveries, I charge by the mile. For trips to Canterbury, or any of the outlying towns, I charge a flat rate.”

“I don’t want to hire the bike. I want to buy it. How much?”

“It’s not for sale, miss. It’s me livelihood, that bike.”

“I’ll give you twenty pounds,” Willa said, digging in her satchel for her wallet.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not a fugitive, are you?”

“No. I have a very great emergency, though.” Willa found her wallet, opened it, and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “Will you sell me the bike or not?”

The boy nodded. “Have you driven one of these before?” he asked her.

Willa told him that she had. She’d done so in Cairo countless times.

“Tank’s half-full,” the boy said, taking off his goggles and handing them to her. “You should buy petrol at Broughton’s—it’s on the west edge of town. You’ll pass it on the way out. There’s a petrol station another twenty-five miles down the road, but it’s closed as often as it’s open.

“Thank you,” Willa said.

She put her satchel in the crate, started the engine, and put the bike into gear. She found the petrol station a few minutes later and asked the proprietor to fill the tank. As she waited, she walked around in the brisk air and stamped her feet, trying to wake herself up. Trying to shake off the nausea and headache that were plaguing her. She’d had no morphine for more than twenty-four hours and was feeling the symptoms of withdrawal. She’d tried to sleep on the ferry, hoping that would help to take the edge off, but it hadn’t. If anything, it made things worse. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Josie’s battered face.

Willa had run straight home from Josie’s flat. She’d told her aunt Eddie what had happened. Not much could shock her aunt, but that did. When Willa asked her if she would take care of Josie, Eddie jumped off the settee, put her coat on, and asked for the address. She was just heading out the door when Willa grabbed her arm.

“Aunt Eddie, after you see to Josie, will you please ring up Albie and tell him what’s happened?” she asked her. “There’s a telephone in Josie’s flat. I rang him. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He’s thinks I’m mad. He’ll listen to you.”

“I’ll ring him as soon as I get your friend seen to. Hurry, Willa. Go,” she said.

Willa had quickly put a warm jumper on, a sturdy pair of boots, and a thick coat. Then she’d put Josie’s money and letters into her satchel. She’d closed the door to her flat, run down the stairs, and headed for the train station, where she’d managed to get a ticket on a 4:30
P.M.
train to Calais. When she arrived, she found that the next boat to Dover was full, so she’d booked a passage on the night ferry. It was early morning now, about eight o’clock.

When she’d first got back to her own flat, she’d thought about going to the police and telling them what had happened to Josie, and that the same man who’d beaten her was now trying to kidnap a child. But then she thought, What if they don’t believe me? Worse yet, what if they do? They’ll insist I come into the station with them. They’ll ask me a thousand questions. Their first job will be to investigate what happened to Josie, not to protect a child in England. I’ll be sitting in the station house, reconstructing the crime scene for them, and Madden’ll be halfway across the channel.

Going to the Paris police would have done no one any good—not James and not Josie. What she needed to do was to warn Seamie that Billy Madden wanted his son. Since she had failed to get Albie to do that, or Joe Bristow, or the publican at Binsey, she would have to do it herself.

“You’re all set, miss,” the petrol man said. “You’ll have to fill her up again just as you’re nearing London.”

He gave her the name of a town with a good petrol station and a good pub, in case she fancied a break from the road and a nice hot meal. Willa thanked him. She pulled her goggles down over her eyes, kick-started the bike’s engine, and flew out of Dover.

As the town fell away behind her, she decided she would try Albie again when she stopped—if the pub the petrol man mentioned had a telephone. Maybe Eddie would’ve gotten through to him by then. And maybe this time she—Willa—could convince him to drive down to Oxford, find Seamie and James, and get them out of harm’s way.

Just in case she was wrong. Just in case Billy Madden was a lot closer to Binsey than she thought.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN

Albie Alden heard the telephone ringing all the way from the garage. He lifted his marketing out of the car and made a run for it. The weather was filthy; he got soaked through running the few yards between the garage and the back door.

“Yes? Yes? Speak up, please, I’m hard of hearing!” he heard as he entered the kitchen. It was Mrs. Lapham, a cleaning woman his aunt Eddie insisted they have in twice a week. “Will? Will who?” she yelled.

Albie winced. It was Willa. It had to be. He set his basket down on the table and walked over to where the telephone stood on a small round table.

“I’ll take it now, Mrs. Lapham. Thank you!” he bellowed.

Mrs. Lapham jumped. “Oh, Albie, dear! Gave me a right good startle, you did! There’s someone on the blower,” she said.

“Yes, I gathered,” Albie shouted.

Mrs. Lapham handed him the telephone and went back to her cleaning. Albie held the receiver to his chest, waiting until she was out of earshot, then remembered that the poor woman was always out of earshot.

“I thought I told you not to call until you’d stopped using morphine,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“I
have
stopped. I’ve had nothing for well over twenty-four hours, and it’s killing me. I feel like my head’s going to explode,” Willa replied.

Albie heard wind blowing and what sounded like rain sheeting down. The line crackled, went out for a few second, then came back again. “Where are you?” he said.

“At a petrol station just west of London.”

“
What?
What the devil are you doing there?”

“Did Aunt Eddie call you?”

Albie looked around for a note. “No. I don’t think so. But I’ve been out a good deal of the day,” he said. “Why?”

Albie heard Willa groan. “I’m trying to get to Binsey. To Seamie.”

“Willa, you must tell me where you are. Right now. I’ll send someone to get you,” Albie said sternly.

“Someone with a big net? Holding a jacket with buckles down the back?” Willa shot back, her voice breaking. “Albie, I’ve just seen my best friend beaten to within an inch of her life. I’m trying to save another friend from something far worse. I’ve been traveling for hours and hours—far too many of them in the soaking rain on a sputtering bastard of a motorbike. I’m not under the influence of anything now, and I’m not mad, either. Madness can only take you so far. It can’t take you from Paris to Oxford in twenty-four hours. You have to be sane to pull that off. Which is what I am. I swear it. Terrified, yes. In shock, yes. But sane.” She paused for breath, then said, “This is life or death, Albie. Seamie’s and his son’s. Ring the inn at Binsey. The King’s Head. Ask them if they can get Seamie to the telephone. Maybe they can send a lad to his cottage for him, and he can walk to the pub and ring you back. If he does, tell him what I told you yesterday. Please, Albie. Do this for me and I’ll never ask you for anything again. I’m on my way there, but I’ve still a ways to go. Please, please, please do this.”

“Yes, all right. I’ll ring the pub,” Albie said, very worried now. “Just calm down, Willa.”

There was more crackling and then the line went dead. Albie put the receiver back into its cradle and set the tall, candlestick telephone down on the hallway table. He took a deep breath, then blew it out again, trying to decide what to do.

Even without the influence of morphine, Willa had always been rash and unpredictable, heading up mountain peaks as a young girl that daunted many men. And later, heading off to Africa on a whim, then to Tibet, Arabia, Paris. She’d been heedless, thoughtless, even, at times, ruthless. Ruthless in her pursuit of what she wanted, ruthless to others if that’s what it took to get it. Ruthless, most of all, in the way she drove herself. In one thing, however, she had always been constant, always steady, no matter how dearly it cost her: her feelings for Seamus Finnegan. It was those feelings, Albie thought now, and not the morphine, that had finally done her in. Being told he was dead, and then finding out he wasn’t—it must have been a shock for her. Too great of a shock.

A few seconds later, he picked up the phone again. “Binsey, near Oxford, please,” he told the operator. “The King’s Head.”

It took a few minutes to get the call through. “Trouble with the lines,” the operator told him. Finally, he heard a man’s voice say, “Good afternoon. The King’s Head. Mr. Peters speaking.”

“Hello, my name is Albert Alden. I’m a friend of Captain Finnegan’s. I need to speak with him.”

“Ah! You’re in luck! They’re here just now—Captain Finnegan and his son. Having their dinner. I’ll fetch him for you.”

Seamie got on the line. He was surprised, but pleased, to hear Albie’s voice. Albie told him it was nice to hear his voice, too, and that he was sorry to disturb his supper, but he had something rather troubling to discuss with him.

As he finished talking to Seamie, he said he hoped he would come up to Cambridge one day soon, with James, for a visit. Seamie said Albie could count on it.

Albie said good-bye and hung up. Seamie and his son were just fine. No one had been beaten or murdered or kidnapped. Quite to the contrary. They’d just enjoyed a nice meal at a Cotswold pub and would soon be enjoying a leisurely walk back to their cottage.

“I should have known,” Albie said to himself. “This is all utter nonsense. Just more of Willa’s lunacy. Why do I even listen to her? If anyone’s mad, it’s me for taking her telephone calls.”

He looked out of the window. The rain was still lashing down. It was cold, and getting dark as well. It was hardly a good time for a drive, and yet what choice did he have? His insane sister was about to descend on his best friend. Seamie couldn’t be expected to deal with her. No one could. He would collect her and bring her back here, and then he would see about a doctor for her. It was time somebody did.

“Albie dear, are you off the blower yet?” Mrs. Lapham shouted from the sink.

“Yes, I am!” Albie shouted back, walking over to her.

“Oh, good! Before I forget, your aunt Edwina rang up . . .”

Albie groaned. Eddie was supposed to have brought Willa home with her, not allowed her to make a dash for it. He could only imagine what she wanted to tell him and he didn’t want to hear it. Not now. He had one loonie to deal with this evening; he didn’t need two.

“. . . and she wants you to ring her back. Here’s the number,” Mrs. Lapham said, pulling a piece of paper from her pinafore pocket and handing it to him.

“Thank you,” Albie said.

Mrs. Lapham smiled and went back to her work.

Albie stuffed the paper into his trousers pocket, then loudly said, “Mrs. Lapham, I’m going out for a bit. In the automobile. I won’t be back before you finish. Please lock the door when you leave.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Lapham said, not looking up from her polishing. “Where are you going, Albie dear?”

“On a wild-goose chase.”

“Mongoose Place?” Mrs. Lapham said. “What a strange name. Never heard of it. Sounds lovely, though! Have a good time, Albie. And don’t forget your wellies.”