A Lady in the Smoke (20 page)

It was mid-afternoon. I'd been sitting for hours on the upstairs window-seat, pretending to read but really keeping an eye out for Paul. I didn't expect him; I truly didn't. But then an unfamiliar carriage started up the drive and stopped below the portico. I felt hot and cold all at once; my mouth went dry; and my hands were damp as I smoothed my skirt. Shakily, I rose and hurried down toward the front hall.

Agnes was starting up the stairs, and her expression was startled.

“Why, I was just coming to find you, m'lady. There's a man to see you. Mr. Flynn from London. I've put him in the parlor.”

Mr. Flynn. Not Paul.

I didn't move, and Agnes looked at me uncertainly. “M'lady? Are you all right? Should I tell him you're not at home?”

I gave myself a mental shake. “No. Thank you. I'll see him.”

Thank god Mr. Flynn hadn't arrived and been announced during breakfast. James would have insisted on seeing him with me. Probably Aunt Catherine would have come too, for good measure.

I put out a hand. “But, Agnes, please don't tell anyone else he's here. Not just yet.”

A spark of surprise lit her eyes, but she said only, “Yes, m'lady. Should I bring a tray?”

“Yes, please. He may want something if he's come straight up from London.”

I entered the parlor. Mr. Flynn was standing at the window, holding a small cardboard box.

“You were probably expecting Paul,” he said.

I felt as though I'd been rude without intending it. “But that doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you.”

He held out the box. “Your mother's medicine.”

“It was good of you to deliver it. Thank you.” As I took it, the glass bottles clinked inside, and I opened the lid to be sure they were all intact.

“You don't look well,” he said. “You look half-starved, and you have dark circles under your eyes.”

I looked up from the open box, indignant. “I beg your pardon?”

He grimaced. “What I meant is, are you all right?”

I couldn't help a small laugh at the way he showed concern. “I'm fine, thank you.” I snapped the lid closed and set the box on a nearby table. “Did you receive my telegram?”

“Yes, I did.” The words were normal enough, but it was dawning on me that his expression lacked all of his usual animation, and his voice was peculiarly subdued.

I began to feel uneasy. “For god's sake, what's the matter?”

He didn't answer at first, just looked at me silently, and my uneasiness grew. I'd assumed that Paul had sent Mr. Flynn with the medicine because he was too busy to come himself, or because he didn't want to see me again. But now a more frightening possibility occurred to me: Palmer had been murdered for what he knew; Griffin had fled; Paul knew at least as much as they did, if not more—

The words burst out of me: “Why didn't Paul come? Is he all right?”

His lips parted but nothing came out.

“Mr. Flynn!” I snatched at his arm. “Is he alive?”

He drew back, startled. “God, yes. He's alive. But he's in gaol.”

In my relief that Paul wasn't dead, it took a moment for me to take in Mr. Flynn's words. “In gaol,” I repeated stupidly.

“He's being held in Travers until the spring assizes.”

I remembered the day that I'd walked past both the Travers gaol and the courts of law, where judges came four times a year to hear civil and criminal cases. James had served as counsel in Travers several times.

I felt numb. “What for?”

“Manslaughter.”

I groped for the arm of the couch and sat down. Mr. Flynn began to walk restlessly around the room.

There was a sound at the door, and Agnes came in with a tray of sandwiches and tea. “M'lady, would you like it here?”

My eyes were following Mr. Flynn, and I didn't answer.

“M'lady?”

“For god's sake, set it down,” Mr. Flynn snapped.

Rather stiffly, Agnes set the tray on the table in front of me and left the room.

“Mr. Flynn,” I said, my voice so strangled that the words barely came out. “Would you
please
stop pacing about and tell me what's happened?”

He came to a standstill. “During the twenty-four hours after your accident, he operated on something close to thirty patients.”

“I know.”

“Apparently one of them had complications, and he died shortly afterward. The family—or someone—believes Paul was at fault.”

I put the heels of my hands to my forehead. “Oh dear god.” I closed my eyes and remembered that night—the lantern, the stitches, the chloroform mask. Suddenly the room began to tip, and I heard a ringing in my ears.

Mr. Flynn sprang toward me. I heard him swear under his breath, followed by the sound of tea being sloshed out of a pot and the clink of silver tongs on porcelain. “Here, drink this,” he said, and put a cup of tea into my shaking hands. He'd put too much sugar in, and it was unbearably sweet. But after a few sips, the room righted itself, and the ringing faded. I gulped a bit more.

After a moment, he sat down in the chair opposite. “I shouldn't have told you all at once.”

“There's not really a way to tell that sort of thing in bits and pieces.” I swallowed the last of the tea. “Which patient was it? What was the injury?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Because it might be someone I'd recognize.”

“You mean someone you know?” he asked dubiously.

“Someone I helped to treat.” I paused. “In the scullery, that first night.”

Mr. Flynn's lips parted in astonishment.

“Paul never told you? I was with him for hours.”

He groaned. “Don't say that!”

“Don't say what?”

“That you were with him for hours! It's certainly not the sort of thing we want a jury to know—that he had an untrained young lady helping him with his patients.” Before I could retort, his glare faded. “Although maybe it's a blessing in disguise. You might have witnessed what really happened.”

“I wasn't in the scullery the whole time,” I warned him. “I only came down around midnight. But you still haven't told me which patient it was, or how he died.”

“Because I don't
know,
” he said impatiently. “Paul sent a telegram. All it said was that he was accused of manslaughter, and I could see him tomorrow during leniency hours.” His eyes lit up with a sudden thought. “Do
you
have any idea which patient it could have been? Can you think of any that had unusual complications?”

My mind sifted through the patients we'd seen in the scullery—and then I remembered what had happened Sunday night. “There
was
one! It was a railway servant Paul had seen at the Polk Hotel. He was bleeding internally, and there was another doctor who disagreed with Paul's treatment and said that the man was going to die because of it. The patient's name was Nigel. No—Nagle.”

“A railway servant,” Mr. Flynn repeated. He was silent for a long minute, thinking. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Could be the one. I'll find out tomorrow. But there's a problem we have in the meantime.” He flicked his thumb absently over his missing fingertip. “Paul needs a barrister.”

“Well, of course he does.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I was hoping you might speak to your cousin,” he said gruffly.

“James?” I asked.

“He's well regarded. And he's argued manslaughter cases at Travers before.”

“That's true.” I wondered how Mr. Flynn happened to know that. “When does Paul's trial begin?”

“Not quite two weeks. Assizes begin on Monday.”

“That isn't much time,” I said, dismayed.

He shrugged. “Nothing we can do about it.”

“What happens if Paul is convicted?”

“Gaol for up to fifteen years—or transportation to a penal colony in Australia.” Mr. Flynn's voice was somber. “That's the usual sentence for manslaughter. And of course he'd never practice medicine again.”

“Oh, god,” I said wretchedly.

“I know.”

I had half-risen from the couch to go find James before I caught myself and sat back down.

I didn't want to introduce the two men and then be left out of everything. This was my chance to set forth some conditions to Mr. Flynn in exchange for my help.

Besides, it might be prudent to take a moment and warn Mr. Flynn about my cousin.

I chose my words carefully. “Mr. Flynn, if I agree to ask James for this favor, will you promise you'll not only keep me apprised of what happens but also let me help?”

He frowned. “All right.”

“And you
cannot
mention to James that I've told you anything about Lord Shaw—or that Anne told me about Mr. Hayes—or that I sent you a telegram.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”

“Because he doesn't like newspapermen,” I replied evenly. “He's friendly with the Reynolds family too, and he hated the idea that I even spoke to you in Travers. He certainly can't know that I've been asking questions on your behalf.” I took a breath. “Which reminds me—I went to see Lord Shaw yesterday afternoon.”

He sat up in his chair. “You did? How did he seem?”

“A bit reserved and awkward at first, but that's understandable. And he was perfectly cordial toward the end,” I said. “I got the impression that whatever animosity existed between my father and him, it was so long ago that it doesn't matter anymore.”

“Did he say anything about the railway?”

“He told me that he had been voted off the board, but he didn't seem at all perturbed about it. And when I pressed him about the takeover, he remembered that there had been a survey done beforehand, and that the railway had decided against buying some marshland and filling it in because it would be too expensive. That's all.” I stood up.

“Where are you going?” he asked. “There's a train from Bonwell in less than an hour. I was hoping you'd write a letter to your cousin, and I could take it to him this evening.”

I couldn't help but smile. “I can do better than that. James came up from London this morning. I believe he's still in the study.”

Mr. Flynn's mouth fell open.

I nodded to the tray Agnes had brought. “You should eat something. You look half-starved, and you have dark circles under your eyes.”

He recovered himself and shut his mouth. But then he opened it again and quite sensibly put a sandwich into it.

“The newspaperman is
here
?” James was staring at me in disbelief. “Why on earth would I want to meet him?”

“Because Mr. Wilcox is in gaol. Someone has accused him of manslaughter, and his trial is in less than two weeks.”

His eyebrows rose above his spectacles.

“Please, James. Mr. Wilcox has been very good to Mama.” He rolled his eyes, but I could see him relenting. “Would you at least talk with him?”

“Very well.” And he followed me down the hall.

Mr. Flynn rose and extended his hand to James, who took it reservedly and asked where Paul was now.

“He's at the gaol in Travers,” Mr. Flynn said. “He'll be there until the assizes.”

“They begin in twelve days.” James chewed at his lower lip. “But that's enough time to prepare, if one works quickly.”

Mr. Flynn looked surprised. “You're willing to take this on? You've never even met him.”

“I didn't say I'm willing to take it on,” James retorted. “And I
have
met Mr. Wilcox. I drove him here from the train station a few days ago. He's helped my aunt a great deal.” He glanced at me. “And my cousin. Which is why I am talking to you now.” James frowned. “What do you know thus far?”

“Not much. Just that it involves a patient he saw after the accident at Holmsted.”

“You haven't a name?”

“Not yet. I'm seeing him tomorrow night, at the leniency hour.”

“And you haven't requested any other legal counsel?”

“No.” Mr. Flynn tipped his head, studying James askance for a moment, as if weighing whether he could be trusted. Finally he said, “Let me be frank, Mr. Isslin. There are some peculiar circumstances surrounding this railway accident, and I believe they may be the reason someone has brought a case again Paul.”

“You don't think this is merely a manslaughter case brought by a grieving family,” James said.

“No.” Mr. Flynn looked over at me. “Have you told him anything?”

“I told him about the sabotage at Malverton, and Palmer, and the Parliamentary hearing this past Friday,” I replied.

“And that you think someone is trying to make money by blowing up the tracks,” James added dryly.

“You've a right to be skeptical. But try to keep an open mind,” Mr. Flynn said in a tone that matched James's, “despite the fact that I'm a newspaperman.”

I saw James bristle and touched his sleeve. “Please, James, just listen.” And then I turned to give Mr. Flynn a glare that I hoped would remind him that he was asking my cousin for a favor. “Let's all sit down.”

As I took a seat on the ottoman, James and Mr. Flynn settled into two armchairs, so that they were face-to-face. But they hardly looked as though they were collaborating. They reminded me of two chess players vying across a board.

Mr. Flynn began. “Last fall, the Great Southeastern put a bid on some land not far from Holmsted, with the eventual plan of moving the track off the riverbanks. But before they could purchase it, the land was swiped out from under them, for ready money—” he didn't even look at me, for which I was grateful “—by a man named Marcus Hayes, who—”

“Marcus Hayes?” James interrupted, a note of surprise in his voice.

“You know him?” Mr. Flynn asked.