A Lady in the Smoke (21 page)

“I know
of
him.”

“Why?” I asked.

It was Mr. Flynn who replied. “He's this decade's George Hudson. You know, the railway king of the 1830s. Hayes is self-made. Clever. Ambitious. Grew up on a cattle farm in East Anglia. Has his fingers in lots of pies—coal, land, manufacturing, railways—but unlike Hudson, who flaunted his money and relished the publicity, Hayes stays very quiet. Operates behind the scenes, takes partners, keeps his ownership interest discreet.”

“Have you ever met him?” I asked.

“No.”

So Mr. Flynn might not even know what Hayes looked like.

My mind jumped to the sketch that I had upstairs. But if I were to show it to them now, James would know that I'd been asking questions on Mr. Flynn's behalf. I'd have to wait and do that another time.

Mr. Flynn continued, “Some people say he's a financial genius. But he's made mistakes, too. About eighteen months ago, there was an incident at one of his mills up north.”

“That's why I've heard of him,” James broke in.

Mr. Flynn nodded grimly. “It was during a union strike. The men were looking for higher wages and safer conditions. One night a fire broke out in one of the buildings where the workers lived. And coincidentally”—he grimaced—“three of the union organizers were killed.”

His words gave me a chill. “You think…” I faltered, thinking of Palmer being thrown off the train. “You think Hayes hires people to commit murder for him?”

“Nothing was ever proven,” James replied, with a warning look at Mr. Flynn.

“Not in a court of law,” Mr. Flynn conceded with a shrug. “But I think he's ruthless, and that's relevant here because Hayes started shorting Great Southeastern stock back in November, not long after he bought the land the railway wanted.”

James looked taken aback. Clearly he understood what Mr. Flynn was implying; but I did not.

“Shorting the stock,” I echoed. “What does that mean?”

“It means borrowing stock temporarily to sell at a given price, with the promise that you'll purchase it later,” James replied. “In other words, you're betting that the price will go down.” He saw that I still didn't understand and added patiently, “So let's say Hayes shorted ten thousand shares of Great Southeastern. If the price goes from four pounds to one pound between when he sells it and when he actually buys it, he makes three pounds on every share. That's thirty thousand pounds.”

I stared. “You can sell stock that you don't even own? Is that legal?”

Mr. Flynn gave a snort. “Sure, it's legal—unless you have private information that you're using to turn a profit.”

“And that's what you think happened, isn't it?” I asked slowly. “Hayes knew that the tracks were unsafe, so he bought the land to keep the railway from moving them—and then he counted on an accident—or caused one—to drive the share price down and make him his money.”

“Oh, he caused it,” Mr. Flynn said.

James looked at him dubiously. “Are you certain about that? Elizabeth told me about the cut bolts at Malverton. But do you have any proof of sabotage at Holmsted?”

“No,” Mr. Flynn admitted. “But Hayes certainly had motive.”

James gave a short laugh that carried a note of ridicule. “So you're drawing a conclusion based on the mere coincidence of two events: Hayes buying land and shorting stock last autumn. But simply because two events happen close together in time doesn't mean they are part of some larger scheme, whose success is predicated upon still another event—an
accident
of all things, which might or might not occur. And certainly neither of those transactions, taken individually or together, proves that Hayes had anything to do with the sabotage at Holmsted, if indeed there was any.” He removed his spectacles and laid them on the table. “I don't mean to be offensive, but it sounds to me as though you've taken a few random events and assembled them into a story that suits a purpose of your own.”

Mr. Flynn's eyes sparked angrily.

“Mr. Flynn, you said that the peculiar circumstances of this accident have something to do with the manslaughter charge,” I interjected. “Is there any connection between Paul and Mr. Hayes?”

“Not a direct one. But I found out yesterday why Hayes may need Paul out of the way.”

James folded his hands with a show of patience.

Mr. Flynn rolled his eyes and turned to address me. “Hayes is beginning to buy up shares of the Great Southeastern. They're cheap, of course, because the accident has driven the price down.” He glanced over at James. “To borrow your cousin's example, Hayes can use the thirty thousand pounds he just made shorting the stock to buy more shares—only now he can buy thirty thousand shares for a pound each. Then when the price goes back up to four, he's made another ninety thousand pounds.”

I took in my breath. “That's a lot of money.”

“But for this part of the plan to work, Hayes needs the railway to reopen,” he said. “And what with Parliament already leaning toward shutting it down—”

“How do you know that?” James demanded.

Mr. Flynn ignored him. “Hayes needs Paul out of the way and discredited because Paul could cost the railway too much money.”

“You mean, because he'd be the one to testify in the injury cases,” I said.

“Exactly,” Mr. Flynn said.

I recalled the man Jeremy had told me about, who'd received five hundred pounds for no injury at all. “How much could all the cases together cost, for an accident like this?”

“The Pennington line paid out over two hundred thousand pounds after the tunnel crash three years ago,” Mr. Flynn replied. “It drove them into bankruptcy.”

James made an impatient movement. “The law was never intended to be used that way. Back in 1846, when Lord Campbell wrote it, the purpose was primarily to offer some compensation for lost wages to the families of railway servants who died in the line of work. Usually it amounted to thirty or forty pounds.”

“Thirty pounds for a working man's life,” Mr. Flynn interjected, his lip curling.

James paid no attention to the gibe.

“I'm sure it's not Paul's intent to drive the railway into bankruptcy,” I said.

“No. But what he intends doesn't matter,” Mr. Flynn replied. “He could be subpoenaed by anyone who was in the accident. So Hayes needs him out of the way.”

“I suppose we should be grateful he's only in jail,” I said, “and not thrown off a train.”

Mr. Flynn's expression changed. “I forgot you didn't know. Griffin's dead too.”

I felt the blood fall from my face. “What?”

“They found his body in an alley in London. He'd been stabbed. His brother identified him two nights ago.”

My hand went to my mouth. “Who's Griffin?” James asked.

“The other inspector,” Mr. Flynn replied. “He wrote the second report about Holmsted. He disappeared before he was supposed to testify in Parliament.”

I could feel James being won over to the possibility that there was something crooked going on. Mr. Flynn must have felt it too. We both sat silently, giving James time to think.

After a minute, James said, “I see your point. Mr. Wilcox would be a formidable witness in these injury cases, given not only his expertise but the fact that he was an eyewitness at this accident and treated most of the patients. And if Parliament hears that there is some unlimited liability—an indefinite number of injury cases that could be strung out for months or even years, with Wilcox going to trial for the victims—”

Mr. Flynn leaned forward. “On top of the money it'll cost to make the repairs, buy land, and install new safety devices—”

James nodded. “They'll close the line.”

I breathed a small sigh and felt the tension ebb out of my shoulders. Finally, the two of them were agreeing on something.

But there was a stubborn set to James's jaw as he looked at Mr. Flynn. “This doesn't mean I'm at all convinced that Hayes ordered the sabotage, or even that he had private knowledge about the dangerous tracks.”

“But perhaps we needn't agree on that just now,” I suggested hastily. “Whether or not this railway scheme is the hidden reason that Paul is being accused, we still have to find a way to show that Paul treated this patient properly, and that his death wasn't Paul's fault.”

“You're right,” James said. “Mr. Flynn, I'm willing to consider representing him, but I want to talk to him first. I'd like to come with you tomorrow night.”

Relief flashed across Mr. Flynn's face.

“In the meantime,” James continued, “can you get a message to him?”

“What is it?”

“Tell him to start making a list of other patients he's treated, particularly in the last six months, or maybe a year, paying special attention to those who died of their injuries, were feigning their injuries, or went to trial,” James said. “It's become standard practice for the injured party's counsel to bring up past cases.”

Mr. Flynn looked troubled. “So any case that went badly in the past could be dragged up again?”

“I'm afraid so.” James suddenly looked alarmed. “Are there very many?”

“No, Paul's a good surgeon. But someone could probably dig up something.”

“Well, then he needs to dig, too, so he's prepared.”

“Will he have to take the stand?” I asked.

“Certainly,” James replied. “Twenty years ago, he wouldn't. But now, if he doesn't, it's taken as an admission of guilt. Fortunately, he's been in courtrooms before.”

I winced. “Not as a defendant.”

“True,” James replied. “But he's experienced; he'll understand that he needs to have his answers firmly in place before he testifies.”

“Leniency hour begins at seven,” Mr. Flynn said.

“I'll meet you there,” James said.

I caught Mr. Flynn's eye, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you.” Mr. Flynn rose. There was a moment when I thought he might extend his hand to James; but he thought better of it and merely said, “I'll see myself out.”

We heard the front door close, and James went to the window. I joined him and together we watched the carriage pull away.

“He's not particularly amiable, is he?” James said, as if he'd been cordial himself. “And he thinks he's very clever.”

I turned away to hide my smile and said only, “Well, he's anxious about his friend. Thank you for seeing him.”

“Of course.”

I touched his sleeve. “James, would you mind if I came with you tomorrow?”

He looked at me, astonished.

“After all, I was there at the Travers Inn those first few days after the accident. I even saw Mr. Wilcox with some of his patients.” I paused. “I'd like to help, if I may.”

His expression softened. “I appreciate that, Elizabeth. It's good of you to offer.” He paused. “In fact, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to tell me whatever you can about Mr. Wilcox. Leniency visits are short, and it'll save time.” We sat down together. “Why don't you begin with the accident?”

And so I told him everything that was relevant, from the moment Paul found us in the field until the last morning in Travers when he saw Mama. I omitted some details, but even so, James was frowning as I concluded.

“I hadn't realized you actually worked with him, taking care of patients that night,” he said. “If it comes up at trial, that's not going to work to his advantage.”

“I know.” I sighed. “But I barely did anything, really. I just handed him bandages and kept the chloroform cone in place.”

“Even so.” His frown deepened to a scowl. “What on earth made you go down to the scullery? That wasn't your place. You should have been with your mother.”

All the gratitude I felt toward him evaporated at his words, and I turned to stare at the trees outside the window. This was the side of James I disliked—judgmental and officious.

He sighed. “Elizabeth.”

“Mama was asleep,” I said shortly.

“I'm just concerned that you put yourself in a position that could have compromised you. I'm trying to protect you.”

“But you're being patronizing,” I blurted.

He drew back, an expression of hurt mingled with surprise on his face.

I took a breath and chose my next words with more care. “The scullery may not be my usual place, James, but it was an extraordinary situation, and there really was no one else to help. The social rules shouldn't hold in cases like that—not for anyone.” I added gently, “You don't know what it was like. You weren't there.”

His lips pressed together for a moment, and then he nodded reluctantly. “That's true. I wasn't.”

“And I don't think it's fair that you jump to the conclusion that I behaved wrongly. I'm not a fool.”

“Of course not.”

It was a concession of sorts, and I pressed for another. “So may I come with you tomorrow?”

He looked as if he were about to refuse.

“
Please,
James. If Mr. Flynn is right, and this case has anything to do with the railway, I want to know what he knows. You said yourself my dowry depends on those shares recovering their value.”

He capitulated with a shrug. “All right. But consider yourself warned. The Travers jail is vile. You may want to bring a heavily scented handkerchief.”

Because of an accident on the road, we arrived at Travers jail only a few minutes before seven o'clock. As we alighted from our carriage, Mr. Flynn's expression changed from anxious to relieved. He drew a paper from inside his coat, and we took our place at the end of the queue.

James turned so his mouth was near Mr. Flynn's ear and spoke quietly. “I meant to ask, how did you get an Order of Leniency? They're only supposed to be available to priests, counsel, and immediate family.”

Mr. Flynn's lips barely moved. “I have a friend.”

I could tell the answer didn't quite satisfy James; but I hadn't even realized that admission was restricted.

“Will I be allowed in?” I whispered anxiously.

“Of course. You're his sister,” Mr. Flynn said under his breath.

The party ahead of us crossed the threshold, and it was our turn. Mr. Flynn handed the paper to the guard who glanced over it, studied each of us, and opened the locked door to summon a warden, who thoroughly searched the bag Mr. Flynn carried before leading us through a second locked door. James was right about the smell. The brick hallway reeked of decades of human filth and mold and rusting metal; all the carbolic in England would have been powerless against it. Mr. Flynn kept pace beside the warden, and James and I followed them down a dank corridor past dozens of cells. All around me, I could hear scrapes and clanks and muted voices. As we rounded a corner, a pair of rats raced by, keeping close to the base of the wall. I shuddered, but the warden didn't even flinch.

Finally he stopped in front of a wooden door, banged on it, and called out, “Git away from t' door. Visitors.” Then he turned a key in the lock and stood aside to let us pass.

It was a squalid little room, barely large enough for the four of us. There was no real window, only a narrow slot at the top of one wall that was intended to admit fresh air, though one could hardly tell from the smell of the place. A lantern on a low table cast a flickering light over a filthy cot. Aside from a chamber pot with a cover, there was nothing else in the room.

Paul emerged from the corner, his hand outstretched to Mr. Flynn. But then his gaze slid over Mr. Flynn's shoulder to meet mine, and he stopped dead. Despite everything, I was glad to see him, and I felt a smile begin to form on my lips. But his face went rigid with surprise and dismay, and he looked away, turning to greet my cousin.

I felt my whole body go still, down to my breath. Mortified, I took an involuntary step back, realizing that I had presumptuously inserted myself and made his already painful situation worse. Wishing desperately that I could render myself invisible, I sidled away until I was outside the little triangle of men.

James seemed completely nonplussed by the vile surroundings. He faced Paul, who was standing stiffly beside the cot.

“Thank you, Mr. Isslin, for coming,” Paul said.

“It's really the least I could do—given all you've done for my aunt and cousin.”

It was a cool reply, suggesting an unwelcome obligation, and even in the dull light, I could see the faint tightening of Paul's lips. But he kept his eyes steadily on James. “I'm glad I was able to help them recover.”

Perhaps James heard the quiet dignity in Paul's voice, for he paused, and I saw something in him relent. “Do you have the court order?”

The tension in the room dissipated just a bit, and I let go the breath I'd been holding.

Paul handed him a set of closely written documents.

James tilted them toward the light and began to read. Partway down the first page, his head jerked up, and he looked from Paul to Mr. Flynn and then back to Paul. “Their counsel is Sir Lewis Solmes.”

“Why is that so surprising?” I asked.

The three of them exchanged glances. Clearly this barrister was known to all of them.

“He's quite good,” James said. But the offhand tone in his voice signified an understatement, and my heart sank.

“He's also one of the most expensive barristers in London,” Mr. Flynn added flatly.

James continued to scan the papers. “The patient is a man named Felix Benedict.”

Felix Benedict?

It was all I could do not to gasp. I turned my face away, and thanked God that Mr. Flynn was standing where he was, with those observant eyes of his focused on my cousin. I took a moment to compose myself, and then I looked carefully at James. He had been at the Reynolds's house with me once or twice when Felix was visiting. But there was a lack of consciousness in his expression that assured me he didn't recognize the name. A quick look at Mr. Flynn told me the name meant nothing special to him, either.

By the time James finished reading, my heartbeat had returned almost to normal.

“Benedict's case was peculiar in several ways,” Paul said. “Would you like me to explain it?”

James nodded. “Yes. When was the first time you saw him?”

“Mr. Benedict was lying in the field, attended by his valet, who was unhurt.” Paul's manner was thoughtful and assured, and I felt a surge of hope. If this was the way he presented information in court, he would make a very credible witness.

“I estimated his age at slightly less than thirty,” Paul continued, “and I'd say he weighed approximately fourteen stone. He seemed to be in fair health, although he had a sprained right wrist—presumably because he put his arm up to keep from being thrown about in the carriage. He also had a medium-sized bump on the back of his skull and a rather long, deep cut here,” Paul ran his hand along his cheek. “I wrapped his wrist; then I administered chloroform and gave him six or seven stitches to close the wound on his face. When I finished, I put him onto one of the wagons to be taken to town, where he was installed in the Polk Hotel. I checked on him the next morning—Saturday—and that's when I began to feel concerned.”

“Why?” James asked.

Paul ran his hands through his hair. “There was something peculiar about his secondary symptoms. In railway cases such as these, when someone has experienced a blow to the head or the spine, symptoms appear belatedly and seem to spread across the body—but they tend to exhibit a proportional intensity. A small bump on the head may result in mild ringing in the ear and some tremors, whereas a severe head injury will cause loss of memory and possibly paralysis. But in Benedict's case, it seemed that his symptoms were wholly out of proportion to the head injury. When I asked him to stand, he had problems keeping his balance; and when I asked him to read something, he found it very difficult. So I had him disrobe and examined his spine. There was some bruising—but again, not enough that I would have expected the symptoms he had.”

“Was he feigning them?” James asked bluntly.

Paul gave a faint grimace. “No. He had other conditions that are nearly impossible to produce voluntarily—unusual pupil dilation, elevated blood pressure, a mottled appearance to his skin.” He shook his head. “His injuries were real. But I suspected there was also at least one ‘complicating factor' that increased the severity of the symptoms. It could've been a nervous or fretful disposition; a history of rickets or smallpox or whooping cough; or habitual excessive drinking of spirits, for example.”

I bit my lip.
Use of an opiate would certainly be on Felix's list, just as it had been on my mother's.

“So this complicating factor could have been the cause of his death,” James said, his eyes intent.

“Well, he wouldn't be dead if it weren't for the accident.” Paul gave a thin smile.

James waved a hand impatiently. “What I mean is that a complicating factor would drastically reduce your culpability.
Was
there one?”

“There might have been—but nothing was immediately evident. And I don't know his medical history.”

“You asked him?”

“Of course! But he didn't volunteer anything.” Paul frowned. “He could speak, but he was both reticent and extremely agitated.”

“And how did you treat him when you saw him on Saturday?”

“After I examined him, I changed the bandage on his face, performed dry cupping to the spine, and gave him both a mild sedative to help him sleep and tea for his digestion. I also advised that he be turned in bed to avoid sores and that he not be moved from the hotel for at least five days.”

“And when did you see him again?”

Paul pushed his hands into his pockets. “I returned the next morning to perform dry cupping again. I saw that my instructions were being followed, and Mr. Benedict seemed somewhat improved. But that evening—this was Sunday—I received a message that one of my other patients at the Polk Hotel was worse. On my way to seeing him, I looked in on Mr. Benedict and was told that Dr. Morris, the family physician, had arrived; my services were no longer needed; and, against my advice, Mr. Benedict was being removed to London by train, first thing in the morning.”

“So you didn't see him again in Travers?”

“No. But on Tuesday”—he glanced at Mr. Flynn—“I was in London and received an urgent message to come to his home near Bedford Square.”

Tuesday was the day of the initial Parliamentary hearing on the railway.

“What time was this?” James asked.

Paul's eyes narrowed, as he took a moment to remember. “Perhaps one o'clock in the afternoon.”

“And you went?”

“I did. I arrived shortly after two and found him much worse.”

“Due to a natural progression of symptoms or the new treatments?” James asked.

Paul hesitated. “There's no way to tell what his symptoms would have been if he'd remained in Travers. But I'm sure that traveling by railway wasn't beneficial. And Dr. Morris's treatments were very different from mine. Mr. Benedict had been bled, and the instructions I'd given as to medicine hadn't been followed. He was no longer receiving the tea or the sedative, and he'd developed an infected sore on his hip. I stayed with him and administered laudanum because he was in terrible pain. He died a few hours later, at around five o'clock in the morning.”

“So what you're saying is that Felix Benedict grew worse under his physician's care.”

“Yes—but he might have worsened in any case. There's no way of knowing.”

James frowned. “And I'm sure Dr. Morris will be present in court to defend his diagnosis and procedures.”

“And attack yours,” Mr. Flynn growled.

“I know,” Paul said. “And he's a physician with a university degree. I'm not.”

James gave Paul a shrewd look. “You're quite right. In the absence of a complicating factor, this case will be won or lost on the basis of your professional record. Do you keep a notebook, a log of your cases?”

“I brought it up with me,” Mr. Flynn said, gesturing to the case at his side.

“Tom told me you wanted me to compile a list of patients who made poor recoveries or went to trial,” Paul said, reaching inside his coat for a folded paper. “I have that here.”

“Good,” James said. “In addition to this list, I want a second list of cases in which there were complicating factors, whether you testified in court about them or not. Start with the most recent cases and work backward. And if there was a medical man who disagreed with you in any of the cases, make a note of that as well.”

Paul nodded.

“I don't just want the medical details,” James added. “I'll need everything you can remember—the names of counsel, or special witnesses, and anything unusual in the diagnosis or progression of the disease. I also want to know if there is anyone who has a particular connection to your cases, anyone you've encountered more than once.”

“I understand.”

A key scraped in the lock, and the warden appeared in the doorway. “Time to go, guv'nor.”

Paul's face tensed.

“Don't worry.” James folded up the court order and slid it into his briefcase. “I'll be back on Monday morning, and I'll petition for a permanent pass so I can see you anytime.”

The warden spoke loudly: “Time to go.”

Mr. Flynn had moved close to Paul's side and was muttering under his breath—I heard the words “railway” and “Hayes.” The warden was growing more impatient, and I felt a wave of frustration. What was Mr. Flynn thinking? Of course he wanted Paul to know what he'd discovered, but this warden could add to Paul's discomfort in any number of ways.

The man slapped his truncheon against his hand and opened his mouth.

I stepped in front of Mr. Flynn and gave the warden my best smile. “Thank you for being patient with us. It just seems there's so much to discuss with my brother's case. We've never had anything like this happen before in our family, and I'm afraid we're all rather distraught.”

The warden closed his mouth and backed away from the door, looking somewhat mollified as I followed him into the corridor. James came next and finally Mr. Flynn. I had a last glimpse of Paul in his wretched cell before the door closed, and then the three of us followed the warden back to the entrance. When we were outside, the air was so clean and crisp by comparison that it almost hurt my lungs.

“Sir Lewis Solmes,” Mr. Flynn said. “Damn it all.”

“He's clever,” James acknowledged.

Mr. Flynn snorted. “Not just that. Half the judges in London belong to his club.”

“Why does
he
have to handle this case?” I asked resentfully.

James frowned. “Frankly, I'm wondering the same thing. It's peculiar. Solmes usually takes on cases with bigger stakes than one man's life. It's like bringing in a cannon to blow away a butterfly.”

Mr. Flynn said, “Maybe he knows that this case isn't just about one man's life.”

“Maybe,” James allowed.

We reached our carriage, and somewhat awkwardly Mr. Flynn extended his hand to James. “Either way, thank you for taking this on.”