A Lady in the Smoke (24 page)

And then I knew I did have reason to worry. The men were moving quickly, and they were headed straight toward me.

My heart was hammering as I scurried along the wall, away from the lantern light. In my haste, I nearly missed the narrow alley between the
Falcon
and the next building, and I hesitated at its threshold, peering into the murky darkness. I couldn't see much other than a dim glow at the end of it, and it stank of garbage. But a backward glance told me that the two men were closer now. One of them called out in a voice that was meant to sound wheedling, “ 'Allo, lass! Where'd ye go? We jus' wanna talk to ye!”

I looked around frantically. The street was deserted; I
had
to get into the
Falcon
offices. I could only hope that there was another entrance in the back and the two men would assume I'd continued down the street. I started down the alley, my feet faltering over the uneven ground, and my left hand groping along the bricks. My fingers caught against the frame of a door, and I felt a wave of relief until I realized there were rough wooden slats nailed across it. I stifled a groan and chanced another look behind me. The two men were silhouetted at the entrance to the alley and peering into the darkness.

I froze, praying that my dark cloak would be camouflage enough.

“Did she go down this way?” one asked. “Or over there?”

“I dunno.”

A pause that seemed to go on forever. I didn't dare breathe.

“Niver mind. We ain't goin' t' find 'er now.”

They turned away, and I let my breath go in a ragged exhale, sagging against the slats for a moment. I waited until I could no longer hear their footsteps, and then, feeling my way as silently as I could, I kept on around to the back of the building.

Here was another entrance, thank god—and there was even a guttering lantern to illuminate it. I grasped the handle tightly and pulled hard, determined that this door would not keep me out. It came open with a faint creak of its hinges, and at last I was inside, facing a narrow set of stairs that stank of mold and ascended into what looked like utter blackness.

Trembling, I dragged the door closed behind me and took a moment to steady myself. As my eyes adjusted, I could see a faint vertical line of light above, like what would appear between a door and a jamb. The staircase echoed with the sounds of masculine voices, heavy footsteps, and an intermittent thunking noise.

“Hello!” I called out. “Hello!”

No reply.

I put my hand out, hoping for a railing. There was none. But the wall was dry plaster, and with one hand on it for balance I started up the wooden steps.

And then my foot fell into an empty space where a step should have been.

As my entire body pitched forward, my hands flew out and landed hard enough to bruise. I felt for the next few steps; they seemed solid enough, but my heart was thudding as I struggled to pull myself up. I cried out, and when no one answered, my voice rose to a scream. “Hello? Is anyone here? Mr. Flynn.
Mr. Flynn!
”

Above me, the door opened, and a wedge of light appeared, followed by a man's voice. “Who's there?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Flynn, and I can't see!” I shouted back. “Have you a lamp that you can bring down? I don't want to fall through another step.”

The man vanished and reappeared, a large lantern held aloft. “It's only the one step that's gone, miss!” he called. “The rest are all right! Can you see now?”

“Well enough, thank you.” I gathered my skirts with shaking fingers and began climbing again.

“Who's comin'?” Another voice barked.

The man above me called back: “It's a lady!”

“What the devil's she comin' up that way for?”

“I dunno!”

I arrived at the landing to find the man staring at me openmouthed.

“I'd have come in the front door,” I explained breathlessly, “but no one answered, and it's locked.”

“Well, o' course it's locked!” The man frowned. “Some folks who don't much like what we're writin' jimmied the presses last week.” He scratched at his forearm where there was a patch of black ink. “You said you're lookin' for Flynn? I ain't seen him all day.”

My heart sank. “Are you sure?” I stepped toward the doorway and peered into what seemed to be the main workroom. There were about forty men inside, all talking loudly; some were hunched over tables, and others ran back and forth with large wooden boxes. A quick scan told me that Mr. Flynn wasn't among them.

The man with the lantern stepped around me and hollered into the room. “Anybody seen Flynn today?”

“Upstairs!” came two or three shouts.

“Archives!” yelled someone else.

Were these men incapable of speaking at anything close to normal volume?

“Ho, Ted!” My man with the lantern beckoned toward a young man of about thirteen, with a long, thin face.

He jumped up from his stool and darted over to us. “Yes, Mr. Michaels!”

“Take this lady upstairs, to the archives. She's looking for Flynn.” He pointed down the stairway. “And then get down there and lock the bloody door!”

“Yes, Mr. Michaels.” Ted bobbed his head several times, like a horse dipping into a trough. He took the lantern and turned to me. “Watch the steps up 'ere, miss. There's a few that's most-ways rotten and some of 'em are loose.”

“Naturally,” I said under my breath.

We went up one more flight of stairs. Ted opened a wooden door that stuck hard to the jamb, then led me down a hallway lined with dusty boxes and crates until we reached another, narrower passage. At the far end of it, light was spilling out of an opening. Ted swung his lamp. “That room's where he'll be, miss. D'you want me to wait fer ye?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I'll be staying for a bit.”

His eyebrows rose, and he looked at me dubiously. “Aw right, miss.”

I made my way quietly, bracing myself for Mr. Flynn's reaction. He wasn't going to be happy that I was here, and he'd never admit that he needed my help. But as I peered in at the door, I realized that Paul hadn't been exaggerating when he said it could take days to examine the listings.

Mr. Flynn sat at a worktable, illuminated by two ugly, overhead lamps. On the floor to his right were five large open boxes full of newspapers. A sixth box, empty, rested on a slat-backed wooden chair. Two other similar boxes, lids closed, were near the wall by a pot-bellied black stove, which Mr. Flynn either had forgotten to keep stoked or hadn't bothered to light at all. He sat between two piles of newspapers, a tall one to his right, and a shorter stack to his left. He was bent over a page, scowling. His hair was mussed, his shirtsleeves rolled, and the front of his shirt smudged with the blacking off the newsprint.

So he'd gotten through only two-and-a-half boxes of eight.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Flynn.”

His head jerked up, and his expression changed from irritation at being interrupted to complete shock. He stood abruptly, the chair making a horrible grinding noise against the floor. “What the devil are you doing here?” He looked me up and down. “And what are you wearing?”

With anyone else, I might have apologized sweetly; but knowing him as I did, I felt a pragmatic approach was more likely to win him over. I began to unfasten my cloak. “I'm here to help you look for the branch lines.”

His mouth opened in astonishment. Then he shook his head firmly. “
No
. You can't be here.”

“Yes, I can,” I said calmly. I found a nail behind the door and hung my cloak. “Everyone at home thinks I'm at Anne Reynolds's, so I can be here all night.”

He stared, seemingly flummoxed. Finally he gave a deep sigh and scrubbed his hand over his brow. “What time is it?”

“Half-past six, or thereabouts. The train took hours longer than I thought.” I moved the empty box, drew the chair to the table, and sat down. “Have you found anything?”

He grunted and sat back down, scowling. “If I had, would I still be here?”

“Then you might as well put me to use. Give me a page and tell me what I should be looking for.” I gestured to the five open boxes. “That's what we have left, is it?”

His lips tightened, and he nodded, capitulating. “All right. Here.” He picked up the newspaper on the top of the stack to his right, drew out a section and turned it so that it faced me. It was standard size, same as the rest of the London
Times,
and had the words “Proposed Railways” at the top.

“These are the Saturday supplements to the
Times
. They list all the new railway offerings.”

I gazed in some dismay at a page full of notices, separated by short lines.

“We're looking for one of two things. The first, and easiest to spot, is the location of the line. What's the first one there?” His finger came down near the top left corner of the page.

I peered at the small print. “The Easton-Delfing Railway.”

“That's not going to be one of the branch lines. We're looking for a listing that includes one of the towns on the Great Southeastern, or someplace close by. Livingworth, Kenning, West Haverly. Even Holmsted.”

“And a railway called Easton-Delfing will be up by Leeds. So that's of no interest to us.”

“Exactly. But the other thing you want to check is the board. Read farther down. You'll see a row of names, usually starting with a lord or two, just to add a nice patina of legitimacy.”

“Mr. Gallup, Mr. Fenley, Mr. Temple.” I looked up. “No patina on this one.”

His mouth twisted. “Let me know if you see any names you recognize.”

“Will Hayes be listed, do you think?” I asked.

“Nah. I'm guessing he'll keep his name out of it.”

Suddenly something occurred to me. “Did you ever show Paul Anne's sketch of him?”

“I did, actually. And Paul said his face looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen him.” He shrugged. “It was just a sketch, not a photograph. And between his work in the hospital and on trials, Paul sees a lot of people.”

“I'm sure,” I agreed.

He gestured to the page in front of me. “Keep an eye out for Farnsworth, too.” He stood up and made his way to the door. “He's no relation to Lord Shaw, by the way. Different family altogether. I'm going to find another light. I'll be back in a minute.”

I began to read the first page of listings. The black print had already begun to smudge and fade, and this newspaper was only four weeks old. It was covered with listings for provisionally registered railways and preliminary announcements. After the Easton-Delfing came the Chester and Holyhead Railway, the Dublin and Enniskillen Railway, the Essex and Suffolk Railway, West of England Central and Channels Junction Railway, Grand Junction to the Great Western, the Burton-Upon-Trent and Stafford Railway—and that was only a single page.

Mr. Flynn came back with two lanterns and set them on the table. “Why are you shaking your head?”

“I don't see how there can be room in England for all these railways.”

He scraped a sulfur match to light the first lantern. “There aren't. Some of them are just paper schemes made up to lure investors.” The match burnt low as he lit the second, and he swore and sucked on his thumb.

“And that's legal?”

He shrugged. “Still no law against it. Not yet, anyway.”

I set aside that page and took up the next. Most of the proposed railways seemed to be either short lines, disconnected from London, or lines that ran south and west, toward the coast.

By the time I'd reviewed six pages, my eyes began to feel the strain of staring at the tiny letters. I rubbed gently at my temples.

“You can stop if you like.”

I looked up. “Don't be absurd. But it's a wonder you aren't blind if you do this sort of research often.”

He set aside one page and picked up the next. “By the way, Jeremy found out that a clerk at the Commission for Safety office was paid to bury the first report from Griffin.”

I stared. “Paid by whom?”

“Wouldn't say. Still, it means the report didn't just go missing.”

“How does Jeremy find out all these things?” I couldn't imagine him intimidating anyone; and I was fairly sure he wasn't succeeding on his personal charms.

“Pays people, of course.”

“For god's sake,” I said in disgust. “Everything in this city is for sale.”

I finished the last page on my stack and stood up to take some more papers out of the box.

Suddenly, from below, came what sounded like the roar of an engine starting up, followed by a thunderous slamming noise.

I whirled around, sending the papers flying. “What's
that
?”

He was staring. “The press, of course. Always starts up around half-past seven.”

“It sounds like a train going off the rails.” My heart was going so hard I felt sick. Shakily, I sat back down.

He bent to collect the pages I had scattered. “Sorry. I should've warned you. It runs on a steam engine. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” I took several deep breaths, trying to return my heartbeat to normal.

He frowned, glancing at the doorway. “Jeremy was supposed to be back hours ago. I wonder where he's got to.”

“Do you worry about him?” I thought of the two men who had chased me into the alley. “This isn't exactly the safest of neighborhoods.”

“Not for you, maybe. Jeremy grew up here. Knows how to keep out of trouble.”

I nodded, but I still felt uneasy. I wondered for a moment whether I should mention the men to Mr. Flynn. But if I did, I would only be proving his point that I ought not to have come here. Besides, he was probably right about Jeremy being able to take care of himself. So instead I sifted through the papers until I found the railway page. “It seems an odd place for newspaper offices.”