A Lady in the Smoke (25 page)

“The
Falcon
started out as a crime sheet. Plenty of material right nearby.” He jerked his head toward the window. “Besides, Mr. Falcon wanted to be close to the police station on Leman Street. His best friend was one of the four inspectors for H division.” He looked back at his page, and I began my next.

Perhaps half an hour later, we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and down the passage. Jeremy appeared in the doorway, swinging a closed umbrella and grinning triumphantly—until he saw me, and then the smile was replaced by a look of suspicion.

“Hullo,” Mr. Flynn said.

Jeremy jerked his chin at me. “Wot's she doin' 'ere?”

“She's helping me,” Mr. Flynn replied levelly. “Where've you been, and what are you doing with that umbrella?”

“Well, I got to thinkin'.” Jeremy set the tip of the umbrella on the floor and rested both hands on it. “I alwus think it's important to be mindin' the gain. If Farnsworth's the one wot's buyin' land with 'Ayes, ain't it important to see who 'e's talking to? So I figgered out which club 'e b'longed to, and 'ung 'round till I found 'im, and tonight when 'e came out, I saw 'im walkin' down the street like this.” Jeremy strolled casually from one side of the room to the other. “Like 'e ain't goin' nowhere special—but don't you know, a carriage picked 'im up right near St. Margaret's. It warn't a private one, but 'e got in quick like 'e knew it was comin' for 'im. So I clumb up on back.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Another bloke who was taggin' a ride.”

“Where did you go?”

“Well, I'll get to that, but 'afore we went anywhere, I heard talkin'. There was somebody else inside—”

“Any names?” Mr. Flynn interrupted.

Jeremy shook his head. “I could tell it was a gen'leman by 'ow 'e spoke, but that's all. I 'eard something about a pool, 'n I guessed it might be a gamblin' pool, and I thought if'n I was gettin' dragged out somewhere Farnsworth was playin' a bloody game o' cards, that warn't worth anything, but I figger I'll 'ang on and see. So the cab starts up and after about twen'y minutes, we turn into a street 'round back of St. Paul's, near the courts, and one of 'em gets out. The street's empty, and I stay behin' the carriage so 'e can't see me, but the fool looks left and right, so I get a good look at 'im before he goes in, and it's Farnsworth. Goes in without knockin', mind ye.”

“Whose door?”

Jeremy sniffed. “Somebody named Poole. S. Poole. He's a lawyer.
E-S-Q
was on the plate after 'is name.”

“Samuel Poole?” Mr. Flynn asked sharply.

“I dunno.” Jeremy shrugged. “But I saw 'im through a window. 'E's short and 'most skinny as me, 'air turnin' gray, with pocks on his face.”

“Yes, that's Samuel Poole.” Mr. Flynn turned to me. “He specializes in starting up railways. Managed half a dozen paper schemes in the '60s. He's sharp. And sly as they come.”

Jeremy rubbed at his nose with a dirty handkerchief and stuffed the wadded cloth back into his pocket. “Well, Farnsworth goes in there for five minutes, and I'm sneakin' 'round to the window to hear wot they're sayin', 'n up rolls
another
carriage, 'n out comes a tall bloke who's got more sense. Keeps 'is head down, so's I can't get a good look at 'im.”

“Did you recognize the carriage?” Mr. Flynn demanded.

Jeremy frowned at him reproachfully. “You
know
if there'd 'a been a lozenge I'd 'a looked. But it was rented, same as the other, a plain old black 'un.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

Jeremy's eyes barely darted toward me before they went back to Mr. Flynn. “I didn't 'spect to be able to 'ear nothin' 'cos all the downstairs windows was dark, and there warn't nothing I could climb up to listen nowhere else. So I went t' the driver and asked 'im who 'is passenger was, but 'e cuffed me and sent me off. So I waited for the second bloke to come out, but 'e got in and they drove off so fast I lost 'im. But
then
”—he paused for dramatic flourish and picked up the umbrella—“I 'membered 'e carried
this
when 'e went in, but not when 'e come out. So I went to the door and knocked, tellin' the maid wot answered that m'lord had forgot 'is 'mbrella, and she done give it to me.” He held it in front of him with a flourish. “Look at what it 'as.”

Mr. Flynn took it and studied the carving on the handle; then, with a gleam in his eyes, he handed the umbrella to me.

On one side of the handle was a carved portcullis, the symbol of the House of Lords; on the other side was an elaborate curved
B
.

“So this ‘B' could be another investor,” I said, “or it could be an MP who is helping to make sure the Great Southeastern reopens.”

“And pushing some new railway lines through Parliament,” Mr. Flynn added. “I'd give a lot to know what this B stands for.”

“I was thinking o' Burton,” Jeremy said. “ 'E's tall like the second man, and 'e's part of the railway interest.”

Mr. Flynn looked thoughtful. “Yes. He always has plenty to say on the railway question. You could be right.”

“Or Bucknell. 'E's tall.”

“I can't see him taking the risk. The man's next in line for Home Secretary.”

“Or mebbe Burlington. 'E's got a mistress wot 'e might need extra for.” Jeremy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

I stared at the boy's sharp little face and felt a stab of awe tinged with regret. He was clever and observant, with a memory for faces and facts. Born to a different station in life, Jeremy could have been something quite remarkable.

Mr. Flynn patted him on the shoulder and dug in his pocket for some coins. “Go get yourself some hot supper.”

“Yes'r,” Jeremy said with a grin and vanished out the door. A moment later, he poked his head back in. “ 'Nd you kin tell Mr. Wilcox I'll do anything else I can, to 'elp spring 'im.”

“I will.” Mr. Flynn nodded. Jeremy dashed off, and Mr. Flynn said under his breath, “So Hayes is connected to Farnsworth who's connected to an MP and a crooked railway lawyer.” Then he looked down at the newspapers. “We've
got
to be right about this.”

After another hour, we'd finished the third box and were three-quarters of the way through the fourth. I paused to close my eyes, resting them for a moment because the letters were beginning to blur together. As I opened them, I heard footsteps coming along the passage again. I imagined it was Jeremy, back from finding his supper.

“Elizabeth.”

My head jerked up, and I twisted around in my chair.

My cousin James stood in the doorway, dressed for a dinner engagement, or perhaps for his club. Absurdly, I found myself staring at the pure white silk scarf tucked neatly in at the neck of his coat. It—and he—looked wholly out of place in this dusty hole of a room. He took off his hat, and his blond hair fell over his forehead and shone almost silvery in the light.

“James! What are you doing here?”

“What am
I
doing here?” He raised an eyebrow. “I'm taking you home.” And when I didn't move, he added sternly, “Don't fuss about this, Elizabeth. I have a cab waiting downstairs.”

My first thought was that Anne had sent him a telegram, asking him to check on me at the
Falcon
offices. But she wouldn't have. She never would have undermined me; she trusted that I knew what I was doing.

James looked over my head at Mr. Flynn. “Thank you.”

Furious, I whirled and gaped at him. His hands fidgeted with the edges of the page before him, and he looked almost ashamed, but the stubborn set of his jaw told me he was sure that he'd done the right thing.

But how? And when?

Then I remembered him going to get the extra lanterns. He must have sent a note out to James to come get me.

Mr. Flynn must have seen the accusation in my eyes, for he flinched. “You shouldn't be here.”

“And why is that for you to decide?” I asked, my voice low and angry.

“Elizabeth,” James said.

I ignored him and gestured toward the boxes of newspapers remaining. “You're never going to get through them all. The least you could have done, if you'd wanted to be decent, was to let me help with this.”

“Elizabeth, stop it.” James's voice rose. “We have to go.”

He was holding my cloak. Wordlessly, I let him wrap it around me.

“There's a train that leaves in forty minutes,” James said and reached for my elbow.

I preceded him through the door without a backward glance.

James and I were both grimly silent in the cab.

He barely looked at me as he bought our first-class tickets at the station, hurried me along the platform, and ushered me into an empty compartment. Once we were inside, he undid his coat buttons, threw his hat onto the cushion, and took a seat. Elbows on his knees, he gripped his hair with his hands like he used to years ago, when something frustrated him beyond words.

For my part, I looked out the window, trying to rein in the resentment I always felt at being overseen and directed and herded by others, as if I were still a child. James no doubt believed he was acting for my own good by dragging me home, but my trip to London hadn't been undertaken thoughtlessly or selfishly, whatever he might think. Finding those branch lines wouldn't just help Paul and me; it might help restore fairness to a little corner of the world. It sickened me that people like Hayes and his ilk could manipulate share prices and wreck trains and ruin people's lives with no punishment of any kind; in a world with any kind of justice, that shouldn't be allow to happen.

The train sat in the station for only a few minutes before the whistle blew and it started forward with a shudder. Our carriage slid out from under the station roof, and I could see the lights of London spreading a haze across the muddy sky. Within minutes, the train was rolling past a web of squalid little streets. And then, as the city fell away, the world outside grew dark, turning the window into a mirror. I could see my blurred reflection, a pale, strained face inside an ugly bonnet.

“Are you in love with that man?” James's voice was flat.

I turned to stare at him. He had tugged his hair into a rumple like a boy's, but in the light from the carriage lantern, his face looked older than usual.

“That man, Mr. Flynn,” he said, with no attempt at patience. “Are you in love with him?”

“Of course not!” It burst out with the ring of truth. “I
swear
I am not in love with Mr. Flynn.”

“Then what were you
thinking,
going there?”

“I was
thinking
that there is less than a week left until the trial. I was
thinking
that we need the name of one of those proposed railways!” I leaned forward. “Listen, James. Tonight, Jeremy was outside Farnsworth's club and—”

“Who's Jeremy?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “He's an errand boy for Mr. Flynn. I met him in Travers. But tonight he followed Farnsworth to the offices of a crooked railway lawyer named Poole.”

“Poole?” He sat back. “Do you mean Samuel Poole? He's involved in this?”

“Yes. Don't you see? Mr. Flynn is right about the lines Hayes is planning. Finding a listing is the only way to prove it!”

James pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and I could see him striving to speak patiently. “Elizabeth, your interest in this railway scheme—and I blame myself for encouraging you—has become positively unhealthy.”

“Unhealthy?” I echoed, disbelieving. “James, it's my dowry! Believe me when I say that I was plenty
interested
without your encouragement. It's my future at stake!”

“Then you should be more concerned about your
reputation
!” His eyes were blazing. “Your dowry's not going to do you one bit of good if something like this gets out. You, spending a night in London, alone, with a man—a newspaperman, of all things!” He took a breath. “Oh, I know you think I'm being patronizing, coming to fetch you. But do you even comprehend the damage you might have done to yourself, had I not?”

“But no one would have known, if Mr. Flynn hadn't sent a message to you!” I protested.

He let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh, of course not. I'm sure no one even noticed you were there.”

My hands were fists in my lap. “They knew I was
there,
but they didn't know who I
was
.”

“And they couldn't have found out? Don't be absurd! You said the boy Jeremy was there. He knows who you are, doesn't he?”

“He'd have kept his mouth shut,” I said, although with more certainty than I felt.

He threw up his hands. “You
can't
be this naïve. And even if he didn't tell them, you were in an office full of newspapermen! For Christ's sake, Elizabeth, they ferret out information for a living.”

Of course he was right, but his voice had that tone of impatient disdain that made me feel furious and humiliated and stupid all at once. I fought down my feelings, took a deep breath, and tried to speak calmly. “James, if we had found that listing, we'd have been able to show the Select Committee that there's been a plan all along. Don't you see, this is like a puzzle, and we're finding one piece at a time—”

“And in six months, no one is going to care,” James cut in. “It won't make a bit of difference.”

I leaned back against the cushion, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “How can you say that? It could make a tremendous difference.”

He bit his lip. “You're not hearing anything I'm saying.”

Well, you're not listening to me, either.

“Elizabeth, I know your mother thinks that you're willful and impulsive.”

I gaped. “She's said that to you?”

“No, but she's talked to my mother, and my mother has shared her worries with me. And all along, I've defended you. I told my mother that you have a mind of your own, certainly, but you'd never do anything truly foolish. But here you are, having done something utterly imprudent and even dangerous, and you are still willfully disavowing the possible consequences of your actions.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You're looking at me as if I'm mad, but I'm beginning to wonder if you are.”

I recoiled as if he had made to strike me. “That's a rotten thing to say, James. I'm not mad, and you know it.”

He had the grace to look ashamed, and his voice lost its hard edge. “No. I know you're not mad. But you're not a child anymore. You are making choices that have effects—
material
effects—not just for yourself, but for the people around you.” He paused and added pointedly, “And you're hurting them.”

To my dismay, tears began pricking at the corners of my eyes. I tried to blink them back.

“Oh, god. Don't cry, Elizabeth.” He handed me his handkerchief. “Please don't. I didn't mean to make you cry.” He gave a sigh. “We all just want what's best for you.”

I pressed the handkerchief to my damp eyes, and from my throat came a sound that was halfway between a cry and a laugh. “My mother doesn't want what's best for me. She just wants to get me out of the way.”

“She wants you settled, yes,” he replied. “If you want to call it ‘out of the way,' you can, I suppose.”

I took the handkerchief from my eyes. “How can you defend her, James? You spent summers with us. You saw how she ignored me, how she never wanted me with her—” The tears I'd been fighting back began to fall, and there was a hard ache in the back of my throat.

“Of course she wanted you.” He looked uncomfortable. “Let's not talk about this anymore, all right?”

But suddenly, desperately, I wanted him to understand. I gulped down my tears and wadded his handkerchief between my hands. “It's different for you, James. You and your parents and Anthony
enjoy
each other. I know because I used to watch when you'd visit together. We'd be sitting at the table, and you'd all be laughing and talking about what was happening in the world; your parents would be explaining things.” His expression began to change. “Your father played cricket with you and helped you study for Latin, and he taught Anthony how to hunt pheasant…but my father? He didn't want to be with us. He”—I choked back what I could have said about him and Lady Shaw—“he was
always
off somewhere else—riding his horses, or going hunting with his friends, or visiting London. As for my mother? The whole summer after my father died, I sat by her bed for hours every day.” My voice became bitter. “But she didn't want me. All she wanted was her bloody laudanum.”

“Oh, Elizabeth. That was years ago, and she was very unwell—”

“All right then,” I broke in, determined to make him see. “Three weeks ago, she told me that my personal charms weren't worth anything without a dowry, and that after she died I would be nothing more than an unwanted obligation to my relations.”

Those words silenced him for several miles, and when he spoke, his voice had lost all traces of contentiousness. “That was unkind—not to mention untrue. But you should know better than to take her words at face value. It was probably the laudanum.”

“Laudanum or not, she said it,” I said tiredly. “So please don't defend her to me.”

He dropped his head into his hands again, and for a few minutes, all I felt was the working of the train pistons, steady as a heartbeat.

Finally he looked up. “I won't tell anyone where you were tonight, all right? So far as they know, you were at Anne's, and I went to see you there; we stayed late visiting, and then I brought you home.”

“What about my clothes?”

“Where are your usual ones?”

“In a bag, with the gig, at the stables near Bonwell Station.”

He gestured toward my skirt. “Where did you get those ugly things, anyway?”

“From a closet in the spare room.”

He gave a grunt. “You can change at the station before we go home.” Then his jaw set in a stubborn line. “But you have to promise me you'll not try anything like this again. In fact, I don't want you coming to the jail anymore.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Not go to the jail? Why on earth not?”

“Because you're not acting yourself these days.” He shook his head. “Go spend some time with Anne. Ride Athena, get out of doors, read your books, do whatever you like, but you need to get your mind away from this railway business.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“And if you can't promise that, then I'll tell my mother where you were tonight.”

“You wouldn't do that,” I half-whispered.

“Yes, I would.” He looked down at his scarf and fidgeted with it. “I mean it.”

Feeling suddenly cold and sick, I wrapped my arms across my chest, and we rode in silence for a dozen miles, bits of light in the distance appearing and fading.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Elizabeth, look at me.”

I turned.

“You have to remember something,” he said soberly. “I've been asked to represent Mr. Wilcox in a manslaughter suit. Now, Mr. Flynn has constructed a train of events that gives Hayes motives for terrible crimes. But even if we could introduce this story into court—and god knows we can't—Mr. Flynn hasn't uncovered anything illegal yet, and he knows it—or it would've been on the front page of the
Falcon
already.” He shook his head. “It's not a crime to buy or sell shares. It's not a crime to short-sell stock. It's not a crime to buy land inexpensively—or to meet with a railway lawyer, no matter how crooked he may be.”

“But
sabotage
is illegal—”

“Yes, the sabotage is the one undeniably illegal act in this entire mess,” he acknowledged, spreading his hands. “But Mr. Flynn has no proof that Hayes is connected to it. He's found no link between Hayes and Mr. Wilcox, and there's no proof that Hayes influenced Mrs. Benedict to bring the charge of manslaughter.” He sighed. “Any connection among them is probably so deeply buried that he'll never find it.”

I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. Much of what James was saying was true.

“The only things that will help clear Wilcox,” he continued, “are his ability to convey the practical logic of his treatment of Benedict and the presence of witnesses who will testify to his character and his skills as a railway surgeon. I've already written to Wilcox's mentor John Erichsen. He's very well-respected, and from what I've heard, he's a powerful presence in the courtroom.”

This was a piece of good news.

“Have you heard back?” I asked.

“Not yet. Apparently, he's away from his practice in Edinburgh. But I sent a telegram, and I imagine he'll come. We're going to need him.”

I hated the flat tone in his voice.

We remained silent until the train dragged to a stop at Bonwell Station. James sent for the gig, and I changed my clothes and climbed in beside him. He took the reins for the ride home, and as we topped Cobbley's Knob, my eyes sought Kellham Park.

The lights were blazing out of the windows.

I let out a groan. “They must have discovered that I wasn't at Anne's. Your mother's going to be furious.”

“She's going to be
worried,
” he corrected me. “And rightfully so. You may not want to admit it, but it's only by the sheerest luck that nothing happened to you tonight.”

I kept silent, but I knew he was right.

We turned onto the long drive and came to a halt in front of the portico. I made no move to climb out, feeling suddenly limp with fatigue and despair.

“Go upstairs and get into bed,” James said gently. “You're pale as a ghost. I'll tell them you're exhausted and you'll speak to them tomorrow. And don't worry. I'll handle my mother.” He took my hand to help me out.

The front door opened and Aunt Catherine emerged, visibly upset.

“I'm sorry, Aunt,” I said, before she could speak. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“How could I not be frightened?” Her voice was sharp.

“Let her go, Mother,” James said. “She's worn out.”

I left them conversing behind me and went upstairs, nineteen steps that felt like one hundred. In my room, Nora was stoking the fire, and Sally was there, waiting. As I came in, she put her arms around me fiercely and whispered, “Thank god you're home. You scared us 'most half to death.”