A Lady in the Smoke (30 page)

She drew herself up, her expression cold. “Do you doubt my word? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, I know who you are, Mrs. Rowell,” he said. “You are the daughter of a wealthy and respected industrialist from Manchester. But in this courtroom, you may not make accusations or declare verdicts.” He laid the gavel down. “Now, with all respect, I ask you to explain, in as unembroidered a fashion as possible, the nature of your acquaintance with Mr. Wilcox.”

She looked balefully at the judge and then turned back to Sir Solmes, unchastened by the rebuke. “My son was in a terrible railway accident, just like poor Mr. Benedict.”

“When was that?”

“May thirtieth of last year.”

“And can you describe his condition after the accident?”

“At first, he seemed to be all right, but when he grew worse, we sent for Mr. Erichsen, of course, the famous railway surgeon. He wrote that he couldn't come, but that he'd send his colleague, Mr. Wilcox. My poor boy suffered for two more days before Mr. Wilcox had the grace to appear.”

Sir Solmes made a sympathetic noise. “And what happened when he arrived?”

“Well, he said he was going to examine my poor Percy, but I would hardly call what he did an examination.” She sniffed. “First, he wrenched his limbs about, and then he accused my son of faking his injuries. When my son protested at being mauled and mishandled, Mr. Wilcox admitted that he resents the idle rich and doesn't trust them. He said that men like my father are to blame for everything that is wrong with England's business practices. That is when I spoke up. Whether he hates us or not, he is still under an obligation to treat patients if they—”

I could sense the judge's unwillingness to countenance the digression, and apparently Sir Solmes could as well, for he interrupted hastily: “And then? How did the illness progress?”

“Why, Percy grew worse and worse, until finally he was out of his mind with pain.” Her lip began to tremble. “Our regular physician came every day, but he could do nothing. Mr. Wilcox's cruel treatment and neglect had injured my son beyond all help.”

Sir Solmes turned so that he could survey the courtroom, enjoying the sensation he'd caused. When his eyes met mine, I glared as sharply as I knew how. His mouth twitched, and he turned back to Mrs. Rowell.

“Who is your physician?” the judge was asking.

“Dr. Penworthy.”

“And will we hear from this man?”

“No. He's been terribly ill with influenza,” she replied. “He left last month for the Continent, to take a cure.”

The judge frowned.

“And what were Percy's final days like?” Sir Solmes asked.

Mrs. Rowell sighed. “Oh, an agony! His neck was so stiff he couldn't turn….”

I lost track of Sir Solmes's questions and her answers; all I knew was that Sir Solmes encouraged Mrs. Rowell to relate her son's injuries in excruciating detail. I watched the jurymen's expressions; they seemed disturbed and largely disgusted, although they also seemed to be growing restless. I watched both Paul and James carefully. It was strange to see how two such different men had their heads canted at the same angle and even wore the same expression: attentive but calm, as if they were confident of the outcome.

Then I saw James drop his eyes, as if he were looking at something in his lap; his arm moved slightly. He'd pulled out his pocket watch.

I had no watch with me, but the sun was coming in horizontally through the windows. It must be four o'clock, if not later.

So that's why Sir Solmes was dragging on with Mrs. Rowell. It was nearly the end of the day, and he wanted to have the last word.

Indeed, he had timed his examination perfectly; as soon as he finished his last question, the judge called for a recess until the next morning.

I scanned the jury and felt a prickle of fear down my spine. There was a look of righteous indignation on some faces and disgust on others. Not one of them looked at Paul as the bailiff led him out of the courtroom—and now the jury had all night to think about Mr. Wilcox having killed Mrs. Rowell's son.

For his part, Sir Solmes kept his face devoid of emotion as he shuffled his papers into a tidy pile and put them into his case. He wasn't going to take the risk of appearing smug or certain of his advantage. Not so Mrs. Rowell. She looked primly sanctimonious and very satisfied with herself.

I could not remember ever loathing anyone so much.

My uncle had happened upon two acquaintances at the courthouse and accepted their invitation to meet for a pint at a nearby pub, but he insisted on accompanying me to the Polk first. I wondered if this was because I looked unwell, or because my aunt had directed him to keep a close watch on me. Certainly, I didn't mind his presence; I felt a bit shaky and wasn't sure I wanted to be alone at the moment.

But as we reached the steps of the hotel, I looked up at the windows of the front parlor. To my surprise, I saw Anne's face through one of the panes. She gave a faint smile and raised a gloved hand in greeting.

I halted. “Why, there's Anne!”

My uncle peered up. “Anne Reynolds? My goodness, she looks very well.”

“Yes, Scotland was good for her health.” I turned to him. “You needn't walk me in, Uncle. Anne is here to keep me company, and your friends are waiting.”

He nodded understandingly. “All right, my dear. I'll be back in an hour or two.” He gave my hand a pat and left me.

Coming in from the cool air of the street, the hotel foyer felt warm and stifling, with the cloying smell of roses that had begun to wither. I scraped the dirt from my boots and hurried into the parlor.

Anne started forward, her face sympathetic and her arms outstretched to embrace me.

It was only when she let me go that I realized someone else was in the room. Standing on the far side of the marble fireplace was a tall, lean figure in a dark coat.

Her brother, Philip.

I'd known him since we were children, and of course he'd been ill lately; but if he hadn't been with Anne, I'm not sure I would have recognized him. His usually smooth dark hair was dull and unkempt; the skin on his face was taut over his cheekbones; and he was pale to the lips. I'd always thought him handsome in a rakish way—but now there was something almost frightening about him, pared down as he was to skin and bones.

His expression was subdued. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Philip.” Hesitantly, I went toward him and took his hand in mine. His fingers were cold, and they barely responded to my touch. “I'm so sorry about Felix.”

He managed a half-nod that looked almost like a tremor. “Thank you.”

I turned to Anne, who was tugging at the fingers of her gloves to remove them. “I'm very glad to see you both. But why are you here?”

“For the trial, of course.”

“It didn't go very well today, I'm afraid. But it's carrying over to tomorrow.”

“I know. We were there,” Anne said, with a glance at her brother. “Both of us.”

“In the courtroom?” I asked, surprised. “I didn't see you.”

“We were upstairs in the gallery,” Philip muttered.

Of course. He wouldn't want to be seen by any of the Benedict family.

Suddenly, looking at his gaunt face, I remembered my manners. “Why don't I ask for some tea? I know I'd like some.”

“I already asked,” Anne said. “In fact, I think I hear it now.”

Indeed, a moment later, a maid carried in a silver tray. As usual, Anne poured for us, and I stirred in the sugar. Philip went to the door and closed it before returning to his position by the fireplace.

“Philip, would you like some tea?” I asked.

He gave a queer jerk of his head and stayed where he was, his right shoulder braced against the marble. “You didn't tell.” It was a statement, not a question; but I had no idea what he meant.

I looked at Anne for some sign, but she was watching him. Bewildered, I turned back to Philip. “I'm sorry, what—”

“Mr. Wilcox,” he said insistently, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You didn't tell him about Felix going to the opium den.”

I shook my head. “There were times I wanted to,” I admitted honestly. “But no, I didn't.”

His face twisted with despair.

“Philip, please,” I said gently. “Why don't you sit down?”

He lurched away from the mantel, sank into the chair beside me, and took the cup I offered. His fingers were shaking, and I made sure he had the cup safely in hand before I let go.

“I don't want to testify,” he said, his voice taut. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” I reassured him. Philip looked as though he were working himself into a state of agitation, and there was no need. “I understand, Philip. Truly, I do.”

“But I want to tell you something.” He swallowed so hard that I could see the muscles in his neck working. “Something that may help. Because I can't stand by and watch an innocent man go to prison. It's like those lies in the
Courier
. It just isn't bloody fair.”

I stayed very quiet, barely breathing.

His eyes dropped to the cup in his hands. “Opium wasn't the only complicating factor.”

I looked at Anne again for some clarification, but her eyes were on his tense figure, and her expression was expectant; she already knew whatever he was about to say.

“Felix had”—Philip took a quick, gasping breath—“syphilis.”

I sat forward so abruptly that a third of my tea went into the saucer. “Syphilis,” I repeated. I knew it was a disease men often caught from prostitutes. “You're quite sure?”

He gave a single nod without looking up.

My thoughts began to race. Although shameful, syphilis certainly didn't carry the stigma of sodomy; and fornication with a prostitute wasn't illegal. Was Philip telling me this because I would be allowed to tell James? Except that the time to introduce the syphilis would have been today during Paul's testimony. Was it simply too late?

And then, as I studied Philip's rigid shoulders, his dark lashes—so like Anne's—in marked contrast to his bloodless cheek, all my thoughts about how this bit of information might help Paul were swept away in a wave of sympathy.

This must be desperately painful for him.

I made my voice as gentle as I could. “I'm so sorry. How long had he had it?”

He looked up at last. “Six years, or thereabouts.”

“But how could Mr. Wilcox have missed it, during his examination?”

“The rashes and all”—the words came fitfully—“they were—intermittent—and sometimes they went away for weeks, or even months. But Felix's symptoms, after the accident—the way Mr. Wilcox was describing them—his balance and his eyesight…” His breath rasped in the back of his throat. “Maybe the accident made them worse, but Felix had some of those problems even before the crash. They were from his
tabes
.”

“Tabes?”
I echoed.

“Tabes dorsalis,”
he said. “It's a condition in syphilis patients. The disease begins to affect the spinal cord.” There was a long pause, and he looked close to tears. “Felix was…unhappy, and he could be brutish. But he was my dearest friend.”

“I know,” I said softly.

“I wouldn't testify about the opium because people would assume he was at that place with me, and I
won't
have Felix's name dragged through the mud too.” His voice faltered. “But Anne is one of the few people I love; and she loves you; and you love Mr. Wilcox. So I can't stand by and do nothing.”

Not for the world would I have told him that I had a feeling his help was coming too late. I reached a hand to touch his. “Thank you, Philip. You've been under a terrible strain, and I know this wasn't easy for you to tell me.”

In the silence, I heard the fire pop. Then Anne spoke up:

“Philip can't testify to Felix's condition, and of course Dr. Morris won't. But Felix's valet, Mr. Drewe, might.”

The spark of hope she stirred made me shiver. “His valet?”

She nodded. “And his testimony would count because he had first-hand knowledge of it. He helped dress Felix's wounds and sent out the sheets for special laundering, so the maids wouldn't suspect.”

“But would he testify?” I asked. “If he did, the Benedicts would never recommend him to another position.”

“That's the one piece of luck in all of this,” Anne said. “Mr. Drewe was planning to retire this coming summer.”

“He's a prig, but he's a fair-minded bloke,” Philip said. “I think he'll do it.”

Anne rose. “We have his address, and we're going to London tonight to bring him back if we can. You should let James know.”

Their unselfishness and generosity brought tears my eyes, and through the blur, I watched Philip stand and fumble with the buttons on his coat. “I can't thank you enough, both of you—but—Philip, what made you decide to tell me this?”

He looked up. “You kept your word. I don't know many people who do. Especially when breaking it will get them what they want.” His lips twitched convulsively, and he pressed them together in a hard line.

I stood and gave him my hand. He took it—how cold his hand was still, despite the tea and the warm fire—and, unexpectedly, awkwardly, he bent down and kissed my cheek.

Anne pulled me close, a brief hard embrace. She whispered in my ear, “We'll be back on the first train.”

I went to the window to watch them go. Anne put her hand through her brother's arm as they stood on the curb, and she smiled up at him—a smile of gratitude and pride—and laid her head briefly against his shoulder. Then a cab came by, and they climbed inside.

I stayed by the window and willed James to hurry.

Twenty hansom cabs must have driven by the hotel—my hopes rising and plummeting each time one passed—before James finally climbed out of one.

I went into the hall to greet him with my news, but the words stuck in my throat the moment I saw his face, white and set, as if he'd had a terrible shock.

My heart lurched.
Had something happened after I left the courtroom? Had something happened to Paul?

“James—”

“Come with me.” His voice was toneless, and he took my elbow and led me back into the parlor, shutting the doors behind us.

“What's the matter?”

He didn't answer at first. He removed his gloves, laying them deliberately on a table, and began to undo the buttons of his coat. But I recognized the tightness in his jaw and around his mouth. He was fighting to hold some overwhelming emotion in check.

I clutched at the back of a chair. “James—for god's sake—what's happened?”

He removed his coat and set it aside. Then, at last, he turned toward me, and I could read the expressions on his face: hurt, anger, bewilderment—and blame.

I stared at him, openmouthed. I could understand him being disappointed by what happened today, but I could think of no reason that he would look at me like this.

“What is it?” My words came out in a whisper.

“I didn't realize—that you have—feelings for Wilcox.”

The words came out in painful jerks, but he said it with as much certainty as he'd have said that London was a city in England. I felt the blood rise to my cheeks.

“I had no idea at all,” he continued, a faint tremor pulling at his mouth, “until I observed you in the courtroom.”

It took me a long time to find my voice, but finally I did. “It doesn't matter, James. It's not as though anything will come of it.”

He gave a bark of a laugh. “When I asked the other night if you had feelings for Flynn, you denied it so emphatically that I knew you were telling the truth. Little did I know I was asking the right question about the wrong man!” He ran his fingers into his hair. “And you pretended that you felt obligated to help him because of gratitude—”

“But I
was
grateful—”

“For Christ's sake, Elizabeth! Do you not realize how you carved the ground out from under me today?” His voice dropped. “You, of all people.”

My chest felt as though a metal band had suddenly wrapped around it. “What do you mean, carved the ground out from under you?”

He spun on his heel and went to the window, where he stood, staring out at the street. I remained where I was, tongue-tied, my palms clenched around the frame of the chair.

“You say it doesn't matter,” he said, his back still to me. “But I wasn't the only one who noticed your behavior in the courtroom. And believe me, it was quite a performance.”

“Performance?”

He turned. “Yes, a performance. Glaring at Sir Solmes during his remarks, going pale during Wilcox's testimony, showing your contempt for Mrs. Rowell—with Sir Solmes and his man witnessing all of it. But I suppose you didn't realize.”

Stunned, I shook my head.

“Of course not,” he said in a voice heavily laced with irony. “They're like the newspapermen at the
Falcon
. No one notices
you
.”

“James, that's unfair.”

“Unfair?” His jaw was working. “What's unfair is that your behavior today isn't just going to affect how people see you. It's going to shape how people see Wilcox—and by extension, me.”

“But how? It's not as though you would put me on the stand.”

“
I
won't! But Solmes will, if he finds a reason to.”

I stared. “What sort of reason?”

“Not five minutes after the courtroom closed, Solmes sent one of his men over to the Travers Inn to ask questions about you.”

His words made me feel unsteady, and I came round to the front of the chair and sat down. “Is that your guess, or—”

“It's no guess. Jeremy trailed the man over there and ran back to tell us.” He paused. “How long do you think it'll take to find a maid who will tell him about those nights you spent alone with Wilcox?”

“Oh, James, please. You make it sound as if—as if we were together in a—a bedroom. I was helping him with
patients
.”

“For Christ's sake, Elizabeth.” His eyes were blazing. “Don't be purposefully obtuse! This is exactly the sort of the situation Solmes seizes upon during a trial. Don't you see? He's going to use you to paint Wilcox as a seducer—of an earl's daughter, no less. A predator after her fortune, out to ruin her good name—just like he tried to portray him as some inexperienced charlatan without a degree, and as a man who mistreated Percy Rowell because he hates the idle rich! It's just another way to discredit him, and a bloody powerful one at that. No matter if he's sitting on a jury or not, no decent man likes to think of a young lady being seduced.” His lips were pressed tightly together for a moment. Then: “Did you ever—did he ever—try to kiss you?”

I felt my cheeks go hot, but I could answer truthfully: “No.”

“Well, thank god. That's all we'd need, a maid peeking around the corner at an inopportune moment.” He began to pace, deliberate steps back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I still can't believe you hid this from me. I might not have liked it—but if I'd known, at least I could have been prepared.”

“I'm sorry,” I said wretchedly.

“And Erichsen's not coming after all.”

My heart sank. Perhaps I'd guessed correctly about why Mr. Flynn looked so grim in the courtroom. “He's not?”

“He's laid up with pneumonia in some godforsaken town north of Edinburgh. We received a telegram this morning.” He stood at the fireplace, his right elbow on the mantel, his forehead resting on the palm, and his eyes closed as if he were in pain.

That's when I remembered Anne and Philip. “But, James, I may have something that can help. Felix Benedict had syphilis.”

At first, he appeared not to have heard. And then, suddenly, his eyes opened and his whole body pivoted toward me. “What?”

“Felix had syphilis,” I repeated. “Do you remember Paul saying that there might be a complicating factor? Well, there was.”

His expression was incredulous. “How the devil would you know something like that?”

“Philip Reynolds told me. He and Felix were very close friends.”

His jaw dropped. “You've kept this from me too?”

I swallowed hard. “There were aspects of their friendship that Philip didn't want to make public.”

His angry disbelief changed to horrified comprehension. “They were…intimate?”

“No. But—” I took a deep breath. “I'll tell you everything—but would you
please
sit down? I hate it when you stand over me, glaring like that.”

Unwillingly, he took the chair opposite.

I leaned forward. “I'm going to tell you everything in confidence, and you're to listen as my cousin, not as Paul's lawyer. Some of it you can use, but there is some that must stay between us. Agreed?”

His lips thinned for a moment, but he nodded.

I settled back against the reassuringly firm cushion. “The story about Philip that was in the papers was mostly wrong. He wasn't an opium addict, or a sodomite, or any of those things. He went to that opium den to find Felix, who had been missing for days. Philip was worried about him.”

James started. “So
Benedict
was the one….”

I nodded.

“But his name wasn't in any of the papers.”

“No. Felix's family paid to keep his name out of it. But the paper kept Philip's name in because otherwise it wouldn't have been a story worth reporting.”

“Because he's an earl's son.”

“Exactly. Now, that much I've known for some time. And I couldn't tell you because I swore to Anne months ago that I wouldn't say a word to anyone. But the morning after you read the court order with Felix's name on it, I went straight to Anne, to ask if Philip might testify about Felix's opium use. She asked him, but he said that if he testified, people would assume that Felix went to that place with him, and he didn't want to sully his friend's name. You mustn't blame him, James,” I added hurriedly as I saw the look on his face. “He really isn't well.”

His expression was grim. “You should have told me. I could have gotten a subpoena—
forced
him to testify.”

“James! It wasn't my secret to tell.”

“Well, you're telling me now! What's the difference?”

“The difference is, Anne and Philip came here to this hotel, not an hour ago, and told me that Felix had syphilis—and I could tell you so. That much, we can use.”

“But how?” he demanded, spreading his hands. “We have no proof. Philip's testimony would be merely hearsay—not that he'd be a very credible witness anyway, given his reputation. The autopsy didn't discover any signs of the disease, and it's not as though we can recall Benedict from the grave to ask him. Besides, Wilcox already described the case and made no mention of syphilis, so how could I introduce it now? It would merely look like a convenient fabrication!”

“But some of the symptoms of syphilis overlap with those of railway injuries! What's more—Felix's valet knew.”

That stopped him cold. “The valet knew he had syphilis?”

“Yes. And Philip thinks he might testify.”

“Is he still with the Benedict family?”

“No, but Philip has his address in London. He and Anne are on the train now, and they're going to try to bring him back by tomorrow morning.”

He blinked several times, thinking fast. “Did anyone else know about it?”

“Only Dr. Morris,” I said meaningfully.

He shook his head with certainty. “He'll never admit to it on the stand. At this point, he has to lie.” He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, and when he spoke, it was more to himself than to me. “I wonder if Solmes knows.”

“My guess is he doesn't,” I said. “Why would Dr. Morris tell him? If it came out that a doctor couldn't keep a secret like that—”

“I know. He'd lose his practice. No one would ever trust him.” He thought for a long moment. “I don't understand how Wilcox could miss such a thing, if he examined him the way he said. Surely there'd be rashes, or—”

“Philip says the rashes came and went,” I interrupted. “Paul only saw him for a few days. Felix must not have had them then.”

“Hm.” He frowned. “Well, I'll mention the syphilis to Wilcox. He may think of something he saw, now that he knows the truth—although even if he does, I'm reluctant to introduce it without the valet to confirm it. We'll just have to hope that Anne and Philip find him—and that he can come.” He stood up with a sigh. “But for now, we need to talk about what may happen tomorrow for
you
.”

I felt my stomach tighten.

“And I need you to listen to me, Elizabeth, very carefully.” All traces of anger were gone; he was now only a barrister, instructing a witness. “I think I have an idea about how you can help—if you are in fact called to the stand.”

“If there's something I can do to help Paul, tell me, and I'll do it.”

He narrowed his eyes, and his voice became flat. “First of all, it's
Mr. Wilcox,
not Paul, from now on, do you hear?”

I nodded meekly.

“All right, then.” He rested his hand on the back of his chair. “If Sir Solmes calls you, you need to appear above reproach, so that Wilcox looks above reproach. We need to prove that you went to the scullery that first night not because you wanted to help
him
—the handsome young medical man—but to help his patients. In other words,” he said dryly, “I want you to show that you were doing your Christian duty, as opposed to flirting.”

I felt the sting of the word “flirting,” but I said only, “I understand. But how?”

“Let me ask you. Why
did
you help him that first night?”

I looked up at him uncertainly. “You want me to tell you the truth?”

“Yes. All of it this time.”

“Well,” I began slowly, “it was partly because I heard that he needed help—and none of the maids were willing to do it; they were too frightened. And partly because he was kind to me—and to Mama. When he found us in the field, he'd already been out there for hours.” I pictured the moment when Paul appeared, drenched and dirty but still kind and cheerful about helping us. “He took the time to wrap her ankle and stitch me up and make sure we both got on to one of the wagons that was going to Travers. He almost certainly saved Mama's life by getting her out of the wet. We were both chilled to the bone, and she was so thoroughly overcome with pain and horror that she'd fainted.”

I looked up. There was a glint in James's eye, and he gave a nod of approval. “So you were grateful for his kindness, which you felt obliged to repay. Were you worried about your mother?”

“Terrified, of course. She's not strong at the best of times. You know that.”

“And how did you feel watching the train wreck, smelling the fire, hearing the screams of people who were trapped inside the cars?”

Perhaps he hadn't meant to shock me; but tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn't speak.

“Precisely,” he said softly and stepped toward me, ticking his fingers. “Gratitude toward him, fear for your mother, horror at what you'd seen, and sympathy for your fellow victims. Those are all laudable, believable, feminine virtues. The courtroom will swing your way in a heartbeat.” He gazed down at me. “I don't want you to lie—and you don't have to. Do you understand?”

I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat and nodded.