A Lady in the Smoke (33 page)

“Mr. Wilcox claims it was only a bruise. But there was a scrape, which I immediately bandaged, to no avail. It had been left untended too long and became septic.”

“And the tea?”

Dr. Morris gave a shrug to his large shoulders. “I wouldn't have thought tea would do any harm—but there was something in Mr. Wilcox's brew that induced vomiting in Mr. Benedict, so I cancelled it immediately. As to the constant turning in the bed, I had myself recently read the article in the
Lancet
by Dr. Frye. Furthermore, in my years as a physician, I've come to see that when the spine is injured, it is best to keep the patient flat on his back.”

Sir Solmes touched his fingertips together. “Now, Dr. Morris, aside from Mr. Wilcox's peculiar treatments, do you know of any reason why the man should not be practicing medicine?”

“Yes, I do.” Dr. Morris paused to give weight to his pronouncement. “Mr. Wilcox is in thrall to laudanum.”

His words had the desired effect. It took the judge a full minute to quiet the room.

I looked at Paul. I couldn't help it. He'd gone pale, and there was a hard set to his mouth. Behind him, Mr. Flynn had closed his eyes.

This was what Mr. Flynn had known would come out.
I lowered my eyelids and strove to keep my composure.
How on earth had Dr. Morris discovered it?

Sir Solmes kept all the triumph out of his voice and sounded only sorrowful. “For those who do not know, could you explain what laudanum is?”

“It is an alcoholic tincture of opium. It is extremely potent.”

“And how do you know that Mr. Wilcox was taking it?”

Dr. Morris replied, “I know an apothecary who has prescribed it for Mr. Wilcox regularly, and in vast quantities.”

“Could it not be for the treatment of his patients?”

“I don't believe so. His fiancée died, tragically, under his care last year; and he is taking laudanum to numb himself to the guilt.”

And you're using this tragedy against him
.

The crudity of it made me sick.

“His own fiancée died under his care?” Sir Solmes's tone was dismayed, and he turned to the jury. “Now we have three cases of death at this man's hands—hers, Mr. Rowell's, and Mr. Benedict's!” He turned back to Dr. Morris. “Do you know how it was that she died?”

“I do not. I heard that she had smallpox.” He spread his hands. “My guess is that he refused to bleed her—despite the fact that the practice is quite usual for treating that disease.”

James was sitting utterly still, hands clasped on the table, listening intently.

“Ah! And let us be clear,” Sir Solmes said. “In your professional opinion, is it possible to practice medicine effectively when under the influence of laudanum?”

“It is not. Laudanum produces a dream-like state, in which judgment is suspended.”

“My colleague”—Sir Solmes gestured at James—“might suggest that your motive for assisting in this case against Mr. Wilcox is to exact revenge for being replaced—however temporarily—as the Benedicts' physician. Is that true?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I am here because I wish to protect the integrity of my profession. The Medical Act of 1858 was intended to bring together all medical men under one umbrella, so that we might share our information, collaborate in treating patients, and develop
precise
and
scientific
methods of diagnosis and treatment.” Despite myself, I had to admit he seemed in earnest. “But we cannot have irresponsible medical men under that umbrella. It leaves all of us open to being called charlatans.”

I could sense the feeling in the room swaying away from Paul. Indeed, even I could not help but feel that Dr. Morris had a point about irresponsible medical men—although it hardly applied to Paul.

As Sir Solmes sat down, James rose. “I have a question for this witness.”

The judge gestured for him to go ahead.

“Dr. Morris, your sentiments are very noble. And Mr. Wilcox's use of laudanum is regrettable. But did Mr. Wilcox in fact ever practice medicine when he was under its influence?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure of this?” James asked, and his tone carried a caution. “Can you produce any of his patients from that period? Any records of patients from that time?”

Dr. Morris hesitated.

“Indeed. Will it please the court.” James picked up one of Paul's notebooks and brought it to the judge. “Here is his notebook from that period. You will notice there are no entries from February twenty-seventh of last year until June eighteenth of the same year. His fiancée, Emily Flynn, died on February twenty-fifth. From this, we can see that Mr. Wilcox voluntarily gave up the practice of medicine for nearly four months, knowing full well he was incapable of treating patients in his state of grief.”

“Or inebriation,” Dr. Morris interjected.

“If he was not treating patients at the time, the fact that he took drink, or opium, or Dr. Daffy's Purple Pills, is irrelevant.” James set the notebook back on the table. “To the point: Mr. Wilcox did not see Mr. Benedict until over a year after his wife's death—a full ten months after his last use of laudanum.”

“You can't be sure when he last used it,” Dr. Morris said scornfully.

“Can
you
?” James asked softly.

Dr. Morris saw his mistake.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sir Solmes stiffen.

The change in the courtroom was faint, but I felt it.

The judge leaned over his bench. “Dr. Morris, can you?”

Dr. Morris fumbled with the edge of his lapel. “Well—I know for a fact that the apothecary I know was selling it to Mr. Wilcox for at least four months after his fiancée's death—and laudanum is a habit that is nearly impossible to break.”

“But it
can
be broken,” James said.

“Very rarely.” His tone was officious. “In my years of experience, I have found that once someone is a slave to laudanum, they are never completely free.”

“Let us set aside the metaphor of slavery, which is surely disgusting to any good Englishman,” James said coldly. “We are all free men here, with choices. Now, the worst that can be said by you with any certainty is that Mr. Wilcox purchased laudanum for the last time roughly ten months before treating Mr. Benedict. Is this correct?”

Dr. Morris granted irritably that it was true.

“Tell me, Dr. Morris, are you quite certain you weren't angry at being dismissed, even temporarily, in favor of Mr. Wilcox? Or perhaps you were unhappy that your credibility as a physician was being called into question?”

“Of course not!” Dr. Morris ran his elegant hands over his lapel a few times. It was unfortunate for him that this caused the gold ring on his right hand to flash. “I care only for the welfare of my patients!”

A murmur in the courtroom.

“But is it true that while Mr. Wilcox went to Holmsted to help the victims of this railway disaster, and worked for several days at saving lives for no pay at all, you remained away because you saw there would be little financial profit to be gained?”

He sat up straight, his eyes blazing. “That is
not
true! I was away for another reason.”

A pause.

“Of course,” James said soothingly as he turned away and went back to his seat. “I have nothing further for Dr. Morris.”

A round of snickers went about the courtroom. Suddenly no one seemed to care for Dr. Morris and his gold-topped cane—but some of the antipathy seemed to be directed at Paul too, as if they were merely a pair of charlatans with different titles.

My heart sank as my eyes swept the jury. I had a terrible feeling that if the trial ended now, Mr. Wilcox would be found guilty.

The judge drew out his pocket watch and frowned before he tucked it away. “I expect that is all?”

“I have one more witness, sir,” James answered.

“Yet another?”

“Yes, sir. But this is our last,” James said. “And we shall be very brief.”

He turned toward the back of the room. Like everyone else, I craned my neck to follow his gaze. Neither Anne nor Philip was there, but Jeremy was. He was standing beside a man I did not recognize. He was in his sixties, of medium height, with fading brown hair and a prim, almost girlish mouth. He held his hat in his hands, carefully, so as not to crumple the brim. There was a faint sheen on Jeremy's forehead, and the man's cheeks were pink, as if from hurrying.

James looked at the judge. “I call Mr. John Drewe.”

There was a small, feminine cry from someone—Mrs. Benedict?—but I simply sat back and tried to breathe normally. My uncle whispered in my ear, “Who is it?”

I barely moved my lips: “The valet.”

He gave me a puzzled look but asked nothing else, and we watched as the judge beckoned Mr. Drewe toward the box where he was sworn in.

He laid his hat carefully on the wooden shelf next to him and sat down, his hands on his knees.

James began: “Mr. Drewe, could you please tell us where you were previously employed?”

“I was valet to Mr. Benedict, sir.”

I dropped my eyes to my gloves, as if none of this mattered to me. But my heart began to beat frantically, with hope and fear.

I heard James's voice: “In that capacity, did you have occasion to know if he had a condition that compromised his health?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what was that condition?”

“He had syphilis, sir, for several years.”

Another, more audible shriek from someone. Mrs. Benedict again? Resolutely, I kept my eyes down.

“Ah!” said James softly. “Syphilis would certainly be a complicating factor in a railway injury—a factor that might make a cure nearly impossible, particularly if Mr. Wilcox was not made aware of it at the time of treatment.”

I raised my head then to watch James. He had his head tipped to one side, pausing to let the information sink in around the room. “In fact,
tabes dorsalis,
a condition found in prolonged cases of syphilis, occurs when the nerves in the spine are damaged, which affects balance and hearing and sight—much as railway injuries do. And in autopsies, the degeneration of the spinal column caused by syphilis is virtually indistinguishable from the effects of concussion of spine.”

Sir Solmes was on his feet. “Mr. Isslin is not a medical man. He may not offer medical testimony under the guise of asking questions.”

The judge nodded. “Agreed.”

James bowed his head, as if in apology. “Mr. Drewe, you're not a medical man either. How do you know he had this condition?”

“Scabs, sir, every few months until about a year ago. All up and down his back. And about his nethers.” He waved in the direction of his lap, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth pursed tight. “They'd fade sometimes, so you couldn't see them, but they always came back.”

The room quivered with chuckles and whispers.

“Was Mr. Benedict taking a medication for it?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded toward Dr. Morris, upon whose cheeks two red spots had appeared. “Dr. Morris prescribed it.”

“What was this medication?”

“A mercury tincture, sir. Twice a day, when the rashes were on him. I had to prepare it myself.” He paused and gave a small moue with his mouth. “And put it on, in the places he couldn't reach.”

A few barks of laughter and some groans.

“Thank you,” James said. “Nothing further.”

The judge summed up in a way that seemed to bode well for Paul, and the jury huddled together for three hundred and twelve seconds by my count before they returned the verdict of “not guilty.”

As it was pronounced, I kept my eyes averted and sat quietly. But after a few moments, it was as though a hand was lifting my chin. I couldn't help but look for Paul.

He had stepped down from the dock and was standing on a small landing. In the uncertain light coming through the window behind him, I could see their silhouettes: Paul and Mr. Flynn and James, who was speaking to Paul rather urgently. I hadn't expected Paul to look jubilant, but I thought he would at least show some relief; instead, he seemed to be in a state of shock, pale and unmoving. Finally, James stepped away, and Mr. Flynn put a hand on Paul's shoulder. Paul bowed his head, listening.

“Elizabeth.”

I turned. My uncle was smiling, and he bent toward me, keeping his voice low. “I must say, I'd no idea that you could speak so movingly. Did you notice? Half of the men in the jury were nearly reduced to tears.”

“Well, the valet's testimony was what we truly needed.”

“Yes.” He looked at me quizzically. “Did you know him?”

“No, Uncle,” I said honestly. “I've never seen him before. But James had been hoping he might arrive. We only found out last night about Felix's condition.”

A sudden consciousness came to his face, and he drew back to peer at me. “Anne?”

I hesitated.

“You'd rather not say,” he said understandingly. And then he smiled. “Never mind, my dear. And for what it's worth, you handled yourself beautifully today.”

“Most of the credit is due to James. He helped me prepare last night.”

“My son is very clever, isn't he?” he said complacently.

I gave a small laugh. “Yes. We can all be very proud of him.”

He patted my arm and picked up his coat and hat from the bench.

I turned back toward Paul and Mr. Flynn. Perhaps I could at least catch Paul's eye, to convey, however discreetly, how glad I was that he'd been acquitted.

But there was only a pale rhombus of light on the floor.

My heart sinking, I scanned the entire room. He was gone.

We made our way out of the courthouse, between the gray stone pillars, and onto the steps. While my uncle went to find James and send for our carriage, I stood in the afternoon light and let the feeling of relief that Paul had been acquitted wash over me.

I'd paused on these same steps yesterday before my uncle and I had walked to the Polk Hotel. But then I'd only seen before me a chaotic mass of pedestrians on a badly paved street. Today I saw the energetic bustle of people going about their lives. Instead of the long shadows of the jail and courthouse, I saw the sunlight where it brightened the storefronts. Today I could even smile at the sight of two boys chasing each other, and a thin dog, its tongue flapping to the side, racing behind them.

Up the steps came clusters of people intent on finding seats for the afternoon session. Many of them looked anxious, and seeing them gave me a pang. Paul's trial had been so very important to all of us, but his was only one of dozens that would take place during these two weeks. All these people's lives, I thought as I looked about me, dependent upon a few words here and there, the momentary inclination of a judge, the presence or absence of a particular witness.

From amidst the crowd came a flash of something bright. It was Dr. Morris's cane, glinting in the sunlight as he turned it this way and that. Beside him, standing close enough that they might converse without being overheard, was a gentleman with silver hair and a well-tailored gray coat.

My heart gave a small thud.

This gentleman looked, from behind, a good deal like Lord Shaw.

I attached myself to a group of women who were climbing the steps and slipped into a pillar's shadow, so I would be less conspicuous. But I needn't have worried; the two men seemed wholly engrossed in their conversation. I fixed my eyes on the man in gray, willing him to turn, so I could see his face. Eventually, he glanced to the side, and his profile was unmistakable.

It
was
Lord Shaw.

Dr. Morris spoke to him for another moment before he and his cane headed off down the street. Before I could think twice, I hurried toward Lord Shaw and called out his name, loudly enough that he swung around, his eyes scanning the steps.

I had thought to maintain a pretense of cordiality, but as he caught sight of me, his jaw clenched, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He did not even feign a smile, and his voice was barely civil. “Lady Elizabeth.”

My steps slowed, but I came close enough that we could speak in normal tones. “I didn't see you in the courtroom,” I said. “Were you at the trial?”

“Yes”—stiffly.

I gestured in the direction of Dr. Morris's retreating back. “And you know the doctor.”

“He is my personal physician.” Lord Shaw's entire body was rigid; and although there were dozens of people nearby, there was a fury in his face that stirred something like real fear in me. “You and your cousin made quite a fool of him today, not to mention humiliating my friend Mrs. Benedict and her entire family. You must be pleased with yourself.”

I drew back. “It wasn't my intention to humiliate anyone! But Mr. Wilcox didn't deserve to be found guilty of manslaughter. In fact,” I added pointedly, “he didn't deserve to be accused at all, or put through the burden of a trial.”

“Are you trying to claim that you had some noble reason why you shoved your way into matters that don't concern you?”

I gaped at the contempt in his voice. “I didn't
shove
my way into—”

He let out a derisive laugh. “Of course you did! Your visit to me was a presumptuous abuse of my civility and a lie from start to finish—and then you barged your way into the
Falcon
offices disguised as a servant. Tell me, Lady Elizabeth, how you would describe such behavior, if not improper and meddlesome?”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

How had he found out about my visit to the Falcon? Had Jeremy talked? Or perhaps one of the men at the paper?

And then I recalled the two men who had appeared out of the shadows and followed me toward the alley. With a sudden grim certainty I knew they had been hired by Lord Shaw to watch the
Falcon
offices. And then I thought about what James had said to me afterward—that despite my disguise, it wouldn't have been difficult for anyone to figure out my true identity, if they wanted to.

“It's good for you,” Lord Shaw continued, “that your cousin is no fool and got you out of there, or your words on the stand today would've meant nothing. I know you hoodwinked that jury with your little story”—he waved a hand in the direction of the courtroom—“but even you couldn't explain away the act of spending a night in Whitechapel alone with a man. Your interest in that charlatan of a doctor is indecent—indecorous—and it's despicable that you try to mask it behind some high-minded desire to see justice done.”

I found my voice, and though it was trembling, I got the words out: “Whatever my interest in Mr. Wilcox, it doesn't—it doesn't detract from the fact that he didn't deserve to be put on trial.”

“There it is again, that word ‘deserve'!” He snorted. “Well, unfortunately in this lifetime, many things happen to us through the actions of others that we don't necessarily deserve.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know, watching you testify, I found myself thinking about your father. Perhaps you don't realize it, but you look a good deal like him—your coloring, your features, even your mannerisms when you're trying to bring your influence to bear. Your father never lowered himself to tears, of course, but I suppose you have a right to use every weapon in your arsenal.”

I gasped. “My tears were hardly a weapon—and I didn't manufacture them for effect! That train wreck was the most horrifying spectacle I've ever seen. It was beyond
anything
I could imagine, and I pray to god I never see anything like it again.”

His eyebrows rose, but he seemed unaffected by my outburst. “Yes, it's ugly when everything goes to smash, isn't it?” Then he bent toward me, close enough to murmur, close enough that I could smell his sour breath. “But at some point, Lady Elizabeth, we are all victims of fraud and betrayal of some sort. Perhaps even in your short life, you have suffered some trickery or humiliation. And though it is brutally unfair, we must accept that others will steal our property, or the love of our spouse, or the respect of people who know us”—his voice hardened—“and quite often, there is little we can do about it.”

There was no misunderstanding his meaning. I simply stood there, staring into his cold gray eyes, unable to say a word.

He gave an ugly little smile. “Of course, once in a while, the impartial universe deals out a more stringent—and satisfying—justice than the one you can get here.” His eyes flicked to the pillared façade behind me, and his expression suddenly became bland. He drew himself to his full height and bowed politely. “Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”

Then he walked away, leaving me feeling chilled to my core despite the sun.

A hand grasped my elbow.

I spun around, jerking my arm away.

It was James, and he drew back in surprise. “Elizabeth, my god, you're white as a sheet. What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” My voice was shaking.

“Was that Lord Shaw you were speaking to?”

I nodded.

“What was he saying?”

“Nothing. I'm fine. You just startled me.”

He and my uncle exchanged a glance, but I was so rattled that I could barely attend to them. Our carriage drew up, and my uncle helped me inside.

It was a silent ride home. James closed his eyes, as if to sleep or to avoid talking; my uncle was obligingly quiet. But my thoughts were churning, like wheels in mud.

I recalled the anger on Lord Shaw's face, the condescension in his voice, the coldness in his eyes, and stifled a groan. How could I have been such a fool as to believe he was benign, or indulgent, or—for god's sake—to be pitied, when I had visited him at Shadwell?

He hated me. And he loathed my father.

Clearly he was well aware of the many ways my father had injured him. He blamed my father for having to mortgage the Scotland property; he knew my father had taken liberties with his wife and had made him look like a fool.

But what had he meant about “trickery and humiliation” in my life? Was he alluding to the duplicity of the railway scheme? Or to the rumors he'd spread about me at his club? Or had he intended those words as a threat of something else?

As for what he called “a more stringent and satisfying form of justice,” obviously he was gloating over the universe having dealt out what he believed to be a fitting punishment for my father's crimes.

Suddenly I felt like a cold hand had wrapped itself around my heart.

Everyone had always called my father's death an accident. But what if it hadn't been? What if my father's death had been like the railway disaster—something that looked like a natural event, but wasn't? What if Lord Shaw had had a hand in it?

“What on earth are you thinking about?” James's voice broke into my thoughts. “You have the most horrible expression on your face.”

I fumbled for a plausible answer. “I was thinking about—about how close we were to losing today.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, not really. Your testimony countered most of the prejudices against Wilcox, so the jury would be open to the idea of a complicating factor when the valet took the stand.”

“When did you know he was there?”

“He arrived during your testimony. Didn't you see Jeremy hand me a note?”

I shook my head.

“Cutting it a bit close, wouldn't you say?” my uncle asked.

James shrugged. “The important thing is that it worked. At least Wilcox is free. Although that laudanum business will hurt him, at least for a while.”

My uncle nodded. “It's unfortunate that came up.”

The thought pained me, and I fell silent, lost in my thoughts again until we reached Cobbley's Knob, when the jerk of the brake pulled me out of them.

I needed to ask someone whether Lord Shaw could possibly have had anything to do with my father's accident.

But whom?