A Lady in the Smoke (8 page)

I gathered up my cloak so it wouldn't drag, wondering if I was being a fool for not staying at the hotel, where it was safe. But Mr. Wilcox's hand, firm on my elbow, reassured me as we followed Jeremy down the narrow alley.

The Polk Hotel was in the better part of Travers, but Jeremy led us through a web of back streets, saying it was the quickest way. We had been walking perhaps five minutes when we reached the margin of another world, one with its roughness and lewdness and cruelty laid bare. I'd had no idea it was so close.

In the light from the lantern I saw a tangle of cats, clawing at each other, their shrieks and hisses sounding almost human. Fat rats scurried along the foundations of the buildings and vanished into the shadows. We walked on, and in the door of a boardinghouse with red curtains at the windows stood prostitutes, their white bosoms glowing, their voices calling out words I'd never heard, in tones that made me blush. From the window of a two-story house came the contents of a chamber pot, flung into the street, narrowly missing us, and I found myself clutching Mr. Wilcox's arm and watching where I placed my feet. But only a few minutes later, we reached a well-lit road running cross-wise, with a string of respectable-looking shops and pubs on either side. I turned around to look into the alley from which we'd come—but it was so much darker than where we stood under the gas lamps that it appeared as if it had closed up behind us.

Another minute's walk brought us to the large white Polk Hotel, with lights in most of the windows, a set of steps leading to the front door, and an elegant sign brightly illuminated by a pair of lanterns.

A maid appeared as we entered; she couldn't have been much older than I, and her face expressed relief at the sight of Mr. Wilcox. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, then in a low voice said to him, “I'm so glad you came back. That dreadful Mr. Galton is here, and he's getting everyone all riled up, saying terrible things.”

“What sorts of things?”

Her eyes were round and indignant. “Like you should have used leeches and bled all these folks. I was in with Mrs. Wright and he said that she's suffering from—from”—her brow furrowed—“a—a—I dunno, something about the liver, and if he didn't bleed her straightaway, she could
die,
and it would be all your fault.”

Mr. Wilcox made no answer other than to ask calmly, “Where is Mr. Galton now?”

“With Mr. Nagle.” She jerked her chin toward the stairs. “Second room on the right. You'd better hurry.”

He turned to Jeremy and me. “Wait for me here, will you?”

I nodded and Jeremy sniffed contemptuously. “Stupid quack,” he muttered.

The maid gave a grimace in agreement. “You can wait in there.” She pointed to a set of double doors. We went through them and found the front parlor—far more elegant than any room at the Travers Inn—with a bright fire, clean lamps, shelves of books, some Queen Anne–style chairs, and a few good paintings. I took a seat while Jeremy prowled about restlessly, picking up glass figurines and bits of ivory and putting them down with unnerving clinks and clanks. I decided to engage him in conversation before he broke something. Besides, I had plenty of things I wanted to ask him. “Jeremy, what do you know about this Mr. Galton?”

He picked up a bit of netsuke and squinted at it. “Oh, 'e's one of them wot makes a show of doin' all kinds of things when folks be sick, but I 'eard t'other doctor—the one who was 'ere just for the rich man—even
'e
said old Galton's too ready with 'is bleeding.”

“And how do you know Mr. Wilcox?”

He set down the netsuke, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to me. “On account of 'im being friends with Mr. Flynn.”

“Mr. Flynn?”

“Tom Flynn,” he snapped. “I work for 'im.”

So that was Tom's last name. I wondered how much Jeremy could have told me about Palmer and Malverton and the rest. But I couldn't question him. I wasn't supposed to know anything about them.

“Does Mr. Flynn work for the railways?” I asked instead.

He let out a bark of a laugh. “Nah! Works for the
Falcon.
”

I asked in dismay, “The London newspaper?”

“Yah.”

Maybe it wasn't fair—not all newspaperman were like the one who'd nearly ruined Anne's family last year—but I felt an instant stab of dislike for Mr. Flynn.

“And Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Flynn are friends,” I repeated.

Jeremy went to the fireplace and put his hands to the blaze. “Yah. 'Nd I met Mr. Wilcox 'cos Mr. Flynn asked me to 'elp 'im one night, on account o' one of the fakirs.”

“Fakirs?” I asked, thinking of the Sufi Muslim ascetics one read about sometimes in the papers. “Do you mean Muslims?”

He scowled. “Nah! Them folks wot say they were 'urt in an accident, but ain't, so they can git money out o' the railway.”

Fakers.

He picked up a poker and jabbed at a log. “ 'Twas about a year ago—or”—he cocked his head, considering—“maybe longer.” He shook his head. “ 'Twas rotten cold, so it must have been January, or mebbe early February.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, some bloke 'ad called Mr. Wilcox in, told 'im 'e been in a railway crash, couldn't walk or nothing. 'Ad a bandage around here”—Jeremy's dirty hand touched his neck—“and was complainin' of bein' dizzy and feelin' like summat was creepin' up and down his spine and gettin' 'lectric shocks all over him so he couldn't ride 'is 'orse, and some such nonsense.”

I frowned dubiously. Given what Mr. Wilcox had told me about railway injuries, those symptoms sounded as if they could be authentic. “Are you sure he was faking?”

“Yah! And Mr. Wilcox knew it, but 'e couldn't prove it. So I stayed near the bloke's house till one evenin' I see 'im come walking down the steps right as rain, just like Mr. Wilcox said 'e was. Got into a cab and went off to a party at a lady's house.” He swayed left and right, as if in time to music, and mimed holding a glass, with his pinkie up. “All sorts of dancing and music and wine and whatnot in fancy glasses.”

I felt my eyes widen.

“So,” he continued, “I went and fetched Mr. Wilcox, and we met the fakir on 'is way 'ome that night. That was the end of that.”

“But, Jeremy, how did Mr. Wilcox know that he was lying?”

Jeremy grinned. “Them symptoms were
'zactly
like the ones in Mr. Erichsen's book—case number thirty it were—and Mr. Wilcox done got them, 'zactly as they're writ, all up 'ere.” He pointed to the side of his head.

I leaned forward in my chair. “So what happened? Did the man cancel his suit against the railway?”

“Nah. Mr. Wilcox done refused to go to court to say the bloke war injured.” He rested the poker on his shoulder as if it were a rifle. “So they threatened to sue 'im for bein' a bad doctor, 'cept Mr. Flynn threatened to write it all up in the paper, so they let Mr. Wilcox alone and found another doctor to say wot they needed.”

I gasped. “So this man got money from the railway anyway?”

“Near five hun'red pounds.”

“Good Lord! For no injury at all?”

He nodded and grinned rather wickedly. “Mr. Wilcox told me there's a doctor wot's named Sinkler in America. 'E brings one o' these”—he waved the wrought iron poker—“right into court, and when folks say they caint walk 'cos they caint feel nothing in their leg, 'e sticks 'em with it. That fixes things clear enow.”

I stared in disbelief.

He frowned and cocked his head. “ 'Twasn't January. It was February. I remember now. 'Twas right before Miss Emily died. Middle of February.”

“And who is Miss Emily?”

I was expecting him to become impatient at yet another question, but to my surprise, Jeremy's expression sobered and an unexpected flash of tenderness appeared on his features. “She's Mr. Flynn's half-sister, 'cept she was going to be his wife.”

“I beg your pardon—Mr. Flynn's half-sister was going to be his wife?”

Now he became impatient. “Nah! Mr.
Wilcox's.
They were engaged, like. But she died.”

I felt a chill run over me. “I'm so sorry. Was she ill?”

“Smallpox. She 'ad a friend with it, and didn't stay away like she oughtta.” He bent over to place the poker in its holder; I thought I saw him take a surreptitious wipe at his eyes. But when he turned back to me, his face was impassive, and, without a word, he started toward the hallway.

I rose. “Where are you going?”

He waved his hand to hush me. “To listen, o' course.”

I hurried to the doorway to watch. He was moving nimbly up the stairs, hugging the wall, silent as a cat.

My boots and skirts made it impossible for me to follow, so I went back into the parlor and sat down on the edge of my chair, waiting for one of them to reappear.

Five minutes later, Jeremy was back.

“What's happening?” I demanded.

“Bloody fool,” Jeremy said, slouching into a chair opposite, his grimy coat doing a grave injustice to its pale brocade. “Mr. Galton's sending Mr. Wilcox packing, tellin' that railwayman 'e's going to be sorry 'e didn't call him straightaway, 'cos now 'e's going to die, no matter wot. But if 'e starts in on other folks, they'll be sorry when they're sucked dry and 'eavin'.”

I shuddered at the image that came into my head, of all the leeches fat with blood.

Jeremy's lip curled. “ 'Cept if anything 'appens to 'em, Mr. Galton'll find a way to blame Mr. Wilcox.”

We heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs, and Mr. Wilcox appeared at the threshold, his face grim. “We can go.”

I looked at him uncertainly. “You're finished?”

“There's no point in staying.”

“Told you,” Jeremy muttered to me. To Mr. Wilcox: “Is 'e dyin'?”

A brief nod.

A different maid than the one who had met us at the door materialized from somewhere. She glanced at Mr. Wilcox and Jeremy, then at the clock, and my eyes followed hers. I saw with dismay that it was nearly midnight. Her eyes raked over me, her gaze frankly insolent. She opened the door and held it for us with exaggerated courtesy. I felt an angry heat rise to my cheeks and hoped Mr. Wilcox had been too preoccupied to notice her smirking.

On the front porch, Jeremy turned to Mr. Wilcox and handed him the lantern. “You best get 'er back. I kin make my way from 'ere. Mr. Flynn's comin' on the late train.”

“Where are you staying tonight?” Mr. Wilcox asked.

Jeremy jerked his head. “Miz Smith's boardin'ouse over that way. 'Taint far. We're goin' to Malverton tomorrow early wi' Mr. Blackstone. 'E's bringin' one of those men with his machine for pi'tures, in case it's wot 'e 'spects.”

Malverton again.

My ears pricked up, and I fiddled with my glove to hide my interest.

Were the pictures to be the “tangible proof” that Tom needed? And proof of what?

I hoped they'd keep talking about it, but all Mr. Wilcox said was, “All right, then. I'll be in my room later, if Tom needs me.”

Jeremy made a faint gesture of pulling his cap at us and headed off down the street, his hands buried in his pockets, looking rather like a small version of Mr. Flynn. At any other time, it might have made me smile. But the dark that lurked at the edge of the lantern's arc felt ominous. I glanced sideways at Mr. Wilcox, and his face bore an expression I was coming to know; the lantern might be pushing away the black of night, but it was doing nothing to hold his dark thoughts at bay.

The front hall was empty when we arrived back at the inn, though I could hear the sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. I could have run up to my room, and no one would ever have known I'd been gone. Instead, I took Mr. Wilcox's arm, drew him into our usual sitting room, and closed the doors behind us. There were still coals glowing on the hearth, so the room wasn't cold.

He went to the window, and I took my time lighting two lamps, unsure what else to do. Finally, I said gently, “I'm sorry. That didn't go very well, did it?”

His back still to me, he shook his head.

“What happened?”

He gave a hard little laugh with no humor in it. “I lost my temper is what happened.” After a moment, he came to stand by the fireplace, his expression full of disgust and frustration. “On my way to seeing Nagle, I looked in on another patient I had examined earlier today. He has spinal injuries and shouldn't be moved, but his doctor is determined to take the poor man to London tomorrow by train, which is just a bloody stupid idea. So I was already upset when I went to see Nagle, and there was Galton, with his damn leeches and a vial of some black stuff he's trying to pour down Nagle's throat.”

“Is he a quack?” I asked, appalled by Mr. Wilcox's description.

“Well,
I
think he is, but he'd probably say the same of me.” He dragged his hands through his hair, causing bits to stand on end. “It happens all the time, arguments among medical men. We all want to be seen as something better than frauds and charlatans. But we're trained differently, so instead of working together to fight disease, we waste half our time fighting with each other. And a man like Galton cares more about protecting his reputation than curing the patient, so he won't change his course of treatment, no matter what I say. It's infuriating when a patient's life is at stake and I'm shoved out of the room.” He turned to rest both hands on the mantel. “Although in this case, I'm not sure either of us could have saved Nagle. There was too much damage to his organs, and he wasn't in good health to begin with.”

I went to his side, then, felt the thin warmth of the fire, and smelled the gritty dust from the coal. The coppery glow illuminated the unhappy lines around his mouth. “It isn't your fault, you know. It's the accident that caused the injuries; you did all you could.”

He kept his eyes on the flames. “I should never have let you come with me tonight,” he said, his voice low. “It was selfish of me—I'm sorry. That maid at the Polk…I saw her working up some sordid little story in her mind…”

I drew back, stung. “For god's sake! You've no reason to take on that worry, on top of everything else! I chose to go, of my own free will, to help you—and I don't care what that maid thought. She doesn't matter one
bit
to me—”

“But
I
care.” It was the look in his eyes as much as his words that silenced me. He continued insistently, “Elizabeth, I don't want anyone talking, or even thinking, about you that way.”

My Christian name fell naturally from his lips; had he even noticed he used it?

We stood there for a long minute, our eyes locked. I felt my breath coming faster than normal and the blood rising to my cheeks, and after a moment, I said under my breath, “Please don't give her another thought, Paul. God knows, you have more than enough to worry about without that.”

I was thinking of everything I'd heard Tom Flynn say, and he must have seen something in my face because his expression changed, and his voice took on a curious tone. “What do you mean?”

I could have backed away from the awkward truth by saying, “Why, your patients, of course.” But instead I took a deep breath and blurted it out: “I overheard you the other morning, when you were leaving, and your friend Mr. Flynn came in and told you about the man who was thrown off the train.”

His eyebrows rose. “You heard that?”

“Well, I didn't make an effort
not
to listen,” I admitted. “But he's not exactly quiet.”

A wry smile. “No. He never has been.”

I swallowed. “And I saw you this morning, when you came in to find the man in the dining room. He looked frightened.”

He gave a cautious nod.

“And then, just now, Jeremy mentioned going to Malverton.” I bit my lip. “Honestly, I never intended to pry into your affairs, but seeing as I know a bit, would it help to tell me the rest?”

“There's a lot we're not sure of,” he said slowly. “But I think—that is, I'd like to tell you what we know so far, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind at all.”

By unspoken consent, we took our usual chairs. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely before him, and his gaze was fixed on the carpet as he gathered his thoughts. His very unself-consciousness, as I sat close by, made something in me soften. Gratified that he was trusting me, I would have waited there all night, but after a few moments he looked up and began.

“The man you saw in the dining room is a railway inspector named Michael Griffin. About a fortnight ago, when I was working in Taunton, he came to warn me that there was a section of the Great Southeastern where the riverbank was eroding, and the tracks were unstable. He was guessing…” He frowned. “In fact, he was all but certain that your accident was about to happen.”

I felt my entire body tense. “But why did he come to you? Why didn't he report it directly to the railway?”

“He thought he did. He drew up a report six months ago and gave it to the Commission for Safety in London. It's one of the two agencies that reviews such claims and passes them along to the relevant railway boards. Griffin says he makes reports all the time, and the process always goes smoothly. But this time the report seemed to be misplaced, or”—he hesitated—“ignored. At any rate, the Great Southeastern didn't do a thing about the line.”

My breath caught. “The railway just kept running the trains?”

He nodded grimly. “Yes.”

I couldn't speak for a moment. All I could see, like a daguerreotype in front of me, was a black silhouette of the train wrenched off the tracks—people trying desperately to flee it—the flames leaping into the sky—

“It's a brutal thing, I know,” he said, his voice sympathetic. “Griffin thought it was strange that he'd heard nothing about the railway mending the line, so he resubmitted the report last month. And then he found out that an inspector named Palmer had presented a similar report, just around the same time he originally did—but to the Bureau of Railway Security, the other agency responsible for safety.”

“Those two agencies don't share the reports they receive? That seems utterly illogical.”

“It's because one is an advisory agency to the government, and one was set up by a small group of early railways, as a means of sharing information among themselves. So you can see why they wouldn't overlap.” He stood up and began to pace around the room. “After Griffin told me about the possible danger at Holmsted and how neither of the reports seemed to have an effect, I told my friend Tom, who writes for the London
Falcon
—”

“Yes, Jeremy mentioned that,” I interrupted. “Who is Jeremy, anyway? He's…” I cast about for a word to describe him.

Paul's face was briefly lit by an amused smile, and he stopped pacing. “I know. He looks like a little thug, doesn't he? Tom found him trying to pick his pocket, bold as brass, a few years ago. But Tom was working on a story in that part of town, so instead of chasing him off, he bought the boy a meal and offered him a job. Jeremy hasn't had a lick of schooling, but he's a clever lad, has a sharp eye for faces. He does all manner of things for Tom—some of them probably not quite legal.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the top of the chair-back. “Anyway, after Tom heard what Griffin and Palmer had to say, he began trying to talk to people at the railway board, to find out why nothing had been done.” He paused. “And then last week, Palmer turned up dead.”

I winced. “I heard you say he had a family.”

“Yes. A wife and two children.”

“It's terrible,” I said softly. “Is it true he was thrown off a train?”

He hesitated. “Officially, it's an accident. But Tom thinks it's murder, and he's probably right. The examiner found bruises on his back that looked like they'd been made by something hard and thin, like a pipe.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “My god.”

He took a folded newspaper clipping out of his pocket and handed it to me.

My fingers were not quite steady. I unfolded the paper carefully, so I wouldn't tear it, and read:

On the Ludley-to-Trent line, just north of London, a man apparently fell from a carriage on a Parliamentary train as it traversed the Chumnley Bridge late last evening. His body was discovered only by chance this morning by two fishermen.

The accident represents an unhappy twist of fate, given that correspondence in the waistcoat pocket revealed the body to be that of William Palmer, a railway inspector, formerly of the Corps of Royal Engineers, who dedicated the last twenty years of his life to improving the safety of trains.

The Ludley-to-Trent extends its deepest condolences to the family of this faithful railway servant, and will—

The front door to the hotel opened and closed with a creak. I looked up, startled. Paul was already at the threshold, opening the door and peering into the hallway. “Tom, in here.”

Tom Flynn strode into the room. He was shorter than I remembered, but broader of shoulder. Like Jeremy, he wore a coat that was slightly too long for him, and a hat whose brim had spent too many nights in the rain. He had quick eyes that suggested a lively intelligence; he wasn't unattractive. But right now he looked angry—and worried. “Is Griffin here?” he demanded.

Paul shook his head. “He left this afternoon, around two, just as we planned. Why?”

“Goddamn everything!” Mr. Flynn glared and thrust the hat under his arm, revealing a bald spot on top of his head. “I don't think he made it to London. Blackstone went to your rooms this evening, and they're empty. Where the devil is he?”

Paul gripped the back of the chair so hard his knuckles went white. “Are you sure? Maybe he went out for some reason.”

“Key's still there, and it's dusty,” he snapped. “And your housekeeper hasn't seen him.”

With a groan, Paul lowered his forehead onto his hands.

Mr. Flynn turned and scowled at me. “Who are you?”

I bristled at his blunt tone, but before I could answer, Paul looked up. “This is Miss Elizabeth Fraser, of Levlinshire. Miss Fraser, Mr. Tom Flynn of the London
Falcon
.”

“Hello, Mr. Flynn,” I said civilly.

Mr. Flynn nodded, but his eyes narrowed as he registered my name, and I flinched inwardly. A London newspaperman might be familiar with a list of England's landed gentry, even if a railway surgeon wasn't; I could only hope that Mr. Flynn would be too preoccupied to think about it.

“Is there any chance I can get something to drink at this hour?” Mr. Flynn asked, glancing at me. Clearly he wanted to talk to Paul alone.

“I rather doubt it. It's after midnight.” My voice was even sharper than his; I didn't like the way he was trying to push me out of the room.

“She and her mother were on the train,” Paul interjected. “I've just started telling her what we know.”

Mr. Flynn glowered at Paul. “Why?”

“Because she overheard you the other morning, when you were in the hallway telling me about Palmer,” he said levelly.

Mr. Flynn looked momentarily nonplussed. Then he shook his head, sat down, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. That's when I noticed he was missing the tip of his right index finger. It didn't surprise me much—Mr. Flynn struck me as the sort to lead with his fists.

Paul frowned at the back of the chair. “You know, Tom, it's possible that Griffin may have decided to stay somewhere else until Tuesday.”

“What happens Tuesday?” I asked.

“There's to be a Parliamentary hearing,” Paul said, “where Palmer and Griffin were going to testify about the safety of the Great Southeastern. You see, Palmer didn't realize that the railway was doing nothing to address the problem until Tom told him. That's when Palmer sent a copy of
his
original report straight to someone he knew in Parliament, and he and Griffin were both put on the docket.”

Mr. Flynn turned to me. “You probably don't realize, but there's a huge railway interest in Parliament. Half the MPs sit on railway boards, most of them own shares in companies, and the recurring debate is how much Parliament should regulate the railways.”

I'd heard plenty about what my uncle John called “the Railway Question,” but I kept that to myself and just nodded.

“A lot of the MPs are worried,” Paul added, “because if Parliament is given the role of watchman, the railways may simply throw up their hands and claim no responsibility for accidents at all.”

“So finding out that not one report, but two, were shuffled somewhere?” Mr. Flynn snorted. “That's like throwing a box of dynamite into the room.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “And now that the accident has happened—”

“It's going to be a bloody mess,” Mr. Flynn said sourly.

“He means that there will be more decisions to make,” Paul amended. “Based on the evidence, a Select Committee will have to determine whether to begin a limited investigation, which would examine only your accident, or an extended one, which would examine the Great Southeastern as whole—its safety record, employment practices, and financial situation.” He waved a hand. “All of it.”

Mr. Flynn picked up the poker and jabbed at the coals to fend off the chill that was creeping into the room. “And then they'll fight about how much of the railway they need to shut down and how long they're willing to shut it down to investigate it.”