by Karen Odden
I stared in amazement. Who on earth did I know who would do that?
Chapter 10
I hurried toward the parlor and paused at the threshold.
It was Mr. Flynn.
He was standing by one of the windows, feet firmly planted, hands in his pockets as usual. As I entered the room, he turned. His eyes gleamed like green stones and his lips were in a thin line. “Lady Elizabeth Fraser.”
I closed the door behind me and braced myself for an unpleasant conversation. “What gave me away?”
He gave a short, hard laugh. “Everything. Your vowels, for one. Your clothes. Your way of holding yourself. And you all but jumped out of your chair when I mentioned Trevington Forest. So I checked Burke’s Peerage.”
Of course. The book of landed families, genealogies, and heralds. We had a copy in our library at home.
“So,” he grimaced. “What the devil are you playing at?”
Nettled, I glared back at him. “I’m not playing at anything.”
He took a step forward. “Then why did you lie to him? Is this your idea of a joke—some dalliance with someone from a different class? Is that what aristocratic ladies do nowadays, to escape their gilded cages?” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
“It wasn’t a lie—and it certainly wasn’t a dalliance!” My face felt hot as fire. “That night of the accident, he had a dozen patients in that wretched scullery! I went in to help him—that was all.”
He looked at me incredulously. “But what about the next day? I suppose it slipped your mind to mention who you really were?”
“I gave him my name. Just not my title.”
He snorted. “You bloody well know you are your title.”
The injustice of that turned my voice as sharp as his: “I am not just my title. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“Why? Because I’m from Whitechapel? Or because I work for a living?”
“Because you’re a newspaperman, Mr. Flynn. A newspaperman who probably thinks that every person with a title—all of us—is exactly the same. Men, women, young, old—doesn’t matter. We’re all dissipated and selfish and sulking in our gilded cages. Isn’t that right?” He opened his mouth, but I pushed on, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “Or maybe you’re one of those newspapermen who thinks he’s so clever that he already knows the ending of every story—when in reality he’s so close-minded that he can’t see anything but the ugliest possible version that fits the few facts he knows! And then he throws it onto the printed page, and it sells papers because people are always eager for the most sordid gossip they can find. Never mind what it does to the people they lie about.”
A flicker of surprise, and he took a step back, as if taking my measure anew. “What has a newspaperman ever done to you?”
I looked away. I’d revealed much more than I meant to. The memory of the rumors that had almost ruined Anne’s health, the meanness of the recent gossip about me, the unfairness of Mr. Flynn’s accusations had all mounted upon each other, and I’d burst out in anger over the least of the reasons, and to a virtual stranger.
“Never mind.” I took my time drawing off my gloves, trying to regain my self-possession. “Why are you here, anyway? You’ve told me that you’ve discovered my identity. Is there anything else?”
He frowned, but the hard lines around his mouth were gone. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Lady Elizabeth. What did a newspaperman do to you? Or was it to your family?”
I remained silent, hoping that he would give up and leave.
“Clearly you feel someone wasn’t treated fairly in the press,” he persisted. “And the injustice still rankles.”
“Well, I don’t like injustice,” I said finally. “It’s rotten.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m not a rotten newspaperman.” He gazed at me for a moment and then blinked, as if he’d just realized something. “Was it—by chance—to do with the Reynolds family?”
I stared.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mr. Flynn said. “I’m no mind-reader, but I’ve been looking into the people who own parcels of land near Trevington, and Lord Reynolds is on my list. Once I knew who you were, I realized you were near neighbors. And everyone knows about Mr. Philip Reynolds.”
“Everyone knows what the Courier reported about him, you mean,” I said acidly.
“How is the truth different?”
“What does it matter?”
“Well, it probably doesn’t to most people,” he admitted. “Even if new facts come out, they don’t forget the first rumors, especially if they’re about a viscount’s son. But for what it’s worth, I think Fred Poucher is the sort who gives us all a bad name, and I’d like to know just how far off he was.” He raised his right hand, as if swearing. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. And I wouldn’t use it. But if there is some way, at some point, to undo the damage, you could at least count on me to help. You’d be surprised at how often that happens.”
I studied him carefully. His gaze was candid and his expression honest, but I imagined he’d had plenty of practice at appearing trustworthy.
He sighed. “The other reason I’m here is because I discovered something that concerns you and your family, which I want to tell you. But I need to rely on your discretion. So we are going to have to trust each other some.” He bowed his head forward. “Maybe the fact that both of us trust Paul can help.”
“Something that concerns my family,” I repeated, not quite believing him.
He nodded. “It’s about some investments your father made.”
I went to a chair and sat down, and he did the same.
“Will you tell me the truth about Mr. Reynolds?” he asked.
So it was to be an even exchange.
“You promise not to use it?” I asked.
He nodded.
I unwrapped my shawl and folded it into a square in my lap, to give myself time to think. And I realized that I had a way of finding out something about Mr. Flynn’s discretion. I observed him closely. “Have you told Paul about me?”
His eyes didn’t shift a whit. “No. I haven’t told anyone.”
Well, that was decent of him. I could grant him that much.
And he was trying to prevent another accident, even if he also wanted a story for his newspaper.
Despite my instinctive distrust, I felt a grudging respect for him. And I wanted to hear what he had learned about my family. Besides, there was really no harm in telling Mr. Flynn some of the truth. All the damage that could possibly be done to Philip had occurred, and if ever there were a chance to correct the false story, it might be an advantage to have a sympathetic newspaperman on our side.
Still, I began cautiously.
“What do you think you know about Mr. Reynolds?” I asked. “From what you’ve read in the Courier, and the other papers, I mean.”
He pursed his lips, considering. “Well, he’s the eldest son of a viscount, in his mid-twenties, and an opium addict. He attended Oxford until last fall, when he was found in one of the dens that caters to”— a brief cough—“men with a particular sort of appetite. So he’s a”—the faintest hesitation—“sodomite, although he wasn’t caught in the act, so it couldn’t be proven in court.”
“You have a good memory, Mr. Flynn. That is what the Courier reported. But very little of it is true,” I said. “Philip is not, in fact, an opium addict or a sodomite. He only went into that vile place to drag a friend of his out of it.”
Mr. Flynn’s expression changed. “Then he’s a very loyal friend. He must’ve known what it would do to his reputation if he was caught.”
I gave a sharp little laugh. “He is loyal—and clever and decent, although he’s fairly well wrecked now. Do you know what that horrible newspaperman said to his sister?”
He waited.
I remembered Anne’s words perfectly. “He said that it was his god-given duty to shine his light into the dark corners of depravity in London. To tell the truth about people
, no matter who they are—devils and dukes alike. That someone’s title didn’t protect them.” I shook my head, feeling just as disgusted as I had when Anne first told me. “He pretended to regret that he had to expose Philip, but, really, the fact that he’s a viscount’s son was a gift to him. It made the story worth telling. After all, how many other people were caught at opium dens that month? There were no sensational pieces written about them. That man Poucher was riding his moral high horse all the way to Lord Reynolds’s door—and he was bent on finding every bit of dirt in their cellar. Anne became positively ill over the scandal, and she and her younger brother had to go all the way to Scotland to find some peace after the story broke. It’s torn her family to shreds.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “No wonder you looked at me like I was vermin when Paul introduced me.”
I felt myself flush. I hadn’t realized I’d done so.
“But not all newspapermen are alike,” he said.
“No,” I admitted. “I daresay, as with most occupations, there are some decent ones, as well as charlatans.”
“You’re right about that. I report on Parliament for the paper—the Houses of Commons and Lords, both—so I’ve talked to MPs every week for the past three years. They’re certainly not alike, even the ones with the same title.” He grimaced. “And I shouldn’t have said that about your title. It’s just that I was angry about you deceiving Paul. He’s barely spoken to another woman since Emily died—certainly never taken one into his confidence—and frankly, I wish it hadn’t been you.” He raised a hand to forestall my retort. “Not that I object to your character. You’re certainly not selfish; you don’t strike me as either dissipated or sulky. And clearly you feel very loyal toward your friends. But nothing good is going to come of this, for your reputation or his. I’m sure people here at the hotel are already talking about—”
“Well, it will be over soon,” I interrupted. “My mother is better. She spoke this morning, so we’ll be leaving for home shortly.”
“She did?” He looked relieved. “I’m glad she’s on the mend.”
You mean that you’re glad I’ll be gone, I thought. “As for Paul, I want you to let me tell him the truth. I will, the next time I see him.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
I fiddled with the edging on my shawl. “Now, what did you have to tell me about my family?”
“I’ll get to that. But my story’s longer than yours was, so just be patient, all right?”
I sat back in my chair, prepared to listen.
“For what it’s worth,” he began, “as a newspaperman, I do see it as my responsibility to shine the light, as you say, into the dark places. Sometimes I don’t have a fancy lantern, though. Sometimes I only have a stub of a candle to hold up, to try to find the devil lurking in the corner.” His hands moved restlessly on the arms of the chair. “You did your part that night in the kitchen, trying to fix what went wrong. And now I am trying to do mine. Which means investigating a line that isn’t safe, in order to keep such an accident from happening again.”
“What happened in Parliament on Tuesday?” I asked. “Did Griffin come to testify?”
His shook his head. “He’s vanished.”
My throat tightened. “Dead?”
“God, I hope not. Jeremy found someone who claims Griffin made it to London but left again right after, by another train.”
“So he’s probably alive.” I bit my lip. “I can’t say I blame him for running away. After Palmer was killed, he must’ve been terribly frightened.”
“I know.” His fingers teased at a thread that had come loose on the arm. “At least Blackstone was able to testify in his place because of what we found at Malverton. They’ll vote tomorrow afternoon, and it’s my guess they’ll close the line for a few weeks and begin an extended investigation of the railway.”
“So there was erosion at Malverton too?”
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a dirty handkerchief, and unfolded it to reveal some blackened shards. He chose one about the size of a pebble and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. It looked to be metal; it sparkled faintly in the light from the window.
“What are those?” I peered at the bits. Some of the smaller ones almost looked like shavings off horseshoes. I made my hand into a cup, and he shook the pieces into it.
“This is what we found at Malverton,” he said. “They’re what’s left of the bolts that used to fasten the rails to the fishplates.”
“What’s a fishplate?” I asked, picturing something with silvery overlapping scales.
“Fishplates are metal pieces, about this big.” He spread his hands a foot wide. “Rails come in pieces, so they need to be linked together. A fishplate is what does it. They have four holes in them for bolts, and they attach the rails together, two bolts into each rail. We found seven bolts missing over the course of a quarter mile of track.”
I stared. “Missing? You mean they’d come out?”
“They’d been cut out.” He gestured toward the pieces in my hand. “Look.”
I studied them more closely. Yes, I could see where the metal had been sheared. I looked up. “You never said anything about the tracks being destroyed on purpose.” I could hear the accusation in my tone. “You said the tracks were unsafe because the river banks were eroding—”
“That’s what it’s being made to look like! But we found digging underneath the railbed at Malverton, just where these bolts were cut.” His green eyes flashed. “Blackstone said they’d do it someplace where it would look like natural wear—right on a curve. He knew exactly where to look. It only took us about half an hour to find those.” He gestured toward the metal bits in my hand. “Between the digging and the cut bolts, Blackstone said that section of the track would’ve lasted another few days at best—probably less because since the accident they’re running more trains over it than usual.”
I felt as though I couldn’t draw a full breath. Silently, I tipped my hand to return the metal bits to his handkerchief, but my palm was damp, and I had to brush them off. “You think there was sabotage at Holmsted too, don’t you?”
He nodded. “There’s no physical evidence left, of course. The heat from the fire warps the iron rails and burns the railway ties. In all the wreckage, nobody’d be able to tell whether the bank had been dug up. But with the missing reports to the Commission and the Bureau? It’s bloody suspicious.”
I watched as he folded the handkerchief and stowed it back in his pocket. “At least you had those to show. There’s no way Parliament can refuse to shut down the line now.”
He snorted. “Of course they can—even with the three photographic plates Wemby took of the digging.”
I sat bolt upright. “But how could there even be a question?”
He made an impatient movement. “Because people see what they want to see. Three MPs flat-out refused to believe the shards had come from bolts—said they could be metal bits from anything. Some others refused to believe the photographs because we could’ve manufactured them.” His mouth twisted. “Frankly, if it had been Palmer or Griffin presenting the evidence, it might have gone easier. But Blackstone? People have gotten tired of his rants. Fortunately, the MP for Chesterton stepped in and—”
“Lord Ballantine?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”
“Well, yes, I know him. But he’s—well—”
“He’s a drunken sot,” Mr. Flynn said bluntly. “But his nephew was killed in that tunnel disaster a few years ago, when the two engines ran into each other. So he has strong opinions, and people take him seriously, at least on this matter. He got up on his feet and stated unequivocally that even if there was only a chance Blackstone was telling the truth, they needed to close the line and begin an extended investigation.”
My estimation of Lord Ballantine rose several notches. “Well, thank god he has some sense.”
“Yes—and what’s better, he has quite a
few friends—and more influence than you might expect, considering. So tomorrow may go all right.”
“Is he in favor of the new safety measures?”
“Yes, so long as you catch him before he starts drinking.” Mr. Flynn stood up and winced.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s nothing, just a bruise. It was rocky near the track, and I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I felt my lips twitch, and he gave me an odd look. “You think that’s funny?”
“It’s not funny that you’re hurt. It’s just that I’ve seen you walk into people on the street. You don’t tend to look about you much when you’re talking.”
He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched almost as if he were amused.
“And Parliament is deciding tomorrow for certain?” I asked.
“Monday by the latest. I’m hoping they close the line for a month. After that, there’ll be a final hearing.”
“A month doesn’t seem like a very long time—especially if someone is sabotaging the line.” I bit my lip, thinking about the kind of person who would do this. “He must be some sort of lunatic. Do you remember a few years ago, when someone was parking carts across the line near Sheffield to derail the trains?”
“Of course I remember—but that man wasn’t a lunatic. He was doing it to protest the working conditions, which were atrocious. Three coal men and a driver killed in two months.” He frowned. “And I don’t think the person who’s doing this is a lunatic either. There are several perfectly sensible reasons why someone would sabotage the line.”
“Sensible reasons,” I echoed. “You can’t mean that!”
He raised his first finger, the shortened one. “The first, and most likely, is to make money. Accidents bring down the railway’s stock price drastically—and whoever wants to can buy shares for next to nothing. Then, when the railway fixes the line and adds in a few safety devices and reopens, the share price goes back up and the buyers can make a small fortune.”
The breath rushed out of me. “But that’s not a sensible reason. It’s madness—trading people’s lives for money!”
