by Karen Odden
His mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Some call it business.”
I gave him a look. “What’s your second reason?”
“Elections are coming. I told you, Parliament is divided on the question of how much oversight they should have with the railways. The issue’s become important enough that people’s careers will be made or broken over it.”
“My uncle John says that accidents like this always tend to push Parliament to take more control,” I said, and he nodded. “Well, here’s hoping Parliament is sensible and gives the committee time to find out the truth.”
“Yes. And that, Lady Elizabeth, is what brings me to you.”
I started. This must be what he had to tell me about my family.
He tipped his head sideways, his expression curious. “Did you know that your father was an original member of the board for the London-Redfield Railway?”
My heart gave a small thud. James said our family had invested in railway shares. Had my father served on boards as well?
I sat back in my chair. “My father was a horseman. I had no idea he knew anything about railways.”
Mr. Flynn shrugged. “He didn’t have to know much to be on the board. As far back as the first railway mania in the ’40s, investors would put men with titles at the top of the listing in the Times, to encourage confidence in other investors. In return, those men were put on the board and given several hundred shares, which is precisely what happened in 1853, when the London-Redfield was proposed.”
“I’ve never even heard of that railway.”
“The reason you haven’t is because twelve years ago, during the last railway mania, it was taken over.” His tone carried a warning of something coming—the way a horse’s ears flick back before they kick.
“By whom?”
“The Great Southeastern. They bought the London-Redfield to expand it. They ran the line up here, past Malverton, and on to Leeds, picking up branch lines along the way. Your father was one of the few members of the board who remained after the change. And he was on the board when they decided to place the railway track near the river—in several places.”
My heart gave a queer thud. “I see.” It came out faintly. “So that’s what you wanted to tell me? That my father was somehow responsible for the accident we were in?”
“No, no. Certainly not directly.” He sat down again and leaned forward, his face intent. “I’ve been talking with people who are still on the board of the Great Southeastern, and I think whatever’s happening now may have something to do with the disagreements and problems during the takeover. By the time the Great Southeastern took over the London-Redfield, the board was divided in factions. After all, the stakes were enormous.” He ticked them on his fingers: “Land. Power. Accessibility to the line. Political influence. Shares of stock. Money. Reputations.” He shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, the board fought over everything—where the track was to be laid, the width of the rails, whether to use the new blocking system, whether to issue new shares, the structure for dividends. And,” he added meaningfully, “I’ve heard that your father exerted his influence in some important ways. For example, apparently he steered the railway toward purchasing land from a man named Foxe—even though there were other parcels of land that would have been more convenient for the placement of track. Did your father ever mention this man?”
I thought hard. “I may have heard the name. But I don’t recall ever meeting anyone named Foxe.”
“Do you know if your father and he were friends? Maybe your father owed him a favor?”
My voice sharpened. “I’ve just said I don’t know him. And what do you mean by a favor?”
He put up a placatory hand. “Nothing illegal, necessarily. Maybe a gentleman’s agreement of some kind.”
I still didn’t like what he was insinuating. “Even if it were true, how would I know something like that? You said the takeover happened in 1862. I was only eight years old!”
“I’m just asking.” He spread his hands. “I’ve also heard that your father prevented some people from taking seats on the new board—seats which could have been very lucrative.” He waited a moment, as if to see if I was going to object. “My point is that it sounds as if your father made some people very angry, and—given some hints I’ve received—it’s possible that some of those people may be trying to damage the railway now. They’re people in your father’s circles.” A pause, and then more softly, “People in your circles.”
I sat back, sickened by the thought that anyone I knew could be involved in something like this.
“Is there anyone your father particularly disliked?” he pressed.
A name leapt to mind instantly: Lord Shaw, our neighbor to the north. I remember, even as a child, noticing that my father’s interactions with him were barely civil. But even as I thought of Lord Shaw, I felt wary. Mr. Flynn might not work for the Courier—he might be more ethical than most newspapermen—but Lord Shaw had never been unkind to me; and I had no desire to start Mr. Flynn off on a path that might lead to him prying into Lord Shaw’s life, or for that matter, any further into my father’s.
So I kept my eyes on Mr. Flynn and replied calmly, “Not that I can recall.”
“What about this?” He opened his map and pointed at the area west of Trevington Forest. “Remember I told you that the railway has been trying to buy land here? I just heard a rumor that they made an offer on a parcel—I don’t know whose it was—that was accepted last fall. And then, a few weeks later, the seller suddenly reneged but wouldn’t give a reason. Why would he do that? It sounds strange to me.” He stuffed the map back in his pocket. “There are at least half a dozen land owners the railway could be buying from, the Reynolds family being one of them. Do you know if anyone was looking to sell off land?”
It was uncanny how much he seemed to intuit.
Last year, Anne’s father had considered selling some land. But I certainly was not going to mention that until I’d spoken with Anne myself. I kept my face impassive and shook my head.
“If I knew who had agreed to sell, maybe I could find why they backed out and whether someone else purchased the land instead,” he said. “That’s what I need.”
I did my best to look regretful. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
He scowled. “You have a personal stake in this, you know.”
“I do?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Your family owns hundreds of shares in the Great Southeastern,” he said. “Their worth has fallen to less than a quarter of what it was last fall.”
My heart beat unevenly. These might be the shares James mentioned. But how on earth would Mr. Flynn have that information?
Mr. Flynn was watching me carefully. “If the railway closes for good, your shares will be worth nothing at all. And even to a family as wealthy as yours, that would mean something.”
Little did he know.
I lowered my eyes to hide what I was thinking.
“So if you don’t care about preventing accidents, maybe you at least care about your own fortune,” he said dryly.
My head snapped up. “Don’t be insulting!”
“All I’m asking is that you tell me what you can—”
“But I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about this!” My fingers gripped the arms of the chair. “Believe me, my father didn’t speak much to me, and certainly not about any of his business affairs!”
“But I’m guessing you know more than you think you know! You’re an observant young woman. I’m sure you were an intelligent child.”
“I was left largely in the charge of a governess.”
He was silent for a moment; then his mouth pursed, and he gave a shrug, as if to say it was worth a try. He pushed himself to standing. “There’s something here, I can feel it in my bones. Some old feud or an old debt, maybe.” He raked a hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Someone loved and lost. Someone scorned. Jealousy, greed, reveng
e. It’s always something.”
“You sound like a sensation novel.”
He gave a bark of a laugh that had no humor in it. “Half of what I uncover is more sordid than anything I’ve ever read in a novel.” He stood before me, his hat dangling from his fingertips. “It would be nice if I had some help once in a while. Remember I told you about that stub of a candle? I consider myself lucky when I have that—and half the time it means I burn my fingers. But I don’t even have a match right now.”
Then he walked out of the room, and a moment later, I heard the front door slam.
Yes, he was angry with me. I’d lied to him, and he knew it.
And then I heard footsteps, and he was back in the room, standing over me, his two hands mashing his poor hat.
“I’m not that Courier newspaperman,” he said, his expression earnest and deadly serious. “I swear to you that I am not grubbing about for some sordid story to sell papers. I’m trying to stop another accident—and trying to figure out what’s really happening. Please. I’m not asking you to betray your father’s memory. I’m just asking for a name, someplace to start. The men who are still on the board have told me everything they’re going to, and there’s a limit to what I can find out from public records. I need to find someone who was pushed off the board—or kept off the board—someone who’s angry, maybe still bears a grudge—”
I wouldn’t betray the Reynolds family, not for anything. But I had something I could give him, and in that split second I decided I could trust him with this much.
“Is there any chance…” I cleared my throat. “Could Lord Shaw be involved?”
He drew back and blinked several times. “Lord Augustus Shaw?”
“Yes. He lives at Shadwell Manor, not far from Kellham Park. He and my father never liked each other.”
Mr. Flynn’s eyes were darting from place to place, as if his thoughts hung before him in midair and he were tracing some complex trajectory among them. “He’s not on the current board, and he’s not part of the railway interest.” He chewed at his lower lip. “Do you know why they didn’t get along?”
I shook my head.
His eyes narrowed.
“Truly, I don’t,” I said honestly.
“Is there any way you can find out if it had something to do with the railway?”
“I can try.” I hesitated. “Mind you, this is only a guess. I may be leading you off on a—a—wild-goose chase, and wasting your time.” My voice became resolute. “And no matter what, I don’t want you trying to find every last bit of dirt in their cellar. And you can’t talk to Lord Shaw about anything you find until you talk to me first. Agreed?”
He thought for a moment. “If I find out that he might know something worthwhile, would you be able to talk to him? That is, is he cordial to you?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s cordial, but he’s never been impolite.” I leaned forward. “I’m quite serious, Mr. Flynn. Do you promise you won’t talk to him without asking me first?”
“I promise. Thank you.” He shoved his hat on his head and was at the threshold before I thought to ask—
“Mr. Flynn! If I do discover something, how can I reach you?”
He turned back, his hand on the doorframe. “Care of the Falcon. And send a telegram, not a letter. I’m hoping for a month, but it’ll probably be less.”
Chapter 11
It was a quarter past nine on Friday morning. I’d been in the front parlor, watching for Paul for an hour, when a carriage drew up to the curb. He got out wearily, with a disheartened expression.
It seemed something had gone badly wrong in London. My mind darted among the possibilities. Had something happened to one of his patients? Or to Michael Griffin? Could it be possible the Select Committee had already made their decision?
I hurried to meet him in the hallway.
He stopped short as he saw me. “Hello, Lady Elizabeth.”
A wave of hot shame was followed by bitter resentment toward Mr. Flynn. He had told Paul, after he promised that he’d let me do it—and after I’d told him about Lord Shaw, no less.
“Paul.” It came out as an apology. “I was going to tell you today—I wanted to explain—”
He shook his head and let out a long breath. “I can’t talk about this right now. I don’t mean to be rude. I truly don’t have time. I have two patients over at the Polk Hotel who are getting worse, and I need to see them.” Paul looked at me, his face expressionless. “I only came to check on your mother. Tom said she spoke.”
“Yesterday morning,” I said haltingly.
“Then the worst of it is probably over.” He shifted his bag from one hand to the other. “I’ll examine her now, and she may be able to leave later today.”
He wanted me gone. He might as well have said so.
He turned and started up the stairs, and, miserably, I followed him.
Mama was sitting up in bed, dressed in her pretty bed-coat, her fair hair brushed and put up in a simple style. Her eyes slid over me to Paul, who smiled at her politely and set his bag on the chair.
“Hello, doctor,” she said.
I heard the faint slur in her voice, and my eyes—which had been on Paul—jerked back to her. Yes, her eyes were dark and a bit dreamy, and her mouth was soft.
So she’d had laudanum this morning—and by the looks of it, more than the small dose Paul had approved. I turned and shot a questioning look at Jane: had she administered it? Jane shook her head faintly; then her eyes darted to the brown bottle on the table in the corner and came back to mine. So Mama had been well enough to get out of bed and fetch some for herself.
Did Paul see it?
I watched him carefully. Yes, he did. His smile had faded, and he was taking her pulse. “Hello, Lady Fraser.” His tone was carefully neutral. “How are you feeling today?”
Mama’s voice was soft and pleasant. “I’m feeling much better. Jane has been telling me everything that you’ve done for me, and I wanted to tell you how grateful I am.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” He drew out his little mallet and his stethoscope from his bag. “Although it was your daughter and Jane, not I, who did most everything.”
Hearing him trying to give me credit made something inside me twist. He was still being kind to me, and I had a mounting sense that I didn’t deserve it at all.
His exam, with Jane assisting, was brief but thorough, and he seemed satisfied with her progress. As he put his instruments away, I saw him say something to Jane under his breath, and she replied so I couldn’t hear.
Mama ran her hands over the bedcovers. “When may I go home?”
He turned back to her. “You can leave whenever you like. I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable at Kellham Park than here. But you still need rest, and you can’t walk on that ankle for at least another fortnight. Have you a family physician who can look in on you?”
She gave a small, vague moue of displeasure.
“Dr. Martinson sold his practice last year,” I murmured. Mama didn’t like the new man, Dr. Finley, and had only let him come to see her once.
Paul looked at Jane.
“I’ll be staying until she’s well, Mr. Wilcox,” she said. “I’ll be sure she receives all her treatments as you’ve directed.” There was a faint emphasis on those last words.
He gave her a quick nod of understanding and smiled down at Mama. “Well, with Jane’s care, I have every reason to believe you’ll recover perfectly.”
“If I could find a carriage, could I leave this afternoon?” Mama asked.
“It’s less than two hours away,” Jane said. “And the roads are good.”
Paul turned back to my mother. “That would be fine.” He picked up his bag, and his eyes went from Jane to me to my mother. “I wish you all a pleasant journey. Goodbye.” And he was out the door, shutting it behind him.
I stood there, frozen for a moment—
And then I opened the door and went after him.
I knew
what it looked like—and I knew Jane wouldn’t approve—but a few minutes from now, he’d be gone, and I couldn’t let him leave without explaining as best I could.
By the time I reached the top of the staircase, he was already at the bottom. “Paul.”
He turned with a look of strained patience.
I hurried down to him. There was no one to hear us—the front hall was empty—but I kept my voice low. “Please, Paul. I know you have patients. I won’t keep you long.”
He stood there, irresolute, until I added, “We’ll be gone for good in a few hours.”
Wordlessly, he went to the sitting room, which was empty as usual. He put his bag down on one of the chairs, as if to forestall the possibility of us sitting down, and waited.
I fiddled with the ruffles on my sleeve. “I assume Mr. Flynn told you who I was.”
He looked taken aback. “No. He knew?”
Surprised myself, I blurted, “Only after you left for London. How did you find out?”
He seemed to debate whether to tell me, then gave a shrug as if it really didn’t matter. “I went to Whitehall after the Parliamentary hearing. Tom had already left, but Blackstone was standing outside talking with two MPs. One of them was your uncle.”
Uncle John. Of course he’d have attended.
“When Blackstone introduced me,” Paul continued, “your uncle recognized my name. Apparently your nurse Jane had written to his wife. He thanked me for the care I’d been giving you and your mother.” He paused, his expression chagrined. “At first, when he described you as the daughter and widow of the Earl of Kellham, I assured him he was mistaken. But he insisted. And then he called her Lady Fraser.” He gave a short, dry laugh. “I’m sure he thinks I’m an absolute fool not to know who you were.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice was low.
A pause, and then, more perplexed than angry: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I was so drawn to you that I wanted to pretend, just for a while, that—that—
“You’re going to rip it if you keep on.” Paul nodded toward my hands.
