by Karen Odden
I was almost absurdly touched by my uncle’s gesture. Not that three hundred and fifty pounds would solve all my problems—I certainly couldn’t live on it forever—but it was kind of him to think of me, and remarkably liberal to bequeath it with no restrictions. “Did he leave you and Anthony anything?”
“No. Apparently you’re the favored child.” He gave a brief smile. “Then again, Anthony and I aren’t blood relations.”
I poured myself a cup of tea. “What else did Mr. Turleigh tell you?”
“There’s an interesting bit about your dowry. You know that it becomes the property of your husband, of course, if you marry; that’s ordinary. But it comes to you, if you are unmarried upon your mother’s death.” He tipped his head and looked at me curiously. “Had you any idea?”
I sank back in my chair, quite stunned.
“It’s a very unconventional provision,” James continued, “and what’s more, it wasn’t part of the original will. Your father drafted the codicil after Henry’s death because it was clear Kellham Park would go to your cousin Colin. It is, however, still subject to the same provision: it’s yours only so long as you remain a loyal British subject.”
My mind was trying to grasp all of this. “Does my mother know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But is the dowry worth anything?”
“It depends.” He took off his spectacles and laid them on the table deliberately, a gesture that made my heart sink even before he said a word. “First, let me be clear. Kellham Park and your dowry are completely separate legal entities. Nothing may be moved from one to the other. The estate is solvent, being funded primarily by the rents and the five-percents, which are steady as always, and only secondarily by shares of stock.” He paused. “However, your dowry consists almost entirely of shares—and their value is much more volatile.”
“I see,” I said faintly. “I’m guessing that some of the shares are in the Great Southeastern.”
He looked surprised. “Yes, nearly half. How did you know?”
“Never mind. What about the rest?”
“The rest are in silver and gold mines in South America. Your father took about ten percent of the money your mother brought to the marriage and purchased those shares when the mines were first discovered. Fifteen or twenty years ago, they were a very profitable investment.”
“But wasn’t it foolish to have invested so narrowly?”
James shrugged. “Plenty of people did the same thing and made substantial fortunes because they sold before the mines went dry. Had your father lived, I’m sure he would have done the same, and it all would have worked out beautifully. But Mr. Turleigh has received no directives about selling. Apparently, he tried several times to discuss it with your mother, but she wasn’t willing to alter anything your father had set in place, and over the past few years, the mines have begun to lose money. It isn’t official yet—but there’s a quarterly report coming out in August that will make the failure of the mines public,” he finished. “I’m afraid those shares have gone to almost nothing.”
I had braced myself for this, but hearing the words still made a knot form in my stomach. “And the railway shares?”
“Those could potentially recover, although they’ve dipped substantially in value this past year. Your father had something close to twelve hundred shares in the London-Redfield, to which were added another two thousand when the Great Southeastern took it over. They should bounce back to at least half their former value when the railway is up and running again. That would put your dowry somewhere around two thousand pounds per annum, possibly more if the dividends are good.”
I twisted the napkin in my lap. “But what if Parliament closes the railway?”
James gave me a quizzical look. “Why would that happen? Accidents occur all the time without a railway closing down.”
I stirred sugar into my tea while I debated telling James some of what I knew.
“Elizabeth? What is it?”
I set down the spoon on the saucer with a clink. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to share with you, James. Do you promise?”
His eyebrows lifted at my seriousness. “I promise.”
“When I was in Travers, I found out that the train wreck might not have been an accident. It looked like it was, because land near a river is prone to erosion, and that’s where the tracks were; but apparently there’s another area near Malverton, where the track is similarly close to the river—and the line there was sabotaged.”
He looked incredulous. “Sabotaged?”
“The ground under the track had been dug up, and several bolts were cut out of the fishplates.”
He gave a short laugh. “That’s absurd. Who told you this?”
“A newspaperman who works for the Falcon,” I said.
“The Falcon is a liberal rag that has inveighed against the railway interest for years.”
“Liberal rag or not, James, I saw the cut bolts,” I said earnestly. “Mr. Flynn—the newspaperman—brought them back from Malverton, and I held them in my hand.” His face sobered, and I continued, “And a photographer took pictures to present to Parliament. It was enough to convince them—this past Friday, in a closed session—to shut down the line for three weeks for an extended investigation.”
His eyes narrowed. “So this newspaperman thinks that someone is sabotaging the railway. To what end?”
“The most likely reason is to make money by manipulating the share price,” I said, thinking about what Paul had told me.
He fiddled with his spoon, turning it over and back. “What sort of man is he, this Flynn?”
It was heartening that James was no longer dismissing the theory out of hand. “He seems all right. It was he who first told me that we owned shares of the stock, from back when Father was on the board of the London-Redfield.”
James’s expression became instantly suspicious. “Why would he know about your father’s shares? Why is he looking into our family?”
“He isn’t,” I protested. “He’s only trying to figure out who is behind this railway scheme.”
“Surely he doesn’t suspect your father!”
“No. But he says that the purchase of the London-Redfield in 1862 involved a good deal of fighting among the board members. He wonders if some of those old quarrels have something to do with the sabotage.”
“Hmph. And he came to find you and ask questions?”
“Not at all,” I said patiently. “He’s a friend of Mr. Wilcox’s. We really only met by coincidence. Anyway, James, that’s not what’s important. Parliament will make its final decision about the Great Southeastern in just over a fortnight. If Mr. Flynn can discover the people behind the scheme and prove beyond a doubt that the sabotage was part of it, there’s a good chance Parliament will reopen the line after repairs. But if not, they may shut it down entirely. And then all of the shares in my dowry will be worth nothing. This is why Mr. Flynn asked me if I knew anything about the railway, back when I was in Travers. He knows I have a stake in the outcome.”
“But you didn’t tell him anything,” he said quickly. It was more a statement than a question.
I took a sip of my tea to swallow the bit of guilt over passing along Lord Shaw’s name. “I didn’t know anything to tell him.”
James rubbed at his chin. “So Flynn thinks the Holmsted accident was the result of sabotage as well. Does he have any proof?”
“Not really,” I said. “But one of the inspectors who filed a report months ago about Holmsted was killed the week before he was supposed to testify about the railway in Parliament. It was made to look like he fell off a train accidentally, but he’d been beaten first. And the other inspector who was going to testify about Holmsted has gone missing.”
James’s eyebrows rose. “Flynn told you all this?”
I nodded.
He sat for a long moment, thinking. Finally, he shook his head. “Whatever he’s looking for, I don’t want you talking to him again
.”
What would you think if you knew I’d sent him a telegram yesterday afternoon?
“Why are you crumbling your toast?” he asked abruptly.
I kept my eyes on the dark brown bits. “I don’t like the burnt part.”
“Elizabeth, I’m quite serious. You mustn’t get involved.”
I met his gaze levelly. “But I am involved. It’s my dowry. If I could find something that would help keep the Great Southeastern open, why shouldn’t I pass it along?”
His voice sharpened. “I can think of several very good reasons why not. First—and foremost—is that, if indeed there is a scheme involving sabotage, the people who are behind it are dangerous.”
“Mr. Flynn would hardly reveal that I told him—”
“Second, I’m not sure how Flynn might use whatever you told him. Depending on whom he told, it might cause the share price to drop still further.” He spread his hands. “And last, I don’t want to have our lives splashed all over the pages of the Falcon. What happened to the Reynolds family was atrocious.”
I sat up. “But this isn’t the same sort of thing at all!”
“Just promise me.”
“Promise what?” Aunt Catherine’s voice startled us both, and I turned to see her standing in the doorway.
“Oh, nothing,” James said smoothly, standing up to kiss her on the cheek. “Good morning, Mother. You look pleased about something.”
“I am.” She turned to me. “Your mother is better today. She still hasn’t spoken, but she slept through the night, and she just took some toast. The new medicine the doctor gave her seems to be helping.”
I gave a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad.”
My aunt sat down and laid her napkin in her lap. “So what is Elizabeth promising?”
“Apparently a newspaperman approached her at the hotel in Travers,” James said. “I’ve just asked her not to speak to him.”
“Lord, no,” my aunt replied with a frown. “Newspapermen aren’t to be trusted—they make everything sound tawdry just to sell papers.”
I could feel James’s eyes on me, intent, wanting my promise.
I merely smiled and took the second-to-last piece of toast from the silver rack. “Pass the marmalade, would you, James?”
Chapter 21
It was mid-afternoon. I’d been sitting for hours on the upstairs window-seat, pretending to read but really keeping an eye out for Paul. I didn’t expect him; I truly didn’t. But then an unfamiliar carriage started up the drive and stopped below the portico. I felt hot and cold all at once; my mouth went dry; and my hands were damp as I smoothed my skirt. Shakily, I rose and hurried down toward the front hall.
Agnes was starting up the stairs, and her expression was startled.
“Why, I was just coming to find you, m’lady. There’s a man to see you. Mr. Flynn from London. I’ve put him in the parlor.”
Mr. Flynn. Not Paul.
I didn’t move, and Agnes looked at me uncertainly. “M’lady? Are you all right? Should I tell him you’re not at home?”
I gave myself a mental shake. “No. Thank you. I’ll see him.”
Thank god Mr. Flynn hadn’t arrived and been announced during breakfast. James would have insisted on seeing him with me. Probably Aunt Catherine would have come too, for good measure.
I put out a hand. “But, Agnes, please don’t tell anyone else he’s here. Not just yet.”
A spark of surprise lit her eyes, but she said only, “Yes, m’lady. Should I bring a tray?”
“Yes, please. He may want something if he’s come straight up from London.”
I entered the parlor. Mr. Flynn was standing at the window, holding a small cardboard box.
“You were probably expecting Paul,” he said.
I felt as though I’d been rude without intending it. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not pleased to see you.”
He held out the box. “Your mother’s medicine.”
“It was good of you to deliver it. Thank you.” As I took it, the glass bottles clinked inside, and I opened the lid to be sure they were all intact.
“You don’t look well,” he said. “You look half-starved, and you have dark circles under your eyes.”
I looked up from the open box, indignant. “I beg your pardon?”
He grimaced. “What I meant is, are you all right?”
I couldn’t help a small laugh at the way he showed concern. “I’m fine, thank you.” I snapped the lid closed and set the box on a nearby table. “Did you receive my telegram?”
“Yes, I did.” The words were normal enough, but it was dawning on me that his expression lacked all of his usual animation, and his voice was peculiarly subdued.
I began to feel uneasy. “For god’s sake, what’s the matter?”
He didn’t answer at first, just looked at me silently, and my uneasiness grew. I’d assumed that Paul had sent Mr. Flynn with the medicine because he was too busy to come himself, or because he didn’t want to see me again. But now a more frightening possibility occurred to me: Palmer had been murdered for what he knew; Griffin had fled; Paul knew at least as much as they did, if not more—
The words burst out of me: “Why didn’t Paul come? Is he all right?”
His lips parted but nothing came out.
“Mr. Flynn!” I snatched at his arm. “Is he alive?”
He drew back, startled. “God, yes. He’s alive. But he’s in gaol.”
In my relief that Paul wasn’t dead, it took a moment for me to take in Mr. Flynn’s words. “In gaol,” I repeated stupidly.
“He’s being held in Travers until the spring assizes.”
I remembered the day that I’d walked past both the Travers gaol and the courts of law, where judges came four times a year to hear civil and criminal cases. James had served as counsel in Travers several times.
I felt numb. “What for?”
“Manslaughter.”
I groped for the arm of the couch and sat down. Mr. Flynn began to walk restlessly around the room.
There was a sound at the door, and Agnes came in with a tray of sandwiches and tea. “M’lady, would you like it here?”
My eyes were following Mr. Flynn, and I didn’t answer.
“M’lady?”
“For god’s sake, set it down,” Mr. Flynn snapped.
Rather stiffly, Agnes set the tray on the table in front of me and left the room.
“Mr. Flynn,” I said, my voice so strangled that the words barely came out. “Would you please stop pacing about and tell me what’s happened?”
He came to a standstill. “During the twenty-four hours after your accident, he operated on something close to thirty patients.”
“I know.”
“Apparently one of them had complications, and he died shortly afterward. The family—or someone—believes Paul was at fault.”
I put the heels of my hands to my forehead. “Oh dear god.” I closed my eyes and remembered that night—the lantern, the stitches, the chloroform mask. Suddenly the room began to tip, and I heard a ringing in my ears.
Mr. Flynn sprang toward me. I heard him swear under his breath, followed by the sound of tea being sloshed out of a pot and the clink of silver tongs on porcelain. “Here, drink this,” he said, and put a cup of tea into my shaking hands. He’d put too much sugar in, and it was unbearably sweet. But after a few sips, the room righted itself, and the ringing faded. I gulped a bit more.
After a moment, he sat down in the chair opposite. “I shouldn’t have told you all at once.”
“There’s not really a way to tell that sort of thing in bits and pieces.” I swallowed the last of the tea. “Which patient was it? What was the injury?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Because it might be someone I’d recognize.”
“You mean someone you know?” he asked dubiously.
“Someone I helped to treat.” I paused. “In the scullery, that first night.”
Mr. Fl
ynn’s lips parted in astonishment.
“Paul never told you? I was with him for hours.”
He groaned. “Don’t say that!”
“Don’t say what?”
“That you were with him for hours! It’s certainly not the sort of thing we want a jury to know—that he had an untrained young lady helping him with his patients.” Before I could retort, his glare faded. “Although maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. You might have witnessed what really happened.”
“I wasn’t in the scullery the whole time,” I warned him. “I only came down around midnight. But you still haven’t told me which patient it was, or how he died.”
“Because I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “Paul sent a telegram. All it said was that he was accused of manslaughter, and I could see him tomorrow during leniency hours.” His eyes lit up with a sudden thought. “Do you have any idea which patient it could have been? Can you think of any that had unusual complications?”
My mind sifted through the patients we’d seen in the scullery—and then I remembered what had happened Sunday night. “There was one! It was a railway servant Paul had seen at the Polk Hotel. He was bleeding internally, and there was another doctor who disagreed with Paul’s treatment and said that the man was going to die because of it. The patient’s name was Nigel. No—Nagle.”
“A railway servant,” Mr. Flynn repeated. He was silent for a long minute, thinking. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “Could be the one. I’ll find out tomorrow. But there’s a problem we have in the meantime.” He flicked his thumb absently over his missing fingertip. “Paul needs a barrister.”
“Well, of course he does.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I was hoping you might speak to your cousin,” he said gruffly.
“James?” I asked.
“He’s well regarded. And he’s argued manslaughter cases at Travers before.”
“That’s true.” I wondered how Mr. Flynn happened to know that. “When does Paul’s trial begin?”
“Not quite two weeks. Assizes begin on Monday.”
“That isn’t much time,” I said, dismayed.
