by Karen Odden
He shrugged. “Nothing we can do about it.”
“What happens if Paul is convicted?”
“Gaol for up to fifteen years—or transportation to a penal colony in Australia.” Mr. Flynn’s voice was somber. “That’s the usual sentence for manslaughter. And of course he’d never practice medicine again.”
“Oh, god,” I said wretchedly.
“I know.”
I had half-risen from the couch to go find James before I caught myself and sat back down.
I didn’t want to introduce the two men and then be left out of everything. This was my chance to set forth some conditions to Mr. Flynn in exchange for my help.
Besides, it might be prudent to take a moment and warn Mr. Flynn about my cousin.
I chose my words carefully. “Mr. Flynn, if I agree to ask James for this favor, will you promise you’ll not only keep me apprised of what happens but also let me help?”
He frowned. “All right.”
“And you cannot mention to James that I’ve told you anything about Lord Shaw—or that Anne told me about Mr. Hayes—or that I sent you a telegram.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t like newspapermen,” I replied evenly. “He’s friendly with the Reynolds family too, and he hated the idea that I even spoke to you in Travers. He certainly can’t know that I’ve been asking questions on your behalf.” I took a breath. “Which reminds me—I went to see Lord Shaw yesterday afternoon.”
He sat up in his chair. “You did? How did he seem?”
“A bit reserved and awkward at first, but that’s understandable. And he was perfectly cordial toward the end,” I said. “I got the impression that whatever animosity existed between my father and him, it was so long ago that it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Did he say anything about the railway?”
“He told me that he had been voted off the board, but he didn’t seem at all perturbed about it. And when I pressed him about the takeover, he remembered that there had been a survey done beforehand, and that the railway had decided against buying some marshland and filling it in because it would be too expensive. That’s all.” I stood up.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “There’s a train from Bonwell in less than an hour. I was hoping you’d write a letter to your cousin, and I could take it to him this evening.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I can do better than that. James came up from London this morning. I believe he’s still in the study.”
Mr. Flynn’s mouth fell open.
I nodded to the tray Agnes had brought. “You should eat something. You look half-starved, and you have dark circles under your eyes.”
He recovered himself and shut his mouth. But then he opened it again and quite sensibly put a sandwich into it.
—
“The newspaperman is here?” James was staring at me in disbelief. “Why on earth would I want to meet him?”
“Because Mr. Wilcox is in gaol. Someone has accused him of manslaughter, and his trial is in less than two weeks.”
His eyebrows rose above his spectacles.
“Please, James. Mr. Wilcox has been very good to Mama.” He rolled his eyes, but I could see him relenting. “Would you at least talk with him?”
“Very well.” And he followed me down the hall.
Mr. Flynn rose and extended his hand to James, who took it reservedly and asked where Paul was now.
“He’s at the gaol in Travers,” Mr. Flynn said. “He’ll be there until the assizes.”
“They begin in twelve days.” James chewed at his lower lip. “But that’s enough time to prepare, if one works quickly.”
Mr. Flynn looked surprised. “You’re willing to take this on? You’ve never even met him.”
“I didn’t say I’m willing to take it on,” James retorted. “And I have met Mr. Wilcox. I drove him here from the train station a few days ago. He’s helped my aunt a great deal.” He glanced at me. “And my cousin. Which is why I am talking to you now.” James frowned. “What do you know thus far?”
“Not much. Just that it involves a patient he saw after the accident at Holmsted.”
“You haven’t a name?”
“Not yet. I’m seeing him tomorrow night, at the leniency hour.”
“And you haven’t requested any other legal counsel?”
“No.” Mr. Flynn tipped his head, studying James askance for a moment, as if weighing whether he could be trusted. Finally he said, “Let me be frank, Mr. Isslin. There are some peculiar circumstances surrounding this railway accident, and I believe they may be the reason someone has brought a case again Paul.”
“You don’t think this is merely a manslaughter case brought by a grieving family,” James said.
“No.” Mr. Flynn looked over at me. “Have you told him anything?”
“I told him about the sabotage at Malverton, and Palmer, and the Parliamentary hearing this past Friday,” I replied.
“And that you think someone is trying to make money by blowing up the tracks,” James added dryly.
“You’ve a right to be skeptical. But try to keep an open mind,” Mr. Flynn said in a tone that matched James’s, “despite the fact that I’m a newspaperman.”
I saw James bristle and touched his sleeve. “Please, James, just listen.” And then I turned to give Mr. Flynn a glare that I hoped would remind him that he was asking my cousin for a favor. “Let’s all sit down.”
As I took a seat on the ottoman, James and Mr. Flynn settled into two armchairs, so that they were face-to-face. But they hardly looked as though they were collaborating. They reminded me of two chess players vying across a board.
Mr. Flynn began. “Last fall, the Great Southeastern put a bid on some land not far from Holmsted, with the eventual plan of moving the track off the riverbanks. But before they could purchase it, the land was swiped out from under them, for ready money—” he didn’t even look at me, for which I was grateful “—by a man named Marcus Hayes, who—”
“Marcus Hayes?” James interrupted, a note of surprise in his voice.
“You know him?” Mr. Flynn asked.
“I know of him.”
“Why?” I asked.
It was Mr. Flynn who replied. “He’s this decade’s George Hudson. You know, the railway king of the 1830s. Hayes is self-made. Clever. Ambitious. Grew up on a cattle farm in East Anglia. Has his fingers in lots of pies—coal, land, manufacturing, railways—but unlike Hudson, who flaunted his money and relished the publicity, Hayes stays very quiet. Operates behind the scenes, takes partners, keeps his ownership interest discreet.”
“Have you ever met him?” I asked.
“No.”
So Mr. Flynn might not even know what Hayes looked like.
My mind jumped to the sketch that I had upstairs. But if I were to show it to them now, James would know that I’d been asking questions on Mr. Flynn’s behalf. I’d have to wait and do that another time.
Mr. Flynn continued, “Some people say he’s a financial genius. But he’s made mistakes, too. About eighteen months ago, there was an incident at one of his mills up north.”
“That’s why I’ve heard of him,” James broke in.
Mr. Flynn nodded grimly. “It was during a union strike. The men were looking for higher wages and safer conditions. One night a fire broke out in one of the buildings where the workers lived. And coincidentally”—he grimaced—“three of the union organizers were killed.”
His words gave me a chill. “You think…” I faltered, thinking of Palmer being thrown off the train. “You think Hayes hires people to commit murder for him?”
“Nothing was ever proven,” James replied, with a warning look at Mr. Flynn.
“Not in a court of law,” Mr. Flynn conceded with a shrug. “But I think he’s ruthless, and that’s relevant here because Hayes started shorting Great Southeastern stock back in November, not long after he bought the land the railway wanted.”
“Shorting the stock,” I echoed. “What does that mean?”
“It means borrowing stock temporarily to sell at a given price, with the promise that you’ll purchase it later,” James replied. “In other words, you’re betting that the price will go down.” He saw that I still didn’t understand and added patiently, “So let’s say Hayes shorted ten thousand shares of Great Southeastern. If the price goes from four pounds to one pound between when he sells it and when he actually buys it, he makes three pounds on every share. That’s thirty thousand pounds.”
I stared. “You can sell stock that you don’t even own? Is that legal?”
Mr. Flynn gave a snort. “Sure, it’s legal—unless you have private information that you’re using to turn a profit.”
“And that’s what you think happened, isn’t it?” I asked slowly. “Hayes knew that the tracks were unsafe, so he bought the land to keep the railway from moving them—and then he counted on an accident—or caused one—to drive the share price down and make him his money.”
“Oh, he caused it,” Mr. Flynn said.
James looked at him dubiously. “Are you certain about that? Elizabeth told me about the cut bolts at Malverton. But do you have any proof of sabotage at Holmsted?”
“No,” Mr. Flynn admitted. “But Hayes certainly had motive.”
James gave a short laugh that carried a note of ridicule. “So you’re drawing a conclusion based on the mere coincidence of two events: Hayes buying land and shorting stock last autumn. But simply because two events happen close together in time doesn’t mean they are part of some larger scheme, whose success is predicated upon still another event—an accident of all things, which might or might not occur. And certainly neither of those transactions, taken individually or together, proves that Hayes had anything to do with the sabotage at Holmsted, if indeed there was any.” He removed his spectacles and laid them on the table. “I don’t mean to be offensive, but it sounds to me as though you’ve taken a few random events and assembled them into a story that suits a purpose of your own.”
Mr. Flynn’s eyes sparked angrily.
“Mr. Flynn, you said that the peculiar circumstances of this accident have something to do with the manslaughter charge,” I interjected. “Is there any connection between Paul and Mr. Hayes?”
“Not a direct one. But I found out yesterday why Hayes may need Paul out of the way.”
James folded his hands with a show of patience.
Mr. Flynn rolled his eyes and turned to address me. “Hayes is beginning to buy up shares of the Great Southeastern. They’re cheap, of course, because the accident has driven the price down.” He glanced over at James. “To borrow your cousin’s example, Hayes can use the thirty thousand pounds he just made shorting the stock to buy more shares—only now he can buy thirty thousand shares for a pound each. Then when the price goes back up to four, he’s made another ninety thousand pounds.”
I took in my breath. “That’s a lot of money.”
“But for this part of the plan to work, Hayes needs the railway to reopen,” he said. “And what with Parliament already leaning toward shutting it down—”
“How do you know that?” James demanded.
Mr. Flynn ignored him. “Hayes needs Paul out of the way and discredited because Paul could cost the railway too much money.”
“You mean, because he’d be the one to testify in the injury cases,” I said.
“Exactly,” Mr. Flynn said.
I recalled the man Jeremy had told me about, who’d received five hundred pounds for no injury at all. “How much could all the cases together cost, for an accident like this?”
“The Pennington line paid out over two hundred thousand pounds after the tunnel crash three years ago,” Mr. Flynn replied. “It drove them into bankruptcy.”
James made an impatient movement. “The law was never intended to be used that way. Back in 1846, when Lord Campbell wrote it, the purpose was primarily to offer some compensation for lost wages to the families of railway servants who died in the line of work. Usually it amounted to thirty or forty pounds.”
“Thirty pounds for a working man’s life,” Mr. Flynn interjected, his lip curling.
James paid no attention to the gibe.
“I’m sure it’s not Paul’s intent to drive the railway into bankruptcy,” I said.
“No. But what he intends doesn’t matter,” Mr. Flynn replied. “He could be subpoenaed by anyone who was in the accident. So Hayes needs him out of the way.”
“I suppose we should be grateful he’s only in jail,” I said, “and not thrown off a train.”
Mr. Flynn’s expression changed. “I forgot you didn’t know. Griffin’s dead too.”
I felt the blood fall from my face. “What?”
“They found his body in an alley in London. He’d been stabbed. His brother identified him two nights ago.”
My hand went to my mouth. “Who’s Griffin?” James asked.
“The other inspector,” Mr. Flynn replied. “He wrote the second report about Holmsted. He disappeared before he was supposed to testify in Parliament.”
I could feel James being won over to the possibility that there was something crooked going on. Mr. Flynn must have felt it too. We both sat silently, giving James time to think.
After a minute, James said, “I see your point. Mr. Wilcox would be a formidable witness in these injury cases, given not only his expertise but the fact that he was an eyewitness at this accident and treated most of the patients. And if Parliament hears that there is some unlimited liability—an indefinite number of injury cases that could be strung out for months or even years, with Wilcox going to trial for the victims—”
Mr. Flynn leaned forward. “On top of the money it’ll cost to make the repairs, buy land, and install new safety devices—”
James nodded. “They’ll close the line.”
I breathed a small sigh and felt the tension ebb out of my shoulders. Finally, the two of them were agreeing on something.
But there was a stubborn set to James’s jaw as he looked at Mr. Flynn. “This doesn’t mean I’m at all convinced that Hayes ordered the sabotage, or even that he had private knowledge about the dangerous tracks.”
“But perhaps we needn’t agree on that just now,” I suggested hastily. “Whether or not this railway scheme is the hidden reason that Paul is being accused, we still have to find a way to show that Paul treated this patient properly, and that his death wasn’t Paul’s fault.”
“You’re right,” James said. “Mr. Flynn, I’m willing to consider representing him, but I want to talk to him first. I’d like to come with you tomorrow night.”
Relief flashed across Mr. Flynn’s face.
“In the meantime,” James continued, “can you get a message to him?”
“What is it?”
“Tell him to start making a list of other patients he’s treated, particularly in the last six months, or maybe a year, paying special attention to those who died of their injuries, were feigning their injuries, or went to trial,” James said. “It’s become standard practice for the injured party’s counsel to bring up past cases.”
Mr. Flynn looked troubled. “So any case that went badly in the past could be dragged up again?”
“I’m afraid so.” James suddenly looked alarmed. “Are there very many?”
“No, Paul’s a good surgeon. But someone could probably dig up something.”
“Well, then he needs to dig, too, so he’s prepared.”
“Will he have to take the stand?” I asked.
“Certainly,” James replied. “Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t. But now, if he doesn’t, it’s taken as an admission of guilt. Fortunately, he’s been in courtrooms before.”
I winced. “Not as a defendant.”
“True,” James replied. “But he’s experienced; he’ll understand that he needs t
o have his answers firmly in place before he testifies.”
“Leniency hour begins at seven,” Mr. Flynn said.
“I’ll meet you there,” James said.
I caught Mr. Flynn’s eye, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you.” Mr. Flynn rose. There was a moment when I thought he might extend his hand to James; but he thought better of it and merely said, “I’ll see myself out.”
We heard the front door close, and James went to the window. I joined him and together we watched the carriage pull away.
“He’s not particularly amiable, is he?” James said, as if he’d been cordial himself. “And he thinks he’s very clever.”
I turned away to hide my smile and said only, “Well, he’s anxious about his friend. Thank you for seeing him.”
“Of course.”
I touched his sleeve. “James, would you mind if I came with you tomorrow?”
He looked at me, astonished.
“After all, I was there at the Travers Inn those first few days after the accident. I even saw Mr. Wilcox with some of his patients.” I paused. “I’d like to help, if I may.”
His expression softened. “I appreciate that, Elizabeth. It’s good of you to offer.” He paused. “In fact, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to tell me whatever you can about Mr. Wilcox. Leniency visits are short, and it’ll save time.” We sat down together. “Why don’t you begin with the accident?”
And so I told him everything that was relevant, from the moment Paul found us in the field until the last morning in Travers when he saw Mama. I omitted some details, but even so, James was frowning as I concluded.
“I hadn’t realized you actually worked with him, taking care of patients that night,” he said. “If it comes up at trial, that’s not going to work to his advantage.”
“I know.” I sighed. “But I barely did anything, really. I just handed him bandages and kept the chloroform cone in place.”
“Even so.” His frown deepened to a scowl. “What on earth made you go down to the scullery? That wasn’t your place. You should have been with your mother.”
All the gratitude I felt toward him evaporated at his words, and I turned to stare at the trees outside the window. This was the side of James I disliked—judgmental and officious.
