by Karen Odden
I desperately needed to speak with Anne.
Chapter 23
I was at Reynolds Hall by mid-morning the next day, asking Anne if we could go for a walk.
She saw that I wanted to talk privately, and by unspoken consent, we started down our usual path, one that led to a grove of yews at the western edge of their estate. Her hand was tucked in my elbow, and neither of us said much until we were out of sight of the house.
“How is Philip?” I asked finally.
“I think he’s better.” A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. “My father and he had another row last night, about Philip’s failures as an elder son. Only this time, Philip was sober, so he responded with a lecture about how primogeniture was an outmoded economic stratagem to perpetuate the current land ownership system, and begging my father’s pardon, it was rotten to the core and would probably die a natural death by the turn of the century.”
Despite my worries, I couldn’t help but smile back. I could hear Philip saying exactly that. “What did your father say?”
“He called him a socialist and stormed off.”
“A socialist?” I had to laugh. “Your brother, who read Adam Smith from start to finish?”
She laughed too, though she followed it with a sigh. “I know. It’s all just absurd. It was good to hear Philip talking like that, though, with some of his old spirit.”
Her words made the smile fade from my lips. If Philip was finally beginning to extricate himself from his despair, did I have any right to ask him to do something that could only revive his most painful memories?
We were nearly to the yews, where I had planned for us to sit and talk. The old trees formed a spacious cathedral, with the boughs arching overhead and the sunlight coming through in ever-shifting patterns.
In the corner were the remains of a low stone wall that had been erected years ago to keep beasts of some kind in or out. Anne brushed the leaves off of a flat place and motioned for me to join her. “What’s happened, Elizabeth? You look worried.”
Indeed, I was. My stomach had wound itself into knots over the conversation we were about to have, and I began slowly. “Do you remember I told you about the newspaperman, Mr. Flynn?”
“Mr. Wilcox’s friend? Of course.”
“He came to deliver Mama’s medicine on Wednesday. But he also came to tell me that Paul has been accused of manslaughter.”
She gasped. “Manslaughter! Of whom?”
“One of the patients he saw after the accident. The trial is in less than a fortnight.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her eyes wide with sympathy. And then, a bit awkwardly, she added, “Is—is there any legitimacy to it?”
“We don’t think so. James and I went to Travers jail last night to hear his version of events.”
“Travers jail!” She looked horrified.
“Yes, it’s dreadful.” I shuddered, remembering the rats. “Partly as a favor to me, James has agreed to represent Paul.”
“Well, that should give Paul a good chance.”
“Yes, but it’s rather complicated.” I plucked a bit of dried leaf from between the rocks, twisting the brown stem between my fingers. “Mr. Flynn—and now, James, too, I think—believes that Paul is being accused of this crime to be kept out of the way. Because of something having to do with the Great Southeastern.”
“What do you mean?”
I let the leaf go and met her eyes. “Mr. Flynn has discovered that Mr. Hayes might be trying to manipulate the railway share price for his own gain.”
“Mr. Hayes!” Her eyes opened wide.
Briefly, I explained what Mr. Flynn had discovered so far about the scheme. “So you see,” I concluded, “Hayes needs Paul discredited because those injury cases could bankrupt the railway—and then Hayes’s plan fails. That would cost him thousands of pounds.”
Her face had gone white to the lips. “And you think Father might be mixed up in this because he met Mr. Hayes? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No, no! There’s no evidence of that at all!” I said earnestly and laid my hand on her arm to reassure her. “Your father’s name never came up. But Anne, the important thing—what I need to tell you—” I took a deep breath “—what I’ve been dreading telling you—is that the charges being brought against Paul are on behalf of Felix Benedict.”
Anne’s mouth formed a small O.
“There’s no doubt Felix was injured by the railway crash,” I hurried on. “But Mr. Flynn believes that someone may have influenced the Benedicts to bring the charges against Paul.”
“Did he in fact treat Felix?”
“Yes, in the field, right after the accident, the same as he did for Mama and me. And he went to see him the next day, at the Polk Hotel.”
She frowned. “But Felix died at home.”
“I know. Against Paul’s recommendation, his family physician took him by train to London and then countermanded some of Paul’s orders. Quite possibly”—I hesitated—“it was he who—who made things worse. But there’s no way to prove that in a court of law. What could be proven, though, is that Felix had a condition that weakened his body, making it more susceptible to the effects of a railway crash.” In my anxiety, my words were tumbling over each other. “Paul calls it a complicating factor. For my mother, it was her nervous disposition and her laudanum use and possibly even her difficulties in birthing Henry. But it can be anything—a history of family disease—or drinking too many spirits…or…” My words had begun to slow.
“Opium use,” Anne finished bleakly.
“Yes.”
Her arms were wrapped around herself, and she sat very still; the only thing moving was the end of her shawl, which flapped in the breeze. After some time, her words came haltingly: “So you—want Philip—to appear in court and testify—that Felix used opium.” Her voice was so taut with dread that in that moment, if I could have taken my words back, I would have.
“Anne, I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask of him. Especially now. And I’ll understand if he says he can’t—and I’ll understand if you can’t ask him—but”—my voice broke—“I couldn’t not tell you.”
She bowed her head and pressed the heel of her hand between her brows. I knew the gesture, one she made when she had her terrible headaches, and I felt a sickening stab of guilt.
“Anne,” I began again, trying to find the right words. “I wouldn’t have asked, but if Paul is convicted—”
“Just let me think, Elizabeth. Please.” She pushed herself off the wall and walked a few paces away, her boots crushing the dead leaves.
Feeling wretched, I held my tongue and let her be.
Finally she turned back toward me. When she spoke, her voice held a faint tremor. “Testifying would put Philip right back in the public eye. Do you know what kind of a nightmare that would be for him?”
I nodded miserably.
“And testifying that Felix was an opium addict and possibly a sodomite?” She shook her head. “It would be the worst sort of betrayal. Philip has his faults—I know he does. But loyalty to him is everything.” Her voice broke. “I never told you this, but after the story was printed, Felix didn’t even apologize to Philip. Instead, he accused Philip of betraying him—of leading the newspaperman to that dreadful place because Felix owed him some money!” Her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Oh, Anne,” I breathed. “Philip had proven his friendship over and over before that night. I can’t believe Felix really meant that.”
“But he said it, Elizabeth.” She wiped her eyes with the edge of her shawl. “And more than anything else—more than Father’s scorn, or the public shame—that accusation almost destroyed him. If he were to testify against Felix now? He would be betraying him after all!”
I swallowed my disappointment. “I understand.”
We sat silently together for a long time, both of us suffering. At last she asked, “What will happen if Paul is convicted?”
“Mr. Flynn says
manslaughter carries a sentence of fifteen years in prison or transportation.”
She gave a groan. “Oh, god. That’s not right. He shouldn’t be punished for something he didn’t do.” She sighed. “I’ll tell Philip what you’ve said, but please don’t get your hopes up. I have a feeling he’ll refuse.”
I put my arms around her. “Thank you, Anne,” I whispered. “And if he refuses, I’ll understand. Honestly, I will.”
She held me close for a minute and then pulled away so I saw the pained look on her face. “You’re going to break your stupid heart, you know, loving him.”
I nodded.
She drew my arm through hers, and we started back.
Chapter 24
When James and I arrived at the Travers jail on Monday morning, Paul had been moved to a different cell. Instead of a solid wooden door, there were open bars; and a vertical window, larger than the slit in his previous cell, let in enough light that I could see Paul sitting on his cot, his hands gripping the edge. And there was Mr. Flynn, pacing between a small table and a rickety chair.
As the warden turned the key and let us in, I noticed that they weren’t looking at each other.
Something was amiss. They’d been quarreling.
Even James noticed. “What’s happened?” he asked, looking from one to the other as he set his case on the chair.
Paul said nothing, just rubbed his hands wearily over his face.
“I’ve been looking further into Hayes’s affairs,” Mr. Flynn replied abruptly. “About three years ago, he and a partner formed a small company of investors that has been buying land—more than just the parcel in Trevington Forest.”
“Who is the partner?” I asked.
“A man named Geoffrey Farnsworth. No connection to anyone on the railway board that I’ve found, but he has part interest in a shipping company out of Liverpool.”
Farnsworth? My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice nonchalant. “That’s a fairly common name, but Lady Hester Shaw was born a Farnsworth.”
Mr. Flynn shot me a look of surprise that I’d referred to Lord Shaw, however obliquely. But I wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t public knowledge, at least among our circles.
James frowned dismissively. “It’s hardly likely there’s a connection between the two.” He began to unbuckle his case. “Where are they buying the land?”
“It’s scattered. Some is out toward Bristol, near the mines. Some near Leeds. Some in East Anglia—”
“East Anglia?” James was only half-listening as he drew out some papers. “There’s nothing out there but cows and pasture.”
“It’s where Hayes is from,” Paul said.
Mr. Flynn’s eyes were gleaming. “But all of it is in places where there’s a patchwork of railways, poorly maintained—or no railway at all and just canals. And most of it—except for East Anglia—is within reach of the Great Southeastern.”
“What?” James looked up. Finally Mr. Flynn had caught his attention.
“It got me to thinking. What if Hayes’s scheme wasn’t just to manipulate the stock price to make some quick money? What if that was just the beginning?” He jammed his fists into his coat pockets. “What if Hayes plans to propose a group of branch railways that can hook up to the Great Southeastern when it reopens? All he needs are some investors—he never seems to lack for those—a lord or two for the boards, a railway lawyer, and an MP powerful enough to push the proposals through.” Mr. Flynn was growing emphatic, and a faint echo came back to us from the corridor, reminding us that this wasn’t a private room. He lowered his voice. “Hayes has been buying Great Southeastern stock. That tells me he doesn’t just think it’s going to reopen. He’s sure.”
“He has to be,” Paul agreed. “They’re laying out a fortune.”
Mr. Flynn nodded. “And he’s only paying the price of agricultural land, which is around seventy pounds an acre. If people knew he was planning to put a railway across it, he’d be paying three hundred.”
James’s eyes narrowed. “But don’t you think that with his connections he’s going to know that Parliament is leaning toward closing the railway?”
“Maybe that’s just a rumor,” I said. “Maybe Hayes is paying someone on the Select Committee to be sure it stays open.”
Mr. Flynn raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Look who’s getting all cynical and worldly-wise.”
I shrugged.
“Or Hayes has some kind of leverage,” James said. “There are plenty of ways he could get members of the Select Committee in his pocket. Blackmail. Political clout in exchange for his vote. Personal benefit—”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Mr. Flynn interrupted. “Like back in the ’40s when the Bristol MP’s family owned collieries that were shipping their coal to London by canal. It was expensive, so the Great Midland came to him with a plan: they’d run their rails straight out to the collieries, in exchange for his vote, and those of his friends.” He grimaced. “Hurt the canals, but it gave the railway exclusive rights and put more money in the MPs’ pockets at no risk to him. Maybe Hayes has something like that worked out.”
I stared, appalled. “But that’s bribery.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Paul asked. “What if Hayes is planning to take over the railway and expand it? Maybe that’s why he’s been buying up the stock.”
Mr. Flynn grimaced. “Not likely. He’d have to control more than fifty percent, and the board members would make sure that didn’t happen. Besides, the price has fallen so low that they’ll hold on to their shares, on the chance the railway reopens. No,” he said decisively, “we need to find the name of some of those branch lines. They’ll have been listed in the Times at some point during the last year.” He looked from James to Paul. “We have ten days left.”
“That means looking through hundreds of listings.” Paul shook his head “It’ll take you hours—days, even. Damn it, I hate being locked in here!”
“Except that you shouldn’t be concerned about that right now,” James said pointedly and gestured toward the stacks of papers on Paul’s cot. “What we have here, with your files. That is your concern.”
“But Hayes’s railway scheme is the reason Paul is in here!” Mr. Flynn’s eyes were hard. “I know it is.”
“That may be, but you haven’t found proof of it yet,” James retorted. “And whether Hayes and his friends are starting a dozen railways or buying land all over the world doesn’t matter a whit because even if we could show that Paul was put in jail to keep him out of the way, he is still on trial for manslaughter! Which means that he needs to be ready to testify about any medical case that Solmes can use to discredit him, and he needs to be very sure of his testimony about Felix Benedict.” James faced Paul. “We have less than a week before your trial. I have other cases, which means that when I am here, we have to focus on your defense.”
Paul’s face was grim. “I know.” He looked at Mr. Flynn and muttered, “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Don’t be. He’s right,” Mr. Flynn said flatly, then picked up his hat and jammed it on his head. “I’ll be at the Falcon until I find something.” He went to the barred door and called for the warden to let him out.
The way he looked, heading out of the cell, solitary yet determined, tugged at my heart. He was struggling against forces bigger than himself.
He shouldn’t have to do it alone.
Chapter 25
Vanishing for twenty-four hours was quite simple, really.
I told my aunt that I was returning to Anne’s to keep her company for the night, and I sent a message to Anne to explain that I had to go to London and why. Then I slipped into an unused bedroom across from my own. In a closet full of old clothes, I found a plain gray servant’s dress, a black cloak that was frayed at the hem, and a dowdy bonnet with a thick net to cover my face. I put everything into a small valise such as I had taken to Anne’s dozens of times before, and I put some coins into a purse.
As I left my room, I had a mo
ment of misgiving. What if my aunt discovered I wasn’t at Anne’s?
Then again, what was the worst thing she could do?
—
With the Great Southeastern line closed, the nearest station was Bonwell, a little over an hour away.
I arrived at the station at a quarter till eleven, changed my clothes, and found a boy to take the gig to the station stables for the night. The veil over my face helped conceal my features as I paid for a third-class ticket. Then I stood on the platform, like any servant taking the train to London to carry out an errand for her mistress.
I heard the train before I saw it—the clacking on the rails first, then the scream of the iron wheels as the brakes labored to slow the engine. Despite the coolness of the air, I felt the sweat at the back of my neck and under my arms where the dress was scratchy.
As the train stopped at the platform, I had a moment of panic. The stench of burning coal and smoke recalled the accident so strongly that I felt the bile rise to the back of my throat, and I had to put a hand to my mouth and force myself to swallow. For a moment, I wasn’t sure I would be able to get on.
I let myself be swept forward with the other passengers toward the third-class carriages. I hit the toe of my boot on a step and stumbled into the car. But I managed to make my way to a wooden bench, where I wedged myself between two other travelers and all their packages.
The train started to move, and I sat rigidly until we reached the next station without incident. Only then did I raise my veil and begin to breathe normally as I looked about me. None of the other travelers seemed at all nervous. There were mothers with their children, men reading newspapers, a woman knitting, boys with their caps pulled low, a priest, and a girl holding a basket in her lap. When I heard the mewling of a kitten, I couldn’t help but smile; she broke into a return grin and patted the top of the basket.
“This your first time travelin’ by train, then?” asked the woman beside me. She was a buxom matron of about forty, with dark hair, a round pale face, and small dark eyes, like raisins in a dumpling.
