A Lady in the Smoke

by Karen Odden

  With anyone else, I might have apologized sweetly; but knowing him as I did, I felt a pragmatic approach was more likely to win him over. I began to unfasten my cloak. “I’m here to help you look for the branch lines.”

  His mouth opened in astonishment. Then he shook his head firmly. “No. You can’t be here.”

  “Yes, I can,” I said calmly. I found a nail behind the door and hung my cloak. “Everyone at home thinks I’m at Anne Reynolds’s, so I can be here all night.”

  He stared, seemingly flummoxed. Finally he gave a deep sigh and scrubbed his hand over his brow. “What time is it?”

  “Half-past six, or thereabouts. The train took hours longer than I thought.” I moved the empty box, drew the chair to the table, and sat down. “Have you found anything?”

  He grunted and sat back down, scowling. “If I had, would I still be here?”

  “Then you might as well put me to use. Give me a page and tell me what I should be looking for.” I gestured to the five open boxes. “That’s what we have left, is it?”

  His lips tightened, and he nodded, capitulating. “All right. Here.” He picked up the newspaper on the top of the stack to his right, drew out a section and turned it so that it faced me. It was standard size, same as the rest of the London Times, and had the words “Proposed Railways” at the top.

  “These are the Saturday supplements to the Times. They list all the new railway offerings.”

  I gazed in some dismay at a page full of notices, separated by short lines.

  “We’re looking for one of two things. The first, and easiest to spot, is the location of the line. What’s the first one there?” His finger came down near the top left corner of the page.

  I peered at the small print. “The Easton-Delfing Railway.”

  “That’s not going to be one of the branch lines. We’re looking for a listing that includes one of the towns on the Great Southeastern, or someplace close by. Livingworth, Kenning, West Haverly. Even Holmsted.”

  “And a railway called Easton-Delfing will be up by Leeds. So that’s of no interest to us.”

  “Exactly. But the other thing you want to check is the board. Read farther down. You’ll see a row of names, usually starting with a lord or two, just to add a nice patina of legitimacy.”

  “Mr. Gallup, Mr. Fenley, Mr. Temple.” I looked up. “No patina on this one.”

  His mouth twisted. “Let me know if you see any names you recognize.”

  “Will Hayes be listed, do you think?” I asked.

  “Nah. I’m guessing he’ll keep his name out of it.”

  Suddenly something occurred to me. “Did you ever show Paul Anne’s sketch of him?”

  “I did, actually. And Paul said his face looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen him.” He shrugged. “It was just a sketch, not a photograph. And between his work in the hospital and on trials, Paul sees a lot of people.”

  “I’m sure,” I agreed.

  He gestured to the page in front of me. “Keep an eye out for Farnsworth, too.” He stood up and made his way to the door. “He’s no relation to Lord Shaw, by the way. Different family altogether. I’m going to find another light. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I began to read the first page of listings. The black print had already begun to smudge and fade, and this newspaper was only four weeks old. It was covered with listings for provisionally registered railways and preliminary announcements. After the Easton-Delfing came the Chester and Holyhead Railway, the Dublin and Enniskillen Railway, the Essex and Suffolk Railway, West of England Central and Channels Junction Railway, Grand Junction to the Great Western, the Burton-Upon-Trent and Stafford Railway—and that was only a single page.

  Mr. Flynn came back with two lanterns and set them on the table. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  “I don’t see how there can be room in England for all these railways.”

  He scraped a sulfur match to light the first lantern. “There aren’t. Some of them are just paper schemes made up to lure investors.” The match burnt low as he lit the second, and he swore and sucked on his thumb.

  “And that’s legal?”

  He shrugged. “Still no law against it. Not yet, anyway.”

  I set aside that page and took up the next. Most of the proposed railways seemed to be either short lines, disconnected from London, or lines that ran south and west, toward the coast.

  By the time I’d reviewed six pages, my eyes began to feel the strain of staring at the tiny letters. I rubbed gently at my temples.

  “You can stop if you like.”

  I looked up. “Don’t be absurd. But it’s a wonder you aren’t blind if you do this sort of research often.”

  He set aside one page and picked up the next. “By the way, Jeremy found out that a clerk at the Commission for Safety office was paid to bury the first report from Griffin.”

  I stared. “Paid by whom?”

  “Wouldn’t say. Still, it means the report didn’t just go missing.”

  “How does Jeremy find out all these things?” I couldn’t imagine him intimidating anyone; and I was fairly sure he wasn’t succeeding on his personal charms.

  “Pays people, of course.”

  “For god’s sake,” I said in disgust. “Everything in this city is for sale.”

  I finished the last page on my stack and stood up to take some more papers out of the box.

  Suddenly, from below, came what sounded like the roar of an engine starting up, followed by a thunderous slamming noise.

  I whirled around, sending the papers flying. “What’s that?”

  He was staring. “The press, of course. Always starts up around half-past seven.”

  “It sounds like a train going off the rails.” My heart was going so hard I felt sick. Shakily, I sat back down.

  He bent to collect the pages I had scattered. “Sorry. I should’ve warned you. It runs on a steam engine. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I took several deep breaths, trying to return my heartbeat to normal.

  He frowned, glancing at the doorway. “Jeremy was supposed to be back hours ago. I wonder where he’s got to.”

  “Do you worry about him?” I thought of the two men who had chased me into the alley. “This isn’t exactly the safest of neighborhoods.”

  “Not for you, maybe. Jeremy grew up here. Knows how to keep out of trouble.”

  I nodded, but I still felt uneasy. I wondered for a moment whether I should mention the men to Mr. Flynn. But if I did, I would only be proving his point that I ought not to have come here. Besides, he was probably right about Jeremy being able to take care of himself. So instead I sifted through the papers until I found the railway page. “It seems an odd place for newspaper offices.”

  “The Falcon started out as a crime sheet. Plenty of material right nearby.” He jerked his head toward the window. “Besides, Mr. Falcon wanted to be close to the police station on Leman Street. His best friend was one of the four inspectors for H division.” He looked back at his page, and I began my next.

  Perhaps half an hour later, we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and down the passage. Jeremy appeared in the doorway, swinging a closed umbrella and grinning triumphantly—until he saw me, and then the smile was replaced by a look of suspicion.

  “Hullo,” Mr. Flynn said.

  Jeremy jerked his chin at me. “Wot’s she doin’ ’ere?”

  “She’s helping me,” Mr. Flynn replied levelly. “Where’ve you been, and what are you doing with that umbrella?”

  “Well, I got to thinkin’.” Jeremy set the tip of the umbrella on the floor and rested both hands on it. “I alwus think it’s important to be mindin’ the gain. If Farnsworth’s the one wot’s buyin’ land with ’Ayes, ain’t it important to see who ’e’s talking to? So I figgered out which club ’e b’longed to, and ’ung ’round till I found ’im, and tonight when ’e came out, I saw ’im walkin’ down the street like this.” Jeremy stro
lled casually from one side of the room to the other. “Like ’e ain’t goin’ nowhere special—but don’t you know, a carriage picked ’im up right near St. Margaret’s. It warn’t a private one, but ’e got in quick like ’e knew it was comin’ for ’im. So I clumb up on back.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “Another bloke who was taggin’ a ride.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Well, I’ll get to that, but ’afore we went anywhere, I heard talkin’. There was somebody else inside—”

  “Any names?” Mr. Flynn interrupted.

  Jeremy shook his head. “I could tell it was a gen’leman by ’ow ’e spoke, but that’s all. I ’eard something about a pool, ’n I guessed it might be a gamblin’ pool, and I thought if’n I was gettin’ dragged out somewhere Farnsworth was playin’ a bloody game o’ cards, that warn’t worth anything, but I figger I’ll ’ang on and see. So the cab starts up and after about twen’y minutes, we turn into a street ’round back of St. Paul’s, near the courts, and one of ’em gets out. The street’s empty, and I stay behin’ the carriage so ’e can’t see me, but the fool looks left and right, so I get a good look at ’im before he goes in, and it’s Farnsworth. Goes in without knockin’, mind ye.”

  “Whose door?”

  Jeremy sniffed. “Somebody named Poole. S. Poole. He’s a lawyer. E-S-Q was on the plate after ’is name.”

  “Samuel Poole?” Mr. Flynn asked sharply.

  “I dunno.” Jeremy shrugged. “But I saw ’im through a window. ’E’s short and ’most skinny as me, ’air turnin’ gray, with pocks on his face.”

  “Yes, that’s Samuel Poole.” Mr. Flynn turned to me. “He specializes in starting up railways. Managed half a dozen paper schemes in the ’60s. He’s sharp. And sly as they come.”

  Jeremy rubbed at his nose with a dirty handkerchief and stuffed the wadded cloth back into his pocket. “Well, Farnsworth goes in there for five minutes, and I’m sneakin’ ’round to the window to hear wot they’re sayin’, ’n up rolls another carriage, ’n out comes a tall bloke who’s got more sense. Keeps ’is head down, so’s I can’t get a good look at ’im.”

  “Did you recognize the carriage?” Mr. Flynn demanded.

  Jeremy frowned at him reproachfully. “You know if there’d ’a been a lozenge I’d ’a looked. But it was rented, same as the other, a plain old black ’un.”

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  Jeremy’s eyes barely darted toward me before they went back to Mr. Flynn. “I didn’t ’spect to be able to ’ear nothin’ ’cos all the downstairs windows was dark, and there warn’t nothing I could climb up to listen nowhere else. So I went t’ the driver and asked ’im who ’is passenger was, but ’e cuffed me and sent me off. So I waited for the second bloke to come out, but ’e got in and they drove off so fast I lost ’im. But then”—he paused for dramatic flourish and picked up the umbrella—“I ’membered ’e carried this when ’e went in, but not when ’e come out. So I went to the door and knocked, tellin’ the maid wot answered that m’lord had forgot ’is ’mbrella, and she done give it to me.” He held it in front of him with a flourish. “Look at what it ’as.”

  Mr. Flynn took it and studied the carving on the handle; then, with a gleam in his eyes, he handed the umbrella to me.

  On one side of the handle was a carved portcullis, the symbol of the House of Lords; on the other side was an elaborate curved B.

  “So this ‘B’ could be another investor,” I said, “or it could be an MP who is helping to make sure the Great Southeastern reopens.”

  “And pushing some new railway lines through Parliament,” Mr. Flynn added. “I’d give a lot to know what this B stands for.”

  “I was thinking o’ Burton,” Jeremy said. “ ’E’s tall like the second man, and ’e’s part of the railway interest.”

  Mr. Flynn looked thoughtful. “Yes. He always has plenty to say on the railway question. You could be right.”

  “Or Bucknell. ’E’s tall.”

  “I can’t see him taking the risk. The man’s next in line for Home Secretary.”

  “Or mebbe Burlington. ’E’s got a mistress wot ’e might need extra for.” Jeremy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  I stared at the boy’s sharp little face and felt a stab of awe tinged with regret. He was clever and observant, with a memory for faces and facts. Born to a different station in life, Jeremy could have been something quite remarkable.

  Mr. Flynn patted him on the shoulder and dug in his pocket for some coins. “Go get yourself some hot supper.”

  “Yes’r,” Jeremy said with a grin and vanished out the door. A moment later, he poked his head back in. “ ’Nd you kin tell Mr. Wilcox I’ll do anything else I can, to ’elp spring ’im.”

  “I will.” Mr. Flynn nodded. Jeremy dashed off, and Mr. Flynn said under his breath, “So Hayes is connected to Farnsworth who’s connected to an MP and a crooked railway lawyer.” Then he looked down at the newspapers. “We’ve got to be right about this.”

  After another hour, we’d finished the third box and were three-quarters of the way through the fourth. I paused to close my eyes, resting them for a moment because the letters were beginning to blur together. As I opened them, I heard footsteps coming along the passage again. I imagined it was Jeremy, back from finding his supper.

  “Elizabeth.”

  My head jerked up, and I twisted around in my chair.

  My cousin James stood in the doorway, dressed for a dinner engagement, or perhaps for his club. Absurdly, I found myself staring at the pure white silk scarf tucked neatly in at the neck of his coat. It—and he—looked wholly out of place in this dusty hole of a room. He took off his hat, and his blond hair fell over his forehead and shone almost silvery in the light.

  “James! What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m taking you home.” And when I didn’t move, he added sternly, “Don’t fuss about this, Elizabeth. I have a cab waiting downstairs.”

  My first thought was that Anne had sent him a telegram, asking him to check on me at the Falcon offices. But she wouldn’t have. She never would have undermined me; she trusted that I knew what I was doing.

  James looked over my head at Mr. Flynn. “Thank you.”

  Furious, I whirled and gaped at him. His hands fidgeted with the edges of the page before him, and he looked almost ashamed, but the stubborn set of his jaw told me he was sure that he’d done the right thing.

  But how? And when?

  Then I remembered him going to get the extra lanterns. He must have sent a note out to James to come get me.

  Mr. Flynn must have seen the accusation in my eyes, for he flinched. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “And why is that for you to decide?” I asked, my voice low and angry.

  “Elizabeth,” James said.

  I ignored him and gestured toward the boxes of newspapers remaining. “You’re never going to get through them all. The least you could have done, if you’d wanted to be decent, was to let me help with this.”

  “Elizabeth, stop it.” James’s voice rose. “We have to go.”

  He was holding my cloak. Wordlessly, I let him wrap it around me.

  “There’s a train that leaves in forty minutes,” James said and reached for my elbow.

  I preceded him through the door without a backward glance.

  Chapter 27

  James and I were both grimly silent in the cab.

  He barely looked at me as he bought our first-class tickets at the station, hurried me along the platform, and ushered me into an empty compartment. Once we were inside, he undid his coat buttons, threw his hat onto the cushion, and took a seat. Elbows on his knees, he gripped his hair with his hands like he used to years ago, when something frustrated him beyond words.

  For my part, I looked out the window, trying to rein in the resentment I always felt at being overseen and directed and herde
d by others, as if I were still a child. James no doubt believed he was acting for my own good by dragging me home, but my trip to London hadn’t been undertaken thoughtlessly or selfishly, whatever he might think. Finding those branch lines wouldn’t just help Paul and me; it might help restore fairness to a little corner of the world. It sickened me that people like Hayes and his ilk could manipulate share prices and wreck trains and ruin people’s lives with no punishment of any kind; in a world with any kind of justice, that shouldn’t be allow to happen.

  The train sat in the station for only a few minutes before the whistle blew and it started forward with a shudder. Our carriage slid out from under the station roof, and I could see the lights of London spreading a haze across the muddy sky. Within minutes, the train was rolling past a web of squalid little streets. And then, as the city fell away, the world outside grew dark, turning the window into a mirror. I could see my blurred reflection, a pale, strained face inside an ugly bonnet.

  “Are you in love with that man?” James’s voice was flat.

  I turned to stare at him. He had tugged his hair into a rumple like a boy’s, but in the light from the carriage lantern, his face looked older than usual.

  “That man, Mr. Flynn,” he said, with no attempt at patience. “Are you in love with him?”

  “Of course not!” It burst out with the ring of truth. “I swear I am not in love with Mr. Flynn.”

  “Then what were you thinking, going there?”

  “I was thinking that there is less than a week left until the trial. I was thinking that we need the name of one of those proposed railways!” I leaned forward. “Listen, James. Tonight, Jeremy was outside Farnsworth’s club and—”

  “Who’s Jeremy?”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “He’s an errand boy for Mr. Flynn. I met him in Travers. But tonight he followed Farnsworth to the offices of a crooked railway lawyer named Poole.”

  “Poole?” He sat back. “Do you mean Samuel Poole? He’s involved in this?”

  “Yes. Don’t you see? Mr. Flynn is right about the lines Hayes is planning. Finding a listing is the only way to prove it!”