by Karen Odden
A small ripple of understanding—the first in Paul’s favor—came over the courtroom.
“Besides,” Paul added, “the true similarity among railway injuries is not the particular symptoms that play out across the body but the fact that many of them branch out from the injured spinal cord.”
Dr. Morris sniffed audibly.
James didn’t even glance at him. “Mr. Wilcox, when did you first realize that Mr. Rowell’s symptoms matched this case so exactly?”
“The following day. I knew there was something familiar about his description, so the next morning, when I returned to my rooms, I took up my copy of the book and read through the cases until I reached number twenty-eight.”
“And is there any particular way you would categorize these symptoms that Mr. Rowell described to you?”
Paul nodded. “Nearly all of them are what I would call subjective symptoms, rather than objective ones—subjective being the ones that a patient reports, and objective being the ones that a medical man can observe. None of Mr. Rowell’s objective symptoms suggested a railway injury.”
“Could you explain further what you mean by objective symptoms?”
“Objective symptoms are those that one cannot control. For example, pupil dilation. When I brought my light toward and away from his eyes, his pupils contracted and dilated normally. His pulse was sixty-four, well within the range of normal, as was the steadiness of his heartbeat. His skin had tone, and the tremors that he described were not perceptible. His legs exhibited no rigidity and could be turned.”
“And when you examined Mr. Rowell, how long did it take?”
“Approximately half an hour, during which I observed no bumps or bruises on the head, and no bruises or contusions near the spine.”
“And did you see anything to indicate what medical men call complicating factors—that is, conditions that could cause a minor railway injury to develop into something more serious?”
I had been feigning boredom, but at that question I looked up. I couldn’t help it. I dropped my eyes almost instantly, but not before I’d glimpsed James’s face. There was something in his expression—not smugness, but a certain deliberateness. Why would he bring up complicating factors unless the valet was present? But I hadn’t seen Philip or Anne anywhere. Slowly, I raised my eyes to inspect the room, peering as far as I could into the balcony. There was no sign of either of them. Perhaps the valet was here, but they weren’t? Or perhaps James was merely planting the notion of a complicating factor, in case the valet arrived in time.
My heart, which had jumped with hope, settled back down.
“There are many possible complicating factors,” Paul was saying. “It is a well-documented fact that a woman who is with child will be more sensitive to being shaken by a railway crash than a woman who is not. In men, complicating factors include a nervous disposition, a tendency to imbibe too many spirits or to use an opiate, or a history of a disease such as smallpox, rickets, or syphilis.” At that word, my heart jumped again, though Paul had given it no special emphasis. “Factors such as these weaken the body, so that if a person does experience a railway disaster, recovery may take longer or may in fact not be possible. But I saw no signs of these complicating factors—and, indeed, no sign that Mr. Rowell been injured in a railway accident at all.”
“To what would you ascribe his death?” James asked.
“As Mrs. Rowell said, he died two months after I last saw him. I can offer no insight into the cause of his death.”
“That is all for now.” James gave a small cough. “I would like to call the proprietress of the Travers Inn, Mrs. Mowbray.”
I watched as she stepped forward to be sworn in. Her gray dress was clean and neat; her thin face a bit drawn; but her brown eyes were alert, and she looked just the right amount of respectful and dignified.
“Mrs. Mowbray,” James began, “will you tell us what happened the night of the railway accident?”
“It was a terrible thing, from beginning to end.” She looked to the jury box. “Some of us in Travers heard the smash, of course—and eventually we could smell it—the burning oil and the wooden cars and all. And then, about an hour or so later, people began coming in wagons and carts to our door. We did the best we could to get everyone into rooms—it was our duty, and fortunately, we weren’t full up.”
“I’m sure you did everything you could to help,” James replied with a smile. “When did Mr. Wilcox appear?”
“Well—he got there with one of the later wagons, a little before midnight, and went straight to work, trying to fix people up. I told him he could use the scullery. There’s a good-sized table in there, you see, where he could lay the injured folks down.”
“And to your personal knowledge, how many patients did he see that night?”
She looked a bit uncomfortable. “Well, I was busy with other things, but I believe somewhere ’round twenty. There were plenty of people walking about with plaster and bandages the next morning, and he was the only doctor who came.”
“Thank you.”
Sir Solmes stood and smiled ingratiatingly at Mrs. Mowbray. She merely pursed her lips; clearly she was not willingly going to injure Paul with her testimony. “Mrs. Mowbray,” he began, “you have been so kind to come here today, and I’m sure you have much to do at your busy hotel, so I will be brief. Did you actually see Mr. Wilcox operating on anyone? Did you stand in the scullery and watch him?”
“No, because I’m squalmish about blood and bones. But I saw the poor folks the next morning, and they all said—”
“That he treated them, yes. Do you have any idea how many patients he killed?”
She stiffened and her chin lifted. “ ’Twas the railway that did the killing; I daresay Mr. Wilcox was doing the saving.”
“Very well. How many patients did he fail to save that night?”
“Why, none,” she said, surprised.
“But you just said that you didn’t see him working. Could you tell me, what were you doing all night?”
“I was bringing linens and making sure people had candles and tea and broth and—”
“So you were up and down stairs.”
“Yes.”
“So he could have lost several patients and had them removed without you knowing?”
“I s’pose,” she retorted. “But I heard nothing of the sort.”
“And did you hear any reports of Mr. Wilcox behaving inappropriately with any of the ladies at the hotel?”
She didn’t flinch, which meant that James must have warned her. But still, her eyes blinked several times, and her lips pressed together faintly before she answered. “I’m sure I don’t know. Mr. Wilcox was very busy with his patients.”
But we’d all heard her hesitation and her evasion, and several of the jurors frowned.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mowbray,” Sir Solmes said pleasantly. “That’s all.”
Mrs. Mowbray’s mouth remained half-open, as if she wanted to say something else. But Sir Solmes turned away, and she could only dart a look of vexation at his back before stepping down.
“I call Lady Elizabeth Fraser.”
As soon as Sir Solmes mentioned “ladies at the hotel,” I knew I’d be called upon. But still, hearing my name startled me.
My uncle stood to help me up and managed a reassuring smile. I felt every eye in the room on me as I walked up the central aisle toward the witness stand. The outlandish thought crossed my mind that this situation was a horrible parody of a bride making her way to the altar.
Calm, I told myself, hanging on to the word for dear life. Demure. Gratitude. Fear for my mother. Sympathy for the victims. All James’s words swirled around inside my head.
After I was sworn in, I sat down, laid my trembling hands in my lap, and looked at Sir Solmes.
He took a moment to pace about, giving the jury a chance to see his expression. He looked sincerely apologetic, as if he deplored that it was his duty to expose my foolishness—and it struck me t
hat this was exactly the expression he’d worn when he feigned regret over what he’d said about Paul in his opening remarks. A peculiar certainty gripped me—that through his own demeanor, Sir Solmes was trying to link the two of us, Paul and me, in a common guilt. It was as clever as any of the strategies James had explained to me last night, and Sir Solmes had done it as smoothly as a magician performs a sleight of hand. But the very stealth of it made me angry; and my anger helped, for it crystallized something sharp and hard inside me. I laid my hands lightly on the arms of the chair. I was not trembling anymore.
“Will you please state your name and place of residence?”
I kept my voice calm and clear and soft: “Lady Elizabeth Fraser, of Kellham Park in Levlinshire.”
“Are you the only child of the late Earl of Kellham, Lord Samuel Fraser?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Lady Elizabeth, Mr. Wilcox rescued you from the railway disaster, did he not?”
I replied readily. “Another gentleman—I don’t know his name—helped my mother and me escape the compartment. But, yes, Mr. Wilcox came to us in the field, checked on my mother, and stitched up the gash on my forehead.”
“It would be very unusual if you did not feel a certain warmth toward him—indeed, a certain degree of personal loyalty to him, for what he had done for you and your mother.”
I could hear James’s voice reminding me how to add in the words that I wanted the jury to hear. “Yes, profound gratitude, certainly.”
His head jerked faintly as he realized what I’d done. “Er—yes. And that feeling has brought you here to observe the trial, both yesterday and today. You are an interested party.”
I didn’t quibble. “Yes.”
“Now, I would like to ascertain what you know of Mr. Wilcox’s character. What have you gathered over the course of your acquaintance? Do you know, for example, who his family is? Where he is from? Whether he did well in school, or had any particular ambitions?”
I knew the answers to all those questions, but a warning bell was ringing in my head. If I admitted all I knew, it would be clear that this man was not merely my mother’s surgeon. I shook my head regretfully and answered with complete honesty. “I can only testify from my own observation that he was already muddy and wet when he came to help us in the field; and that he worked continuously from midnight to nearly five in the morning in the scullery, during which time I helped him. He stitched up well over a dozen people and set broken bones. I can truthfully affirm nothing else about his character or his education from my own experience. I’m sorry.”
He paused, and by the faintest tightening of the muscles around his eyes, I saw that he was temporarily nonplussed. I felt a brief victory but told myself not to relax my guard. He was as wily as a snake-oil man.
“Would you ever consider such a man as Mr. Wilcox an eligible suitor?”
Oh, dear god.
I kept my eyes on Sir Solmes and made my voice soft and gentle, even a bit abashed. “I’m sure he’s a fine man, Sir Solmes, but we’re of very…different classes. Society would never consider such a match suitable for eith—”
“But the two of you were closeted together in the scullery,” he leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine, “for an entire night.”
James moved ever so faintly, and I knew what he wanted. He wanted the same sort of lack of defensiveness with which Paul had declared himself apprenticed rather than university-trained. I nodded, as if I were grateful that Sir Solmes understood how exhausting it had been. “Yes, it was a terribly long night. Mr. Wilcox worked as quickly as he could, but some of the patients had to lie on the scullery floor for hours, and the poor maid had to keep the water boiling for us the whole time.”
There were a few murmurs in the courtroom. But I kept my eyes fixed on Sir Solmes.
His voice sharpened. “The night of the accident your attention was occupied with the patients, of course. But isn’t it true that after that night, your attentions were turned wholly toward each other? That on Saturday, you and Mr. Wilcox had a private dinner together in a room, alone, with wine? And then, on Sunday, did he not take you out to another hotel—the Polk Hotel—at a very late hour, where you remained without a chaperone?” His voice had risen. “Do you mean to pretend that his behavior was appropriate to your station, and to his?”
I fought down a retort and kept my voice quiet. “On Saturday, I simply brought him a tray that the kitchen maid had prepared—”
He pressed on, as if he’d already heard the answer he wanted: “Is it not true that Mr. Wilcox was conducting a flirtation with you? A very persistent flirtation, verging on seduction?”
Now there were sounds of disgust from the room, and I felt my calm unravel. “One of his patients at the Polk Hotel was bleeding inwardly, and—”
His voice hardened: “The truth is that under the guise of performing his God-given duty as a medical man, he took you to the Polk Hotel in order to seduce you into forgetting yourself—into giving away your virtue, the most precious possession a young lady has!”
There were audible gasps, and I felt myself shrivel before the ruthlessness in his face.
“Sir Solmes.” Judge Merriwether’s voice cut through the noise in the courtroom. “Have a care. I appreciate your avid desire to discover the truth, but Lady Elizabeth is not some serving maid that you can browbeat in my courtroom.”
I breathed again and looked up at the judge. He was leaning over his bench toward Sir Solmes. “You have interrupted her three times by my count. Please allow her to speak.”
The room became silent enough that I could hear the clatter of hooves and wheels against the cobbles outside.
After a moment, Sir Solmes nodded agreeably. “Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, Lady Elizabeth. We all wish to hear what you have to say.”
The judge gave me a small nod. “You may answer when you’re ready.”
I looked at the jury. Several of them had their lips pursed in disgust at the thought of what I’d done. One was sneering at me in contempt. But to my surprise, the others—at least half of them—were watching me with expressions that suggested they were holding their judgments in abeyance.
My panic began to subside.
It would do no good to confirm or deny the pieces of Sir Solmes’s sordid little story. I needed to tell them mine.
I don’t want you to lie—and you don’t have to, James had said.
And then came Anne’s voice, like a lifeline: The truth—however plain or imperfect—is enough.
I let myself recall how cold and frightened I’d felt in that wretched field, and I held the picture of the broken, burning train in my mind. Then I turned and spoke to the jurors from as truthful a place as I could find in my heart:
“I was asleep when the train crashed, and the first thing I felt was my head hitting the wall opposite. Then, before I could even put up my hands, I was thrown backward, like a marble being rattled around an empty tin. I lost consciousness, and when I awoke, the man who’d been in the carriage with us was gone, having left my mother and me behind. I could hear the roar of the fire, and black smoke was pouring into the carriage. My mother was collapsed beside me on the floor, and when I finally roused her, we tried to make our way into the corridor, but the floor had given way, and with the smoke and the bits of burning ash, we could barely breathe.” I paused. “The only reason we’re alive is there was a man searching the carriages, looking for people who were still inside. He carried Mama and me to stairs, and from there, I managed to get us out to the field where I found a rock to lean against. My mother fainted, then; and I—I had no choice but to watch the horrible spectacle.” I swallowed convulsively. “There were dozens of people climbing out of doors and windows, leaving the train any way they could, and making their way through the flames and smoke. Some of the men were going back into carriages, trying to bring people out. There were horses burning alive in the stock cars, and I could hear them screaming and pounding with their hooves. The fire trucks came, bu
t all they could manage was to keep the fire from spreading to the field. I watched the whole thing, until”—my voice began to shake and tears began to sting my eyes—“until I saw a man walking toward me with a girl in his arms. She was only about six or seven years old, and I think she must have been his daughter because he was holding her tenderly against his chest, like this”—I raised my arms in front of me and curved them close—“as if she was very precious to him.” My tears were spilling over now, and I had to force the words out. “But her hair was burnt, and her arm was nothing more than black ash, and she was dead. And then I couldn’t watch anymore.”
Through the blur, I could see the jurors’ faces were sober, even stricken.
I wiped the tears from my eyes with my gloved hands. “I don’t know how long it was before Mr. Wilcox appeared. He must’ve been out there in the field for hours before he got to us. His coat was soaked and covered with dirt and ash. He examined my mother first; then he stitched up my forehead.” I touched the scar. “He carried my mother to the wagon that got us to the Travers Inn. I think she would’ve died if we’d been out there in the rain and wind much longer. She’s not strong.” My tears had stopped, and I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “That night when I woke up in the hotel, it was around midnight. At first, I didn’t even know where I was. I opened my door and saw maids running up and down, fetching blankets and trays with tea and soup and such. I heard someone say that Mr. Wilcox was downstairs in the scullery, treating people, but that he had no one to help him. So I went.” I sought the eyes of the jurors, one by one. “Surely you can understand that I wanted to help.” Three of the jurors were nodding. “I’m not brave—truly, I’m not—but I walked into the scullery and saw him—and then I realized that the patient on the table was the very same man who’d helped my mother and me out of that carriage. He had a terrible gash on his shoulder, and Mr. Wilcox was trying to stitch him up and keep the chloroform over his nose and adjust the light, all at the same time—and—well, I’ve no training in nursing, but even I could hold a lamp.” I saw the sympathy in the men’s faces. “I wasn’t the only one. Every person who could stand up and walk helped that night. There was the maid who kept the water boiling, and another one who brought us towels and sheets to make bandages. Mrs. Mowbray was making soup and tea and toast all night, running trays up and down stairs.” I paused, my voice softened. “We all did what we could. And Mr. Wilcox did more than anyone.”
