by Karen Odden
The room was still but for the faint scratching of the newspapermen’s pencils in their notebooks.
Sir Solmes cleared his throat, but I remained turned toward the jury, determined to meet the eyes of each man one by one. “I was one of the lucky ones,” I said quietly. “I was all right, mostly. So I had to help, with whatever needed to be done, wherever and whatever time of day or night it was. So when Mr. Wilcox was called to the Polk Hotel to see a patient who was bleeding inwardly—his name was Mr. Nagle; he was a railway servant—I went with him, to help, if I could. Because I hold his life—I hold anyone’s life—sacred, and”—I turned at last to Sir Solmes, and kept my voice very gentle—“I depended upon my reputation as a lady to prevent any misunderstanding of my motives.”
Sir Solmes’s cheeks were red, and his eyes were like gray stones. He was furious at having been muzzled through my recital.
I kept my gaze away from Paul and sought James. He gave me the faintest nod, a glimmer of a smile. There was a movement in the row behind him that caught my eye; Mr. Flynn was easing back in his seat, his expression dumbfounded.
After a moment, the judge spoke. His voice was kind: “Are you finished, Lady Elizabeth?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Sir Solmes merely inclined his head slightly and took a step backward. “Your sense of duty is admirable, and you’ve given us a profoundly moving account of a tragic event.” He turned to address the jury. “However—although Mr. Wilcox helped many people that night and the following day, it is utterly irrelevant to the question of whether he was responsible for bringing about the death of Mr. Benedict, which is at issue here.” He bowed to the judge. “I’ve no further questions.”
James stood up. “Lady Elizabeth, to your knowledge, did Mr. Wilcox lose any patients that night in the kitchen?”
“As far as I know, he did not. They were all alive when we finished, just before dawn.”
“Thank you. Nothing further for this witness.”
I stepped down, feeling drained, as though I’d emptied myself of all thoughts and feelings. I felt Paul’s eyes on me—felt everyone’s eyes on me—but I kept mine fixed on the floor as I made my way back to my seat and sat down. My uncle was looking at me in some wonder, but—bless him—he said nothing, only drew my shaking hand into his and gave it a reassuring squeeze before he turned his attention back to the courtroom.
Sir Solmes had already recovered his aplomb. “My lord, I call Dr. Morris.”
Dr. Morris’s fine leather soles clicked softly on the way to the witness stand.
“Thank you for taking time away from your patients to be here,” Sir Solmes said, after Dr. Morris was sworn in. “First, could you please tell us your qualifications?”
“I am a university man. I went to Eton, then to Oxford. I’m a member of the Royal College of Physicians of London, and I trained with Sir Charles Hastings. As a physician”—Dr. Morris put the fingers of his right hand together, as if holding a pen—“I am charged with the practice of physic—that is, internal medicine. Surgeons, such as Mr. Wilcox, are quite often good men, but they are supposed to practice upon the external body—broken bones, skin disorders and the like, rather than internal organs such as the spine.”
“Do you believe Mr. Benedict to have been injured by Mr. Wilcox’s care?”
He nodded. “I do. Based upon my investigation, Mr. Wilcox’s treatment of Mr. Benedict did irreparable harm.”
“Could you please be specific?”
“His most important mistake is that he refused to bleed Mr. Benedict immediately. When I saw the poor man, I took eight leeches’ worth, and his irritability diminished within minutes. His pulse dropped, and he fell at once into a comfortable sleep.”
“What about the contusion on his hip?”
“Mr. Wilcox claims it was only a bruise. But there was a scrape, which I immediately bandaged, to no avail. It had been left untended too long and became septic.”
“And the tea?”
Dr. Morris gave a shrug to his large shoulders. “I wouldn’t have thought tea would do any harm—but there was something in Mr. Wilcox’s brew that induced vomiting in Mr. Benedict, so I cancelled it immediately. As to the constant turning in the bed, I had myself recently read the article in the Lancet by Dr. Frye. Furthermore, in my years as a physician, I’ve come to see that when the spine is injured, it is best to keep the patient flat on his back.”
Sir Solmes touched his fingertips together. “Now, Dr. Morris, aside from Mr. Wilcox’s peculiar treatments, do you know of any reason why the man should not be practicing medicine?”
“Yes, I do.” Dr. Morris paused to give weight to his pronouncement. “Mr. Wilcox is in thrall to laudanum.”
His words had the desired effect. It took the judge a full minute to quiet the room.
I looked at Paul. I couldn’t help it. He’d gone pale, and there was a hard set to his mouth. Behind him, Mr. Flynn had closed his eyes.
This was what Mr. Flynn had known would come out. I lowered my eyelids and strove to keep my composure. How on earth had Dr. Morris discovered it?
Sir Solmes kept all the triumph out of his voice and sounded only sorrowful. “For those who do not know, could you explain what laudanum is?”
“It is an alcoholic tincture of opium. It is extremely potent.”
“And how do you know that Mr. Wilcox was taking it?”
Dr. Morris replied, “I know an apothecary who has prescribed it for Mr. Wilcox regularly, and in vast quantities.”
“Could it not be for the treatment of his patients?”
“I don’t believe so. His fiancée died, tragically, under his care last year; and he is taking laudanum to numb himself to the guilt.”
And you’re using this tragedy against him.
The crudity of it made me sick.
“His own fiancée died under his care?” Sir Solmes’s tone was dismayed, and he turned to the jury. “Now we have three cases of death at this man’s hands—hers, Mr. Rowell’s, and Mr. Benedict’s!” He turned back to Dr. Morris. “Do you know how it was that she died?”
“I do not. I heard that she had smallpox.” He spread his hands. “My guess is that he refused to bleed her—despite the fact that the practice is quite usual for treating that disease.”
James was sitting utterly still, hands clasped on the table, listening intently.
“Ah! And let us be clear,” Sir Solmes said. “In your professional opinion, is it possible to practice medicine effectively when under the influence of laudanum?”
“It is not. Laudanum produces a dream-like state, in which judgment is suspended.”
“My colleague”—Sir Solmes gestured at James—“might suggest that your motive for assisting in this case against Mr. Wilcox is to exact revenge for being replaced—however temporarily—as the Benedicts’ physician. Is that true?”
“Of course not,” he replied. “I am here because I wish to protect the integrity of my profession. The Medical Act of 1858 was intended to bring together all medical men under one umbrella, so that we might share our information, collaborate in treating patients, and develop precise and scientific methods of diagnosis and treatment.” Despite myself, I had to admit he seemed in earnest. “But we cannot have irresponsible medical men under that umbrella. It leaves all of us open to being called charlatans.”
I could sense the feeling in the room swaying away from Paul. Indeed, even I could not help but feel that Dr. Morris had a point about irresponsible medical men—although it hardly applied to Paul.
As Sir Solmes sat down, James rose. “I have a question for this witness.”
The judge gestured for him to go ahead.
“Dr. Morris, your sentiments are very noble. And Mr. Wilcox’s use of laudanum is regrettable. But did Mr. Wilcox in fact ever practice medicine when he was under its influence?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure of this?” James asked, and his tone carried a caution. “Can you produce any of his pa
tients from that period? Any records of patients from that time?”
Dr. Morris hesitated.
“Indeed. Will it please the court.” James picked up one of Paul’s notebooks and brought it to the judge. “Here is his notebook from that period. You will notice there are no entries from February twenty-seventh of last year until June eighteenth of the same year. His fiancée, Emily Flynn, died on February twenty-fifth. From this, we can see that Mr. Wilcox voluntarily gave up the practice of medicine for nearly four months, knowing full well he was incapable of treating patients in his state of grief.”
“Or inebriation,” Dr. Morris interjected.
“If he was not treating patients at the time, the fact that he took drink, or opium, or Dr. Daffy’s Purple Pills, is irrelevant.” James set the notebook back on the table. “To the point: Mr. Wilcox did not see Mr. Benedict until over a year after his wife’s death—a full ten months after his last use of laudanum.”
“You can’t be sure when he last used it,” Dr. Morris said scornfully.
“Can you?” James asked softly.
Dr. Morris saw his mistake.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sir Solmes stiffen.
The change in the courtroom was faint, but I felt it.
The judge leaned over his bench. “Dr. Morris, can you?”
Dr. Morris fumbled with the edge of his lapel. “Well—I know for a fact that the apothecary I know was selling it to Mr. Wilcox for at least four months after his fiancée’s death—and laudanum is a habit that is nearly impossible to break.”
“But it can be broken,” James said.
“Very rarely.” His tone was officious. “In my years of experience, I have found that once someone is a slave to laudanum, they are never completely free.”
“Let us set aside the metaphor of slavery, which is surely disgusting to any good Englishman,” James said coldly. “We are all free men here, with choices. Now, the worst that can be said by you with any certainty is that Mr. Wilcox purchased laudanum for the last time roughly ten months before treating Mr. Benedict. Is this correct?”
Dr. Morris granted irritably that it was true.
“Tell me, Dr. Morris, are you quite certain you weren’t angry at being dismissed, even temporarily, in favor of Mr. Wilcox? Or perhaps you were unhappy that your credibility as a physician was being called into question?”
“Of course not!” Dr. Morris ran his elegant hands over his lapel a few times. It was unfortunate for him that this caused the gold ring on his right hand to flash. “I care only for the welfare of my patients!”
A murmur in the courtroom.
“But is it true that while Mr. Wilcox went to Holmsted to help the victims of this railway disaster, and worked for several days at saving lives for no pay at all, you remained away because you saw there would be little financial profit to be gained?”
He sat up straight, his eyes blazing. “That is not true! I was away for another reason.”
A pause.
“Of course,” James said soothingly as he turned away and went back to his seat. “I have nothing further for Dr. Morris.”
A round of snickers went about the courtroom. Suddenly no one seemed to care for Dr. Morris and his gold-topped cane—but some of the antipathy seemed to be directed at Paul too, as if they were merely a pair of charlatans with different titles.
My heart sank as my eyes swept the jury. I had a terrible feeling that if the trial ended now, Mr. Wilcox would be found guilty.
The judge drew out his pocket watch and frowned before he tucked it away. “I expect that is all?”
“I have one more witness, sir,” James answered.
“Yet another?”
“Yes, sir. But this is our last,” James said. “And we shall be very brief.”
He turned toward the back of the room. Like everyone else, I craned my neck to follow his gaze. Neither Anne nor Philip was there, but Jeremy was. He was standing beside a man I did not recognize. He was in his sixties, of medium height, with fading brown hair and a prim, almost girlish mouth. He held his hat in his hands, carefully, so as not to crumple the brim. There was a faint sheen on Jeremy’s forehead, and the man’s cheeks were pink, as if from hurrying.
James looked at the judge. “I call Mr. John Drewe.”
There was a small, feminine cry from someone—Mrs. Benedict?—but I simply sat back and tried to breathe normally. My uncle whispered in my ear, “Who is it?”
I barely moved my lips: “The valet.”
He gave me a puzzled look but asked nothing else, and we watched as the judge beckoned Mr. Drewe toward the box where he was sworn in.
He laid his hat carefully on the wooden shelf next to him and sat down, his hands on his knees.
James began: “Mr. Drewe, could you please tell us where you were previously employed?”
“I was valet to Mr. Benedict, sir.”
I dropped my eyes to my gloves, as if none of this mattered to me. But my heart began to beat frantically, with hope and fear.
I heard James’s voice: “In that capacity, did you have occasion to know if he had a condition that compromised his health?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what was that condition?”
“He had syphilis, sir, for several years.”
Another, more audible shriek from someone. Mrs. Benedict again? Resolutely, I kept my eyes down.
“Ah!” said James softly. “Syphilis would certainly be a complicating factor in a railway injury—a factor that might make a cure nearly impossible, particularly if Mr. Wilcox was not made aware of it at the time of treatment.”
I raised my head then to watch James. He had his head tipped to one side, pausing to let the information sink in around the room. “In fact, tabes dorsalis, a condition found in prolonged cases of syphilis, occurs when the nerves in the spine are damaged, which affects balance and hearing and sight—much as railway injuries do. And in autopsies, the degeneration of the spinal column caused by syphilis is virtually indistinguishable from the effects of concussion of spine.”
Sir Solmes was on his feet. “Mr. Isslin is not a medical man. He may not offer medical testimony under the guise of asking questions.”
The judge nodded. “Agreed.”
James bowed his head, as if in apology. “Mr. Drewe, you’re not a medical man either. How do you know he had this condition?”
“Scabs, sir, every few months until about a year ago. All up and down his back. And about his nethers.” He waved in the direction of his lap, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth pursed tight. “They’d fade sometimes, so you couldn’t see them, but they always came back.”
The room quivered with chuckles and whispers.
“Was Mr. Benedict taking a medication for it?”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded toward Dr. Morris, upon whose cheeks two red spots had appeared. “Dr. Morris prescribed it.”
“What was this medication?”
“A mercury tincture, sir. Twice a day, when the rashes were on him. I had to prepare it myself.” He paused and gave a small moue with his mouth. “And put it on, in the places he couldn’t reach.”
A few barks of laughter and some groans.
“Thank you,” James said. “Nothing further.”
—
The judge summed up in a way that seemed to bode well for Paul, and the jury huddled together for three hundred and twelve seconds by my count before they returned the verdict of “not guilty.”
As it was pronounced, I kept my eyes averted and sat quietly. But after a few moments, it was as though a hand was lifting my chin. I couldn’t help but look for Paul.
He had stepped down from the dock and was standing on a small landing. In the uncertain light coming through the window behind him, I could see their silhouettes: Paul and Mr. Flynn and James, who was speaking to Paul rather urgently. I hadn’t expected Paul to look jubilant, but I thought he would at least show some relief; instead, he seemed to be in a state of shock, pale and un
moving. Finally, James stepped away, and Mr. Flynn put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul bowed his head, listening.
“Elizabeth.”
I turned. My uncle was smiling, and he bent toward me, keeping his voice low. “I must say, I’d no idea that you could speak so movingly. Did you notice? Half of the men in the jury were nearly reduced to tears.”
“Well, the valet’s testimony was what we truly needed.”
“Yes.” He looked at me quizzically. “Did you know him?”
“No, Uncle,” I said honestly. “I’ve never seen him before. But James had been hoping he might arrive. We only found out last night about Felix’s condition.”
A sudden consciousness came to his face, and he drew back to peer at me. “Anne?”
I hesitated.
“You’d rather not say,” he said understandingly. And then he smiled. “Never mind, my dear. And for what it’s worth, you handled yourself beautifully today.”
“Most of the credit is due to James. He helped me prepare last night.”
“My son is very clever, isn’t he?” he said complacently.
I gave a small laugh. “Yes. We can all be very proud of him.”
He patted my arm and picked up his coat and hat from the bench.
I turned back toward Paul and Mr. Flynn. Perhaps I could at least catch Paul’s eye, to convey, however discreetly, how glad I was that he’d been acquitted.
But there was only a pale rhombus of light on the floor.
My heart sinking, I scanned the entire room. He was gone.
Chapter 36
We made our way out of the courthouse, between the gray stone pillars, and onto the steps. While my uncle went to find James and send for our carriage, I stood in the afternoon light and let the feeling of relief that Paul had been acquitted wash over me.
