A Lady in the Smoke (11 page)

I felt as though I couldn't draw a full breath. Silently, I tipped my hand to return the metal bits to his handkerchief, but my palm was damp, and I had to brush them off. “You think there was sabotage at Holmsted too, don't you?”

He nodded. “There's no physical evidence left, of course. The heat from the fire warps the iron rails and burns the railway ties. In all the wreckage, nobody'd be able to tell whether the bank had been dug up. But with the missing reports to the Commission and the Bureau? It's bloody suspicious.”

I watched as he folded the handkerchief and stowed it back in his pocket. “At least you had those to show. There's no way Parliament can refuse to shut down the line now.”

He snorted. “Of course they can—even with the three photographic plates Wemby took of the digging.”

I sat bolt upright. “But how could there even be a question?”

He made an impatient movement. “Because people see what they want to see. Three MPs flat-out refused to believe the shards had come from bolts—said they could be metal bits from anything. Some others refused to believe the photographs because we could've manufactured them.” His mouth twisted. “Frankly, if it had been Palmer or Griffin presenting the evidence, it might have gone easier. But Blackstone? People have gotten tired of his rants. Fortunately, the MP for Chesterton stepped in and—”

“Lord Ballantine?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

“Well, yes, I know him. But he's—well—”

“He's a drunken sot,” Mr. Flynn said bluntly. “But his nephew was killed in that tunnel disaster a few years ago, when the two engines ran into each other. So he has strong opinions, and people take him seriously, at least on this matter. He got up on his feet and stated unequivocally that even if there was only a chance Blackstone was telling the truth, they needed to close the line and begin an extended investigation.”

My estimation of Lord Ballantine rose several notches. “Well, thank god he has some sense.”

“Yes—and what's better, he has quite a few friends—and more influence than you might expect, considering. So tomorrow may go all right.”

“Is he in favor of the new safety measures?”

“Yes, so long as you catch him before he starts drinking.” Mr. Flynn stood up and winced.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“It's nothing, just a bruise. It was rocky near the track, and I wasn't watching where I was going.” I felt my lips twitch, and he gave me an odd look. “You think that's funny?”

“It's not funny that you're hurt. It's just that I've seen you walk into people on the street. You don't tend to look about you much when you're talking.”

He didn't say anything, but his mouth twitched almost as if he were amused.

“And Parliament is deciding tomorrow for certain?” I asked.

“Monday by the latest. I'm hoping they close the line for a month. After that, there'll be a final hearing.”

“A month doesn't seem like a very long time—especially if someone is sabotaging the line.” I bit my lip, thinking about the kind of person who would do this. “He must be some sort of lunatic. Do you remember a few years ago, when someone was parking carts across the line near Sheffield to derail the trains?”

“Of course I remember—but that man wasn't a lunatic. He was doing it to protest the working conditions, which were atrocious. Three coal men and a driver killed in two months.” He frowned. “And I don't think the person who's doing this is a lunatic either. There are several perfectly sensible reasons why someone would sabotage the line.”

“Sensible reasons,” I echoed. “You can't mean that!”

He raised his first finger, the shortened one. “The first, and most likely, is to make money. Accidents bring down the railway's stock price drastically—and whoever wants to can buy shares for next to nothing. Then, when the railway fixes the line and adds in a few safety devices and reopens, the share price goes back up and the buyers can make a small fortune.”

The breath rushed out of me. “But that's not a
sensible reason
. It's madness—trading people's lives for money!”

His mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Some call it business.”

I gave him a look. “What's your second reason?”

“Elections are coming. I told you, Parliament is divided on the question of how much oversight they should have with the railways. The issue's become important enough that people's careers will be made or broken over it.”

“My uncle John says that accidents like this always tend to push Parliament to take more control,” I said, and he nodded. “Well, here's hoping Parliament is sensible and gives the committee time to find out the truth.”

“Yes. And
that,
Lady Elizabeth, is what brings me to you.”

I started. This must be what he had to tell me about my family.

He tipped his head sideways, his expression curious. “Did you know that your father was an original member of the board for the London-Redfield Railway?”

My heart gave a small thud
. James said our family had invested in railway shares. Had my father served on boards as well?

I sat back in my chair. “My father was a horseman. I had no idea he knew anything about railways.”

Mr. Flynn shrugged. “He didn't have to know much to be on the board. As far back as the first railway mania in the '40s, investors would put men with titles at the top of the listing in the
Times,
to encourage confidence in other investors. In return, those men were put on the board and given several hundred shares, which is precisely what happened in 1853, when the London-Redfield was proposed.”

“I've never even heard of that railway.”

“The reason you haven't is because twelve years ago, during the last railway mania, it was taken over.” His tone carried a warning of something coming—the way a horse's ears flick back before they kick.

“By whom?”

“The Great Southeastern. They bought the London-Redfield to expand it. They ran the line up here, past Malverton, and on to Leeds, picking up branch lines along the way. Your father was one of the few members of the board who remained after the change. And he was on the board when they decided to place the railway track near the river—in several places.”

My heart gave a queer thud. “I see.” It came out faintly. “So that's what you wanted to tell me? That my father was somehow responsible for the accident we were in?”

“No, no. Certainly not directly.” He sat down again and leaned forward, his face intent. “I've been talking with people who are still on the board of the Great Southeastern, and I think whatever's happening now may have something to do with the disagreements and problems during the takeover. By the time the Great Southeastern took over the London-Redfield, the board was divided in factions. After all, the stakes were enormous.” He ticked them on his fingers: “Land. Power. Accessibility to the line. Political influence. Shares of stock. Money. Reputations.” He shrugged. “From what I've heard, the board fought over everything—where the track was to be laid, the width of the rails, whether to use the new blocking system, whether to issue new shares, the structure for dividends. And,” he added meaningfully, “I've heard that your father exerted his influence in some important ways. For example, apparently he steered the railway toward purchasing land from a man named Foxe—even though there were other parcels of land that would have been more convenient for the placement of track. Did your father ever mention this man?”

I thought hard. “I may have heard the name. But I don't recall ever meeting anyone named Foxe.”

“Do you know if your father and he were friends? Maybe your father owed him a favor?”

My voice sharpened. “I've just said I don't know him. And what do you mean by a favor?”

He put up a placatory hand. “Nothing illegal, necessarily. Maybe a gentleman's agreement of some kind.”

I still didn't like what he was insinuating. “Even if it were true, how would I know something like that? You said the takeover happened in 1862. I was only eight years old!”

“I'm just asking.” He spread his hands. “I've also heard that your father prevented some people from taking seats on the new board—seats which could have been very lucrative.” He waited a moment, as if to see if I was going to object. “My point is that it sounds as if your father made some people very angry, and—given some hints I've received—it's
possible
that some of those people may be trying to damage the railway now. They're people in your father's circles.” A pause, and then more softly, “People in your circles.”

I sat back, sickened by the thought that anyone I knew could be involved in something like this.

“Is there anyone your father particularly disliked?” he pressed.

A name leapt to mind instantly: Lord Shaw, our neighbor to the north. I remember, even as a child, noticing that my father's interactions with him were barely civil. But even as I thought of Lord Shaw, I felt wary. Mr. Flynn might not work for the
Courier
—he might be more ethical than most newspapermen—but Lord Shaw had never been unkind to me; and I had no desire to start Mr. Flynn off on a path that might lead to him prying into Lord Shaw's life, or for that matter, any further into my father's.

So I kept my eyes on Mr. Flynn and replied calmly, “Not that I can recall.”

“What about this?” He opened his map and pointed at the area west of Trevington Forest. “Remember I told you that the railway has been trying to buy land here? I just heard a rumor that they made an offer on a parcel—I don't know whose it was—that was accepted last fall. And then, a few weeks later, the seller suddenly reneged but wouldn't give a reason. Why would he do that? It sounds strange to me.” He stuffed the map back in his pocket. “There are at least half a dozen land owners the railway could be buying from, the Reynolds family being one of them. Do you know if anyone was looking to sell off land?”

It was uncanny how much he seemed to intuit.

Last year, Anne's father had considered selling some land. But I certainly was not going to mention that until I'd spoken with Anne myself. I kept my face impassive and shook my head.

“If I knew who had agreed to sell, maybe I could find why they backed out and whether someone else purchased the land instead,” he said. “That's what I need.”

I did my best to look regretful. “I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can't.”

He scowled. “You have a personal stake in this, you know.”

“I do?” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Your family owns hundreds of shares in the Great Southeastern,” he said. “Their worth has fallen to less than a quarter of what it was last fall.”

My heart beat unevenly.
These might be the shares James mentioned. But how on earth would Mr. Flynn have that information?

Mr. Flynn was watching me carefully. “If the railway closes for good, your shares will be worth nothing at all. And even to a family as wealthy as yours, that would mean something.”

Little did he know.

I lowered my eyes to hide what I was thinking.

“So if you don't care about preventing accidents, maybe you at least care about your own fortune,” he said dryly.

My head snapped up. “Don't be insulting!”

“All I'm asking is that you tell me what you can—”

“But I'm telling you, I don't know anything about this!” My fingers gripped the arms of the chair. “Believe me, my father didn't speak much to me, and certainly not about any of his business affairs!”

“But I'm guessing you know more than you think you know! You're an observant young woman. I'm sure you were an intelligent child.”

“I was left largely in the charge of a governess.”

He was silent for a moment; then his mouth pursed, and he gave a shrug, as if to say
it was worth a try
. He pushed himself to standing. “There's something here, I can feel it in my bones. Some old feud or an old debt, maybe.” He raked a hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Someone loved and lost. Someone scorned. Jealousy, greed, revenge. It's always something.”

“You sound like a sensation novel.”

He gave a bark of a laugh that had no humor in it. “Half of what I uncover is more sordid than anything I've ever read in a novel.” He stood before me, his hat dangling from his fingertips. “It would be nice if I had some help once in a while. Remember I told you about that stub of a candle? I consider myself lucky when I have that—and half the time it means I burn my fingers. But I don't even have a match right now.”

Then he walked out of the room, and a moment later, I heard the front door slam.

Yes, he was angry with me. I'd lied to him, and he knew it.

And then I heard footsteps, and he was back in the room, standing over me, his two hands mashing his poor hat.

“I'm not that
Courier
newspaperman,” he said, his expression earnest and deadly serious. “I swear to you that I am not grubbing about for some sordid story to sell papers. I'm trying to stop another accident—and trying to figure out what's really happening.
Please
. I'm not asking you to betray your father's memory. I'm just asking for a name, someplace to start. The men who are still on the board have told me everything they're going to, and there's a limit to what I can find out from public records. I need to find someone who was pushed off the board—or kept off the board—someone who's angry, maybe still bears a grudge—”

I wouldn't betray the Reynolds family, not for anything. But I had something I could give him, and in that split second I decided I could trust him with this much.