A Lady in the Smoke (31 page)

“Good.” He pursed his lips. “One thing in our favor is that your face is as easy to read as a book. I almost hope Solmes
does
put you on the stand.”

“Do you think it's likely?”

He shrugged. “It depends on what his man finds out at the hotel.”

And on whether Sir Solmes thinks he'll be able to put my actions in the worst possible light.

“That's not all,” he said. “Tomorrow when you enter the courtroom, do not even
look
in Wilcox's direction. Keep your face calm and demure. Maybe even a little bored. Leave your gloves on, and don't fidget with them.”

No looking. Calm. Demure. Bored. No fidgeting.
“All right.”

“If you are put on the stand, keep your replies short. Be thoughtful but unimpassioned because”—he enunciated each word carefully—“this man is nothing more than your mother's surgeon. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “I was helping the people who were injured—not Mr. Wilcox.”

“Don't argue over the little untruths that Solmes will try to slip in,” he continued. “It'll make you appear defensive. Let those go. Save your rebuttals for the big ones, and hang on to your dignity. Speak from your heart as much as you can. The jury will respond well to that.”

I hoped I could manage all of this under scrutiny. “I'll try.”

“Another thing.” His eyes narrowed. “If he tries to get you to admit to something that isn't exactly what you mean, I want you to say
yes,
as if you're agreeing, but then add what you need to say. For example, if he says that you know nothing about treating injuries, you say, yes, that you've only ever helped sedate and stitch up wounds on horses. He won't be able to object, and the jury will remember your words, not his. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And be sure to keep your voice soft and gentle, no matter what he says—no matter how insulting or ridiculous his questions. Can you promise to do that?”

“I promise.” I added awkwardly, “I know it may not seem so, James, but I was watching very closely today, and I could tell how carefully you'd prepared Mr. Wilcox. I saw how confidently he responded when Sir Solmes asked about his apprenticeship. I saw how it was you who made the deprecatory remarks about Dr. Morris, so that Mr. Wilcox could take the higher moral ground. Honestly, until now, I had no idea how very accomplished you are at this.”

He avoided my eyes by picking up his coat and shrugging into the sleeves. “Well, we'll see if it does any good. Now, I'm going to get some dinner and then I'm going back to see Wilcox.” He drew on his gloves. “One last thing. If by some remarkable chance the jury acquits him, do not give any sign that you're pleased.”

I looked at him in surprise. “I won't, if you say so. But why not?”

“Because his reputation as a surgeon—and his ability to keep working as one after this trial—will depend on his name being cleared. Not just inside the courtroom, but in the eyes of the public. All it takes is one newspaperman who thinks that you lied on the stand to help Wilcox—”

“I understand. Truly, James, I do.” I paused. “But how can Sir Solmes compel me to testify, short of issuing a subpoena?”

“I daresay he'll have one at hand; but he is counting on your presence tomorrow in the courtroom, as an interested party.”

“I could stay away,” I suggested doubtfully.

“No, it's best if you take the stand without the subpoena, as if you have nothing to hide.”

There was a part of me that wanted to insist that I
didn't
have anything to hide. But I couldn't pretend not to understand what he meant.

“I'll do my best,” I said humbly.

His mouth opened as though there were something more he wanted to say. But after a moment, he shook his head, picked up his case, and left me alone.

The sky was hung with lowering gray clouds as we arrived at the courthouse the next morning. My stomach was in knots, and the bit of toast I'd managed to choke down at the hotel wasn't sitting well.

Mr. Flynn was leaning against a wall outside of the courtroom, his shoulders slumped, his hands in his pockets as usual. He looked exhausted, unshaven, and anxious, and I felt a pang of intense sympathy; we were in much the same boat, with Paul on trial, the Parliamentary hearing three days away, and little possibility of a satisfactory ending to either.

He straightened up as he saw me; clearly he had something to impart. James muttered in my ear, “Not a word about the valet.” I promised, and after he and my uncle went into the courtroom, I approached Mr. Flynn.

“They'll be putting you on the stand today,” he said without preamble. “Solmes obtained a subpoena first thing this morning.”

I nodded. “James guessed he would. He helped me prepare last night.”

Behind me, the door opened and closed repeatedly as people entered the courthouse; Mr. Flynn watched them over my shoulder. “He's going to twist everything.”

“I know.”

He looked so miserable that I wished I could have said something to him about our hope for the valet. But mindful of James's warning, I didn't. Instead, I asked if he'd discovered anything more about the railway scheme.

He shrugged. “Hayes has finally been taken in for questioning. That's something, I suppose.”

I gasped. “Something? Why, that's exactly what you were hoping for! How did that happen?”

“I found the clerk that Hayes paid to suppress Griffin's report, and he agreed to talk to an inspector at Scotland Yard. So finally they're beginning an investigation. They picked up Hayes yesterday at his club, and from what I understand, they're going to bring in Poole as well.”

I clutched at his arm. “Mr. Flynn, surely you see how important this is! Why aren't you more pleased?”

He looked at me peculiarly. “Because it's too late.”

“But you still have three days until the hearing.”

He pulled his arm away from mine. “I meant for Paul.”

With a jolt, I realized that while the railway story may have been important to Mr. Flynn in Travers, the only thing he cared about now was his friend. And he still believed that uncovering the scheme had been Paul's best chance.

“Paul may be acquitted,” I reminded him gently.

“Even if he is, it's not going to help him much.”

I stared. “What do you mean? Of course it will!”

“Things are going to come out today. Not just things about you.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Things that never should have come to light. Things that aren't even relevant.” His voice dropped so low that I had to strain to hear it. “It's going to destroy him.”

I felt a chill down to my bones.

His expression was weary. “You'd best go in,” he said and walked away from me, out to the street.

The room looked almost exactly as it had the day before, but with less sunlight and more of a crowd.

As my uncle and I went to our seats, I followed to the letter James's directions about appearing demure and calm and slightly bored. God knows I felt anything but.

I heard Paul take his place in the dock but kept my eyes on the seams of my gloves.

James began: “Mr. Wilcox, is it true that you were called in to treat Mr. Percy Rowell?”

“Yes. I examined him shortly after the railway accident occurred.”

“What did you find?”

“I suspected him of feigning his injuries.”

“Why is that?”

“He described them in a way that matched almost word for word one of the cases in John Erichsen's book.”

“This book?” James picked up a copy of
On Concussion of the Spine
.

“Yes.”

“Will you read from your patient log what you wrote down after you first saw Mr. Rowell?” He handed Paul his notebook.

Paul read from a dog-eared page: “Visited Percy Rowell this evening. Young man of twenty-three. Claims to have been in the railway accident at Croftsbury several weeks ago, for which he wishes to sue the railway for damages. Claims to be troubled by—I am quoting him—‘horrible dreams, often frightened and confused.' Says his head feels hot as if with fever and insists he can barely hear out of his right ear, though he admits the hearing in his left ear is normal. He claims to see a fixed vertical line across his field of vision. He complains also of seeing flashes, stars, and colored rings. Reports a degree of numbness and a feeling of ‘pins and needles' in his left arm and leg, a sensation that is worst in the morning.”

“And now, please read the marked passage from Mr. Erichsen's book.” James took the notebook and handed Paul the copy of
On Concussion of the Spine.

“Case 28. Mr. C.W.E., aged about fifty, naturally a very healthy man, weighing nearly seventeen stone was in a railway collision on February 3, 1865. He was violently shaken to and fro, but received no bruise or any sign whatever of external injury. He was troubled with horrible dreams, and waked up frightened and confused. His head was habitually hot, and often flushed. The hearing of the right ear was very dull; the hearing of the left ear was normal. He saw a fixed line or bar, vertical in direction, across the field of vision. He complained also of flashes, stars, and colored rings. He complained of a degree of numbness, and of ‘pins and needles' in the left arm and leg. All these symptoms were worst on first rising in the morning.”

“I see it bears a striking similarity,” James said. “But many railway injuries have similar kinds of symptoms, do they not?”

“Yes, but it is truly remarkable to find the language and the very order in which he described the symptoms to be so similar.”

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 that 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.