by Karen Odden
I took it from him and cast my eyes down the names in the left margin; abbreviated notes, in his neat hand, were to the right.
Mr. Simons
Mr. Fenton
Lady Fellowes
Mr. Stallworthy
Mr. Rowell
Mr. Revere
Mr. Sinclair
Mrs. Crawford
Dismayed, I handed the paper back. “All of these people were trying to make fraudulent claims?”
“Well, there were others too. But these were the ones with large sums at stake.” He handed me a second page, divided the same way as the first. “These are the cases in which there were complicating factors.”
Mr. Weathers
Mrs. Spack
Lady Truax
I looked up. “Why, I know Lady Truax,” I said, somewhat surprised to find a name I recognized. “I didn’t know she’d been in a railway accident.”
“Just a small one. She was jarred, but there was nothing broken, merely a few contusions. She has a nervous disposition, so I saw her several times. I don’t think she’ll be called upon to testify against me. She made a full recovery, and she gave no sign she was unhappy with my care.”
I went back to the list:
Mr. Jacobs
Mr. Collins
Mrs. Devlin
Mr. Witherspoon
Mrs. Ryan and daughter Julia
Mr. Elliot
Silently, I gave the page back to him.
“When it comes down to it,” he said, “it will probably be some doctor’s word against mine, on one of these seventeen cases.”
“What is the name of the Benedicts’ physician? I’ve forgotten.”
“Dr. Morris.”
“Has James found anything to discredit him?”
He gave a half-smile. “Not yet. Tom has Jeremy working on it.”
“Well, if anyone could find something…” I let my voice trail off.
“I know. I’m glad that boy’s on my side.”
“And Mr. Erichsen? Is he coming for the trial? James seemed to think he’d be an effective advocate for you.”
He shook his head, his face troubled. “I haven’t heard.”
“But surely he knows how important this is!”
“Yes, and if the telegram reaches him, he’ll be here, if he can.” His voice had a sharp edge, and I thought I understood why. He was doing everything he could to help himself; but there was so much that was beyond his control, including whether Mr. Erichsen would be able to testify. I felt sorry I’d brought it up, and I watched silently as he gathered up his notes into a single neat stack.
All those pages, I thought, and hours of work—and still, if a case was brought to discredit Paul, it might not even be one of these.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
I lowered myself onto the rickety chair while he took a seat on the cot.
“How is your mother?” he asked.
“She’s better. The medicine you sent is helping. I think Jane is weaning her off the laudanum.”
He nodded. “That’s for the best. You should have Jane stay for as long as it takes. Considering how long your mother has been taking it, giving it up is going to be like clawing her way out of a ravine. Even if she wants to, she won’t be able to do it alone.”
Though he spoke quietly, there was a note of grim certainty in his voice that made me stare.
“Paul, why do you say it that way?” And when he didn’t answer at first, I leaned forward. “Paul?”
His expression was equal parts regret and shame. “I took it for a while myself, right after Emily—my fiancée—died.” He shook his head. “I wanted to curl up in that ravine and forget everything.”
“Who helped you out of it?” I asked.
“Tom.”
Of course.
“Well, I can understand wanting to forget,” I said. “You must have been terribly unhappy.” A pause. “I almost took it once myself.”
His body went rigid. “What?”
“I didn’t, though,” I said hastily. “I put it back.”
“Why on earth would you even consider it?” He looked incredulous. “You’ve seen firsthand what it does to someone. When was this?”
Surprised by his fierceness, I drew back in my chair. “It was the day you came to Kellham Park to see Mama. You could barely look at me, you despised me so. After you left, I went up to sit with her….” I averted my eyes from his. “I was very unhappy.”
“Oh, Elizabeth.” He groaned. “God knows I had no wish to make you so.” With a sigh, he went to the window and stood with his back to me.
I watched him mutely, not knowing what to say.
After a minute, he turned, and I saw the torment in his face. “You must imagine my feelings after I learned that you weren’t merely a gentleman’s daughter but the daughter of an earl. I was so angry and hurt and stunned, I couldn’t think straight. I reeled from it for hours, Elizabeth. For days.” His voice was raw. “I had spent no more than a dozen hours with you, and I knew I had found—in the most unexpected time and place—someone I could admire and cherish with all my heart.”
His words brought me to my feet, and I whispered his name.
“I know that the boundaries between the classes have become somewhat permeable.” He gave a brief, wry smile. “But not that permeable. And then I came to your house, and the difference between us was made rather shockingly obvious.”
“I know.”
“But you’re wrong—utterly wrong when you say I despised you and could barely look at you that day. It was nearly impossible for me not to look at you.” His eyes locked on mine. “Then, as now, your every feature is engraved on my brain. The way the right side of your mouth curves before the left when you smile. The tilt of your head when something surprises you. The blue of your eyes, the scar on your forehead where I stitched it.” His voice dropped. “You’ve no idea how I long to take you in my arms.”
I could barely breathe.
Somehow our hands had become intertwined. I laid my head against his chest, and for a long while, neither of us said a word.
And then, he released me. “I know it’s impossible, but I couldn’t let you leave here without telling you.”
“Oh, Paul.” My voice was so strained that it didn’t even sound like my own. All I could feel was how much I loved him, and how intolerable this was for both of us.
Then came footsteps in the hallway, and my heart jumped in alarm. “Could that be James?” I whispered. “He can’t find me here.”
Paul shook his head reassuringly. “It’s the guard. I know his step.”
A moment later, the man appeared on the other side of the bars, his ring of keys at the ready. “Miss, it’s nigh six o’clock. You’ll have to go. You can come back t’morrow.”
With fingers that trembled, I began to button my coat. I tried to make my voice calm and cheerful. “Uncle John will be there in Travers on Monday, and I’m hoping he’ll let me come along.” Before I could reconsider, I stepped toward Paul and kissed him on the cheek, as sister to brother. “I’ll tell Mother you’re all right. Is there anything else?”
“No.” Then he caught his breath and turned so that his back was to the guard. “Wait—yes. Give her my—love, would you?”
That love was meant for me. I could see it in his face, and I hoped my eyes were telling him what I couldn’t say aloud.
“Miss,” came the guard’s voice.
It took everything I had to turn and walk out of the cell.
Chapter 32
As Anne had promised, no one discovered my trip to the jail.
Appeased by my apparent compliance with her rules, my aunt agreed to let me go to the trial with my uncle, and she didn’t even make an ostentatious show of being gracious. I swallowed down my guilt at the deception and thanked her sincerely. I’m not sure what I’d have done if she had told me I couldn’t go; I was glad it didn’t come to that.
Monday morning dawned fai
r, and after struggling to take a few sips of tea and a corner of toast, I got into the gig with Uncle, and we made the trip without incident to the Polk Hotel, where we would be spending the night if the trial ran to a second day. We left the gig there and walked past the jail to the pillared law courts.
The courtroom for the assizes was larger than I expected. Seats were arranged in a square, with the judge’s bench and the witness box on an elevated platform at the front of the room. Both were still empty. Near the center of the floor was a raised circular dock, where Paul would stand so that everyone could see him. To the left of the witness box were the jurors, seated in two rows under tall dusty windows. The remainder of the floor was taken up by wooden benches, most of them full of spectators. I glanced around but saw no one I recognized.
I took my seat in the first row with my uncle John and looked up. A small balcony overhung the rear quarter of the room, and though I couldn’t see beyond the first two rows, it seemed occupied mostly by newspapermen, peering down and writing in their notebooks. Mr. Flynn wasn’t among them.
Catty-corner to our left, behind a polished brass bar, sat the barristers. James, bewigged and robed in black silk, sat on the side closer to us, beside a man who would assist him throughout. Behind James sat Mrs. Mowbray, the proprietress of the Travers Inn, who could testify to Paul’s character and his work after the accident. Across the aisle from her sat a pompous looking man who was fingering his gold-topped cane; he had to be Dr. Morris, the Benedicts’ physician. Beside him sat a middle-aged lady in expensive mourning, with red-rimmed eyes and a pale face: Felix’s mother. And in front of them, at his own table, sat the examining counsel for the prosecution, Sir Solmes, bewigged and robed exactly like James. He was perhaps twenty-five years older than my cousin, with pouched eyes, soft jowls, and the red-veined cheeks of a man who liked his wine. But the lines about his mouth suggested both shrewdness and stubbornness; and something about his bearing suggested that he rather enjoyed courtroom theatrics.
The door opened, and Mr. Flynn walked in with Jeremy at his side. They managed to wedge themselves into the back row, and Mr. Flynn slowly surveyed the room. I kept my gaze fixed on him until he saw me. His mouth in a grim line, he shook his head briefly, and I wondered why. Perhaps it was because Mr. Erichsen wasn’t able to come after all.
The thought made my heart sink.
The clock chimed a soft two, signaling the beginning of the afternoon session. A door at the back of the room swung open and Judge Merriwether entered. He was a short man, with a round head, and his white wig was tidy but hung long. His face suggested an equitable, mild temper. He wore spectacles, and his hands flapped his black robe behind him as he took his seat.
A door to his right slid open, and I heard people around me stirring, some of them craning their necks to get their first look at Paul. He paused at the threshold, his eyes taking the measure of the room.
Even if I didn’t love him, I would’ve thought he made a good first impression. He was clean-shaven; his hair had been trimmed; and he wore a good, but not expensive, coat. He moved deliberately, and though his hands were clasped in a pair of metal rings, there was nothing of the guilty prisoner in his demeanor. A sergeant of the court held his elbow, and when Paul stepped up into the dock, the rings were removed. I longed to catch his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on James.
I looked over at the jury. Some men were middle-aged and some younger, some bald and some with beards, some with glasses and some without. Twelve men in total; it seemed such a small number to decide the rest of Paul’s life.
Once the plea of “not guilty” had been offered, Sir Solmes glanced over some papers, set them aside, and then came out from behind the bar. James had told me that only Sir Solmes would be allowed to speak to the jury at the beginning of the trial, which seemed unfair to me; but James assured me it was usual, and he would be allowed to make final remarks on Paul’s behalf.
Sir Solmes clasped his hands behind his back and took a position in the center of the floor. The wait seemed interminable. My gloved hands were knotted into fists, and my heart was banging unevenly, like a pair of malfunctioning pistons.
He turned to peruse the room. His eyes alighted, just for a moment, on my uncle and me, and a flash of recognition crossed his face. I lifted my chin and met his gaze squarely. That’s right, Sir Solmes. Paul has an earl’s daughter and an MP taking an interest in his case. So proceed with some care.
Sir Solmes turned toward the jury and touched his fingertips gently together in front of his chest. To the twelve men, his manner may have conveyed both wisdom and compassion; to me, it felt merely calculated.
“In the course of our lives,” he began in a voice that was low yet resonant, “we meet all matter of men, good and bad. We meet the generous benefactor and the thief, the priest and the atheist, those who wish to build and those who wish to destroy. Sometimes the distinction between them is wide, and sometimes it is quite narrow—as in the case of those who have admirable intentions, but whose practice falls short of the mark.” He paused. “As many of us know, medicine is not a perfect science. There is still much that we do not understand about what ails the body and what cures it. But it is the responsibility of every medical man to do his utmost to save his patients, and today, I will show that Mr. Wilcox has, in the case of Felix Benedict, behaved irresponsibly—nay, with wanton carelessness and disregard of true medical knowledge.” His voice became somber. “Gentlemen, what you decide here will set a precedent for our future. It is our responsibility to discover unqualified medical men—however handsome or well-meaning—and remove them from their posts. For especially in the case of railway accidents, injury does not discriminate! It strikes men, women, and children of all classes and professions. And often the doctor you see at the site of an accident is not your own. It is whoever happens to be on hand, in the town close by. And god forbid they are inept, ignorant, or untrustworthy.” He paused again, and then spoke softly but clearly. “For the good of the medical profession, which seeks to uphold the highest standards of care, and for the good of patients, who need qualified men and not charlatans, we must examine the case of Felix Benedict, whom Mr. Wilcox brought to an untimely and agonizing death.” He gestured toward Paul in the box and shook his head with profound gravity.
I felt an angry flush rising to my cheeks. I’d been right about Sir Solmes enjoying a bit of theatricality.
Sir Solmes continued, “You might hate to believe the worst of the young, fine-looking man who stands here before you. But after you hear the evidence of the mistreatment that Mr. Benedict experienced at his hands—yes, purposeful, willful neglect, a mish-mash of unproven and unscientific remedies, and a refusal to perform the simplest medical procedures—much as you may hate to, you will have to convict Mr. Wilcox of manslaughter.”
He turned and walked toward his seat—not triumphantly, but with his head bowed, as if deeply regretful of what he’d been forced to say about Paul. The room filled with murmurs, and as Sir Solmes took his seat, I looked up at the newspapermen who were scribbling down his words.
Sir Solmes had spoken well and he knew it. The uneasiness I had felt when Mr. Flynn walked in mounted until I glanced at James; he looked neither worried nor surprised, and for a moment I felt encouraged. But when I turned to the jury, my heart sank again. Several of the jurymen were nodding in agreement, as if Sir Solmes were still speaking; others were looking with contempt at Paul; only two seemed to be holding their initial judgments in abeyance.
“Mr. Isslin,” the judge rumbled. “You may begin.”
James stood up and came to the center of the room. An officer of the court held a black Bible out to Paul, who placed his hand on it and swore to tell the truth. Then James began the dialog that I knew he and Paul had rehearsed dozens of times over the past week.
“Mr. Wilcox, would you please explain the history of Mr. Benedict’s illness?”
“Mr. Benedict was in the railway disaster at Holmsted,” Paul began,
“which, as you may remember, occurred a little over three weeks ago. Two large engines and their tenders, drawing a train of seventy carriages and traveling at close to top speed, went off the track, and many of the carriages slammed into each other and caught fire. Some of the carriages were violently shaken before they tipped over, and Mr. Benedict was in one of these. He managed to climb out the window and make his way into the field nearby….”
My heart gave a queer little jolt. With those few words, I felt myself back in the train, crawling out of that wretched carriage, finding my way through the smoke—
I felt gentle pressure on my arm, startling me, and I turned, stifling a cry. My uncle’s face was full of concern. I followed his gaze down to my gloved hands. My fingers were wound together so tightly that the fabric was straining at the seams. I took a deep breath, laid my hands flat in my lap, and gave my uncle a smile that I hoped was reassuring. The last thing I wanted was for him to tell me he thought it best if I left the room. It was painful to be here—but I wouldn’t have been anywhere else for the world.
As Paul continued his narrative, I began to take notice of the judge. His eyes were lowered, almost as if he were about to settle into a nap. Was he even listening? I coughed gently, wishing to rouse him. Perhaps James also sensed the judge’s apparent lack of interest, for he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace in front of the judge as he asked his questions.
“So you tended to him the best you could in the field and put him on a wagon into Travers,” James said. “When did you next see the patient?”
“The following morning, Saturday, at the Polk Hotel. His symptoms were worse—but that isn’t unusual in railway accidents. We call them secondary symptoms, as they often appear after a short delay.”
“Could you describe these symptoms?”
“His face was pallid and lined. His pupils were not dilating properly; his skin was mottled; light was distressing to him; his appetite and digestion were poor; his balance was impaired; his hands were shaking; he had difficulty reading from a book; and his pulse was 114 to 116, which is quite high for someone his age—but it was weak and compressible. He had no fever. He was speaking and coherent, but he was very agitated and his voice was trembling.”