A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden

its roughness and lewdness and cruelty laid bare. I’d had no idea it was so close.
    In the light from the lantern I saw a tangle of cats, clawing at each other, their shrieks and hisses sounding almost human. Fat rats scurried along the foundations of the buildings and vanished into the shadows. We walked on, and in the door of a boardinghouse with red curtains at the windows stood prostitutes, their white bosoms glowing, their voices calling out words I’d never heard, in tones that made me blush. From the window of a two-story house came the contents of a chamber pot, flung into the street, narrowly missing us, and I found myself clutching Mr. Wilcox’s arm and watching where I placed my feet. But only a few minutes later, we reached a well-lit road running cross-wise, with a string of respectable-looking shops and pubs on either side. I turned around to look into the alley from which we’d come—but it was so much darker than where we stood under the gas lamps that it appeared as if it had closed up behind us.
    Another minute’s walk brought us to the large white Polk Hotel, with lights in most of the windows, a set of steps leading to the front door, and an elegant sign brightly illuminated by a pair of lanterns.
    A maid appeared as we entered; she couldn’t have been much older than I, and her face expressed relief at the sight of Mr. Wilcox. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, then in a low voice said to him, “I’m so glad you came back. That dreadful Mr. Galton is here, and he’s getting everyone all riled up, saying terrible things.”
    “What sorts of things?”
    Her eyes were round and indignant. “Like you should have used leeches and bled all these folks. I was in with Mrs. Wright and he said that she’s suffering from—from”—her brow furrowed—“a—a—I dunno, something about the liver, and if he didn’t bleed her straightaway, she could
die,
and it would be all your fault.”
    Mr. Wilcox made no answer other than to ask calmly, “Where is Mr. Galton now?”
    “With Mr. Nagle.” She jerked her chin toward the stairs. “Second room on the right. You’d better hurry.”
    He turned to Jeremy and me. “Wait for me here, will you?”
    I nodded and Jeremy sniffed contemptuously. “Stupid quack,” he muttered.
    The maid gave a grimace in agreement. “You can wait in there.” She pointed to a set of double doors. We went through them and found the front parlor—far more elegant than any room at the Travers Inn—with a bright fire, clean lamps, shelves of books, some Queen Anne–style chairs, and a few good paintings. I took a seat while Jeremy prowled about restlessly, picking up glass figurines and bits of ivory and putting them down with unnerving clinks and clanks. I decided to engage him in conversation before he broke something. Besides, I had plenty of things I wanted to ask him. “Jeremy, what do you know about this Mr. Galton?”
    He picked up a bit of netsuke and squinted at it. “Oh, ’e’s one of them wot makes a show of doin’ all kinds of things when folks be sick, but I ’eard t’other doctor—the one who was ’ere just for the rich man—even
’e
said old Galton’s too ready with ’is bleeding.”
    “And how do you know Mr. Wilcox?”
    He set down the netsuke, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to me. “On account of ’im being friends with Mr. Flynn.”
    “Mr. Flynn?”
    “Tom Flynn,” he snapped. “I work for ’im.”
    So that was Tom’s last name. I wondered how much Jeremy could have told me about Palmer and Malverton and the rest. But I couldn’t question him. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about them.
    “Does Mr. Flynn work for the railways?” I asked instead.
    He let out a bark of a laugh. “Nah! Works for the
Falcon.
”
    I asked in dismay, “The London newspaper?”
    “Yah.”
    Maybe it wasn’t fair—not all newspaperman were like the one who’d nearly ruined Anne’s family last year—but I felt an instant