A Lady in the Smoke by Karen Odden Page A

stab of dislike for Mr. Flynn.
    “And Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Flynn are friends,” I repeated.
    Jeremy went to the fireplace and put his hands to the blaze. “Yah. ’Nd I met Mr. Wilcox ’cos Mr. Flynn asked me to ’elp ’im one night, on account o’ one of the fakirs.”
    “Fakirs?” I asked, thinking of the Sufi Muslim ascetics one read about sometimes in the papers. “Do you mean Muslims?”
    He scowled. “Nah! Them folks wot say they were ’urt in an accident, but ain’t, so they can git money out o’ the railway.”
    Fakers.
    He picked up a poker and jabbed at a log. “ ’Twas about a year ago—or”—he cocked his head, considering—“maybe longer.” He shook his head. “ ’Twas rotten cold, so it must have been January, or mebbe early February.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, some bloke ’ad called Mr. Wilcox in, told ’im ’e been in a railway crash, couldn’t walk or nothing. ’Ad a bandage around here”—Jeremy’s dirty hand touched his neck—“and was complainin’ of bein’ dizzy and feelin’ like summat was creepin’ up and down his spine and gettin’ ’lectric shocks all over him so he couldn’t ride ’is ’orse, and some such nonsense.”
    I frowned dubiously. Given what Mr. Wilcox had told me about railway injuries, those symptoms sounded as if they could be authentic. “Are you sure he was faking?”
    “Yah! And Mr. Wilcox knew it, but ’e couldn’t prove it. So I stayed near the bloke’s house till one evenin’ I see ’im come walking down the steps right as rain, just like Mr. Wilcox said ’e was. Got into a cab and went off to a party at a lady’s house.” He swayed left and right, as if in time to music, and mimed holding a glass, with his pinkie up. “All sorts of dancing and music and wine and whatnot in fancy glasses.”
    I felt my eyes widen.
    “So,” he continued, “I went and fetched Mr. Wilcox, and we met the fakir on ’is way ’ome that night. That was the end of that.”
    “But, Jeremy, how did Mr. Wilcox know that he was lying?”
    Jeremy grinned. “Them symptoms were
’zactly
like the ones in Mr. Erichsen’s book—case number thirty it were—and Mr. Wilcox done got them, ’zactly as they’re writ, all up ’ere.” He pointed to the side of his head.
    I leaned forward in my chair. “So what happened? Did the man cancel his suit against the railway?”
    “Nah. Mr. Wilcox done refused to go to court to say the bloke war injured.” He rested the poker on his shoulder as if it were a rifle. “So they threatened to sue ’im for bein’ a bad doctor, ’cept Mr. Flynn threatened to write it all up in the paper, so they let Mr. Wilcox alone and found another doctor to say wot they needed.”
    I gasped. “So this man got money from the railway anyway?”
    “Near five hun’red pounds.”
    “Good Lord! For no injury at all?”
    He nodded and grinned rather wickedly. “Mr. Wilcox told me there’s a doctor wot’s named Sinkler in America. ’E brings one o’ these”—he waved the wrought iron poker—“right into court, and when folks say they caint walk ’cos they caint feel nothing in their leg, ’e sticks ’em with it. That fixes things clear enow.”
    I stared in disbelief.
    He frowned and cocked his head. “ ’Twasn’t January. It was February. I remember now. ’Twas right before Miss Emily died. Middle of February.”
    “And who is Miss Emily?”
    I was expecting him to become impatient at yet another question, but to my surprise, Jeremy’s expression sobered and an unexpected flash of tenderness appeared on his features. “She’s Mr. Flynn’s half-sister, ’cept she was going to be his wife.”
    “I beg your pardon—Mr. Flynn’s half-sister was going to be his wife?”
    Now he became impatient. “Nah! Mr.
Wilcox’s.
They were engaged, like. But she died.”
    I felt a chill run over me. “I’m so sorry. Was she ill?”
    “Smallpox. She ’ad a friend with it, and didn’t stay away like she oughtta.”