by Frank Tuttle
Stoddard cussed but barked out orders. The mastodon eased tensions by lifting its tail and depositing a steaming ten-bushel heap of dung damned nearly in Stoddard’s face.
I swung myself up on the locomotive’s step and offered Darla my hand. I moved quickly inside to make room as a furry Troll foot came down on a locomotive’s iron bones for the first time in history, I guessed.
The pounding of human feet charging for the back cars sounded over the steady chugging of the steam pistons.
“It stinks,” opined the adult Troll, squeezing his nostrils shut. Even stooped and huddled as best he could, the adult Troll could barely fit his massive frame through the Western Star’s cramped locomotive gangway.
The younger Troll, though, managed to sidle his way all the way to the front of the engine. He gurgled out words that I’m sure meant ‘Look, Papa, shiny machines!’ before he charged directly into the engineer’s cab.
Stoddard, his face the color of burning coal, managed to squeeze himself past the Troll and plant himself firmly in front of the brass levers and wheels that operated the train. “If Trolls wreck this train, I swear I’ll see you pay for it,” he growled at me.
“Show him the whistle,” I replied. “The kid wants to blow it.”
Stoddard’s eyes bulged, but he reached up and pulled hard at a worn iron lever.
The Western Star’s steam whistle blew, three short blasts. “Tell him not to tear it out of the works,” said the engineer.
The kid didn’t need any prompting. His furry Troll paw closed on the lever and he yanked and let the whistle sound until Poppa Troll muttered something in Troll.
The kid let go. My ears rang, but I kept my smile.
“You can tell everyone you made the hurried iron horses sing,” I said. The elder Troll translated for me, and the kid responded finally with a single solemn Trollish nod.
“You do us honor,” said the elder Troll. He clambered down from the train and stretched, his briefly extended claws flashing bright and white in the sun. “Walk with me, as we depart.”
We walked. The kid took up the rear, stealing glances at the train and munching down apple after apple.
Darla came too, and didn’t bat an eye when the mastodon’s massive trunk, still dripping from his drink at the tank car, took a curious sniff at her hat.
“The hurried iron horse stank of more than the coal,” said the adult Troll as soon as we were well away from the train. “It stank of the magic your folk employ. The dark magic. You have a special word for such stinking magics…”
“Sorcery?” I asked.
“Yes. That word. Be warned. Such a stench alone is cause for alarm, for turning, for seeking a new path. But your peril is threefold. The radiant child approaches from the east. The gray fate from the west, drawn by the dark. This thing you call the train, it is to be a meeting place. You would do well to come with us. My horse may bear the happy burden of many friends.”
I nodded, choosing my next words carefully. “I am honored, Walking Stone, to be named among your friends. I must remain with the train, though, as my own friends are bound to it, and I am determined to see them safe.”
The Troll shrugged. He reached into one of the pouches attached to his belt, and produced a small bundle of weeds and sticks bound together with twine.
“Take this,” he said, tossing me the bundle. It smelled of sage and Troll. Mostly Troll. “You gave Iron-in-Legs a boon. I give a boon to you. This was blessed by a word from the Wise. Burn it in an hour of need. The smoke will bear the power of the word. May it serve you well.”
I nodded gravely. “I thank you, Walking Stone. You do me and mine honor.”
The Troll blinked, and we set out again, still meandering through the tall plains grass.
“You said earlier you are quitting these lands, Walking Stone,” said Darla, after a time. “Might I ask why?”
The Troll swiveled his big dark eyes about, and his voice fell to a hoarse Troll whisper. “Many things, dark and light, are awakening,” he said. “Waking, to walk. More join their number with every sunrise. The day is approaching when the old tales will be flesh, the old terrors born anew.” The Troll turned to look at me. “Do your folk not see this too?”
“We’ve seen,” I said, thinking of river monsters and the Slilth. “But what are we to do?”
“My folk seek our old lands, the lands of the low sun, the lands of ice and the skies of the cold fire,” said the Troll.
His son spit out a gob of apple-seeds and the elder Troll batted him casually on the back of his head.
“Just how far north are you heading?” I asked.
“As far as there is land underfoot,” he replied. His voice fell even further. “Though the wise among us say that may not be far enough. Even the face of the Moon is troubled, friend. This is a new thing that even the Wise have not seen.”
Darla’s hand closed on mine.
“We wish you well,” I said, when the mastodon halted, and the Trolls gathered by its side. “Safe travels, and warm beds.”
“It is a brave man who chooses to walk with death,” the Troll replied. “A brave wife who walks beside him. May your shadows fall tall and your souls grow to meet them.”
Darla gasped. She knew enough about Trollish etiquette to realize what a profound gesture the Troll just made by speaking the traditional blessing to us.
Both Trolls made flat-footed flying leaps from the dirt to the mastodon’s furry shoulders. The elder Troll bellowed, and the mastodon turned and trundled away north, trailing horseflies and stink.
Darla and I watched them go.
I didn’t realize for a moment she was shivering. It wasn’t cold.
“Look, that was all a lot of frontier hooey,” I said. “Trolls are worse than Mama Hog when it comes to seeing boogeymen behind every bush.”
“That’s absolutely factual,” said Darla. “But you know damned well everything he said was true. Every word of it.”
I frowned. “Radiant children? Gray dooms? Sorcery on the train? Someone knifed a Watchman, sure, but that’s just plain old murder.”
She turned to face me. “Even Bel Loit won’t be far enough, will it?” she asked. I could see her eyes moving, see her taking in the empty grassy plain, the wide blue skies, the retreating mammoth and its riders.
“Nothing coming but tomorrow, hon,” I said. “It’ll be just another day. Only difference is that I’ll be slightly more distinguished, and therefore irresistible.”
She kicked me in the shins, but her heart wasn’t in it. I grabbed her up in a fierce hug about the time the Western Star’s whistle began to blow.
“That man is furious,” Darla said as we put our backs to the retreating Troll horse and made for the train.
“Railroad men,” I said with a dramatic sigh. “Always angry, always in a hurry. They’re not serene like us.”
The mammoth bellowed in a long, sonorous reply to the train whistle. We marched on, the grass whipping about our knees.
A pale gray disk of moon rode high in the cloudless sky. If the face of it was troubled, I couldn’t discern it.
I did wonder if Stitches was still up there, cataloging her trove of wonders, all alone.
The whistle sounded again, three short blasts, and then the Star’s steam engine groaned and roared. Great billows of steam shot from her undercarriage. A fat plume of black coal smoke began to pour from her funnel, and as we watched the mighty pistons stirred and the great iron wheels squealed as they turned.
We had to run to catch up and haul ourselves aboard. Darla was laughing, and I suppose I was too, and we stood there on the steps for a long time just watching the endless plains quickly pass us by.
Chapter Eight
I put Rowdy and three of his pals at each end of both sleeping cars, with instructions to stop and challenge anyone and everyone putting a key into a door that didn’t belong to them.
“That was quite an impressive litany of complaints he intends to make against y
ou, Markhat,” said Evis, as Engineer Stoddard’s wide back vanished through the bar car’s forward door.
“My favorite was ‘blatant usurpation of authority and overstepping of jurisdictional bounds,’” said Darla. “Nearly lyrical, I tell you.”
“I was sure his eyes were going to pop out when you applauded that,” said Gertriss to Darla. “You know, given some time, you’ll be as infuriating as your husband.”
Darla nodded, grinning. “So. We have four hours of daylight left. What’s the plan, darling? I’ve seen your mind racing. Between beers, of course.”
“Of course.” I spied a waiter, sent him to fetch Rowdy and take his place for a moment. “My mind is always racing. Plots and schemes are my constant obsession.”
“Well, this had better be a good one,” said Evis. “Because the killer might get off at the next stop, or they might not. Given our luck lately, I’m going to suggest they won’t.”
“Which is why we need to start making people nervous,” I said.
Rowdy arrived, his expression wary.
“Go grab the first passengers you see,” I said to him. “I don’t care who. All from the same party, though. Grab ’em, and bring them here, right now.”
He frowned. “Um, yes, sir. Now, what if they don’t want to come, sir?”
Evis smiled, letting his halfdead canines show. “If anyone demurs, young man, pray inform them Mr. Markhat’s associate Mr. Prestley will be forced to come and fetch them,” he said. “Remind them who I am.”
Rowdy swallowed hard. His head bobbed in a frantic nod.
“Go,” said Evis, and Rowdy heeled and toed it away.
Gertriss smiled, and her hand made its way to Evis’s shoulder. “How do we play it, boss?” she asked.
I stood. The right-hand side of the bar car was filled with booths. The left-hand side sported a line of narrow tables and plain wooden chairs. I shoved a pair of tables together and dragged chairs around so that Evis and I would be seated across from our unfortunate guests.
Darla rose as well, and seated herself at one end of an empty booth. I didn’t need to see her revolver to know she’d have it pointed at the line of interview chairs facing me. Gertriss did the same from two booths away.
The doors opened, and the sound of nervous chatter filled the car.
“Good heavens!” chirped Dame Corniss. “This is all so very exciting!”
“A matter of railroad security!” cried her companion, Dame Fabbers. The ladies saw us, and squealed with sheer delight.
“Oh, so stern!” said one.
“So imposing!” opined the other.
Rowdy followed, wearing an expression of profound confusion. I waved him off and stood. “Have a seat, ladies,” I said. Heads turned. “I’m Captain Markhat. This is Captain Prestley. We have a few questions for you.”
The dames Corniss and Fabbers sat, their eyes bright, their hands engaged in such waving and gesturing I was reminded of flocks of nervous wrens.
“Something must have happened,” said one.
“Something dreadful,” agreed the other, her smile belying her words. “Was it theft? Assault?”
“Murder,” I said, loud enough for everyone in the car to hear. “A man has been stabbed. He’s dead. Someone on this train killed him, and I intend to find out who.”
“I knew it! I knew that wasn’t laundry in that cart they were pushing, didn’t I tell you that, Gitta?”
Her friend ignored her. “The Watchman, wasn’t it?” she asked. “The Watchman is dead. I know the Watch has a man on every train. But neither of you are Watch, are you? I know because you introduced yourselves as Captains. Army captains, not Watch officers. Isn’t that right?”
By now, everyone in the bar car was listening intently. More seats filled as word spread.
I nodded. “Yes. His name was Baker. Someone stuck a knife in his throat. They also stole a key from him. This key opens every sleeping compartment on the train. Now, why do you ladies think someone would do that?”
The woman clapped her hands. In sheer delight. Evis raised an eyebrow, and I saw Darla and Gertriss exchange puzzled looks.
“Why, to kill again later, of course!” said Dame Corniss. “What other reason could there be?”
“When did you ladies board the train?” I asked.
“We boarded at—half-past eight, wasn’t it, Gitta?”
“Eight thirty-two by the station clock,” replied the other dowager. “The big clock, over the ticket stands. Not the one in the north corner, it was out of order.”
“Eight thirty-two,” I said, nodding as if that was significant. “And when did you stab the Watchman?”
They laughed. “Why, dear Captain Markhat, I assure you we haven’t engaged in homicide today,” said Dame Corniss with a wink. “We’ve simply been far too rushed.”
Evis snorted as he bit back a laugh.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” said Dame Fabbers, smiling. “We’ve not treated you very well. Here you are trying to find a killer, and we’re poking fun. Our apologies. Now then.” She took a breath, composing herself. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we boarded at eight thirty-two. A conductor showed us to our compartment, which we entered.”
“You entered first,” added Dame Corniss. “I stayed behind, tipped the man.”
Dame Fabbers nodded. “We remained in our cabin until, let’s see, ten after nine, I believe it was—”
“Yes, ten after, I always take my medicine at ten after,” added Dame Corniss. She produced a fine gold pocket-watch from her gown. “I’m never late, nor early. Doctor’s orders!”
“We left our compartment and came here,” said Fabbers. “We saw you and your lovely wife, Captain Markhat. We sat and had coffee. Some kind soul gifted us with breakfast.” She winked. “There were, I believe sixteen people already seated when we arrived—”
“Seventeen,” corrected Dame Corniss. “You omitted the conductor.”
“He was not seated,” said Dame Fabbers.
I raised my hand before she could continue. “You counted the people seated?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t actually stop and count them, Captain, but I plainly saw sixteen—”
“—seventeen!”
“Sixteen people seated,” said Dame Fabbers. “We do tend to take in details.” She hesitated, exchanged a glance with the other woman. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling it now, is there?” She looked back at me. “Do you take the Times, Captain Markhat?”
“I do,” I said. “Both editions, morning and evening, home delivery.”
“Then you’ve read our work,” said Dame Corniss, beaming. “We are—we were—the mysterious Mrs. X.” She watched my face, tilted her head, fluttered her hands. “The Society page? Peer Review, by Mrs. X?”
I feigned recognition, though the only use I ever had for the Society pages was as a scoop for cleaning up after Cornbread. “You’re that Mrs. X?” I asked.
“We both are!” The women laughed. “No one ever suspected, you know. We have excellent memories. What we see, we recall.”
“Three ruffians of no breeding sat there,” replied Dame Fabbers, pointing to the booth which the boisterous brothers Bando had first occupied. “Mr. Colliers the jeweler sat there. Mr. Sands sat across from him, the arrogant upstart Winnings took that booth, and of course Mrs. Krait was there.”
With each name, she pointed out a booth or table. I scribbled down names and matched them with the people I’d watched with Darla earlier—the man twisting his hat was Sands, the crow in the cape was Winnings, and the Lady in Red was Mrs. Krait.
“You know all these people?” I asked.
“Heavens no,” replied Dame Fabbers. “But people talk. A bit too loudly sometimes.”
“Mr. Collier, for one,” added Dame Corniss. “He’s been hired by a firm in Painted Rock.”
“We spoke to Mr. Sands later,” said Dame Fabbers. “He’s such a sad little man.”
“He bought us drinks,” added Dame Cornis
s. “I think he rather fancies you, Gitta.”
Dame Fabbers rolled her eyes. “He sells embalming fluid. On his way West to open new markets.”
“That explains his sunny disposition,” I said. “What about Winnings and Mrs. Krait? They make the Society page lately?”
Both women snorted in derision. “Hardly,” they chirped, in unison. “Mr. Winnings is a presumptuous little twit—isn’t that what you said, Gitta? Twit?”
“I said far worse and you know it,” replied Dame Fabbers. “What a disagreeable man. I merely commented that capes were best suited for the stage, and then only for comedic relief. He must have overheard, because he replied with an inexcusable phrase I shall not repeat.”
I chuckled. “Know anything about him other than his poor fashion sense?”
Dame Fabbers smiled a wicked little smile. “I know he made an effort, some few years ago, to inject himself into polite society,” she said. “Efforts which were swiftly and thoroughly rebuffed.”
“He went so far as to try and attend some of the better balls and parties sans invitation,” added Dame Corniss. “Imagine! Showing up at the door, dressed like that, expecting to be ushered into the company of his betters.”
“The gall of him,” I said, being careful with my tone.
“He vanished from the scene shortly after that,” said Dame Fabbers. “Keeps an awful old house off Gallows Way. As though anyone from Gallows Way would be asked to attend one of Maigret Faristyle’s affairs!”
I chuckled with them, as if Maigret Faristyle’s affairs were ones I attended each Tuesday. “Does he have a profession? Old money?”
The Dames shrugged.
“This Mrs. Krait, then. Who is she?”
“She’s trouble, and no mistake,” said Dame Corniss in a soft voice. “Married a fine man ten years ago.”
“A fine man with money,” added Dame Fabbers. “We even attended the wedding.”
“So you know her?”
They shook their heads no. “We knew him, of course,” said one. “Denon Krait, of the Denon Krait Copper Mines.”
I nodded. “Wealthy, then.”
