by George Mann
She chose an empty chair and settled by the window, glancing around at the other passengers.
A corpulent man in an ill-fitting black suit sat opposite her, surrounded by a haze of pungent cigar smoke. The offending object was clenched tightly between his teeth, jutting from his mouth like a stick clamped in the jaws of an angry bulldog. His chair was turned slightly towards the window, so that he was mostly in profile. The flesh of his face was liver-spotted and loose around the jowls. His hands were steepled upon his chest, and his eyes were closed, as if in contemplation. Despite his rather ungainly appearance, he nevertheless managed to look somehow stately, in a way that only the very rich can do.
Beside him sat an older lady, hunched over a novel, her pince-nez resting upon the end of her nose. Her head was wrapped in a paisley scarf, with just a fringe of tightly curled grey hair erupting from the front. Her shoulders were draped in a lilac cardigan, and she was wearing a look of intense concentration.
Further along the gallery, a young couple sat holding hands beneath an occasional table. They couldn’t have been much older than Amelia—in their early twenties, perhaps—and the man kept glancing up furtively, as if he expected the girl’s father to appear at any moment to offer his disapproval. For her part, the girl seemed utterly smitten, unable to take her eyes off him, constantly playing with her hair or touching the back of her neck. Amelia felt a momentary pang of envy; she could barely remember what it felt like to be in love.
She couldn’t quite distinguish the other passengers, save for a pair of businessmen in black suits, discussing rather too loudly the terms of a deal they were hoping to carry out in St. Petersburg, and a slovenly looking fellow who, every few seconds, took another pinch of snuff from a tin on the arm of his chair. Amelia could see that his septum had almost completely disintegrated from overuse, and she had to resist pulling a disgusted expression when he turned to glower at her in return.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said a whispered voice from behind her, and Amelia turned in her seat to see a woman standing over her shoulder, grinning down at her. She was pretty, in her mid-thirties, her auburn hair framing her face in a neat bob. She was wearing a floral-patterned dress in cream and pastel, pinched in at the waist.
“I’m sorry?” said Amelia, unsure if the woman had mistaken her for someone else.
“Watching people,” said the woman in a conspiratorial whisper. “One of my favourite pastimes.” She smiled. “I’m Petunia,” she added. “Petunia Wren.” She held out her hand and Amelia shook it. She smelled faintly of camphor. “May I join you?”
Amelia smiled welcomingly, glad for the company of another woman, and someone who had no idea of her history, her delicate constitution, or any of her other problems. Someone who would treat her normally, like any other woman of twenty. “Of course,” she said, reaching over to the empty chair beside her and dragging it closer.
“Wonderful!” said Petunia. “Then we can do it together.”
Amelia frowned. “Do what?”
“People watching, of course!”
“Oh, it’s not as if I was spying on anyone, you know,” said Amelia, suddenly horrified that she’d committed some sort of social faux pas. “It’s just … well, it’s my first time on a train like this and I—”
Petunia waved her quiet. “Oh, but it is fun,” she said. “I like to imagine what they’re really up to. Take her, for example.” She nodded at the old lady reading the book. “What do you imagine she’s reading?”
Amelia shrugged. “Perhaps it’s all about gardening, or cookery or something.”
Petunia grinned. “No, I think it’s something much more racy. I bet it’s a murder story. Or worse. Maybe it’s one of those books you can only buy from under the counter, full of filthy stuff. Maybe she’s looking for a thrill.” She laughed wickedly.
Amelia felt her cheeks flush, scandalised, but couldn’t help herself from giggling.
“Or what about those two,” Petunia went on, indicating the young couple. “Runaways, I’d wager. Star-crossed lovers who didn’t meet with their parents’ approval. Look at the way he keeps glancing up, nervous that someone’s going to recognise them. She’s the daughter of a marquis, and he’s the farmer’s lad from the local village.”
“Oh, you can’t say that,” said Amelia. “It has to be happier than that.”
Petunia smiled, but said nothing. “And what about you?” she said, looking thoughtful, as if sizing Amelia up. “No, wait! I’ve got it. You’re a runaway, too. You’re travelling under an assumed name. You’re a rich heiress who’s fallen out with her family over a man, a dreadful scoundrel, and now you’re fleeing to St. Petersburg to start a new life where nobody knows you.”
Amelia laughed, although a little part of her cringed at the woman’s guess that she was travelling under an assumed name. Could she know? Surely not. It was just a silly game. Amelia pushed the thought away. “I’m Constance,” she said, smiling. “Constance Markham. And you’re quite right, in every respect.” She paused for moment. “Except about the scoundrel. He wasn’t dreadful at all. He was really rather good at it.”
Petunia let out a hoot of laughter that caused the rest of the passengers to turn and look at her. Amelia felt her cheeks flushing again under the scrutiny. “Oh, how marvellous,” said Petunia, still laughing. “I’m so pleased I bumped into you, Constance. I can see we’re going to be the best of friends.”
CHAPTER
7
There was no denying it: Clarence Himes was feeling decidedly unwell.
He’d woken with a fever amongst a nest of drenched sheets, and all over his body his flesh prickled with an excruciating sensation that felt as if he were being jabbed by a thousand tiny needles. There was an uncomfortable hollow feeling in his belly, his eyes were hot and dry, and his left hand was throbbing incessantly.
He tumbled from his bunk, landing unsteadily on his feet. His head was swimming. He needed water. His tongue felt as if it were made of cracked leather, and try as he might, he couldn’t swallow. When was the last time he’d had anything to drink? He couldn’t remember. It was as if his memories were mired in treacle, slow and ponderous to recall.
Clarence tried to think what might be the matter with him.
It had to be a reaction to the heat, he reasoned, dehydration after spending so long toiling at the furnace. A long, cool drink of water would slake his thirst and revive him. His body was craving fluid, making him delirious. Getting to the washroom and scooping up handfuls of water was all he could think about. Until, that is, he felt another twinge of pain, glanced down at his left hand, and remembered.
The skin had swollen and puckered around the scratch on his palm, and thick, yellow pus was seeping from the wound. He sniffed at it and recoiled instantly from the smell. It reminded him of the putrid stench of the furnace room: rotten flesh and decay.
Gingerly, he prodded at the wound with the index finger of his other hand, and immediately regretted it, emitting a sharp howl of pain. His head spun, and he doubled over with an involuntary retch. He gasped for breath, catching hold of the edge of his bunk to prevent himself from toppling over.
Was this it, then? Was this the reason he was feeling so wretched? Had he managed to infect himself with something dreadful, something … terminal? He’d seen firsthand what this plague could do to people, how it altered them.
He couldn’t allow himself to believe that was going to be his fate. No, he’d been right the first time, surely? He was dehydrated, perhaps even a little under the weather. Hadn’t his wife, Jennifer, been suffering with a cold before he’d left for France?
Yes, that was it. He forced himself to take deep, steady breaths. That was the most likely explanation. Of course it was. A glass of water was all he needed. Then maybe another hour or so resting in his bunk. After that he’d be as right as rain and back on his feet in time for his next shift. He could manage with a bit of a thick head and a stuffy nose. They might even help him to ignore that a
wful stench of rotting meat, and even Sitton might leave him be.
Swaying unsteadily—surely it was just the motion of the train?—Clarence reached for his overalls and hurriedly dressed himself. He winced more than once as he caught his sore hand, or was forced to use it to do up buttons, but within a few moments he was ready. Or rather, he was adequately dressed in order to take a walk to the washroom at the end of the carriage without eliciting concern or indignation from the other passengers.
Still feeling woozy, but driven by a desire to prove himself right, Clarence stumbled to the door, opened it, and lurched out into the passageway. The carriage shook as it bounced over the tracks, and he steadied himself against the window frames as he walked.
He was sweating now, and could feel little beads of it forming around his hairline, trickling down his forehead and cheeks. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, and to his dismay saw that a substantial lock of his hair came away at the same time. He wiped it away on his overalls and carried on.
The passage was dark and mercifully empty, and he realised it must still have been early, perhaps three or four in the morning. He had just the vague impression of movement out the windows as they trundled on, of trees and bushes on the other side of the tracks. It would be a while yet before dawn. Once he’d had his drink—oh, how he needed that drink!—he’d be able to return to his bed and sleep off the unsettling queasiness, the irritating, prickling pain. The thought was encouraging and bolstered his spirit, and he pressed on, rocking back and forth with the motion of the train as he traversed the passage.
The other bunks he passed were all occupied, as far as he could tell, their doors shut tight as his fellow workers made the most of their few hours of rest. That was how it worked: Each of the service staff shared a bunk with their counterpart, and they took it in turns to sleep while the other worked. That way, there was always someone on hand to assist the passengers if required, or to keep the fire stoked, as the engine rumbled on through the night.
The washroom was located at the far end of the carriage, in a small vestibule area that was separated from the adjoining carriage by two narrow doors and a railing. Grateful to find it vacant, he went inside and bolted the door behind him.
It was a confined space, containing only a toilet, a vanity unit housing a small sink, and a looking glass. Clarence didn’t hesitate, and seconds later both taps were gushing water into the bowl. He cupped it in his hands, wincing at the pain from his wound, and brought them up to his lips, drinking thirstily.
The water was warm and stale, but it hardly mattered, and Clarence scooped handful after handful of it from the bowl, gulping it down to ease his burning throat. When, finally, he’d had enough, he splashed it over his face, too, drying it upon his sleeve.
Afterwards, almost hesitantly, he turned off the taps, stepped back, and regarded himself in the mirror. He almost recoiled in horror at the sight. He did not—could not—recognise the man staring back it him.
He looked like an apparition, a pale shadow of the man he had been. His flesh was pallid and his lips were pale and cracked. His eyes stared out from dark, bruised pits, and the whites had turned a sickly shade of yellow. His hair was lank, sweaty, and coming away in handfuls, and as he ran his fingers through it he saw that the fingernails of his right hand had split and were peeling away. Blood swelled from beneath them, dripping into the bowl of the sink.
Clarence gave a horrified, strangled gasp and staggered back from the mirror, crashing noisily into the wall behind him. How could this have happened so quickly? Was he dreaming? Was he trapped in a vivid, feverish nightmare?
He had to get back to bed, back to the safety of his bunk. He was so tired, so dizzy, so confused. If he could get some rest, maybe it would all seem better in the morning. He desperately needed to believe that. What other choice did he have?
Clarence slid the door bolt, studiously ignoring the fact that the action caused one of his fingernails to drop off, and staggered out into the vestibule. He was startled to see another man was coming down the passageway towards him.
It was one of the passengers, a tall man with dark hair swept back from his forehead and a thin, unseemly scar across his jaw. He was dressed in a smart black suit, despite the hour, and was staring openly at Clarence.
Clarence ignored him, lowering his eyes and stepping to one side to make way. He expected the man to enter the washroom, but instead he opened the door to the adjoining carriage and stepped through without muttering a word. He left the door hanging open behind him.
Relieved, Clarence started back along the passageway towards his cabin. He would sleep. There was nothing else to be done. And besides, he was feeling so very tired.
CHAPTER
8
The Queen was in one of her intransigent moods; she wouldn’t allow Veronica to get a word in edgeways. It was clear she’d already made up her mind concerning Newbury’s lack of involvement in the present case—nothing Veronica could add would have the slightest effect on her opinion.
She was as animated as Veronica had ever seen her, hunched forward in her life-supporting chair in her audience chamber, a lantern clutched firmly in her lap. It gave her an even more sinister aspect than usual, Veronica decided, under-lighting her substantial chin and casting her face in stark relief. Her eyes reflected the glow of the lantern and seemed to shine menacingly as she glared up at Veronica.
“You are too forgiving of his inadequacies, Miss Hobbes,” she rasped. “It is a weakness. We might almost believe that you have developed feelings for the man.” She delivered the word with such disdain that Veronica almost flinched.
Did the old witch truly have such disregard for love, friendship, companionship? Had her experiences damaged her so badly that she could not bear to even conceive of other people’s happiness? Perhaps, Veronica mused, in losing someone to whom you had been so close, the only way to survive was to cauterise the wound, to shut off your emotions altogether and step back from the world. It might be this, more than anything, which had turned this woman into the grotesque entity she had now become. Perhaps she deserved pity rather than disdain. Veronica was not sure she could bring herself to do that.
“Indeed not, Your Majesty,” Veronica lied. “Merely the utmost respect for his abilities.”
The Queen scoffed. “Come now, Miss Hobbes. We know that Newbury has his uses. Yet he also has his flaws. We are not blind to them, and nor are you. Need we remind you that it is our concern over those flaws that keeps you so gainfully employed?”
Veronica decided not to dignify that with an answer.
She saw the Queen’s jaw tighten. “We shall not tolerate excuses. Where is he? Patronising another iniquitous Chinese den, no doubt?”
“He’s in the North, Your Majesty, engaged in this ‘Lady Arkwell’ business,” said Veronica.
“Ah, yes,” cackled the Queen. “The ‘other woman.’ No wonder you’re smarting.”
Veronica couldn’t deny it; there was a barb of truth in that. Newbury had dedicated himself to tracking Clarissa Karswell, the ubiquitous “Lady Arkwell,” to the exclusion of almost all other concerns in recent months. Ever since she’d got the better of him during the land train incident—she’d drugged and tricked him in order to escape a crash in which they were both involved—he’d been obsessed with bringing her to justice. It was almost as if he felt he had something to prove. Or, as the Queen had so pointedly suggested, he was drawn to the woman for some other reason. Veronica had attempted to raise the matter with him, but he’d been dismissive, arguing that Karswell was a dangerous fugitive who must be apprehended, that they were locked in a tête-à-tête that he needed to see through.
To Newbury’s credit, however, he had continued to visit Amelia with impressive regularity, and she was certainly benefiting from his ministrations. Veronica had no real reason to doubt his motives, and she would defend his reputation to the Queen, even if it meant incurring her wrath.
“You will continue to work with
the policeman, then,” said the Queen, coming to a decision, “while Newbury seeks the Arkwell woman. Discover the agency behind this new threat. Shut it down.”
“Understood,” said Veronica. It wasn’t as if she had been planning to do anything else. “Will that be all?”
The Queen eyed her suspiciously. “One final matter. What of this Angelchrist character?”
“I’ve heard mention of his name, Your Majesty,” said Veronica, surprised, “but I know little else. I believe he’s an acquaintance of Sir Charles. A professor.”
“It is your business to know these things, Miss Hobbes,” said the Queen, with a hint of menace. “I understand he is involved in establishing a new government bureau. One that we believe will put our agency at risk. Make enquiries. Find out what the policeman knows. We fear he may be involved in clandestine affairs that might prove … inappropriate for him.”
“Sir Charles?” said Veronica. She couldn’t believe it for a moment. “I’ve assisted him in numerous matters of late, Your Majesty, and I assure you—”
“Enough!” barked the Queen, cutting her off. “More excuses. Know your place, girl. You are an agent of the Crown. Our agent. You will carry out our bidding, or you, too, will discover how little we tolerate traitors.”
Veronica swallowed. She bunched her fists, and then forced herself to breathe. She felt utterly trapped. This woman—this monster—had her cornered. Ever since the business at the Grayling Institute, when it had become clear what the Queen was pursuing there, what she’d been doing to Amelia, Veronica had wanted nothing more than to escape. She’d yet to fathom a means to do it, however, and as the Queen had so pointedly reminded her—she didn’t tolerate traitors. Veronica would have to bide her time.
The Queen undoubtedly had other agents monitoring Newbury and Bainbridge—and probably Veronica herself. This, then, was a test. The Queen was watching for her response. “Without fail, Your Majesty,” she said. “I shall uncover everything there is to know about Professor Angelchrist and the aforementioned bureau.”
