cheese into my mouth, ignoring the bulging eyeballs and tutting tongue opposite me, and wiped my mouth on a wet napkin. “If you will excuse me, your Royal Highness, I’m going to find out what the hell is going on. Unless you prefer to sit here all day stewing in your own juices.”
“Well! Charming! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. All Americans, even ones from quite good families, are painfully gauche when it comes to the finer points of etiquette…”
Her voice faded away as I marched out of the carriage. I was barely into the corridor when I saw Simmonds, the conductor, coming toward me.
“Mr. Mitchell! Please return to the dining car!”
“Whatever is going on, Simmonds? This is ridiculous. There are people hurt and frightened.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir. We have hit a problem with the switch. I must ask you to return to the dining car and sit down.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to—”
The brakes screamed, and we stopped with another terrible jolt, which threw Simmonds against me. Thankfully, the lights did not go out this time. I braced myself with one leg and supported his weight; it was not an unpleasant situation, particularly as our faces were almost touching. I could smell tobacco on his breath.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“That’s okay, Simmonds.” I righted him, and we both cleared our throats and fingered our collars.
“We are obliged to reverse into the tunnel again, sir. It may be bumpy. Please go into the dining car and tell everyone to sit tight. Move anything heavy or breakable and stow it. Make sure the children are safe.”
“It sounds serious, Simmonds. Are we in any danger?”
He was pale, his mouth set in a grim line. “No, sir. You are in no danger. Just go to the dining car and stay out of harm’s way.”
I thought it best to do as I was told. Simmonds walked back down the train—and then suddenly stopped and gave a shout of fright.
I turned quickly on my heel and saw him standing frozen to the spot, just outside the lavatory.
“What is it, man? For God’s sake, what is it?”
“Look, sir.” He pointed to the carpet at the base of the door, where a dark red stain was spreading slowly through the pile. “Blood.”
Blood it surely was: enough blood to pool on the bathroom floor and soak outward into a patch approximately one foot in diameter. That was a lot of blood.
“Who’s in there?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Simmonds banged on the door, but we both knew it was futile. “Open up! Open up in there! What’s going on?”
“You’ll have to open it yourself, Simmonds. You have a passkey, don’t you? Bertrand said you did.”
“Of course.” His hands were shaking. “Oh, God, Mr. Mitchell, what has happened?”
“Someone is hurt. Badly, by the look of it. You must let me help them.”
“Please, sir—would you do it? The sight of blood… I can’t…”
I reflected for a moment that he had not been so squeamish when it came to beating up poor little Bertrand, but this was no time to bear old grudges.
“Okay. Hand over the key.”
But Simmonds was frantically twisting and turning, rummaging in his pockets, his jacket, looking around him on the floor.
“It’s gone!”
“What is?”
“The passkey, sir. The key that opens all the carriages and the toilets. I can’t find it.”
“You’ve lost it?”
“Oh no, sir. I’ve never lost a key, not in fifteen years working on the railway. It’s been stolen.”
The whistle sounded, and with a great hiss of steam we started to move again—backward.
VI
THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO BUT REMAIN ROOTED TO THE spot, staring at the growing stain on the carpet, a horrible crimson flower that was starting to look wet and—or was this my imagination?—starting to smell. I am familiar with the smell of blood; all doctors are. Simmonds was leaning against the corridor wall, horribly pale.
“You have to find that key, Simmonds. What happened? Where could you possibly have
“Well! Charming! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. All Americans, even ones from quite good families, are painfully gauche when it comes to the finer points of etiquette…”
Her voice faded away as I marched out of the carriage. I was barely into the corridor when I saw Simmonds, the conductor, coming toward me.
“Mr. Mitchell! Please return to the dining car!”
“Whatever is going on, Simmonds? This is ridiculous. There are people hurt and frightened.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir. We have hit a problem with the switch. I must ask you to return to the dining car and sit down.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to—”
The brakes screamed, and we stopped with another terrible jolt, which threw Simmonds against me. Thankfully, the lights did not go out this time. I braced myself with one leg and supported his weight; it was not an unpleasant situation, particularly as our faces were almost touching. I could smell tobacco on his breath.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“That’s okay, Simmonds.” I righted him, and we both cleared our throats and fingered our collars.
“We are obliged to reverse into the tunnel again, sir. It may be bumpy. Please go into the dining car and tell everyone to sit tight. Move anything heavy or breakable and stow it. Make sure the children are safe.”
“It sounds serious, Simmonds. Are we in any danger?”
He was pale, his mouth set in a grim line. “No, sir. You are in no danger. Just go to the dining car and stay out of harm’s way.”
I thought it best to do as I was told. Simmonds walked back down the train—and then suddenly stopped and gave a shout of fright.
I turned quickly on my heel and saw him standing frozen to the spot, just outside the lavatory.
“What is it, man? For God’s sake, what is it?”
“Look, sir.” He pointed to the carpet at the base of the door, where a dark red stain was spreading slowly through the pile. “Blood.”
Blood it surely was: enough blood to pool on the bathroom floor and soak outward into a patch approximately one foot in diameter. That was a lot of blood.
“Who’s in there?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Simmonds banged on the door, but we both knew it was futile. “Open up! Open up in there! What’s going on?”
“You’ll have to open it yourself, Simmonds. You have a passkey, don’t you? Bertrand said you did.”
“Of course.” His hands were shaking. “Oh, God, Mr. Mitchell, what has happened?”
“Someone is hurt. Badly, by the look of it. You must let me help them.”
“Please, sir—would you do it? The sight of blood… I can’t…”
I reflected for a moment that he had not been so squeamish when it came to beating up poor little Bertrand, but this was no time to bear old grudges.
“Okay. Hand over the key.”
But Simmonds was frantically twisting and turning, rummaging in his pockets, his jacket, looking around him on the floor.
“It’s gone!”
“What is?”
“The passkey, sir. The key that opens all the carriages and the toilets. I can’t find it.”
“You’ve lost it?”
“Oh no, sir. I’ve never lost a key, not in fifteen years working on the railway. It’s been stolen.”
The whistle sounded, and with a great hiss of steam we started to move again—backward.
VI
THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO BUT REMAIN ROOTED TO THE spot, staring at the growing stain on the carpet, a horrible crimson flower that was starting to look wet and—or was this my imagination?—starting to smell. I am familiar with the smell of blood; all doctors are. Simmonds was leaning against the corridor wall, horribly pale.
“You have to find that key, Simmonds. What happened? Where could you possibly have
Similar Books
