Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [155]
Austwick was too paralysed with fear to speak.
‘Good,’ Pitt said decisively. ‘You’re coming with us. I thought you’d do that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.’
Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.
They half-heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of them. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic, if there should be any, and confirm that the night train was held.
They raced through the streets in silence towards the railway station, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt found his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It can have taken only a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or not realise the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?
They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.
At the station they leaped out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.
The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.
The train was waiting, the engine belching steam. A very impatient guard stood at the door of his van, his whistle in one hand ready to raise to his lips.
Pitt thanked the sergeant and his men, happy to be able to give them some idea of how intensely grateful he was. He made a mental note to commend the sergeant if they survived the night, and if his own reputation was such that his appreciation was a blessing, not a curse.
As soon as they were in the guard’s van, the whistle blew. The train lurched forward like a horse that had been straining at the bit.
The guard was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes.
‘I hope all this is worth it,’ he said, looking at Pitt dubiously. ‘You’ve a lot of explaining to do, young man. Do you realise you have kept this train waiting ten minutes?’ He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it. ‘Eleven minutes,’ he corrected himself. ‘This train carries the Royal Mail. Nobody holds us up. Not rain nor floods nor lightning storms. And now we are standing around the platform for the likes of you.’
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said a little breathlessly.
The guard stared at him. ‘Well . . . nice manners are all very good, but you can’t hold up the Royal Mail, you know. While it’s in my care, it belongs to the Queen.’
Pitt drew in his breath to reply, and then the irony of the situation struck him. Smiling, he said nothing.
They went to the rear carriage and found seats. Stoker remained next to Austwick, as if he feared the man might make a run for it, although there were nowhere for him to go.
Pitt sat silently, trying to make the best plans possible for when they arrived. They would have to commandeer a boat – any sort would do – to get them across the narrow strip of water to the Isle of Wight.
He was still thinking of it when, about fifteen minutes into the journey, the train slowed. Then, with a great panting of steam, it stopped altogether. Pitt shot to his feet and went back to the guard’s van.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘Why have we stopped? Where are we?’
‘We stopped to put off the mail, o’course,’ the guard said with elaborate