Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [154]
Actually he was there with more than five minutes in hand. He straightened his jacket, ran his hand over his hair, and sauntered up to the door of the rearmost carriage as if he had every right to be there.
Without glancing around to see if he had been observed, which could have given away his lack of invitation, he pulled the handle, swung the door wide, and climbed in.
The inside of the carriage was beautifully furnished. It was a long train, but only first- and second-class. This was second, and still of a luxury to be admired. No doubt Jarvis Baltimore would be in the first-class. Since his father’s death this was his train, his entire enterprise. He would be busy talking to all the various dignitaries making this journey, boasting to them of the new track, the new carriages, and perhaps of the new braking system with its fatal weakness. Although presumably he did not know the full truth of that.
There would be several stops along the route. Monk would make his way forward on each of them until he found Jarvis.
He nodded to the other people in his compartment, then sat down on one of the polished wooden seats.
There was a jolt. Somewhere ahead the whistle blew and the carriage jerked forward, and again, then settled into gathering momentum. Billows of steam drifted past the windows. There were shouts from outside and cries of excitement and triumph from the other compartments, and through the open windows of the carriages ahead someone called out a toast and yelled “Hooray!”
Monk settled in for the journey, expecting the best part of an hour to elapse before he had an opportunity to find Baltimore. But they were on double track all of that distance. He knew the route probably as well as Baltimore himself.
The train was gathering speed. The gray streets and roofs of the city were sliding away. There were more trees, open land.
There were foot warmers in the compartment, one close by him, but he was still cold; in fact, he started to shiver. There was nothing he could do about Baltimore until the first stop. His mind was filling at last with the knowledge he had forced from it since the moment he had realized about the brakes, and that it could happen again.
There had been no murder of Katrina Harcus, at least not from the roof in Cuthbert Street. He could see her face with its brilliant eyes as if she were in the seat opposite him. But nothing was the same as it had seemed. It was clear now: she had orchestrated the whole thing with passion and extraordinary skill, even to tearing the button off his coat and clasping it in her hand when she fell—jumped.
It made him cold to the pit of his stomach to know that she had hated him enough to leap deliberately into the darkness and crash, breaking her body on the stones beneath, into the abyss of death and whatever lay beyond it, simply to know that he would be destroyed with her.
And how close she had come to succeeding!
It was a dark and fearful thing to be hated so deeply by another human being. It could never be retrieved, because she was dead. He could not explain himself, tell her why, soften any of the tearing, wounding edges.
And she was Arrol Dundas’s daughter! That was an indelible wound never to be eased away.
He sat huddled, avoiding the eyes of the other man in the compartment, until the first stop, then he got out, as did everyone else. When the whistle blew for the next leg of the journey he got into one of the first-class carriages and moved from compartment to compartment through the polished wood, the warmth, the soft seats, but Baltimore was not there.
He got out again at the next station and moved forward, and at the next. Time was getting short. He felt a flutter of panic. He found him at last in the front carriage. He must have gone forward also, to speak to every one of his guests. Indeed, he was