Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [156]
Baltimore was still fighting it. “Dundas was a fraudster. He’d already cheated the company of—”
“No, he wasn’t!” The truth was there at last, bright and sharp as daylight breaking. “He was innocent! He warned your father that they hadn’t tested the brakes well enough, but nobody listened to him. He had no proof, but he would have got it, only they framed him for fraud, and after that nobody believed anything he said. He told me . . . but there was nothing I could do either. It was only his word, and by then he was branded.”
Baltimore shook his head, but the denial died on his lips.
“It took all the money I could scrape together,” Monk went on. “But it saved the company’s reputation. And your father swore he’d tar Dundas with the same brush if I didn’t succeed. We couldn’t sue the driver. Better he be blamed than everyone put out of work. We took care of his family.” He felt a stab of shame. “But that wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t his fault . . . it was your father’s. And now you’re going to do the same—unless you stop this train.”
Baltimore shook his head more fiercely, his eyes wild, his voice high-pitched. “But we’re supplying those brakes all over India! There’s tens of thousands of pounds of orders!” he protested.
“Recall them!” Monk shouted at him. “But first tell the driver to stop this bloody train before the brakes fail and we come off the viaduct!”
“Will . . . will they?” Baltimore said hoarsely. “They worked perfectly well when we tested them. I’m not a fool.”
“They only fail on an incline, with a certain load,” Monk told him, shards of memory falling into place more vividly every moment. He could remember this same feeling of urgency before, the same rattle of wheels over the rail ties, the roar of movement, steel on steel, the knowledge of disaster ahead.
“Most of the time they’re excellent,” he went on. “But when the weight and the speed get above a certain level and with a curve in the track, then they don’t hold. This is a far heavier train than usual, and there’s exactly such a place just before the viaduct ahead. We can’t be far from it now. Don’t stand there, for God’s sake! Go and tell the driver to slow up, then stop! Go on!”
“I don’t believe it. . . .” It was a protest, and a lie. It was clear in Baltimore’s frantic eyes and dry lips.
The train was already gathering speed. They were finding it harder to stand upright, even though Baltimore had his back against the carriage wall.
“Are you sure enough of that to risk your life?” Monk asked, his voice ruthless. “I’m not. I’m going, with or without you.” And he backed away, almost losing his balance as he turned and started towards the other compartments and the front of the carriage next to the engine.
Baltimore jerked around and plunged after him.
Monk charged through the next compartment, scattering the few company men along for the inaugural ride. They were too startled to block his way.
He felt a wild exhilaration unlike anything he had known in years. He could remember! Dreadful as some of the memory was, filled with pain and grief, with helplessness and the knowledge that Dundas was innocent and he had not saved him, it was no longer confusion. It was as clear as the reality of the moment. He had failed Dundas, but he had not betrayed him. He had been honest. He knew that, not from evidence or from other people’s word, but from his own mind.
He was in the next compartment, pushing through the men, who were angry at his intrusion. The train, hurtling through the countryside toward the incline and the single track of the viaduct, brought back the time before when he had been on that other train, as if it had all been only weeks ago. He remembered Dundas telling him how he had tried to persuade Nolan Baltimore to wait,