Chapter 17 #3
I was glad to have them, to be honest, because the whole thing reminded me uncomfortably of that time I had left Wolfgang sitting at a table at the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, and had made my way across the lanes of traffic to the tube stop—the one that the new construction was meant to replace—and had found myself tumbling face-first down the staircase into the underground.
I had taken close to a dozen people with me into a heap of broken bones and bruising, and I had walked around with scabs on my knees for several weeks afterwards.
It was only later that we decided that it was most likely not an accident, and that Wolfgang had followed me across the street and into the underground, the better to do away with me, so he could get his hands on my inheritance.
The surroundings here were eerily similar, the only difference being that Piccadilly’s tile décor was white and green, while Dover Street station’s was white and blue. But the signs—To the Lifts and To the Trains—looked exactly the same, as did the narrow, low-ceilinged, circular tunnel.
We chose to take the stairs down. They were fairly deserted this time of night, and neither of us fancied being stuck in a malfunctioning lift when the last train to Finsbury Park pulled in.
There were only five people on the platform, ranged along its length, and I knew that at least one of them had to be a policeman.
None of them looked like Wolfgang. He’s half a head, at least, taller than most men, so he’s usually fairly easy to spot.
Everyone here was shorter. Two were female—a stout older lady in a felt overcoat, most likely a domestic, and a young woman in the height of current fashion, with lacquered lips and a bold gaze.
Her eyes lingered on Crispin for a few seconds, and I wondered whether she knew him—or he her—or whether she was simply adept at picking out a well-to-do mark.
One chap was sitting on the ground with his head leaned back against the curved tile wall of the platform, eyes mostly closed and mouth gaping open.
A bottle rested between his splayed legs, and one of his hands was loosely wrapped around its neck.
He smelled of strong liquor and old sweat, but his face belonged to Detective-Sergeant Ian Finchley.
My jaw dropped, and I hiked it up quickly when Christopher gave my arm a pinch. “Don’t stare,” he hissed. “It’s impolite.”
Yes, of course it was. And since he must have recognized Finch as readily as I had, it was undoubtedly a warning to me not to give the detective’s disguise away.
We turned our backs to him and approached the front of the platform. “How long before the train gets here, do you suppose?”
“I can’t imagine it’ll be long,” I said, peering into the darkness of the tunnel. “All the trains finish their runs by 1AM. The run from Hammersmith to Finsbury Park has to be thirty minutes, at least. We’re on the Hammersmith side of Piccadilly, so I would expect within five minutes or so.”
“Let’s hope it’s sooner,” Crispin said, “before I lose my nerve.”
I turned to him. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.
I give you the bag. You put it on the train, and the train leaves the platform.
Wolfgang—if it is Wolfgang and not some other chap with blond hair and a Mensur scar—picks it up.
Then he releases Laetitia. You wait a week and get married, and then you live happily ever after. ”
He made a face. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”
Yes, of course I knew it. “It’ll be all right,” I told him, and patted him on the back with the hand that wasn’t holding tight to the carpet bag.
Christopher cleared his throat. “I hear something.”
So did I, now that he mentioned it. A low rumbling, getting louder. I peered down the tunnel for a sign of light, but there was nothing.
“Must be the westbound train,” Christopher said, as the rumbling rose to a crescendo, punctuated by the squealing of brakes. The walls and ground shook, but we could see nothing out of the ordinary. “Over there.”
He gestured to the wall in front of us, on the other side of which, I assumed, was the platform for the Piccadilly line in the opposite direction, toward Hammersmith and points west. All was silent for a minute or so, while passengers embarked and disembarked over there, and then the rumbling started again, softly at first and then louder, before it faded into the distance.
“Must mean it’s our turn soon,” Crispin said.
I nodded and shifted the carpet bag to my other hand. Christopher moved a few inches closer, since the bag was now nearer to him.
A few minutes passed before we heard the rumbling again.
This time, it was accompanied by a light reflecting off the rails in the tunnel to our left.
After another few seconds, the light resolved itself into a round headlamp.
As the train rolled into the platform, the rumbling rose to a roar, and the brakes engaged with screams of metal.
We had positioned ourselves close to the deserted end of the platform, where we expected the last car to end up, and as it turned out, we had overestimated the length of the train by a bit.
When the last door moved past us toward the front end of the platform, we had to chase it.
By the time the train had shuddered to a stop, we had caught up and were waiting for the last door in the last compartment to open.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Finch had struggled to his feet.
He stayed in character, and was bracing himself with one hand against the tile wall, while the other still clutched the bottle.
To anyone who didn’t know him, he must have looked like any struggling soldier who hadn’t quite adjusted to life at Home after the war.
The hydraulic mechanism engaged with a sort of sigh, and I turned back to the train as the doors moved apart. Finch pushed off from the wall and staggered forward.
For a moment, nothing happened. Crispin reached for the carpet bag, but I held onto it. He didn’t need to be the one who put it inside the train car. I could do that.
I took a step forward and raised the hand with the bag, just as a figure materialized in the open door.
The only impression I had time for was of someone big, before a gloved hand shot out and grabbed…
not the bag, but my wrist. A sharp yank later, and a shriek, and then both I and the money were across the gap and inside the train compartment.
I had my nose pressed up against someone’s chest, and for a moment, all I could see was the front of a dark greatcoat with gold buttons, and all I could smell was damp wool, before my ears registered the sound of the hydraulics reengaging.
Behind me, the doors started to close. I started struggling. It had all happened so fast, too fast for Crispin or Christopher to have made it inside the train with me. I could hear them, still on the platform, starting to make a fuss.
“No! No, what are you—” from Crispin and “Pippa! Pippa!” from Christopher.
And then the doors shut—I think the boys were trying to stop them from meeting in the middle, judging from the cursing I could hear, faintly, from outside—and two hard hands grabbed my upper arms and pushed me away.
I looked up, just as a voice said, “Hello, Philippa.”