Chapter 19
Tim was just heading to his cabin when the far door into the ‘Uglich’ car was thrown open forcefully and he saw Roo bombing down the corridor.
She didn’t stop when she got to him either, but careened into him with such force that, slight as she was compared with his bulk, she knocked him into the window.
‘Tim,’ she said his name in a whispered fluster. ‘I think there’s someone hiding in the carriage with the larder. I know there is. I’ve just seen his leg. I’m not imagining it, it moved. A big boot… it… I saw… he’s behind the cupboard.’
She was visibly shaking as she was rambling.
Holding her by the tops of the arms, he could feel the vibrations coursing through her.
His initial response was to go and check out her suspicions, but they were quickly overridden by a more guarded one.
If there was someone else on this train, as Roo insisted, then there had to be a reason why they hadn’t shown themselves.
Maybe a little caution was needed and there was a lot to be said for safety in numbers.
‘Let’s go back into the lounge and tell the others what you’ve seen,’ he said, pushing her gently towards ‘Liberty’.
‘I know what I saw, and it was a boot and it was attached to a leg that was very slowly trying to tuck itself out of sight behind the cupboard with all the towels in it,’ said Roo. She was scrunched up defensively in between Elizabeth and Grace.
‘Well, that explains a couple of things,’ said Frank, having listened to her: one, the unmistakable feeling that he wasn’t alone when he was at that end of the train, and two, the carnivorous ‘ghost’.
He picked up the poker from the companion set at the side of the fireplace. Vincent looked around for a suitable tool and decided the hefty metal salt grinder would deliver a suitable clubbing. He handed its brother – the pepper mill – to Tim.
‘Ladies, you stay here,’ said Frank. The ladies didn’t argue.
The three men walked down the carriages: ‘Uglich’, ‘Sigismund’, ‘Mingun’ and then halted in the vestibule before ‘Yongle’. They checked with each other that they were ready. There was no point in pussyfooting around, the plan of action was to storm in as if they meant business.
Vincent opened the door and charged, followed by the others.
‘Okay, we know you’re in here, so out you come,’ boomed Tim, in the moment more Satan than Santa.
He marched over to the towel cupboard but if there had been anyone behind it, they were gone now.
Vincent and Frank both searched around but there was no other presence.
Then they all heard the sound from ‘Pummerin’, like furniture being shifted.
They moved forward, weapons at the ready, in preparation for confronting who had been living among them unseen. The blinds had all been pulled down in here since they’d last visited this carriage – and not by any of them.
Frank’s turn to bellow now, although he was never any good at volume.
‘Come out and show yourself. We aren’t leaving until you do.’
Nothing. Then a slight shuffling. Then a pair of hands appeared from under a table, held up in surrender.
‘I’m here,’ said a voice, male, weary. A figure rose, dressed in a long, dark cape coat with brass buttons. A large scar covered the whole left side of his face.
Vincent released a couple of the blinds which sprang up noisily and gave them some more light.
Now they could all clearly see the man who was standing in front of them and looking far thinner than the bulk of his coat might suggest; it was sizes too big for him.
It wasn’t a scar either on his face but dirt or dried blood.
His sandy hair was matted with similar above his left eye which prompted Frank then to ask, ‘You all right, mate?’
‘Am I okay to sit?’ asked the man, as if the effort of standing had been too much. ‘I’m…’ He touched his head as if that might explain his situation.
The men lowered their weapons. This injured interloper was no threat, that was pretty clear.
‘How long you been on the train? Where did you come from?’ asked Vincent.
‘I… I don’t know… Last night, I think. The train was standing here. I was in pursuit…’
As they came closer still, they could see that the coat was a uniform with a number stitched above the top right pocket. Vincent noticed a cap on the floor where the man had been sitting, a peaked cap. Army, was he? Police? All winter edition garb from the look of it, heavy-duty and woollen.
‘My name is John Brown. I’m a prison officer.’ He had a north-east accent, they noticed: not as strong as full-on Geordie but heading up there.
‘We had a break-out. I think I must have fell when I was running and banged my head. I was trying to get back… I must have gone miles out me way because there’s no train tracks anywhere near us.’
‘You were lucky,’ said Frank. ‘You could have died lying out there. Is there anyone else with you?’
‘No. I went on ahead. There was just one who got away but they must have caught him, he wouldn’t have got far in this weather.’
‘Well, you did,’ countered Tim.
‘I’m dressed for it though, he wasn’t.’
‘I hope they caught him, for his sake,’ said Vincent. He shivered then because this car was cooler than the rest. God knows how cold it must be outside – John Brown was indeed lucky.
‘I think we’d better get you down to the warmth and sort out your head,’ Frank told him.
That cut looked in dire need of cleaning up.
He hoped it was just a flesh wound because there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of them getting some medical attention out here, other than what they could provide between them.
Even if there was a way to contact the air ambulance brigade, they couldn’t fly to them in the snow soup out there.
The shock registered hard on the faces of the women on seeing four men enter the car, when only three had left it.
John was leaning heavily on Frank who was the best to support him, being roughly the same height, and also the strongest of them.
If you were ploughing a field and missing an ox, Frank would have made a good substitute.
He deposited the newcomer down on the couch nearest the fire and he slumped against the cushions as if his spine were made of rubber.
‘Ladies, this is John… John Brown. He’s an officer at a local prison. Apparently someone broke out. John was following them, fell, bumped his head, got totally disorientated and somehow ended up with us. He’s lucky, don’t you think?’
Jane thought of those far-off bells she’d heard and wondered if that was a signal from the prison. The sound travelled well if it was, but maybe there was little around to get in its way.
‘There must be a first-aid kit around somewhere. They’ve thought of everything else,’ said Roo.
‘There’s one in Maria G, mounted on the wall,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No need, I’ve got one in my suitcase,’ said Jane. ‘If you’ve had the sort of life I’ve had, you don’t travel without a portable hospital.’ Jane stood. ‘I think some warm water is warranted.’
‘I’ll get that then,’ said Tim. ‘There’s a bucket in the galley and some cloths in a drawer.’ He went one way, Jane the other.
‘How long have you been on the train, John?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘I’m not sure. It was dark. I remember trying a few doors before I found one that I could open. I must have just… collapsed when I got in. I don’t know what I did then. I think I ate something…’
No one said anything to that, but they all knew they’d found the phantom pie-scoffer. At least there was no ghost to freak them out.
Jane soon arrived back with a zip-up square case and a towel. She foraged inside and took out what she needed, then wriggled her hands into some thin latex gloves and inspected John’s wound.
‘Well, the good news is that it’s a superficial cut and it appears to have partly sealed itself up. The trouble is there’s so many blood vessels in this area that I imagine there was quite the blood flow. Did you lose consciousness, John?’ she asked him.
‘No, I don’t think so. I went dizzy, I felt a bit sick. If I did pass out, it wasn’t for very long.’
‘If it had been for very long, you wouldn’t be walking around, you’d be buried out there. There’s grit or something in the wound, not sure how you’ve managed to find something to hit your head on not covered in a foot of snow.’
‘I can’t remember.’
Tim walked in with a tin bucket full of tepid water which he set on the carpet at Jane’s side.
‘Are you a nurse?’ John asked Jane, as she began gently dabbing at his head with some swabs.
‘No, but I’ve done a fair bit of nursing in my time,’ she answered him. ‘I’m actually an artist. Well, I was.’
‘Were you, Jane?’ Roo gave a little gasp. ‘Although I don’t know why I sound surprised, because I’m not at all. I thought you looked like a bit of a creative.’
That amused Jane and she took it as a compliment.
‘Did you sell… exhibit… your paintings… sculptures?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Paintings. Yes, years ago. I don’t think Van Gogh was looking over his shoulder at the competition, but I was able to supplement my income as a secretary and then when I met Clifford, I found that being his secretary became more important than flogging my wares and that allowed me to paint for fun rather than food.
Painting was a small passion of mine rather than a grand passion.
Clifford was that to me.’ She smiled and Elizabeth suddenly felt in danger of filling up at the loveliness of the sentiment.
‘That’s got me in the sweet spot,’ said Roo, echoing her thoughts.
‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry, John. You had a stone stuck in your head. We don’t want that there.’ Jane took tweezers from her kit and teased out some debris which she laid on a tissue on the table.
‘Can I get John something to eat or drink?’ Frank asked Jane for permission.