by George Mann
A woman started screaming somewhere at the other end of the carriage, and Newbury turned to see three men getting to their feet. “Now you’ve done it,” he said.
“Shhh,” hissed Clarissa. She scrabbled for a foothold and pressed her ear to the opening. “Yes! That’s it!”
“What is it?”
“Listen!” said Clarissa, with palpable relief. “I can hear ringing bells. They’re coming.”
Newbury tried to focus, to suppress the dull roar inside his head. Clarissa was right—he could hear the distant jangle of fire carts, brass bells clanging wildly as they raced through the streets towards the site of the accident. He turned to see the rest of the passengers getting to their feet as they, too, heard the signals, awareness of their impending rescue spreading swiftly amongst them.
Newbury put his hand in his jacket pocket, reminding himself of the incriminating knife that was hidden there, of the difficulties still to come. Whatever happened next, he had to be ready. There was still a killer on board the train. While they were all trapped in there, the killer was, too. As soon as they got free, the man would make a break for it, and all chance of apprehending him would be lost.
He turned to Clarissa. “Whatever happens, you and I have to be the first ones out of this carriage,” he said. “Remember that, at all costs. Once we’re free we need to get the attention of the police, and make sure no one else gets out behind us.”
She looked at him quizzically for a moment, before his intention suddenly dawned on her. “Oh,” she said, “because that way, the killer will still be on the train.”
“Precisely,” said Newbury. “Can you do that?”
Clarissa beamed. “I can do anything if I put my mind to it.”
Newbury laughed for the first time that day. “When this is over, I’d very much like to take you to dinner,” he said.
“Would you, indeed?” she replied, with a crooked smile.
IX
The Ladies’ Own Tea Association on New Bond Street was exactly as Newbury had imagined: overstuffed with dainty decorations such as lace doilies, sparkling chandeliers, pastel-coloured upholstery and overbearing floral displays. Young maids darted about between tables, dressed in formal black uniforms with white trim.
As he peered through the window from across the street, Newbury was filled with a dawning sense of astonishment. It all seemed so unnecessarily... feminine, as if the proprietors had never considered that the women who took tea in their establishment might have been perfectly comfortable in less exuberant surroundings. Veronica, he knew, would have found the place decidedly over the top. He could imagine the look on her face now, appalled at the very idea of spending time in such a garish environment.
He sighed heavily, leaning against the doorjamb. Perhaps, he reflected, they were simply trying to scare away the men.
Newbury had taken up temporary residence in the doorway of a nearby auction house, sheltering from the persistent, mizzly rain. Mercifully, the auctioneer’s was closed for the afternoon, and he’d loitered there for two hours unchallenged, attentively watching the comings and goings of the tearoom’s clientele.
So far, he’d seen no one matching his—admittedly limited—description of Lady Arkwell, but he decided to wait it out for a short while longer. It wasn’t as if he had any other significant leads, after all.
He’d considered enquiring after Lady Arkwell with the staff, posing as a friend, but in the end decided it would be too conspicuous. He didn’t wish to show his hand too soon, and if she had become a regular patron and the staff alerted her to his questions, he’d have given away his only advantage.
So, with little else in the way of options, he turned his collar up against the spattering rain, hunkered down in the doorway and endeavoured to remain vigilant, despite the gnawing chill.
It was almost half an hour later when the woman in the lilac hat emerged from the tearoom, unfurling her umbrella and stepping out into the street. At first, Newbury dismissed her as simply another of the tearoom’s typically middle-class customers, heading home after a late lunch with her friends. She was young and pretty and not at all the sort of woman he was looking for, and he hardly paid attention to her appearance. Except that, as he watched her stroll casually away down the street, she seemed to stumble slightly, as if from a sudden weakness in her right knee.
Frowning, Newbury stepped out from the doorway, ignoring the patter of raindrops on the brim of his hat. He squinted as he studied the dwindling form of the woman. One step, two steps—there it was again, the slightest of stumbles, before she caught herself and corrected her gait.
Newbury’s heart thudded in his chest. Was this, then, the woman he was searching for, the woman with whom he was engaged in such an elaborate game? He hesitated, unsure whether to give chase. Given what he knew of Lady Arkwell, it wouldn’t have surprised him to discover she had paid someone to affect a limp, simply to throw him off her trail.
He decided he had little to lose. If this woman in the lilac hat proved to be a red herring, then either Lady Arkwell had set up a decoy and was never going to be found at the tearooms, or else it would prove to be a case of mistaken identity, and Newbury could return the following day to continue his observations.
He set out, pulling the brim of his hat down low and hurrying after the young woman, his feet sloshing in the puddles that had formed between the uneven paving stones.
He followed her along New Bond Street, remaining at a reasonable distance so as not to arouse her suspicions. All the while the little stumbles continued, like clockwork, with every third step. Such an injury, he reflected, would be difficult to affect successfully, and the woman had evidentially grown accustomed to it; it did not appear to have a detrimental impact on her speed or confidence.
After a minute or two, the woman turned into Brook Street, which she followed as far as Hanover Square. She halted at an omnibus stop and lowered her umbrella, ducking under the shelter to await the next bus. A small crowd of five or six people were already gathered beneath the shelter, and so Newbury hung back, keeping out of view.
It was no more than five minutes’ wait before the rumble of immense wheels announced the arrival of a passenger ground train. The machine was a hulking mass of iron and steam—a traction engine fitted with fat road wheels—and it came surging around the corner into Hanover Square, belching ribbons of black smoke from its broad funnel. It was painted in the green and black livery of the Thompson & Childs Engineering Company, and was hauling two long carriages full of people.
The ground train trundled to a rest beside the omnibus stop. Immediately, a number of carriage doors were flung open and a flurry of passengers disembarked. Newbury watched the woman in the lilac hat step up into the second carriage, and quickly dashed forward, hopping up onto the step and into the same carriage, just as the driver’s whistle tooted and the engine began to roll forward again, ponderously building up a head of steam.
The woman had already taken a seat at the rear of the carriage, and so Newbury, still wary of drawing her attention, decided to take one of the empty seats on the opposite side, close to the front, from where, if he turned his head, he could just make out her reflection in the window glass.
The carriage was around half full, following the mass disembarkation at Hanover Square, with a mix of people from all walks of life: office workers, shoppers returning home with stuffed bags, a mother with her little girl, socialites returning home from their clubs. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
Newbury eased himself back into his rather uncomfortable seat, certain that he could relax until at least the next stop, where he would have to make sure he didn’t lose the woman if she chose to alight.
He was about to glance out of the window when there was a sudden, jarring jolt, followed by a thunderclap as loud as any he had ever heard.
Everything went black.
X
“We’ll have you free in just a minute, miss. Remain calm.” The man’s gruff
voice was accompanied by the sound of bolt cutters snapping into the iron plating of the carriage roof, as the firemen worked to create a makeshift exit.
Clarissa’s relief was palpable. She’d followed Newbury’s instructions, doing everything possible to ensure they were the first to be freed from the wreckage. She’d rushed to the small opening in the buckled window frame as soon as she heard voices outside, pushing her arm through and waving for attention. Consequently, the firemen had focused their attention on widening the existing gap and forcing their way in.
Despite their imminent rescue, however, Newbury couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had settled like a weight in the pit of his stomach.
Aside from the injured, the other passengers were all up on their feet, clamouring at whatever openings they could find, calling out to the firemen for help. Soon, someone was going to discover Lady Arkwell’s dead body, and Newbury still didn’t have sufficient evidence to exonerate himself. He was covered in the dead woman’s blood and was carrying a knife that was sticky with his own fingerprints. Discarding it at this point would be a pointless exercise.
Worse still, the real killer had a chance of getting away scot-free in the chaos, or perhaps even implicating Newbury further. After all, they were the only other person on the train who knew that Newbury was carrying the planted murder weapon. All it would take was a quiet word in the ear of the police, and Newbury would likely be restrained and carted away to a cell. Bainbridge and the Queen would, of course, ensure his eventual release, but by then the real murderer would be long gone, and with him, any hope of discovering the truth of what had really happened.
And, just to make matters worse, Newbury was still feeling decidedly woozy.
There was a terrific clang of metal striking stone, and he turned to see daylight streaming into the gloomy carriage through a small, ragged hole in the roof. He squinted against the sudden brightness, and rushed forward to Clarissa’s side. “Go!” he said, urgently, putting his hand on her back and urging her forward.
She did as he said, ducking low and wriggling out through the hole.
Newbury felt a press of people at his back, heard bickering over his shoulder, but paid them no heed. He had to get free and speak to the police before it was too late.
He followed Clarissa out through the hatch, dropping to his belly and worming his way out on to the wet street. The fresh air hit him like a slap to the face, and he dragged it desperately into his lungs. He felt hands on his shoulders and, a moment later, two firemen had hauled him up to his feet.
“Thank you,” he murmured, as he turned on the spot, taking in the scene of utter devastation. The wreckage of the ground train littered the entire street.
The remains of the engine itself were at least a hundred yards further down the road, steam still curling from the hot, spilt coals as they fizzed in the drizzling rain. The engine casing had burst apart, shredding the metal and spewing shrapnel and detritus over the cobbles and surrounding buildings. Nearby windows were shattered, and the front of one building—a hotel—was smeared with streaks of soot.
The first carriage was jackknifed across the road, and appeared to have suffered more damage than the second, bearing the brunt of the explosion. The whole front of it was missing, leaving a jagged, gaping hole where it had once been tethered to the engine. The rest of the carriage was twisted and crushed and, inside, Newbury could see the bodies of passengers, flung around like dolls by the force of the explosion. He’d been lucky—the carriage he’d been travelling in was relatively unscathed in comparison, on its side, its roof crushed flat as it had rolled across the street.
Crowds of onlookers had gathered at either end of the street, and fire carts were parked in a row, their doors still hanging open where their drivers had abandoned them to get to the injured or trapped.
Newbury caught sight of a lone bobby in the midst of it all and staggered over, grabbing the young man by his cuff. The policeman shook him off irritably, looking him up and down.
“You must send for Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard immediately,” said Newbury. “There’s a dead woman in that carriage.” He pointed back the way he had come.
The bobby looked at him as if he’d cracked a particularly bad joke. “Yes, sir,” he replied, sarcastically. “There’s been an accident.”
“No, no!” Newbury shook his head in frustration. “You don’t understand. She’s been murdered.”
The bobby raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Indeed, sir?”
“Listen to me!” barked Newbury. “My name is Sir Maurice Newbury, and I’m a good friend of your chief inspector. I’m telling you, a woman has been murdered on that train. The killer is still on board. My friend here can confirm it.” He turned to beckon Clarissa over.
She was nowhere to be seen.
“Clarissa?” called Newbury, perplexed. Had she gone back to help free the others from the wreckage? “Clarissa?”
Concerned, he turned his back on the policeman, scanning the scene for any sign of her.
For a moment he stood there, utterly baffled, while the storm of activity raged on around him. She seemed to have disappeared. One moment she’d been standing there beside him, the next she had gone.
He searched the faces in the crowd. It was then that he saw her, about two hundred yards up the street, walking away from the devastation. Where was she going? “Clarissa?” he called again.
She ignored him and continued walking, her back to him. Confused, he watched as she gave a little stumble, as if suffering from a slight weakness in her right knee. Newbury’s heart thudded. No! It couldn’t be...
There it was again, on the third step—another little stumble. His head was swimming. He started after her, but stumbled, still woozy from whatever sedative had been administered to him. He’d never catch her now, not in this state.
He watched for a moment longer as she receded into the distance. Then, at the last moment, she stopped, turned, and blew him a kiss, before disappearing out of sight around the corner.
Newbury stumbled back towards the carriage, ignoring the protests of the bobby behind him. “Get out of my way!” he bellowed, pushing past the firemen and dropping to his knees before the makeshift hatch in the roof.
The other passengers had all been helped from the wreckage now, and as Newbury wriggled back into the gloomy carriage, he realised he was alone. He clambered shakily to his feet and crossed immediately to the heap of clothes at the rear of the carriage, beneath which the dead woman was buried. He began to peel the layers off, flinging coats, cardigans and jackets indiscriminately to the floor.
Moments later he uncovered the head of the bloodied corpse. He wrenched the hat from the head and saw instantly that the woman’s hair, pinned up, was in fact a deep, chestnut brown. Blood had been smeared expertly on her face to obscure her features, but it was clear almost immediately that this was a different woman from the one he had followed from the tearooms.
How could he have been so stupid? Clarissa had kept his attentions away from the body, had even taken great pains to cover it up so he wouldn’t realise that this dead woman was not, in fact, Lady Arkwell at all. He’d missed all of the signs.
Clarissa—the real Lady Arkwell—must have killed the woman and switched clothes with her while Newbury was out cold from the crash. She’d then drugged him and planted the evidence before bringing him round.
Newbury let the lilac hat fall from his grip and slumped back against the roof of the carriage, sliding to the ground. No wonder Meng Li had been so apprehensive when he’d spoken of the woman. No wonder the Queen had warned him of her ruthlessness. Newbury had been totally outclassed.
“Well played, Clarissa,” he mumbled, his face in his hands. “Well played indeed.”
XI
“We find it interesting, Newbury, that she deigned to allow you to live. Perhaps she has a weakness for pretty men?”
“With respect, Your Majesty, she is a cold-blooded killer,” replied Newbury. �
�She took that innocent woman’s life purely to evade capture. I suspect she allowed me to live only because she considered me useful. I was her intended scapegoat, and she was relying on me to help her to escape from the wreckage.”
Victoria gave a disturbing, throaty cackle. “Don’t be so naive, Newbury. Do you think for a moment she didn’t know what she was doing? That ‘innocent woman’ you refer to was a German agent, most likely sent to assassinate Lady Arkwell following her alleged involvement in a theft from the Kaiser’s court. She probably killed her in self-defence.”
Newbury frowned. Perhaps things weren’t as black and white as he’d at first imagined. Could she really have killed that woman in self-defence? If so, that put an entirely different complexion on the matter. Perhaps she was more the woman he’d taken her to be, after all. He sighed. “I fear it is a moot point, Your Majesty. She’s probably halfway to Paris by now, or some other such destination where she might go to ground to evade capture.”
“Perhaps so,” the Queen conceded.
“Then that is an end to the matter?”
Victoria laughed. “No. You shall remain focused on the woman, Newbury. You shall track her down and bring her here, to the bosom of the Empire, where we may question her and discover her true motives.” Victoria grinned wickedly, baring the blackened stumps of her teeth. “We think she might yet prove useful.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Newbury. He stifled a smile. He knew that what he’d just been handed was a punishment for allowing the woman—Clarissa—to slip out of his grasp, but in truth, he couldn’t help feeling buoyed by the notion that, some day soon, he might see her again.
“Go to it, Newbury. Do not disappoint us again.”
“Very good, Your Majesty,” he replied, with a short bow, then quit the audience chamber to the sound of the Queen’s hacking, tortuous laughter.
XII