A Quiet Death (2 page)

As the crow flies, only forty-six miles separated Edinburgh from Dundee, a journey that should have been a mere bagatelle for a Britain whose web of railroads made accessible distant towns and opened up new opportunities for the labouring classes. Now men could seek employment further afield than the restrictions imposed by walking distances from their own tiny villages.

In the case of Edinburgh and Dundee, however, the deceptively short distance was hampered by the two wide estuaries of Forth and Tay. And their as yet unspanned waters, to be crossed by ferry, turned what should have been a delightful and invigorating prospect of travelling by train at a thrilling thirty miles an hour into the vast proportions of a nightmare.

This was no journey to be undertaken frequently or by busy men thought Faro as he left Sheridan Place at dawn and walked briskly down the Pleasance towards Waverley Station.

With what seemed to intending passengers uncommonly like adding insult to injury, the North British Railway Company ran their best train of the day at 6.25 a.m. According to the timetable it took three hours and twelve minutes.

But that was in only the most favourable weather conditions. In point of fact, the journey could and almost always did take considerably longer. In winter, or in summer storm, the uneasy waters of Forth and Tay stirred angrily thereby causing delays, additional misery and acute discomfort to passengers.

As a stiff wind buffeted him over Waverley Bridge, Faro considered with some apprehension the wild clouds screening a reluctant sunrise. No doubt a gloomy prophecy for a journey even less agreeable than previous experiences which, like painful toothache, he preferred not to dwell upon.

Taking his place in the fireless buffet room of the station among the shivering group of passengers, all valiantly grasping steaming hot cups of coffee which warmed icy hands but had little in the way of taste as commendation, he was told that the train was late.

Frustration and impatience at this stage of the journey boded ill and Faro bitterly regretted his lack of time and forewarning to take the ship overnight from Leith. This was his normal method of travel when occasion led him to the north-east coast of Scotland. Even with his abominable tendency to seasickness, it still remained the happier alternative.

The train arrived at last. 'Engine trouble,' grumbled the porter.

Now mauve in countenance, chilled to the bone, the passengers struggled aboard with their luggage only to find themselves considerably worse off than before. The carriages lacked any internal heating and the train trailed two odorous fish trucks.

Travelling through the suburbs of Edinburgh, occasionally alerting the sleeping occupants with a shrill hoot, the train arrived at Granton-on-Forth, where everyone disembarked and boarded the ferry.

Its appearance was at first sight consoling, low in the hull with beating paddles on either side, high slender smoke-stacks and raking masts. A graceful boat indeed, resting lightly on the water but as the stiff gale, white-lacing the waves, set upon them amidships, the passengers, Faro included, were soon taking refuge against the bulkheads where they wrestled with the urgent demands of heaving stomachs.

Faro was in difficulties. The din of paddles made his head ache and the presence close at hand of fish 'fresh that morning' but already succumbing to speedy decay was extremely offensive.

The short journey across the Firth of Forth seemed abominably long; his discomfort acute, he was grateful to see dry land at Burntisland. There he joined the general pandemonium to seize a seat on the train which would carry them the further thirty-six miles to the south side of the Tay estuary. Taking careful note of how the wind was blowing, he wisely chose a seat facing away from the billowing clouds of smoke and cinder.

Fascinated as he usually was by guessing the character and occupation of his fellow-passengers, the four who shared his compartment were readily dismissed as a young wife with a snivelling child and her volatile mother, plus an elderly clergyman. Their characters and conversation left little room for speculation or the scent of mystery.

An inveterate gazer-out-of-windows, he was further frustrated as the Kingdom of Fife was blanketed by heavy mist, rendering visibility negligible. Disappointed that spring had chosen this moment for a bleak return to desolation, he prepared to pass the time as agreeably as possible. With the help of one of his favourite travelling companions, Mr Charles Dickens, he applied himself once again to his current reading:
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
.

The tedium at last over, he greeted with relief the station at Newport where another ferry-boat now waited to carry them across the Tay. Relieved that the weather had improved enough to make their destination visible, he observed the ancient castle at Broughty Ferry bathed in a flicker of sunlight.

Soon he would be meeting Vince and his bride-to-be. But before that, here was what the newspapers called 'one of the marvels of the modern world, the Bridge across the River Tay'.

It was, he decided, something of a disappointment. Marked by half-finished piers on either side of the estuary, it resembled nothing more than a gigantic loosely-knitted iron ribbon with ends trailing into the water.

Boarding the ferry, the air was clouded by the glow and smoke belch of nearby foundries. As they drifted into the water, their ears were assaulted by the thunderous beat of the pile-drivers while their eyes smarted from the furnaces' acrid fumes.

Observing this scene of high activity, Faro thought it odd that there had been so little progress to show on the bridge for two years' work. Even making allowances for marvels of engineering well beyond his comprehension, he could not visualise that frail structure supporting anything as robust and substantial as a railway train.

And he remembered that when the bridge was being planned, an old man, an apple-grower famous for his true prophecies as the Seer of Gourdiehill, had seen its completion and downfall.

'This rainbow bridge', Patrick Matthews had called it, and on his deathbed he had had a final terrible vision: 'A great wind will wrench at the high girders, crushing the bridge and a heavy passenger train with the whole of the passengers will be killed.'

A black cloud blotted out the sunlight, shrouding the half-finished bridge in sudden gloom.

Faro shivered, remembering the last words of the Seer's prophecy: 'The eels will come to gloat in delight over the horrible wreck and banquet.'

Chapter 2

At Faro's side on the ferry, the minister who had spent most of the train journey sleeping heavily had regained animation:

'Ah, sir, we are now witnessing the famed Thomas Bouch's creation. He has travelled a long way from aqueducts to the longest bridge in the world.'

As he gazed at the massive iron structures, Faro shrugged aside his misgivings. 'There is a saying that children and fools should never see things half completed.'

'Oh ye of little faith,' quoted the minister with a smile and a reproachful nod. 'Think what a difference it will make to our travel and to our prosperity. God be praised that man's achievement will mean an end to all that wearisome changing of trains and ferries,' he added fervently.

'Amen to that, sir.'

The minister waved a hand in the direction of one of the high girders. 'Astonishing, is it not? Why, the novel concept of weaving iron and masonry through two miles of air and water has delighted the whole of Scotland. They can talk of nothing else.'

'Not only in Scotland, sir. The popular press would have us believe that the idea of bridging the Tay has set fire to the nation's imagination. In London, I understand, folks believe that all that is new and good and noble in this century of scientific endeavour must be done by Englishmen.'

The minister gave him a hard look. 'Indeed, sir, we are living in an age of new gods and although our people sneer at the ignorant superstitions of poor African savages and those other races we are bringing to civilisation by God's word, they see no cause for dismay in the blind trust they are placing in their own industrial witch-doctors.'

Awaiting Faro's nod of approval, he added proudly, 'I am glad you agree, sir, for that was the subject of my sermon in Edinburgh from which I am newly returned.'

It seemed that having detected a sympathetic ear and a captive audience, the minister was eager to deliver that sermon once again. However, before he could utter more than a philosophical sentence or two, he was forestalled by the rapid approach of the quayside at Broughty Ferry where a band of raggedy children shrilly assailed them with demands for ha'pennies and sweeties.

'Get along with you,' said the minister indignantly. Turning to Faro he added by way of apology, 'They mean no harm, but they so enjoy tormenting strangers.'

'Then let us make this a memorable day for them,' said Faro good-humouredly. Digging into his pockets he threw a handful of coins which were pounced upon with noisy delight and even some thanks in his direction.

'You spoil them with such generosity,' said the minister reproachfully. 'You have children of your own?'

'Yes, sir. Two wee daughters, a little better behaved but with every child's weakness for ha'pennies and sweeties.'

'You are bound for Dundee?' said the minister. 'Ah, then our ways part here. I wish you well, for the worst is over.'

Bidding him good day, Faro boarded the train and ten minutes later he alighted in Dundee Station where the platform soon emptied of passengers.

But of Vince there was no sign.

Now chilled to the bone. Faro paced briskly up and down in a vain attempt to restore his circulation. He was accompanied in this activity by a middle-aged man who walked back and forth with the impatient angry look of one who had just missed his train.

Raising his hat politely, Faro asked, 'Are you awaiting the Perth train, sir?'

The man merely scowled and, biting his lips, continued his perambulation fast enough to discourage further conversation. His occasional pauses were merely to glare across at the unfinished piers of what would some day be the Tay Bridge.

Faro, who considered such behaviour extremely boorish, again consulted the timetable outside the station-master's office. He had hoped to spend an hour with Vince before the arrival of his train for Errol but as the minutes ticked away, he was seized by a sudden foreboding.

The lad should have had his telegraph. So where in the world was he?

Then a sudden diversion swept all other thoughts from his mind. A train had arrived from Aberdeen and as it emptied, the pacing man came leaping forward to grapple with a youngish fellow who had descended from first class.

Holding him in a fierce grip, he forced him to the very edge of the platform, so that he tottered unsteadily above the rails.

'Murderer,' shouted the older man. 'Vile murderer. I ought to push you under the next train and let it decapitate you. For that is all you deserve, after what you did to my lad.'

The youngish man had been taken by surprise. He could do nothing but gasp, struggle feebly and call for help.

Faro and the porter dashed to his assistance but the older man was strong and for several dizzy seconds the four trembled above the rails, surging back and forth in a wild dance. At last they succeeded in separating the two men.

'Thank you, sir, for you intervention.'

The younger man would have been handsome but for a tight closed-in look about the eyes and mouth. It added considerably to his thirty-odd years. 'This madman means my death.'

'Aye, that I do. And never forget it. This is our second encounter, Wilfred Deane, and next time I swear to God I will kill you, as you killed my poor laddie.'

'What's happening? What's going on here?' The station-master emerged to see what all the noise was about. 'Oh, it's you again, is it, McGowan? I've warned you before.'

A uniformed coachman appeared through the barrier and rushed to Deane murmuring apologies and concern.

'Yes, damn you, you should have been here to meet me on time. I might have been killed.'

'That one was threatening to murder your master,' said the porter.

'Murder, is it?' said the station-master. 'Hold him fast, Jim. It's the police for you, my man. Upsetting my passengers.' And to Deane, 'My apologies, sir. You have my assurances—it won't happen again, sir.'

'I sincerely hope not. It will cost you your job next time, Station-master. Pray bear that in mind. You are responsible for the conduct and safety of fare-paying passengers and for keeping madmen away from your platform.'

The station-master, nonplussed, grew red in the face with anger and embarrassment. 'If this gentleman—you, sir,' he said indicating Faro—'will kindly assist me in restraining McGowan, I will send Jim for the police.'

Mollified, the youngish man bowed stiffly. 'See to it, Station-master.' And dusting down his sleeves as if to remove all traces of the incident he hurried the coachman towards the exit.

Watching them leave, the station-master said: 'Off you go, Jim.'

McGowan, held captive, suddenly began to weep in a helpless broken way, a weakness so out of keeping with his former belligerence that Faro called to the departing porter: 'Wait,' and to the station-master: 'It so happens that I am a policeman.'