Blood From a Stone (7 page)

The train pulled in, the blue-suited man strode down the platform and Isabelle, together with her newly adopted family, squashed in to a first-class compartment with an elderly lady wearing depressing amounts of jet and a comfortable-looking woman who liked children. Isabelle cheerfully relaxed into a corner as the comfortable woman entertained the junior Clouets with the contents of a bag of sweets. After forty minutes or thereabouts and a few stations later, little Agathe, Michel and Jules had, much to the jet-encrusted lady's disapproval, become distinctly travel-stained.

‘I'll take Agathe to have a wash, shall I?' suggested Isabelle sometime after West Hassock. Her French had improved dramatically in the last half hour or so. She stood up and stretched out her hand to the little girl. ‘Er ...
faire sa toilette?'

As she spoke, the train gave a terrific jolt, sending Isabelle staggering into the comfortable woman and hurling the contents of her bag of sweets around the compartment. With loud exclamations, Michel and Jules dived after the sweets like a pair of circus seals chasing fish. Grubbing round on the floor added nothing to their appearance.

‘You take them all?' asked Mme. Clouet hopefully, regarding her sticky-faced sons, now liberally coated with sooty dust.

Isabelle looked at the two boys and drew the line with a shudder. One at a time perhaps, but all together? Not a chance.

Isabelle, with Agathe clinging to her hand, stepped out of the compartment into the corridor. The lavatory in their coach was occupied, so, much to little Agathe's evident enjoyment, Isabelle pressed on to the third-class coach at the rear of the train.

A thin, tall man in a shabby trench coat blocked the way. He was leaning out of the open window of the door, his hands braced on the window-frame, gulping in air.

‘Excuse me,' said Isabelle politely.

The man turned slowly and looked at her. His face was ghastly. He looked as if he was going to be sick. He swallowed and made a great effort to speak. ‘No,' he said, barring the way to the coach. ‘No, you mustn't go along there.' His eyes slid to Agathe. ‘Not with a child.'

‘Why ever not?'

The man swallowed again. ‘There's a man. There's been an accident, I think.'

‘An accident?' repeated Isabelle.

The man nodded dumbly. He was older than she had assumed at first glance. He must be in his mid thirties at least and his voice, she thought, with a little stab of surprise, didn't match
his clothes. It was precise and well bred, and made them, in an oddly indefinable way, equals.

A horrible possibility came into her mind. ‘Is he ... Is he ...' she said slowly.

‘He's got a string of jewels,' said the man unexpectedly. He nearly laughed. ‘There's jewels at his feet.'

The door between the coaches opened and the ticket inspector came through. ‘Tickets, please,' he said in a Sussex burr. He nodded affably at Isabelle. ‘I've seen your ticket, Miss, I know. However,' he added, in mild reproof, ‘you really shouldn't block the corridor like this.'

The man in the shabby coat turned to him eagerly. ‘You'll know what to do! There's a man. A ... A ... Well, a man. He's had an accident.'

The ticket inspector pushed his cap back and scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘An accident, sir? You'd better show me what's what. Where is he?'

‘In the second compartment.' The shabby-coated man swallowed again. ‘The blinds are down. I thought it was unfair that someone should try and bag a compartment all to themselves, so I looked in and ... and ...' He broke off. ‘I couldn't think what to do.' He put a trembling hand to his mouth. ‘He's got jewels. At his feet. Jewels.'

‘Jewels?' The inspector raised his eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Just as you say, sir.' He glanced at Isabelle and, in an unostentatious but significant gesture, tapped the side of his head. ‘We'll soon see what the problem seems to be,' said the inspector easily. ‘Lead the way, sir.' He looked meaningfully at Isabelle who was barring his way. ‘After you, Mum.'

The shabby man looked at Agathe. ‘It's not suitable,' he muttered, but Agathe pulled at Isabelle's hand.

‘
Moi,
' she said insistently. ‘
Moi aussi.
'

‘Come on, sir,' said the ticket inspector insistently.

The shabby man swallowed, shrugged and walked the few steps along the rumbling corridor where he stood outside a compartment.

What Isabelle should do, she knew, was take Agathe back to her mother but, not only would it be difficult to squeeze past the burly inspector who was clearly waiting for her to move, she very much wanted to know what had happened.
Jewels?

‘It'll be all right,' said the inspector reassuringly in a low voice to Isabelle. ‘I know his sort. Nervy. It'll be something and nothing, I'll be bound. Someone took bad, you mark my words. Let's just have a look, shall we? Come on, Miss.'

Isabelle let herself be shepherded along the corridor towards the shabby man. As he said, the blinds were down. The inspector opened the door.

For a fraction of a second, Isabelle couldn't see anyone in the compartment, then she realised the window was wide open and a man in a blue suit was leaning out. Very far out, she thought. He'd bent double, leaning right over the edge of the window. He could hurt himself like that ...

Her mind seemed to have slowed to a crawl, reality coming in little, jerky images. The hot little hand of Agathe's, holding hers, the way the man's hand knocked against the outside of the door as his arm swung carelessly, moved by the rattle of
the train, the sturdy blue cloth of his trousers, the flash of something very bright on the floor, his thick-soled brown shoes, the gasp the ticket inspector gave, the stuff that seemed to be splashed on the outside of the window.

‘What's he done?' said the inspector stupidly, his red face growing blotchy as the colour drained out of it. ‘He mustn't lean out of the window like that.' He shook himself as if denying what he saw and walked forward a couple of paces. He put his hand on the man's bent back. ‘Up you come!'

‘No!' yelled Isabelle. She couldn't see the man's head. It was hidden by his body. She very much didn't want to see the man's head.

There was stuff splashed on the outside of the window.
I'm looking at it!
she thought in horror.

The inspector still didn't seem to catch on but he paused with his hand on the man's back. ‘Come on,' he said again, his voice wavering. He forced himself – Isabelle could see what an effort it cost him – to lean forward.

Then he understood. ‘No. No,' he repeated. ‘No.' He staggered away from the body by the window, his face mottled with grey patches. ‘No.' He turned to Isabelle. ‘He's dead,' he said wonderingly. ‘His head's swiped clean off. Clean off, I tell you.'

The fact he'd actually said it seemed to make it real. ‘Oh my God, he's dead!'

He lunged forward and making a wild grab, tugged at the communication cord. ‘Get that kid out of here!' he called, raising his voice above the whoosh of air from the brakes. ‘Get her out of it!' he shouted as the train rumbled to a halt.

But Agathe, excited by the noise, pulled away from Isabelle's hand and darted into the compartment. The ticket inspector vainly tried to stop her.

The train jerked to a halt with a series of sharp metallic clanks as the wheels jarred along the rails. All along the train came shouts as windows were pulled down and passengers leaned out, loudly demanding to know what was happening. Isabelle made a grab for Agathe who was crouched behind the inspector on the floor between the seats.

‘Agathe!' she shouted, her voice shrill with anxiety. ‘Agathe, come here!'

Agathe scrambled to her feet and peered round the inspector's legs. She had something in her hand. It was a string of beads, which, as she held them out to Isabelle, caught the light in a breathtaking flash of deep midnight blue. ‘
Joli!
' she squeaked excitedly. ‘
Joli, joli, joli!
'

‘What's she say?' asked the inspector, bewildered, looking round and down. ‘How does she mean, jolly?'

‘She means pretty,' translated Isabelle mechanically. ‘Agathe, come
here!
'

She made another grab for the little girl and this time succeeded in pulling her into the corridor, shutting the door on that nightmare compartment.

The shabby man followed them. ‘He's dead.' His voice was high and nervous. ‘He had to be dead, leaning out of the window like that.' He gave a little broken laugh. ‘I was worried about the kid, but she's all right, isn't she?'

Isabelle stooped down to where Agathe was holding the string of beads, her face rapt with wonder. She held them out to Isabelle for inspection. ‘
Joli,
' she murmured reverently. ‘
Joli.
'

‘But these are
beautiful
,' said Isabelle in bewilderment. She took the necklace in her hands and looked at the shimmering deep blue. The necklace consisted of sixteen stones, in an ornate heavy gold setting. The stones increased in size from the clasp, culminating in the principle stone, which hung by itself at the front. All the stones were beautiful but the principal stone was a deep, velvety blue. It was like looking into the ocean on a still, moonlit night. Almost instinctively, Isabelle ran her fingers over the stones.

‘They're sapphires,' said the man in the trench coat in a dried-up voice. He was obviously finding it hard to speak. ‘I saw them.' He swallowed. ‘After I saw
him
.'

He held out his hand for the necklace and Isabelle noticed that, although his cuffs were frayed, his hands were clean and well cared for. He ran the sapphires through his hands, twisting them so they caught the light. ‘They're worth a lot of money.' There was a catch in his voice, a longing, even reverent, note. ‘A dickens of a lot of money.'

Isabelle suddenly understood. The glittering stones weren't just stones to this man, but a home and food and freedom from want.

I'd have been tempted to steal them, thought Isabelle, then saw the hungry look in his eyes. He
did
think of taking them, added Isabelle sympathetically to herself.

With a reluctant shudder, he thrust them into Isabelle's hand. ‘Sapphires are meant to be unlucky. They were certainly unlucky for
him.'
His voice broke as he said it. ‘Poor devil.' He glanced down at Agathe. ‘She seems all right, doesn't she? I was worried about her seeing
that,
' he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of the compartment.

‘I don't think she realised what had happened,' said Isabelle. ‘She was more interested in the jewels. I'd better take her back to her mother.'

‘Isn't she your little girl?' asked the man. He eyed up Isabelle's fashionable coat and wide-brimmed hat with a puzzled frown. ‘You're not her governess or anything, are you?'

‘Good heavens, no. She's French.' She indicated the compartment behind them with a tilt of her head. ‘Little Agathe's brother ran slap into that poor man in there – at least, I think it was him – and Madame Clouet, Agathe's mother, couldn't apologise properly in English. That man obviously couldn't understand French, so I stepped in to help as best I could and got roped in for the rest of the journey.' She bent down to Agathe. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let's go back to Mummy.
Laisse le retour à la Maman, oui?
'

‘Shouldn't you wait?' asked the man. ‘I expect all sorts of people will want to ask us questions about what happened. I've never been caught up in this sort of thing before but I imagine that's the drill.'

‘I'll be back. I'm Mrs Stanton, by the way. Isabelle Stanton.'

‘My name's Duggleby. Leonard Duggleby.' He gave a humourless laugh. ‘I'm a journalist, or, at least, I try to be.'

Isabelle nodded towards the compartment. ‘You should find something to write about there.'

Leonard Duggleby closed his eyes and clapped his hand to his mouth. For a moment Isabelle thought he was going to be sick. ‘I suppose so,' he said at last. ‘It's beastly though, isn't it? I don't know if I can do it.' He grasped the window-frame for support. ‘I don't think I
can
write about it. It's horrible.'

‘Don't worry,' said Isabelle gently. ‘You'll feel better once the shock's worn off. I'd better get Agathe back to her mother but I'll be back soon.'

In the event, it was a good ten minutes before Isabelle returned. The corridors were crowded with passengers in various degrees of irritation and she had to find enough French to give Mme. Clouet an idea of what had happened. She couldn't possibly describe what had happened. That was far too horrible, so she compromised by saying there'd been an accident – which was true enough – before threading her way back along the train.

She was greeted with frank relief by Leonard Duggleby who was besieged by the ticket inspector, guard and driver. He broke off with as she came into the coach. ‘There you are, Mrs Stanton!'

‘You didn't ought to have gone, Mum,' said the ticket inspector disapprovingly. ‘The police will have to know about this and it didn't look right.'

‘We were about to search the train for you,' added the guard. He looked grim and shaken. ‘Have you told anyone about this?'

Isabelle shook her head. ‘I said there'd been an accident, but I didn't give the details, of course.'

The guard, the driver and the inspector swapped looks. ‘It's a bit more than an accident,' said the guard heavily. ‘He was murdered.'

Isabelle gaped at him speechlessly.

The inspector shook his head. ‘He can't have been, Sam. Not on
our
train.' His voice was pleading.

‘He's got a knife through his ribs,' said the guard shortly. ‘I saw it,' he added. ‘I got him back inside and I saw it.'