The Secret Tunnel (11 page)

“That’s no way to speak of your parents, young man,” said Lady Antonia—but she had a twinkle in her eye.

“I have every respect for my father, of course. At least, I have every respect for his wallet.”

“Your father is a very fine man indeed. He is distantly connected to the Stuart line.”

“As he never tires of telling me.”

“And thus may have a legitimate claim to the throne of England, should it ever become vacant.”

“You don’t say!” Frankie giggled. “Imagine! I could be a princess!”

“Well, really!”

Lady Antonia looked disgusted, and took a big sip of martini, almost dipping the tip of her beaklike nose in her drink. Frankie rolled his eyes and turned to us.

“You know, she’s really not as bad as she seems, old Antonia. She looks like a harridan, but she’s a dear old pussycat underneath that fierce exterior. Aren’t you, dear?”

“What am I?”

“A darling old pussycat.”

“Well, really!” Lady Antonia bridled; Chivers flinched, as if expecting a beating. “You are the most vexin’ young man I have ever encountered. How your poor Ma-mah copes I shall never know.” But there was color even in her carved-wax face, and something approaching a smile hovering around the corner of her mouth.

Frankie lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “Mad as a hatter, of course, with simply the most alarming political views. Got herself in with a group that calls itself the British Fascists. Ridiculous load of old bollocks, darling, they hate the wogs and the yids and the queers and the Bolshies, but nonetheless I hoped for a touch before we get very much further down the line. One has creditors popping out all over the place, and a few quid from the old bat would help no end.”

The little girls started jumping up and down, the youngest—who was seated in Frankie’s lap—landing rather heavily, which shut him up for a moment.

“Daddy!” they cried. “Daddy! Daddy!”

And there he was, Mr. Andrews, the serious, neat young father, with a face like thunder. He pushed the children away.

“For God’s sake, Christina, can’t you control them?”

His wife gathered the girls to her, and looked puzzled and hurt. What was he so angry about? I wondered about his mysterious liaison with Rhys, and my suspicions concerning their transactions in the lavatory. He certainly looked like a man with a guilty conscience. I stood, to allow him to sit with his family, just as our lunch was served.

“Oh, dear,” fussed the steward. “I don’t know what to do with you all. This is most awkward.”

“The American gentleman may sit here, if he wishes,” said Lady Antonia, gesturing with one gloved hand to a space beside Miss Chivers. “I shall not raise any objection.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I trust he does not chew with his mouth open, nor slurp his soup.”

“No, ma’am,” I said, my republican self-respect rising at this shocking display of old-world rudeness. “Nor does he swing from the trees, nor eat with his hands.” I sat beside Chivers, who uttered a barely audible “Oh, dear!” and stared out the window at the dank brickwork.

Well, I was not going to let that old gorgon spoil my lunch—I was hungry, and when I’m hungry very little stands between my and my food. The steward served the fish, and it smelled delicious; how on earth they had managed to cook during such adverse conditions was beyond me. But there it was, a delicate, juicy fillet of sole, fragrant and steaming, with a slice of lemon and some brown bread and butter, just waiting to be devoured. My mouth watered as I speared the first piece
of flesh on my fork and brought it toward my mouth…

And then, quite suddenly, the train took a violent lurch forward, causing the fish to fly off my fork and onto Lady Antonia’s chest, where it lodged among her pearls. Drinks flew in all directions, the steward stumbled, dumping another plate of fish over Mr. Andrews’s head, and the little girls set up an earsplitting wail.

“What the fuck!” I yelled, before remembering myself.

The movement stopped, and started again suddenly, as if we were being shunted from behind. It was a sickening sensation. And then, just as I began to fear that a collision of some sort was inevitable, the engine lurched again and began to pull us forward. The tunnel fell away on either side, and we were in daylight once again. Despite the buffeting that we had all taken, we were greatly heartened by being in the open air. Snow was still falling, whirling around the windows, and the ground was covered by a good inch, which shone brightly even in the failing winter light.

“At last!” said Frankie. “We’re on the move again. Maybe we will reach London today after all.”

“Would someone kindly tell me what is going on?” said Lady Antonia, for all the world as if this were a conspiracy against her personally. “This is most inconvenient.” She was unaware of the large flake of sole which was dangling from her pearl necklace. Chivers, on the other hand, seemed hypnotized by it.

“Don’t sit there gawping, girl, go and see to our cases. I should not be at all surprised if they were smashed to smithereens, and my personal effects are being fingered by urchins from the third-class carriages.” She pronounced the word in a way I had never heard before:
keddiges.

Chivers hurried away, gripping the seat edges as she went, fearful of falling should the train lurch again.

Young Mr. Andrews picked bits of fish out of his hair, and mopped fragrant, fishy juices from his neck; he was
going to need a bath as soon as we got to London, and was going to smell very unpleasant in the interim. The steward was doing his best to mop up the sea of wine and cocktails that was slopping over the tabletop.

“I’m so sorry, ladies and gentlemen. So sorry. Oh, my goodness. Oh, dear.” I felt sorry for the poor old thing, and gave him a hand, and within a minute or two we had tidied up the worst of the mess.

“Luncheon is ruined,” moaned the steward, almost in tears. “The chicken… All over the floor…”

“Bring us bread and cheese and bottles of wine!” commanded Lady Antonia, and for once I was in agreement with her.

We were making slow progress along the track; at this rate we would reach London in about three days. Where was the conductor? What was going on? Why was nobody keeping us informed?

I stuffed a hunk of bread and cheese into my mouth, ignoring the bulging eyeballs and tutting tongue opposite me, and wiped my mouth on a wet napkin. “If you will excuse me, your Royal Highness, I’m going to find out what the hell is going on. Unless you prefer to sit here all day stewing in your own juices.”

“Well! Charming! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. All Americans, even ones from quite good families, are painfully gauche when it comes to the finer points of etiquette…”

Her voice faded away as I marched out of the carriage. I was barely into the corridor when I saw Simmonds, the conductor, coming toward me.

“Mr. Mitchell! Please return to the dining car!”

“Whatever is going on, Simmonds? This is ridiculous. There are people hurt and frightened.”

“I’m well aware of that, sir. We have hit a problem with the switch. I must ask you to return to the dining car and sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because we are going to—”

The brakes screamed, and we stopped with another terrible jolt, which threw Simmonds against me. Thankfully, the lights did not go out this time. I braced myself with one leg and supported his weight; it was not an unpleasant situation, particularly as our faces were almost touching. I could smell tobacco on his breath.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“That’s okay, Simmonds.” I righted him, and we both cleared our throats and fingered our collars.

“We are obliged to reverse into the tunnel again, sir. It may be bumpy. Please go into the dining car and tell everyone to sit tight. Move anything heavy or breakable and stow it. Make sure the children are safe.”

“It sounds serious, Simmonds. Are we in any danger?”

He was pale, his mouth set in a grim line. “No, sir. You are in no danger. Just go to the dining car and stay out of harm’s way.”

I thought it best to do as I was told. Simmonds walked back down the train—and then suddenly stopped and gave a shout of fright.

I turned quickly on my heel and saw him standing frozen to the spot, just outside the lavatory.

“What is it, man? For God’s sake, what is it?”

“Look, sir.” He pointed to the carpet at the base of the door, where a dark red stain was spreading slowly through the pile. “Blood.”

Blood it surely was: enough blood to pool on the bathroom floor and soak outward into a patch approximately one foot in diameter. That was a lot of blood.

“Who’s in there?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Simmonds banged on the door, but we both knew it was futile. “Open up! Open up in there! What’s going on?”

“You’ll have to open it yourself, Simmonds. You have a passkey, don’t you? Bertrand said you did.”

“Of course.” His hands were shaking. “Oh, God, Mr. Mitchell, what has happened?”

“Someone is hurt. Badly, by the look of it. You must let me help them.”

“Please, sir—would you do it? The sight of blood… I can’t…”

I reflected for a moment that he had not been so squeamish when it came to beating up poor little Bertrand, but this was no time to bear old grudges.

“Okay. Hand over the key.”

But Simmonds was frantically twisting and turning, rummaging in his pockets, his jacket, looking around him on the floor.

“It’s gone!”

“What is?”

“The passkey, sir. The key that opens all the carriages and the toilets. I can’t find it.”

“You’ve lost it?”

“Oh no, sir. I’ve never lost a key, not in fifteen years working on the railway. It’s been stolen.”

The whistle sounded, and with a great hiss of steam we started to move again—backward.

THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO BUT REMAIN ROOTED TO THE spot, staring at the growing stain on the carpet, a horrible crimson flower that was starting to look wet and—or was this my imagination?—starting to smell. I am familiar with the smell of blood; all doctors are. Simmonds was leaning against the corridor wall, horribly pale.

“You have to find that key, Simmonds. What happened? Where could you possibly have lost it?”

“I tell you, I didn’t lose it!” His voice was high, almost a scream. “Someone must have taken it.”

“But when the train jolted… Isn’t it possible that you fell over, that you somehow knocked it out of your pocket?”

“I keep it on this chain.” He twirled a chain from his waistcoat pocket. “It is impossible to drop it. Someone would have to have taken it off… Someone very light-fingered. I’d have seen them, surely. I’d have felt them. Unless… While we were…”

“I can assure you, Simmonds, that neither Bertrand nor I touched your key while we were in there together. We had
other things on our minds.”

“But how can I trust you?”

“You’re right, Simmonds. You can trust nobody. You will have to decide for yourself. I, however, know that I did not take it, and I choose to believe that Bertrand didn’t.”

He looked suspicious. “Then who? When? And why?”

“Conductor! Conductor!’ We heard footsteps running up the passage, and Dickinson burst into view. “For God’s sake, what’s going on?”

“We’re reversing into the tunnel, sir,” said Simmonds, deftly positioning himself in front of the bloodstain, so that Dickinson should not see it. “I shall be making an announcement shortly. Please return to your carriage.”

“Not on your life. Daisy needs champagne. She’s become quite faint. And she needs that bloody pansy of a secretary. I presume he’s up there, fraternizing with his lady friends?”

“Yes, he’s there.”

“Christ. Fucking useless bastard.” Dickinson was muttering under his breath as he barged past us into the dining car. Once again I smelled his distinctive scent, that citrus cologne that he wore—or was it a soap? A fresh smell, masculine… It made me think of blond hair and firm, set features…

“What am I going to do, Mr. Mitchell?” Simmonds pleaded. “If the first-class passengers see this, there will be full-scale panic.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll keep everyone in check. Trust me, Simmonds.” I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

There was a scuffle in the doorway as Dickinson tried to push Frankie Laking back down the train, while at the same time grabbing a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket on the table. Lady Antonia kept up her usual disapproving commentary, the steward wrung a napkin in distress, and the Andrews family stared out the window as if nothing was going on. Frankie shot through the door, nearly knocked me
to the floor, and whooped as he skipped down the corridor toward Hugo and Daisy’s private carriage. Dickinson came in hot pursuit.

“Keep your hands off me, you brute! I’m a virgin!”

“Shut up, you stupid fairy.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, “we are currently reversing into the tunnel, as there is a problem with the switch up ahead. I am asked to tell you to remain in your seats in case of any—whoop! Jesus!”

A sideways jerk this time, and I was sent sprawling onto Bertrand, knocking the wine bucket into his lap. It was full of ice.

The children were sniveling continually now, and Mrs. Andrews, while trying to calm them, was sobbing herself. Even her husband looked a bit green around the gills, and the best he could muster was the occasional “Well, then, my dear” or “There, there.” We were all frightened; one read about rail accidents, and we seemed at every moment to be on the brink of a real-life disaster.

Bertrand swore (I assume) in French, stood up, and brushed the ice cubes from his lap. They hit the floor with a bump and a clang.

A clang?

“What’s that?” Something had fallen under the table; something that should not be in a wine bucket.