Murder At Deviation Junction

Chapter Twenty-two

The jollity of the corridors seemed very strange as I returned to our compartment - where Bowman slept. He had a look of concentration. The wine bottle, one inch remaining, was placed in the corner of the compartment, steadied by his coat. I sat down opposite, and watched him. Presently, he began to groan, and I imagined all the men in Wimbledon doing that every night, trapped in their neat red houses.

It was just as well that he slept. I did not need to tell him about the gun until Inverness, where matters would have to come to a head. No, that was quite wrong. I ought to warn him earlier, for we would be joining the man in the Inverness carriage at Edinburgh, and so moving within shooting range.

We did not stop at Derby. It was a beautiful, bright station, but it spun away from us at a great rate. I finished off the wine as we raced on. I was ravenous by now, and I thought about the restaurant car. It seemed odd to have an appetite when I knew that there was a bullet waiting for me at the far end of the train.

The restaurant car was all life, though; full of chatter and the clanking of the pots in the narrow kitchen. I stood by the door, reading the menu of dinner. Ten bob, it cost. Mock turtle, halibut and so on. 'Passengers are earnestly requested not to pay any money without a bill,' I read. Well, chance would be a fine thing. The waiter skirted past me twice, but said not a word. At busy times like this, you had to be a First Class ticket holder to get a look-in.

I returned to the compartment to find the ticket inspector - and Bowman paying his fare: single to Inverness. I did not try it on with the warrant card, but just paid over the coin. I took a return: four pounds and five bloody shillings. I would get it back, I supposed, if I ran the killer, or killers, to earth.

When the ticket inspector had gone, Bowman took his glasses off and looked at me, but his eyes were not up to the job without specs.

He looked towards the window, saying, 'It seems tempting fate to buy a return.'

I made no answer, but thought of the gun. What was Bowman looking at without benefit of his specs? The scene beyond the window was a blur to begin with. He put them on again after five minutes, but only in order to go to sleep again.

We were at Trent for nine forty-two, and Bowman slept on. It was a gloomy place, with smuts floating under the gas lamps and a loud crashing out of sight. On the other hand, three tea wagons stood waiting for us. I pulled down the window, and a pageboy dragged his trolley up. I had it in mind to buy one of the five- shilling baskets. I asked what was in them and the kid shrugged, saying, 'Pot luck.' Then it seemed that his conscience got at him, for he added, 'Chicken or beef.'

I asked for one of each, and he had to open the baskets to look: bread, salad, cold meat, cheese and a small bottle of wine.

'Can I pay you for an extra one of those?' I said, pointing down at the bottle. 'My friend likes wine.'

'Aye,' said the kid, 'don't we all?'

And he gave me an extra one gratis, saying, 'Never a word to the governors, eh, mister?'

That wouldn't have occurred had my suit been in better nick.

I sat back down; the cold air had wakened Bowman.

I said 'Chicken or beef?' and we fell to, still not speaking, save for Bowman's muttered thanks. We were half-way through the supper when a man in sombre black joined our compartment. He looked just the sort to have boarded in the gloom of Trent.

Bowman drank his wine in silence, looking just as anxious as if he already knew about the revolver. On and on, swinging violently on. The rhythm of the wheels over the rail joints was steady until a mass of points were hit, and then the train swayed and rolled, and there'd come a sound like a brick wall collapsing, but still we kept on. The man in our compartment got down at Leeds; we didn't give him goodbye. The dining car was taken off there too.

I thought it was promising that the man in the yellow stockings was armed. It was another proof that I was on to something. I looked through the window at empty fields. Such lights as came and went showed the ground as black and white with melting snow. In some fields the snow cover was complete, and these were perfect, like jewels. They appeared with greater regularity as we approached the heights of the stretch to Carlisle: the summits and viaducts came and went, with the snow gangers out in strength, watching us from the wilds of the night.

We came to Carlisle, the mighty Citadel station, with a skeleton staff of laughing men larking about on the platform. It was half past one in the morning, and they had the run of the place; that's why they were happy. More banging as the Midland engines were taken off. The North British company would take us on.

I dozed as we rolled towards Edinburgh. Twice I was woken by ringing bells in signal boxes sliding back away from us in ever thicker falls of snow, but both times it was the three bells that are rung for 'line clear'. At three-thirty a.m. I saw the ticket inspector walking past the door.

'How long before Edinburgh, mate?' I asked him.

He looked at his watch.

'Twenty minutes.'

Bowman was asleep again, groaning again, a litter of bottles and glasses at his feet. I tapped him on the knee, and he jerked forwards, his glasses nearly tumbling off his nose.

'The Inverness carriages will come off at Edinburgh,' I said.

'Eh?' he said, in the confusion of sleep.

'We must join it then,' I said.

Bowman caught up his coat, and stumbled behind me towards the front of the train. The first compartment in the first of the two Inverness carriages was free, and Bowman said, 'Where is the fellow?'

'End compartment of the next one,' I said.

Bowman nodded and sat down as I walked along a little way.

The corridor blinds were still down in the man's compartment. On returning, I put the blinds down in our own.

At Edinburgh, the two Inverness carriages were cut loose, and a new engine banged into us. It was more like a smash than a coupling, but Bowman just took the jolts and stared straight ahead, all conversation gone. We both slept over the Forth Bridge - must have done, for the next thing I knew was Perth at five o'clock, and another change of engine, evidently conducted by invisible men, for I heard shouts but looked out on an empty platform and one stationary baggage wagon, dazzlingly lit for no good reason.

We were approaching Inverness, and I woke again to see sleet flowing through the greyness beyond the window. It was nearly nine. For all the freezing weather, there had been no schedule slacks. In a goods yard to the left of the ticket gate stood a row of wooden letter As: snow ploughs to be fitted to the engine fronts. I stepped into the corridor. Our man was waiting at the head of the short queue for the door at the end of the carriage. I counted the queue - nine people - and I thought of all the effort the Midland company had gone to for this.

The night on the train had not put a crimp in the man in the least: breeches and socks were perfect as before, coat swinging open, cap pulled low over the great boulder of a head. He climbed down, advanced along the platform and stood still for a second, breathing the cold air of Inverness, taking the sleet. I thought: he likes this - this must be his home. He had a barrel chest, legs a little too thin and bandy. He might have been a boxer once - a boxing farmer. His white moustache was like the handle of a pail.

We walked the length of the short train, and we were right behind the man at the ticket gate. I thought: there is nothing out of the way in this - the three of us were all on the same train, and now we're heading for the same ticket gate. We had no option but to follow him; the only thing that marked us out was our lack of luggage. The man crossed the booking hall. He was standing before a wall panel showing the timings of Highland Railway trains.

'He's going on,' I said.