The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5) Page 2

  CHAPTER

  2

  PARIS, SUMMER 1903

  The rich tang of oil and smoke stung her nostrils as she shoved her way through the unyielding crowd. The people here, she decided, were not at all like those at home. Their continental attitudes were both heady and enticing, and scandalously obtuse.

  In London, a woman would never be left to drag her own case across the platform, but here at the Gare du Nord, everyone was so engrossed in their own noisy business—hurrying to be the first to board the train—that no one stopped to pay her even the slightest modicum of attention as she hauled the leather trunk across the concourse.

  Not that she minded, particularly. It was quite exhilarating not to be patronised. She simply wished they’d get out of her way in order for her to pass.

  Amelia searched the platform for Newbury. She couldn’t see him amongst the bustle of people and the billowing steam that issued in hissing jets from the immense, shuddering engine. It was a remarkable feat of engineering: at least twice the size of the typical, domestic steam engines she’d seen back home in England, with sleek golden skirts and fat, snaking pipes of gleaming brass. Hastily erected scaffolds had been pushed against the sides of the vehicle, and men in blue overalls clambered over the tank and engine housing, wiping streaks of soot and sweat from their shining red faces as they prepared the machine for the first leg of its tremendous journey across the continent.

  Behind the engine stretched the train itself, two stories high and so long that its tail disappeared somewhere beyond the far end of the platform. Already, passengers were milling about inside the carriages, haggling over compartments and fighting to be the first to the best seats. Thankfully, Newbury had reserved them a first class suite on the lower level of the train, close to the front, so she wasn’t going to have to join in with any of the distasteful bickering.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of apprehension at the thought of such a long journey, and, perhaps more pointedly, to such a far-flung destination. She’d heard tales of St. Petersburg, of an icy fantasia filled with frost-rimmed palaces, wondrous clockwork machines and magical creatures, and the very thought of it left her feeling breathless and excited all at once. Not to mention a little guilty, given the cause of their mission. She had to keep reminding herself that she was not there for her own gratification. More than anything, she wanted to help her sister.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?” said a familiar voice, startling her from her reverie. She turned to see Newbury standing at her shoulder, regarding the train with a tired, weary expression. He looked handsome in his top hat and black suit, although there were dark rings beneath his eyes, and more lines than she had noticed before. Amelia knew that his concern for Veronica, along with the ongoing impact of her own treatment, was taking its toll on him. He’d lost weight, and where once he had appeared fit and lean, he now seemed painfully thin. He’d already told her that he was having trouble sleeping.

  “Confirm to me again, Sir Maurice, that this journey is absolutely necessary,” she said.

  Newbury looked over, his expression firm. He put his hand on her arm, gripping it intently, and she wondered for a moment if he wasn’t clinging onto her as much for his benefit as hers. “Amelia, it is entirely necessary. If we are to help Veronica then we must undertake this journey. Only the artisans of St. Petersburg can provide us with the intricate mechanisms we need to replace your sister’s heart.” Amelia nodded. “And besides,” continued Newbury, “if I am to make such a journey, you understand that you must accompany me. It is the only way we can continue with your treatment. We will be gone for some time.”

  “Very well,” said Amelia, forcing a smile. “Then we must continue as planned.”

  “I’ve booked us adjoining cabins,” said Newbury, “that open into a shared living room. We should be comfortable.” He smiled. “Come on, let’s try to settle in while our fellow travellers board.” He gestured to a nearby porter and the man, sweating profusely, obligingly took Amelia’s luggage and swung it up onto his trolley. Muttering under his breath, he struggled across the platform towards the train, trundling their bags behind him.

  Amelia looped her arm through Newbury’s and they followed behind, pausing as the porter checked their tickets for the carriage number, and then started off again, full of bluster, in the opposite direction. Amelia suppressed a chuckle at the look of consternation on the man’s face.

  “As unenviable a job as I could imagine,” said Newbury.

  “Really?” countered Amelia. “I can’t think the firemen would agree, shuffling all of that coal, hour after hour, in such infernal heat.” Up ahead, the engine issued a hissing gush of steam, as if to emphasise her point. A small huddle of women, clutching their hats as if they expected to lose them in the sudden gust, stepped back in surprise.

  “Ah, but at least they’re warm,” said Newbury, with a grin. “And besides, they don’t have to deal with all of these people.”

  Amelia shook her head, laughing. Newbury was being as contrary as ever; while he clearly enjoyed his solitude, she knew he couldn’t bear to be without the bustle and attention of other people for too long. In this regard, at least, he wasn’t so different from everyone else. She, on the other hand, was finding the whole experience rather invigorating, after spending so long cooped up indoors in Malbury Cross, pretending to be dead. It felt good to be out in the world again.

  “Ah, here we are,” said Newbury, leading her over to where the porter had parked his trolley on the platform and was—rather indelicately—unloading their bags, tossing them up onto the train through an open door. She felt Newbury tense as he watched his leather suitcase slide across the floor on its side.

  Up close, the vehicle was even more impressive than it had seemed from across the platform. The lustre of the green paint had not yet been dulled by the weather, and the carriage gleamed in the thin morning light. It towered above her, its two stories reaching a good twenty feet above the platform.

  They were to board here, it seemed, in order to locate their rooms: the third carriage in line behind the engine’s tender, close to the very front of the train. Amelia leaned to one side to enable her to peer over the porter’s shoulder. Through the windows she caught glimpses of plush interiors and fittings that gave the impression of a sumptuous gentleman’s club, rather than a passenger train. It looked most inviting.

  All around her, people were clamouring to board; a woman in a mink coat barked commands at another porter to hurry along with her oversized case; a young couple slipped aboard carrying their own bags, paying little attention to whatever else was going on around them; a tall man with a bushy grey moustache and a military bearing was mustering two small boys, who whispered conspiratorially to one another in hasty French.

  All of it seemed so new to Amelia, and must have seemed so mundane to Newbury, she thought, who had seen so much of the world. Veronica, too, had travelled widely and seen wonders in all corners of the globe. This journey, then, this small, new experience, felt to Amelia like something of a triumph, as if she were finally leaving her old life behind and starting out again, with something new.

  “Come along, then,” said Newbury, taking her arm. “Let’s take a look at where we’ll be staying.”

  Amelia nodded and allowed him to guide her up the steps.

  The vestibule was not at all what she had been expecting, even after peering through the windows at the grandeur of the cabins on either side. It resembled the hallway of a large London house, only somewhat smaller and more contained, with a chequerboard marble floor, a spiral staircase encircled with impressive wrought iron railings, tall potted plants, and portraits of stately looking people she didn’t recognise. To her left, a passageway led away into the carriage, and this is the direction in which their porter had disappeared, dragging their bags behind him. She followed, single file behind Newbury in the confined space.

  “This is it,” said Newbury a moment later. “Suite sevente
en.” He indicated the open door, and Amelia peered in.

  The suite comprised three interlinked rooms—two small cabins that adjoined a larger, but still modest, drawing room. Additionally, each room had a door that opened directly onto the passageway, which ran the entire length of the carriage, from the lobby area where they’d boarded to, presumably, the vestibule that linked them to the next coach in the train. There would be at least one other suite of rooms on this lower level of the carriage, she guessed; the length and appearance from the outside suggested as much.

  Above them, on the upper floor, would be the social areas—the observation lounge and the like. She’d read about them in the literature that Newbury had given her as they’d journeyed south from London to Dover. She would explore those later, she decided, once they’d settled in and were properly underway.

  The porter had finally finished unloading their bags, placing them just inside the door, and Newbury saw him off with a small coin. Amelia watched the man clatter away with his trolley, still muttering beneath his breath.

  She stepped over the threshold, taking in the room in which she would be spending the majority of the coming days. Behind her, Newbury closed the door and turned the key in the lock.

  The drawing room was well appointed, with three armchairs arranged around a small card table, a hat stand, an aspidistra in a large terra-cotta pot, a gilt-framed mirror upon the wall, and a window, presently covered by a fine net curtain, that looked out upon the station. The floorboards underfoot were polished and worn. It was cosy and clean, and more than she’d expected. Indeed, it was larger and more comfortable than many of the hospital cells in which she’d spent her formative years.

  “Yours is the cabin on the left,” said Newbury, with a wave of his hand. “I hope it’s comfortable. I know it’s not much,” he sounded apologetic, “but it’ll be home for a while. We’ll make the most of it.”

  Amelia smiled. “It’s just fine,” she said. She crossed to the door he’d indicated. When she opened it, the hinges creaked in tortured protest. She winced, supposing the likelihood of having them oiled was probably nonexistent. She’d just have to hope that Newbury didn’t object if she needed to get up in the night.

  The cabin was compact but well appointed, with a bunk, a luggage rack, a small closet, an external-facing window, and the other narrow door, leading out to the carriage beyond. The room was panelled in dark mahogany, adding to the sense that the place had been designed to resemble the interior of a gentleman’s club or country estate, and had a clean but slightly musty smell about it. The sheets on the bed looked crisp, white, and functional.

  She sensed Newbury behind her. “I hope it’ll suffice,” he said.

  “It’s small, but cosy,” she said, with a smile. “And far more than I’ve grown used to, over the years. It’ll seem like a luxury.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Newbury, laughing. He edged past her, approaching the door to the passageway. He slid the bolts. “Keep this door locked,” he said, running his hands around the frame as if searching for any possible weaknesses in the structure. “Bolted from the inside. Use the door to my cabin as our only entrance and exit from the suite.”

  Amelia frowned. He seemed suddenly direct, serious. “Yes, if you insist. But why?”

  “It’s safer that way,” he replied, a little dismissively. He’d already crossed to the window and was methodically examining the frame. “Keep this locked, too.”

  Amelia sighed. “Very well,” she agreed, “although it all seems rather unnecessary.”

  Newbury turned to her. Again, that determined look: the fixed jaw, the firmness in the set of his mouth, the cold eyes. This was a side of him she’d never seen, and she wasn’t much sure she liked it, or at least, what it represented. This, she presumed, was the professional Newbury, the experienced agent—the man who had faced all manner of terrible things and somehow managed to remain alive. Perhaps some of those experiences had left him suffering from a touch of paranoia? No one could experience such horrors and remain undamaged.

  “Trust me, Amelia,” he said. “It’s entirely necessary.” There was something about his tone that caused her to shudder: the fact his voice was so calm, level. This wasn’t a man in the grip of irrational fear. This was an experienced agent securing a room because he anticipated a threat.

  “Is there something you haven’t told me?” she asked, and she could hear the slight break in her voice. She’d been right to hesitate earlier on the platform, she realised. This wasn’t going to be a holiday, an adventure. She was journeying into the unknown, and it was evidently fraught with danger.

  Newbury shook his head. He offered her an attempt at a reassuring smile, but it was too late for that—the seeds of doubt had already begun to take root in her mind. “I fear, Amelia, that trouble has a tendency to follow me around.”

  “But you suspect danger?” she pressed. “You think there’s someone on this train who means us harm?”

  Newbury crossed to her and placed his hand gently on her upper arm. “Not specifically, no. I’m not aware of anyone on this train who might mean me ill, but neither am I prepared to take chances. Nor do we know any of the other passengers, their reasons for being aboard the train, or even whether they’re travelling under assumed identities. Do you think they suspect your real name is not ‘Constance Markham,’ for instance?” He paused, and then continued, more softly. “In my line of work, Amelia, one has a habit of making enemies. Experience has shown me that it pays to be prepared, to expect them to strike at any moment. That way we won’t be caught unaware. If the trip proves uneventful—well, what have we lost?” He paused for a moment to let the question sink in. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “But that’s no way to live, always looking over your shoulder,” she countered. “And besides, I’ve never seen you like this. You don’t take precautions like these when we’re in London, or Malbury Cross.” She was careful to keep any note of accusation from her voice, but he was correct to be contrite—he had scared her.

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. It’s just that London is my home, you see. It’s familiar. It’s home turf. If anyone tries to catch me out, well, at least I know what I’m about, where to go and from whom to seek help. Out here,” he waved his hand about him to indicate the cabin and the wider world beyond, “out here we’re on our own. Everything hinges on our mission, you see. Everything. And so we must take the necessary precautions.” He looked her in the eye. “Do you understand?”

  Amelia wanted to say no, that she didn’t understand, didn’t even want to understand. She could have no part in this horrible business of suspecting everyone else on the train of malign intent. Yet, despite all of that, she felt herself nodding. She had to trust Newbury’s experience, and she knew his intentions were sound, whatever his methods: to help Veronica, no matter what. He was right in that, at least. They couldn’t allow anything to get in the way of retrieving Veronica’s new heart. “Yes, very well,” she said. “I understand. I’ll do as you ask. Although I’m damned if I’m going to conduct myself in a manner that treats everyone I meet as a suspect.”

  “I would never expect that of you, Amelia,” said Newbury. “You’re far too considerate for that.”

  She chose to take his comment as a compliment, despite the fact she knew what he really meant was that he considered her gravely naïve. In contrast, she couldn’t help thinking how desperately sad it was that Newbury should feel this way. It must be a terrible thing to find oneself unable to trust other people, to always look for the worst in everyone. Perhaps, she decided, this was her role for the duration of their trip—to help cure Newbury of this deep-seated paranoia, to show him there were still good people in the world. Despite everything, despite what had happened to Veronica, she believed that wholeheartedly, and she would prove it to Newbury, too.

  The carriage jolted suddenly beneath her, and Newbury, smiling, reached out and caught her elbow, steadying her as she
lurched to one side. “It seems we’re on our way,” he said.

  Her response was drowned out by the screech of a shrill whistle from the platform, the scrape of wheels against the iron track, and the increasingly feverish chugging of the engine as they pulled away from the station.

  Amelia sighed. Their journey into the unknown had begun—in more ways than one.

  CHAPTER

  3

  If this was to be his lot in life, then Clarence Himes had absolutely nothing to fear from eternal damnation in the afterlife.

  All those years hearing talk of hellfire and brimstone on a Sunday morning, the vicar preaching that a life of sin and misdemeanour would lead to condemnation and torment in the next life—at no point had the young Clarence imagined the waking Hell he might first be forced to endure as a working adult. None of it had prepared him for this.

  He slumped against the door frame, mopping his brow with the filthy sleeve of his overalls. It was unbearably hot, and the work was relentless, feeding the insatiable machine with enough fuel to keep the boiler going, to continue driving several tons of engine, carriage, passenger, and needless, ostentatious junk halfway around the world.

  He blinked away the sweat running into his eyes. Not only was it hot, but the boiler room was dirty, confined, and stank. How had he ended up here, hurtling across France in a grimy sweatbox, all for the sake of a pittance?

  And then there was the work itself—well, he knew there had to be consequences. What they were doing, it was just plain wrong, no matter which way you looked at it. Somehow, it was all going to come back to haunt him. He knew it, with the same sort of certainty and conviction that evangelical vicar had shown all those years ago.

  From across the other side of the compartment Clarence’s comrade in arms, Henry Sitton, grinned at him inanely, his face under-lit by the bright amber glow of the furnace. Sitton’s eyes were lost in shadowy relief, and his smile seemed to take on something of a sinister aspect. “Nearly time for elevenses,” he said, patting the front of his overalls. “I’m near famished.”