Authors: Charles Todd
T
he train to the north had just come around a curve before it derailed, and that had slowed its speed enough to prevent a catastrophe. It was bad enough as it was.
Three of the carriages were still smoking when Rutledge got there, a fire having started from a spark from the firebox. It was a scene of chaos, people milling about, debris everywhere, twisted metal and the stark white of shorn wood marking where the worst of the damage had occurred. The great engine lay half on its side like some wounded beast, and steam still trickled from the cooling boiler. The cars nearest it had accordioned before they derailed. As he slowed the motorcar and looked across the flat pasture that had been scarred and torn by the impact, he could see where a short row of bodies already lay covered in whatever was to hand: coats, a blanket, and even a tarp marked piers brewery in block letters that someone must have carried down from a brewery wagon left in the middle of the road, the horses standing patiently, heads down, half asleep in their traces.
He could hear people crying and shouting and a child screaming. Hamish said, “O’er there.”
Hamish had always had the keenest hearing in the company. Rutledge turned to look for a small boy and saw instead a little girl crouched beside her weeping mother, neither of them able to take in what had happened to them. He hurried across the uneven ground and knelt by the girl, and she clung to him as the mother said, “Her father—they’re having to cut him out of the carriage.”
Comforting both of them as best he could, he scanned over their heads, looking for a man and a boy—or come to that, either of them alone.
Then a woman from the nearest village was there to help, and he left her to it, moving past broken carriages toward the pathetic remains recovered before he’d arrived. He looked at each in turn, and felt a swift surge of hope. Trevor and his grandson weren’t among the dead. It was difficult now to be sure which carriage he’d put his godfather in. And so he leaned into the wreckage of each one as he walked down the line, calling Trevor’s name.
Trevor and the child were not there either. “I should have begged him to stay,” Rutledge said aloud, unaware that he’d spoken. “It’s my fault.”
“It’s no’ your fault,” Hamish said. “There—yon man waving—”
He helped lift three more passengers down from damaged windows or doorways, then with another man’s aid, pulled a fourth from the rubble. It was a woman, too frightened to cry, her eyes huge in her pale face. She looked around, dazed, uncertain, and then saw her husband standing to one side earnestly telling the man who was clumsily bandaging his arm that his wife was still in the carriage. With a small sound, like that of a frightened animal, she stumbled toward him, and he buried his face in her shoulder, gripping her with his good arm.
Rutledge walked on, still searching. More people were arriving to help as word spread. Among them was a doctor, who began to organize a makeshift infirmary.
Listening to Hamish, scanning faces, trying to keep his own fear at bay, Rutledge did what he could.
A woman crouched in the opening where a carriage door had once stood—the splintered remains still clinging to torn hinges—called to him. He clambered over wreckage to lift her down and then hand her over the worst of the debris. She was mumbling disjointed prayers interspersed with Hail Marys. He could see the blood in her fair hair, another cut bleeding through a tear in the sleeve of her shirtwaist. He turned to look for the doctor, urging her to come with him when she pulled free.
“No. Don’t leave. There’s someone still in there—I think she’s dead.”
“Can you walk as far as that line of trees?” he asked her gently. “Where the women are helping others like you. Do you see? I’ll do what I can here.”
She nodded, holding on to his arm until she had regained her balance, and then walked on. A woman in an apron came to collect her and guide her the rest of the way, offering words of encouragement and comfort.
Rutledge turned back to the task at hand. Testing his footing, he pulled himself into the compartment she’d just left.
A red-faced man, sweating from exertion, came up just then and said, “There’s a doctor coming down the line, looking for the worst cases. Were you a passenger?”
“I’ve come to help—”
“Then follow me.”
“The woman just there—the one walking to the trees—needs medical attention. And she told me someone is still trapped in here.”
“Have a look, then, I’ll be back as soon as I’ve passed the word.”
The compartment he was in was a shambles, seats at an angle, door hanging ajar. He almost put his foot through a hole in the flooring, and then felt the car shift very slightly. Rutledge paused, then gingerly swung himself around the splintered door into the passage beyond. But there was no access that way. He came back again and tried to shift the splintered door. At first it wouldn’t budge, then it gave way with a groan, nearly pitching him forward onto feet and a pale rose skirt. He caught himself in time, waited a moment for the carriage to settle again, and then crept through the opening he’d made.
From the far side, he was able to slide the door out of the way, then turn to the injured passenger.
It was a young woman, her trim ankles almost touching the toe of his left boot.
She lay on her side, her face hidden by a valise that had fallen next to her, and all he could see was a shoulder and dark hair. A crumpled hat lay beyond the crown of her head.
There was just room to kneel beside her. Rutledge said, “Miss? Can you hear me?”
He wasn’t sure what it was that warned him. But just as she moved her head, crying out a little with the effort, he recognized her.
It was Meredith Channing.
She was dazed, her eyes not focusing right away, but then she saw him, and there was an intake of breath as her gaze sharpened.
“Ian? Were you on the train as well? Are you all right?”
“I came as soon as I heard—I was in London.”
“But how did you know I was on board?” “I didn’t. I came to look for my godfather.”
She tried to smile. “Is he all right?”
“I haven’t found him yet,” he said, making an effort to keep the worry out of his voice. “How badly are you hurt?” He was afraid to touch her. But she had trained as a nurse and he waited for her assessment.
“I don’t know. My shoulder—I think it must be broken. Or dislocated.”
He could see blood on her stockings, and one shoe was missing. And there was a smear of blood across her cheek.
The carriage swayed again.
“I must get you out of here. It’s not safe.”
“No, please, it hurts too much to move.”
Glancing beyond her, he could just see a man’s legs. He got to his feet and leaned forward for a better look.
The man was dead, there was no doubt of it, and suddenly he wondered if the two of them had been traveling together.
He knelt again by her side. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” he said, trying to divert her. “There’s a man in one of the other carriages pinned where no one can get to him. And he’s bleeding. Can you move your feet?”
She wiggled her toes. “They seem to be all right,” she said. “A little bruised from the tossing about. It’s my shoulder—my chest—that hurts.”
“Your fingers now,” he told her. “Move them if you can.” But only her free hand could obey.
“Are you dizzy? Did you hit your head on anything?”
“I was knocked down and lost my hat. But I don’t think I hit my head. It was my shoulder that took the brunt of the fall.”
He looked just beyond her at the hat that matched her coat. He reached for it, and at the same time the seat against which Mrs. Channing lay shifted with a grinding noise. The dead man beyond her moved as well, sliding away as she cried out.
Rutledge sank back to his heels, reached again, and using just his fingers, he coaxed the hat toward him until it fell into his hand.
“Not too much the worse for wear,” he said, putting it down beside her.
“Ian. I know what the pain most likely represents. And moving is agony. I’d have sat up long ago if it weren’t for that. I can’t think how I’m going to get out of here.”
He smiled. “Someone said a doctor was on his way.”
The red-faced man was back, leaning into the carriage. He called, “Anyone there? Did you find her?”
“Yes,” Rutledge said. “A woman, broken or dislocated shoulder. We need to get her out.”
“I’ll find someone to help clear a way out of there.” He was gone again, and Meredith Channing said lightly, “A reprieve.”
“Meredith. It will take some time to clear a path for you. It might be best not to wait. This carriage could be resting on what’s out there. It could be all that keeps it from sliding down onto its side. It’s already halfway there. Do you understand?”
“I’ve been selfish. There are others who need help more than I do.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Do what you must. And don’t mind if I beg you. Don’t stop.”
Someone stepped into the carriage at its far end, and it swayed again, dangerously. It was the red-faced man. “I’m afraid to move much closer in this direction.”
“Stand by,” Rutledge told him, then to Meredith Channing said, “First you must sit up. I’ll help you brace that shoulder as best I can.” He took off his belt and with her assistance drew it across her body, bringing her bad arm close to her chest. She whimpered with the pain, biting her lip and clenching her hands.
He didn’t want to think how much it must have hurt, but he managed to move her into a sitting position. Her face was pale with pain, her dark hair spilling out of its pins and falling over her shoulders. Giving her a few moments to collect herself and steady her breathing, he said, “Now you must stand.”
“Do you see my shoe? If I’m to walk out of here—the splinters—”
He looked around, and there was the shoe under the seat. He gave it to her, then took it back and put it on her bare foot himself, tying the laces.
“All right. Let me help with your weight. Hold on to me with your good arm, and I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
He tried, but she fainted before he could lift her to her feet. While she was unconscious, he carried her closer to the door of the next compartment and then through it.
But the red-faced man wasn’t there. It was someone else saying sharply, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”
His shirt was torn and bloody, his trousers ripped to the knee, and blood dripped from a cut on his ear. “I’m a doctor,” he went on. “She may have internal injuries, broken ribs.”
“It’s her shoulder,” Rutledge said, “either broken or dislocated.”
“Let me see.” But as he stepped toward Rutledge, the car swayed again, the sound of metal rending and wood snapping. “Dear God! Is there anyone else in there?”
“I saw a man. He’s dead.”
“Can you be sure?”
“I’m from Scotland Yard. Yes, I’m sure.”
“All right, pass her to me. We can’t stand on ceremony now.”
Rutledge did as he was told, lifting Meredith’s limp body through the outer door, barely on its hinges, and clear of the carriage. The sun touched Meredith’s face, and her eyelids fluttered. The doctor, bracing himself with the help of the red-faced man, took her from Rutledge and then, between them, lowered her safely to the ground.
The doctor knelt and felt her shoulder. “You’re right. Dislocated. Let’s get her away from here. We’re collecting cases under that tree over there. Can you carry her that far?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I’ll keep going and come back to you.”
“Have you seen a man—with a young boy? I’ve come to find them—”
“A good few men are all right. I haven’t seen a boy among them.” The doctor helped him lift Meredith Channing again, bracing her bad arm, and then disappeared into the carriage Rutledge had just left, to look at the man.
Rutledge carried her to the area where the walking wounded were being collected, and someone there spread a blanket over the bruised grass for him to lay her on. He took off his coat, rolled it, and set it under her head. Then he remembered her hat. “Stay with her,” he said to the woman beside her, and jogged back to the train.
The doctor was just coming out again. “You were right, he’s dead. Broke his neck from what I could see.”
He wanted to ask the doctor if he had searched the man’s pockets for his identification. Instead he asked, “There’s a rose hat just behind you—and a small valise. The woman—”
“Yes, they all worry about such things, ” he said testily but handed both out to Rutledge.
When he reached the trees again, Meredith Channing was conscious, her eyes bright with unshed tears from the pain. As he put her things beside her, she offered him a bleak smile.
“Ian,” she murmured. “I thought I’d imagined you.”
“There was something I had to do,” he said, sitting down beside her, trying to judge whether she was comfortable enough to leave and continue his search.
She shut her eyes again, frowning a little. “I must have fainted.”
“Yes. A good thing.”
She tried to nod and then thought better of it. After a moment she said, “Your friend. Did you find him?”
“My godfather. Not yet.”
“Oh—yes—that’s right. I remember.” She opened her eyes. “Go and look. I’m all right.”
But she still seemed a little dazed. “After a bit,” he said. “Now. Come back and tell me when you find him, will you? I shan’t be going anywhere, it seems.”
He took her good hand and held it for a moment before letting it go.
Walking swiftly away, he scanned the people working around the wrecked carriages. More had appeared now, from the village and from a distance as word spread. And three more bodies had been added to the makeshift morgue, but Trevor was not among them. He found himself thinking about the man just beyond where Meredith Channing had been lying. Tall, graying, distinguished . . .
Hamish said, “It doesna’ signify. Leave it.”
Clearing his mind of everything else, he started back up the line, leaning in to see who might still be in each carriage, sometimes helping rescuers bring out another injured passenger, sometimes unable to see beyond the upturned seats and collapsed ceilings. And always calling Trevor’s name to be sure.