Chapter 20

20

The humid summer air pressed down on Julian as he prowled the train platform, cataloguing each face, only to dismiss them just as quickly. Families bid farewell to loved ones, gentlemen hurried to board with tickets clutched in gloved hands, and ladies fluttered lace fans to combat the sweltering heat. None posed an overt threat. But Julian knew better than to take comfort in the mundane normality surrounding him.

Wentworth checked his watch for the third time. “Boarding should commence shortly.”

“You’ll snap your timepiece in half if you keep clutching it so tightly,” Julian murmured dryly, despite the apprehension singing through his veins. “Those things are delicate.”

Wentworth shot him an impatient look. “I wasn’t aware you’d developed a passion for horology.”

Julian’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t want you to lose it during a time-sensitive operation. Though at the rate your jaw is clenched, you may crack a molar soon,” he replied, forcing calm into his voice even as his eyes tracked each passerby. Hunting anomalies. Seeking irregularities amid the mundane.

Wentworth did the same, assessing the steady trickle of travellers heading for the platform and mentally cataloguing potential suspects. But Julian’s focus bent towards a different quarry.

Edgar Kellerman.

Wentworth remained ignorant of Julian’s suspicions, and it was safer to keep it so until irrefutable proof came to light. But the pieces fitted too neatly for coincidence. Kellerman’s dubious investment scheme gave him access to the aristocracy and their travel habits. And complex linguistic puzzles like the coded threats would be easy for an educated man like him to create.

Now Julian need only supply the evidence to hang the bastard.

He took stock of the train. Seven passenger cars, one luggage, three cargo. Numerous sinister possibilities for stowing an explosive device, poison, anything.

Wentworth’s features turned grim, as if he read Julian’s thoughts. “Any theories on the target, or shall we begin investigating every nook and cranny?”

“No theories yet. Your men are stationed nearby? I assume they’re checking any aristocrats who board?”

A brusque nod. “Plainclothes. They boarded with the other passengers to keep watch.”

Julian’s gaze tracked a mother shepherding three children towards the platform. The young ones skipped and laughed, unaware of the danger.

“And the conductor has been advised to delay departure?”

“Yes. But the train must depart by half-past ten regardless, or the entire timetable descends into chaos.” Wentworth’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “We have two hours at most.”

Two hours. Julian’s pulse spiked. Two hours to identify Kellerman’s mark and his weapon.

“This train alone stretches over a tenth of a mile. Ample territory.”

Wentworth turned towards the platform gates. “Best we begin, then.”

The next quarter hour passed swiftly as they conducted brisk searches of luggage, cargo, and passenger compartments, the plainclothes constables scrutinising all those boarding. But nothing sinister revealed itself – no wires or explosive mechanisms. No stashed weapons or vials of poison. Only innocuous items: books, travelling cases, parasols, and picnic baskets.

Unease skated down Julian’s spine. Little time remained before the scheduled departure. He forced his breathing to steady.

Think, damn you. Somewhere beyond the authorities’ notice—

“The coal,” Julian said, already striding towards the back of the locomotive. “Get a combustible device in the firebox, and you’ve got a derailment.”

Behind him came the smack of boots breaking into a run across the platform. “Check the tenders!” Wentworth barked. “Question the firemen!”

Julian vaulted up into the nearest tender car. When they entered, the fireman blinked at them in confusion. His youthful face was smudged with soot, cap askew.

“Sirs, if you’re looking for the passenger compartments—”

Wentworth cut him off, tone brusque as he flashed his credentials. “Has anyone besides you accessed this car today?”

The young man paled beneath the grime coating his skin. “An inspector not fifteen minutes ago while I stepped out for a smoke.”

“Get out,” Wentworth ordered. “I need to take a look in here.”

The fireman scrambled from the tender without argument.

As soon as they were alone, Wentworth stripped off his coat and took up a shovel. “The device won’t be on top of the pile,” he muttered, sifting through the gleaming coal with smooth strokes. “It’ll be buried below the surface, ready to be shovelled into the firebox once the train is on its way.”

Julian watched him work, swift and methodical. The shovel scraped over the coal, the only sound beyond their laboured breaths in the cramped tender car. Wentworth handled the tool with an ease that spoke of long practice. Of having performed such tasks countless times before in his shadowy profession.

Julian fought the urge to hurry. Forced his muscles to uncoil, adopting a casual slouch against the tender wall despite his thrumming pulse.

“How do you know what to look for?” Julian asked, breaking the tense silence.

Wentworth gave a dry laugh, not pausing in his efforts. “Captain Courtenay tried selling his design for the coal torpedo to Her Majesty’s government.”

“Courtenay of the Confederate Secret Service?”

“The very same.” Wentworth kept shovelling, movements sharp with urgency. His shirt clung to his back beneath his discarded jacket. “He developed it to sink Union steamships and derail locomotives during the war.”

Julian frowned at the mention of America’s civil war, still so fresh in memory. “Tell me you didn’t give that wretch a shilling.”

The thought of the Crown funding such carnage turned his stomach. He’d seen the callous aftermath. The scorched earth and mass graves in America. All so the South could keep humans as property.

“God no,” Wentworth said. “And from what I hear, neither did any other government. The man slunk back to America with his tail between his legs, where I hope he dies a miserable death.” He hefted a lump of coal, scrutinising it before discarding it again. “Look for extra weight, distinct shape. Something that doesn’t belong.” The shovel scraped faster now, movements edged with urgency. “Looks like our culprit,” he said, carefully lifting out the coal. He turned it over in his hands. “See the plug?”

It looked innocuous enough – Julian wouldn’t have been able to differentiate it from any other piece of coal in that pile were it not for the visible metal casing hidden beneath a layer of soot filled with explosives ready to detonate. Capable of rupturing even a locomotive’s robust boiler.

Wentworth’s face was grim as he and Julian stepped out of the compartment. “Lads, we’ve got a live one!” he shouted.

A young officer approached from the platform. “Boss?”

“Take this,” Wentworth said, passing it off gingerly. “Probably not a threat without a spark, but treat it like an active bomb, or I’ll draw and quarter you myself.”

As the man hurried away, Wentworth turned to Julian. “The bastard who planted it may still be here to finish the job.”

Julian tensed, scanning the milling crowds with renewed scrutiny. He searched for any familiar face, any detail out of place. A stray breeze gusted, delivering the stench of smoke, sweat, and cheap tobacco. His senses strained, attuned to the most minute details.

There.

Near a pillar, a nondescript man in rough labourer garb stood smoking. To the casual observer, he looked like a worker enjoying a brief respite. But Julian noted how his posture radiated tension, shoulders too rigid beneath the shabby coat.

Unease skittered down Julian’s spine. Every instinct screamed the man was no aimless loiterer. And he seemed to be watching someone. Following a well-dressed gentleman through the crowd with his gaze. Lord Amesbury, Julian realised with a jolt. He remembered the investor from Kellerman’s party.

His instincts blared a warning.

With subtle signs, Julian directed Wentworth’s attention towards the mysterious figure without being obvious. But their surveillance had not gone unnoticed. The man’s head turned, eyes landing on Julian as he and Wentworth approached.

He bolted.

Julian and Wentworth broke into a flat-out run across the platform. Dodging around startled passengers, they closed the distance as the fleeing man knocked over baggage and barrels to slow their pursuit. But Julian would not be deterred. He poured on greater speed, lungs burning and boots slamming the pavement. The summer breeze plastered his sweat-soaked shirt to his back. He could hear Wentworth’s laboured breaths several strides behind now. This prey was his alone to catch.

Just as Julian was poised to tackle the man, his quarry spun and produced a pistol from inside his coat and took hasty aim.

Only instinct saved him. Julian hurled himself into a diving roll just as the shot cracked as loud as thunder. A woman’s scream rent the air as he came up in a crouch, heart hammering against his ribs. The bullet had narrowly missed him, biting into the platform boards instead. Julian surged back to his feet and ploughed into the man’s midsection, driving them both to the hard pavement in a tangle of limbs.

They grappled together, landing vicious blows, fingers gouging for any weakness. The man fought like a feral animal. He clawed at Julian’s face, his pistol swinging towards Julian’s temple again.

Julian dodged the blow and seized the man’s wrist, twisting viciously until he felt the delicate bones snap. A howl tore from the man’s throat, but still, he thrashed like a rabid beast. Julian had to end this decisively before his opponent got off another shot at point-blank range.

He slammed the man’s broken wrist against the pavement once, twice, until the pistol slipped free. Quick as a striking snake, Julian snatched up the gun and reversed their positions, pinning the man face-first into the rough boards. He jammed the pistol barrel into the vulnerable flesh beneath his opponent’s jaw.

“Move again, and I’ll splatter your brains across this platform,” Julian snapped, panting hard.

The thunder of boots announced Wentworth’s belated arrival with a clutch of bobbies. They hauled the cursing assailant to his feet. Julian relinquished his hold reluctantly, tension still thrumming through every fibre. His earlier calm had deserted him. That had been too damned close.

“Take him,” Wentworth ordered his men crisply. “I’ll be along to question him shortly.”

After they’d marched the man away, he turned to Julian with a scowl. “Reckless stunt. He could’ve blown your fool head off, Hastings.”

Julian slowly flexed his aching shoulder where he’d impacted brutally with the pavement. “Learn how to run, then, Wentworth.”

A bone-deep exhaustion swept through Julian, leaving him hollowed out and spent. He braced his hands on his knees, sucking in lungfuls of humid air.

Wentworth’s heavy hand clasped Julian’s shoulder, steadying. “You all right, Hastings?”

Julian straightened. “Fine. That man isn’t the one who wrote the letters.”

Wentworth’s expression was unreadable. “I’d guess not. He didn’t give the impression of a man fluent in multiple languages.” He shook his head. “Just a hired thug.”

“When you question him, ask if the man who hired him is tall, with dark hair and a moustache,” Julian said, unable to resist one last attempt at driving the investigation towards his actual suspect.

Wentworth gave him a sharp look, gauging. “You know something.”

“Nothing concrete.” Not yet. But he would find it. “I’ll bring you hard evidence when I have it. For now, watch him.”

The other man nodded. “As you say.” He clapped Julian on the shoulder again. “Go home, Hastings. Get some rest. You look like hell.”