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In the event, Fidget didn't take them very far at all. The trailended at the edge of platform three.
“They got on a train,” Krishnamurthy said. “So when do youthink, Mr. Swinburne? It's just past half-two now and there've bee
“Richard had an appointment at ten o'clock,” Swinburne answered.“His-um-his-er-his message reached me around midnight. So I guesswhatever train left here with him aboard did so during the hourbefore the crash.”
Krishnamurthy turned to his subordinate. “Hoare, run and get aBradshaw, would you? We'll look up the train times anddestinations.”
The constable hurried away and, while he was gone, Swinburnegave the commander a brief outline of the events leading up toBurton's plea for help.
“So he got a message to you, did he? The resourceful so-and-so!What was it, a parakeet?”
Swinburne cleared his throat. “Um. I heard a tapping at thewindow, yes.”
“So what's all this seance malarkey about? What are the Rakes upto? I've been receiving preposterous reports from the West End.Some of my colleagues claim that dead Rakes are shuffling about inthe Strand!”
“It's true,” Spencer said.
“As to what's going on,” Swinburne added, “hopefully Richardwill be able to tell us, if we can snatch him out of theirhands!”
Hoare returned with a portly gentleman in tow.
“I went one better than a Bradshaw and brought thestationmaster, sir.”
“Ah, good show. Hello, Mr. Arkwright. I presume you know thestation's timetable better than the back of your hand?”
“I certainly do,” confessed the uniformed man. “I could sing itto you in my sleep, if I ever sleep again, which after thisdisaster I probably won't. Just look at the state of mystation!”
“No serenades are required, thank you, but perhaps you couldtell us what trains left this platform prior to the crash, after,say, half-twelve?”
“Just the one, sir, on account of it being the night timetableand us having a reduced service due to the public disorder.”
“And that was?”
“An offence against the king, if you ask me, sir.”
“I meant the train, Mr. Arkwright. When did it leave and wherewas it bound?”
“It was the twelve forty-five atmospheric service, sir, toWeymouth via Reading, stopping at Basingstoke, Winchester,Eastleigh, Southampton, Bournemouth, and Poole. Due in at-”
“Winchester!” Swinburne interrupted. “That's where they've takenhim, I'd bet my life on it.”
“Yus,” Spencer agreed. “Then by carriage to Alresford and on toTichborne House!”
“Bloody hell!” the little poet cursed, flapping his arms wildly.“Our rotorchairs are somewhere between Clerkenwell and ScotlandYard by now! I say! Krishnamurthy, old bean, I don't suppose wecould commandeer a couple of your police fliers?”
The commander shook his head regretfully. “I'd say yes, ofcourse, but they're all in the air, what with tonight'sdisturbances. We're monitoring the edge of the riot zone as itexpands outward. The bigger it gets, the closer we're pushed to ourlimit.”
“If it's police business, you could requisition an atmosphericcarriage,” the stationmaster said quietly.
“Confound it! I suppose we'll have to make our way to MissMayson's place, though we can ill afford the delay, and I daresayshe's sick of us making off with her swans-” Swinburne stopped andlooked at Mr. Arkwright. “What was that?”
“I said, if it's police business, you could requisition anatmospheric carriage. We've been moving them to the sidings sincethe crash, so there are plenty available. And there'll be no moretrains on the line until daylight. If I wire ahead to the pumpstations and signal boxes, you'll get a clear run. It's only sixtymiles, and one carriage alone will do you a goodfifty-five-miles-per-hour minimum.”
“You can supply a driver?”
“You won't need one, sir, which is just as well, since some ofthe beggars seem to have lost their heads and others have beentaken ill. But no, it's all automated.”
Krishnamurthy punched a fist into his palm. “I'm in on this!” hesnapped.
“Me too, if that's all right, sir,” Constable Hoareinterjected.
Swinburne slapped his hands together. “Then let's get thisrescue party moving!”
The atmospheric railway system was one of Isambard KingdomBrunel's inventions. Between its wide-gauge tracks ran afifteen-inch-diameter pipe, its top cut through lengthwise by aslot which was sealed with a leather flap-valve. Beneath the traincarriages, a thin shaft ran down through the slot and was affixedto a dumbbell-shaped piston, which fitted snugly inside the pipe.Every three miles, pump stations sucked air out in front of thetrains and forced it back into the pipe behind. The pressuredifferential shot the carriages along the tracks at greatspeed.
The run down to Winchester was fast and uneventful. They arrivedat half-past four in the morning. The carriage drew to a halt andits passengers jumped down onto the station platform. The nightguard greeted them.
“The police special from London,” he said, u
“Me,” Krishnamurthy answered. “Did passengers leave the previoustrain?”
“Just a small group, sir. A black fellow brought a steam-horseand wagon to meet them. Some sort of medical case. They wereescorting the patient.”
“Richard!” Swinburne exclaimed. “And that must have been Bogledriving the wagon.”
“I don't know what you intend now, gentlemen, but there won't beany cabs available at this time of morning.”
“How far is it to Tichborne House, Mr. Swinburne?” Krishnamurthyasked.
“Four miles or so. I should think we can leg it acrosscountry.”
“Then let's do so!”
By virtue of its famous cathedral, Winchester was a city, but insize it was little more than a small town, and it wasn't longbefore the four men and one dog were beyond its bounds.
The land to the east was heavily farmed; a patchwork of wheatand cornfields separated by high hedgerows and well-trodden dirtpaths; a rippled terrain of low hills and shallow valleys, withscarecrows darkly silhouetted against the starry sky.
They traversed it silently.
Swinburne was beside himself with anxiety, and his nervousenergy infected the rest of the party, so that none of them feltthe effects of their sleepless night. A grim mood overtook thegroup, and they walked with jaws set and fists clenched, expectinga battle and determined to win it.
Finally, they reached the brow of a hill and looked down at theTichborne estate just as a vague hint of orange smudged the easternhorizon.
It occurred to Swinburne, when he looked at that firstglimmering of dawn, that he was also looking in the direction ofburning London, and he realised that whatever the enemy's planswere, they were coming to fruition now, and the one person whomight be able to oppose them was either their prisoner-or dead.
The party was descending at an angle into the shallow valley atthe back of the manor house, drawing closer to the willow-linedlake, when Constable Hoare pointed and asked: “Is that a man?”
It was.
A dead man.
For a dreadful moment, Swinburne thought it was Burton, but asthey reached the body, which lay facedown beside a crooked tree,and turned it over, he recognised Guilfoyle the groundsman.
“What happened to him?” Krishnamurthy gasped.
All the capillaries beneath the skin of Guilfoyle's face hadburst, and blood, still wet, had leaked from his eyes, nose, mouth,and ears. His lips were drawn back over his teeth and frozen in anappalling expression of agony.
Herbert Spencer sighed. “Poor blighter. Nice chap, he was. Keptan eye on Miss Mayson's swans when I was a-stayin’ here afore. Sawto it that they had plenty to eat.”
A double-barrelled shotgun lay beside the corpse. Krishnamurthypicked it up and examined it.