could be on our way, it’s all been so dreadful.’
‘My Tommy. He was taken.’ Mrs. Dunstall’s reddened eyes glared terror at the camera. ‘In Peddar’s Lode.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Dunstall, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. I....’
Bronwen was leaning awkwardly, the weight of the tripod on her shoulder, as she turned away from the trap, instinctively putting out a hand to Mrs. Dunstall. The widow let out a screeching sob, warding her off with a wild swing of the arm. ‘That thing!’ She struck the tripod so that it slid from Bronwen’s shoulder. One leg jarred on the flagged path to the door, stuck for a moment in a crack, and then tipped over. There was a crunch as the wood splintered.
‘Mrs. Dunstall, you can’t believe—’
‘I’ll not be doing with that in my house. Not after...after.... Should never have had you in the first place, you and that thing of yours. The train’ll be here any minute. Be you on it.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please, if there’s anything I can do—’
‘You can be on that train, that’s what you can do.’
The engine and two coaches drew in to the platform with a sigh of escaping steam. Hexney’s one porter and ticket collector stepped forward to open the door of the first-class compartment, a small saloon with four armchairs and a high-backed sofa.
A tall man about thirty years of age, with a silver-topped cane and a cloak lined in red silk, descended and set a large valise on the platform. He had lean features and a swarthy complexion, with darker streaks like bruises under his deep-set eyes, and a jutting imperial beard. When his head jerked to indicate that the porter should pick up his luggage and lead the way out of the station, his manner was that of one accustomed to summoning such service out of thin air.
But the porter had momentarily turned away, signalling to Mrs. Dunstall that she should now open the gates. The fireman leaned out from the footplate to add a similar exhortation.
‘I’m not opening the gates,’ said Mrs. Dunstall, ‘till she takes herself and all that mischief of hers on to that train.’
‘You can’t expect me to toss everything anyhow into a carriage.’ Bronwen was pleading rather than indignant, for she could see that Tommy’s mother was near to breaking point. Then she realized that her maid was already climbing aboard the train. ‘Eiluned, what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Do come along, Miss Bronwen. Not safe to stay here a minute longer, is it.’
‘Get down at once.’
The girl gulped, but pushed her case ahead of her into the compartment. ‘There’s sorry I am, miss, but I can’t, not another minute indeed.’ She groped for the door to pull it shut behind her.
The porter was leaning over the fence.
‘Evil eye? Oh, now, Mrs. D., that’s no concern of the railway company. We want those gates open, and sharp.’
Instead of obeying, Mrs. Dunstall began to gather up Bronwen’s possessions and, sobbing, tipped them over the picket fence on to the road. The porter came through the garden and personally opened the gates. When the train was safely through, carrying away Eiluned but not her mistress, he closed them again, climbed back on the platform, and picked up the newcomer’s case.
‘This way, sir.’
The driver of the trap sat with the reins loose across his knee, watching with morbid interest the drama between his last fare and the crossing-keeper. His attention was claimed by the rattle of a cane across two spokes of his nearside wheel.
‘This will convey me to the Hexney inn?’
The voice was powerful but controlled, with a cadence that suggested singing. Looking the new arrival up and down, the driver assessed the value of his clothes and general appearance and the probable tip. ‘If you could hold on just a jiffy, sir, till this young lady settles what she owes.’
The man glanced at Bronwen, struggling to save her effects from further damage. ‘It would seem highly probable that the lady will require your services further. I suggest we offer what assistance we may in conveying her, also, to Hexney.’
‘Oh, now, sir, I’m not so sure about that. Not with all this fuss. Best let me get you to the inn, and then we’ll see—‘
‘I can already see. The lady is in distress. If she wishes our help, she must have it.’
Bronwen held out her arms in a last imploring gesture to Mrs. Dunstall, then let them fall to her sides. The two men who had been shuffling awkwardly in the background now plucked up courage to leave, sidling past Bronwen with their faces averted and trudging away towards Hexney. Mrs. Dunstall went indoors. Curtains had been drawn across all the little windows.
The stranger said: ‘You’ll need time to collect your thoughts as well as your impedimenta, madam. I shall be privileged if you will accompany us to the village.’ It was said with sonorous determination, as much for the driver’s benefit as for hers.
She prickled with instinctive, inexplicable antagonism. The man was too sure of himself and, in spite of his politeness, too threatening. She did not understand the threat; but did not approve of the way the driver, abandoning any further attempt at argument, sprang down as nimbly as a performing dog and began to collect up her belongings; she was also conscious of a further confusion to add to the distress she was already in—a blurred vision of that red-lined cloak spread wide like the wings of a swooping bat. It was ludicrous, yet briefly, overpoweringly vivid.
He was saying: ‘If I may help you up, Miss...?’
‘Powys,’ she said stiffly. ‘Bronwen Powys.’
There was really nothing for it. The cottage had become tragically hostile, there was no shelter on the vast expanse of fen, there would not be another train until after dark, and that would deposit her for the night in an unfamiliar city; and in any case she did not see why she should be forced to decamp before her work was complete. Perhaps tomorrow, or just before leaving, she could venture to offer Mrs. Dunstall condolences and soothe her fevered imaginings. Meanwhile she had no alternative but to seek accommodation in the village.
The man’s fingers were strong and supple under her elbow as he assisted her into the trap.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Caspian,’ he said. ‘Dr. Alexander Caspian.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Then she was puzzled by her own immediate response. The name had come as no surprise, though she could swear she had never heard it before.
He was quick to catch her reaction. ‘You know of me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘For a moment I thought....’ His eyes mocked her. For some arrogant reason he suspected her of being familiar with his name.
Why should she be?
They settled on the narrow seats at opposite sides of the higgledy-piggledy heap of luggage and Dr. Caspian frankly and appreciatively studied Bronwen’s face.
She
