Suddenly the carriage enclosed him. He stood up and went to the end and through the door onto the small platform before the next carriage. It was mostly for men to light cigars without the smoke being unpleasant to other passengers, but it was a good place to stand and feel the rush of air and smell the plowed earth and the damp of the woods as they passed. Not many trains had these spaces. He had heard somewhere that it was an American invention. He liked it very much.
The air was quite cold, but there was a sweetness to it and he was happy to remain there, even though it grew darker quickly, heavy clouds rolling in from the north. Probably sometime in the night it would rain.
He considered what he would tell Narraway of what now seemed to be an abortive trip to France, and how he would explain his conclusions about Gower and his own blindness in not having understood the truth from the beginning. Then he thought with intense pleasure of seeing Charlotte, and of being at home where he had only to look up and she would be there, smiling at him. If she thought he had been stupid, she would not say so—at least not at first. She would let him say it, and then ruefully agree. That would take away most of the sting.
It was nearly dark now; the clouds had brought the night unnaturally soon.
Without any warning he was aware of it: someone behind him. With the rattle of the wheels he had not heard the carriage door open. He half turned, and was too late. The weight was there in the middle of his back, his right arm was locked in a fierce grip, his left pinned against the rail by his own body.
He tried to step backward onto the instep of the man, shock him with the pain of it. He felt the man wince, but there was no easing of the hold of him. He was being pushed forward, twisted a little. His arm was crushed on the rail and he gasped to get his breath. He was pushed so his head was far out over the speeding ground. The wind was cold on his face, smuts from the engine striking him, stinging. Any minute he was going to lose his balance and then it would be a second, two, and he would be over the edge and down onto the track. At this speed he would be killed. It would probably snap his spine. The man was strong and heavy. The weight of him was driving the breath out of Pitt’s chest, and he had no leverage to fight back. It would be over in seconds.
Then there was a slam of carriage doors, and a wild shout. The pressure on Pitt’s back was worse, driving the last bit of air out of his lungs. He heard a cry, and realized it was himself. The weight lifted suddenly and he gasped, hanging on to the rail, scrambling to turn around, coughing violently. The man who had attacked him was struggling with someone else, who was portly, thick-waisted. He could see only shadows and outlines in the dark. The man’s hat flew off and was carried away. He was already getting the worst of the fight, backing toward the rail at the other side. In the momentary light from the door his face was contorted with anger and the beginning of terror as he realized he was losing.
Pitt straightened up and threw himself at the attacker. He had no weapon except his fists. He struck the man low in the chest, as hard as he could, hoping to wind him. He heard him grunt and he pitched forward, but only a step. The fat man slithered sideways and down onto one knee. At least that way he would not overbalance across the rail and onto the track.
Pitt followed his attacker, striking again, but the man must have expected it. He went down also, and Pitt’s blow only caught the edge of his shoulder. The man twisted with it, but for no more than a moment. Then he lunged back at Pitt, his head down, catching Pitt in the stomach and sending him sprawling. The carriage door was slamming open and closed.
The fat man scrambled to his feet and charged, his face red, shouting something indistinguishable over the howl of the wind and roar and clatter of the train. He dived at Pitt’s attacker, who stepped out of the way, and then swiveled around and raised himself. He grasped the fat man and heaved him over the rail to fall, screaming, arms flailing helplessly, out onto the track.
For a second Pitt was frozen with horror. Then he turned and stared at the man who had attacked him. He was only an outline in the dark, but he did not need to hear him speak to recognize him.
“How did you know?” Gower asked, curiosity keen, his voice almost normal.
Pitt was struggling to get his breath. His lungs hurt, his ribs ached where the rail had bruised him, but all he could think of was the man who had tried to rescue him, and whose broken body was now lying on the track.
Gower took a step toward him. “The man you walked eight miles to see, did he tell you something?”
“Only that Frobisher was a paper tiger,” Pitt replied, his mind racing now. “Wrexham can’t have taken a week to work that out, so maybe he always knew it. Then I thought perhaps he was just the same. I thought I saw him cut West’s throat, but when I went over it step by step, I didn’t. It just looked like it. Actually West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. You were the one who had the chase, all the way to the ferry. I thought you were clever, but then I realized how easy it had been. It was always you who found him when we lost him, or who stopped us actually catching him. The whole pursuit was performed for my benefit, to get me away from London.”
Gower gave a short burst of laughter. “The great Pitt, whom Narraway sets so much store by. Took you a week to work that out! You’re getting slow. Or perhaps you always were. Just lucky.” Then suddenly he flung himself forward, arms outstretched to grasp Pitt by the throat, but Pitt was ready this time. He ducked and charged, low, with his head down. He caught Gower in the belly just above the waist, and heard him gasp. He straightened his legs, lifting Gower off the ground. His own impetus carried him on, high over the rail and into the darkness. Pitt did not even see him land, but he knew with a violent sorrow that it had to kill him instantly. No one could survive such an impact.
He straightened up slowly, his legs weak, his body shaking. He had to cling to the rail to support himself.
The carriage door slammed shut again, then opened. The guard stood there, wide-eyed, terrified, the lantern in his hand, the carriage lights yellow behind him.
“Ye’re a lunatic!” he cried, stuttering over his words.
“He was trying to kill me!” Pitt protested, taking a step forward.
The guard jerked the lantern up as if it were some kind of shield. “Don’t you touch me!” His voice was shrill with terror. “I got ’alf a dozen good men ’ere ’oo’ll tie yer down, so I ’ave. Ye’re a bleedin’ madman. Yer killed poor Mr. Summers as well, ’oo only came out there ter ’elp the other gent.”
“I didn’t—” Pitt began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence. Two burly men were crowding behind the guard, one of them with a walking stick, the other with a sharp-ended umbrella, both held up as weapons.
“We’re gonna put yer in my van,” the guard went on. “An’ if we ’ave ter knock yer senseless ter do it, just gimme the excuse is all I ask. I liked Mr. Summers. ’e were a good man, an’ all.”
Pitt had no wish to be beaten into submission. Dazed, aching, and appalled at what he had done, he went without resisting.
“YOU CAN’T COME,” CHARLOTTE said vehemently. It was early afternoon and she was standing in the dining room of Mrs. Hogan’s lodging house, dressed in her best spring costume, wearing the magnificent blouse. She was rather uncomfortably aware of how well it suited her. With a plain dark skirt the effect was dramatic, to say the very least. “Someone is bound to know you,” she added, forcing her attention to the matter in hand.