Page 73 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)
Afton started in pursuit, remembering to snatch up the charger from the pavement.
He saw Hook throw a glance backwards, judging the closeness of the hounds.
But there was a hue and cry now, and several large men, who had come out of the station, had strung themselves out across the road in front of him.
To the right there was an unbroken row of shops.
Hook veered left, where the road was bounded by iron railings dividing it from the railway.
With surprising agility he vaulted over the railings.
The valet in Afton winced as he saw Hook’s jacket catch on the spikes and rip extravagantly.
The jerk of it made Hook stumble as he landed, but he regained his feet and looked around.
There were people on both platforms of the station – no escape that way.
And now the word had spread, and two porters, followed by other interested bystanders, were coming down off the platform and heading towards him along the side of the tracks.
He turned the other way, running along the sleepers for speed.
Afton clenched his fists in frustration.
He knew he couldn’t get over those railings.
All he could do was watch and hope that someone would catch him up, though he seemed faster than his pursuers.
But the station master must surely have telephoned the police by now, and perhaps would telegraph ahead to the next station.
Even if Hook climbed over the fence further on and disappeared, he was a fugitive now, and must eventually be tracked down.
Hook was fairly racing along the sleepers, miraculously not tripping or stumbling, his long legs eating up the distance while Afton watched helplessly.
The tracks bent round a curve just ahead and he would soon be out of sight.
He was looking back now as he ran, to see how close the pack was, but still he did not stumble. The man was surrounded by some magic.
Fortune favours the wicked , Afton thought.
The train came round the curve, going fast – an express, not a stopping train, Afton thought afterwards.
Big and black was the engine at the front, a fire-breathing dragon, a face under a black cap leaning out from the driver’s cab to look ahead.
The whistle sounded urgently – phoop-phoop-phoop.
Hook jerked his head round to look. And went to jump off the tracks to the side, to safety.
And now, only now, stumbled, catching a hasty foot on the rail. And went sprawling.
Afton never knew what the noise was that he heard, whether his own shout, the howl of the engine passing, or the inchoate roar of a crowd of witnesses, whether the shriek was the whistle or the squeal of brakes or a man’s scream.
He was battered by a hot, gritty wind as the engine rushed past, carriages rattling after, all slowing now, too late.
His heart was clenched with horror. He became aware that his hands were hurting as well as his face, and when he looked down, he saw he was clutching the charger so tightly the rim was cutting into his palms.
In the housekeeper’s room, with the door shut, there was an oasis of calm. Mrs Webster served tea to Afton and Rose with a timeless air. The uproar and festering curiosity of the rest of below-stairs was both behind them and shut out.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Mr Afton,’ the housekeeper said.
‘But I do,’ Afton said glumly.
‘He was a nasty person,’ Rose said.
‘And a thief, you tell me,’ Mrs Webster added.
‘But he didn’t deserve to die,’ Afton said. ‘And not like that.’ At least, he thought, it would have been quick – the engine wheel that had cut off his right leg had severed his femoral artery and he would have bled to death in seconds. So the doctor had told his lordship, who had told Afton.
‘When all’s said and done, it was an accident,’ said Mrs Webster.
‘But I feel that I drove him to his death,’ said Afton. ‘He looked back when he was running, like a fox looking to see how close the hounds were. If I hadn’t interfered, he wouldn’t have been running in the first place.’
‘If he hadn’t been a thief he wouldn’t have run,’ Mrs Webster pointed out. ‘And it was his choice to steal. Have a ginger biscuit. Mrs Terry’s trying them out. Mr Richard was always very fond of a ginger-nut, the hotter the better.’
‘Everybody’s been upset since Mr Moss’s stamp album went missing,’ Rose said. ‘Now we know who stole it, we can all settle down. You did a good thing, Mr Afton. Theft below stairs is the worst thing – everybody gets suspecting everybody else and there’s no peace.’
‘I can’t believe I ever suspected you,’ Afton said, with a penitent look. ‘I’m sorry, truly I am.’
Rose shrugged. ‘You didn’t know me. I keep myself to myself.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll forgive me, and that we can be friends now.’
‘We’ll see.’ She took a biscuit and nibbled at the crisp rim. ‘I like shortbread better, but these are nice, Mrs Webster. You should tell her so, ’case upstairs forgets to.’
‘Hm,’ said Mrs Webster. ‘I wonder if ginger shortbread would be nice?’
‘Wouldn’t be so crisp, like this.’
‘Anything with ginger in it is good, as far as I’m concerned,’ Afton said, with an effort to be sociable.
‘Let me top you up,’ Mrs Webster said, wielding the teapot. ‘You’re still looking shaken, Mr Afton – and no wonder.’
‘It wasn’t a nice thing to witness,’ said Afton.
‘But you’re not to blame yourself,’ she concluded sternly.
Upstairs, in the small drawing-room, the chief constable was having much the same conversation with Giles, over tea and a slice of Mrs Terry’s delectable Victoria Sandwich.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, my lord. The man was clearly a bad lot and no loss to society.’
‘But did he deserve to die?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ said the chief constable. ‘But he’d have got hard labour for theft of that order, and there are those that say death is preferable to a long stretch of hard.’
‘Do you know?’ said Giles. ‘I don’t find that thought particularly comforting. It is my fault, in that I should have dismissed him long ago, when he refused to come to Egypt with me.’
‘Dear me!’ the chief constable murmured.
‘Yes, rank insubordination, but I was angry enough to think I was being clever by demoting him. I thought it would be a worse punishment. I thought he would be humbled over time, see the error of his ways. What rubbish!’ He rebuked himself.
‘My mother would not have hesitated – she’d have dismissed him without a character. ’
‘Indeed she would,’ the chief constable said fervently. ‘A remarkably firm character, her ladyship’s.’
Giles was amused to know that a certain class of people – of which the chief constable was one – worshipped the very qualities that made his mother impossible to live with: granite self-assurance, an unbending determination to have her way, and complete indifference to the feelings of anyone else.
It was how they expected a great lady to behave and, by a circular logic, confirmed in their minds that she was, indeed, great.
‘If I’d dismissed him, as I should have,’ he went on, ‘he wouldn’t have been where he was for the train to hit him.’
‘Well, my lord, if you’ll pardon me, nobody can ever know what might have happened if this or that was the case. It’s my opinion that he’d have come to a sticky end one way or another. Now, as to the stolen items—’
‘The ones we know about,’ Giles interpolated. ‘God knows what else he might have taken over the years.’
‘Indeed, my lord. But as far as we know it, I have some hope of recovering the silver for you, having had such excellent detailed descriptions of them.’
‘Won’t they have been melted down?’ Giles asked, from the vaguest idea of criminal activity.
‘Well, my lord, that is often the case, but with antique pieces the value lies in their age and rarity – the amount of silver in them wouldn’t make up for that.
So it’s likely they were kept intact, which gives us a chance to trace them.
We have a fair idea, within a hit or two, of the dealer involved.
I wouldn’t say it’s a sure thing that you’ll ever see them again, but there’s a chance.
The stamp album, now, I’m afraid that’s a different matter. Not much hope there.’
‘And what of the man, Pogrebin?’
‘Ah, yes. A shady character, without a doubt. Our local people have had their eye on him for a long time, but haven’t been able to nail him.
This might just be the last straw for Mr Pogrebin and his sons – who are in it up to their necks along with him.
If we find the silver dealer, we can put pressure on him to finger Mr Pogrebin.
There is no honour among thieves, my lord. ’
‘Let’s hope not.’
The chief constable finished the last morsel of Victoria Sandwich and daintily dabbed his lips on the napkin to remove possible crumbs. ‘May I ask after the health of your esteemed mother, my lord? She is not in residence, I apprehend.’
‘No, thank the Lord. The one good thing about this appalling business is that she and my sisters left for London and Paris the day before it happened. She would not have been amused by any of it.’
‘No, indeed! That is a blessing. Safe in Paris, eh? Viewing the collections?’ Giles looked blank. ‘Isn’t it in September that the great couturiers show their new designs? The House of Worth and so on.’
Giles was amused. ‘How in the world do you know that?’
The chief constable reddened slightly. ‘My wife is passionately interested in clothes, my lord.’
‘Ah!’
‘She reads a quantity of magazines. Not, of course, that I could afford to dress her in Worth gowns, but everyone needs a hobby, and she keeps a scrapbook of dresses she cuts out of the magazines.’
Giles felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘Do have another slice of cake,’ he said kindly.