Austwick was too paralysed with fear to speak.
‘Good,’ Pitt said decisively. ‘You’re coming with us. I thought you’d do that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.’
Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.
They half-heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of them. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic, if there should be any, and confirm that the night train was held.
They raced through the streets in silence towards the railway station, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt found his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It can have taken only a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or not realise the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?
They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.
At the station they leaped out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.
The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.
The train was waiting, the engine belching steam. A very impatient guard stood at the door of his van, his whistle in one hand ready to raise to his lips.
Pitt thanked the sergeant and his men, happy to be able to give them some idea of how intensely grateful he was. He made a mental note to commend the sergeant if they survived the night, and if his own reputation was such that his appreciation was a blessing, not a curse.
As soon as they were in the guard’s van, the whistle blew. The train lurched forward like a horse that had been straining at the bit.
The guard was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes.
‘I hope all this is worth it,’ he said, looking at Pitt dubiously. ‘You’ve a lot of explaining to do, young man. Do you realise you have kept this train waiting ten minutes?’ He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it. ‘Eleven minutes,’ he corrected himself. ‘This train carries the Royal Mail. Nobody holds us up. Not rain nor floods nor lightning storms. And now we are standing around the platform for the likes of you.’
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said a little breathlessly.
The guard stared at him. ‘Well. . nice manners are all very good, but you can’t hold up the Royal Mail, you know. While it’s in my care, it belongs to the Queen.’
Pitt drew in his breath to reply, and then the irony of the situation struck him. Smiling, he said nothing.
They went to the rear carriage and found seats. Stoker remained next to Austwick, as if he feared the man might make a run for it, although there were nowhere for him to go.
Pitt sat silently, trying to make the best plans possible for when they arrived. They would have to commandeer a boat — any sort would do — to get them across the narrow strip of water to the Isle of Wight.
He was still thinking of it when, about fifteen minutes into the journey, the train slowed. Then, with a great panting of steam, it stopped altogether. Pitt shot to his feet and went back to the guard’s van.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded. ‘Why have we stopped? Where are we?’
‘We stopped to put off the mail, o’course,’ the guard said with elaborate patience. ‘That’s what we came for. Now you just go an’ sit down in your seat and be quiet, sir. We’ll be on our way when we’re ready.’
‘How many places do you stop?’ Pitt asked. His voice was louder and harsher that he meant it to be, but it was sliding out of his control.
The guard stood very straight, his face grim.
‘Every place where we’ve got to pick up mail, or set it down, sir. Like I said, that’s what we do. Jus’ you go an’ sit back down, sir.’
Pitt pulled out his warrant card and held it for the guard to see. ‘This is an emergency. I’m on the Queen’s business, and I need to get to the Isle of Wight by sunrise. Drop off the mail on the way back, or let the next train through pick it up.’
The guard stared at Pitt with both pride and disgust. ‘I’m on the Queen’s business too, sir. I carry the Royal Mail. You’ll get to Portsmouth when we’ve done our job. Now, like I said, go an’ sit down an’ we’ll get on with the mail. Ye’re just holding us up, sir, an’ I won’t have that. You’ve caused enough trouble already.’
Pitt felt exasperation well up inside him so he could almost have hit the man. It was unfair; the guard was doing his duty. He had no idea who Pitt was, other than some kind of policeman.
Could Pitt tell him any part of the truth? No. He would find himself held in charge as a lunatic. He could prove nothing, and it would only delay them even more. With a chill he remembered his helplessness on his last train ride, the horror and absurdity of it — and Gower’s mangled body on the tracks. Thank God, at least he had not seen it.
He returned to the carriage and sat down in his seat.
‘Sir?’ Stoker said.
‘We have to stop at all the stations,’ Pitt answered, keeping his voice level this time. ‘Without telling him the truth I can’t persuade him not to.’ He smiled lopsidedly. ‘It’s the Royal Mail. Nothing stands in its way.’
Stoker started to say something, then changed his mind. Everything he meant to express was in the lines of his face; Pitt read it with ease.
The journey seemed achingly slow. None of them spoke again until finally they pulled into Portsmouth station as the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. Austwick caused no trouble as they went through the barely wakening streets and found a large rowing boat to take them across the water.
There was a brisk wind and the sea was choppy, the wave caps translucent, almost mirroring the high, rippling clouds shot through by the rising wind. It was hard work and they were obliged to bend their backs to make headway.
They landed, shivering, at the wharf, and set off towards Osborne House, which was just in sight above the trees. They walked as fast as they could, since there was no one around from whom to beg or hire any kind of transport.
The sun was above the horizon and glittering sharp in a clear morning when they approached the boundaries. The rolling parkland and the splendid stone mansion were spread before them, broad and magnificent, as if still sleeping in the hushed land, which was silent but for the birdsong.
Pitt had a moment of terrible doubt. Was this whole thing no more than a vast nightmare, without reality at all? Had they misunderstood everything? Was he about to burst in on the Queen and make the ultimate fool of himself?
Stoker strode forward, still gripping Austwick by the arm.
Nothing at Osborne stirred. Surely there had to be a guard of some sort, whatever the circumstances, even if the entire conspiracy was a delusion of Pitt’s mind?
As they reached the gate, a man stepped forward. He was in livery, but it fitted him poorly. He stood straight, but not like a soldier. There was an arrogance in his eyes.
‘You can’t come in here,’ he said curtly. ‘This is the Queen’s house. You can look, of course, but no further, understand?’
Pitt knew his face. He tried to remember his name, but it eluded him. He was so tired his vision swam a little. He must stay alert, keep his mind sharp, his judgement steady. He was a little behind Austwick, so pushed him hard in the small of the back.