‘Close enough. Where’s Rufus?’
Matty frowned. ‘I thought he’d be back here by now. He was a minute or so ahead of me.’ He tossed the pie in the air and caught it again. ‘Saw a pile of these on a market stall just outside the station. The bloke who was selling them got distracted by some woman walking past. Just gave me enough time to swipe one.’
‘But –’ Sherlock started, then stopped. This was no time for talking. He pushed past Matty and headed out of the compartment, into the corridor that ran the length of the carriage. There were doors at either end leading to the platform. He ran to the nearest one and looked out of the window.
All along the platform passengers were getting back on board, but there was no sign of Rufus Stone.
The train whistle blasted again. Within moments the platform was clear apart from the station guard, who was glancing back and forth along the length of the train, waiting to wave his flag.
Sherlock stared left and right. Rufus Stone wasn’t in sight. Sherlock wanted to jump off and search the station for his friend, but the train was moments from leaving. What if Rufus had got on another carriage and was walking through the train at that moment? If that was what had happened, and Sherlock got off, then he would be the one who was missing. Stranded on a station where the Paradol Chamber were watching him.
But what if the Paradol Chamber had caught Rufus Stone? There was certainly unfinished business between Stone and Mr Kyte.
The train jerked into life. The engine pulled away from the platform, dragging its carriages behind it. Within moments the station was receding behind them, and they were heading out of the city and into the countryside.
Sherlock made his way back to the compartment and stood outside, looking left and right along the corridor, hoping against hope that Rufus Stone would appear, casually sauntering along in that infuriating way of his. After five minutes he had to admit to himself that Stone wasn’t going to appear. He was still at Newcastle Station, probably the prisoner of the Paradol Chamber.
‘What’s the story?’ Matty asked as Sherlock re-entered the compartment. His lap was covered with pie-crust crumbs. ‘Where’s Mr Stone?’
‘I think he got left behind,’ Sherlock said grimly.
‘What happened? Did he meet some girl? Typical if he did. He’s got a roving eye, that one.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, I think he met the Paradol Chamber.’
Matty’s face screwed up in disbelief. ‘What, the people that the French Baron bloke was working for?’
‘And the ones who framed Mycroft for murder and tried to kill his friend in Moscow.’
‘What were they doing at the station?’
‘They must have been following us,’ Sherlock replied. He felt powerless, unsure what to do. ‘There’s no way of knowing from here. We can only make guesses, and guesses are worse than having no information because they pull you the wrong way.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
Pausing only slightly to think, Sherlock said, ‘We’re going to keep on for Edinburgh. If a train guard comes along, we can tell him that our friend got left behind at Newcastle and we’re worried that he might have had an accident. He might be able to get a message sent from one of the stations we stop at along the way. When we get to Edinburgh we’ll head for the hotel Mycroft booked for us. If Rufus manages to get away from the Paradol Chamber or whoever has taken him, or if there’s an innocent explanation for his missing the train, then he knows that’s where we’ll be.’
He settled back in his seat, folding his arms and resting his chin on his chest. Matty just stared at him for a while, then turned and looked out of the window. Despite his friend’s presence, Sherlock had never felt so desperately alone.
‘We could just go home,’ Matty said after a while. His voice sounded very small.
The thought had already occurred to Sherlock, but he had rejected it. ‘We could,’ he replied, ‘but that doesn’t help Mr Crowe, or Virginia, or even Rufus. Besides, the Paradol Chamber know where we live. Our best bet is to hide out in Edinburgh until we can get this whole mess sorted. Go to ground.’
‘Like Mr Crowe and Virginia,’ Matty pointed out. ‘They ran away and hid as well.’
‘I know.’ Sherlock didn’t look over at Matty. ‘I know. But I wish I knew why. I can’t imagine what would frighten Mr Crowe enough to make him run rather than stand and fight his ground.’
At some point the train passed from England to Scotland, but if there was a sign to mark the moment then Sherlock missed it.
The stations slipped past more rapidly now and the names looked different to those on the platform signs in England. The landscape was rougher, wilder – craggy, dark hills in place of rolling fields. Even the sky seemed more overcast.
A ticket collector eventually appeared, and Sherlock explained about their friend not having made it back on to the train. The man tutted several times, and said he’d have a word with the stationmaster when they next stopped to see if a message was waiting, or whether one could be sent back to Newcastle. It was, Sherlock knew, too little too late. It was unlikely to produce a result.
Time seemed to slide slowly past. The ticket collector returned later to say that there was no news of Rufus Stone, and Sherlock felt his mood become blacker. Eventually, looking out of the window, he noticed that they were heading through more houses than he’d seen in one place for a while. Rather than being made out of brick, they were constructed from large blocks of grey stone. It gave them a serious, permanent look. The sun, which was balanced on the horizon, cast an orange light over them. The train began to slow down, wheezing to a halt just as it came alongside a platform that seemed to go on for miles. The signs on the platform read Edinburgh.
‘We’re here,’ Matty said simply.
They left the train, clutching their bags. They took Rufus’s too. Sherlock pulled Matty to one side and stopped. He wanted to watch the rest of the passengers leaving, just in case he recognized someone – like Mr Kyte or, hopefully, Rufus Stone.
The station was a teeming mass of people in different varieties of clothes, from top hat and tails to hairy tweed jackets and patched trousers. There were even – and Sherlock had to suppress a gasp at this – men wearing skirts.
Matty noticed Sherlock’s reaction. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘sorry – I probably should have mentioned that. Took me by surprise when I was here a few years back.’
‘Men with skirts? Well, maybe you thought I wouldn’t notice.’
‘They’re not skirts,’ Matty said firmly. ‘They’re kilts.’
‘Kilts.’ Sherlock sampled the unfamiliar word.
‘They’re a traditional piece of clothing worn by the Scottish clans.’ He sniffed. ‘A “clan” being a posh name for a family, as far as I can tell. Anyway, the clans used to be perpetually at war with each other until they all decided to get together and hate the English, and apparently the kilt makes it easier to fight. Or something. Anyway, they’re coloured in different ways depending on which family you come from.’
‘Presumably,’ Sherlock said, ‘so you can make sure that the man you’re fighting is from another clan and not your second cousin twice removed.’
‘Probably,’ Matty replied.
Sherlock filed the information away in his brain. Different coloured kilts for different families – that would bear some further investigation. You could look at a man in a street in London and not have any way of finding out his name short of asking him, but if you could look at a man in a street in Edinburgh and know straight away that his name was MacDonald, well, that was a useful thing to know.