Ossian's Ride (3 page)

It seemed inconceivable that my rucksack could have been stolen by anyone who knew the real purpose of my journey. Or was it inconceivable? Could my connection with Parsonage already be known to the Irish? Was there a spy in his office? Even so, the Irish would scarcely take action here on the train. Assuredly they would wait until I reached Rosslare. No, the business could have nothing personal to do with me; it must be the rucksack. Yet the rucksack contained nothing but a couple of books and my walking outfit—a good disguise for a man who had urgent need of a quick change of clothes, perhaps for a man whose present suit was liberally dappled with blood? The disguise would be useless, however, if I were to let out an enormous roar at the first glimpse of my own shirt, pants and boots. Therefore it followed that I must be hit over the head, or worse, on my way to find the guard.

It was natural that this process of reasoning should cause me to direct an overpiercing stare at the man who had suggested seeking out the guard. It was equally natural that he being taken unaware should have betrayed his complicity. There was no “sudden start,” so beloved by the writers of fiction, no “sudden pallor,” no “beads of perspiration.” All that could be seen was a ripple of emotion that crossed the fellow’s face, as fleeting as a puff of wind on a grassy meadow. Yet if a confession had been sealed, signed and delivered, the situation could not have been clearer.

Three of us leaped upward. Strong hands gripped my waist and shoulders, heaving hard to throw me to the floor. But my right hand had reached the communication cord in time, and the weight and pull of their bodies only whipped the cord down the more fiercely. Already the train brakes were on.

Quite incredibly, one of the fellows seemed to think he could bluff the matter out.

“There, look what you’ve done. It’ll cost you five pounds.” His companion had other ideas, however.

“Don’t be a fool, Karl. Let’s get out of here.” I was too shaken to do much to stop them, but I managed to stick out a foot in time to trip Karl as he moved quickly to the door. He fell across the corridor, striking his head a resounding blow on the brass hand rail that ran along the outer window. His companion gave me a furious glance, grasped Karl firmly by the shoulder and humped him along the corridor. I decided to let them go. They were probably armed, and shortly I would be having other troubles.

The outer door was flung open and a voice shouted, “Now then, what’s going on in here?”

Do the more robust elements of officialdom have no other way of approaching a crisis?

“That is very much what I would like to know,” I replied.

A large guard hauled himself into the compartment. Outside there seemed to be the driver, a fireman and perhaps three or four other officials. Everywhere along the train, heads were sticking out of windows, male and female, hatted and bare, blond, white, brown and black.

“One of you must have pulled the chain,” observed the guard to the Irishman and me.

“I did.”

“Why? What’s the matter? Everything looks all right in here.”

“I pulled it on impulse.”

The guard leaned out and remarked to the driver, “He says he did it on impulse.”

“Impulse be b—. We’re late,” was the driver’s view of the matter.

The guard turned heavily on me.

“Now, young man. This is a serious matter. It’s going to cost you five pounds.”

The thought struck me that a hundred years ago five pounds must have been quite a substantial sum. Stopping a train without good reason must then indeed have been a serious matter. But now, after a century’s inflation, of what significance was five pounds to a man with a taste for entertainment?

“I did not say that my impulse was unfounded.”

The Irishman decided to rescue me from further misunderstanding.

“This young gentleman has just had his rucksack stolen.”

“That’s no reason for pulling the chain. He could have come along and found me without stopping the train.”

“There you reveal your ignorance of the matter—if I may say so. Had I tried to find you, I should unquestionably have been hit over the head—coshed, if you prefer the word—and possibly obliterated without trace.”

The guard again addressed his colleague. “Better come inside, Alf. We’ve got a bloody lunatic to deal with.”

Alf, the fireman, climbed in with considerable agility. Evidently my trump card had better be played without delay.

“Mention of blood reminds me that the lavatory nearby, the one immediately to the left down the corridor, happens to be liberally spattered with the stuff.”

“Didn’t I say he was daft?” breathed the guard in stertorian fashion.

“Wouldn’t it be worth while stepping along to the lavatory, just to verify my story? It will consume only a few seconds of your valuable time, and it will save Alf and me from doing serious damage to each other.”

The guard responded in commendably scientific spirit.

“Oh ho,” he said, “we’ll soon see about that.”

As he forged into the corridor, by the way that Karl and his companion had departed so hurriedly only a few moments before, it occurred to me to wonder if the stuff in the lavatory really was blood after all. Suppose it turned out to be catsup? The nearest pair of doctors would undoubtedly be only too ready to subscribe to the guard’s rough-and-ready analysis of the affair. But did catsup become tacky as it dried?

A worse thought: If events were to follow the accepted pattern of the thriller or detective story, assuredly the lavatory would turn out to have been cleaned of every telltale speck. What could I do then but point out the unnatural cleanliness of the place?

My fears were groundless, however. In a trice the man was back.

“This is a serious matter,” he announced. “What’s been going on here?”

I decided that the fooling had lasted long enough. “Could I see your credentials, please?” I asked.

This caused him to blink rapidly for about ten seconds. Then, “My what?” he boomed.

“Your credentials, your bona fides as a member of the police force.”

“I’m not in the police, you perishing lunatic.”

“That’s exactly the point I am delicately hinting at. Don’t you think this is a job for the police? By now every criminal who was on the train must be at least a couple of counties away. Alf, you got any steam left in this old tub?”

The latter remark brought out the raw primitive in Alf.

“I’ll put some steam in your bloody kisser if you don’t shut up,” he growled as he dropped to the ground outside. The guard banged the door shut and crossed into the corridor, where he stood truculently until we reached Swansea.

I suppose he couldn’t really be blamed too much for questioning my sanity, for my story sounded quite fantastic even to my own ears when I described it to Inspector Harwood of the Swansea Police. Naturally I said nothing of the real reason for my journey to Ireland, but everything else I described as accurately as I could, exactly as it had occurred.

“Well, Mr. Sherwood, I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to remain in Swansea for a day or two until we have had the opportunity to check up on this odd business. I’m sorry to have to delay your holiday, I know how I’d feel about it myself if I were in your position, but I’m sure you’ll realize that it’s really absolutely necessary.”

Should I ring Parsonage and ask him to get me out of this ridiculous situation? An idea occurred to me, and I decided not to be such a fool.

“Naturally, Inspector, I’m not pleased about being held up, but if that’s the way it is, there’s really nothing to be gained by arguing. Might I ask you to fix me a rather inexpensive place to stay at? You see, I didn’t bring much cash with me as I didn’t expect to be here in Wales for more than an hour or two.”

“There’s no difficulty about that, sir. We can advance you a reasonable amount for living expenses. There’s quite a tolerable bed-and-breakfast place in Cromwell Road. I’d be glad to make arrangements for you to stay there.”

“Is there anywhere I can buy a razor and a toothbrush?”

“That won’t be so easy at this hour, but no doubt we can fix you up.”

It was after 10 P.M. when I reached the bed-and-breakfast establishment of Mrs. William Williams. With great kindness my landlady offered to fry eggs and bacon when she learned that I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. I went through to the dining room, where I found my Irish traveling companion finishing up what had evidently been a hearty meal.

“So they sent you too,” he remarked. “Now they can keep an eye on us both.”

He indicated that I should sit at his table.

“Me name’s George Rafferty. Not very Irish, but it’s the best I can offer.”

“Mine’s Thomas Sherwood. How do you do? Did the police persuade you to come here?”

“Persuade, you say! That’s good! I was
told
to come here. Young feller, that policeman is going to have something to answer for when he stands in the Judgment Box. Sending an Irishman to Cromwell Road!”

Rafferty seemed to have no wish to leave, for he stayed talking as I ate.

“And did you lose much in that rucksack of yours?”

“Nothing of real value. A few personal things and a couple of books. The nuisance is that I’ll hardly be able to replace the books.”

“I cannot conceive that you will not, unless you are an antiquarian, which I hardly imagine is the case?”

I laughed at the implied question.

“No, no, I’m a mathematician, or rather an embryo one. Is there a bookshop in Dublin where I can buy technical mathematical books?”

“That I do not know for sure. But anything you can buy in London you can buy in Dublin, which probably answers your question.”

Mr. Rafferty was evidently not as accustomed to hogging 99 per cent of the conversation as Papa Parsonage had been. At the moment his apparent desire to chat was something of a nuisance, for my immediate concern was with Mrs. Williams’ handsome plate of bacon and eggs.

“And why would you be wanting to visit Ireland, if it’s not impolite of me to ask?”

In view of the hour, place and situation it was somewhat impolite, but I resolved to practice on Mr. Rafferty. Soon I would be telling the same story to the immigration authorities. In many particulars it was substantially correct. I knew that as a liar I was not very convincing, so I had resolved to keep always within a fine margin of the truth.

“Oh, for two reasons, of which frank curiosity is probably the more important. Considering the remarkable changes that are going on in Ireland, this is natural enough I suppose.”

“I would say entirely so. Yes, it’s great changes that are going on in Ireland. And isn’t it a shame to see how backward England is becoming?”

I decided to pass lightly over the last remark. “My grandfather’s name was Emmet. We have a tradition that he was a descendant of Robert Emmet’s family. I cannot say whether this is really so or not, but certainly I have many relatives in Yorkshire, which I believe is where Robert Emmet came from.”

“Ah, that is a fine passport to have in Ireland!” Mr. Rafferty beamed genially. “So you will be wanting to visit the Wicklow Mountains, and the scenes of the last of the Rising?”

“Yes, I’m going to do a little walking in the mountains. But most of my time will be spent in Dublin.”

“So it should be,” exclaimed Mr. Rafferty with some warmth. “Dublin is the fountainhead of all that is happening in Ireland. Soon it will be the greatest city in the wide world.”

Next morning, Mrs. Williams brought the message that I was to call at the police station; my rucksack had been found.

I unpacked it under the watchful eye of Inspector Harwood. Everything was there, including the two books. It bore but one sign of misadventure, a large dark stain across the outside, just where it could not fail to be seen.

“Well, that’s certainly satisfactory from your point of view, sir. I wish all the news was as good.”

“I am sorry to hear that things are not going well, Inspector.”

“I expect you are, for it means more delay, I fear.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Well, sir, to be strict I ought not to say, but I expect you’ll already have guessed that a body was thrown from the train. We found it in the Severn Tunnel.”

“That’s certainly very bad—for the body I mean.”

Inspector Harwood frowned slightly at this undergraduate sentiment.

“I won’t keep you much longer this morning, Mr. Sherwood, but I shall want you to call in here again tomorrow. By then we ought to be in a better position to get to the rights of this matter. In the meantime there is just one further question that I’d like to ask.”

“Yes?”

“Can you be perfectly sure that you did not see the ticket collector a second time, the one who opened the lavatory door. When you stopped the train, did he turn up outside your compartment?”

“I can be absolutely certain that he did not. I naturally kept a close lookout for the fellow, but I didn’t see him again.”

“Thank you. I just wanted to be quite clear on the point.”

I lunched on Welsh mussels and brown bread at a cafe hard by the docks. In the afternoon I discovered a bus that ran into the Gower peninsula. The sea at Oxwich Beach was calm and I had a fine swim, and a fine appetite to boot when I returned to my abode in Cromwell Road. Mr. Rafferty was not to be seen that evening nor next morning at breakfast. Apparently Inspector Harwood had given him his release.

Whether it was the excitement of the last days, or the mussels, or the swim, I awoke sharply during the night with the absolute conviction that someone was prowling about the room. I lay for a moment, immobile with fear, half expecting to be seized by the throat, or to hear the ticket collector breathing sundry gory details in my ear. Then with an enormous effort of will I flung back the bedcovers, rushed to where I thought the light switch must be, fumbled, and found it at last. There was, of course, no one. I tossed fitfully for a good hour before I was able to win my way to sleep again.