Page 114 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

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.’